October 8. Thursday.—Startling news to-day! They are coming home!
We were all together in the schoolroom, when Nona entered with a rush, crying, "Two letters, and both for Miss Con! One from Mother, and one from Lady Denham!"
All eyes were levelled at me, as I opened and read Mrs. Romilly's, skimming the contents rapidly.
"My DEAREST CONSTANCE,—I am writing a very hasty line to announce to you our immediate return to England. It is a sudden decision; but I think we have all been leaning that way for some time, and a long talk yesterday morning brought matters to a point. I am really so much better, that the doctors think I may safely venture; and now that we are all agreed, we are eager to reach Beckdale as fast as possible."Eustace is making arrangements, and Nellie is packing up; so I have undertaken to write the news."Tell my precious Maggie, and all the darling girls, what joy it will be to me to be among them again. You can fancy how a Mother's heartstrings drag her homeward. I wonder now that I can ever have consented to stay away so long."We plan to start the day after to-morrow. Everybody says I must not hurry too much. My husband wishes to spend Sunday at Antwerp, and we shall be one night in London: but we hope to reach Beckdale by the evening of next Tuesday,—the 3th,—and to remain there for one week. This will allow us just to become acquainted with the place. It is not thought wise for me to be so far north any later; so on Tuesday the 20th we hope all to return to Glynde for the winter,—you, of course, accompanying us."I shall have much to say to you, dear Constance. I owe you a great deal,—more than words can express,—for your devoted care of my girls. Of late it has been a great happiness to me to see in your letters how truly you appreciate my sweetest Maggie. At one time I did fear that you and she were scarcely en rapport. The dear one has, I know, suffered most keenly from our long absence. I can imagine her raptures on hearing of our return. Precious one!—When I think of seeing her again—But I must keep composed."From certain little things told me by my dear Nellie, I am afraid your time at Beckdale has been in some respects a trial. Maggie is so young and inexperienced that, with the best intentions in the world, she may not have quite known how to manage; and Miss Millington is a singular person. I have always counted her eminently trustworthy, though, perhaps, like many girls of her age, rather vain and self-asserting. If she should not be what I have thought her—But you will inform and advise me, dear Constance. I cannot tell you how much I shall depend upon your calm judgment in the training of my girls."I have no time to write more. Kiss the dear ones for me. Nellie or Eustace will write again more particularly as to the time of our arrival at Beckbergh Station. The journey that way is, I hear, a little more troublesome, but my dear husband objects to the other station. I would rather no one should meet us there. I must see my girls first in the quiet of home,—not in public. Sweet Maggie will understand so fully her Mother's fancy in this little particular."It is, I hope, at last settled that dear Eustace will enter the Church. He intends to read hard this winter, and we trust that he may receive Ordination next spring or autumn. This decision is a great happiness to us both. He is a good dear fellow.—Ever, dearest Constance, your affectionate friend—"GERTRUDE ROMILLY."
Maggie's raptures! Where were they?
I found myself telling the news, quickly and briefly. There was a deepening glow of pleasure in Thyrza's face: while Nona caught the two little ones, whirling round the room with them: and Elfie flung herself on me, with a smothered cry which was half a sob, and a tremulous clutch of delight.
But Maggie only sat still, and said, "Mother really coming! How nice!" Then her eyes went to Miss Millington, and travelled round to me. "How nice!" she repeated, as if considering the question. "We must take her to Gurglepool."
"And show her the scene of my disaster," I said.
I met Miss Millington's glance. Maggie spoke hastily: "Oh, I didn't mean that. I only meant that Mother would, of course, want to see everything. I suppose we shall all have a holiday that week. It will be most awfully nice, won't it, Nona?"
But somehow the real ring of joy seemed wanting: and as I listened, my heart ached for Gertrude Romilly. Will she when she comes find any lack of response in this child, so passionately beloved? I think it would almost kill her, if she did.
Elfie is radiant with happiness: Thyrza has a look of dreamy content: Nona and the little ones are in mad spirits. Miss Millington seems far from cheerful, however, and she and Maggie are going about arm-in-arm, with divers whispers and expressive looks. Is "Millie" trying to cement her power over Maggie? If so, will she succeed? Am I wrong to conjecture this of her?
O life and its perplexities—how weary one grows of the whole sometimes! Yet is that right? For God our Father has bidden us live,—and live unto Him!
So much for the one letter which reached me to-day. The other was from Lady Denham.
I opened it then, when we were all together, but I did not read it. My eyes fell upon a familiar name, and a sudden chill and trembling warned me to desist. I am not so strong as before my accident, not so well able to master emotion. I put the letter away, and nobody remembered that I had received it.
An hour later, in the quiet of my own room, I read and re-read the four pages. They are full of kind friendliness. Lady Denham seldom favours her correspondents so far. She is noted for brevity of expression: therefore I value this the more.
One sentence above the rest touches me. It may mean so much or so little.
"You will, perhaps, be interested to learn that your old acquaintance, Captain Lenox—he will be Major Lenox immediately, I hear,—is coming to us. He forsook us quite shamefully when we went to Yorkshire, but he has written to apologise, and my son has invited him here for a week's furlough from next Wednesday. It is rather surprising that he should have leave again so soon: but it seems that he has been unwell, and we hear that he is a great favourite with the Colonel of his regiment, which may facilitate matters."I shall be glad to see him, for he really is a most agreeable young man. It is rather a pity that you will be away, if it would be any pleasure to you to renew the acquaintance. Of course Yorkshire is tempting still to all you young people. Captain Lenox writes that he is tired of England, and that he hopes to exchange soon into a regiment going to India or on foreign service. So I fancy this is the last time we may see him for a good while. I wonder he does not marry. He seems very much alone in the world, poor man, with so few ties in the way of relationship."
And that is all. She writes easily, not as if she in the least suspected the true state of affairs. I do not suppose that she does suspect. Sometimes I have felt that I could almost tell her all,—only never quite. For she has never sought or invited my confidence in this matter: and I cannot give confidence unasked.
Next Wednesday, for a week's furlough! That means—if we go to Glynde on Tuesday the 20th, he will be at The Park one night after our arrival.
But our journey may be delayed; or his going away may be hastened. And even if we do reach Glynde on the day named, and he is there, is it likely that we shall meet?
Hardly,—unless he wishes it.
I dread the next fortnight of suspense. But I must hold myself strongly in. No one must see what I feel. To Lady Denham I can only intimate in most general terms a polite hope or willingness to see him again. Some in my place might perhaps say more, confidentially, but I cannot.
How do I know that Arthur Lenox would go to Glynde at all just now, but for the fact that he expects my absence?
AND YET—!
THE SAME.
October 13. Tuesday Night.
THEY have come! I may as well write, for I am in no mood for sleep.
I suppose reunions after long partings seldom pass off exactly as one expects beforehand. Imagination sees only the poetry and delight of meeting. But the reality includes a good deal that is by no means poetical, or perhaps delightful.
