A MOTHER'S SWANS.
THE SAME.
February 26. Thursday.
I AM writing at odd times to-day, as I find leisure. A hot fit of
journalism is on me just now; perhaps as a relief to certain nameless
feelings; and I have a fancy to note down early impressions fully. The
first two or three days amid new surroundings are often the future life
there in miniature. Lessons do not begin till Monday; and the girls
seem very busy in various ways, leaving me more to myself than I should
have expected. Also I had a good spell of writing before breakfast.
But—to continue!
I found myself on the platform, in the midst of a family gathering. A
few other passengers alighted and vanished. There seemed small chance
of our speedily vanishing likewise. My trunks were tossed out of the
luggage-van, and the train passed on.
We were near the door of the general waiting-room, with a projecting
roof over our heads. The roof ended a few paces farther on, and a white
paling bounded the uncovered portion of the platform. I could see an
open chaise beyond, with a fat brown pony hanging its sleepy head, and
a boy lounging on the small box where was only room for one.
Mr. Romilly formed the centre of an eager group; and I, standing
slightly apart, had leisure for a few observations. The grave young
man, Eustace, stood also apart, and the immobility of his face struck
me anew. I could not understand his receiving so moderate a welcome
from his sisters. All eyes were bent upon Mr. Romilly, and the girls
hovered about their father, with the devotion of satellites round a sun.
Vainly I looked for the "sweet Maggie" of my expectations, vainly
also for the Nona and Elfleda of Mrs. Romilly's painting. Thyrza I
knew had not appeared, and the boy in charge of the pony I guessed to
be Denham. But Maggie, Nona, Elfie, the two little ones, the nursery
governess,—enough were present to stand for all these. The two little
ones I could of course distinguish. The rest at first sight I could not.
All the voices talked together. Broken scraps reached me, in tones not
loud but excited.
"O father! We've had the jolliest day! We went such a walk!"
"And Millie was so tired!"
"And Gladys went with us."
"Oh, and father, only think—"
"Father, I'm going to have a canary-bird,—Pet and me, I mean."
"Yes, father, isn't it lovely? Mrs. Hepburn is going to give a canary
to Popsie and me for our very own."
"Isn't Mrs. Hepburn a dear, father?"
"And it's a green canary."
"I thought canaries were yellow."
"So they are, Pops! But, father, only think, Gladys has heard—"
"O Nona! You might let me tell father that! Gladys has heard—"
"About her book—"
"Her story that she wrote—"
"From the Society where she sent it, father, and he says—"
"Nonsense, Nona: a society is it, not he."
"Well, it says, father, that they'll bring it out—"
"Because she's made the little girl that died get well again instead—"
"Yes, because there are such lots of cripples in stories, you know,
father."
"And of course Gladys didn't mind doing that, and now it's really taken
and going to be printed."
"And Maggie means to write stories too, father, like Gladys. Won't that
be awfully nice?"
"My dears, I really don't—er—quite understand."
"Of course you don't, father, when Nona and Elfie tell you in such a
ridiculous way."
"Oh, you don't understand, of course, father, because nobody has known
a single word about it till to-day."
"Except Mrs. Hepburn and all of them."
"Anybody out of their house, I mean. At least Nellie might, but Maggie
didn't."
"I knew Gladys wrote stories, Nona."
"Yes; but not about her trying to get them printed."
"Father, did you see that poor lady, and give her a lot of money?"
"And Thyrza not here, my dears-er! I don't understand Thyrza's absence."
"Oh, she meant to come in time, father,—if she could."
"Father, who is to walk and who is to drive? Millie thought—"
"Nonsense, Nona. I don't wish to be quoted on all occasions."
"But, Millie dear, I was only going to say—"
"Now, children—er—I think we have talked long enough. Miss Conway is
waiting all this time—er—quite neglected. Pray do excuse us, Miss
Conway. I fear you will think the children sadly uncivilised. My dears,
this is Miss Conway—your beloved mother's dear friend—er—and you will
give her a very warm welcome. This is Maggie, Miss Conway, our eldest
now at home,—and this is Nona, and this Elfleda. Thyrza, I regret
to say, is not here. Our little ones—er—Popsie and Pet—and—er—Miss
Millington. My second boy, Denham, is with the pony."
One after another came forward to shake hands, showing more or less of
shyness, and no particular warmth.
