SERIOUS NEWS.
DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN—continued.
July 27. Monday.
THE Romillys leave to-morrow, and I have seen almost if not quite the
last of them to-day. They spend one night in London at a hotel,—a
troublesome plan, we think, for such a large party; but it allows the
servants to arrive a day sooner, and to get things ready. Beckdale
House seems to be smaller than Glynde House, and so not all the
servants will go. Rouse and Phipps are to be there of course, and two
housemaids, and what Nona calls "a local cook." The old cook stays here
in charge, with one of the housemaids,—and the gardener and his wife
will be here in their cottage too.
I wonder how the "local cook" will answer. Mr. Romilly is so very
particular about his eating.
Maggie goes flying round to-day, forgetting everything; and Miss Con
is just as quiet as usual, forgets nothing. And poor Mr. Romilly is in
a dreadful state of fuss and fidget. He always is before a journey. A
whole mountain of luggage went off last week, and another mountain goes
to-morrow; but still he is quite sure they won't have everything they
want, and he seems perfectly certain that nobody can be ready in time.
It is comical to hear him, for, after all, the most likely person to be
late is Mr. Romilly himself. I really don't think he can make haste. It
doesn't seem to be in him.
I should feel their leaving much more if Nellie were here. But she
isn't; and none of the other girls can be the same to me. I'm not sure
that I don't mind most of all saying good-bye to Miss Con. Yesterday
evening, after Church, she came in for a few minutes, and she was so
very affectionate. She said to Mother, "I shall miss you and Gladys
extremely." I know we shall miss her.
Just now I am beginning another story, and that is, of course, a great
interest.
This morning I had my first music-lesson. Mr. Lee is rather odd; and
the lesson was delicious.
He said, "Play the Scale of C in octaves." When I had done it, he said,
"Wrong, from first to last."
That made me feel rather small; because I thought I certainly could
play—well, just a little nicely. I am always asked to play at friends'
houses, and once or twice I have even been clapped, and perhaps made
to feel rather conceited. But of course Mr. Lee is a much better
judge than the common run of people, and it must be such a good thing
to find out one's real level in anything one does. I shall have to
work hard now, to get on. And the first thing will be to learn the
"wrist-action," as he calls it, which he thinks so much of.
His touch is just splendid. He seems to bring something out of the
piano which I never knew before to be in it. All day long I have been
hearing the ring of those wonderful octaves and chords,—almost more
exciting than the thought of my book. It has been very hard to settle
down to anything else, and trying to write was a sham.
Wasn't it odd? I was going into the drawing-room to-day, and I
overheard Mother say—
"Gladys is very much pleased with her new music-master."
"Placidly pleased," Uncle Tom said, and he laughed, while Ramsay added—
"Oh, that's all one must expect. Nothing excites Gladys."
And I turned and ran away. I felt so stupidly hurt, I could have cried.
It was stupid, for I shouldn't at all like any one to know just exactly
how I do feel, and yet one does wish to be understood. It has made me
think how very little one person can know of another's inside, merely
from his or her outside,—and how easily I may be mistaken in others,
just as they are mistaken in me!
By-the-bye, I must be very careful not to say much about the book
before Maggie; for it might not seem kind. She has had her MS. sent
back by a second publisher. I do wish she would take a little more
trouble to do well, so as to give herself a fair chance.
She has an idea now of writing to some well-known authoress, to ask for
advice about getting a book published, and for an opinion on her story.
Miss Millington has put this into Maggie's head. Miss Millington says
young authors often do it. I wonder if that is true. I never thought
of trying such a plan; and I can't fancy that it could make much
difference in the end. For, after all, one must go, sooner or later, to
publishers and editors. Still, perhaps she will get a little advice of
some sort.
July 28. Tuesday.—The Romillys are off; and I feel a great deal more
flat and dismal than I expected. Glynde House looks so frightfully
empty. I can't bear to walk past it.