When the travellers arrived, at the close of long waiting on our part, there was, of course, a general rushing of everybody into everybody's arms,—exclusive of Miss Millington and myself. Maggie was foremost in the rush: her face beaming.
Everybody said how well everybody else was looking; and then Mrs. Romilly grew a little hysterical, and a glass of water had to be fetched; and talk came spasmodically, as if no one knew exactly what subject to venture on next. Mr. Romilly, as usual, appeared upon the scene with a continuous murmur of small complaining tones: "Such a long journey—er; and the luggage not arrived yet—er; and the dear girls all so blooming; he only wished he could say as much for himself—er: and the dear boy absent—er; such a trial—er; but after all so much to be thankful for—er!—" in the dolefully unthankful tone which good men do sometimes adopt when talking of their "mercies."
Mrs. Romilly has lost her young looks. She might be ten years older than when I saw her last, and she is worn, thin, faded, though still graceful, for nothing can do away with the charm of her bearing. Nellie is not precisely what I expected, not at all pretty or graceful, but perfectly ladylike, with a kind good sensible face. I like her much. There is such a charm in her absolute naturalness, her complete forgetfulness of self.
It was very curious to watch Maggie. At first I almost thought her extreme delight must be a little put on. But no: as the evening passed, I became convinced that it was entirely genuine, that in fact, this is the true Maggie. She has evidently reverted at once, and almost instantaneously, from her later to her earlier love. "Millie" has for a time filled the gap in her life: but no gap now exists to be filled. Millie has dropped from the position of necessary prop; Mrs. Romilly and Nellie being at once installed side by side in their old position.
I do not suppose Maggie means to be fickle or unkind. But it is very plain that "Millie" has ceased to be of any importance to Maggie.
For there were no wandering looks after Miss Millington, as Maggie sat on a stool by her mother's side, clasping one of Mrs. Romilly's hands, and gazing up in her face with eyes of sweetest content. It was a look which I have not seen in Maggie's face all these months. Can it be that in her own fashion, she really has suffered far more than I have believed, and has flown to perpetual engagements, tennis and "Millie," as a distraction from loneliness?
I could not but be sorry for Miss Millington, forsaken by her especial ally, and left outside the charmed circle, a forlorn nobody. The children had no eyes for any one but Nellie, and Maggie seemed glued to her Mother. There was in Mrs. Romilly's manner, when she spoke to Miss Millington, a certain slight air of distance and dissatisfaction, which I could not but notice: and Miss Millington plainly felt unhappy under it.
That gave me no pleasure. I am glad to be able to say so honestly. I have not sunk so low as to rejoice in another's pain, even though this "other" has been in a sense my enemy.
Towards me, Mrs. Romilly was all sweetness and affection. She brought me forward, held me lovingly, thanked me again and again for all I had done, bade her husband and Nellie unite their expressions of gratitude, told the girls how dear I was to her. And I—well, I could not but feel her kindness, even while oppressed by it. I had such a stupid longing to slip away from the flow of words, and to be let alone.
Nobody would imagine this evening that Maggie does not like me. She has dropped in the most easy and marvellous manner into her Mother's tone. Instead of glowering or averted glances, I meet softly smiling grey eyes. Instead of rushing off to Millie, she slides her arm quietly through mine, as she stands by her Mother.
Is it genuine?—Or is it assumed? Has she been all these months under an unnatural strain, and in bondage to "Millie," and is this the real Maggie, set free from trammels? Or is she so utterly weak and pliable a character, as to be heart and soul under the dominion of any one present for whom she most cares?
I cannot solve the riddle? I only know that it is shallowness, not depth, which usually results in such a riddle. Lake waters are transparent, while a little pond will be muddy; and nothing is more difficult to see through than mud. But in this mood, Maggie is so lovable, that I can hardly wonder at her Mother's devotion.
At all events, Gertrude Romilly is satisfied. "My Maggie is sweeter than ever," she said, when bidding me good-night; and for her sake, I was pleased that she saw no farther below the surface. I cannot see to the bottom of the pond myself; but, alas! I know there is mud.
"And the other dear girls, so improved," she went on. "Thyrza and Elfie especially. Your doing, dearest Constance!"
I ought to be gratified, but I can hardly say that I am. Everything is a burden just now. I only feel thankful that the long evening has come to an end.
Friday. October 16.—Plans are unchanged. We go south next Tuesday, starting early, and arriving before night. Nellie had a letter from Gladys to-day, in which she writes with delight of her friend's return, and mentions in passing that Arthur Lenox will be at The Park,—"till Wednesday evening." Nothing more.
Nellie read aloud a few sentences from the letter; and when Captain Lenox' name was mentioned, Miss Millington's eyes came straight to my face. I did not look up, but I was keenly conscious of her fixed stare. I felt myself turning slowly cold and pale; and I knew that she must see it. No remarks were made at the time; only somewhat later, Mrs. Romilly said affectionately, "Constance, my dear, I don't like to see you so worn-out. I shall have to send you soon to your sister for a holiday." But I made nothing of it.
Then all at once she spoke to me about Miss Millington, expressing a grave sense of doubt, and begging to hear confidentially my honest opinion. Was Miss Millington, or was she not, a desirable companion for the girls, and a fit person to train the children?
I do not know how much or how little my friend has heard. Nellie, being everybody's confidante, is generally well acquainted with everything, and doubtless she has used her own discretion in passing on facts to her Mother.
I declined to give any advice in the matter. This was the only line open to me; and I said so. I had not succeeded in winning the affection of Miss Millington: and I did not think I ought to count myself a fair judge.
Mrs. Romilly looked at me in questioning silence. Then she said, "That is enough. You would never fail to say what you conscientiously could in favour of anybody."
This may be true: I hope it is. But I would rather have no hand or voice—even tacitly—in the dismissal of Miss Millington: and I cannot but expect that to be the consummation.
Saturday. October 17.—About an hour after lunch to-day, I was in the back-garden, half-reading, half-dreaming. The girls had all started together for a long ramble, from Nellie down to Pet.
A footstep made me look up: and I saw Miss Millington hurrying along the path, her face aflame, her eyes glazed with tears. Finding me there alone, she stopped short in front of me, and burst out—
"It is your doing!"
"What is?" I asked, though indeed I could guess.
She tossed her head, and bit her lips, glaring at me.
"Oh, you needn't pretend! You know very well! It's what you've been scheming for ever since you came! I know well enough. But I'll be even with you yet. I'll have my revenge."
"It would be idle to pretend that I cannot guess what you may mean," I said seriously. "But you are mistaken, Miss Millington. I have not moved in the matter."
"Oh, I dare say! When your very words show it! You knew she was going to get rid of me! And you persuaded her."
"I did not know it," I answered. "I knew only that Mrs. Romilly did not seem satisfied: and I could guess that she might have spoken to you. That is all."
