PLENTY OF "ER."
THE SAME.
March 2. Monday.
I MUST carry on to-day my story of Saturday evening. It was impossible
to finish before going to bed.
Maggie could not at all get over the little contretemps in the
hall. I could see all dinner-time that she was under a weight of
shy uneasiness, even talking and laughing with Gladys; and every
remark addressed to me was accompanied by a renewed bloom. The little
hesitancy of manner, the bright colouring, and the droop of her long
curved lashes over the grey eyes, quite changed her from the Maggie of
the last three days. I had not guessed before that Maggie could look so
sweet. Few people gain in attractiveness from an uncomfortable mood,
but just a very few do, and Maggie seems to be one of those few.
The Hepburns not being strictly counted "company," Denham and the twins
were present. Talk flowed without difficulty. I found Mrs. Hepburn a
charming g person, well-read and well-informed. Gladys Hepburn's simple
style of girlish chat with the other girls made me wonder again at her
reputed authorship; though now and then a passing flash of something,
a little out of the common way, showed possibilities of more below the
surface than appeared outside.
Eustace had an engagement at the Park, and Thyrza was unsociably
silent—one might almost say, gloomy. But Nona and Denham's tongues
seldom ceased to be heard, and I saw Elfie exerting herself in cheerful
wise.
Two or three times the subject of news from abroad came up; and each
time Elfie eagerly turned the conversation to some other topic. I had
noted before this shrinking on her part from speech about the absent
mother and sister. It was more marked on Saturday evening, just because
the matter was brought forward more often.
Three times Elfie's efforts were successful; but the fourth time, they
failed. We were then having dessert, and the two little ones were
present. Mr. Romilly, as he cracked nuts for Popsie and Pet, launched
into a series of remarks about his wife, addressed to Mrs. Hepburn and
myself. He enlarged on the enormous relief to his mind of knowing that
his beloved Gertrude had borne the journey so well, so very well, so
much better than might have been expected—er!
"At this time of the year," he repeated in his thin small voice, "the
risk so great—really we cannot be thankful enough—er! I am sure we may
hope in a very short time, Miss Conway, to hear that our dear invalid
is truly benefiting by the change—er, and is growing stronger—"
"Father, have you asked Gladys all about her book yet?" broke in Elfie,
speaking very fast.
Gladys looked by no means grateful for the suggestion, and Mr. Romilly
pursued, unheeding it—
"As I was saying—er—I hope that in a very short time our dear invalid
will so benefit from the soft air of Italy—er—"
"It's going to be published very soon, isn't it, Gladys? You know,
father, don't you?"
"Yes, my dear, I have heard some mention of it certainly,—er," said
Mr. Romilly, with a polite glance at Gladys, and a troubled air at the
interruption. "But I was just saying to Miss Conway—er—that I hope we
may expect before long to hear—er—"
"It's not to be a big book. Gladys doesn't exactly know yet how big.
Perhaps a shilling or two," continued Elfie, running the words one
into another, while I could see every muscle in her face to be on the
quiver. "And she wouldn't tell us, till—"
"Elfie, we know all that," said Nona. "Gladys has told us herself."
"And you keep on interrupting father," added Maggie. "He wants to say
something."
"Elfie isn't well," interposed Thyrza bluntly, making an original
remark for the first time. "Can't you see? If mother were here—"
The rest of Thyrza's sentence was lost. Elfie became in a moment the
centre of attention. But for this, she might perhaps have fought
through to the end of dinner successfully, long and slow as Glynde
House dinners are. We had sat down at a few minutes after seven, and
now it was a quarter-past eight.
Thyrza's words may have given the finishing touch: I cannot be sure.
But Elfie grew white to the lips and started up, gazing round with
great despairing eyes.
"May I go? Oh, may I go?" she gasped.
"Nonsense, Elfie. Sit down and be quiet," said Maggie. "You promised
mother not to give way to this sort of thing."
"She really can't help it," I heard Thyrza mutter.
[Illustration: There I laid her on a sofa.]
What others would have done, if I had kept my seat, I do not know. But
the look in Elfie's face was too much for me. I forgot all about being
a stranger, and I forgot Maggie's last words. Before another remark
could be made, I was by Elfie's side.
"Come, dear, come into another room with me," I said impulsively.
