"I have known a Captain Lenox," I said, looking up. "It may or may not be the same."
Another whisper, and—"Don't tell!" reached me.
"Captain Lenox who used to be at Bath," Miss Millington said, her eyes fixed upon me.
"That would probably be my acquaintance," I answered. "Have you heard anything of him?"
"Yes,—something," she said pointedly enough; and Maggie giggled.
I put down my work, and threaded my needle with a steady hand,—wondering at myself. It flashed across me in that moment how little my dear Mrs. Romilly, if she knew what Miss Millington really is, would approve of such a companionship for her girls.
"Millie knows somebody in Bath too," Nona remarked. "And she has written to Millie about Captain Lenox."
"Very likely," I answered. "Bath is a large place."
Whispers again. I thought I heard—"Carries it off well! But you know how she looked at—"
This was in Miss Millington's voice. Nona's followed; and I said gravely—
"Nona, I don't know what you and Maggie think, but I am very sure that your mother would not approve of such conduct. Whispering before others is a most unladylike trick. If you have secrets to discuss, you should either go into the dining-room, or ask me to leave you alone."
"Is that meant for me, Miss Conway?" demanded Miss Millington, with a furious flare-up. "Come, girls! We will go!"
And I was left alone, feeling strangely bruised and stunned. Was I right to speak so to Nona just then? Was it wise or unwise? I cannot judge yet. I am writing to-night, because sleep seems impossible: and now I am too tired to write more. How I could love those girls, if they would let me! But they will not. And "Millie" is the hindrance.
Things cannot go on so much longer. Sometimes I feel as if I must write fully to Nellie. Ought I to speak first to Miss Millington? Would she hear me? And what if I was betrayed into saying what I should afterward regret?
August 19. Wednesday.—The excursion to Gurglepool has been put off till to-morrow. We actually made the start to-day, and were turned back by rain.
I saw almost nothing of the girls all the morning,—except Thyrza, who is really distressed at Maggie's manner to me, though she does not know what passed yesterday evening, after she left the drawing-room.
Lunch over, I had to be quick if I would not be left behind. I foresaw small pleasantness in my self-imposed trip. Miss Millington was barely civil, and Maggie would scarcely answer when I spoke. Nona and the little ones, of course, followed suit.
So we started,—I, left to walk apart;—Denham rushing hither and thither; Maggie and Nona each hanging affectionately to one of "Millie's" arms, and the little ones keeping close to them, declining to approach me.
The first part of our way lay along the main road, going up the valley. I noted the gathering clouds, and made up my mind privately that we were in for heavy rain. But I said nothing. Others would see for themselves in time.
As we neared the Stockmoors' farm-house, I was somewhat in advance of the rest. Denham had climbed a bank for a flower, and the five stopped short,—perhaps to watch him, perhaps to note something else.
For I glanced back, and saw them gazing towards the whitewashed farm-house which lay close ahead. Involuntarily I looked in the same direction.
A young man was coming through the garden-gate; —a small gate, leading from the tiny flower-garden.
What first struck me was a certain familiarity in his figure and attitude,—the slight lithe figure, the soldierly bearing, the grace, ease, and promptitude with which he swung open the gate and stepped out upon the road.
In a moment I was face to face with Arthur Lenox!
If it had been anywhere else—if I had been behind the others instead of before,—if I had not been conscious of one dozen curious eyes close at hand,—most of all, if I could have had the least assurance that Arthur cares for me still,—I think I must have given some little word or look of welcome, which might perhaps have led to more!
But as things were, it was impossible! How could I, knowing that Miss Millington stood there? How could I, knowing what Miss Millington has seen of my secret thoughts?—If she did see it, which I can never really doubt. How could I, feeling all the while that Arthur Lenox may have utterly changed, may have given up even the wish to meet me again? No; I knew then, and I know still, that I had no choice.
His eyes met mine, and he lifted his hat. He did not change colour or seem startled: and that looks as if he had indeed got over it. And I—I thought for the moment that my heart must die within me, yet I did not even turn pale. The need to keep up was too desperate. And I know that I managed well: perhaps, alas! Too well, if he could care still. For now indeed he must count the matter hopeless.
I bowed coldly,—not in too icy a fashion, which might have been taken for restrained feeling, but with a quiet indifference, as to the most ordinary acquaintance.
Then I felt that, in the natural course of events, acquaintances meeting on such a spot, would certainly exchange a few words. I did not offer my hand, but I paused, and said something about "not expecting to meet Captain Lenox so far out of the world!"
"Odd encounters do take place sometimes," he answered in a manner freezingly polite. "I hope you are well."
"Thanks, quite," I replied. "Are you staying long at the farm?"
"A day or two, perhaps. No, not long. I came here to escape from crowds."
"Then we must not break in on your solitude," I said, slightly smiling. And I would have turned away with another bow, when, to my astonishment, up marched Maggie.
"Miss Con, is it Captain Lenox? Millie heard from her friend that he was coming. And she would like to be introduced."
This very unconventional and schoolgirlish address must have surprised Arthur Lenox even more than it surprised me. But he turned instantly to Maggie, lifting his hat again,—and I could not but see that he was struck. I know his face so well: and the momentary gleam of admiration gave me a keen pain. Yet I could not wonder at it. Maggie was looking her best;—the fresh roseate bloom heightened by walking; the grey eyes sweet and sparkling, half disposed to droop shyly under the curved black lashes.
"Captain Lenox,—Miss Romilly," I said coldly: and as Miss Millington approached, I named her also. Then, as Maggie fell back a pace, and "Millie" seemed disposed to get into a talk about the Bath friend, I added, "We are delaying Captain Lenox: and I do not think we have any time to lose."
Arthur Lenox made at once a responsive movement, not sorry, I thought, to escape from Miss Millington, though his eyes went again towards Maggie with evident interest. I gave him my hand as we said good-bye, distantly enough: and Maggie, with a cordial air, followed suit, actually inviting him to "afternoon tea at Beckdale House any day while he was at the farm." He thanked her, half excused himself, and went off at a rapid pace in the opposite direction to ourselves.
"That was hardly needful, Maggie," I said.
"Why? The Denhams know him. And he is your friend," said Maggie.
"The question for you is what your mother would wish," I said coldly. "My acquaintances are not necessarily always yours. If Mr. Romilly were here it would, of course, be different."
"Well,—I only know he is the handsomest man I ever saw in my life," declared Maggie.
I thought it best to let the matter drop. We went on pretty steadily until heavy rain turned us back, enforcing postponement of the Gurglepool excursion.
To-night, I am terribly weary and overstrained with to-day's encounter: and so hopeless. For this has indeed been destroying the bridge behind me.
ALONE IN GURGLEPOOL.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
Written at intervals.
THE excursion to Gurglepool took place on Thursday, August 20. I have much to say which I must jot down gradually.
We had bright sunshine. I think I should have been glad of rain to keep us at home. For the whole morning I was haunted by the thought that Arthur Lenox might after all respond to Maggie's invitation, and look in at tea-time. Though not likely, it was not impossible. And I should be absent!