"Oh, of course! It's all very fine When you can twist Mrs. Romilly any way you please! And everybody knows it!" she said, jerking out short sentences With gasps of passion between. "I understand! You've gone and told her! That stupid cooked-up tale about your accident! Such a fuss about nothing! And it's all untrue! A downright lie! And she has told me I'm to go! Doesn't like my influence! I know what that means! But I'll be even with you yet!"
"You are wronging me," I said, and I found it difficult to control myself. "I have told Mrs. Romilly nothing. She questioned me, and I declined to answer."
"Oh, I dare say! With a virtuous air, just showing what you meant! And I'll have my revenge!"
"Is that Christian, Miss Millington?" I asked. It was grievous to see her look. "I cannot pretend to think that you have acted rightly towards me, or with the girls. But I have done my best to keep from influencing Mrs. Romilly. If you go, it is not my doing."
"But I say it is," she retorted violently. "And I'll never forget,—never! I've got you in my power too, though you mayn't think it, and I'll make you feel my power. I tell you I will."
"How am I in your power?" I asked.
A kind of chill ran through me at the words. I thought of her stealthy peep at my journal. But I could not tax her with that; I had promised not to compromise Elfie.
She burst into angry sobs. "It doesn't matter how. You've nothing to do with what I mean. I know, and that's enough. I'll never forget,—never!—what I owe to you. I'm to leave, and I'm not to be recommended, and it is all your doing. If my mother and sister come to want, that's all your doing too! And I'll be revenged! Sneaking and telling lies like that! But I declare I'll have my revenge! I'll be even with you!"
"Miss Millington!" an astonished voice said close behind her, and Mrs. Romilly appeared, passing round the clump of bushes which shut off the house. "Is this Miss Millington speaking? I can hardly believe my own ears."
The girl looked down sullenly, crimson and sobbing.
"Miss Millington is under a mistake," I said. "She believes that I have influenced you, Mrs. Romilly, in deciding to part with her."
"And if you had!—What then? You are my friend. When I asked your advice, you declined to give it: but I had a right to ask."
A short silence followed. I did not say another word. Miss Millington stirred as if to escape.
"Stay! One moment, if you please," Mrs. Romilly said coldly, and she reined up her head in her graceful way. I do not think I should admire the gesture in anybody else; it is so seldom graceful: but it suits Mrs. Romilly.
"Stay!" she repeated. "This settles the matter, Miss Millington. One who can speak in such a manner to my friend is no fit companion for my children. You will go to your own home on Monday, instead of accompanying us to Glynde. Of course you will receive three months' salary in full, from to-day: and I will also undertake your travelling expenses to London. I hope you will take warning, and learn a different spirit for the future. And remember,—I am able to recommend you as companion to a lady, but not as a governess."
One scowl of positive hate was cast sidelong at me, and Miss Millington fled. I do not think Mrs. Romilly saw that parting glance. She sat down by my side, and I found her to be trembling.
"Anything agitating tries me," she said. "But it must be so. My husband will agree with me, fully." And when I would have pleaded for some slight relaxation of the sentence, she refused to listen. "No, no, not another word, Constance! I cannot sacrifice my darlings' good to her feelings. She has done harm enough already. Have you not seen?"
"I have feared," I said.
"My Maggie used to be so scrupulously true," she said in a low voice of positive anguish.
I could not deny the change, but I spoke comfortingly, foretelling that under her influence and Nellie's, there would soon be a difference. "Maggie loves you devotedly," I added.
"Yes: but is that all?" she asked, her lips quivering. "I thought my Maggie was the one of them all who had most truly given herself to the service of Christ. And now—Yes, I see it in Thyrza and in Elfie,—the fight going on. But Maggie—my Maggie—could I have been mistaken in her before?"
She broke down, and cried bitterly. I did my best to comfort her. No doubt she is seeing daily more and more those faults and weaknesses which have most markedly developed in Maggie during the last few months. I would not suggest that her whole past estimate of Maggie's character has been a mistaken estimate. If her eyes must be opened, I would rather leave them to open naturally.
Tuesday Evening. October 20.—Only time for a few words. It is very late. The journey has been long, and we did not reach Glynde House till past seven. Since arrival, all of us have been hard at work, unpacking for the night.
Miss Millington left us in London. Her good-byes were hurried and cold. She looked no one in the face, and she would not shake hands with me.
Shall we ever meet again? Our intercourse has been far from happy. Yet I cannot but feel a kindly interest in one with whom I have lived for so many months,—the more so, as I fear she will bring sorrow on herself, wherever she may be.
Maggie has not seemed troubled at losing Miss Millington, being entirely absorbed in her mother—or, if her mother is not present, in Nellie. It is very curious to watch Maggie now, and to contrast the state of things only ten days ago. Then she and "Millie" were inseparable; if "Millie" was pleased, Maggie was pleased; if "Millie" was out of temper, Maggie was out of temper. Now all is changed.
I suppose Maggie cannot stand alone. She must be supported by—must be under the dominion of—somebody else. When Millie was her prop, Maggie thought, felt, acted, in unison with Millie. Mrs. Romilly being now her prop, Maggie thinks, feels, acts, in unison with Mrs. Romilly. This is the real love; that was only a spurious attachment. But the character which can undergo such phases is scarcely to be admired.
Maggie's affectionate manner to myself is amazing. It seems to be quite natural, not assumed; and no doubt she does at the moment honestly feel what she expresses. At all events, it gives Mrs. Romilly pleasure. So I accept the warmth, and I make no remarks; only the affection of Thyrza and Elfie is worth more to me.
I hardly know why I write all this. My mind is full of other matters.
A note from Lady Denham to Mrs. Romilly mentions Sir Keith's intention of calling to-morrow morning, "with their guest, Captain Lenox."
Somehow I feel very calm; not shaken or tremulous. Things will be well, however they turn out. I love the thought that all my life is in a Father's keeping.
"Thy way, not mine, O Lord,However dark it be;Lead me by Thine own Hand,Choose out the path for me."Smooth let it be, or rough,It will be still the best;Winding or straight, it leadsRight onward to Thy rest."I dare not choose my lot;I would not, if I might;Choose Thou for me, my God,So shall I walk aright."
I think I can say these words from my heart to-night.
Wednesday Evening. October 21.—I can still say the same. I would not choose for myself. But the disappointment has fallen heavily.
Sir Keith called alone, not long after twelve. He said that Captain Lenox had suddenly found it needful to go off by an early train, instead of waiting till this evening. A letter by post had caused the change of plan.
"A singular fellow—Lenox!" Sir Keith said musingly. "One never knows what he will do next. Curiously reserved too."
That was all, or nearly all, said about the matter. Nobody seemed to count Captain Lenox' defection a thing of any moment. I of course made no remark: and Miss Millington's inquisitive eyes were absent: while Sir Keith, usually very observant, was absorbed in Thyrza.
