WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?
THE SAME.
June 22. Monday.
LADY DENHAM has been to call, and her call was avowedly on me as well
as on Maggie. This is very kind. She is, as Thyrza has said, a plain
little woman, yet a thorough lady and kind in manner. I should think
one would not know her quickly. She dresses in a rather peculiar style,
wears limp black still and a modified widow's cap, though her husband
died seven or eight years ago, and has a certain quaint way of saying
things, which strikes one as uncommon. I expect to like her, but she is
not a favourite among the Romilly sisters.
Sir Keith dined here to-night, and I have watched him with a good deal
of interest. He is thoroughly at home in the house, and almost on
brother-and-sister terms with the girls, which makes it difficult to
guess the real nature of his feelings towards them. Almost; not quite;
since he speaks carefully of Nellie as "Miss Romilly;" and though he
addresses the younger girls by name, they all call him "Sir Keith."
I cannot resist an impression that somebody here is a good deal to him:
but I could not say which. Perhaps the absent Nellie.
Maggie was in a pretty flutter of shy pleasure and blushes and drooped
sweet eyes, all the evening, but it was so like a child's innocent
enjoyment of a toy! I don't really think she is touched. And Sir Keith
seemed no more occupied with her than with the others. He talked indeed
chiefly to Mr. Romilly, and to me, as the greatest stranger present.
I see that he likes to draw out Thyrza, and respects her blunt
truthfulness. Sometimes she responds; sometimes she grumpily retreats
into her shell. Elfie he seems very fond of,—as a child, or a kitten.
But can that last? Small as she is, she will soon be seventeen, and he
is only twenty-eight. It must be difficult for him to realise how fast
they are all growing up. And his manner towards them all, even towards
Popsie and Pet, while brotherly, is also so chivalrously polite and
gentlemanlike, that really one could wish nothing changed,—only—one
wonders what things may develop into. For, whatever Thyrza may say,
there can be no question that he is a singularly attractive man.
June 29. Monday.—A short letter has come at last from Mrs. Romilly, the
coldest briefest epistle I have ever had from her. Does this mean that
she is seriously vexed or distressed with what I have said—or have not
said? Well, I can only go straight on, meeting each difficulty as it
arises. I will write again soon. But I cannot pretend to believe that
Maggie does really care for me. I know she does not.
Calling to-day at Glynde Cottage, I could not help thinking again
about "incompatibility of temper," and the rubs which must come to one
in daily life. I do not often see Ramsay Hepburn. He is a tall lanky
youth, slightly lame, and just invalidish enough to give an excuse
for perpetual fuss about his own health. I suppose he has his better
side, and his pleasanter moods; but this afternoon he was by no means
agreeable.
Not that he meant to be disagreeable to me. He is given to showing a
rather elaborate politeness to people outside his own home-circle, so
elaborate, in fact, that he seems to have none remaining for home-use.
I overheard him snub Gladys two or three times, when he thought it
would be unnoticed; and he has an objectionable habit of breaking into
what Mrs. Hepburn or any one else is saying, contradicting, questioning
statements, and getting up absurd little discussions on every possible
unimportant point.
If somebody else remarks that the wind is east, Ramsay declares it to
be west. If somebody else expects a fine day, Ramsay is certain it will
rain. If Mrs. Hepburn refers to an event as having happened on the 10th
of February, Ramsay contends that it occurred on the 9th. If Gladys
observes that Mr. Smith told a fact to Mr. Brown, Ramsay will have it
that the information came from Mr. Robinson to Mr. Jones.
That sort of individual must be very trying to live with. Mrs. Hepburn
is most gentle and forbearing, but I could not help pitying her and
Gladys, not to speak of "Uncle Tom." And then I remembered that they
all needed opportunities for patience. No doubt Ramsay is one of the
family "opportunities."
July 2. Thursday.—I could not have thought that I should be so weak,
so easily unhinged. I, who always pride myself on my powers of
self-restraint.
I suppose it was the thing coming so suddenly, with no sort of
expectation on my part.
Yesterday morning an invitation arrived from Lady Denham, for all of us
to spend the afternoon at The Park: not only the girls and myself, but
also Miss Millington and the little ones. Nobody else was to be there
except ourselves. Denham was asked, but he had a half-holiday cricket
engagement. Mr. Romilly was asked too, and he sighed, complained of
his inability for exertion, wished kind friends would leave him in
peace—er,—settled after all to go, and finally stayed at home.
Tennis was for a while the order of the day; then came tea on the lawn,
with a profusion of strawberries and cream. Then tennis again, or
rambling about the lovely garden, whichever one preferred,—and I had
a very pleasant stroll with Lady Denham, who thawed and became quite
friendly. I was surprised, having heard much of her coldness.
