THE QUESTION OF ABBREVIATIONS.
THE SAME.
February 28. Saturday Evening.
SCHOOLROOM tea was nearly over to-day, when Denham dashed in and took
his place. There had been no further question as to patronage of the
teapot, which fell to me naturally, though I caught a glowering glance
now and then from the two youngest, as they clung to Miss Millington
with vehement demonstrations of affection, interlarding their talk with
"sweets" and "lovies" innumerable.
"Where have you been all this time?" Nona asked.
"Oh, only round to the Cottage," Denham answered. "No, not
bread-and-butter. Cake, please,—and a jolly big piece, for I'm
ravenous. There's a note from Nellie to Gladys, inside father's, and
he thought she'd want it directly. Gladys said she would tell us this
evening if there was any news."
"Has father heard from mother?" cried the chorus.
Denham nodded, his mouth being full.
"And Maggie?"
The boy shook his head.
"Nobody else except father?"
"Only a note to Gladys. Maggie is to hear next."
Elfie's face had struck me already as looking strangely tired and pale,
with a complete absence of brightness in the black eyes. I saw her now
looking at Denham in a hungry pitiful fashion, which quite touched me,
and the muscles of her throat were working painfully. She asked no
questions, and I felt sure that she could not trust her voice. One or
two more remarks passed about the foreign letters; and the next moment
she had slid her chair back, and had rushed from the room.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Denham.
"She's only in a hurry to ask what father has heard," said Nona.
Tea lasted as long as Denham's appetite, which is saying a good deal.
It came to an end in time, however, like everything else; and we had
just risen from table, when I heard Pet's voice saying—
"What are we to call Miss Conway?"
"Miss Conway, of course," Miss Millington answered.
"What would you like to call me, Pet?" I asked.
Pet's eyes grew round. "I don't see what we can," she answered.
"Because we always call Miss Jackson 'Jackie,' and Miss Millington
'Millie.' But we couldn't call you 'Connie!'"
"For shame, Pet! How can you be so ridiculous," cried Thyrza.
Pet turned crimson at the rebuke, and fled to the shelter of Miss
Millington's arms.
"I don't see anything ridiculous in the idea," I said. "But I suppose
there is one little difficulty in the way. You see, Pet, my name is
Constance Conway, so 'Connie' is my Christian name."
Pet was covered with confusion, and had nothing more to say. I thought
Miss Millington's protecting embrace unnecessary and affected.
"I say, why not 'Miss Con'?" asked Denham.
Two or three voices repeated "Miss Con!" in doubtful tones; and Denham
defended the abbreviation as being "less of a jaw-breaker" than my
full cognomen. I should not have thought the absence of one syllable
so highly important, but when appealed to, I acquiesced, and Denham
clenched the matter by an immediate, "I say, Miss Con; just give me
half-a-cup more tea, please."
So that I suppose is to be my new title.
In very good time for dinner, I donned my one handsome black silk,
which not only fits well and looks well, but also gives me an
appearance of being a good deal older than my real age, no small
advantage under present circumstances. It is trimmed with jet beads,
and I wore jet ornaments to correspond.
Nearly twenty minutes before seven, finding myself ready, I went
downstairs. As I reached the lowest step, Maggie came out of the study,
followed by two ladies, one middle-aged, the other young. They were
well-cloaked, and evidently had just come in from out-of-doors. None of
the three happened to be looking in my direction.
"I dare say we shall like her pretty well," Maggie was saying aloud.
"One can't tell yet, of course. But nobody can be the same as dear old
Jackie to us. And she does seem so stiff and cold, after—"
This would never do. "Maggie, I don't think you know that I am here!" I
said hastily.
The next instant I wished that I had made Maggie aware of my presence,
without seeming to suppose that her words bore reference to myself.
But the regret came too late. Maggie started, and her peach-bloom grew
brilliant.
"Oh! It is Miss Conway, Mrs. Hepburn!" she said.
Maggie was much too confused to attempt any introduction, but Mrs.
Hepburn came forward at once, offering her hand. I suppose she is about
forty-five in age, ladylike and sweet, with bright dark eyes which
looked straight into mine, full of friendliness.
