Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: I sat long by the lesser hole. Frontispiece.]
MISS CON
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 surprise
To 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.
CHAPTER I.
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.