Mrs. Millington is a widow, with only one other and younger daughter. She must have been a good and true mother: and the best side of Miss Millington came out in speaking of this mother.
For many years the three have been in very straitened circumstances, especially of late, depending partly on the eldest daughter's earnings. Since last summer Miss Millington has been in only one situation, which she failed to keep. Under the consequent long pressure of anxiety and money-difficulties, Mrs. Millington became very ill: and the knowledge of her liabilities has so pressed upon her mind, that the doctor to-day foretells a fatal termination, unless the burden can be in some way lightened.
"And of course I can do nothing,—how can I?" the girl said, half-bitterly, half-sullenly. "We've got behindhand with everything. It isn't the doctor,—he is an old friend, and he charges nothing, though he is poor himself. But there's the chemist, and the rent,—and other things,—about fifty pounds altogether. I don't mean to say we were straight last summer, only we were trying to get so. If I had stayed on with the Romillys, it would have come right in time,—and now, instead of that, everything has been getting worse. And I don't see what is to be done. I can't expect to have so much from anybody else as I had from Mrs. Romilly. Besides, I hate being a companion and Mrs. Romilly won't recommend me as a governess. So mother will die—" a sob and a gulp came here,—"and that will be the end of everything. It is all hopeless,—and when the doctor said what he did, I Just set off and walked miles,—and they don't know at home where I am. I ought to be there now. I shall have to go back in a 'bus: though I'm sure we can't afford it."
The same undisciplined nature which had caused me so much trouble. I could not but note this.
"And I don't know why I should say it all to you,—you, of all people," she muttered. "Absurd of me!"
"Not quite," I said. "At least I can feel for you."
She turned away with an impatient movement, standing up.
"I must go," she said.
"I intend to drive home in a hansom. I will take you to your door first."
She protested. "Nonsense; it would be ridiculous. Our house is miles out of your way."
But I held to my point. If I had simply asked the address, I could not be secure of having a true answer. It was not my intention to go into the house to-day; for I wanted time to consider what I ought to do. I was only resolved to learn her whereabouts.
Yet when we reached the shabby little house, and a sickly young girl came out on the doorstep, saying reproachfully—"Oh how could you leave us so long?"—I did go in.
Not to stay. I knew that I must hasten back, to be in time for dinner. I spoke a few words to the sister; and I had one glimpse of the sick mother, unseen by herself. That face touched me deeply. I said only to Miss Millington, "You shall hear from me again."
June 21. Monday.—This morning, soon after breakfast, I drove to the Bank, with a cheque for fifty pounds, which I there had cashed,—forty pounds in bank-notes, the rest in gold.
I said nothing beforehand to Craven or Albinia. They would count my action utterly foolish; and it is my own concern only. After a day and two nights for quiet thought, I hesitated no longer. It did most distinctly seem that this was the right thing for me to do.
As for my future, what need to disquiet myself? Yesterday, when doubts arose, I could but think of the answer of the prophet to Amaziah,—"The Lord is able to give thee much more than this."
And is He not my Father? A child can surely trust her Father to provide for her!
Of course I may be making a mistake. The fact that this particular step seems the right one for me to take, does not absolutely prove that it is the right one. Of one thing, however, I am sure,—whether or no I mistake His will, He knows that my hearts longing is to do His will. And the root of the matter lies there,—far more in the heart's longing than in the actual doing.
So I went to the Millingtons', arriving about midday. I saw the younger sister, Jeannie, first. She welcomed me warmly, spoke of her mother's state as not improved, then vanished, to send her sister.
Miss Millington entered with a cold and depressed air,—almost with the old look of aversion. Her eyes said plainly—"What brings you here?"
I paid no regard to her manner, but said, "I am sorry to hear that your mother is not better."
"Not likely to be," she answered shortly.
"I have brought a little present, which I hope may be the remedy she needs."
Miss Millington repeated the word, "Remedy!" in a vague tone, adding—"We have our own doctor."
"But this is the medicine he prescribes," I replied, and I put into her hand the purse I held. "You will not be too proud to accept it from me,—for your mother's sake."
Few people know how to receive a gift gracefully, even under favourable circumstances; and the circumstances were hardly favourable to Miss Millington. She stared at first; opened the purse slowly; grew distressingly scarlet and gasped, when she caught sight of bank-notes and gold.
"There are fifty pounds," I said, "the amount you need."
"But—but—you mean—as a loan—" she stammered.
"Not a loan, but a gift," I said distinctly. "You need not hesitate. It is only part of a little legacy which I had, not long ago. I should like it to be a real help to you all, as a loan could not be."
She seemed choked, hardly able to speak. A smothered "Thanks!" escaped her lips. I could see a struggle going on below; but no words came, such as I had half hoped to hear. A misery of embarrassment overpowered her.
I hardly knew what to say. In my then position I could not with delicacy assume the office of adviser,—otherwise, a few words of advice for her future did seem sorely called for. But I could only observe in a low voice—
"You will not doubt me now."
She hung her burning face speechlessly. I went a step nearer.
"There have been some sorrowful passages between us," I said. "But at least by my will I have not offended against you. If I have wronged you unknowingly, I can only ask your forgiveness. And—the things that you have done against me—" I found my voice failing, and I was only able to add—"This will show that you are forgiven, when you care to know it."
Then I went out to the front door, where a hansom waited. Miss Millington followed me, looking crushed. I could not feel that the gift which might restore her mother had brought relief to herself. She did not refuse it, did not spurn the offered help. She only seemed to be bowed beneath the weight of that little purse.