Since coming to Glynde I have not played tennis for I am afraid of
seeming too juvenile. They used to say in Bath that I always looked
young over tennis.
A sharp shower, arriving unexpectedly, drove us all indoors, and
photograph albums were put in requisition. Sir Keith brought a big
volume to Elfie and me, full of foreign views, which he undertook to
display. Two or three others of the party drew near to look also,
including Miss Millington.
About half-way through the book, we came upon a photograph of an old
street in Rouen. "It is more than two years since we were there last,"
Sir Keith remarked. "I always connect this scene with a poor young
fellow who was in the same hotel with us,—do you remember him, mother?"
Lady Denham looked round rather vaguely from a talk with Thyrza, which
seemed difficult to keep up.
"A poor fellow in a hotel!" she repeated. "No, my dear, I don't
recollect. Where was it? At Rouen? Yes, I do remember that young
officer who seemed so ill and miserable, and had no friends. If you
mean him?"
"Hadn't he anybody with him?" inquired Elfie.
"No, Elf," Sir Keith answered. "Not only that, but he seemed to have
few relatives anywhere."
"And was he very ill?" asked the Elf, her black eyes full of pity.
"Yes, quite ill for some days; and I think still more unhappy."
"What was he unhappy about? Done something wrong?" demanded Nona.
"Not that I am aware of. He did not tell me his trouble; only one could
see from his face that he felt very sad. Nobody could help being sorry
for him," Sir Keith went on in his kind way, and he added musingly,
"What was his name? Linskell—Lemming—no,—Len—"
"Captain Arthur Lenox. My dear, your memory is not so good as mine,"
Lady Denham said, with pardonable satisfaction.
Sir Keith laughed and assented. "I am not good at names," he said.
"Yes, that was it,—Arthur Lenox. A fine soldierly young fellow,—only
rather too cynical in his way of speaking. But that might mend in time.
I wish we had not lost sight of him since. He seemed—"
A sudden pause took place. I knew why. Till the utterance of that name,
I had not dreamt of whom they were speaking. Then in a moment the past
came back, and I was once more in the little old Bath sitting-room,
alone with Arthur Lenox. And an added pain had come to me, in a new
realisation of the suffering that I had caused to him. I did not stir,
did not lift my eyes from the photograph, but I knew that every drop of
blood had left my face, driven inward, as it were, and for the instant
I knew myself to be incapable of steady speech.
That dreadful silence! It did not last, I am persuaded, over three
seconds, if so long. Yet they might have been three hours to me.
Then Sir Keith turned over a page of the album, and began talking again
in a quiet even voice, drawing away the attention of the girls. And I
was able to look up. I saw Elfie's eyes wide-open and startled, while
Miss Millington's were on me in a fixed stare, which perhaps proved
more bracing than anything else. I knew that I must act at once, so I
turned back the last page, as if to look once more at the street of
Rouen, and remarked with a smile—
"Those quaint old French towns must be very interesting. I should like
to see them." In a doubtful tone, I added, "Lenox, did you say? I have
known one or two of that name, but I am not aware of their having been
to Rouen."
And I said the words with entire composure.
"Rouen lies very much in the beaten track," said Sir Keith. "Tourists
seldom fail to go there, sooner or later. I can show you other views
of French towns, very similar. But I see that the rain is over. Would
anybody like to come and take a look at the fernery?"
"I should," I said at once. "Yes, really—" and as his eyes met mine in
a swift questioning glance, I laughed quite naturally. "I believe I am
rather tired to-day, and I have just been feeling a little—not quite
well, perhaps. And the fresh air will revive me."
"My dear, you fag too hard with all these young folks," Lady Denham
said, in such a kind manner. "You ought to take a little rest
sometimes."
And Elfie crept close up to me, slipping her hand into mine with mute
sympathy.
I had some difficulty in getting off a quiet half-hour indoors with
Lady Denham. But I wanted to be on the move, to be able to forget
myself and the past, and I pleaded anew for fresh air.
Lady Denham yielded at once, with the genuine courtesy which so
distinguishes herself and her son, and she accompanied us into the
grounds. She was quite motherly to me in manner, and Sir Keith looked
grave and troubled, evidently fearing that he had given pain.
Before we left The Park, I succeeded in doing away with a good deal of
the impression caused by my sudden change of colour. Miss Millington's
inquisitive eyes kept me up to the mark. I had to submit to being
treated as a semi-invalid, a thing I particularly dislike; but by
resisting, I should have given countenance to that which I most wished
to drive out of people's minds. So when I was told that I looked pale
and fatigued, that I must rest in an easy-chair, and must be driven
home instead of walking, I gave way without a struggle. The plea of
fatigue was a genuine enough plea for me to use. I do not know when I
have felt such languor as during some hours, after that little event.