I will not allow myself to think who may have written that letter. What use? I cannot know, and I must not run the risk of suspecting unjustly. Better to take the pain straight from my God. Nothing comes, not permitted by Him.
But will life ever again seem worth the trouble of living?
A REAL FIVE-SHILLING BOOK!
GLADYS HEPBURN'S DIARY.
October 6. Tuesday.
THE first copy of my book arrived by this evening's post. Eleven more copies are to follow by rail. We have been looking out for it very anxiously.
October 7. Wednesday.—I think my book looks very nice; so prettily bound: and Mother is so pleased. It seems strange to have written at last a real five-shilling tale,—my childish dream come true. What a long while I have been looking forward to this! I don't know exactly when I first began to expect to publish, though I can remember writing little stories at nine years old,—others say, at seven. But at fourteen, I had quite made up my mind to bring out a five-shilling book some day,—if I could, I mean. And now I am nineteen!
After all, such things don't really affect one's happiness. I am very glad and thankful, but I feel quiet about it,—not as I should have expected.
October 10. Saturday.—Such delightful news! The Romillys are coming home!
Eustace goes to a clergyman in the country, for study; and Mr. and Mrs. Romilly and Nellie travel to Beckdale for just one week, and then the whole party comes south.
Delicious!
Mrs. Romilly seems really stronger, they say,—almost as if the accident and illness had done her good in the end, instead of harm. I suppose troubles often do that. The doctors think she may safely spend the winter at home.
A few words from Nellie tell me this. I am so happy at the thought of seeing Nellie again.
People seem pleased with my book, on the whole. A great many kind things are being said about it,—some of course only out of politeness, but others I fancy are real. Aunt Anne complains that my two stories are exactly alike, because, she says, there are three boys in each, and she is afraid I am "in danger of the usual fault of repetition, common to all young authors." But I don't know what she means, or how she counts, for there really are five boys in one, and six in the other. Ramsay declares that aunt Anne only thinks a little dose of criticism wholesome for me. I don't call that real criticism though; if it were, I should like it, because I do want to be shown real faults in my writing.
October 15. Thursday.—Not a week now before I expect to see Nellie again! I am counting the hours. And that dear Miss Con too! I hope she has quite got over her accident. I am working at a little story for children, which I think of calling "Winnie." When it is done I mean to offer it to the same Society that accepted my first book: and afterwards I shall most likely write another tale for Mr. Willis.
Captain Lenox is actually at The Park again. I do wonder if it means anything. He is to stay till next Wednesday, so he and Miss Con might meet. He called to-day with Sir Keith, but not a word was said about Miss Con. I took very good care not to bring her name forward this time, I was so afraid of making mischief. Mother says I was right. It almost seems to me, from something he said, that he doesn't know yet about the Romillys and Miss Con coming before he leaves.
October 21. Wednesday.—Mother would not let me go to Glynde House this morning. She was sure the Romillys would be too busy: and of course she is right; only I did not know how to keep to my thinking of Nellie being so near. But still I stuck to work; for it does not do to be mastered.
After lunch, in came Lady Denham, for a long talk. She always seems so pleased to see Mother. A good deal was said first about the Romillys: and then she told us that Captain Lenox had left by an early train, directly after breakfast. I felt very disappointed, thinking of Miss Con. Lady Denham laughed a little, and said, "He is a curious man, particularly agreeable, but erratic."
Mother asked, "Would he have objected to meet the Romillys?"
"Why, no, I think not," Lady Denham said. "My son proposed last night that they should call together on Mrs. Romilly to-day, and he seemed to fall in with the proposal; but a letter by this morning's post altered his plans."
Mother said, to my surprise, only I know she and Lady Denham don't mind what each says to the other—"I have sometimes fancied there might be something between him and Miss Conway."
"So I imagined at one time," Lady Denham answered. "But I think it is a mistake. Miss Conway speaks of him with complete indifference; and he never mentions her."
Lady Denham hesitated, and looked at me, before going on—"Gladys is safe, is she not? Between ourselves, the letter this morning was in a lady's hand. He left the envelope on the table, close to my plate, so I could not help seeing it. I know he has no near relatives. One has no business to build on so slight a foundation, but he looked very strange over it,—so strange that I asked if he had had any bad news. He gave an odd short laugh, and said—'Nothing of consequence: only he found it needful to leave by an early train.'"
Lady Denham must feel very friendly towards Mother, to say so much. It is not her way to speak out generally. But I don't think Mother is so sure as she is that we are mistaken about Miss Con and Captain Lenox.
As soon as she was gone, I hurried off to Glynde House. The first person I saw was Mr. Romilly. He was in the hall; and he gave me such a kind welcome, that really I felt ashamed of not liking him more. He smiled at me, and took my hand in his, and he seemed such a pretty little bit of dainty old china! Only I do wish he could be kept under a glass shade, for he is fit for nothing else.
And then I saw Mrs. Romilly. She looks years and years older than before her illness: but she reared up her head and squirmed herself about, just as she always does; and she made me turn so fearfully shy, I had not a single word to say, till Nellie came. And then I forgot Mrs. Romilly's existence, and I was all right.
One very good piece of news I heard the first thing: and that is that Miss Millington has gone home, and is not to return. I don't understand exactly how or why. We shall hear more later. What a relief that she has vanished!
Nellie looks so well: and she is just the same as always, the darling! She has enjoyed being abroad, and now she enjoys coming home. Somehow Nellie always enjoys everything. Mother says it is because she has that rare gift—"a mind at leisure from itself." And I do think Mother is right.
Maggie is exactly what she was before she went away: always flying round after Mrs. Romilly; or if Mrs. Romilly is not within reach, always hanging on to Nellie. Mother says she has grown prettier: but I do not see it. I never cared very much for Maggie.
Thyrza is changed. I never supposed she could grow so handsome! The first moment I saw her, I felt quite startled. Her eyes used to look at every one in a kind of grim way, as if she wanted to fight: and now they are beautifully soft. And when she kissed me, instead of stooping stiffly, like a young fir-tree trying to bend, and giving a poke like a bird's peck, she was gentle and almost affectionate. I always used to think she could not endure me, but perhaps it was shyness and not being happy. I am sure Miss Con has made a great difference in Thyrza's life.
I did not see Miss Con, as I had hoped. Thyrza said she was tired, and had gone to her room to rest. That looks as if she were not strong yet.
October 22. Thursday.—The first notice of my book came this morning: a short one, but good; all praise and no blame.
I have just finished "Winnie." I hope to get it off to-morrow; and to start a new tale next day.
Miss Con came in before lunch, and oh, she is so altered! It has made me really unhappy. She is much thinner, but that is not the worst. It is the look in her eyes that I mind most,—such a sad sweet look, as if she had been through a great stretch of trouble and pain, and were not out of it all yet. And her cheeriness of manner is gone. Mother told her she looked tired, and put her into an easy-chair; and though Miss Con laughed, she did not resist, but sat listening, hardly speaking at first, only giving a little smile, if her eyes met ours.