Yet my duty remained the same. If going was an "ought" the day before, it had not changed. I did feel sorely tempted to wish that I had not arranged to be of the party, or that some excuse were even yet possible. But conscience would not consent; neither would pride. I cannot tell which was the stronger.
Till lunch I stayed indoors, having a good deal to do. At lunch Maggie remarked—
"We've seen Captain Lenox again!"
"Have you?" asked Thyrza, who for some reason had not accompanied Maggie and Miss Millington. I think she and Nona had enjoyed an independent scramble with Denham.
"Yes,—we met him. And he and Millie had quite a talk together,—quite confidential, wasn't it, Millie dear?" Both laughed. "He could have come in to tea to-day, only we shan't be at home, so it would be no use. He means to go away to-morrow morning,—no, I think he said he should start this evening. But next time he visits the Denhams, he hopes to make father's acquaintance."
"Yes; I thought him rather smitten," murmured Miss Millington, whereat Maggie blushed.
The folly of this! As if girls of Maggie's type had not nonsense enough in their heads, without its being helped on. Hardly anything could have been in worse taste. If Mrs. Romilly knew!—with her refined delicacy of feeling!
But what could I do? Too well I divined at whom the shaft was levelled; and too keenly I realised what mischief Miss Millington's tongue might have done to me in one short interview. But I was defenceless. I could do nothing: and while my heart cried out bitterly against her, I was outwardly calm.
Luncheon over, we started, though not without a good deal of delay. It was a lovely ramble. How I could have enjoyed the fair surroundings of dale and mountain, under different circumstances!
The walk proved longer than we expected: quite four miles I should judge. Probably Denham missed the shortest route. We were all glad, on reaching the wild little valley, to throw ourselves down for a good rest; and most of our party were hungry enough to do good justice to the substantial Yorkshire tea-cakes which we had brought with us, to be eaten as buns.
Things had gone more smoothly thus far than I had feared. Part of the way thither Denham had walked beside me, chatting; and Maggie seemed good-humoured. I hoped that the extreme offence at my line of action was lessening.
When scrambling explorations began, after our rest, I submitted to be left in the rear. It would not do to seem suspicious or distrustful: and I could not, of course, keep my eyes upon all of them the whole time. Miss Millington was not likely to neglect the little ones; and the elder girls knew me to be at hand, if any difficulty arose. I was fain to be content with so much: and when they all rushed gaily off, I made no attempt to follow.
Thereafter I had time enough for quiet thought,—more time perhaps than was good for me. Shouts of laughter sounded faintly at intervals, from one direction or another; and sometimes I caught a glimpse of a flitting figure among the trees.
"Millie" was one of the merry party, but I was left alone. The feeling of being shunned by those whom one loves, or could and would love, is very painful.
I sat long near the lesser hole, disinclined for needless exertion: and then strayed slowly towards Gurglepool. Whatever spot I chose to be in was studiously avoided by the rest.
Some two hours must have passed in this fashion, and I knew that we ought soon to start for home. Our walk and subsequent rest had occupied long time, and days late in August are shorter than at midsummer.
With a good deal of difficulty I contrived to waylay Popsie, as she was rushing down a path. She sprang aside, as if to escape, the moment her eyes caught sight of me: but she obeyed my command to "stop;" and I said, "Tell Maggie I want to speak to her, Popsie. We ought soon to leave."
Popsie said "Yes," and flew away.
A long interval followed: and Maggie did not come. It was evident to me that some preconcerted plan for making me repent my presence there was being acted out. I blamed myself for being sure that Miss Millington was to blame for this; yet I was sure. I sat waiting, alone and lonely. It would never do for me to go in chase of Maggie: but I made up my mind to speak to her seriously next day.
To my relief Denham dashed up. "Can't find Nona!" he said. I could not make out from his face whether he were in fun or in earnest.
"When did you see her last?" I inquired.
"Oh, lots of time since. We're having a game of hide-and-seek, and she's tucked herself away somewhere."
"You had better find her quickly, for it is time to start for home," I said.
He dashed off again, and I heard his voice shouting, "Nona! Nona! No—na!" all through the valley. I followed, and presently came upon him, with Maggie, the children, and Miss Millington, seeming to hold a consultation.
"Have you not found Nona yet?" I asked.
"No!" came in chorus.
"I sent a message by Popsie that I wished to speak to you, Maggie, about going home," I observed. "But of course, we cannot leave till Nona is found."
"Of course!" echoed the chorus.
I saw a disposition to laugh on Pet's face.
"And none of you knows where she is?" I put the question gravely, looking at each in quick succession.
Maggie reddened, and a glance passed between her and Miss Millington. All, however, joined in one emphatic and half-angry denial.
"Then there is nothing to be done but to search again," I said. "Nona is very wrong to remain away so long. Where did any one see her last?"
Accounts agreed here. She had been observed standing near the lesser hole. Denham further declared that he didn't see how she could have got away from the trees in its neighbourhood, unnoticed: and I saw that he either imagined, or wished me to imagine, the possibility that she had fallen in. I did not believe he would view the idea so quietly, if he really believed it; and I counted Nona too competent a climber as well as too sensible a girl to do anything so foolish.
However, we all trooped thither, and peered over the edge into the blackness below. Denham shouted Nona's name vigorously: and I was conscious of an odd sense of unreality, almost inclining me to laugh.
"If she slipped over at all, she'd roll miles!" Denham declared.
"Hardly," I said. "But really, Denham, this is rather absurd."
"Why, that's the very thing you were afraid we should do!" cried Maggie.
"I don't think we must wait to discuss that now," I said. "If we do not start at once, it will be dark before we reach home."
"Well, then, I say we'd better have another jolly good hunt," exclaimed Denham. "And we'll all go off in different directions,—except that Maggie can take Pet, and Millie can take Popsie. Mind you all scour the place well. If that doesn't do, we shall just have to get a man and a rope, and somebody must go down the hole."
They scattered again, and once more I was alone. I felt anxious, though more than half believing that Nona had played us some trick, and that the others either knew or suspected the same. The sky had clouded over, and the little wood began to look somewhat dull and shady. As I wandered about, searching and calling, a dread came over me,—suppose something had happened to Nona! How terrible it would be!
The others did not return. I was struck with the cessation of their voices. Denham's shouts had died away in the distance. I hoped none of the searchers would manage to lose themselves.
I stood still to listen, and the absolute silence was oppressive. Scarcely a leaf fluttered.
Could they have found Nona, and gone home without me?
This question did just occur to my mind, but I dismissed it at once. I would not for a moment suspect Maggie or even Miss Millington of such conduct, knowing as I knew they must know what my suspense would be.
Then I thought that nobody had been for a good while to Gurglepool; and I remembered the woman in the cottage at the end of the little valley. Why not appeal to her? She was acquainted with the place, and might give us advice.
I went quickly first to Gurglepool, and stood on the edge of the huge circular hole. The bottom, sixty or seventy feet below, was almost lost in evening gloom. At first I could see nothing; but gradually outlines grew a little more distinct.