I had no time to see what others thought of my sudden move. Elfie
literally flung herself into my arms, and lay there, a dead weight,
rigid and voiceless. The wide-open fixed eyes alarmed me. Others were
starting up from the table, with a medley of exclamations.
"It's about the letter from mother! Poor little Elf!"
"Why couldn't you all have sense to keep clear of that?"
"Denham, for shame! It was father who spoke!"
"Call Millie, somebody! Millie will know best what to do."
"Yes, Millie knows how to manage. Call Millie."
"Mother never likes a fuss made about Elfie, Miss Conway!"
I paid no attention to any of them, but dipped my hand into a tumbler,
and dashed water into Elfie's face. Then I carried her resolutely
through the throng, past Miss Millington as she entered in response to
a summons, and into the study. There I laid her on a sofa, kneeling
beside her. The rigidity and the fixed stare passed into a burst of the
most passionate weeping. Miss Millington drew close, talking and trying
to take possession of the sobbing girl; but Elfie turned from her, and
clung wildly to me.
"Elfie is very wrong. She ought not to give way like this," Maggie's
voice said.
"She would not, but for being petted," observed Miss Millington.
Maggie took her cue from the suggestion. "It will never do to pet Elfie
when she is hysterical, Miss Conway. Mother never allows anything of
the sort."
I looked up, and said, "Maggie, there are too many of us here. Elfie
will leave off, if she is quiet. You and I are quite enough."
Maggie looked rather astonished, and said nothing. Miss Millington
whispered to her, and withdrew, followed by Thyrza and Nona. Mrs.
Hepburn and Gladys had wisely not added to the crowd, thereby keeping
Mr. Romilly, Denham and the little ones, also away.
"Now, Elfie!" I said.
"Petting never does for her, Miss Conway," persisted Maggie.
Whereupon I stood up, with difficulty releasing myself from Elfie's
clutch, and said, "Will you undertake her, Maggie, or would you rather
leave her to me? Pulling two ways is quite useless."
"Oh, I never can manage Elfie in these states. Mother always says it is
best to leave her alone. She will cry and scream about everything, if
she is allowed." Maggie walked off as she spoke, with an offended air,
shutting the door.
"Now, Elfie!" I said once more.
She buried her face on my shoulder, fighting hard to obey. I stroked
her black hair once or twice with my hand, and the slender arms held me
in a tight clasp.
"Poor little woman! It seems a long time, doesn't it?" I said
cheerfully, after a while. "But the weeks go very fast. You will be
astonished soon to find how they have flown. And I dare say you will
feel better for having had a cry."
"I did try so hard, and I could not help it," she sighed. Actual
weeping had pretty well ceased, though breath came brokenly still.
"I am sure you tried," I said. "But nobody can be surprised at your
feeling her absence, Elfie. She is such a dear mother, isn't she?"
"Yes. Oh, I do love her so! But nobody else cries, and they all say I
mustn't. And it almost seems as if nobody else cared, and I can't bear
them not to care. And I don't know how to bear her being away—such a
dreadfully long time! If only they wouldn't say things—wouldn't speak—"
"Hush, Elfie! You have cried enough," I said gravely.
She laid her face on my shoulder, resolutely suppressing every sound.
"That is brave," I whispered. "And you have to be brave, haven't you?
Your mother would be so grieved to hear that any of you were unhappy."
"Yes, oh, I know. If only I needn't think of her! If only nobody would
speak—"
"But you would not quite like that really," I said. "It is so natural
for you all to speak and think of the dear mother."
And then I tried saying a few words about the need for patience and for
submission to God's will. I told her that she must ask for strength to
fight on bravely, must ask to be kept from adding to others' troubles.
I spoke also about God's loving care of our absent ones; and I reminded
Elfie how she might pray very often for the dear mother, and how she
might always think of her as safe in a Father's hands, guarded and
protected.
"That is the best comfort, Elfie," I said, "the only real comfort!
For He is just as much with her out there in Italy as with us here in
England."
I was surprised at the sudden calmness which came in response to my
few and simple words. Elfie's tears stopped, and the hard long breaths
grew easy. She sat up on the sofa, put her arms round me once more, and
said, "I am so sorry to have given all this trouble."
"No trouble at all," I said. "But I should like to see you happy, dear
Elfie."