Presently Mother asked her how she was; and Miss Con smiled again, and said, "Lazy, rather! Beckdale has used up my reserve-powers."
"You will have to get away for a holiday," Mother said.
"At Christmas, perhaps," she answered. "Lessons must go on regularly for a while first."
Then she asked about my writing, and was so kind; not merely polite, but full of real interest. It was the only time she brightened up.
When she was gone, Mother said, "If they do not take care, she will break down altogether. Too much has been put upon her."
I believe Miss Millington has been Miss Con's greatest bother.
Well,—she will not have that bother any longer. A Miss James is coming in Miss Millington's stead; and we have been wondering whether the girls will call her "Jamie." Ramsay declares they will. Miss Conway wanted to undertake the little ones herself, but Mrs. Romilly would not consent,—very right too!
Thyrza means to work hard this winter. She intends to go through a course of Geology, and a course of Political Economy, with Miss Con; and she seems able to talk of nothing else.
When I said something about this at tea-time, Ramsay burst out laughing, and said, "What bosh!" But Ramsay calls everything bosh, except what he does himself.
I must confess that Mother laughed too, and said, "We shall see!" I don't see why. Thyrza is so really fond of study,—not like Maggie.
December 15. Tuesday.—I sent my story "Winnie" to the Society last week; but I expect it will be a good while before I have an answer. Two or three Readers have to go through the MS. first, and then, if they approve, it has to be put in type for others to read. However, I do not feel much afraid about it.
In a few days I hope to begin another, with a heroine named "Selina;" and that will most likely be a five-shilling tale. Just now I am doing a small story of a few chapters, to offer to a child's magazine.
Thyrza and I had a curious talk yesterday with Miss Con; at least they talked, and I listened. Mother had been telling me, only an hour or two before, that I really must try to be less blunt, and to bow more pleasantly to people that I don't like, when I meet them. Of course I promised to try, for one does not wish to be disagreeable; only it is very difficult, when one doesn't care particularly for a person, and, when one is thinking of something else.
I was with Miss Con and Thyrza in Glynde House garden. Nellie and the twins were out, and Maggie had gone for a drive with Mr. and Mrs. Romilly. Thyrza was talking away pleasantly, and looking so bright, when all at once Miss Pursey appeared. She isn't, to be sure, a great favourite with any of us; and Thyrza froze up into an icicle, in one moment. After she had chatted some time, and left a message for Mrs. Romilly and was gone, Miss Con said to Thyrza—
"What made you so curt?"
"Was I curt?" Thyrza asked. "Oh, I don't know. I don't care for Miss Pursey."
"But if you do not, why put the poor lady to pain?" Miss Con inquired.
"You don't suppose she minds!" Thyrza said.
"Yes, I do. All people mind a splash of cold water," said Miss Con.
"Did I administer one? I suppose it is my way," said Thyrza.
"I don't think that excuse will serve," Miss Con said quietly. "It is one person's 'way' to shirk trouble; and another person's 'way' to be idle or untruthful; and another person's 'way' to be a victim to weak fancies. But—"
Miss Con stopped, and Thyrza coloured up, for she was finding fault only the day before, with those very faults in Maggie and Nona and Elfie.
"Of course if one's 'way' is a wrong way, one ought to fight it, Miss Con. Only I can't see that one's manner signifies," Thyrza said. "People in general might like me better, if I put on a softer manner. But if I don't care about being liked except by the few whom I like—?"
"It is no mere question of being liked," Miss Con said. "That would be a base motive. It is a question of right and wrong,—of doing one's duty,—of pleasing God,—of being Christ-like."
Thyrza exclaimed "Oh!"
But Miss Con went on:
"It is a question of giving pain or pleasure; of losing or gaining influence; of helping or repelling others. Of course there are instances in which one has to be cold judicially, to check undue forwardness; and I am not at all advising 'gush' or even universal cordiality. I only advise the cultivation of courtesy, kindness, and gentleness,—not to some only, but to all."
"But one must be natural; one must be true," cried Thyrza. "I can't put on what I don't feel."
"No. There you strike at the root of the matter," Miss Con said seriously.
"But I should not like to be commonplace," Thyrza broke out.
How Miss Con laughed!
"My dear, don't be absurd," she said: and I really expected to see Thyrza offended, only she never seems offended with anything Miss Con says.
"But I don't see any right or wrong in it," persisted Thyrza. "If I can't like people—"
"You are curt to some for whom you do care," Miss Con answered. "But that is not the point. The real question is,—How far are you and I free to indulge in repellent ways to those around us? And this question resolves itself into a second,—How ought we to feel towards those around us?"
Thyrza just looked down and said nothing.
"'Be pitiful, be courteous,' means more, I think, than love and politeness to our particular friends," Miss Con said. "And if we look at Christ, our Example,—that soon settles the matter. I don't think we can picture to ourselves as the barest possibility that He eves indulged in curtness of manner,—that He ever acted bluntly, or put on a repellent air. Stern and displeased He could be,—but not coldly stiff."
I do not know how Thyrza felt, but I know how I did.
"For of course it is self-indulgence,—the indulgence of a mood or humour," Miss Con added. "If we had more of our Master's spirit of love towards all men, I suppose we should not have even the inclination to treat them curtly. Love does not wish to repel."
And then she told us how often she was tempted in this way herself, and how she had to struggle against the tendency. I never should have supposed anything of the kind with Miss Con, but she says so, and I am almost glad, because it makes me hope that perhaps in time I may grow more like her.
It is wonderful how, if any doubtful point comes up, Miss Con seems always to look straight at the Life of our Lord for an answer. And it is still more wonderful how other people don't do so.
CROOKED AND STRAIGHT.
GLADYS HEPBURN'S DIARY.
February 20. Saturday.
No answer has come yet from the Society about my MS. "Winnie." I did not think I should have to wait so long: but I sent it at a busy time, so delay is not surprising.
I am working hard at a tale which I mean to call "Selina's Wish."
Miss Con has not been away yet. A holiday at Christmas was talked of for her, but I fancy she has nowhere to go. She said one day that "her big brother-in-law had not pressed his hospitality on her." It seems strange, for one would expect any one to be glad to have Miss Con. He must be a very queer sort of man.
Everybody at Glynde House is so fond now of Miss Con,—even Maggie and Nona! Things are quite altered since Miss Millington left. Mrs. Romilly consults her about everything, and Nellie says she never saw her equal, and Maggie always thinks the same as Mrs. Romilly and Nellie,—at least when she is with them.
Miss James is a harmless little person, with no particular ideas of her own; but I like her because she is pleasant to Miss Con. The girls actually have begun to call her "Jamie," as Ramsay foretold.
