The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMiss ConThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Miss ConAuthor: Agnes GiberneIllustrator: Edgar GiberneRelease date: April 13, 2024 [eBook #73389]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1887*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS CON ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Miss ConAuthor: Agnes GiberneIllustrator: Edgar GiberneRelease date: April 13, 2024 [eBook #73389]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1887
Title: Miss Con
Author: Agnes GiberneIllustrator: Edgar Giberne
Author: Agnes Giberne
Illustrator: Edgar Giberne
Release date: April 13, 2024 [eBook #73389]
Language: English
Original publication: London: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1887
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS CON ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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I sat long by the lesser hole. Frontispiece.
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON AND STARS," "BERYL AND PEARL,""ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY EDGAR GIBERNE
"Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts in glad surpriseTo higher levels rise."—LONGFELLOW.
NINTH THOUSAND
London
JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED
22 BERNERS STREET, W.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
PREFACE.
I DO not think I need apologise for sending out another tale about girls and for girls—a tale of everyday life, such as numerous everyday girls in this Nineteenth Century have to live. There may be already a legion of books belonging, more or less, to the same class; but the omnivorous appetite of modern girlhood is not yet satisfied.
Nor, perhaps, need I apologise for its being in some measure a story about and for young Authoresses, incipient or developed. So many girls now crowd the lower rungs of literary ladders, that a few general hints for their guidance can hardly fail to be useful in one quarter or another.
It must not, however, be supposed that "All Those Girls" were would-be Authoresses!
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS
II. AND CONSTANCE CONWAY'S
III. HOW DIAMONDS FLASH
IV. RAILWAY IMAGININGS
V. A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED
VI. A MOTHER'S SWANS
VII. THYRZA'S SANCTUM
VIII. "MILLIE"
IX. THE QUESTION OF ABBREVIATIONS
X. PLENTY OF "ER"
XI. JUVENILE AUTHORSHIP
XII. AND MAGGIE'S EFFORTS
XIII. LETTERS—VARIOUS
XIV. SUBLIMITY AND MAGGIE
XV. THAT PUBLISHER!!
XVI. WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?
XVII. GLADYS HEPBURN'S FIRST SUCCESSES
XVIII. SERIOUS NEWS
XIX. A MOUNTAIN STATION
XX. AND A YORKSHIRE DALE
XXI. THROUGH A STORM
XXII. MYSTERIOUS HOLES
XXIII. "INDEED!"
XXIV. UNPALATABLE ADVICE
XXV. ALONE IN GURGLEPOOL
XXVI. AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?
XXVII. ELFIE'S CONFESSION
XXVIII. NON-RAPTURES
XXIX. AND YET!
XXX. A REAL FIVE-SHILLING BOOK
XXXI. CROOKED AND STRAIGHT
XXXII. VERY UNEXPECTED
XXXIII. CONFIDENTIAL IN A CAVE
XXXIV. DIFFERENCES OF VIEW
XXXV. ENTIRELY VANISHED
XXXVI. AND HE!
MISS CON.
CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
February 20.
"THE very thing for you, Constance. Most satisfactory. Really, if we had—a—if we had hunted all England over, we could not—ahem—could not have hoped to find anything more suitable. Positively, it is, if I may so say—if I may venture to use a somewhat time-worn illustration—the fitting of a round man into a round hole,—a round woman, I should rather say,—ha, ha! Nothing better could be desired."
So Craven declared, about ten days ago, with that oily satisfaction which people are sometimes apt to show about a convenient arrangement for somebody else. If I decided to go to the Romillys, it would be particularly convenient for Craven. I had been a full month in his house, and he was beginning to favour me with plain hints that a month was enough. Albinia never ventures to oppose him.
"Just the very thing," he repeated, rubbing his big flabby hands together. He might be a handsome man, this brother-in-law of mine, if less ponderously rotund, and boasting a smaller allowance of cheek and chin. I could not help thinking that afternoon, as he lounged back in his study-chair, what a huge individual he is for his fifty years. Anybody might take him for sixty.
I have not written in my journal for many months. Time enough now to make a fresh start. The only way is to go straight ahead, letting alone arrears and explanations.
"Precisely the opening for you," he went on. "Really, your course is, if I may so say, plain as daylight. As I say, plain as daylight. I am most happy to have been the means of affording you—ahem—a shelter, until this—a temporary shelter, I should say,—until this opening should appear."
Craven, like many other speech-makers, indulges in broken sentences and needless repetitions.
"Not merely an opening, but a duty,—a positive call to duty. I have always held the opinion—always, I may say,—that you were by nature fitted—peculiarly fitted—for the work of teaching. In fact—a—that you were a first-rate instructress of youth thrown away,—pardon me! And really, after the monotony of your existence—a—with the worthy old lady who has been—ahem—has been so lately removed from our midst,—after the monotony of your existence, as I say, hitherto,—you will find—ahem—will find positive excitement, positive dissipation—a—in the surroundings of your new life with the Romilly circle."
Craven ought to have felt exhausted by this time. If he did not, I did.
"Supposing I go," I answered perversely. Craven always rouses the perverse element in me.
"I was not aware that—ahem—that any other opening had—a—had presented itself, my dear Constance."
"I don't wish to decide in a hurry," I replied, though I knew as well as did Craven, that the matter was already practically settled. "Besides," I added, "it is not generally supposed that a governess' life means too much dissipation. Too much work is more likely."
For I did and do think that Craven might be a little less willing to let me enter on a life of possible or probable drudgery. Not that I want pity, or that I believe in the need for real drudgery in anybody's life. Plenty to do is my delight, and the question of drudgery depends on the spirit in which one does things. Moreover, I have never expected Craven to offer me a home; and if he made the offer, I would not accept it.
Still one does like a man to act a consistent part. Craven has in his own person so ardent a love for ease and non-exertion, that from his standpoint, he ought justly to spare me some grains of pity. My protest only set him off afresh, however.