"I must not stay now," I said. "I have a great deal to do: and to-morrow we go to Beckdale. But you will write perhaps some day, and tell me how your mother is getting on. Good-bye."
Her damp fingers closed limply round mine, and the dropped eyes were not raised. I saw her lips tremble, and I caught one sound, half-word, half-sob, which might have been "Sorry!" No more followed. She shrank into herself and from me, with a kind of shudder. I had to leave her thus, and to drive away.
To-night, I can only pray for her, and thank God.
CONFIDENTIAL IN A CAVE.
THE SAME.
June 23. Wednesday.
HERE we are again in the dear old Dale, far-away from London's busy roar.
The mountainous heights stand all around, as they have stood for ages past; and the torrent-river brawls over its rocky bed from the Dale-Head, a golden stream fast widening. The streamlets streaking the side of our beautiful Fell are slender lines of silver this dry weather. And oh, the clear sweetness of the air, after Metropolitan murkiness!
I do not undervalue our mighty City, with its wonders of intellect and thought, its heroes and sages alive and dead, its grand historical past, and I hope grander historical future, its "wealth of soul that is there." And I know well that God is as near in the most crowded City street, as in this lonely wilderness. But I think it is sometimes easier to realise His Presence here than there.
My seven weeks in Town might be seven months,—I have gone through so much in them. Now I am striving hard to live just by the day; letting a "dead past bury its dead;" not looking forward at all, except to the great Beyond; only willing hour by hour to accept what my Master gives me. Life at present does and must wear a grey hue. That I have to expect. But there are many to love and be loved by me. The more I can throw myself into others' interests, the better.
The affection of all these dear girls is very comforting. Yes;—even sweet changeable Maggie, though I cannot trust her love, as I trust Thyrza's love,—even Maggie I like to have clinging about me, with her grey eyes looking up and her soft lips pressing mine. For I am sure she means it all, just at the moment. And one must not expect to find lake-depths in a tea-cup.
How different things might have been last year: but for "Millie!"
The contrast between Millie and Nellie is extraordinary. For Millie scents to go through life, making difficulties; Nellie goes through life, smoothing difficulties away. Millie is never happy unless she finds herself a centre of attention: Nellie is never so happy as in the background.
July 1. Thursday.—A few lines of shy and warm gratitude from Jeannie Millington have reached me. She says, "I can't persuade my sister to write, so I must, though of course she ought. We do really hope our dear Mother is better."
Millie will write yet—some day. I cannot but feel that she will.
July 19. Monday.—Why on earth a man does not speak out, when he has made up his mind, is a mystery to me. Here are Sir Keith and his mother, still at the Farm, staying on week after week. It is perfectly evident that Sir Keith has only one idea in life just now; that idea being Thyrza. It is almost equally evident that Thyrza, though she does her best womanfully to veil her feelings under a surpassing interest in Political Economy, has also only one idea in life, that idea being Sir Keith. Yet nothing definite comes of it all.
I thought he must surely have spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Romilly; but Mrs. Romilly says he has not. "Oh no, he will do nothing in a hurry," she said yesterday, when I at last questioned her. "He is a very cautious man. I don't suppose he has the least doubt about our consent, but he will not speak to Thyrza until he is perfectly certain of no rebuff."
Pride, no doubt. Well, caution is admirable enough at times, where it does not degenerate into faintheartedness. But I think I like better the impetuous outspokenness of—I mean, which does not calculate in quite a style its certainties or uncertainties.
Still, he is a delightful man. I have not a word to say against him.
July 21. Wednesday.—Nellie, Maggie, and Thyrza having a tennis party engagement at Beckbergh to-day,—not for the afternoon only, but for the greater part of the day,—Sir Keith kindly arranged to take the twins and me for a long drive in t' trap. Sir Keith of course ousted the dear old farmer, undertaking himself to drive.
It did not occur to me, when this plan was proposed, that he had any particular object in it, beyond giving us pleasure.
When Thyrza heard what was to take place, she said brightly, "Wise man! He knows the delight that it is to get Miss Con all to oneself!"
"My dear," I said, "you don't call it exactly 'all to oneself,' with the twins there as well."
"Oh yes, I do! I understand," she retorted, laughing. But of course she did not understand, any more than I did myself.
We started early, and went through one dale after another, each differing from the rest. The twins, sitting behind, back to back with Sir Keith and me, chattered incessantly; but Sir Keith was unwontedly silent. He tried to get up talk from time to time, without much success. I wished nothing better than to be let alone, that eye and mind might feast on the scenery undisturbed. Still I had to respond to his efforts.
After nearly two hours of quick driving we entered a singular valley, unlike most of the dales in our neighbourhood. It was wide, wild, and bare, with extraordinary terraced cliffs on either side, rising tier above tier in perpendicular stone or rather rock walls, each divided from the next by a narrow sloping band of grass. As seen from the road below, the general appearance was like some mighty old Roman fortress. Countless boulders, large and small, lay scattered on the flat valley-bottom. Shrubs grew here or there, but few trees were to be seen.
"If Thyrza were but with us!" I said involuntarily, and Sir Keith turned his head quickly to me.
"She must come too another day," he said, "if—" and a long pause followed. I waited in vain for more. He seemed to relapse into troubled thought.
Near the upper end of the dale we turned into a side-valley, and there dismounted. A certain famous cave had to be inspected. This part of the world seems to abound in caves. There were awkward steps inside, Sir Keith said,—would I allow him to take the twins down first, and to escort me afterwards? I did not see the need for such excessive caution, but his desire was so very evident that I gave way at once, and remained outside, chatting with the old man who has charge of the place, and with him keeping guard over our tethered steed.