I am rather disappointed with Thyrza, for instead of working hard this winter, as she meant to do, at Geology and Political Economy, she seems to be doing hardly anything. She has grown so oddly absent and dreamy too. I really thought there was more stuff in Thyrza.
Miss Con doesn't look well. She is very thin; and though she works hard, and has her cheerful manner again, I often fancy it is all put on.
April 1. Thursday.—Cold weather still, but signs of a change. I hardly know how to wish for spring warmth, much as I love summer. For the Romillys are already talking about Beckdale, and I am afraid they will go north early this year. Mrs. Romilly is said to need the change. I am sure Miss Con does. But I can't bear to think of losing Nellie again for months.
Yesterday evening I finished my story, "Selina's Wish." It is 690 pages of MS., each page having, I believe, about 130 or more words. I hope to get it off in three or four days.
April 14. Wednesday.—My little book "Winnie" has come back from the Society, declined.
Of course I do not let anybody see how disappointed I am. I always like to seem quite philosophical; as if it were only what one might expect. But somehow I didn't expect failure this time. I thought it was almost sure to be taken.
It is politely refused; still it is refused. The Editor says that the Readers objected to such a very faulty mother in a book written for children. I dare say I was wrong to make her so: and it is good of him to explain. Uncle Tom says that one learns as much from failure as from success, and that of course it is all for the best. I suppose that is true; but still, I do feel flat.
Mother and all of them are so kind. They don't go on bothering about it, as some people would.
Well, I just have to try afresh. And after all there is "Selina's Wish." That is the really important one. This is quite a small affair.
April 22. Thursday.—I am waiting anxiously for an answer about my "Selina." And I am trying hard to believe that all will be for the best, either way.
However, I don't think the real difficulty lies there. For of course God knows what is best. He knows everything, and He must know that. And I never feel the least doubt that He loves us, and that He will do what is most for our happiness. The real difficulty with me is to be willing that He should choose for me, not I for myself. I do long so terribly to have my own way; and when I want a thing, I want it so desperately,—I don't seem to care to wait for what is best in the end, but only to have my wish now! That must be impatience; and it is wrong to wish for one's own will at any cost; but I am afraid I often do. And then I ought to be thankful if God does not take me at my word, and give me what I wish; because that would be very dreadful.
April 23. Friday.—Mrs. Romilly was talking to-day in a worried manner about Miss Con looking so thin, and taking no rest. And Mother asked if she would not come to us for a week. It was a sudden thought of Mother's; and Mrs. Romilly was quite pleased. She said any break would be a good thing. So Miss Con has been spoken to, and she will come next Thursday,—for she will not consent to stop lessons sooner. We hope to make the week grow into a fortnight.
Same day. Evening.—The last post has brought back my MS. "Selina's Wish" from Mr. Willis,—declined.
April 27. Tuesday.—I could not write more on Friday about my story: and I have had no heart to do so since,—until now.
I won't say that I was not disappointed, for I was,—intensely disappointed. Of course nobody knew how much. I woke up next morning feeling perfectly wretched, not the least able to rise above it, and really believing I had come to the end of any hopes of future authorship. And the only comfort was in saying over and over again,—"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding." For of course I can't possibly know what is really best for myself or for any of us. And somehow, even before I left my room, things did look a little brighter, and I felt sure I should be helped.
At breakfast-time Mother asked what I meant to do, and after some little talk we settled that I had better write and ask frankly for the reason why the tale is refused,—which I did.
The answer came this morning,—a kind and pleasant answer. We are sure from it that the publisher doesn't at all mean that he will never take a book of mine again; and that is a great comfort. Mr. Willis says that "the character of Selina is too naughty and disagreeable. People would say in reference to several chapters at the beginning—What is the use of it all? Too much of her naughtiness and impertinence are given in detail. The books that are most popular are those with pleasant characters in them. He could understand the interest of the MS. carrying a reader to the end, but the impression left would be unpleasant, and it would not be taken up a second time. Also he thinks the main incident of the book too melancholy. People like cheerful books."
I don't think I like cheerful books so much as sad ones: but no doubt Mr. Willis is the best judge about people in general: and even before I heard from him, I was making up my mind to try after pleasanter characters in my next.
I do not think I will try to get either "Selina" or "Winnie" taken by any one else, at present. The faults in both seem to be much the same. Better to start something fresh, in a different style.
There has been a strange mixture of humiliation and encouragement in all this,—of disappointment now, and hope for by-and-by. I begin already to think that some day I may be thankful not to have had "Selina's Wish" published.
April 30. Friday.—Yesterday morning Miss Con came to us. She was so grateful to Mother for asking her: and she seemed to find it a rest to be able to be quiet, and not to feel it her duty to work.
This afternoon, when we had had tea, she was sitting in one of the windows, reading. Mother was gone out, and I had begun to mend some holes in my gloves. For I do not mean to grow into an untidy authoress, if I can help it. Untidiness is so unwomanly.
I thought Miss Con must be glad of a little real stillness, and I left her alone, and did not talk. And for a moment I felt almost vexed, when Maggie and the twins came rushing in. They were full of fun, and Elfie was in wild spirits, as she generally is now Mrs. Romilly has come back.
Nona declared they wanted a sight of Miss Con,—she had been away "such ages." Maggie hugged her, and plumped down into an arm-chair; and the twins rattled about all sorts of things.
"Oh, I say,—only think," Nona cried all at once. "Maggie has a letter from Millie,—the first she has ever condescended to write. We met the postman outside just now, and he gave it to us."
"Oh, I'm forgetting!" Maggie exclaimed, and she pulled out the envelope, looking round in a half-saucy way at Miss Con, and asking—"Wouldn't you like to hear Millie's news?"
"I should like to know if she is well and happy," Miss Con said.
"I'll read it out. That will be fun," Maggie said.
Then she began, and we all listened,—not that there was anything worth hearing. Miss Millington's letters are as inane as she is herself. The sentences jog on, one after another, in a sort of aimless fashion, all about nothing.
"She doesn't tell us much," Nona said when Maggie reached the end. "Not even why she is at her home now. I thought she had gone to live with an old lady."
"Here is a crossed corner. I didn't see it before," Maggie said, turning the sheet round. "'Have you—' what is the word?—Oh, 'have you seen much of the Denhams lately? They will have told you of Captain Lenox' engagement. A very good thing for him. Quite recent.'"
Elfie was fondling the kitten on the rug, and Nona stood over her. I believe the twins were only half listening to what Maggie read. Maggie herself could not see Miss Con's face without turning round; but I think she was going to turn. She made a movement like it, as she said, "No, I don't think they have told us. I don't remember."
I would not look at Miss Con, and it just flashed across me to call off the girls, and leave her quiet. I am so glad,—oh, so glad I did.
