'By the way, Meg, how's the novel? Got a plot yet?'
'No,' I sighed, and thought that Nannie was right that time. There is
no plot in women's lives just now. They only say 'Good-bye,' as I have
done to-day. For, oh, this book begun as a joke is now no longer a book
at all. The written words are just a mirror which reflects some
pictures from that thing I call my 'life.' Each chapter is the
reflection of a day. You who can read between the lines will understand
why some of them are grave and others gay, and how my fickle mood alters
with each day's news, or varies with the irregularity of the posts from
France. You will know, too, that though each day stands as a single,
separate thing, unconnected, as Uncle Jasper would say, 'by a strong
plot,' yet each _is_ linked to each by a great fear and an endeavour to
be brave. For those who _go_ have all the 'plot.' Theirs is the
splendid hazard, so to them goes all the high adventure and romance. And
we who stay at home have just the giving and the waiting. Yet some one
said, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' Ah, you dear women
folk! I know the splendour of _your_ waiting. I have told you a little
of the rebellion that's in mine.
*CHAPTER XXV*
Here's two-thirds of the merry month of May slipped by! The posts are
regular. We have had a glorious telegram to say that father's coming
home. The Gidger flourishes like a green bay tree. Ross is better, and
the house buzzes and overflows (as the old vicarage used to do) with the
jolly men that he asks down to lunch, or to 'dine and sleep,' regardless
of the servants. Bless you! they don't mind. They'll always slave for
Ross, and 'Our Lady of Ventre' 'dotes upon the military,' so she'll
always come and lend a hand. But, and there always is one, isn't
there--the roof is not all it ought to be!
On Friday a regular S.W. gale got up with raging winds and driving rain,
and in the middle of the night I heard a little sound in the powdering
closet which leads out of my bedroom. 'That's a mouse,' I said to
myself. The sound increased. 'That's a rat,' I thought. A horrid roar
shook the room. 'That's a bomb!' I shrieked, thinking it was a raid. I
heard Ross's welcome voice at the door, asking me what I had dropped. I
hurriedly lighted the lamp and let him in, and we surveyed the wreckage.
A big bit of the ceiling of the powdering closet had fallen in, and
there was a small hole in the roof through which I could see the stars.
'Did you say your prayers, last night,' said Ross.
'Of course, I did,' I replied indignantly.
'Meg, you couldn't have said the litany of St Christopher. I always do.
I never get night alarms, my ceiling _never_ comes down.'
'For goodness' sake say it now then, for there's a huge crack over my
bed.'