"There can be no question, my dear Constance,—ahem—that your post will be a light one. At the same time, it will afford you—a—will offer precisely such a sphere for your talents as you—ahem—will offer, in fact, an appropriate sphere for your talents. For I see no harm in admitting—a—no harm in admitting that you are possessed of certain talents. Here, for the first time in your life,—as I say, for the first time in your life,—here is a field for their exercise. Not in mere lesson-giving, but in the exercise of—a—the exercise of—ahem—the exercise of a mild and beneficent and improving influence on all around you."
"Am I to begin by improving Mr. Romilly?" I asked.
The laboured and monotonous utterances sounded so exactly like a third-rate platform speech, that my gravity was upset. I had to say something which might serve as an excuse for a laugh.
Craven did not smile. He lifted one broad hand silencingly.
"In the shaping—ahem—the moulding—ahem—the general improvement, as I say, of those young people who will be in your charge. A more delightful occupation could—a—could scarcely be found. There can be no hesitation whatever—I say, there can be no hesitation whatever in pronouncing that you, my dear little sister, are by nature—a—singularly adapted for the post." Craven always calls me "little" when he wants to give me a set-down, though really I am almost as tall as himself. To be sure, I am not so broad!
"That is the question," I said. "If I could be sure that I really am fitted—But the responsibilities will be immense. If I were a woman of forty, instead of a girl not twenty-three—"
"With the appearance of—a—of thirty at least," asserted Craven.
There might be some truth in this. Twice in the month before, I had been taken for Albinia's twin. But also I had been twice taken for only eighteen years old. So much depends on the mood one is in.
"If I could be sure that I am fitted," I said again, rather rashly inviting a further flow of speech.
"Adapted undoubtedly, I should say," Craven answered. He drummed his right hand solemnly on the chair-arm, by way of emphasis. "Unquestionably! For you have gifts, my dear sister,—I may say that you have gifts. You are clever,—ahem—intellectual,—ahem—and you have cultivated your intellect. You are well-read. You draw and paint,—really quite tolerably. Yes, I may say—a—quite tolerably. Your music is, on the whole—on the whole, above the average."
Craven's knowledge of music is rather less than that of his favourite puppy, but this only makes it the easier for him to pass judgment.
"You have—" he went on—"you have your faults also: who has not? A certain impetuosity; somewhat too good an opinion of yourself; an over-readiness to oppose your views to those of others; these defects have—ahem—have to be subdued. But again there are faults which in your new position—which, I may say, in your new position will be—a— transformed into virtues! For instance! A certain faculty for spying out others' weaknesses—ahem—a somewhat unenviable readiness to set others to rights—pardon the suggestion, my dear little sister! But the adaptability of things is remarkable—is really, I may say, most remarkable. For henceforth the business of your life will be—the leading aim of your existence will be—a—the setting of others to rights a—the correction of others' faults. Thus, as I may say, as in fact I have already observed—a—thus at least one faulty tendency glides into a positive virtue."
My impetuosity came, I suppose, into play here. I felt all at once that I had endured as much as could reasonably be expected.
"Have you done, Craven?" I asked, standing up.
Craven was astonished. Probably he had not done; but my sudden movement disturbed the beautiful orderliness of his ideas, and put the remainder of his speech to flight.
"Because I think our discussion has lasted long enough," I said. "I will write to Mrs. Romilly by this evening's post, and promise to be at Glynde House in a fortnight."
Craven rose slowly and examined the framed almanack. We were together in the library, whither he had summoned me on my return from an afternoon stroll in the park.
"Nothing keeps Con indoors," Albinia is wont to declare, and certainly that day's fog had not sufficed to do so.
"A fortnight from to-day," he said dubiously. "That brings us to—the twenty-fifth. Yes; if I am not mistaken—the twenty-fifth."
"Mrs. Romilly names the twenty-fifth," I said. "I cannot offer to go sooner. It is unfortunate; but she does not leave England for another week; and she wishes me to arrive a week later. I am afraid you will have to put up with me so long."
Without waiting for an answer, I passed out of the luxurious library into the spacious hall.
AND CONSTANCE CONWAY'S.
THE SAME—continued.
February 21.
ALBINIA has a comfortable home,—so far as carpets and curtains are concerned. If only that mountain of human pomposity were not appended! But then she need never have accepted him unless she wished. Albinia went in for the man, with the carpets and curtains, of her own free-will.
Of course it is pleasant to be comfortable. I should be the last to deny that fact. Velvet-piled carpets, into which the foot sinks as into moss, are superior to bare boards; and tapestry at twelve or fifteen shillings the yard is very much nicer than a cheap cretonne at twelve or fifteen pence. Still a good deal depends on how much may be involved in the possession of mossy carpets and rich tapestry.
Sometimes I find myself wondering whether, if ten years ago could come over again, Albinia would say "Yes" a second time. She was only twenty then, and he was by no means so portly as now. But Craven Smyth was Craven Smyth always. He never could be anything else. He managed invariably to excite naughty feelings in me, though I was a child under twelve. Albinia could not understand why. She used to say he was "so nice!"—That delightfully indefinite term which does quite as well for a man as for a cretonne. And her one hesitation seemed to be on the score of his surname. "To think of becoming Mrs. Smyth!" she remarked often.
After leaving the library, I lingered in the hall, thinking. Should I write my letter first, or speak to Albinia first? Time enough for both before I needed to dress for dinner. The latter seemed right, so I passed on into the drawing-room, with its costly furniture and superabundant gilding.
Not four days had gone by since I first heard of this "desirable opening" in the Romilly household. I had answered the earliest appeal by return of post, asking further particulars, and expressing strong doubts as to my own capacity. A letter had now arrived from Mrs. Romilly herself, urging, nay, imploring me to accept the position.
Had the request come from any one else except Mrs. Romilly, I must have unhesitatingly declined. For whatever Craven may say, I am not fitted for the post. I, a girl of twenty-two, unused to teaching, inexperienced in family life,—I to undertake so anomalous and difficult a task! The very idea seems to me wild, even foolish. Humanly speaking, I court only failure by consenting to go!