There was no time to think. I said, "You haven't looked at Mother's new plants in the dining-room,—come, Maggie,—before Uncle Tom goes there." And I caught her wrist, and we all four went off, Elfie prancing about like a kitten, with my kitten on her shoulder. Maggie said at first, "What for?" But she did not hang back, and I let her have no time to ask it again.
As soon as they had seen the plants, I took all three into the garden, and kept them there. Elfie once spoke of seeing Miss Con again, but I would not hear; and soon Maggie said they had to be at home before six.
When I went back into the drawing-room, Miss Con was in the same place as before. She had not stirred a finger. She was sitting on a rather low chair, leaning back, with a book open on her knee, and her hands lying carelessly on the book. And her face was calm; only deathly pale. If her eyes had not been open, I should have thought she had fainted. She looked up at me, as I came near, and said gently, "Have they gone home?"
"Yes, Miss Con," I said.
I don't know what made me go close, and kneel down by her side, and take hold of her hands. They were frightfully cold, and they felt quite limp, as if all strength had gone out of them. I did not want to show that I understood anything; but I could not leave her alone like that.
"Dear Gladys!" she said, in a worn-out voice. "You are all so good to me."
I was trembling by this time, wishing Mother would come in, and yet knowing that Miss Con would not want anybody else to see her just then. And oh, I did long to comfort her.
"Miss Con, are you faint?" I asked, and my voice was half choked.
"No, my dear," she said, in a quiet considering tone. "No,—not faint. I only feel a little—tired, I think, and weak. I wanted to go upstairs and rest,—but somehow—I had to wait."
Her eyes looked straight into mine, and I don't think I ever saw such pain and sorrow in any eyes before. I didn't know how to bear it.
She must have seen, perhaps, more than I meant her to see. She must have felt that I did a little understand,—and that she could trust me. For suddenly there was a kind of break-up in the quiet of her face. She did not go into a fit of violent crying, like so many people, and she sat upright, with her hands together in mine. But her lips grow whiter, and every muscle in her face and throat worked and quivered, as if a wave of agony were passing over her, and then her eyes reddened and filled slowly, and great burning drops came splash, splash, on my wrist. It was impossible for me to help crying too.
Nobody came near us: and I do not think she went on long, though it felt long to me. Before I could speak, I heard her saying softly—
"Poor Gladys! I am sorry to have troubled you, my dear."
"O Miss Con, don't!" I whispered; and she stroked my hair, and petted me, as if it had been she who had to do the comforting, and not I. When I was able to see her face, it had grown calm again. But somehow that was worse than the other; and I threw my arms round her, and held her fast, with such a longing to be any help. And then I could feel her struggles not to give way, and the tears came splashing again, though there was not the slightest sound.
"Gladys, my dear, no one must know of this," she said at last, when she had conquered. She put me from her gently, and looked me in the face with such sweet sad eyes. "Not even your dear Mother."
"Oh no,—no,—" I said.
"You will not tell—I can trust you," she said. "You and I are friends, after to-day. I shall not behave so a second time. Now I am going to my room for an hour: and you will see me myself again at dinner."
She smiled as she spoke, and stood up, slipping her arm into mine, so I went with her to the spare-room.
"I can't do anything more for you?" I asked when we reached the door.
"Nothing, dear, thank you," she said, in her natural tone. "I should like a little while alone. But you have been a comfort, Gladys,—" and she kissed me. "And now I know you will ask no questions, and will try to forget this little scene."
I said I would "try," though of course forgetting is out of the question, and I was turning away, when she put her hand on mine.
"One word," she said very low. "My dear,—you have not to blame him. Remember that. He did once ask me, and I refused him. He was perfectly free. I did not know till later how much I cared,—and he has never known."
Then she moved away, and I shut the door. But oh,—what a pity! If he had but known in time! I wonder if it could not have been helped somehow,—if only anybody could have put things straight!
And yet perhaps they are really straight, and just what they ought to be. I wonder if we shall look back by-and-by, and see that all our worries and disappointments were the best and happiest things for us, and the very things we would have chosen, if we could have seen farther ahead!
Only last Sunday Miss Con and I had a little talk about this. I was thinking about my disappointment, which she does not know of. When I said something like what I have just written, she said—
"Yes,—except in those cases where we have brought our troubles on ourselves."
"And never then?" I asked. "Ought we not to say then that they are God's will?"
"In a sense—yes," she answered. "All things that happen are permitted by God. It certainly is His will that we should suffer in this life the natural results of our own wrong-doing or folly. But that is not the whole of the matter. On the one hand, we must never say that He wills any one to act wrongly.
"On the other hand, we must never forget that He makes 'all things' to work together for our good, if we love Him. Those very 'results' which we find most trying may in His Hand work great good to us in the end. Whether we are conscious of the good at the time is another question."
I must not write more now. Except that Miss Con seemed quite composed and natural at dinner. She looked very ill, I thought, and I know my eyes were red. Mother asked no questions; and this makes me pretty sure that she suspects something. For I believe she saw the girls, and it is likely enough that Maggie may have shown her Millie's letter.
Happily Ramsay was too much absorbed in Miss Con to look at me.
May 1. Saturday.—At breakfast to-day there was a letter for Miss Con, from her sister, Mrs. Smyth. The husband,—that very fat brother-in-law who will not invite Miss Con to the house,—is dangerously ill; and his wife begs and implores Miss Con to go and help in the nursing.
Mother and I think Miss Con looks more like being nursed herself, than like nursing somebody else. But of course she has gone. Mrs. Romilly consented directly, and in two hours, Miss Con was off.
I should be dreadfully sorry; only, we think the change of scene may do her good just now. She promises to come to us some other time instead.
One does wonder why it is that sometimes the very best people have the very most sorrow. But perhaps if they had not the most, they would not be the best. And, after all, I don't see why we should expect to understand everything.
Of course I have not said a word to Miss Con about her distress yesterday; nor has she to me. Only her manner is so affectionate, that I feel sure she did not mind my having seen what I did.
Next week I hope to start another tale; and to work very hard and very carefully. I think I have some good ideas for it.
I do believe I have been growing over-confident,—fancying I was sure to succeed, and counting almost anything good enough, written in ever so much of a hurry. So I dare say these two checks have been exactly what I needed. At all events, there shall be no hurried or careless work in my next.
And then at least, if I fail, it will not be my fault. If it is not God's will that I should succeed any more, I must not be too much bent upon it.
I think I do begin to understand that the only safe and happy state of mind is one of entire dependence upon God,—entire acquiescence in His will,—just "making known" one's requests to Him, and leaving utterly in His Hands the time and kind of answer. And then, whatever else He gives or doesn't give, the peace of Christ is promised.
A sentence in a book I was reading to-day struck me very much,—"the dread responsibility of choosing our own way!" I am sure I need to pray to be kept from that.
VERY UNEXPECTED.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
June 15. Tuesday.
STILL in Town. I little expected six weeks of absence, when I left Glynde.