The twins presently reappeared in a state of high delight, and I, following Sir Keith's guidance, found myself in a singular spot.
A sharp descent led to the actual entrance of the cave, and then many steep wet rocky steps conducted to the lower depths of a huge hollow. Enormous masses of rock were piled by Nature's hand, beneath, around, and overhead. Some of those overhead seemed suspended in readiness to fall. The steps themselves were roughly shaped out of the natural rock.
At the farther end was a fine waterfall,—a whole river, suddenly appearing, after a mile or so of underground coursing, to take one grand leap of seventy or eighty feet into a dull black pool, with crash and roar and perpetual splash of foam, thence vanishing underground once more for at least another mile. A gleam of light seemed to come down from above the fall, obviating entire darkness.
Sir Keith guided me carefully down the lower rocky steps, till we reached a platform near the fall,—not quite the nearest possible. There we stood in silence. It was very solemn, very impressive. The air was full of reeking moisture from the incessant rebound of spray; and the steady roar never faltered. The dim light too, and the whiteness of the rushing water, in contrast with the piled-up massive dark rocks around, were not to be soon forgotten.
I heard Sir Keith say suddenly—
"Yes,—Thyrza ought to see this."
"She would appreciate it," I replied.
"She has learnt to appreciate—from you," he said; and before I could answer, he added—"She owes much to you. Thyrza herself says so."
"Thyrza is a dear girl," I said, rather absently, I am afraid. My attention was riveted on the fall.
"Miss Conway, will you give me your advice?" came next in distinct tones.
"You, Sir Keith!" I glanced at him involuntarily.
"Yes, I—myself," he answered; and to my astonishment I saw that the falling foam was scarcely whiter than his face. "I can never get a word alone with you for three minutes."
"So you have made this opportunity," I said, hardly able to help smiling; and yet it was no place to smile in. Weird grandeur does not make one lighthearted.
"Can you guess what I wish to ask?" he inquired.
I said at once, "Perhaps—yes."
"About—" and he faltered.
"About Thyrza," I said. I could listen, but I could not look at him. The continuous heavy flood in its underground leap enchained my eyes.
"About Thyrza," he echoed. "Then you have seen—"
"It did not need a magnifying-glass," I answered. "So far as you are concerned, Sir Keith."
I knew how his face fell, though I was not looking in his direction.
"Yes,—yes,—but as to Thyrza," he said hurriedly.
"Thyrza must speak for herself," I replied.
"And you will not even give me a word of advice! You understand her so well,—better than any of her own people. Shall I risk all by speaking now? Or shall I wait? Is it too soon? I am depending on what you say."
Half-a-minute's thought I allowed myself, then asked, "Have you spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Romilly?"
"No. I have come to you first. But I have no fear in that direction. Mr. Romilly has more than once intimated his willingness to have me for a son-in-law." This sounded very like Mr. Romilly.
"Then—" I said, "perhaps—the sooner you speak to Thyrza, the better. I only say perhaps.'"
"You do not think I am in too much haste?"
I heard my own laugh ring softly through the cave, mingling with the perpetual roar. Sir Keith smiled, and grasped my hand.
"Thanks—thanks," he said. "I knew I might venture to put the question. You are her best and truest friend."
And he allowed me three minutes' undisturbed enjoyment of the fall. Strange—how the face of Arthur Lenox seemed to rise and mingle with the spray. I cannot always banish it yet.
DIFFERENCES OF VIEW.
THE SAME.
Written some days later.
THURSDAY, the 22nd of July,—next after my visit to the cave with Sir Keith,—proved an eventful day.
The first thing in the morning I heard that Sir Keith had an engagement at Beckbergh. What the engagement might be, I was not told; only it appeared to interest Thyrza. Some suppressed fun gleamed in her face; fun of a happy kind. It did not seem to me to be happiness in connection with herself. She did not seem to be thinking of herself.
She told me then that she had set her heart on a long ramble with me, through a certain mountain-pass, leading from Beckdale into a neighbouring dale. Thyrza and Denham went that particular walk last year, while I was laid aside, and she has often since wished me to see the same. Would I, she asked, give up a good part of the day to going alone with her, taking some slight provisions with us?
I made no objections. Beckdale has greatly restored my walking-powers; and lessons did not stand in the way. Mrs. Romilly has insisted on a full month of holidays, despite all the broken time before. Moreover, it is always a pleasure to have Thyrza to myself for a little while.
Mrs. Romilly protested against the distance, and settled that we should at least drive the first two or three miles in the waggonette. Thyrza consented to so much, adding with a laugh, "And if we do collapse, and don't get home, you can but send Sir Keith in the dog-cart to our rescue." She looked so merry and handsome that I could not help being struck. Nellie answered, "Very well; I wont forget."
Just at the moment of our starting, a letter was brought to me. Somehow I had been out of the way when the post came in, and it was afterwards forgotten. I noted the black edge, and, not recognising the handwriting in a rather careless glance, supposed the writer to be a former Bath acquaintance, with whom I corresponded occasionally. I knew her to be in mourning. "From Ellen Smyth," I said, and I dropped the unopened letter into my pocket. "That will keep."
The other girls were going for an hour's drive, after setting us down nearly three miles from home. We waved good-byes, and Thyrza and I set off briskly.
A stony steep path, or narrow road, led upwards, after a while through a little scattered village on the hillside, then into a wild high pass, skirting one side of the mountainous mass which we know as The Fell. I fancy that side possesses a distinct name; certainly it is loftier, and has a different aspect.
We must have ascended some twelve or thirteen hundred feet. The higher summits of the mountains to right and left of the pass are, I am told, close upon two thousand feet in height, if not more.
