SUBLIMITY AND MAGGIE.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
May 12. Tuesday.
IF ever anybody managed to write a harmless and non-exciting letter, I
should have said that mine to Mrs. Romilly came under that description.
Her answer fell upon me like a small thunder-clap.
Of course I showed Mrs. Romilly's letter to nobody: though, equally of
course, I was expected to pass the sheet round the breakfast-table.
That very bad habit prevails in this house to an unfortunate extent.
Mr. Romilly labours under a ludicrous belief that anything written
by any near relative of his own must be intended for his eyes: and
nobody is supposed ever to receive a letter or note which cannot be
regarded as common property. Hence arises an occasional necessity for
objectionable little private slips and secret postscripts, as the
only possible mode of saying what must be said, and avoiding betrayed
confidences.
All eyes were on me as I read, and when I put the letter into my pocket
glances of meaning were exchanged. Mr. Romilly, who had just appeared,
sighed in an audible and appealing fashion, while Maggie remarked that
"Mother could write so seldom and only to one at once, and tell all the
news."
"Mrs. Romilly tells me really no news," I said.
"And no messages to any of us!" exclaimed Nona,—pertly, I thought.
"None," I replied. "Perhaps she was tired with writing, for she ends
abruptly."
"Jackie always showed her letters from mother!" These words in a
subdued whisper reached my ears. Of course I paid no regard to the
sound.
Mr. Romilly sighed afresh, and observed that his dear wife was really
not in a state to write at all—er, just before a journey—er. He hoped,
however, that she must be feeling a little stronger—er, as she ventured
on the exertion—er.
"I am afraid it was not very prudent of Mrs. Romilly," I said.
Then the Prayer-bell rang, and the subject had to be dropped.
My thoughts have dwelt a good deal on that letter to-day, as is perhaps
natural. Mrs. Romilly has never before said or done anything to make
me really uncomfortable, and to be made uncomfortable by friend is a
trial. One must allow for the weakened fancies of illness. But what
could induce her to suppose that I objected to Nona's high spirits? I
would not, if I could, lower them by a single half-inch. Certainly I
should be glad to find something in Nona besides the love of fun.
I am wondering, too, what more I can do with respect to Maggie. True
it is, no doubt, that I have not yet succeeded in winning her love. Is
this my fault? Everybody cannot suit everybody else: and the winning
of another's affection must surely depend in some degree on natural
compatibility of temper and of tastes. I hope in time to possess
Maggie's trust and esteem. But suppose I never succeeded in gaining her
love,—should I be necessarily to blame? Surely I need not count myself
so lovable a person, that all with whom I come in contact must needs
care for me!
Again, what about Mrs. Romilly's estimate of Maggie? Are there really
such hidden depths beneath that childish manner? It might, of course,
be so: yet somehow I cannot help thinking with a smile of the famous
Chicken's soliloquy, as he views the empty egg-shell whence his little
body has just emerged—
"And my deep heart's sublime imaginings
In there!!"
One might almost as soon credit a newly-hatched chicken with "sublime
imaginings" as Maggie Romilly with hidden depths of profound affection
and acute suffering.
Maggie grieving terribly over the parting! Maggie hiding intense
sorrow under an appearance of cheerfulness! I could laugh as I write
the words, remembering the high glee with which two or three hours ago
she and Nona were racing round the schoolroom, trying to catch the
little ones. Quite right too. I am only glad to see them so happy. But
certainly I detect no symptoms in Maggie of severe self-control, of
concealed depression, of overmastering anxiety. And with one so quick
to betray each passing mood, pain and sorrow could scarcely be held
under continuously.
It seems to me that Maggie is rather gratified than otherwise with
her present position in the house; and is very much preoccupied with
out-of-door engagements, especially tennis. She likes an unbroken
course of such amusements as Glynde can afford, and is rather apt at
present to let duty wait upon pleasure. Care has not fed yet upon her
damask cheek. She looks well, is plump and rosy, and at times she
strikes me as quite pretty. Indeed, I should say that she and all the
girls, except Elfie, are unconsciously rejoicing under the sudden
cessation of the strain which always comes upon a household with long
illness.
Now and then I see Maggie to be greatly put out with me, when I have to
take some decisive step in opposition to Miss Millington.
