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.