The road went gradually upward to a central ridge, on this side of which all streams run towards Beckdale, gathering quickly into a small river. Beyond the ridge, the watershed is all the other way.
After the first rapid rise from Beckdale we had some three or four miles of comparatively slight ascent and descent. This was the actual pass; a desolate and wildly beautiful region. To our left, as we went, were broken hills, with mountain heights beyond: to our right was one grand continuous sweep of steep slopes, like a broad flowing mountain-skirt, extending for miles unbroken, the summit throughout those miles seeming to keep always one even height.
Short grass covered these grand slopes, varied by patches of heather and abundant bracken; and long walls ran down at intervals from top to bottom. The excessive steepness of the higher parts was—or ought to have been—apparent to us, from the fact that no actual walls could there be built, flat layers of stones taking their place.
About half-way through we sat down by the roadside, to enjoy our well-earned lunch.
Till then, when we were ourselves quiet, I had not fully realised the absolute stillness of the scene. As we sat together, gazing and not talking, the absence of sound and of life seemed oppressive. No trees grew near. No birds were visible. I did not notice any insects. One old horse browsed in lonely content, by the roadside. One cart, containing a man and woman, had gone by ten minutes earlier. Some sheep dotted the lofty slopes. The trickle of a stream was faintly audible: and now and then a distant low bleat could be heard. That was all.
"Would you care to live here, Miss Con?" Thyrza asked.
"Hardly," I said. "One would at least wish for a few human beings within reach, to be kind to."
"That is like you," she made answer quickly. And presently she asked, "Miss Con, do you remember speaking of The Fell as a picture of Truth,—different people seeing different sides from different standpoints?"
"It is a favourite idea of mine," I said.
"I thought of that, last Sunday evening, when father and Sir Keith were talking. They do look upon some things so differently, you know. Only Sir Keith is such a thorough gentleman, he never gets angry in argument, or tries to thrust his opinions down other people's throats, and he always lets other people have their say too. But still, of course one could see that they didn't think just alike. If father were not so fond of Sir Keith, he would mind it more. He doesn't like people not to think exactly the same as he does, generally."
"Perhaps none of us do—by nature," I said. "A strong belief in one's own wisdom is particularly human."
"But I think you have taught me to believe that I may be mistaken sometimes," she said wistfully, even humbly. "I used to be so horridly dogged and determined about everything."
"You were—rather," I replied, smiling. "And the more unimportant the question, the more dogged you were in asserting your own convictions."
"Yes,—I know. Am I quite so bad now, Miss Con?"
"No; I see a marked difference," I said.
"I'm so glad. I will try harder."
"Don't go to the opposite extreme, my dear, of thinking that you are to have no opinions at all, but must always agree with everybody."
She laughed, and asked, "Am I in danger of that?"
"Not at present, I think. But it is a weakness of human nature to be disposed to rebound from one extreme to another. Truth lies more generally in the fair road between,—though it does sometimes include a measure of one or both extremes."
Thyrza looked up, and said, "I suppose any one living here would describe the mountain as stern and frowning. And we at Beckdale would describe it as all soft beauty,—except just at The Scaur. And both would be true."
"Yes," I said; "but no man would have a fair conception of the mountain as a whole, unless he had gained at least a glimpse of both sides,—not to speak of other sides also which we have not seen yet."
Then we rose and continued our walk. Thyrza seemed thoughtful still. She observed, after a while, as if carrying on our talk—
"Don't you think that sometimes people seem to see only one side of—" she hesitated, lowering her voice reverently,—"of Christ? I mean, even those who do really love and obey Him?"
"My dear, ninety-nine hundredths of the errors into which most of us fall, spring from one-sided views of Him," I said. "For He is THE TRUTH. One-sided views of Him are one-sided views of Truth: and a one-sided view is always a defective view."
"And isn't there any help—any cure?" she asked.
"Only in Him. He gives us clearer eyesight, and then He shows Himself more clearly,—if we are willing," I said. "But a great many people are so well content with what they already see, as really to care little for seeing farther."
"Sir Keith often says that very much depends on our willingness," Thyrza observed gravely.
I could not but remember the first time I had seen Sir Keith. He had put the thought into my head.
We went on to the end of the Pass, the last part of our way being a sharp descent, till we reached the pretty river which begins as a streamlet on the central ridge or highest point of the Pass. There for a while we rested, and there, to Thyrza's joy, she discovered a fine plant of Parsley fern, growing half under a sheltering rock. My "find" of last summer died long ago, as Thyrza then predicted. "But I shall keep this for my own," she said.
Plenty of time remained yet, when we had passed the central ridge on our return. Thyrza seemed in no hurry to reach home. She was in high spirits, no longer disposed to sit still and meditate. She had repeatedly expressed a wish to climb the steep hillside lying now to our left: and as we advanced, the desire came over her more strongly.
"I really do think I must," she said at length. "It is quite too tempting. And I am as fresh as a lark still. You shall just sit here, and wait for me."
"Why should I not go too?" I asked.
"Oh, because you are not so robust as I am: and there is always the chance of your hurting your knee again. No: you must sit perfectly still, and be lazy. I know you enjoy being alone in such a place as this. I dare say I shall not be long. When I come down, we'll finish off the cake, before going on."
ENTIRELY VANISHED!
THE SAME—continued.
I WATCHED Thyrza, as she crossed actively the broken but on the whole level space, between the road and the steep mountain-sides: and I saw her begin to climb with easy speed.