Still, in a general way, I would have laughed at any suggestion of
care-taking, so long as I had two feet to stand upon.
The girls were all kind. Maggie became quite gentle and sympathising in
manner, the moment she thought me unwell. That has been a real comfort.
Can it be that she dislikes me less than I have imagined?
Even Miss Millington said, "You really do too much, Miss Conway!" And
Nona insisted on carrying my shawl, while Elfie would hardly leave
me for a moment. When saying good-night, she threw her arms round my
waist, and held me as in a vice. I understand fully the dear child's
unspoken sympathy. Of all the girls, I do not think one has crept so
far into my heart as this loving tiny Elf.
I must not think more about what Sir Keith said. It unnerves me. For
myself I can endure, but I cannot bear to picture Arthur Lenox' grief.
And I have to be very calm and cheerful after this, or others will
certainly guess something of the truth.
July 8. Wednesday.—Another short letter from Mrs. Romilly, kinder than
the last. I think she must have felt, after sending that off, that it
would trouble me. This is more in the old style, only she harps still
incessantly on the one string of "her precious Maggie." I suppose
nothing in the world would convince her that Maggie is not, all these
months, in a broken-hearted condition about her absence.
Yet it is Elfie, not Maggie, whose eyes fill up with tears at any
sudden reference to the absent ones. It is Elfie, not Maggie, who
craves for every scrap and item of news about them. It is Elfie, not
Maggie, who has distinctly lost flesh and strength with worry and
anxiety of mind for the dear mother's condition.
If we had not the prospect of so soon going north, I should certainly
press for medical advice for Elfie. I do not feel satisfied about
the child. Her little hands are transparently thin, and her eyes
look bigger than ever in the tiny brown face, while this constantly
recurring neuralgia shows weakness. "Oh, it is only Elfie," Maggie
says, if I speak to her, and Elfie fights on bravely. I do not like the
state of things, however.
July 9. Thursday.—Mr. Slade Denham has been to dinner here this
evening, an unusual event, for he detests society.
It strikes me that I have written little or nothing in my journal
hitherto about the Church we attend. There is always so much to say
about these girls.
St. John's is only five minutes distant, a graceful little Gothic
Chapel-of-Ease to the Parish Church, built by Sir Keith himself to meet
the growing needs of Glynde. The Rector of Glynde, Mr. Wilmington,
is an elderly man, with two curates; one of the two, the Rev. Slade
Denham, having sole charge of St. John's. We go there regularly, the
Parish Church being too far off.
Mr. Denham is a first-cousin of Sir Keith's, and about the same
age, but not in the least like him,—very plain, shy and brusque in
manner, and rather odd in his ways. He is a thorough "study-man," a
hard reader, a hater of platforms, and a busy organiser of Parish
work,—characteristics not always found in juxtaposition. He is rarely
to be seen out of his study, except in the cottages of the poor, in the
sickrooms of either poor or rich, and in needful Parish gatherings.
Tennis is not in his line; and his one recreation takes the shape
of long lonely walks in the country,—hardly sufficient recreation,
perhaps, in the case of so severe a brain-toiler. He looks like a
burner of midnight oil.
The poor are devoted to Mr. Denham,—and the rich are not. Easily
explained, for to the poor he is all gentleness, and to the rich he
is all shy curtness. It is a pity; since he loses influence thereby.
Yet one does not know how to regret the hermitage-loving turn of mind
which results in such sermons as his,—no strings of platitudes strung
together in a hurry, and spun out to fill up a stereotyped twenty
minutes or half-hour, but real downright teaching, Sunday after Sunday,
in a full and systematic course. Surely our Church means us to have
such systematic teaching, declaring to us throughout the year the
"whole counsel of God," and not merely to be fed upon stray scraps of
that "counsel," gathered up almost at random without plan or method.
But I have never had it before.
The services too are full of help and refreshment, bright, hearty,
reverent, with a good choir and congregational singing. Everybody seems
to join. There is no lounging or lolling, and scarcely any staring
about. It is wonderful how infectious in a Church is a spirit of deep
earnestness and intense reverence.
I often think of Sir Keith's words on any journey here,—of the
responsibility involved in greater privileges. For I do feel that such
a Church as St. John's near at hand is a real privilege, and ought to
be a real and practical help. And that means that I ought to advance
more quickly, that I ought to become more Heavenly-minded, that I ought
to live more nearly such a life as Christ my Master lived, that I ought
to walk more fully as He walked.
Is it so, indeed? The question is a very serious one. For if not—better
far that greater privileges and means of spiritual advance were not
mine, than that having I should fail to use them!
"Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts,
and see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the Way
everlasting."
No better prayer for me than this. Of all dangers, I dread none more
than the perils of self-deception and of spiritual stagnation.