My first view of Margaret Romilly brought disappointment. For she
proved to be in no wise a reproduction of Mrs. Romilly. She is short
instead of tall, plump instead of slender; and the only prettiness of
which her round innocent face could at that moment boast, lay in the
possession of a peach-bloom complexion, and a pair of dark-grey eyes
with long curved black lashes. Neither figure nor carriage is good,
and the rosy childish hand put into mine might have been years younger
than the long fingers of the tall Nona, her more than two years'
junior,—both having pulled off their gloves.
Where were Nona's "clouds of auburn hair?" I saw only a knotted coil
of decided "carrots" under the brown hat which sheltered Nona's face.
A bright face enough, with ordinary features, and with a really
transparent skin, which however is a good deal marred by the brown
cloudiness resulting from abundant summer freckles.
Elfleda, my friend's "lovely gipsy," I might have recognised earlier,
despite the fact that to my critical eyes the loveliness was lacking.
I saw only a slim creature, very small in make for sixteen years
and a half, with sharp tiny features, elfishly old and quaint, a
pair of dusky orbs which neither flashed nor sparkled, a pale sallow
complexion, and minute brown hands. Apparently the elf had less to say
than anybody. Her little shut-up button of a mouth opened rarely during
those few minutes of general talk.
The two youngest girls, Popsie and Pet, or more correctly Mary and
Jean, aged eight and seven years old, struck me as rather pretty. They
stood hand in hand, under the guardianship of Miss Millington, a young
lady perhaps one or two years older than Maggie, and scarcely over
Maggie in height, but with greater confidence of bearing, a compact
figure, and a neat "pussy-cat" face, by no means intellectual.
A sudden silence fell upon the party with my introduction. Miss
Millington's eyes travelled over me from head to foot, taking an
inventory of my dress. I made some remark upon the journey, and Mr.
Romilly chimed in nervously, repeating my words and enlarging on them.
Then we moved towards the pony-carriage, and the boy in charge
descended to greet us. His manner towards me was both more frank and
more indifferent than that of the girls. Like Elfleda, he is small in
make; and his delicate sharp features are his father's over again, but
the slim figure is well-knit, and the blue eyes contain possibilities
of unbounded mischief. The silky grey curls of the father are silken
brown curls in the son, dropping over a forehead neither high nor
broad, but white as alabaster. I have heard much about the singular
beauty of this boy, and for the first time I could recall my friend's
description with no sense of disparagement.
Mr. Romilly was talking, talking, in his little thin slow voice, about
the weather, and about the danger of a chill, and about the need for
a closed fly, and most of all about Thyrza's non-appearance. He was
fretted and worried, and nothing could be arranged quite to his liking.
Eustace offered to go for a fly, but Mr. Romilly could not possibly
wait. Denham suggested a hunt for the missing Thyrza, but Mr. Romilly
could not think of it. "If Thyrza did not care to come—er!" &c.
Then the question rose anew, who should drive and who should walk.
My luggage was to be sent, and it was taken for granted that I must
drive, a decision against which I protested vainly. Nobody so much as
listened. Maggie stepped in after me, as a matter of course; and Mr.
Romilly dallied long, with one little patent-leather boot on the step.
He wanted Popsie and Pet with him; and he thought it unkind to permit
Miss Millington to walk; and he was quite sure dear Elfie must be
overdone; and he was so very sorry not to feel equal to the exertion
himself. And everybody waited to know his decision, with, I am afraid,
much more patience than I could feel.
Suddenly a girlish figure came swiftly round the corner of the
station,—taller than Maggie, taller even than Nona, and thinner than
either, with a grave set face, troubled, as it seemed to me, in a vexed
fashion. I knew in a moment that this was Thyrza, even before her
name was uttered by one after another of the group in varying accents
of reproach. She walked straight up to us, bent her head to kiss the
father who was shorter than herself, lifted it in like matter-of-fact
wise to kiss the tall elder brother, and stood still.
I could hardly have told then what there was in this "dear difficult
Thyrza" which interested me at first sight more than all the others. It
was not beauty though my own immediate impression was that Thyrza would
one day be the best-looking of the sisters. It was not attractiveness
of manner, for she made no effort to seem agreeable. I think it must
rather have been a certain indefinable something which spoke the
presence of character—of that which even more than power of intellect,
and far more than mere beauty of form or feature, stamps an individual
as standing apart from the throng of his or her fellow-men.
Whatever Thyrza's faults might be, I knew at once that in her I should
at least not meet with inanity or weakness. There might be misdirected
force, but force there was. While these impressions swept through my
mind, others were speaking.