It was a temptation to me to join her, even then. I am a good climber by nature: and an ascent has always a fascination for me. But I knew that without any such additional exertion, I should have taxed my powers pretty severely by the time we reached home. So I followed Thyrza's advice, and remained quiet, seated on a rock by the roadside, with my face toward the flowing green slopes.
The deep stillness of the scene impressed me again, more forcibly than ever. For now I had not a companion. I was entirely alone. Not even the trickling of water was to be heard. One solitary dream-like "ba-a-a" sounded, to be answered by a second. Then silence again. No human being was in sight, except the figure of Thyrza, growing momentarily smaller, as she went upward.
Her ascent seemed very slow, as I gazed. I began to realise how much steeper and loftier those heights were than we two had imagined.
But Thyrza went on, sometimes pausing, sometimes turning to right or left, as if choosing her steps. At present she showed no inclination to come back.
I observed her movements steadily, wondering how much farther she would go. Her last words had been—"Perhaps I shall have had enough of it half-way up." She appeared now to be more than half-way up, but there were no signs that she had had enough of it. Hardly probable that she should. If the enthusiasm of climbing had possession of her, she would scarcely rest content short of the summit.
The little black figure still rose,—more and more like a big ant clinging to the wall of a house; or I thought so.
All at once she came to a pause. I judged that she had mounted somewhere about three-quarters of the height from my level: but it is very difficult to judge truly, looking upward. For some minutes she remained perfectly still. I supposed her to be resting: yet it seemed a curious spot to choose for a rest.
I was growing rather nervous at her prolonged fixity in one position, when I distinctly saw her move. She seemed to crawl a few paces to the right, and there to pause afresh. At all events, she could start again, when she chose. That set my mind at ease. It seemed likely that she saw the last piece to be too much for her powers: and that after a brief repose she would come down.
"Time enough too," I said aloud; and my voice sounded strange in the solitude. "This takes longer than I calculated on. We ought to be getting homeward."
Then, curiously, it flashed into my mind that I had an unread letter with me. Why not wile away some minutes by reading it, as I sat there?
I pulled out the black-edged envelope, which was a good deal crumpled; and noticed the London postmark. "Not Bath!" I said, with momentary surprise. And one look at the agitated uneven handwriting showed me that it was not Ellen Smyth's,—but—Miss Millington's! Strange that I had not recognised it at first sight; only hers, as I had known it previously, was neither agitated nor uneven, but neat and precise to a fault.
Within were two sheets, blotted, blurred, and closely filled.
Then that which I expected had come at last!—And I knew it!
I am ashamed to say that I forgot all about Thyrza. I think I even forgot where I was. Noises were sounding in my ears, like the distant roar of a great city; and a dread of what I might find in that letter had possession of me.
For I could see it to be some manner of outpouring; and I could conjecture what the outpouring might include. I quailed before the prospect. Suspicion was one thing; certainty would be another. I believed that I had fully forgiven Miss Millington. Would the battle have now to be fought all over again?
With a voiceless prayer, and with a resolute effort, I took up the sheets, not reading yet, but glancing rapidly at a sentence here or there. When I reached the end thus, one short assertion only remained on my mind—
"I was not really sure."
I must have sunk into a dream upon those five words, and their possible meaning. Then I woke up to the fact that the letter contained much besides, especially the sad news of Mrs. Millington's death.
I began again at the beginning, and read the whole through carefully. It was a sorrowful composition,—bitter, self-reproachful, miserable in tone. I cannot copy the whole, and I will not keep the original. A few sentences will be enough.
"I don't know what kept me from speaking, that day," she wrote. "For I did really want to tell you I was sorry; only I could not. I suppose it was pride. I know I am proud. I did so hate to take the money; and yet somehow I could not say no, for I thought it might save my Mother's life. And it has not. That is the worst of all. I have gone through that horrible humiliation for nothing. Mother did seem better for a time, and of course it was a real comfort to her to be out of debt, but she failed at last quite suddenly, and nothing more could be done."It was only yesterday that she died."I am writing to you now, because I must. I dare not put off. I have such a dreadful feeling that perhaps, if I had spoken out sooner, God would not have taken my Mother. I dare say some people would say I am foolish to think this, but I know better. All these months I have known I ought to speak, and I have been struggling against it; and now she is gone, and I have nobody left except Jeannie. And perhaps if I do not speak out, she will be taken too. I don't think I could bear that. She looks ill, and it terrifies me. I dare say I deserve that, or anything,—but at all events, I am telling you the truth now. I wish I had before . . ."You told me you had forgiven me: but I never could feel that was real, because if you had known all, you would not have said so . . ."I don't know what made me hate you as I did! I suppose it was partly your being Mrs. Romilly's friend. And I always thought you could not endure me: and when you seemed kind, I felt sure you had an object. I can't make up my mind how much you really know of things, or how much I ought to tell you—" and then followed melancholy particulars, written as it seemed to me in a half-broken half-bitter spirit, more because she dreaded not to tell from a haunting fear of punishment, than because her will was bowed to do God's will.
No need to copy out these details. Only—I have not judged her falsely.
For the Gurglepool trick was hers: and she did set herself to oppose my authority in every possible way. She endeavoured systematically to turn the girls against me. She used the opportunity to look into my private journal, and she employed afterwards the information so gained, making it a subject of jesting with the girls, and untruthfully professing to have learnt it through a friend of hers who lives in Bath.
Worse even than all this,—not morally worse, for that could hardly be, but worse in its actual results upon my happiness,—when Arthur came to Beckdale, to learn if he had any hope of winning me; which she seems to have divined as his object; she set herself deliberately, falsely, to quash his hopes. In a certain brief interview, she gave him to understand, not by assertion, but by insinuation no whit less untrue, that I had shown a marked dislike to him.