Something lying on the steep pathway, half-a-dozen yards beneath where I stood, drew my attention. I could not make it out: and the descent was scarcely a tempting one, in lessening light and loneliness. I laid a hand on the rail, however, and went a few steps carefully, till I could pick up the thing.
It was Nona's silk scarf.
Somehow I had not thought of Gurglepool, so much as of the lesser hole with its mysterious black depths. Gurglepool lay more open to observation. If she had chosen to descend the path, she would have had no means of hiding herself below, while daylight lasted.
Here seemed to be evidence that she had descended it, however, and recently too. For if the scarf had been there not much more than half-an-hour earlier, I must surely have seen it.
Could she be below still?
I spoke her name, called it, and had no answer. Gazing fixedly, till my eyes ached, I fancied I could detect something close to the pool-edge,—something like a human body lying prone. I believe one may look and imagine in dim light, till one can see almost anything. I thought at last that I could detect the very attitude, the pose of the helpless limbs, the white face upturned.
Nothing of course remained to me but to go straight down. The others might wonder where I was; but I could not delay.
The path was slimy and slippery from the heavy rain of the day before, much worse than on my former visit. I meant to descend cautiously. I suppose I was tired out, unnerved, overstrained, and the thought of Nona lying there made my limbs tremble.
About three-quarters of the way to the bottom, when I had just loosened my grasp of the hand-rail to pull up my skirt,—I slipped, and could not recover myself.
It was a long moment's horror,—a helpless sliding quick descent, faster and faster. I thought I should shoot into the dark deep pool, and sink,—sucked downward into the underground river coursing through. And in that instant, I wondered if Arthur Lenox would care.
Then I had arrived at the bottom,—not in the water, but on its muddy margin, just where I had supposed Nona to be. No figure was there, only a large whitish stone which had dropped from the rocky wall. I came down kneeling upon this stone, my whole weight thrown almost entirely upon the right knee; and with the impetus of my descent I rebounded nearly a yard, rolling over on my side.
I have a distinct recollection of so much. Then I think I must have lain stunned for half-a-minute. My first clear thought was of thankfulness at having escaped the black deep water, so awfully close.
"Not yet death!" flashed through my mind; and I said aloud, "How foolish I have been!"
Next I had a sense that I was very much hurt somewhere; but I thought I would get up; and when I tried to move an inch, the pain in my knee was so fearful, that I was obliged to desist at once.
I do not fancy I made any sound, for screaming is not at all in my line; but I did feel dismayed. The position was not an enviable one. I hoped that the pain might lessen soon; but it did not.
Then I recollected that I must try to make known where I was: and I called repeatedly—"Maggie!" "Denham!" "Help!" But there was no response. Indeed, I scarcely expected any. Even if the rest of my party had not already gone home without me,—and I began to feel sure that this must be the true state of the case,—they would content themselves easily with the conjecture that I might have started first alone, and would not search far. The woman in the cottage had very likely retired with her family for the night. Unless a passer-by came near the edge of Gurglepool, my voice from the depth would be unheard; and stray passers-by, on such a spot and at such an hour, were in the highest degree improbable.
I tried again to rise: but in vain. I tried to drag myself, crawling, to the path, only a yard or two off, but I could not. The least motion gave intolerable agony.
Darkness seemed to be coming all at once, in a rush. Outside Gurglepool, no doubt, it was pleasant twilight still; but I lay in black shadow; the straight rocky sides rising steeply for sixty feet or more, all around, in a circle broken only by the path. Small bushes sprouted out here and there from some tiny ledge; and overhead was a circular grey sky. That was all I could see. Dim light above, under the grey sky-roof; no light below. I could just make out the surface of the still water, near to my side. No sound or stir of life was to be heard.
It was strangely solemn to be there, all alone; fir from any human being; clear and calm in mind; but unable to stir.
While I kept absolutely still, the pain was so far bearable, that I could think. But the more I thought, the more I saw that I could do nothing, except endure passively until help should come. To climb the path was physically impossible.
Help of course would come in time:—but when?
image005
It was strangely solemn to be there all alone.
That was the question. If the rest of the party had started without me, they would not expect me to arrive till perhaps an hour after themselves: and then they would wait before doing anything practical. I knew how indignant and grieved Thyrza would be, at the mere thought of my having been left behind alone. Perhaps she would see Mr. Stockmoor: or send some one to meet me. By that time, however, I scarcely saw what she or anybody could do. The walk over the hills in darkness would be no easy matter: and how could they guess where I might be found?
I saw all this very plainly, and it did seem that I should almost certainly have to remain where I was until the morning. The marvel to me now is that I could view the prospect so quietly. I do not think it was stupefaction. I only felt that Christ my Master was with me—absolutely and actually present—whatever might happen: that He would never forsake His own. And four little simple lines kept running in my head:
"His Arm is beneath me,His Eye is above:His Spirit within meSays—'Rest in My love.'"
It seemed at last a certainty that the trick, of which I had not liked to suspect the others, had really been planned. Otherwise I must surely have heard their voices calling my name, when they returned from the search.
"Poor children! How silly of them!" I thought. For I knew that in punishing me, they would—as is so often the case—have punished themselves. And then I reverted to Thyrza, and I did grieve to picture her trouble.
Suppose she went to the Farm, and told Mr. Stockmoor! And suppose—suppose Arthur Lenox were there still! Would he come in search of the missing governess? I felt that anything I might have to endure would be worth such a consummation.
The sound of a slow drop—drop—drop on the pool-surface was followed by big splashes upon my face. Rain came fast; no soft shower, but a pelting sheet of water, hissing down the muddy pathway. Ascent would be worse than ever after this. I should have been thankful for my waterproof cloak, lying far above on the edge. In five minutes my clothes were soaked.
Blacker and blacker grew the sky, heavier and heavier the rain. It was one of Nature's shower-baths. I was soon thoroughly chilled and shivering, less able to bear up. I remember the thought occurring, "Even if I live till daylight, this may mean fatal illness,—may mean the worst!" And then the question, "Would it be 'the worst' to me?" And a murmured, "Even so, my Father,—if so it should seem good in Thy sight."
How long a time passed thus I cannot tell, for I could not see the face of my watch. Every two or three minutes I still called forlornly for aid, though I felt the effort to be almost useless.
After what must have been a considerable while, I tried to change my position. In so doing, I put out one hand, perhaps a foot off,—not on the bank, as I expected, for it splashed into water.
Then—the pool was rising!
At once I understood. The woman had explained to me how these waters did rise in heavy rain, slowly mounting up and up, towards the mouth of the hole, curdling fiercely round like water in a saucepan vehemently stirred, and finally "boiling" over on the grass outside.
I think I must have been getting at last a little stupefied with pain and cold; for I kept picturing this to myself, in a dreamy fashion, wondering if the waters would carry me up as they rose, and would whirl me round in eddying circles, till finally I was cast out upon the grassy slope.
Or I might instead be sucked downwards, drawn into the quiet river below, carried through dark underground passages, and perhaps, a mile or two farther on, be washed out through holes into light of day, just where the hidden river bubbles up once more upon its stony bed, as I had seen it when driving past in the dog-cart.
