A MOUNTAIN STATION.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
July 30. Thursday.
I SHALL never forget our arrival at Beckdale Station yesterday.
Everybody was in the highest spirits,—that is to say, the highest of
which each was capable,—charmed with the glimpses of mountain scenery
which we had during the last hour or so of our journey. Clouds hung
rather low, shutting off the summits; but I don't know that this
did not make the views only more Impressive. For imagination was
free to add unknown altitudes, and a touch of mystery always gives
sublimity,—not alone in landscapes.
Fine rain had begun to fall when we reached Beckdale Station, and the
wind was gusty enough to send Nona's hat bowling along the platform. Of
course a chase took place, with much laughter. The luggage was bundled
out from the van; and we found a waggonette and dog-cart in waiting,
besides two carts for the luggage.
Privately I wondered how we were all to pack into these two vehicles,
for a drive of five or six miles; but I would not suggest difficulties,
and after all the waggonette was a very roomy one. Mr. Romilly seemed
greatly disturbed at the thought of a dog-cart for any of his party:
two-wheelers being his pet aversion: and he also showed alarm about the
steep descent before us. For the line of rail by which we had come,
since our latest change, had gradually ascended to quite a respectable
height on the mountain-sides, and a particularly rugged road led
downward from the station into the valley,—Beckdale Station being at
the head or upper end of the long valley or dale wherein our "summer
residence" is situated.
Poor Mr. Romilly! He fidgeted up and down the platform, counting his
packages, bemoaning the deploring his choice of this route, dolefully
wondering how we should ever reach Beckdale House. I am afraid I must
confess to a sense of amusement. Naturally I have not much sympathy
with the state of mind which insists on manufacturing troubles out of
nothing. Yet I hardly know whether any weakness is more deserving of
pity than this,—just because it is so distinctly a character-weakness
as to be seldom recognised as such by its possessor, and therefore
seldom really cured.
For two or three minutes I listened; and then I forgot all about
Mr. Romilly, standing outside the station-shelter. The rain drove
against me in fine sheets, like spray; but what did that matter? I was
revelling in my first view of mountains. Bath hills I know well, but
aught like this I have never seen before.
Beyond the valley, on either side, there rose wild grey heights, capped
by stormy grey clouds which seemed to drop long trains or fringes into
every gorge and cleft. I think it was the wildness, the greyness, the
lonely and solemn unworldliness of the scene, which told upon me most.
The stately march of those cloud-battalions over the mountain-tops was
grandly indescribable. I seemed to be gaining a glimpse of something
high and pure, far removed from the littlenesses of everyday life.
This small station and our tiny selves were a mere accessory—almost a
mistake.
Then all at once everyday life came back to me. For somebody stepped
up, and put a telegram-envelope into my hand.
I thought of Albinia instantly—Albinia as ill, or perhaps suddenly
widowed. She would want me in London. Could I go, or was I tied to my
duties at Beckdale? These questions flashed past while I opened the
envelope. Elfie was close to my side,—I had not seen her before,—and
her dusky eyes grew large with ready sympathy, as she murmured, "Poor
Miss Con! I hope it isn't anything the matter with anybody."
Anybody belonging to me, she meant. But at once I saw.
"Elfie dear, I must speak to your father," I said quietly. "You and
Nona had better put on your waterproofs meantime, for it is raining."
I have not the least idea how I managed to evade inquiries, and to get
into the waiting-room, alone with Mr. Romilly and his eldest son. That
came about somehow,—Elfie assisting, under the evident impression that
I had some trouble of my own to communicate. And then I broke the news.
Telegrams tell so cruelly little,—I have always felt this, yet never
so keenly as when I stood in the little bare waiting-room, with the
slip of paper in my hand, and those two faces looking anxiously
for more—more! A railway accident,—of what kind we do not know;
Mrs. Romilly "much hurt,"—how much we cannot guess; Eustace wanted
there,—for what purpose we are not informed. Cologne so far-away too.
The telegram went first to the Hepburns, and Mr. Hepburn has forwarded
the sad news to me.
Eustace heard with his usual gravity; and somehow the shock to Mr.
Romilly seemed less than I had expected. He did not lose his presence
of mind, and there was not half so much fretting over this real
calamity as over the minor worries of the journey. He said sighingly,
"Poor dear Gertrude!" And then—"But I think—er—our duty is quite plain.
Pray inquire about trains, my dear boy. I think—er—you and I should
be off with—er—as little delay as possible. Yes, at once—er,—no need
to go on to Beckdale. I could never forgive myself, if—er—if anything
happened, and I had remained here. And Miss Con will undertake—er—the
entire management—er—"
He came to a helpless pause.
"Yes, father," assented Eustace.