And yet—what if it is indeed the right thing for me? For all along it has appeared as if that were the one open path; as if all other paths were hedged up and shut. Any one else except Mrs. Romilly! Yes; that would make all the difference. But then, it is Mrs. Romilly! And she is ill, depressed, troubled, in difficulties, and she implores my help. How can I hesitate or think of self?
I have no other friend in the world like Mrs. Romilly. Not that we have been so very much together; but I think I fell in love with her at first sight, and the love has gone on growing ever since, steadily. Three times, at intervals, she has spent a month with an aged relative in Bath,—an acquaintance of Aunt Lavinia's and mine,—and each time we met as often as possible. We walked and drove together; read and sang together; went often to the Abbey Church together. I can talk freely to her, as I have never talked with any other human being; and she is no less free with me. She has often said that I helped her; and this seemed strange, because she has so often helped me.
Sweet Gertrude Romilly! I have never met with any one else quite like her; and I doubt if I ever shall. She is twenty years my senior; yet I do not think we have found disparity of age any bar to friendship. It would be unreasonable to suppose that I am as much to her as she is to me. She is so lovely, so beloved; and she has so many who are very near and dear to her, while I have but few. But, indeed, I find the love that she gives to me very full and satisfying.
I suppose her spirits in girlhood must have been wonderfully high. She has gone through much trouble, and has suffered under it most acutely; and notwithstanding all, she seems often to be just rippling over with happiness and fun. I never quite know whether to count her more winning in her gay or in her pensive moods.
During the three years since our acquaintance first began, Mrs. Romilly and I have corresponded regularly; and she has pressed me often to pay her a visit at Glynde House. But I have never felt that I could rightly leave poor Aunt Lavinia, since she grew so very infirm.
Now that my dear old aunt has been taken from me, things are changed. It did seem strange for a while that no word of sympathy came from Glynde House. The response has always been so quick, if I were in any trouble. But a few lines from the eldest daughter, Nellie, with a dictated message from my friend, soon let me know the cause.
I cannot now understand precisely what is wrong. Mrs. Romilly has broken down in health, though to what extent I do not know. A sudden attack on her chest has revealed a condition of things there, unsuspected before; and she is ordered off in haste to the south of Europe before March winds begin. That is not all, however. Nellie alludes to "the state of her nerves;" and it seems to be expected that she may have to remain many months away,—perhaps a great part of the summer. Nellie goes in charge of the invalid, and Mr. Romilly remains behind.
In the midst of these anxieties, another blow has fallen. The governess, Miss Jackson, who for fifteen years has lived with the Romillys, was summoned home to the bedside of a dying mother just before Mrs. Romilly's illness. After weeks of absence she wrote, unexpectedly, to plead the claims of a widowed father, begging to be if possible at once released. The claim could hardly be disallowed, and no difficulties have been made. But then it was that Mrs. Romilly turned to the thought of me. She knew of my plans for self-support. Would I, she asked, step into the vacant post, and be—not merely governess, but companion, caretaker, elder sister, guide, and friend to her darling girls?
The first letter on this topic was dictated, but the second was in her own hand,—so changed and feeble a hand, that it grieved my very heart,—pleading earnestly. Would I—could I—refuse to set her mind at rest?
No, I could not; and were the moment of decision to come over again, I feel that my reply would be the same. I could not refuse; even though the sense of incapacity weighed then and weighs still most heavily. I am not old enough or experienced enough for the position. Yet it did seem to me then, and it seems so still, that I have no choice.
HOW DIAMONDS FLASH!
THE SAME.
February 24.
I MUST take up the thread where I left off three days ago. The last evening in Albinia's house has come, and to-morrow I make my plunge into a new life. It is late, and I have been busy; but there is much to think about, and sleep looks impossible at present. As well sit up and write, as toss to and fro in the dark.
Albinia was seated near the drawing-room fire when I went in, reading a little, or working a little, I can't say which. She is always doing a little of something, which ends in nothing. Perhaps she was working, for I noticed the flash of her diamond rings as she moved her hands.
Craven likes his wife to dress richly, and to make a good display of jewellery,—perhaps as an advertisement of his wealth. She is apt to be a little overladen with gems, just as her drawing-room is overladen with gilding. Her natural taste is good, but she conforms to her husband's taste in all such minor matters. Wisely, no doubt. Anything is better than a succession of domestic jars; and when Albinia became Craven's wife, she knew the manner of man who was to be her husband.
"What a dull afternoon we have had," I said.
"Yes," Albinia answered slowly. "Have you been out till now?"
I did not at once respond. Her question fluttered by me, and was forgotten. A reflection of our two figures in a pier-glass, lit up by half-lowered gas and dancing flames, had attracted my attention, and set me cogitating.
Albinia and I are often said to be alike. Though eight years my senior, she looks young for her age, and I—at least when grave—look decidedly old for mine. That brings us nearer together, and makes the mistake as to twinship occasionally possible. If I were to describe Albinia as I saw her in the glass—rather tall, rather thin, with a good figure, long supple limbs, and much natural self-possession; also with grey eyes, dark hair, and tolerably regular features—the description would apply equally well to myself, and probably would give no true impression of either.
For in reality Albinia and I are not alike. It is impossible that we should be. We may be formed on much the same model; eyes and hair may be the same in colouring; but we are not alike. Differences of temperament and character must show in the face. Albinia's torpid easiness of disposition and her willingness to submit, are the precise converse of my untiring energy and troublesome strength of will. Strangers may and sometimes do mistake the one for the other; but those who know us well are apt to deny the fact of any resemblance at all,—which is curious.
I have seen Albinia look very pretty at times,—not always, but under certain circumstances. Generally her fault is a lack of animation; and if this is overcome, she wins a good deal of admiration. Much more than I do. Some indeed tell me that I am far better looking than Albinia, but those are only my particular friends. We always see the best of a face when it is really dear to us. Many, I know, count me not at all attractive; and they are the people for whom I do not care. But I do not know why I should write all this.