More still,—when she received her dismissal from Mrs. Romilly, she took a further step. She sent a brief note to Arthur to reach him at The Park, briefly warning him as a friend—a friend!!—that if he wished to consult his own interests and peace of mind, he would keep out of my way.
"I don't know what he thought of me. I think I must have been mad,—such a wild thing to do," she wrote. "He never answered my note or took any notice of it. But it took effect: and that was all I cared for. I had my revenge,—and I wanted nothing else."It is of no use to ask if you can possibly ever forget all this; for I know you can't. I could not in your place. I will never never be untruthful again,—but that can't alter what I have done to you. It is impossible that you should get over it."
And at the moment my heart cried out assent to the impossibility.
For he had come indeed to seek me once: and a second time we might have met; and twice she had driven him away.
Then at length I reached the mention of her more recent letter to Maggie, in which was contained the news of his engagement.
"I was so glad to have it to tell," she wrote, "that I would not ask any particulars,—I wouldn't even try to find out if it was true. I was not really sure. It was just told as a piece of gossip, and I knew there might be some mistake. I was not really sure. But I wrote to Maggie directly, and I have never heard any more. I do not even know where Captain Lenox is now. I think I should have heard if it were not true, and I am afraid it is. So I can do nothing at all to undo the past: and that makes me sure that I must not expect you ever to be friends with me again. Only for the sake of Jeannie, and because of my feeling that she will die, if I do not—I must tell you all."
I had not noticed before those words following the others,—fearing it was, after all, true.
It did seem to me too much—too great a wrong! I must have sat long, half unconscious of my own position, clasping the letter tightly between both hands. For a while I could not think,—I could only feel. The knowledge that a year ago he had still cared, touched me very keenly, with a mingling, of sweet and bitter. But the "might have been," and the "was not,"—and the sense of the great life-loss, the loneliness, the sadness to come,—all through her! How could I forgive?
The stony hardness broke up at last, and tears fell in a shower. I have not wept so freely for years, I think. And when that came to an end, the bitterness seemed gone. I could once more say,—"His will—not mine."
* * * * * * *
But Thyrza!
It came over me in a flash, vivid as lightning, how long I had been there. Thyrza ought by this time, surely, to have reached the lower slopes.
I looked up, running my eyes swiftly over the broad mountain face, searching from below to above, from right to left. In vain. No Thyrza was to be seen. I scanned the frowning beauty of the level summit, and travelled downward again to the spot where I had noted her last. But Thyrza had vanished.
AND HE—!
THE SAME—continued.
I HAD not looked at my watch when Thyrza left me. A glance at it now showed the afternoon to be far advanced; indeed, this I already knew from the slant of the sun's rays.
Blaming myself much for the absorption in my own affairs, to which I had weakly yielded, I stood up and again eagerly scanned the green slopes; without result.
Had Thyrza reached the top, and there been taken ill from over-exertion? Such a thing might happen. Or had she lost her footing, and rolled downward?
If the latter, I should find her without difficulty lying below, hidden from where I stood, but not far off. The very idea brought a cold shiver. That I disregarded, however. Action of some kind was necessary. Feeling had to wait.
It was not, of course, impossible that Thyrza should have reached the summit, tempted onward by the excitement of climbing, and there should have vanished for a short time before descending. But the fact which startled me was the length of the time she had been absent. A brief disappearance would not have been surprising. I could not understand her remaining away. Thyrza is so thoughtful; unlike Maggie and Nona; and especially thoughtful about me. I had said to her laughingly before she went, "Mind, if anything goes wrong, I shall come after you." She would remember this; and I knew she did not wish me to attempt the ascent.
The search below was soon over. I explored every spot where she might lie hidden, had she slipped and fallen. She was not there; neither was she on the slopes. I could see the broad green expanse, as I stood beneath looking upwards,—in parts frightfully near the perpendicular. I began to think I had done foolishly in consenting to let her go up.
If she did not very soon appear, nothing remained for me but to follow in her wake. I determined to wait a quarter of an hour; then, if she had not appeared, to start without more delay.
The fifteen minutes dragged past slowly. I had made my way to a low wall, and there I sat, waiting, watch in hand, in the soundless solitude. Nobody passed along the road. No human being was visible on the heights. It seemed to me that they grew steeper and loftier the longer I gazed.
"Time up! I must go!" I said aloud.
I suppose I moved too hastily, stepping down from my seat on the wall. I had gone there for a clear view. The wall was formed of large jagged stones, piled loosely together. One of these stones gave way under my foot, and I came to the ground with a sharp jar,—standing, but a good deal shaken,—and when I took a step away from the spot, I was instantly conscious of a crick in my weaker knee,—it might be a strain or twist.
For a minute I kept perfectly still, hoping that it would prove to be nothing. But the first movement showed me conclusively that my climb was at an end. I might as well have tried to reach the moon as the summit of the mountain.
It was a severe disappointment. If Thyrza had hurt herself, and were ill or disabled above, she would be needing me sorely.
Still, it was out of the question that I should go: and the thought now occurred that I ought at once to return to my seat on the road. If the dog-cart came to meet us, as it might do later, I had no business to be out of its direct path. Besides, Thyrza would know where to find me, or to send a messenger, if she had found it needful to go round some other way, rather than attempt the descent.
So very cautiously, and not without a good deal of pain in the knee, I limped back to my old position.
The hour following seemed very long, very dreary. I do not know that I have ever felt more weighed down and altogether sorrowful. I was anxious about Thyrza: and my own future seemed so grey and wearisome. The letter from Miss Millington pressed upon me like lead. Could I in heart and soul forgive her the wrong she had wilfully done to me?