Maggie would be the one to be pitied,—poor Maggie! I felt such intense compassion for her. I thought of Eustace, and of Keith's death. It did seem strange, if something akin to that were to happen again in the family. Not the same, yet so far alike that Maggie would certainly be blamed for my death. People would say, "How terrible for Maggie! Such a result from one little bout of girlish temper and silliness!" But would that be true? Was it not rather the end of a long downsliding on Maggie's part: a persistent yielding to ill temper and perversity?
I think I wanted to live most of all for Maggie's sake. It seemed to me that my death just then would throw such a shadow over her life.
Of Miss Millington I thought little, and this now seems to me singular. Maggie's face haunted me. I kept seeing the rounded peach-bloom cheeks, and the sweet half-shy grey eyes, just as I had seen them when she stepped forward to speak to Arthur Lenox. And, strange to say, the face grew more dear, just because he had looked upon it admiringly.
Until those lonely hours in Gurglepool hollow, I never dreamt how I loved Maggie, despite all her coldness. I can recall saying, with quite a gleam of joy, "If I get through this, I shall be able now to write to my friend as she wishes, about her darling."
The downpour continued, and the pool still rose. I could feel the water creeping, creeping, like a snake of ice about my feet.
I found myself wondering what the process of drowning would be like. Should I just fade away into a peaceful unconsciousness, or would there be struggling and oppression? Two or three descriptions which I had read came to me, written by some who had gone through the actual experience, so far as all loss of sense. "Not worse in any case than what many have to bear in their own beds," I thought.
And—"When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee!" was as if whispered to my mind.
"Why, I am passing through them now," I said aloud.
Yet how far I realised danger, I do not know. For in the midst of all this, I tried to reckon how many hours must pass before I could hope to be rescued. Then I wondered again whether—perhaps—Arthur Lenox might come. And I seemed to see him and Maggie wandering together, out of my reach.
Consciousness must have been a little vague at times. Somehow it did not occur to me to try again to move. I had quite ceased to call for help, and the very wish to be saved faded gradually away. I hardly even observed that by-and-bye the rain came to an end, and the pool was no longer rising. All this must have taken much time: how much I cannot tell.
There were cries at last,—shouts,—and I saw lanterns above, gleaming through the darkness. I tried to call, but could not, for my voice seemed gone; and I thought, "It does not matter; they will find my cloak;" which indeed came to pass.
Then I knew that somebody was descending the path, followed by somebody else. I have been told since that I was lying half in water, and my remembrance of the exclamations around confirms this.
Some one drew me back gently,—so gently, that I believed it must be Arthur. I did not say his name, but I managed to look up, and I saw—not Captain Lenox, but Sir Keith Denham.
For a moment, I could hardly believe that it was Sir Keith,—his face was so stern and grieved and pale. I felt no surprise at seeing him. There was one sharp stab of disappointment; and then all other thoughts were lost in the pain of being moved.
I shall never forget the ascent of that path; though indeed it was managed beautifully. Two other men helped Sir Keith and Mr. Stockmoor; and sometimes one or another slipped. They could not help it; but the least jar was terrible to me; and I did not lose sense for a moment.
Then followed the long long drive in the waggonette, with its ceaseless jolting. Thyrza was there, and she held me in her dear arms all the while, tears often running down her cheeks. I cannot remember my first sight of Thyrza. They say that she was on the edge of Gurglepool, and that almost the only words I spoke were just these, "I am so sorry for poor Maggie." The remark would be natural enough; but I can remember little of anything, beyond the pain, and Thyrza's distress, and Sir Keith's stern gentleness.
We reached home at last, and faces and voices came round. The sound of Maggie's sobbing went to my heart, and I believe I burst into tears then for the first time. They kept her away from me.
In the early morning, a doctor from Beckbergh arrived. I had thought the pain in my knee all night as much as I could possibly endure: but I had to bear worse from his hands. It was not a case of broken bones, but of severe dislocation, with terrible bruises and swelling. At first he feared permanent injury to the bone. That fear, I am thankful to say, is now going off. He told me everything depended on absolute rest and stillness for the limb; and indeed I have done my best to be quiet, though it was not easy.
For three weeks, only Lady Denham and Thyrza and Rouse were allowed in my room. During some days I had a sharp touch of rheumatic fever, from lying so long in wet clothes. Things are much better now, and I have permission to amuse myself by writing a little at times: so when alone with Thyrza, I ask for my journal. The knee has still to be kept motionless. But my doctor speaks of the improvement in it as astonishingly rapid.
"Thanks, partly, to your being so good a patient," he says.
It was strange that Lady Denham and Sir Keith should have unexpectedly arrived at the Farm that very afternoon. Captain Lenox had left only one hour earlier, walking off with his carpet-bag, and telling nobody where he meant to go. Sometimes I do long to know what passed between him and Miss Millington,—but of course I shall never hear.
Friday. September 18.—Having written the above, piecemeal, up to this day, I hope to resume my more regular journalising.
It is now over four weeks since the accident. Maggie and the twins come in daily to see me: but they are all three more or less constrained and uncomfortable. Nona chatters. Elfie looks pinched and forlorn. Maggie seems at a loss what to say or do. I have seen none of them alone, and scarcely an allusion has been made to the real cause of my illness. I think it best to wait; not to try to force any expressions of regret. There is unhappily an adverse influence.
Miss Millington has not been near me yet. I am told that she says, "It is kinder not to crowd the room."
AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?
FROM MISS GRAHAM TO MAGGIE.
Tuesday. September 15.