The difference of our respective standings in life was well marked, that afternoon, by the blaze of Albinia's diamonds and the lustre of her splendid silk, seen side by side with my plain black serge and jet brooch. I did think she might have worn deeper mourning for the good old aunt to whom in childhood we both owed so much. But—there is Craven!
"Well," Albinia said at length.
"I beg your pardon, Albinia. I went into the park first; and since then I have been in the library, talking,—or rather listening."
"Talking about your plans?"
"I shall go to Glynde House in a fortnight."
A glittering flash of the diamonds showed me that Albinia had stirred suddenly.
"Then you have quite decided?"
"Quite. The Romillys want me, and Craven does not."
"We are expecting visitors soon," she said, rather faintly.
Poor Albinia! It was not her fault. I would not suggest that the house contained eight spare bedrooms.
"Of course I would rather have kept you for a few weeks longer," she went on. "But still—" and a pause. "If Craven—" another break. "And perhaps Mrs. Romilly wants you there before she leaves."
"No; not before. It would be her wish, but the doctors forbid excitement. She starts in a week from to-day; and she wishes me to go a week later,—just allowing the household time to recover a little from the parting. That seems wise, perhaps, as I am not to see her."
"You would have liked to see her."
"One cannot think of one's own wishes in such a matter," I said.
"And you only know Mrs. Romilly,—not the husband or daughters?"
"Except that I have heard so much about them all from Mrs. Romilly,—I can hardly feel myself a stranger."
"Are Mr. and Mrs. Romilly rich?" was the next question.
"Yes,—very comfortably off. And I suppose still more so since the death of a great-uncle of Mrs. Romilly's last autumn. An estate in Yorkshire came to them then. Mrs. Romilly spoke in a letter of their intention to go there every summer: though Glynde House will still be their home for the greater part of the year."
"And you will have the entire education of several girls! Housekeeping too?"
"I really don't know, Albinia. My notions as to what I shall have to do are hazy in the extreme. That is the worst of not seeing Mrs. Romilly. No, not the entire education. There are masters for accomplishments, I believe; and there is a nursery governess for the two youngest. Besides, Maggie must be pretty well out of the schoolroom."
"Oh, then of course she will be housekeeper."
"Craven predicts more need for the exercise of a 'beneficent influence' on my part than of actual teaching."
Albinia opened her eyes non-comprehendingly.
"He expects me to improve the household as a whole,—beginning, as I tell him, with Mr. Romilly. My own fear is that I shall be too much of a girl among girls,—with too little authority."
"It all depends on yourself. You must take a proper stand from the first. I dare say things will fit in well enough."
So easy for her to say and think. Hardly anything is more easy than to be philosophical for somebody else. I do not count that my own feeling in the matter is cowardice. I have never feared work or shrunk from responsibility. But from early childhood, I have been under the dominion of a strong sense of duty; and to half perform a duty has been always a misery to me. And I do feel myself so unfitted, so terribly inadequate, for the duties to which I seem called.
"Called." Yes; there it is. If indeed "called" to them, I shall find help sufficient. God does not place His children in positions of difficulty, to leave them alone afterward. My prayer has been—"If Thy Presence go not with me, carry me not up hence." And if His Presence does go with me, then nothing else can matter very much.
"I never expected you to have to take to governessing," Albinia said suddenly.
"Did you not?" I asked.
"No. Two years ago I had not a doubt that you would be married before this." She looked at me with questioning eyes. "What were you about, Con?"
"About my own business, I hope," I said. "Nearly time to dress for dinner. I must be quick."
"You can just as well write a line afterwards."
"No; I would rather catch an earlier post. I must set Mrs. Romilly's mind at rest, and I want to have the thing settled."
"You can write here," said Albinia.
I acquiesced, going to a davenport, though solitude would have been preferable. The letter seemed to need careful wording. Between my desire to bring repose to Mrs. Romilly, and my conscientious dread of promising more than I might be able to perform, I scarcely knew what to say. And I leant back in my chair, thinking.
"Do you know what o'clock it is, Con?"
Albinia's words roused me from a dream. She was crossing the room, and before me lay a black-edged sheet, with the date written—nothing more. While, fading from the foreground of my mind, was a vivid picture of a scene in a certain small Bath dining-room—a scene nearly two years old, called up by Albinia's utterances—a scene unknown to any living person, except myself and one other. I had forgotten Mrs. Romilly, forgotten my letter, forgotten the need for haste.
For recollections of that scene are apt to involve me in a train of questionings. They come up afresh now as I write.
Had I then known how soon the dear old aunt was to be taken away, how short a time she would claim my care, I think I should have come to a different decision. But I did not know. There seemed no reason why she might not live another ten or twenty years, always ill and helpless, always dependent on me.
What I did, I did for the best, and under a compelling sense of duty. At the moment I had no doubts, no feeling of hesitation. My path seemed clear as daylight. He thought me fearfully cold, and he was wounded and angry. Yet it was for his sake—because I would not bind him to years of waiting.
Was it quite needful—even as things then stood? Should I have been wrong to let him see that my "No" was a "No" of sheer duty, not of choice? Was there not at least the fault of too impulsive action, too rapid decision,—of not delaying to ask and wait for guidance?
"He that believeth shall not make haste." Those words come to me sometimes with a sharp sense of pain. I did believe, but did I act practically upon that belief? If I had not made quite so much haste, I might at least have worded my answer a little differently. And—I cannot be sure, but sometimes I do wonder if he had not almost a right to know that I was not so indifferent as I seemed.
After-regrets are worse than useless. They only unnerve one for daily life. I feel that, yet I cannot always hold these questionings in leash. They gain the mastery over me once in a while, though to no purpose,—worse than none. For he is gone out of reach. He will never know how things really were. Communication between us is at an end,—utterly! He said that he would take very good care never again to trouble me with his unwelcome presence, and I—I let him think it was unwelcome. I said nothing; and he went.