"I know I ought to be happy," she said quietly.
Then I noticed again a shrinking gesture, and I found her to be
suffering from a fit of acute neuralgia.
"It didn't matter," she said gently. She "supposed it had been coming
on all day, and crying always made the pain worse. So that was all her
own fault, and nobody would think anything of it."
I could not see any "fault" under the circumstances; for Elfie's
distress really seemed to me natural, if perhaps a little excessive.
I made her talk more about her mother, thinking anything better than
the smothering down all feeling, and I was glad to find that she could
respond calmly. One or two facts dropped from her, with which I was
not yet acquainted. Mrs. Romilly has evidently been in a state of
great nervousness and over-strain for months past. Sometimes for days
together she could scarcely endure a voice or a footfall. Nobody has
known what was the matter with her. I could not help suspecting from
one or two of Elfie's expressions that she has also shown constant
irritation.
"It was so difficult to get on," Elfie observed. "And you know I am
always the one that teases mother so, not like Maggie."
The pain grew worse, and Elfie seemed hardly able to bear it. She did
not complain, and there were no signs of an inclination to cry; but
she walked up and down the room, and could not be still an instant.
I persuaded her to go to bed, and accompanied her upstairs. Nona
presently appeared, and we tried two or three remedies without much
success.
"Nothing would do any good, except going to sleep," Nona averred.
I had to endure one of Mr. Romilly's little speeches, later in the
evening, when only Maggie was present, beside our two selves; the
Hepburns having departed.
"A sensitive girl, Elfie!" he said. "But it is not our way—er—to make
much stir about Elfie's little crying fits, Miss Conway. I think—if you
will excuse my making the suggestion—er—that it might perhaps be wise
on the whole, another time to consult—er—Maggie, or—er—Miss Millington.
My dear wife is very particular—er—very particular indeed—about Elfie's
hysterical tendencies receiving—er—no encouragement."
"It is necessary of course that she should learn to control herself," I
managed to edge in.
"You see—er—Miss Conway,—it is not that Elfie has more heart than the
others—but—er—less command—and very nervous. Her dear mother always
says—er—that dear Elfie requires much bracing. The dear girls are
all so unlike one another. You will find—er—very different modes of
treatment required. Elfie has always been something of a trouble to her
dear mother. So unlike dear Maggie and Nona, and our dear Nellie—er.
Thyrza again—but indeed Thyrza is a difficult girl to comprehend. In
Elfie there is no want of feeling—" a slight stress on "Elfie" seemed
to imply the want in Thyrza,—"but—er—not a happy temperament, I fear.
My dear wife made Elfie promise—er—promise faithfully not to give way
in her absence to these hysterical tendencies. I am quite grieved that
dear Elfie's resolution—er—should so soon have failed."
"I think Elfie fought well, before giving way," I said. "She is not
well this evening."
Mr. Romilly shook his head, demurred, and sighed. Maggie took no part
in the dialogue, and her good-night to me was markedly frigid.
I could not but muse much, in the course of going to bed, on things
as they were compared with things as I had expected to find them.
And never in my life before have I prayed so earnestly for wisdom in
everyday life. One false step now might bring on a most unpleasant
state of things, and permanently alienate Maggie from me.
Thyrza I have in some measure won already; and Elfie's manner since
Saturday evening has been affectionate. But I have no hold on Nona;
Maggie does not like me; and Miss Millington is already my distinct
antagonist.
"If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, . . . and it shall be
given him." Clear enough that. "But let him ask in faith, nothing
wavering."
I do lack; and I think I am asking, with full belief in the promise.
But the wisdom one asks may not be given precisely as and how one would
choose. I must be content to wait.
Late as I sat up, Saturday night, others overhead were later still. A
prolonged murmur of voices went on long. Not till I was in bed did it
cease, and then I heard footsteps come softly downstairs, and pass into
"the girls'" room, where Maggie now sleeps alone.
Could that be Maggie? I thought. And next morning I overheard Denham
say—
"What were you after, Maggie, not coming to bed till such unearthly
hours last night?"
"I know," Nona answered for Maggie. "She was up with Millie, talking.
That's all."
I begin to think my journalising is in danger of running to excess.
I must curb myself. Lessons have begun to-day, and my leisure will
decrease.