One odd phase of affairs is Maggie's devotion to Miss Millington. It
is odd, because in some respects Maggie is proud. She will not brook a
hint or suggestion from any one as to the management of things and she
has an extremely good notion, transparently shown, of her own reflected
honours as the daughter of Mr. Romilly, owner of a big house in the
south and a fine estate in the north. But pride does not come between
her and "Millie."
Certainly I will allow that Miss Millington is quite ladylike, as
well as almost pretty. Still, it is a little droll and out of place
to see Maggie, the eldest daughter at home and present head of the
establishment, running perpetually after the little nursery governess,
fondling her, making much of her, holding long consultations with her
late at night, behaving, in short, as if Miss Millington were her
most intimate personal friend and most trusted adviser. I am wrong to
say that Maggie will take hints from nobody; for she will receive any
number from Miss Millington.
The most singular part of this devotion is its novelty. I suppose
Maggie has been fond of Miss Millington before, but by no means to the
same extent. "Maggie always allowed Millie to call her by her name,"
Thyrza observed a day or two ago, "so of course she has done the same
to me. I know Nellie didn't think it a good plan. But they were very
little together. Maggie was always dangling after mother and Nellie,—it
didn't matter which: and she was the same to Jackie as to Millie.
But now Jackie is gone, and mother and Nellie are away, there's only
Millie; and Maggie always must have somebody!"
Does the clue lie in those words,—that Maggie "always must have
somebody!" Woodbine must cling to something. If one prop be removed, it
will find a second.
What to write to Mrs. Romilly, I do not know. For I must comfort her:
and yet I cannot say what is not true. Something vaguely kind and
cheering will be best. I shall tell her how pretty Maggie's eyes are,
and how fond she seems of her sisters—not mentioning poor Thyrza. Then
I might perhaps generalise a little—abstractedly—about the deepest
natures not being always the most quickly won. Not that I believe in
that theory, but it will do as well as anything else just now for my
poor friend: and it is safe enough to assert that a thing is "not
always" this or the other. But I shall have to be very careful. She is
so quick to read "between the lines."
May 14. Thursday.—My letter to Mrs. Romilly has gone off. I feel rather
"quaky" as to results.
Maggie will scarcely speak to me to-day. She is looking her prettiest,
not sulky and disagreeable, like most people when they are vexed, but
pensively grave, with just a little heightening of colour, and a shy
serious droop in her grey eyes which suits them to perfection. Nona,
taking her cue from Maggie, is blunt, almost pert: and Elfie looks
pinched and miserable.
Of course I know the reason. Yesterday afternoon I refused permission
for Popsie to practise in the schoolroom, while I was giving a lesson
on Grecian history to the twins and Thyrza. Miss Millington had kept
her upstairs during the usual time for her scale-playing, and desired
that she might do it later instead. I sent a kind message, saying I was
sorry that it could not be. A small thunder-cloud has brooded in the
air ever since. "Millie" was doleful at tea, and she and Maggie shared
grievances till twelve o'clock at night, in Miss Millington's room.
But for Miss Millington, I do think my difficulties here would soon
lessen. I do not wish to make too much of her conduct. She is what some
people wrongly call "sensitive;" that is, she has a susceptible temper,
and is always imagining slights. I believe she had delicate health in
childhood, which too often means a more or less spoiling preparation
for after-life. Whether or no that is the chief cause, I do find her
a difficult little person to get on with comfortably. The friction is
incessant.
One cannot expect to go through life without some rubs; and no doubt
there are faults on both sides. Very likely I am a trouble to her,
as well as she to me. I do not exactly see how I could follow any
different line of conduct: but perhaps nothing is harder than to weigh
dispassionately one's own conduct, above all one's own bearing, towards
another, in such a case as this. We are each in a somewhat ticklish
position: and then, is not compatibility of temper to smooth matters
down.
It often strikes me as remarkable how almost everybody has to do with
somebody else who is incompatible, somebody more or less trying,
vexing, worrying; not, of course, always with only one. And I often
wonder whether this ought to be viewed at all as an accidental
circumstance; still less as a subject for regret and complaint.
Trial must be trial, in whatever shape it comes; and I do feel that
one is always free to pray for its removal, if God so wills. But this
is our time of probation and battling. It is far more essential for us
to learn patience and forbearance than to glide smoothly through life.
And I cannot at all see how, if there were nothing to try our tempers,
we ever could become patient or forbearing. Untried good-humour is not
patience: any more than the stillness of ocean on a breezeless day is
rigidity. And the very word "forbearance" implies the existence of
something which must be borne.