It was from thoughts such as these that Albinia's voice aroused me to the consciousness of my unwritten letter. She was going across the room, and had paused behind my chair.
"No, I have not done," I answered quietly. "One moment, please."
And I dashed off, in a rapid scrawl,—
"DEAR MRS. ROMILLY,—"Yes, I will come—on the 25th inst. I am afraid it will be only to disappoint your expectations; but I cannot refuse. I will at least do my best."This is in haste, to catch the next country post. I want you to hear to-morrow morning. I will write again more fully in a day or two.—Ever yours affectionately—"CONSTANCE CONWAY."
The letter went, and I was committed to the undertaking.
Now, sitting alone by candle-light in my room,—mine no longer after to-day,—with packed and half-packed trunks around, I find myself doing what I have resolved not to do,—turning back to that closed page of my history, and conning it anew.
I doubt if there be any occupation more vain than reading the past in the light of the present, and breaking one's heart for the things which might have been,—if only one had known! Except indeed that from the blunders of the past, one may gain wisdom for the future.
God knew all the time! That is the one great comfort. He knew—and cared—and guided. Not indeed with the precise and explicit guidance, which would have come, if I had expressly waited and looked out for His hand to point the way. But He makes all things work together in the end for the good of His loved ones,—yes, I do believe, even their very blunders. A mother does not neglect to watch the hasty steps of her most heedless little one; and I know that my Father does not—did not—forget me.
Nor will He. And does not the little one learn from its own stumbles to cling more to the mother's hand? I think so.
Still, I cannot help a feeling of loneliness to-night,—this last night of shelter in my sister's home, before stepping out into an untried and new world. One does crave at times for somebody to come very close, knowing and understanding all that one could say—or would not say. People think me so matter-of-fact and sensible and cheerful, and when they tell me what I am, of course I assent. If I demurred, they would only count their own opinion worth the most. But one cannot be always sensible or always cheerful, and the thirst for human sympathy has me in its grip this evening.
Yet is it not at such times that the human sympathy of Christ our Lord comes home—or ought to come home—to one? If not, the want is in us, not in Him—never in Him!
Now it is close upon midnight, and I must go to bed. What sort of a home shall I be in, twenty-four hours hence?
RAILWAY IMAGININGS.
THE SAME.
February 25. Evening.
"SO you leave us—a—to-day, my dear Constance, and—ahem—proceed to your new sphere of work. I am sure I may say—a—that you carry with you our best wishes—my wife's and mine, I should say."
N.B. * I have a great deal to write of first impressions in my new home, but Craven's utterances come up irresistibly, and insist on first attention.
* N. B.—nota bene
"Thanks," I replied. "It is quite a case of speeding the parting guest."
Now this was unkind to Albinia. She never can withstand her husband, but the gratification which beamed from his rotund face was not reflected in hers. I thought her even a little depressed in her apathetic way.
Craven showed no signs of being affected by my sharp utterance, but drawled out his next inquiry, "I believe you—a—start some time this morning—a—my dear Constance."
"The twelve o'clock train. Different lines don't fit in their time-tables well," I said. "It is unkind to passengers. I shall have two changes, and scant time for either."
"No doubt—a—if one train is missed, another runs later," said Craven.
"No doubt," I answered. "But I don't particularly want three or four hours' delay."
"I believe you—a—change trains at—a—at Hurst," said Craven.
"That is my first change," I replied. "The second is at Glynde Junction." But Craven was talking, not listening, so I stopped.
"At Hurst,—yes. Just so,—yes. To be sure,—yes. No doubt you will obtain lunch there,—yes, a very good plan. You will write and inform Albinia soon—inform Albinia as to your welfare—ahem. I may say that—a—I believe—a—that I feel no doubt whatever you will do well—ahem—will do excellently well in your new sphere. Yes, I may say—excellently. You have acted hitherto an exemplary part in the care of—a—your worthy relative,—looking for no return."
This was quite true. Aunt Lavinia cared for me in childish days, and I have cared for her in later years. It was a matter of course that I should do so. She has depended upon me entirely. But I have had no thought of reward. I always knew that the greater part of her income consisted of a life annuity. And it was my friends, not I, who were disappointed when, after her death, it became known that with the exception of one hundred pounds everything at her disposal was left to Albinia, not to me.
"Looking for no return," repeated Craven, with an unctuous little smack of approval peculiar to himself. "Yes, I may say—looking for no return. One reward you have doubtless, my dear little sister,—namely, the satisfactory mandate of your own conscience, and ahem—and a very respectable nest-egg of one hundred pounds, which you will do well to allow to accumulate at—a—at compound interest. The world now lies open to you, and an opportunity has at last arrived—a—has, I may say, at last arrived—for the exercise of your intellectual gifts. As I was about to remark, you—a—you undoubtedly possess—"
"I seem to have heard all this before, Craven," I said, glancing at the clock, which pointed to more than half-past ten. Breakfast in the Smyth household is not inordinately early.
"In a governess, my dear Constance," Craven said slowly, helping himself to fish for the fourth time, "in a governess—a—this fish is very much overboiled, Albinia, very much indeed—a—in a governess, my dear Constance, such impetuosity as yours is, I may say,—"
"Really! I thought I was particularly well adapted for being a governess," I exclaimed.
"Is, I may say,—" pursued the imperturbable Craven, "likely—a—to lead you into serious difficulties—ahem. Remember, my dear sister,—you should—a—remember that your office now is to guide—a—to instruct—a—the young. More than this, you depend—ahem—entirely upon your own exertions; and if—a—if, in a temporary fit of impetuosity, you are led to throw up your situation, you—a—you find yourself homeless—absolutely homeless, my dear Constance."
"I understand," I said. "I shall not come to you for shelter, Craven," and I stood up. "Will you kindly excuse me, Albinia? It is getting late, and I have not done my packing."