At the end of an hour, or something like an hour, I looked up,—I had been gazing on the ground,—and the sunbeams were shining like reddish gold all along the broad mountain brow, with wonderful beauty. It seemed to me the gleam of a smile from heaven. The mountain's frown was lost in that smile.
"I shall find brightness enough in another world, if not in this," I found myself saying aloud. "One only has to wait a little while."
The deadly stillness of the Pass was so strange: no answer coming. And then a soft voice seemed to say, "Miss Millington?"—as if asking a question.
"Yes!" I said; and there was a sudden radiance of joy in my heart, resembling the outside glow. "Yes, I do forgive! I will write and tell her so."
The shining radiance deepened, without and within. I had an extraordinary sense of rest,—of willingness to receive whatever might be sent me. No thought of fear mingled with the willingness, though I whispered instinctively, "Does this mean some fresh great trouble?" If it did, I was willing still. The Presence of my Master would make all things light.
I almost expected another utterance of the soft voice, speaking to my heart from without or within—which, I do not know. I waited—listening.
And no voice spoke. But my eyes fell upon a figure, descending the great green slope, exactly in front.
"Thyrza!" I cried.
It was not Thyrza. It was a man. I saw him distinctly in the full sunlight. Had he come to tell me ill news of Thyrza?
I cannot think now why I was not more afraid. I did not feel afraid, sitting there with clasped hands, gazing upward. I could follow every movement of the descending figure. He seemed to be a good climber. That was speedily apparent. Down and down he came, steadily. Once he leaped a wall, perhaps to find an easier slope on the other side.
When more than half-way down, he stood still, and seemed to be looking at something or for somebody. I waved my handkerchief, and he at once waved his. So I knew he was coming to me,—though I did not know yet the full meaning of "he!" Joys, like sorrows, often dawn upon us step by step.
The lower portion of the slope was very rapidly got over; so rapidly that I was afraid he would slip. He took it at a run, and I saw him spring over some obstacle at the bottom. After which he marched straightly and swiftly towards where I sat.
Till then no thought of the truth had come into my mind. But something in the upright bearing, the slender frame, the soldierly walk, brought recollections thronging and made my heart beat fast.
"Absurd," I murmured. "Ridiculous of me to think—But it is like! I suppose he must be in the army too, whoever he is."
I do not know how long I fought against the reality,—how soon I dared to let myself believe it. I only know that I stood up slowly, and that he came nearer and nearer,—came fast, with his face turned fixedly towards mine. And the sunshine outside seemed to be filling my heart again; only this time it was a more earthly tremulous sunshine, flickering with every stride he took.
And I forgot all about Miss Millington, all about the news of Arthur's engagement.
For he was standing close in front of me, his hand clasping mine, and I was looking up into his face with a smile of welcome, such as I had not dared to give him that other time when we met. The lonely Pass seemed all at once full of life; and every touch of greyness had gone out of my future.
For the moment that our eyes met, I think each understood the other; though I only said, "Where is Thyrza?"
"Gone home with Sir Keith," he answered.
"Then you have seen her?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, and he explained briefly. Thyrza had climbed two-thirds of the height; then, pausing to look below, she had been seized with terror and giddiness, for the first time in her life, and had very nearly fallen down the mountain side. By dint of remaining still, and looking resolutely upward, she had so far recovered herself as to continue the ascent, reaching the top with great difficulty.
To descend again, however, had proved out of the question. Every time she approached the edge, dizziness and dread overpowered her anew. She had waved her handkerchief and made various signs to me, hoping that I should understand. Being short-sighted, she could not know whether I responded, which of course I did not, as I was then wrapped up in my letter.
Thereafter Thyrza had started off to find another way round. Her first intention was to go to The Scaur, and to descend the narrow path which runs down beside the bare rock: but happily she hit upon a shorter cut to the road by which we had approached the Pass.
Thyrza knew that Sir Keith had gone to Beckbergh to meet Arthur: and she knew that the two might possibly drive to meet us, if our return were at all delayed. I believe she had rather liked the prospect, and had been not indisposed to bring it about by delay: though later, when hurrying alone down the hills, she little expected to be so fortunate as to meet them at the moment she reached the road.
However, this really occurred. They pulled up and sprang down, astonished to see her alone. Thyrza must have been a good deal shaken by her touch of "vertigo," for she burst into tears when trying to explain matters,—a most astonishing event. Thyrza never cries in public, under any consideration, as a rule. Sir Keith was much troubled, and very sympathising; and Arthur promptly proposed to go in search of me, while Sir Keith drove Thyrza home.
Thyrza at first resisted, but she had to yield to Sir Keith's determination. The general impression was that I should certainly endeavour to climb the height in search of Thyrza, when she failed to return,—a well-founded theory, as proved by circumstances. Arthur resolved, therefore, to go by the same way that Thyrza had come. He had already explored these mountains, when staying last year at the Farm: besides, he is one of those men who are never at a loss in the wildest country.
So Sir Keith drove off with Thyrza, promising to bring or send the dog-cart with all speed to meet Arthur and me: and he made good use of his opportunity, following the advice I had given.
Arthur meanwhile found his way with all speed to the brow of the mountain, walking along it till he saw a little figure seated far below in the road. And as he came down, he stopped now and again to wave his handkerchief. Twice in vain: the third time I saw him, and waved mine.
Some of this Arthur told me briefly; much more I have heard since.
Then, to his concern, he learnt that I had hurt my knee: and he said how foolish he had been to let the dog-cart go home first, instead of driving straight to the Pass. And I said—"Oh no,—I am so glad you did!" For how could I wish anything to be different? How could I mind waiting?
