AND MAGGIE'S EFFORTS.
GLADYS HEPBURN'S JOURNAL—continued.
October 18.
I MET the girls to-day, and they were quite full of the thought of this
Yorkshire estate, which has come to Mr. and Mrs. Romilly.
The place is named "Beckdale," and it is far-away in a lonely part
of the West Riding. It has belonged to an old great-uncle of Mrs.
Romilly's, who stayed there all the year round, and never asked anybody
to visit him; or scarcely ever. Once, about ten years ago, the two
eldest boys, Keith and Eustace, spent about a fortnight of their summer
holidays with the old gentleman; and that is all. So of course his
death can't make his relations very unhappy; and naturally the girls do
like the idea of spending their summers in such a lovely place.
For it must be really very lovely, quite hilly and mountainous, with
beautiful dales, and wild passes, and queer underground caves, and
torrents and waterfalls. Eustace was walking with the girls; and though
he did not say very much—he never does when they are there—what he did
say sounded more like Switzerland than England. But I shall miss Nellie
dreadfully, if she is to be away so long every year.
No answer yet about my little book. Every time the postman knocks I
hope and hope, but the letter does not come. It is a long while to wait.
Something seems to be wrong with Mrs. Romilly—we don't know what. She
has grown terribly thin, and she is weak and low and hysterical. I
think Elfie takes after her mother in being so hysterical; only it is
treated as a crime in Elfie. Everybody in the house is expected to be
always happy and cheerful, for the sake of Mrs. Romilly, and for fear
of upsetting her. The least thing upsets her now. She burst into tears
in Church on Sunday, and had to be taken out. It did look so funny to
see her little bit of a husband trying to support her; and I was angry
with myself for feeling it funny, when they all looked so troubled—and
yet I could hardly keep down a smile.
I am quite sure life is not very smooth just now in Glynde House.
Nellie does not say much; but Elfie looks wretched; and Elfie is a sort
of family-barometer, Mother says. One can tell the state of the home
atmosphere from her face. Maggie and Nona are not easily disturbed; and
Thyrza seems always apart from the rest.
November 22.—A really hopeful answer has come about my little book.
If I am willing to make certain alterations, it is most likely to be
accepted. Of course I should not think of refusing. They want the story
to be more cheerful, and not to have a sad ending.
I sent off lately another small story-book to a publisher; but somehow
I am not hopeful about that. Now I shall set to work upon these
alterations.
Poor Mrs. Romilly is very ill, with a sharp attack on the chest. A
doctor has been down from London for a consultation; and he says she
has been frightfully delicate for a long while, and has been under a
great strain, trying to keep up. The lungs are affected, he says, but
I believe not dangerously; and her nerves are much worse. She can see
nobody except Nellie and her maid,—not even Mr. Romilly; and she won't
hear of a trained nurse, and they don't know what to do with her. I
hardly get a glimpse of Nellie.
December 22.—Poor Mrs. Romilly is a shade better,—not so fearfully
weak and excitable, but still she can't leave her room, or bear to be
spoken to above a whisper. A step on the landing sends her into a sort
of agony. I wonder if she could not possibly help some of this, if she
really tried. She makes such a fuss always about Elfie controlling
herself. But then Mrs. Romilly is ill, and Elfie is not. That of course
makes some difference. I do think it is terribly trying for those
girls, though—not to speak of Denham. The house has to be kept as still
as if a funeral were going on.
February 20.—Those poor Romillys! Oh, I do feel sorry for them—and for
myself!
There has been another consultation about Mrs. Romilly; and the doctors
say she must go abroad as soon as possible, and stay away nobody knows
how long. Nellie and Benson are to travel with her.
The cold March winds are talked about as the chief reason; but of
course that is not all, for she is to stay on the continent six months
at least. March winds will be over long enough before then.
Their chief difficulties have been about the home party. Mr. Romilly
stays at Glynde House, to be sure; but he is of no use, and Maggie is
too young to manage the others. Miss Jackson not being able to come
back makes such a difference.