Albinia assented, not reluctantly; and I vanished. But I felt very vexed with myself. After many resolutions to keep calm and smooth to the end, here was I giving vent to irritability, like a pettish school-girl. Apart from the wrong-doing, what was the use? Craven would not understand.
As I turned the key of my travelling bag, Albinia glided into the room.
"The cab has come," she said. "It is rather early, and I meant to send you in the carriage; but—"
"No need for excuses," I said. "You can't help things, Albinia. I am only amazed that I could stoop to be angry with him."
Pretty severe, this; but I do not think the words touched Albinia. She said only, "I have brought you a little packet of sandwiches."
"Thank you," I answered. "Craven's plan of luncheon at Hurst is not quite feasible. I shall have just three minutes there."
"You need not say anything about the sandwiches downstairs," observed Albinia. Craven, with all his wealth, is no "lover of hospitality."
Another hour, or less, and I found myself alone in a second-class carriage, passing swiftly out of London, with nearly two unoccupied hours lying ahead.
The train was not an express, and several stoppages took place. Yet no one came into my compartment; and the solitude was not unwelcome. Between the closed chapter of my past life and the opening chapter of my future, this little pause seemed well. I had a book with me, but I could not read. There is something in the steady rush of a train which always inclines me to steady thought; and I had so much to think about.
It is odd to look back to one's previous imaginings of people or things, and to compare those imaginings with the realities.
I can recall clearly now some of the pictures which floated through my mind as I sat in the train. Probably they would soon fade, if I did not jot them down while fresh.
There was Margaret, the second daughter, "my sweet Maggie," as Mrs. Romilly calls her. I felt that I already knew well this dear girl, just nineteen in age, and of a nature so humble and winning that none could fail to love her. Mrs. Romilly doubtless leans more upon the capable Nellie; but it is around Maggie, her "tender, clinging Maggie," that I have seen her heartstrings to be most closely twined. Poor gentle Maggie! How I pitied the young girl yesterday, picturing her left thus suddenly at the head of a large household. She would indeed need all the help and advice that I might be able to give. I longed for Maggie's sake to have had more experience. She was not naturally a gifted manager like Nellie,—so I had heard,—but had always depended on her mother and elder sister.
Then there was Thyrza, some fourteen months younger than Maggie—"that dear difficult Thyrza," she is termed by her mother. I meant to win Thyrza in time, to gain her confidence by slow degrees. But in the reserved and brusque Thyrza, I could not look for so pleasant a return as in the sweet and lovable Maggie. Unconsciously, perhaps, I was a little prejudiced against Thyrza. Mrs. Romilly had so often spoken of her with a sigh.
The twins, Nona and Elfleda came up next, aged sixteen and a half. "My bright Nona," and "my lovely gipsy Elf!" Mrs. Romilly has called them. I could see in imagination the fair face of the one—"all sunshine, with such clouds of auburn hair and such a complexion!"—and the brilliant merry eyes of the little dark beauty. "Not very fond of study, either of them, but able to do anything they liked,—so quick and clever." Yes; Nona and Elfie could not fail to be favourites.
And the two small children, Popsie and Pet; and their young nursery governess, Miss Millington,—I had to be friends with all. There was also the fifteen year old boy, Denham, "my handsome son," Mrs. Romilly has styled him. I thought he must be dearer to her than the elder son, Eustace, which seemed curious. A mother usually clings most to her firstborn. But I had heard little of Eustace Romilly.
In addition to all these, there was Nellie Romilly's great friend, Gladys Hepburn, living "just round the corner," and closely interwoven with life in Glynde House, beside many others with names more or less familiar. But among all these figures, it was that of Margaret Romilly, "sweet Maggie," which stood out with the most inviting distinctness, forming the centre of my expectations. A purely imaginary figure, of course. I pictured Maggie as a girlish reproduction of my friend,—tall, slender, graceful, with liquid loving brown eyes, and pensive winning smile. Mrs. Romilly had shown me few photographs of her people. She always said they were such failures.
The background in my mind to all these moving figures was a fine country mansion, with extensive gardens and something of park land. I can hardly tell how this idea grew into existence; except that Mrs. Romilly has a way of writing and speaking about "our place," which has perhaps misled me. I am sure she does it with the utmost simplicity. It is habit she has fallen into unconsciously.
Mr. Romilly overshadowed the whole. I had formed a vivid idea of him. I knew him to be many years older than Mrs. Romilly, and she has spoken of him always with true wifely enthusiasm. My mental sketch of him was drawn from recollections of things she has said. There could hardly be such another man in the world. His face, his features, his manners, his self-forgetfulness, his kindness, his indulgence, his generosity,—all these have been painted before me, till I could only feel that he must be a very prince among men, and that to live under the same roof with Mr. Romilly must be a priceless privilege. The only marvel to my mind was that he had not gone abroad with his wife. But doubtless a spirit of self-denial restrained him, and he remained in England for the sake of his girls.
I found myself wondering next what manner of Church and of clergyman I should find. Mrs. Romilly may have described them to me, but I could recall no particulars. In my quiet Bath life, I used to attend many week-day Services in addition to those of Sunday. I found them a help—nay, a positive necessity. But things would be different at Glynde. That which had been a duty as well as a privilege in Bath—a duty because I had the leisure to go, and no prior home-claims to hinder me—might at Glynde cease to be a duty, because of such other claims.
A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED.
THE SAME—continued.
February 26. Early Morning.
AFTER all, I might have procured my luncheon at Hurst without difficulty: for I missed my train, and had a long waiting time.
It passed, as such intervals do, and I found myself in a crowded compartment on the way to Glynde Junction. This second stage of my journey was a good deal occupied in observation of fellow-passengers. None of them was in any sense remarkable, but all human beings are more or less worth studying.
After a while the compartment began to empty, and I at the same time began to be aware that the train had lagged a good fifteen minutes behind time. No pleasant discovery this, since it probably meant the loss of the next train at Glynde Junction, and another long delay.