"Thyrza, you never came after all, and father was so disappointed,"
complained Maggie.
"And you promised," put in Nona.
"Oh, Thyrza's promises are pie-crust," said Denham.
"Made to be broken," added Nona.
Thyrza had said nothing thus far. She stood near Eustace, her slender
upright figure shown well by a closely-fitting cloth jacket. Unlike
the rest, she has her mother's figure, though not her mother's grace.
There was something a little rigid in her attitude, and the two arms
hung flat, with no suspicion of a curve. Neither has she Mrs. Romilly's
face. The straight thin features, the heavy thick black hair, the
dark serious eyes, are Thyrza's own. I could see no resemblance in
them to any other member of the family. So, too, are the resolute and
beautifully-moulded lips: for if in outline they are Mr. Romilly's, in
character they belong exclusively to herself.
Those closed lips parted suddenly. "I did not promise, Nona. I said I
would come if I could."
"Oh yes, we quite understand," retorted Nona, with a touch of
good-humoured pertness.
"Thyrza, my dear, this is Miss Conway," Mr. Romilly said, in a fretted
distressed tone, as if he were restraining serious displeasure. I
could not see, for my part, what there was so very heinous in her
non-appearance to welcome a father who had been absent only one night.
Eustace was evidently left out of the question.
Thyrza stepped forward, and gave me her hand abruptly. I do not know
whether she read in my face anything of what I thought. Our eyes
met, and some look in mine must have touched her—how, I do not know.
Her face did not relax, but a sudden softness came into the black
eyes; and as she was in the very act of snatching her hand away, the
fingers closed round mine in a sharp awkward fashion, as if from an
afterthought.
"Now—er—I think we should decide—er," hesitated Mr. Romilly. He seems
to me always at a loss what words to employ next. "So very chilly here.
I really think—if anybody has no objection to the walk—er—"
He looked round helplessly, and Thyrza responded—
"Why can't Nona and Elfie and I walk with Eustace? Maggie likes driving
best, and Miss Millington says she is tired. There's room enough for
the children too, if nobody minds crowding."
She had hit the mark, though no precise explanation of the state of
affairs had been tendered for her benefit. I noted a slight stress on
the "says," and a slight toss of Miss Millington's head, which revealed
to me a condition of something like chronic war in one direction. I
thought, too, that I could detect more signs of real fatigue in the
little thin face of Elfie than on the "pussy-cat" features of Miss
Millington. The timely suggestions were followed, however. Neither Nona
nor Elfie objected. The four pedestrians started off briskly, and the
well-laden pony-carriage soon followed at a moderate pace, suited to
the inclinations of the fat and drowsy pony.
I was rather astonished to find that all this delay and discussion had
been with reference to a fifteen minutes' walk. The drive proved to
occupy quite as long a time, since we had to take a considerable tour
in place of a short-cut, and the ground sloped upwards continuously.
Most of our way lay along a dull road, with a hedge on one side and a
wall on the other: an occasional house in a garden alternating with
small fields.
Mr. Romilly kept up a diminutive flow of talk with Popsie and Pet,
addressing a remark now and then to me; but conversation generally was
limited in extent. Miss Millington studied me persistently, with eyes
which noted every fold and button in my dress, and had power to see
very little beyond the folds and buttons. Maggie's pretty eyes studied
me too at intervals, in a girlish and interested though not penetrative
fashion. I could not feel sure whether or no Maggie were disposed to
like me, but I could be very sure that Miss Millington was not.
Reaching Glynde House, my visions of a possible park died a sudden
death. For it was evidently just a good-sized "family mansion," so
an agent would term it, roomy and comfortable, and standing in a
good-sized garden; nothing more and nothing less. Thyrza stood at the
front door to welcome us; if her silent reception could be called a
welcome. The three others had vanished. She took possession of my bag
and shawl, and held them resolutely, while Mr. Romilly insisted on
leading me from room to room on the ground-floor, that I might at once
know my whereabouts.
So we walked into the large drawing-room, through a kind of
ante-chamber or small drawing-room; then into the capacious
dining-room; then into the study, the morning-room, and the schoolroom.
I was glad to find the latter nicely furnished, with two windows and
plenty of book-shelves.
"The morning sun comes in this side," remarked Maggie, who
accompanied us, while Thyrza waited at each door in turn. "It would
be very cold with only that north-east window. Millie—I mean, Miss
Millington—teaches the little ones in the nursery," she added. "Except
that she has to give them their music on this piano, because there is
no piano upstairs. And, of course, she sits here a good deal. At least
she always has. Jackie—I mean, Miss Jackson—was so fond of Millie, and
never minded. And they all three come to schoolroom tea and supper
here. It saves trouble for the servants."