Craven's attack, though sharp, was short. In less than a week he was out of danger, and on a fair road to recovery. And then I, in my turn, broke down.
Hardly surprising, I suppose. I have gone through much, mentally, the last few months, one way and another. Long continued strain will tell in time.
The letter from Miss Millington was perhaps the finishing stroke. I think the sudden call here, with full occupation for mind and body at first, was sent mercifully,—and then the wonderful holy calm of those three weeks in my own room, alone, and yet not alone!
Albinia could scarcely ever leave her husband: and the maids only came and went. I was not so severely ill as to need constant attendance. The doctor ordered little beyond rest and stillness. Now I have been about again for nearly a fortnight, regaining strength: but the sweetness of that "quiet time" overshadows me yet.
For I think our Lord Himself led me aside into one of His own green pastures, that He might comfort me. And He did it there, as none but He can do,—with Voice and Touch and Smile, with Divine healing and most Human sympathy.
How can any question the good of pain and sorrow in this life?
For no joy could ever have shown me what He is, like these past weeks. And only the extremest stress of need and weariness will ever drive us so to abandon our whole weight upon Him, as to learn fully the rest of His upholding Arms.
June 16. Wednesday.—Plans seem now arranged. I do not return to Glynde, but remain here till early next week. The Romillys propose travelling up to Town on Monday: and on Tuesday we all proceed to Beckdale.
Mrs. Romilly writes that Lady Denham and Sir Keith will be at the Farm. I cannot help expecting something to come about soon.
June 19. Saturday.—This afternoon I went for a stroll in The Park, avoiding as far as possible the crowded parts, and getting into a comparatively neglected side-path. It was pleasantly sunny, with a fresh breeze. One might escape in some measure from the stream of human beings, but there was no escaping from the stream of human sound. I caught myself smiling at the thought of those lovely Yorkshire dales, so soon to surround me! No roar of voices and vehicles there, but only the rustle of leaves, and the rush of torrents. And then I think I wandered off to Thyrza, walking slowly with downward-bent eyes, perhaps speculating on her future.
Something made me glance up. I found myself in a sheltered spot, divided by shrubs from the nearest groups of people. One seat was quite near, and on this seat was one young girl.
My first impression was of the utter misery in her look and attitude. She sat leaning forward, with bent head, rounded shoulders, tightly-clasped hands, and wide-open fixed eyes. There were no tears, only a hard gaze of extreme wretchedness, which was even more strongly expressed in the droop of her lower lip.
Involuntarily I came to a standstill, and stood for one moment, watching. Not more than a moment. My gaze seemed to wake her up from a kind of stupefaction. She lifted her head, and looked at me, in a listless indifferent fashion.
But listlessness and indifference vanished. I knew her then, and she knew me. Strange that I had not recognised her before. In a moment the face changed, the cheeks reddened, the eyes were averted, and she sprang half up.
"Miss Millington!" I said. She would not offer her hand, and I took it, only to have it snatched away.
"What makes you come? As if I wanted to see you! Why can't you leave me alone?" she asked, with bitter scorn, her lips shaking in agitation.
"The Park is free to all," I said gravely. "I did not expect to find you here."
"No, I dare say not! You thought you had got me out of your way, at any rate!" she retorted.
"You do me wrong," I answered. "Miss Millington, I should like a few words with you. Will you sit down here?"
"No, thanks. I'm going home."
"Where is your home?"
She made no response.
"I have, of course, no right to interfere," I said. "But I think you are in trouble; and I would gladly help you if I could. Will you not sit down with me, for five minutes?"
"No! Why should I? If I am in trouble, it is your doing," she broke out passionately.
"You are mistaken. It is not my doing," I said; and after a moment's thought I laid one hand on her arm, adding, "Sit down."
She yielded sullenly, and I placed myself beside her.
"One word of explanation first," I said, speaking gently. "I should like you to understand that I had not, practically, to do with your going. Mrs. Romilly appealed to me for a confidential opinion, and I declined to give any. There were things which she had heard, and which she disapproved: but she did not hear them from me."
Miss Millington shook her head, in evident disbelief.
"There was much that tried and grieved me," I said in a lower voice. "No need to go into particulars. You know well enough to what I allude. I would have been a friend to you, if you had allowed it."
She gave me a strange look; then said, "Thanks!" very scornfully.
"And you are in trouble now?" I said once more.
"That is my business; not yours," came in sharp answer.
"It is only mine, in so far as I might be able to help you," I said.
"Nonsense! As if you cared!"
"I do care!" I said, and I spoke truth.
She looked at me again, broke into a mirthless laugh, and said—
"Not enough to lend me fifty pounds,—or fifty shillings, for the matter of that! I know what people mean by caring. There, that's enough! I am going home."
But my hand was on her arm, and she did not rise. A sudden thought came to me. Was this at last—at last!—the opportunity to "overcome evil with good?"
My little legacy of one hundred pounds is lying still at the Bank,—not yet invested, as Craven advised. I had to indent upon it largely, for mourning and other expenses, after my aunt's death. This year, by care and economy, I have made up the amount to something over one hundred pounds laid by; and the question of investment has recurred.
Fifty pounds out of it would be a large proportion,—to be, not lent, but given! For this was the "good" which occurred to me, as that by which I might overcome long-standing evil.
I cannot say the thought was—or is—welcome. I have none but myself to depend upon. A long lonely life may lie before me. Health and strength may at any time fail. Craven will never offer a home. I must save for the future, while working for the present.
And she has so wronged me! It came over me in a rush, as I sat there silently by my silent companion,—how she has resisted and scorned my best efforts, opposed my will, fought against my authority,—nay, far worse, if things are as I verily believe, has ruined my life's happiness, separating me from Arthur Lenox for ever!
Once more I seemed to see her bending over my open journal, dishonourably scanning the lines never meant for her eyes, and meanly afterward making use of the information thus gained.
A great wave of the old passionate wrath and hate surged up within me, and almost broke. I—to forgive her! I—to despoil myself of half the little I possessed, for her sake!
Did she deserve it! No! A thousand times, No!
But—do I deserve the benefits which God has showered upon me?—The love of Christ my Lord? A million times,—No!
And He, in His forgiving pity, has said,—"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good!"
The rising storm was checked, and at the Voice of my Master—"Peace, be still!" There was a great calm.
I cannot say if she saw or knew aught of this. I only know that we both sat in silence,—perhaps for some seconds only, perhaps for five minutes. Then I found myself answering her last utterance, "You need fifty pounds,—for what?"
"To save my mother's life."
Miss Millington's self-command broke down, and she hid her face, sobbing.
I let her cry for a while, before saying, "Tell me a little more."
"What is the use? It is no good," she cried petulantly.
"No,—but I should like to hear," I answered.
A measure still of resistance was followed by yielding. Once started, I think she found the "telling" a relief to herself.