They are writing to ask Mrs. Romilly's Bath friend to be governess.
Miss Conway has lost her aunt, and wants now to support herself by
going out. But she is only a girl—and there are all those girls to look
after. And Mr. Romilly being so fidgety and odd—and Thyrza so set on
her own way—and Elfie so easily upset—why, it ought to be a woman of
forty or fifty, to know what to do. However, Mrs. Romilly is quite set
on having nobody but Miss Conway, and the others daren't contradict her.
February 24.—It is all settled. Miss Conway comes a week after Mrs.
Romilly goes. I cannot help pitying her. Uncle Tom says, "No doubt it
will all be for the best." But is everything always for the best,—even
unwise arrangements of our own? If they were, I should think one would
not mind making blunders.
February 25. Wednesday.—This morning at last came the answer from
the Society, which we have waited for so long. My book is taken. The
alterations are found to be all right. It will be published at once,
as a one-and-sixpenny volume, and I am to have fifteen pounds for the
copyright.
Uncle Tom says "selling the copyright" of a book means getting rid of
it altogether. I shall never have any more right over the tale. He says
that is the simplest and best sort of arrangement for a beginner. I am
very glad and very thankful; and I do feel that this is a real answer
to prayer.
About a month ago I told Nellie what I had done; and she was so
interested. But till this morning, the other girls have only known that
I was fond of scribbling tales for my own amusement. They had arranged
to call after breakfast, and take me for a long walk; and when they
came Ramsay told them about my book.
Elfie's eyes grew very big; and Thyrza as usual said nothing. She only
seemed rather astonished. Nona said "How nice!" And Maggie began to
talk at once about doing the same. She said she should begin a story
to-morrow; and I think she thought it the easiest thing in the world.
Is it really easy? Or can it be? I have been wondering. Of course music
is easy in one way to a man who has a musical genius,—and painting to
a man who has a gift for painting. But in another way it is not easy,
for it must always mean hard work, and hard thinking, and perseverance.
Not just tossing off a thing anyhow, and expecting to succeed without a
grain of trouble.
It doesn't seem to me that writing books is a thing which anybody can
do, just in imitation of somebody else. One must have a sort of natural
bent or gift—God's gift,—and then one has to use that gift, and to make
the most of it by hard work.
I did not say all this to Maggie, however. For she might have such a
bent, and yet not have found it out. And at all events she may as well
try.
February 28. Saturday Evening.—Mother and I have been to dinner at
Glynde House, and had our first view of Miss Conway. It would have been
an earlier view, if we had not both been away from home for two nights,
a thing which hardly over happens.
I like Miss Conway: and I am sure we shall like her more still
by-and-by, as we know her better.
She is rather uncommon in look, almost as tall and slight as Mrs.
Romilly, and quietly graceful, without any of those squirming
undulations when she walks. I should never guess her to be so young
as they say. She has a pale face, oval-shaped and rather thin, with
regular features and a firm mouth and dark hair. And her grey eyes look
you straight in the face, with a kind of grave questioning expression,
as if she wanted to make out what you are, and whether you mean to be
friends. She says she is strong, and fond of long walks. And she is
very fond of reading.
Maggie made such a blunder, talking about Miss Conway out in the hall,
never looking to see who might be near. And Miss Conway was quite
close. She spoke out at once, and Maggie was very much ashamed, for she
had been saying that Miss Conway was stiff and she did not like her.
Mother and I both thought Miss Conway behaved so well, in such a
ladylike manner. She made no fuss, and kept quite calm, and nobody
could have guessed afterwards from her look what had happened.
There was quite a scene with Elfie at dinner-time. Mr. Romilly
persisted in talking about his wife, and everybody seemed bent on
saying just the wrong thing, till Elfie had a sort of hysterical
attack, like once before, and could not speak. And Miss Conway
seemed to know exactly what to do. Mother says she will be "quite an
acquisition." But I am afraid that little prim Miss Millington doesn't
think so; and she manages to make the girls so oddly fond of her. I
only hope she will not set them against Miss Conway.