"I am very glad to see you, Miss Conway," she said. "You seem already
well-known to us all. We hardly need introductions, do we?"
Maggie started anew, with an awkward, "Oh, I forgot!"
As Mrs. Hepburn continued, "But I must introduce my child, Gladys, to
you,—Nellie's friend."
Gladys shook hands in the same cordial fashion as her mother, though
with only a shy look of pleasure and no words. She seemed to me a
very simple straightforward girl, rather squarely-built, with a fresh
complexion, brown hair, and big blue eyes. I should hardly have guessed
her at first sight to be particularly clever, though the shady hat
certainly sheltered a head of good breadth.
"I have heard of Miss Hepburn before," I said.
"You are in danger now of hearing about us too often," the mother said,
smiling. "We live very near. I hope you will come in to see us, the
first day that you are able. Now, Maggie dear, I think we ought to take
off our wraps, or we shall not be ready when the gong sounds."
Maggie, who was looking most uncomfortable, gladly led them upstairs. I
tried to banish from my mind the words I had overheard, and went to the
drawing-room.
There I stood still, just within the door, unobserved as yet, but in no
danger of overhearing aught not meant for my ears. Nona was playing a
lively tune on the piano, and two small couples were spinning round the
room.
Popsie and Pet I recognised at once. They were in white frocks, and
their fair locks intermingled, tossing to and fro. But about the little
light figure clinging to Denham I did hesitate.
At the first moment, when my glance fell on a slender girl in cream
cashmere, with deeper cream ribbons, and on a small though by no means
childish face, brilliant with exercise, the jet eyes shining, the lips
and cheeks carnation-hued, I had not a doubt that I was looking on a
stranger—somebody come in to spend the evening with us. But the next
moment I noted that her dress was an exact counterpart of Nona's, and
as the two went past, there was a flash of recognition from those
glancing eyes.
"Is that Elfie?" I exclaimed aloud; and the mother's description
recurred to me again.
Nobody heard or answered. I went nearer the piano, and Nona, perceiving
me, stopped suddenly. As a matter of course, the four little dancers
stopped too.
"I say! What's that for?" demanded the boy.
"Nona, do go on! It's such fun," cried Popsie.
"I can't," Nona said, rising. "And Elfie looks warm now, so it doesn't
matter. Besides, here comes father."
Mr. Romilly's entrance was the signal for a general move in his
direction. Elfleda alone hung back, leaning against the piano. Already
the sparkle was fading out of her eyes, and the extreme prettiness
which had taken me by surprise was vanishing. A pinched careworn look
came into her face, better suited to thirty than to sixteen. As I
watched her, I saw suddenly a violent though suppressed start, and her
little hand went with a hasty motion to her ear and cheek.
"Is anything the matter, Elfie?" I asked.
Maggie was just ushering in the Hepburns, with shyly-dropped eyes and
still heightened colour. I was struck with her attractiveness, and I
began to think I had perhaps too hastily concluded all a mother's swans
to be—well, not geese exactly, but at most only ducks.
"No," Elfie answered. Amid the buzz of voices, my question was unheard
by others.
"You are sure?" I asked gravely; for the carnation-tints had faded, and
the little brown lustreless face of an hour earlier had come back.
"No, it's nothing. Only neuralgia. I often have that, and nobody thinks
anything of it. Please don't say a word to the others."
"Poor child!" I responded pityingly: and the sombre eyes glanced up
into mine with so singular an expression, that I said, "Elfie, are you
really only sixteen?"
"Sixteen and a half," she answered sedately. "But everybody says I'm
much the oldest of any of them,—except Thyrza."
There was another sharp movement.
"My dear, I am sure you are in bad pain," I could not help saying.
"Oh no, not all the time. It's only just when a sort of stab comes, I
can't keep quite still then. But I promised I wouldn't give way. Please
don't say anything."
A sudden flush of tears had filled her eyes, and she swept her little
hand across them, giving me a grateful look as she moved aside into
the throng of Mr. Romilly's satellites. A few minutes later the gong
sounded, and we all went to the dining-room.