"This is, of course—er—your special property, Miss Conway," explained
Mr. Romilly. "But I hope—er—I trust you will not confine yourself to
the schoolroom. My dear wife is counting on your companionship for
our dear girls—er—for Maggie especially,—apart from the teaching.
Pray consider yourself as our guest—er—as here in every respect as
our friend—er—and pray remember that the more we see of you in the
drawing-room—er—I am sure you understand."
I did quite, and I wished people would not make speeches, though of
course he meant it most kindly. Maggie's expression struck me as a
little curious. I could not make it out, for the simple reason, I
suspect, that she did not herself know exactly what to think. Maggie's
position is almost as new to her as mine to me. She glanced at us
both in a kind of puzzled fashion; and when he went on to talk of
her inexperience as a housekeeper, and to suggest the benefits of my
advice, a look of dissent came.
Some people in my place would have taken her hand affectionately, and
said a few words of just the right sort about the mother whom we both
loved, and about my readiness to help if asked. But I never am able
to manage these little gushes of appropriate feeling at the correct
moment. I have often wished that I could. One loses so much time,
waiting for others to take the initiative.
I ventured soon to ask after Mrs. Romilly; and her husband entered into
a long and sighing dissertation on her state of health, saying much
but telling little, and presently diverging to his own condition. Such
a comfort it was that they had such a dear girl as their dear Nellie,
to undertake the charge of the beloved invalid, he hardly knew what
they could have done but for Nellie. He was really so feeble himself,
and travelling always affected him so painfully. But dear Nellie was
quite invaluable; and everything had been arranged for the comfort of
his precious wife. Such a mercy, too, that this very chilly weather
had not set in just before they started. And everybody had been so
kind, the amount of sympathy from friends under these exceptionally
trying circumstances had been really past his power to describe. And
then the unutterable consolation to himself and his dear Gertrude,
that her chosen friend should be able to come and take her place with
the dear girls,—to act, in short, a mother's part to them,—he felt
that he might almost lay aside the burden of responsibility, otherwise
so heavy in her absence. He had indeed very much to be thankful for,
notwithstanding the deep trial of such a prolonged separation.
All this and much more, uttered in a dolefully pathetic minor key
hardly expressive of thankfulness, I heard with less of inward than of
outward patience. My stock of patience is not, I fear, very large. And
the idea of my "acting a mother's part" to these girls struck me as a
little too ludicrous. Why, I am but a girl myself, not four years older
than Maggie! But perhaps on first arrival I had my thirty-years-old
look, which I must certainly endeavour to cultivate.
At length I was taken to my room, and Thyrza offered to help me in the
unpacking of my trunks. Maggie lingered about, coming in and going out,
with a certain embarrassed persistency, as if unable to decide on her
proper line of action. Then she took me downstairs to afternoon tea
in the drawing-room; and different members of the family appeared and
disappeared, all seeming more or less constrained because of me. I am
afraid I have not the gift of putting people at their ease.
The rest of the afternoon and evening passed slowly. We all dined
together at seven, even Miss Millington and the little ones, which
seems to be regarded as an unusual occurrence. In the drawing-room,
later, I was treated as a visitor. The girls played or sang, as they
could, and Mr. Romilly kept the talk going laboriously.
I do not yet know what will be the ordinary course of household events.
Information is not readily tendered, and I have a dislike to asking
many questions. Maggie, being so young a manager, seems to expect
things to take a straight course, without effort on her part.
All the evening I had a feeling of perplexity as to my own real
position here. It seems to me an anomalous one,—half guest, half
governess. Can that work well?
I thought it over late at night, feeling harassed and lonely. No
distinct light on the actual perplexity came, but only one short
sentence, running through and through my head, as I lay awake:—
"Be of good cheer: IT IS I!"
No more than this; and what more could I need? Whatever comes or may
come in my life—still, IT IS JESUS! Harassing perplexities, loneliness,
difficulties, uncertainties, what are they all but the pressure of His
Hand, drawing me nearer to Himself?
The restlessness and the craving for human comfort died away into a
wonderful peace,—such a sense of my Master's loving sympathy, such a
readiness to have all exactly as God my Father should will, such a
feeling of being upheld and guarded by the Divine Spirit, as I have
never in my life known before. And I fell asleep, quite satisfied.