March 10.—My second little book has come back from the publisher,
declined. I do not think I am surprised. It seemed to me rather poor,
when finished. Perhaps I shall make one more try with it; and if it
fails a second time, I shall feel sure that it is not worth publishing.
I have another tale in hand now, which I really do like. It is to be
larger than the others, perhaps as big as a three-and-sixpenny book, or
even a five-shilling one, but this I don't whisper to anybody. To write
a five-shilling book has been my dream for years; only of course it may
not come to pass yet.
I shall call the tale "Tom and Mary" for the present. I am writing each
chapter in pencil first, and then in ink before going on to the next;
and a great many parts will perhaps need copying again, after the whole
is done.
Miss Conway has fitted quietly into her work. They all say she is an
interesting teacher,—even Nona, who hates lessons. Mother thinks it
quite wonderful, the way in which she has taken things into her own
hands, and the tact she shows, for after all she is such a thorough
girl, and there has been nothing in her training to prepare her for
this sort of life.
Things may be going less smoothly than we know; and it is difficult to
tell from Miss Conway's face whether she is quite happy. She comes in
to see Mother and me, but says little about the girls. And in a grave
steady sort of fashion she is always cheerful; but, as Mother says, one
can't tell if that manner is natural to her. I should like to see her
really excited and pleased. I think she would become almost beautiful.
Thyrza certainly likes Miss Conway, but Maggie does not. I fancy Elfie
gives her the most affection, and perhaps she would give more, if Nona
did not laugh at her.
March 15.—Maggie has actually finished a story, and is sending it off
to a publisher. The other girls have helped her to write, and have put
in little pieces. I cannot understand anybody being able to do any real
work in such a way; but of course people are different.
Yesterday Maggie asked me to go in to tea, and she read aloud the story
to all of us in the schoolroom. I thought her very brave to do such a
thing. She asked, too, if Mother would like to see it, but decided not
to have delays. Curious—that though Maggie is shy about some things,
she is not in the least shy about her writing.
The reading aloud did not take long. I believe Maggie thought she had
written quite a good-sized volume; and when I calculated for her, and
found that it would not be more than a tiny twopenny or threepenny
book, she was almost vexed, and would not believe me.
Then Maggie wanted to know how we all liked the story; and the girls
praised it immensely. I was puzzled to know what to say; for it read
exactly like a rough copy, and the verbs were mixed up so oddly, and
there were whole pages without a single full stop. And I could not make
out any particular plot. The people in it come and go and talk and do
things, without any object; and what one person says would do just as
well for all the rest to say.
I could not, of course, be so unkind as to say all this to Maggie,
especially just now, when I have had a little success! And, after all,
how do I know that others won't say the very same of my story?
When Maggie would have an opinion, I said, "What does Miss Conway
think?"
"I think it wants cohesion," Miss Conway said at once.
Maggie repeated the word, "Cohesion;" and looked puzzled.
Then she turned to me again; and I said the story was pretty, I have
been wondering since if that was quite honest; only really one might
call almost anything "pretty." And then I said that perhaps, if I were
Maggie, I would try writing it out once more, so as to improve and
polish a little. But Maggie said, "Oh, that would be a bother! It will
do well enough as it is."
I am afraid I don't understand Maggie. For I should think one never
ought to be content with doing a thing just "well enough." It ought to
be always one's very best and very utmost. Isn't that meant when we are
told in the Bible to do "with our might" whatever we have to do?
One could hardly look for success, except with one's best. Of course
success is not the chief tag in life; and sometimes I am afraid that I
wish for it too much. The chief thing is doing all that God gives us to
do for Him. One may think too eagerly about success, but never too much
about doing His will. And that only makes the struggling after our very
best and utmost still more needful. For if it were only for oneself,
it wouldn't matter so much how one worked; but if it is all for Him, I
don't see how one can be content with any sort of hurried or careless
work.