One old lady remained alone at the farther end of the carriage, nodding sleepily over a novel. A gentleman had stepped in at the last station, and had taken the corner opposite to me. While busily comparing watch and time-table, I had not noticed him; but a little while before reaching the Junction, I happened to glance up and met his eyes.
Evidently he had been examining me: no doubt from the same general interest in human beings to which I have confessed. He did not snatch away his eyes in the alarmed fashion of some people caught in the act, but met mine frankly. He might be, I supposed, under thirty: a gentleman every inch of him: in manner quiet, steadfast, entirely at his ease, and free from the least suspicion of self-consciousness. Mouth and chin were hidden by the brown moustache and beard, and more of the same soft brown hair receded in waves from the wide forehead. The eyes were singular, large and gentle as a woman's, pale brown in hue, with soft shading lashes, and set in hollowed-out caves, which, together with the delicately outlined temples and the slightness of the ungloved right hand, gave an impression of not very robust health.
I read at once in his look the unspoken question—"Is anything the matter?"
And my answer came involuntarily—
"I was wondering if there is any chance of my catching the train to Glynde."
"At the Junction? Yes; a chance, but a poor one."
"That train does not wait for this?"
"It is not supposed to do so."
"Glynde is new ground to me," I observed. "A pretty place, is it not?"
"There are a few pretty spots in the neighbourhood," he answered; and he mentioned one or two by name, describing briefly.
It is singular that I should have been drawn on to chat with him. As a rule, I am very shy of railway acquaintances. A woman, and especially a young woman, travelling alone, can scarcely act with too much reticence. Somehow I was disposed during those few minutes to make an exception in favour of this particular fellow-traveller, recognising instinctively a man whom one might trust. Not that such instincts may be safely depended on.
Some remark made by him led to the question on my part—
"Can you tell me anything about the Church?"
He asked, "Which Church?"
"The nearest to Glynde House," I answered; and a slight flash or lighting up of his face showed me that he was acquainted with the Romillys.
"The Parish Church is a mile and a half distant," he said. "There is a small Church or Chapel-of-ease not far from Glynde House."
"What kind of Church Services?" I asked next, speaking perhaps with a touch of wistfulness. I did not know it, till I saw the reflection in his face. But indeed the burden of the future and of my own incapacity was weighing on me heavily.
He answered again by a question, "What kind would you wish?"
"I should like—something helpful," I said.
A curious smile came into his face. "Is not the 'something helpful' always there?"
"Always!" I moved my head dissentingly.
"It ought to be."
"But things are so different in different Churches," I urged. "One cannot find the same amount of help, for instance, when the Services are dull and spiritless."
"Perhaps not the same amount," he said slowly. "But sufficient for our need—always that!" After a moment's thought, he went on—"We hear a good deal in our day about Church privileges; and none can value such privileges more highly than I do. Still, one ought not to forget that the greater a man's privileges are, the greater must be his responsibility."
"I suppose so," I said.
"Necessarily. It is an invariable rule—the more given, the more required. If our spiritual advance does not keep pace with the amount of our Church privileges, so much the worse for us."
"Yet there cannot be advance without—" I began, and stopped. For I knew I did not mean that.
"I must differ from you," he said courteously. "Some of God's greatest saints on earth have been by no means the most favoured with outward helps to devotion."
"But still—" I said.
"Still one craves such help. True; and the craving in itself may not be wrong—is not wrong, I should rather say. Though here, too, as with bodily needs, I believe one ought to be content either to 'abound' or to 'suffer need,' as God may appoint for us. Besides," he added, "that which is the greatest help to one, is not always helpful to another. We are differently constituted, and our needs differ. It is a perplexing question sometimes. Our Church Services are meant for the many. I am afraid some among us are, perhaps, a little too much disposed to insist on providing for the many that which only suits the needs of the few."
"And suppose," I said, "that the many insist on having what is no help at all to the few, but only a hindrance?"
"It should not be a hindrance."
"But if it is—"
"It need not be. The question as to a man's spiritual advance does not hinge there. Wine of heaven may be as freely given in a cup of earthenware as in a cup of porcelain, if only one is willing."
I repeated to myself, "If one is willing!"
"The gist of the matter lies there," he said.
The old lady at the other end woke up, looked round, and moved promptly down the seat to our vicinity, putting out a hand and a rubbed kid glove.
"How do you do, Sir Keith—how do you do?" she said, in brisk cordial tones. "Quite well, I hope; and Lady Denham too? Are you going home to her? No? I can't quite hear what you say—the train does make such a noise, and I'm getting just a little deaf."
There was no difficulty whatever in hearing the lady's own utterances, as she shouted in shrill tones at Sir Keith's left ear.
"Not going home till later! Oh, that's it, is it? Ah, you're such a busy man, I know—always hard at work about something or other. Well,—and so poor Mrs. Romilly is really off. Very sad about her, isn't it? I was sure you'd feel it, knowing them so well! And all those girls left behind,—really, it's a thousand pities. Just when they need a mother most! Nice girls too!"
She scanned him with quick inquisitive glances, as he listened, calmly attentive. "I wonder which is your favourite, now! I like Nellie best—not that I know them intimately. The Romillys are difficult people to get hold of. But I always do say they are nice ladylike looking girls, if only they weren't quite so much wrapped up in one another, and in their own concerns. A very attached family, I'm sure, and it's quite pretty to see them all so devoted to their father, dear man! Oh, Mr. Romilly is an immense favourite of mine. But as for Mrs. Romilly,—why, there's no doubt she does keep people at a distance, and holds herself as if she was a duchess. So very exclusive and all that! I hate exclusiveness, and I can't endure airs and graces. Still, Mrs. Romilly is nice enough in her own way, when one gets used—Are you going to get out here?"
