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?