Then he said something, speaking a little brokenly, about having almost made up his mind to leave England for ever. He had thought of it for months. And he had been to Glynde again for a night,—he hardly knew why. He had seen Mrs. Hepburn and Gladys. And something—something Gladys said or did not say,—something in her look of reproach, when she spoke of me,—had made him resolve to try once more.
And in a husky altered voice, he asked—
"Constance, is it true?—Have I been under a great mistake? Could you be mine now,—after all?"
I have no idea what I said in answer. It matters little what words one uses at such a moment, or whether one uses any words at all. He understood me, and I understood him. It was such wonderful unexpected happiness. All clouds seemed to have been suddenly swept away from my whole horizon, leaving only sunshine and a blue sky.
But I think my first impulse was to look up,—to feel that this joy was indeed my Father's gift to me, and to Arthur.
Life was so changed to both of us, in that one short hour. Changed, and yet the same. For the same Presence is with us still, the same Will directing us, the same Love surrounding us, the same Light beckoning us onward.
Only now we hope to live a life of service to Christ together,—not apart. And that means earthly as well as Heavenly sunshine.
When we reached home, we found that Sir Keith and Thyrza were engaged, to the great satisfaction of everybody. Thyrza appeared to have quite recovered from her severe climb. And I wrote at once a few lines of comfort to Miss Millington, telling her of my new happiness, and of the Help which might be hers, if only she herself were willing.
GLADYS HEPBURN'S DIARY.
July 27. Tuesday.—Good news! Good news!
I was dreadfully afraid last week that I might have blundered. It is so fearfully difficult to know always what is just the wisest thing to say and do.
Major Lenox made his appearance suddenly. He was spending a night at the Inn, and he asked if he might come in to afternoon tea. And when he was here, instead of keeping off from the subject of Miss Con, he seemed to do nothing but bring her name up.
Well,—I really thought I ought to say something. I could not ask Mother's advice; because, of course, I have never felt free to tell her or any one about Miss Con's distress that day. It would be a betrayal of confidence.
An opportunity came up in the garden, when nobody was near for a minute or two. He said something about Yorkshire, and I spoke of the Romillys; and he answered me; and I asked him if he knew Miss Millington. He said "Hardly," in a considering tone; and I said, "Oh, she wrote us word of your engagement."
I was afraid he would think me blunt and interfering, but I really did it only for dear Miss Con's sake. He turned sharp round, and said, "How could she have heard that ridiculous tale?"
I believe I said, "Was it a tale?"
"Certainly," he said. "No foundation whatever!" And he looked quite fierce, and tugged at his moustaches.
And I said—not knowing what meant to come next—
"One never can depend on anything from Miss Millington. She told Maggie—and Maggie told me—and Miss Conway."
"Miss Conway heard it?" Major Lenox asked.
I said, "Yes!" and I looked straight at him for a moment. I did not dare to say any more, but I know what I wanted to say. And somehow it almost seemed to me that he read my thoughts. Such a curious softened expression came into his eyes: and his manner was different after that moment.
Nothing more was said by either of us: only next morning he walked in to say good-bye, and in a casual sort of way he spoke about "going north."
The very next thing we heard was that he had seen Miss Con, and that they are engaged. And he has given up all idea of exchanging into a regiment abroad. Oh it is so good!
Thyrza is engaged too,—actually on the same day, and to Sir Keith, of all people.
Mother seems not at all surprised, but it is a great surprise to me. I like Thyrza much better than I used: because she is more affectionate and less stiff; but I should not count her the kind of girl to be fallen in love with easily. And I should never have guessed Sir Keith to be the kind of man either.
However, of course tastes differ, and they ought to know their own minds. I am glad it is not Nellie.
July 29. Thursday.—Just ten days since I sent my last MS. to Mr. Willis.
After so many months of disappointment, one thing after another failing, I could hardly be hopeful. I could only pray and wait,—feeling that most likely I was not to have a book out at all this year. But I have worked hard with this tale, and I did do my very best.
Now the answer has come. Mr. Willis offers me thirty pounds for the first edition of 2000 copies: the copyright after that remaining in my hands. He says the story seems "interesting and well written," and he "hopes it may have a fairly good circulation."
At all events, the heroine is not too disagreeable this time!
I have written to accept the offer: and I do feel very happy about it.
It has been desperately hot weather lately: and I wanted so much to get it done, that I have been copying at the rate of forty to seventy MS. pages a day. But it was worth while. And I am only just in time for the autumn.
But I can see the good of failures,—even coming one after another. A year ago I was getting too confident, and perhaps careless. I think I have learnt a lesson for life.
August 15. Wednesday.—Plans seem settling into shape. About the middle of September the Romillys all come south; and early in October the double wedding will, it is hoped, take place. How droll to think of Thyrza as "Lady Denham!"
Miss Con is to be married from Glynde House; and perhaps her sister may be present. Not Mr. Smyth, for he never goes anywhere. He is too fat.
And I am to be one of Miss Con's bridesmaids!
Miss Con writes so brightly. She seems full of happiness. Her knee is almost well again, which is a great comfort.
She has been very busy lately, finding a situation for Miss Millington, as companion to an old lady in Bath, and also making arrangements about a home for the younger sister.
So like Miss Con!
THE END.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.Edinburgh & London
James Nisbet & Co.'s List.
By AGNES GIBERNE.
"Tales that bear Miss Giberne's name are 'the best of the best.' No writer excels her in this department of literature."—Fireside News."That the story is Miss Giberne's guarantees refinement and Christian principle."—Churchman.
_______________________