DEAR MISS ROMILLY,—I am sorry that I could not write sooner about your MS., but work has been pressing.I think I warned you in my last letter that if you would have an opinion from me as to your powers, it must be an honest opinion. That does not at all mean that what I say must finally settle the question for you. I may take a different view of the matter from somebody else; and I may be mistaken. But what I think I must say. It would be no kindness to lure you on with false promises, contrary to my real expectation.You have sent me a good deal more than the few pages for which I asked. I have waited till I could look carefully through the whole: though twenty pages would have been enough.The first question is respecting this particular MS., and I can unhesitatingly advise you not to offer it to any publisher: for no publisher will undertake to bring it out. There is a want of plot, a want of style, a want of care and finish, a want of force and interest, from beginning to end, which must tell fatally against it.It is astonishing how few young people—or people of any age—have any clear idea of what is required in writing for the press. They have a vague impression that the best writers can "dash off" a thing effectively in a hurry, when required; therefore, they suppose, all that a young and unpractised hand has to do is to sit down when the fancy seizes him or her, scribble recklessly whatever comes into his or her head, and be sublimely sure that "anything will do" for a much-enduring public.I do not deny that many experienced writers can "dash off" a thing well, or that the most rapid writing is often the best. But the rush of sudden power is generally the outcome of hard thinking, often of hard struggling up to it. I am not certain whether you will understand what I mean; and if not, further words will scarcely make my meaning clear. Of course there have been instances of hasty and brilliant hits from unpractised hands. These, however, are so rare that ordinary mortals—perhaps I should say ordinary would-be authors—have no business to count on any such possibility. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, to say the least, success presupposes hard work.I have noted in pencil on your MS. a few of the more egregious errors in style and grammar. Some of them might be corrected by careful re-writing, if the story were worth further attention: which it is not!Now we come to the second question,—as to your future. Is it, or is it not, worth while for you to set the vocation of literature before your mind as a distinct aim?I am more reluctant here to give a decisive opinion. You are young still. You may have certain latent powers which might be worth developing. Carelessly as your MS. is scribbled, I detect a certain ease of expression, rather beyond that of the ordinary run of girls. The plot is no plot: and the characters are feeble: but about the little boy there is an occasional touch of reality, which deserves commendation.You will not count this too encouraging, yet it is all I can honestly say: There are no such signs of marked talent, still less of any spark of genius, that I may venture to say, "Go on, and prosper."It is for you to decide whether you will give up literary efforts, and be content to live a simple womanly life,—that may be busy and beautiful enough, if you will,—or whether you will prepare to enter the lists.If you decide on the last,—mark my words!—it will not mean ease, or laziness, or self-indulgence. A successful literary career is no idle career. And the sooner you begin—not to publish, but to prepare for future publishing,—the better.Though you cannot write yet for the press, you must write and re-write, for practice. You must read much and steadily. You must study life and human nature. You must go through the best authors, with careful noting of the style of each. You must bind yourself to habits of regular work, and not allow your plans to be lightly broken. Authorship is business, not play: and it must be treated as business.It may be that your literary bent is strong enough not to be checked by all this: that you have in your heart a conviction of future success, which will nerve you to meet toil and failure undaunted until you do succeed: that you feel or believe yourself so distinctly called of God to this career, as to render it a duty for you to go straight forward.If so, I would not deter you. Strive your utmost: and in time you will learn whether or no you really are called to it; whether or no, any measure of the gift is really yours.But if you merely think it would be nice to write because a great many people write in these days; or because you want to make a little money, and authorship seems the easiest fashion of doing so,—then you had better give up the notion at once. That does not mean success.One word more. You need not suppose, from what I have said, that a life of authorship is all toil or all difficulties. There are grand delights in it. I can say this from my own experience. I would not willingly exchange it for any other life. But there cannot be heights without valleys: and whether you know anything of the heights must depend upon whether it is the life that God has willed for you.If you decide to pursue your efforts, send me a short MS. a year or two hence, and I will tell you how you are getting on.—Believe me, yours truly—LETITIA GRAHAM.
FROM MAGGIE TO NELLIE.
Friday. September 18.
DARLING NELLIE,—I promised to send you the letter from Miss Graham whenever it should come; so I suppose I must; but you won't like it any more than I do. I think it's an awfully stupid letter, and I am sure she can't be at all a nice sort of person. I wonder if writing books always makes people get so disagreeable when they are middle-aged. That is two of them, and I dare say Gladys will be just the same by-and-bye, which would be three.I am sure Gladys hasn't done nearly all that,—reading and studying and writing everything over and over again for years and years. Why, she just began straight off to print books the moment she wanted to. I don't mean that she hadn't done any stories before, but not in the way Miss Graham says; and I have written two stories. I don't see why I shouldn't begin to have books printed, when I like, just as Gladys has. I certainly shan't wait a whole year. And I don't mean to write to Miss Graham any more.Miss Con seems getting on all right, only the doctor won't let her move, except just to be put on the sofa. I wish she would make haste and get well: and then Lady Denham could go back to the Farm and leave us in peace. She is so unkind to poor dear Millie, and seems to think it is all Millie's fault and mine that Miss Con fell down Gurglepool path. And that is so unfair: for of course we couldn't guess that Miss Con would choose to tumble in such a place. Millie says it was very stupid of her,—and so I think. And Millie is sure Miss Con likes being an invalid, and having a fuss made. But you mustn't let Mother see this, because she is fond of Miss Con.I'm so very glad to hear such good accounts of darling Mother. It does seem almost as if the being downright ill had made her better. What does Father mean by saying that perhaps you will all come home soon? Is there really any chance of that?Lady Denham means to have an excursion one day soon, now Miss Con is well enough to be left. There's a big cave, miles away, which we are to see. She and Sir Keith are going, and she wants to take the twins and Thyrza and me. I do think she might squeeze poor Millie in too, but she won't. I've half a mind to stay at home, if Millie does: only I want to see the cave.—Believe me, darling, ever your loving sister—MAGGIE.
FROM THYRZA TO NELLIE.
PRIVATE September 19.
MY DEAR NELLIE,—I have written very short letters lately, but nursing has taken up a great deal of time. And besides—I did not want to say too much at first. I wanted to leave Maggie to tell for herself how things have really been. I think Lady Denham felt the same, from something she said one day.But now all these weeks have gone, and I can see quite clearly from your letters that Maggie has not told,—at least that she hasn't said much. I believe Lady Denham asked her yesterday how much she had explained things to you or Father: for I heard her make a shirking sort of answer. She has learnt that from Millie. It wasn't Maggie's way—once.She is writing to-day, but I don't suppose she will say much: and I think it is time for me to speak out. You at least ought to understand, for Miss Con's sake: and you may say just as much or as little as you like to anybody else.Isn't it good of Lady Denham to spend all these weeks in the house, and to look after everything? You should see the calm way in which she rides over Millie's fads and tantrums. I am afraid I do enjoy that. I never liked her or Sir Keith half so well as I do now.But about Gurglepool, and the accident,—it really was the fault of Millie and the girls,—Millie's most, because she twists Maggie round her little finger, and Maggie manages the rest. Only that doesn't set Maggie free from blame.They were all very much put out, because Miss Con insisted on going with them to Gurglepool the first time. She thought it safer. And they agreed among themselves to leave her as much as possible alone, while they were there, as a punishment.Then somebody proposed—I can't find out who, which makes me sure it was Millie,—that they should slip off, and leave her to walk home alone. Such a horrid unladylike