May it not be that our Father does deliberately so place us one with
another, side by side—those who are not suited, not compatible—for this
very reason, that we may have the opportunity to conquer ourselves,
to vanquish our hasty and impatient tempers, as we never could if He
allowed us to be only among those who can become so intensely dear to
us, that yielding to them must become a pleasure, not a pain at all?
I don't know whether this sentence would be quite clear to anybody else
reading my journal: but it is very clear to myself what I mean. There
are such different kinds and degrees of love. So often we love or try
to love another, merely because of circumstances, because we ought,
because we are thrown together, because we are related. So seldom we
love soother with pure and heart-whole devotion, entirely because of
what he or she is.
If things be thus, "Millie" is certainly my foremost opportunity for
patience in life just now, and very likely I am hers.
Looking upon the matter in such a light ought, I think, to make a
great difference to one. For, instead of feeling annoyed and worried
at everything she says and does, I shall understand that my Father is
setting me a lesson in patience and quietness of spirit, which has to
be learnt.
Then, too, I must think how my Master, Christ, had the same trial to
endure, only to such an overwhelming extent. For what is the utmost
incompatibility of character and temper between us and those around us,
compared with the infinite incompatibility between His pure and holy
Spirit, and the dull grovelling thoughts of His disciples? Only—His
love for them was so great! But for that, He never could have borne it
all those years. And I am sure a more loving spirit is what I need.
If I cannot love Miss Millington for what she is in herself, or for
what she is to me, cannot I love her at least with a kind and pitying
love—and because she is dear to my Lord and Master?
It is not easy, I know. In the learning of this lesson, I have to spell
out the words letter by letter, looking up for Heavenly teaching.
For I have to be patient with her, yet not weakly yielding. I have to
do my duty, often in direct opposition to her wishes, yet not be angry
when she shows unjust resentment. No light programme to carry out. But
"help sufficient" is promised.
June 1. Monday.—No answer has arrived from Mrs. Romilly, and no notice
has been taken of my letter. I fear she has been hardly so well lately;
and evidently there is no idea of her return to England for many months.
Much talk goes on about our projected journey north, in July. I am
looking forward as keenly as anyone to the beautiful surroundings of
Beckdale. Mountains will be a new delight to me. But I have my doubts
whether we shall get away before the beginning of Denham's holidays. He
would be obliged to board with somebody in Glynde if we left earlier.
The same difficulty will not exist another year, for after the summer
holidays, he goes to Eton. Time he should too; for of all spoilt boys—!
Yet there is something winning about the lad too.
Also we have much discussion at meal-times about the future career of
Eustace. Poor Mr. Romilly cannot keep any worry to himself: and every
day we wander with him round and round the same hazy circles. I never
realised before the wearisomeness of a man who is unable to come to
any decision, without somebody to lead him by the hand. A woman of
that kind is bad enough, but a man is worse. He talks and talks on,
in his thin monotonous tones, reviewing all the perplexities of a
subject, pulling up first one side and then the other, meekly opposing
every suggestion, mournfully refusing to accept any solution of the
puzzle. And if by dint of some happy hit, you really think he is at
last brought to some more hopeful point—suddenly he slips out of your
fingers, and starts the whole question again from the very commencement.
It seems singular that Eustace Romilly should have reached the age of
twenty-two, and be still in uncertainty as to his course in life.
He has not been home this half-year, except for three nights at the
time of my first arrival, and for one week at Easter. Having finished
his University career before Christmas, he is now acting temporarily as
tutor to the son of an old friend. This gives umbrage to his father,
and is matter for never-ceasing complaint. It seems that Mr. Romilly
is bent upon seeing Eustace enter the Church, and that Eustace is at
present opposed to the step.
I do not know the ins and outs of the affair, nor am I acquainted with
Eustace's motives, but certainly I have a very strong feeling against
any man being pressed to take so solemn a charge upon himself, unless
distinctly called to it.
All the girls except Thyrza unite in blaming their brother, and Thyrza
says nothing.
"So stupid of Eustace! Why can't he do what father wishes?" Maggie said
yesterday, and Thyrza's black eyes flashed with silent indignation.
I am more and more convinced that Thyrza has a very strong affection
for her eldest brother, though she seldom or never shows it in her
manner when with him; and he is uniformly the same to all his sisters.