It was a marvel to me that the old lady could keep on so long, with her twinkling black eyes fixed on that face of grave disapproval. I had begun to wonder whether I ought to announce myself openly as the new Glynde House governess, for fear something might be said before me which I had no business to hear. But as I hesitated, the train slackened speed, and Sir Keith stood up to lift down my roll of shawls.
"It is just possible that you may be in time," he said. "Ha! There is a man who will do his best." He threw open the door, handed my shawls to the porter answering his summons, then stepped out himself to assist me. Plainly all this came as a matter of course.
"Glynde train off yet?" he asked.
"No, sir." The porter had touched his cap, with evident recognition and as evident pleasure. "Just going, sir."
"See this lady in, if you please. The luggage will be behind. No time to get a ticket, I fear."
"Thank you very much," I said, and he lifted his hat before returning to his seat. Then followed a rush along the platform, a frantic hauling out of my trunks, a breathless scamper upstairs, over the bridge, down the other side, and I found myself in a first-class compartment with two gentlemen. There had been no leisure to choose. My trunks were flung in, unlabelled; and we were off.
Recovering from the flurry of my chase, I became aware of a gentle little piping masculine voice opposite—
"No, I—I could not possibly hesitate,—such very apparent need—er. Poor thing! It is a great gratification to be able to help those in need—er. My dear boy, it is very cold—very chilly—er. I am quite distressed to think of the girls driving to the station—er—in the open chaise. I really wish I had given different directions—er."
I could not help thinking of Craven; though this speaker, with something of the same cautious hesitation in bringing out his words, and even more of a tendency to linger on concluding syllables, had nothing whatever of Craven's grandiloquent pomposity. He was short, and of narrow small-boned make, with sunken cheeks, and delicate girlish hands. Grey hair, in the prettiest silken curls, peeped from under his most dainty travelling cap, partly hiding the defects of a narrow and unintellectual forehead; and a pair of deep-blue eyes, full of anxious appeal, wandered to and fro beseechingly. The mouth was anxious too—a really beautiful mouth in its classic curves, only so tremulously nervous and troubled.
Side by side with this little elderly personage was a young man, not at all resembling him. For the young man was tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully made, with no pretensions to good looks. It seemed to me a good sensible face, however—that plain sunburnt face of his—though not handsome; and I admired the deferential kindness of his manner towards the older gentleman. Could they be father and son?
"If I had guessed—er—that it would be so chilly—er—I think it would have been advisable to procure hot-water cans for the journey—er. My feet are so very cold—er—quite suffering. I hope you do not feel the cold—er—very much, my dear boy."
He feel the cold! I could have laughed at the question. But the young man answered, without a smile, "Not at all, thanks. I wish I had thought of the hot-water tin for you, though."
"No consequence, my dear boy,—not of the very least consequence—er. And we shall be there directly, so it really does not—er—does not matter. But I am very chilly. I almost think—er—if you could get out a shawl for me, I should like it over my shoulders—er. Thanks—no, not that one. The Scotch tartan. Not there, do you say? Very strange, very strange indeed—er. I must speak to Phipps, I must speak to him quite seriously. He knows so well—er—I always use that shawl in travelling—er—quite invariably. No, nothing else, my dear boy,—nothing else will do. If the tartan shawl is not here, I must endure the chill."
Poor gentleman,—he shivered and looked quite blue. But the young man made no attempt to persuade him, only rolling up submissively the rejected wraps.
"Very cold indeed for the girls," went on the elder gentleman. "I am so afraid they will suffer—er. If only I had desired them to have a closed cab, instead of driving in the open chaise—er—it would have been safer. But perhaps they may think of it. Perhaps when we arrive, we could arrange—er—don't you think, my dear boy?"
"Yes, father," said the young man. He spoke very gravely, with no relaxing in the set of his strong plain face. Was he always so serious? It struck me as singular; for I should not have guessed him to be more than three or four and twenty at the most.
"I think we might arrange—er—if it should be very cold indeed at the station—er—perhaps—but I really do not know. It is very distressing to have had to send away the brougham just now. I shall ask you to see about that, my dear boy,—to get matters pushed forward—er. I have been really too shaken myself to attend—er—to attend to anything."
"Yes, father."
"I should hardly have ventured—er—on this little trip to-day,—if I had not hoped to meet you. It was very thoughtful of you to arrange things so,—very thoughtful. And I am sure that poor lady was most grateful—er. One is glad to be able to do a kindness, even at the cost of personal discomfort."
He shivered dolorously again. I leant forward, and asked, "Would you like me to put up this window?"
An immediate bow was the response. Plainly this little sickly elderly person was a thorough gentleman,—quite as much so, after his own fashion, as my former fellow-traveller, though a very different stamp of man.
"Thanks—er—I am very much obliged. But pray, do not inconvenience yourself—er. It is a chilly day!—" another shudder, accompanied by a suffering smile. "Very chilly, and I—er—am not robust. But pray do not,—unless you prefer it."
I did not prefer it, being a devoted lover of fresh air; nevertheless, I would have pulled up the glass promptly, if the younger man had not started forward to forestall me. I congratulated myself that it was not to be a case of prolonged suffocation. Five minutes more would bring us to Glynde.
The two fast-shut windows thickened rapidly with breath-mist; but the elderly gentleman seemed more at his ease, and shivered in leas deplorable style.
"Glynde at last," he said, as a whistle sounded. "Eustace, my dear boy, pray collect the parcels. And I think we should have the window open—er. Thanks. Ah, there are the girls. Maggie has not thought of a fly. Only the open carriage,—and such a cold afternoon. Thyrza not there—how strange! Pray secure a porter at once, my dear boy, to carry these parcels—er. And I think, as soon as we are out,—I think you should inquire whether Miss Conway has arrived—er—or whether she is expected now."
The train stood still. I had not at once noted the name "Eustace," but the more familiar "Maggie" and "Thyrza" could not be passed by, and what followed settled the business. I turned to the speaker, and said—
"I beg your pardon! I am Constance Conway!"
But could that be Mr. Romilly?