trick! Nona was to hide, and they would have a hunt, and Miss Con was to be frightened and left to watch: and then they would all slip away, and Nona would join them outside the valley.It was done too: and that was how Miss Con was so hurt. She found Nona's scarf on the Gurglepool path, and fancied she saw some one lying below: and in going down, she slipped and fell. I don't think the scarf was left there on purpose.I was at home with Elfie, and Lady Denham and Sir Keith came in,—quite unexpectedly. They had only travelled from York that day: and they seemed very much disappointed to find Captain Lenox gone.Well—Millie and the rest came rushing in, all heated, as if from a race. Millie grew demure in a moment, when she saw who was there. Of course, we asked after Miss Con: and Millie said, "Oh, she's just behind!" which was not true, though perhaps Millie tried to think it was. And Maggie grew so red, I felt certain something was wrong.Sir Keith took the matter up at once, and insisted on knowing all: and there was no getting out of his questions.Maggie owned at last that it was—"only fun, but they had started first—just for fun—and of course Miss Con would find it out directly, and get home soon."I never knew till then how severe Sir Keith can look. One likes him the better for it: because it wasn't displeasure for himself, but for somebody else. I detest people to be always and for ever defending themselves: but defending others is quite a different thing.I know I shouldn't like him to look at me as he looked at Maggie. Lady Denham said outright, in her quiet way, "I am ashamed of you, Maggie!" And Sir Keith just turned away from her, with almost a kind of contempt and I heard him say to Denham—"You—a gentleman!—To leave a lady unprotected in such a place after dusk!"Then Sir Keith said somebody must go at once to meet Miss Con. Millie, who was tilting up her chin in her offended fashion, declared she couldn't, she was so tired: and Maggie only looked doleful and said nothing. But Denham offered at once,—I think he was so ashamed, he was glad to do anything,—and Nona and I said we would go too. And then we found that Sir Keith meant to be with us.We went a long way, first by the road, and then over a hill: but of course there were no signs of Miss Con. And by-and-by Denham was puzzled about the right path, when it grew dark. Sir Keith didn't know the short-cut to Gurglepool, as he had never been that way. Nona tried to guide us, but she failed too: and Sir Keith said we must turn back at once, or we should get lost ourselves, and not be able to help Miss Con.To make matters worse, tremendous rain came on. We were like drowned rats by the time we reached home. Maggie did look miserable then, and no wonder. Millie kept talking, talking perpetually about its being nobody's fault. The one thing in life that she does care for, is to shield her precious self from blame. I suppose I ought not to write so of her, but I cannot like Millie. She is so untrue.I can't think what we should have done without Sir Keith. He ordered out the waggonette, sent for Mr. Stockmoor, and arranged for two men to go over the hills with lanterns, while he and Mr. Stockmoor and I drove round by the road. It was very good of Lady Denham to let me go. She made me change my wet things, and then actually kissed me, and said, "Don't be frightened, my dear. Miss Conway has probably found shelter in a cottage." Of course that did seem likely, only one could not be sure.When we reached the valley, the two men joined us. They had seen nothing of Miss Con, and I began to be almost in despair, for Mr. Stockmoor seemed to think she must have wandered away and been lost on these wild hills.We thought it would be best to go first to the cottage, and on our way we passed close to Gurglepool. One of the men went close with his lantern, and then I heard a shout,—for he had found Miss Con's cloak.I can't tell you the sort of horror that came over me. I thought she must have fallen into that deep water,—and I thought I should never see my dear Miss Con again. It was very dreadful.I wasn't allowed to go down the path, and Sir Keith insisted on being the first. Do you know, Nellie, he turned so pale when her cloak was found, and seemed so unhappy all through, that really I began to think he must care very much indeed for her! I don't understand a great deal about such things, and I should hate to have my head always full of love and marriage affairs like many girls, and to be fancying that everything must mean something,—but still I could not help noticing his look that day.You have heard about the actual fall, and about how Miss Con was found, lying half in water. They say that if the heavy rain had lasted a while longer, she must have been drowned.Miss Con hardly spoke at all,—except just a whisper about being "so sorry" for Maggie. She gave me one little smile, and then kept quite still,—and all through the drive home she hardly moaned once, though one could see what frightful pain she was in.Well,—now it is all out at last, and you will understand the state of affairs. Maggie would think me very cruel, of course, to say so much; but I must, for Miss Con's sake. I am writing in confidence: and if you tell anything to anybody, I trust you not to get me into mischief with the rest.Millie has never vouchsafed one word of sorrow, for what was really and truly her doing: and she never asks to go into Miss Con's room. Miss Con has sent her a kind message once or twice,—or rather a good many times,—but not of the sort that would look like blame. You would never guess from Miss Con's manner that she has anything to forgive. And I can't describe what her patience and sweetness have been all through her illness.Maggie did seem unhappy for a few days, but she has recovered her spirits wonderfully fast; and she and Millie fraternise as absurdly as ever. Millie is doing Maggie no good,—I can tell you that! But I don't know whether I ought to say it.If ever I am worth anything in life, and if I don't turn out a stupid grumpish disagreeable being, I can only say that it will be all Miss Con. I mean—well, you know what I mean. Of course it wouldn't be only and all her doing, but somehow nobody else ever really helped me as she does. She helps me by what she says, and a great great deal more by what she is. But Maggie can't appreciate her in the least; and as for Millie, all one can say is, that she has treated Miss Con abominably! I would not have borne it from her in Miss Con's place; and I don't believe things can go on so much longer.There! I have said enough. No use to work myself to the boiling pitch. I wish you were back.—Ever your affectionate sister—THYRZA.
ELFIE'S CONFESSION.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
Tuesday. September 22.
MY Elfie has come back to me again. It is strangely a comfort to know that her loving heart has been true throughout, only—But I had better be consecutive.
The others have gone on an excursion to a certain cave. Elfie was to have been one of the party: but at the last moment she begged off, pleading faceache and a wish to be with me. Lady Denham yielded, but did not fall in with Maggie's suggestion that "Millie" should go instead. I heard her say in the passage—"Certainly not. I will not have the children left to Miss Conway. They are in Miss Millington's charge." So Maggie came in to say good-bye, with a pout of her rosy lips.
I had intended making an effort to see something of Miss Millington, in the absence of the rest. Hitherto she has kept resolutely aloof: and I cannot go after her. Others perhaps are not aware that I have scarcely spoken to her since my accident. It does not seem quite a right state of things; yet I do not like to make a stir.
So soon as the waggonette went off, Elfie glided into my room. Until to-day she has always appeared with one of her sisters, always looking impassive and dull. But to-day I noted a change of manner. She seated herself close beside the couch, rested her head on my shoulder, and sighed deeply two or three times.
"Something wrong, Elfie?" I asked.
Silence answered me, lasting I should think for nearly five minutes. Then suddenly she turned, clutched my hand between her own hands, and gasped rather than said—
"I must tell you! I must! I can't go on so any longer!"
"Tell me what, Elfie?"
Another break. "About—" she said, breathing hard. "About—. But you must promise first not to tell."
"I will do nothing hasty. Cannot you trust me?"
"Oh, I couldn't have you tell Mother! Millie would never forgive me. And it is only about you—yourself—not anybody else."
"If it is a matter which only concerns myself, I may safely promise to let it go no farther, without your consent," I said, feeling sure that she had some little revelation to make about the day at Gurglepool.
"And you won't—you won't—hate me?"
"I should find it difficult to do that," I said, kissing her. "Come, Elfie, don't be afraid?"
"Oh, I am not afraid. It isn't that. Only, everything is so horrid. And I ought to have spoken out,—and I didn't. And I don't know how to tell you—and I must."
"Shall I guess, Elfie? Was it that you knew beforehand, from Nona, about the trick that was to be played on me? I dare say you wanted to speak out, and were afraid. But I am quite sure you did not like the trick, even though you could not guess how things would turn out. Another time you will be braver."
She listened to me, with her head now lifted, and astonishment in the large dusky eyes.