We have not had a comfortable day: for Ramsay is in a mood to rub
everybody the wrong way. Because of Miss Con, I suppose. Mother says,
"Poor Ramsay!" While I am afraid I feel more like saying, "Poor
Gladys!" For when he is like this, he makes me cross too.
Mother spoke to me this evening about giving way to temper: and I know
she is right. Another person's ill-humours are no excuse for me. But it
is very difficult. If only people would be reasonable and sensible.
I do want not to grow horrid and conceited, just because I have had a
little success. And that, of course, is a real danger. If I were not
the least proud, I shouldn't mind so much the things he says. And of
course I ought to think of his lameness, and of what a trial it must
be to a boy not to play at cricket and football, or to run races and
do everything like other boys. It wouldn't matter so much for a girl,
but for a boy it really is dreadful. Yet when he worries me, I don't
remember that, I only think of defending myself.
Nellie wrote so sweetly in her last letter. She said, "You know,
darling Gladys, I am not clever, and I shouldn't like you to think me
preaching, but still I do hope that having this work given you to do
for Jesus will make you keep very close to Him."
And oh, I do hope the same! For it is work for Jesus,—though I am
afraid some of it is for myself too, because I do so love writing, and
I do so like what it brings. But He does give me the work to do; and I
want it to be for Him; and I want to honour Him. I must pray to be able
to keep silent when I feel vexed.
July 29. Wednesday.—Such a thing has happened,—and I am very unhappy.
And yet I am so thankful that darling Nellie herself is not hurt.
Just before breakfast this morning a telegram came for Mother. It was
from Nellie. She and Mrs. Romilly have just reached Cologne, where we
knew they were going for a few days on their way farther North. The
telegram is from a Cologne hotel, and it says—
"Please break news to father, railway accident, Mother much hurt, will
Eustace come?"
And that is all. Not a word about whether she is in danger or not. But
we all know that it must mean danger. Nellie would never frighten Mr.
Romilly without good reason,—or send for Eustace.
The telegram seems to have been delayed, for Uncle Tom says it
certainly ought to have come sooner, and that is so unfortunate, for it
might just have caught Mr. Romilly.
The question was what to do. Uncle Tom would have gone straight up to
London, but it was impossible that he should arrive before they had
all left for Yorkshire. So a telegram was sent to Miss Con, repeating
Nellie's words, and asking her to break it. Uncle Tom also telegraphed
to somebody in the hotel, begging to hear at once whether the other
telegram had arrived in time.
But it did not. The Romillys were off first. So then Uncle Tom sent
another copy of the same telegram to the station where we believed they
would stop for lunch, and a second copy to Beckdale Station, which is
some miles off from Beckdale House.
All day long we have been waiting for a reply. It has been impossible
to do much of anything. Of course the children's lessons had to go on:
and I took out my writing just as usual, because I am determined not to
get into the way of being a slave to moods. But I couldn't get a single
page done, worth keeping. And every time a bell rang, one of us ran
into the passage.
We are afraid now that they will not know what has happened, till they
get to Beckdale Station. If the first telegram had reached them, we
must have heard before this.
It is a comfort to know that Eustace has joined them in London. But
what will poor Mr. Romilly do? And to think of Nellie, all this
time alone with Mrs. Romilly among strangers,—Mrs. Romilly perhaps
dangerously ill, and only one English maid there to be any help. It
does seem very terrible. Only I know how brave darling Nellie is, and
how she forgets herself and always seems to lean upon God, when she is
in any difficulty.
July 30. Thursday.—Quite late last night, after we had all gone to bed,
a telegram came from Miss Con. Mother slipped into my room, to tell me,
if I should be awake: and I was. It was dated from Beckdale Station,
and it only said—
"News received, Mr. R. and E. off at once to Cologne, rest of us go to
Beckdale."
I shouldn't have expected Mr. Romilly to show so much spirit; but it
seems quite right. Uncle Tom has been looking out about trains, and he
finds that Mr. Romilly and Eustace could come south by a return-train
from Beckdale Station, not long after they got there. Most likely that
is what they have done.