"Oh no! You couldn't think that of me! Oh no,—I would never have let them do it without telling you. But indeed they didn't think of such a thing, till they got there, and Millie proposed it. She said it was all so slow, and she wanted some fun. I don't call that fun. Lady Denham says it was so unladylike: and Nona is sorry now, only she doesn't know how to tell you."
"If it wasn't that, what was it, Elfie? I am at a loss," I said.
Elfie dropped her face, hiding it from sight.
"It was—when we first came," she murmured almost inaudibly. "I was in the drawing-room,—on the sofa—and—you were writing—you know—at the side-table."
One instant brought the scene before me; the sleeping figure of Elfie: the journal volume: the sudden interruption: the telegram from abroad: the bitter distress following.
Had I been mistaken? Could Elfie, not Miss Millington, have meddled with my papers? But the thought only occurred to be put aside. I knew Elfie better.
"Yes," I said, and my own voice sounded far-away to myself. "Yes. I remember quite well. You had gone to sleep: and I was called away."
"I didn't hear you go," she whispered, and I could feel the quick fluttering of her heart, as she pressed against me. "At least I think not,—not quite. Only there were voices. And somebody came in. I just peeped sideways. I was only half awake,—and I saw Millie. She was standing by your table,—the table where you had been writing, I mean. And she was reading in the big book, with a lock-clasp. I could see her doing it quite plainly. She turned back a leaf, and leant down a little to read. And I was so frightened. It seemed to make me hot all over, and then like ice. I knew I ought to speak out, and I didn't dare. I knew she would be so angry, and would make me promise not to tell. And I shut my eyes and kept quiet; and I know she turned round to see if I was still asleep, for I could feel her eyes on me. And then I heard you in the passage, and Millie went off in a hurry. And I didn't let you know directly that I was awake,—not till you had been upstairs and came down again. But oh, I did feel so miserable,—knowing I ought to tell, and not daring. Don't you think I was wrong not to speak out? It seemed like deceiving you,—and like joining with Millie in what she had done."
"And so you turned cold to me, Elfie," I said.
"Did I? It was only that I felt so ashamed. And sometimes I was almost sure that Millie guessed what I had seen. It gave her a sort of hold upon me. Oh, I do wish I wasn't such a coward! When you hurt yourself so, I made up my mind that I wouldn't go on with it any longer: but I had to wait till you were better, and I couldn't have a quiet time alone with you till to-day."
"Elfie, have you told me everything now?" I asked, holding her face between my hands, and looking into it.
She blushed slowly. "Yes,—no,—not all. Millie used to laugh and joke about you. Must I tell that? She said you were—were—" a pause and a little sob. "I can't think why Millie dislikes you so,—when you are so dear and good, and Mother's own friend. But she does. She is always trying to set Maggie and Nona and the little ones against you. And then—you know—she said she had a friend in Bath,—and she knew when Captain Lenox was coming, and she wouldn't let us tell you, though he was a friend of yours. And she said—things—"
"Yes?" I said gravely.
Elfie sobbed again. "I knew Mother would be so vexed,—Mother can't bear that sort of talk and nonsense. But Millie would,—and she wanted us to think that she knew about—about you—from her friend in Bath. But I felt perfectly sure that she had read something of yours that she had no business to read,—and it made me feel so miserable. But you won't hate me,—darling Miss Con, will you?—and you won't tell Mother?"
"I will do neither, Elfie," I said, drawing her into my arms. "Perhaps some day it may be right for you to tell your Mother; but I am not the person to do so. Miss Millington has wronged me, and I cannot take any step that might look like revenge. Still—if she is capable of such an action, she is hardly fit to train your little sisters."
Elfie's tearful eyes looked up wonderingly.
"Don't you feel angry with her?"
"I have felt so. This is an old trouble, Elfie. I knew at the time what Miss Millington had done."
"And you didn't speak?"
"It would have been useless. I could not prove what I believed."
After a little hesitation, I added, "You are not a child, Elfie,—not so much a child as many girls of seventeen,—and I do not mind telling you that Captain Lenox did at one time wish to marry me, and I refused him. When Sir Keith once spoke of seeing him at Rouen, it made me very unhappy to think what pain I had given. So now you understand something of the matter. But, for Captain Lenox' sake, this must go no farther."
She kissed my hand, with a strangely wistful and comprehending look, even while saying simply, "It was so bad of Millie."
We did not discuss the subject farther. Elfie seemed relieved, past expression, at having told me of the burden so long resting on her mind. She would hardly leave my side all the morning, and her old affection is completely restored,—or rather the open expression of it, for I am sure she has loved me throughout. Dear little Elfie!
Now I have sent her for a walk with Miss Millington and the children. I wanted time for thought and journalising.
The past keen pain at Miss Millington's conduct has revived, but not the past passion of anger. That battle has not to be fought again. Only I do feel more than ever that all is over between Arthur Lenox and me, that where sunshine might have been, I must now be content with life under a grey-toned sky.
Gladys said to me one day, in a puzzled tone, before we came north, "Uncle Tom always says everything is sure to be for the best; but I don't see how it can,—or else people needn't mind making blunders and doing stupid things."
But—as I said to her in answer,—"We know that all things work together for good to them that love God." Enough for me to know that it is so, without fathoming the "how."
Blunders must bring their natural results; and wrong-doing must be followed by its train of bitter consequences, to oneself and others. And yet—yet—a Father's Hand can turn even those natural results and bitter consequences into pure and lasting good to those who love Him. But the good may not be always apparent in this life.
Wednesday, September 23.—I never saw Thyrza look so handsome as when she came in yesterday afternoon. She holds herself well always; and she had on a particularly becoming grey dress, with grey feathers in her hat. The fresh air had given her an unusual colour; and the dark eyes, often too grave, were actually sparkling. The fine lips, too, were parted with a wistful expression, which I don't remember seeing there before. I said to myself, "A new development—" and then a thought struck me. She has left off speaking against Sir Keith lately.
I was alone, and she sat down by my side, pouring out what had passed.
"It was a splendid drive, Miss Con, some hours both ways. I don't know how long. One doesn't count time when one is perfectly happy. I only wanted you there, to make everything complete. But still—" and a far-away look. "Yes, I did enjoy it. And Sir Keith is so kind. The next best to having you, was hearing him talk about you. We quite agree on that point,—" with a smile, and a squeeze of my hand. "I sat by him all the way, and Maggie opposite with Lady Denham. I think it is rather pleasant to be drawn out by a person who understands how, and to have to say what one really thinks. Sir Keith knows how, when he will take the trouble."
"Very pleasant indeed," I assented.
"And then Sir Keith—" I found this expression recurring perpetually. "And then Sir Keith" did this; "and then Sir Keith" said that.
"How about the cave?" I asked when she paused.
"Oh, well worth seeing. I do wish you could have been there. It is almost like a sort of underground cathedral, a growth of nature,—quite dark. The candles only cast glimmers,—even a queer concern, holding a dozen candles all lighted together, could not make one see far. It was rather a muddy floor; and a stream of water runs in one part. We had to get over by stepping-stones, and Sir Keith gave me his hand across. Lady Denham and Maggie wouldn't go farther: and the guide looked after Nona. In one place there is a sort of stalactite imitation of a pulpit, jutting out from the wall: and another stalactite formation is like a great Westminster Abbey monument. At least I thought so. Sir Keith only laughed, and said I must read up about stalactites and stalagmites with you. I didn't much like the sliminess farther in, and when it came to stepping up on a board to look through a big opening into another cavern beyond, I said I wouldn't. But Sir Keith had got up, and he held out his hand, and said, 'Yes, you must!' So I went, and it was like a round belfry sort of place, underground, you know. And there was a waterfall in the belfry, about thirty feet high, tumbling from black depths overhead to black depths below, and keeping up a roar. I believe they call that inside cavern 'the chapter-house.' It is a most extraordinary place."
"Worth seeing indeed!" I observed.
"Yes, I do like uncommon sights. And Lady Denham and Sir Keith have been so good to me. He likes you, Miss Con."
"I dare say he does, my dear," I said. "And I like him. We are on most agreeable terms of polite friendship."
"Oh, but not only—" and she stopped.
"Anything more would be equally impossible for him and for me."
She looked at me with serious eyes before saying, "But he is so—nice!"
Whereupon I thought of Craven and cretonnes.
"Not quite so disagreeable as you once counted him, Thyrza?"
"Did I? Oh, that was only because Maggie behaved so absurdly. I hope I shall never be so absurd. Only, really and truly, there is nothing we both like so much to talk about as about you."
"I am sorry you should both be content with so unprofitable a subject," I answered: and then we were interrupted.
But I fancy it is not difficult to foresee what may be coming.
NON-RAPTURES.
THE SAME.
October 7. Wednesday.
A WEEK ago to-day Lady Denham and Sir Keith left us, returning home. Some business recalled him suddenly, and she would not stay behind. I was glad to see the very marked warmth of her good-bye to Thyrza.
By-the-bye, I do not think I have noted in my journal the fact of Denham having gone to Eton. Sir Keith kindly saw to minor arrangements, by Mr. Romilly's wish. The boy went off in high spirits, not without an apology to me for his conduct at Gurglepool, which, whether or no suggested by Sir Keith, did him credit.
Thyrza and the twins have been for some weeks working irregularly at lessons, with such superintendence as I was able and permitted to give them. The last few days, since I have become once more responsible head, their work has grown regular. But I cannot induce Maggie to apply herself to anything. She seems to be in a dissipated state of mind, gapes over books, and says she "hates practising." I had a wave little talk with her yesterday, about the evil of yielding oneself victim to a frivolous and self-indulgent course of life. Maggie listened, and even looked impressed; but ten minutes later, I saw her giggling in a corner with Miss Millington.
In the face of such an adverse influence, always pulling in the opposite direction, what can I do with poor Maggie? It seems to me at present,—nothing,—except pray and wait. The harm that one unprincipled girl can do to other girls is terribly great. I do not suppose Miss Millington realises how distinctly she is fighting the battle of wrong against right. She only pleases herself, by giving the rein to her personal dislike of me, her inclination to oppose whatever I do. Yet surely the "not realising" is no excuse. She ought to see, ought to realise. One thing is plain; Maggie has sadly deteriorated under her companionship.
The improvement in my knee of late has been astonishing. I am able, not only to get up and down stairs without severe pain, but to take a turn along the road, with the help of a stick or of somebody's arm. Much of this quick recovery is due, I am assured, to my resolution in keeping the limb perfectly still the first two or three weeks.
I cannot say much as to physical strength. Long confinement, following upon long worry, have told upon me. It is difficult to keep up at times. Everything is a trouble, even journalising, and often I am so haunted by recollections of the past, that I long to rush away from myself and from memory. I cannot turn from these recollections, do what I will!
Has Miss Millington with one cruel touch blighted my life's happiness? Consciously or unconsciously, she may have so done. I do not know. I cannot be sure whether Arthur cares for me still,—whether she did or did not say any word to him, which might have hastened his departure. I am all in the dark as to the true state of things. Only, there are possibilities; and there is nothing in her which could make those possibilities an impossibility.
I thought I had forgiven her, up in the peaceful quiet of my own room. But now, out in the whirl of family life, I find a difference. I know it, by my instinctive shrinking from her presence, by the feeling at times that I can scarcely endure to look at her, or to meet those shallow inquisitorial eyes.
She has never spoken a word of apology for all I have had to go through, though it was partly her doing. But that I do not mind: that I can bear. What stirs me to the depths, is the knowledge that her eyes have seen what no human being was meant to see of my heart,—and that her hand may have given the parting stroke severing me from Arthur Lenox for ever!
Only—"may have." I must fight against any assumption that she has actually done it, without full proof.
But without this, I have much to forgive. And it seems to me that forgiveness of injury is not so much a stated action as a continuous state of mind. I thought I had fought the battle and was conqueror. Now I find that the battle has to be fought over and over again, if I would remain conqueror. It is not enough to say one hour, "I forgive!" And the next hour to be under the dominion of fresh annoyance. I have to aim at a continuous state of loving calm and pity, acknowledging the fact of wrong-doing on her part, yet not exasperated by it,—rather, looking away from her, and taking all pain straight from my Master's Hand.
Is it not so that He looks upon us,—with ceaseless compassionate love? Sometimes we are apt to clothe Him in thought with our own fitfulness. But He does not vary. He is always the same. His forgiveness of us is a constant condition of mind, if one may so reverently speak, not a sensation coming and going, as when man pardons man. We are always grieving Him: He is always forgiving us. And what He is to His children, He would have them be in their little way one to another.
But though I see what I ought to be, I am far enough from attainment. I can but plead to be taken in hand by my Master, taught, trained, moulded, into that which will please Him. Meantime bodily weakness no doubt makes the fight harder. Manner can be controlled, and I hope I do control it; but inwardly a jarred and tired irritation is upon me: I am hourly tempted to feel that nothing is worth doing, nothing worth living for.
Thyrza and Elfie are a comfort. Thyrza, however, is a good deal preoccupied just now: and Elfie keeps loving words for when we are alone, evidently not venturing to show her real feelings before Miss Millington.
After all, I find nothing so helpful as to get away from everybody into some quiet nook, near at hand; and there to find myself alone with Nature,—alone with God. For Nature never hinders intercourse with God. Man is the great hindrance. Nature speaks to us of God, and speaks in clear tones too, though in a language not so easily "understanded of the people" as the voice of Revelation. It does seem sad that man, as the highest part of Nature, should not always speak to men of God; but too often he does not. So one naturally turns from human discord to the more true if lower music of things inanimate.
I love to lie upon the grass of a certain favourite bank, and there to lose myself in quiet studying of the mountain-outlines, the long winding of the Dale, the patches of autumn-red bracken on The Fell, the little streamlets coursing each hillside, the peaceful cloudland of sky above. At such times the bitter thought of what might have been and is not ceases to haunt me; and every whisper of the wind among the trees and every ripple of the nearest brook comes like a murmur from the unseen world. At such times, I can see things in a truer perspective: and the Life Beyond looks grand and restful, whatever this little life may be.