"I think—er—Phipps must accompany us,—yes, certainly—er—I cannot
manage without Phipps." He sighed again dolefully. "It is a severe
strain—er—in my health. But the call is urgent—er—undoubtedly urgent.
Your dear mother is 'much hurt,' Nellie says,—and whatever that may
mean—er—my duty is, I think—plain."
The thought flashed across me, quite wickedly, that poor little Mr.
Romilly was by no means sorry to escape "that frightful descent," as
he termed the road from the station. I cannot, of course, calmly let
myself suppose that he thought of this at all: but the idea did intrude.
"Perhaps—" he went on,—"perhaps it would be best, Miss Conway—er,—if
you could be so very kind as to call the girls—I think it might be as
well to explain—"
I obeyed with no delay, and Eustace disappeared also, doubtless to make
other arrangements. Denham was outside, and he rushed off at my request
to collect his sisters.
"Your father has heard from abroad," I said in an undertone. "Yes,—not
quite good news; but don't frighten any one. Only ask them all to come
to the waiting-room."
I saw a general move at once in the right direction, and went back
myself to Mr. Romilly.
Maggie entered first, rosy and laughing, her arm through Miss
Millington's,—then the twins and the little ones, followed by Thyrza
and Denham.
"My dears—er—something very sad has happened—er—very sad indeed," Mr.
Romilly began, his delicate lips trembling like those of a distressed
child. He launched into a long and hesitating speech, which I would
fain have cut short, had it been in my power. "Your beloved mother,"
and "our dear Nellie," alternated with unhappy conjectures and
dismally-expressed hopes. He read the telegram aloud, and enlarged upon
it piecemeal. Then he explained that he and Eustace, with Phipps, would
start immediately—at once—that very evening—for London; going thence
as fast as possible to Cologne, where he hoped—er—trusted—er—to find
their precious invalid on a fair road to recovery-er. Meanwhile—er—they
were all to be dear good girls—er—and to do exactly what their mother's
friend, Miss Conway, desired—er. He was sure he could depend upon Miss
Conway to undertake—er—all responsibility.
Eustace bent lower at this point, and said something to him in a low
voice. I had not till then noticed the return of Eustace, and I could
not hear what he said; but Mr. Romilly nodded.
"Yes, you are right, my dear boy. It is necessary—that one should be
at the head,—in case—er—my absence should be at all prolonged. Maggie
is—er—unfortunately too young. You understand, my dear children—all
of you—" he looked at Miss Millington among the rest,—"that during
my absence I leave—er—Miss Conway entirely responsible—and with full
authority. Yes,—with full authority—er. I wish—er—everything to be
referred to Miss Conway,—and I expect—er—implicit obedience to her."
His eyes ran over the group. "Thyrza—you understand? If difficulties
occur, the decision will—er—will rest with Miss Conway. You understand
me, Thyrza?" He seemed to count Thyrza the only one likely to resist my
authority, whereas I knew her to be the one who would most steadfastly
uphold it.
"Yes, father," she answered. "Then I suppose Miss Conway will have the
housekeeping too."
Maggie and Miss Millington exchanged looks. Mr. Romilly's face fell
into a helpless set.
"I really—er—hardly know," he said feebly. "That is—er—I think—er—a
matter which I must leave you to—er—settle among yourselves."
"It is unimportant—" I began; but Eustace interrupted me—
"I beg your pardon, Miss Conway. I think Thyrza is right. There ought
to be no possibility of a mistake. While my father is away you are, by
his appointment, distinctly and unequivocally head of the household.
This includes housekeeping. A divided authority cannot work well.
For the time, Maggie must be content to count herself one of the
girls,—subject to you. Do you not agree with me, father?"
Maggie made no protest. She only looked prettily downcast and pensive.
Mr. Romilly sighed at being appealed to, and endorsed his son's words,
though not very emphatically. Then he went back to the telegram, and
discussed anew its meaning, with divers conjectures as to the nature of
the accident.
I do not know whether all this slow speechifying stupefied the girls
as it stupefied me. They listened for the most part in submissive
silence. Maggie's cheeks had not lost their bloom: and though she grew
serious, I am not sure that the question of household authority did not
form the leading topic in her mind. Thyrza's face settled into a rigid
unhappiness, and Nona's eyes filled repeatedly with tears. Elfie was
the one I had feared for most; and, strange to say, Elfie seemed the
slowest of all to take alarm. Gradually, however, a pinched misery came
over her, and the large eyes wandered about despairingly.
Eustace made use of the first pause to speak about trains: and then I
found Elfie by my side. She clutched one of my hands, and muttered,
"Can't we go? Don't let anybody say any more."
"We will get off as soon as possible," I whispered. "Try to be brave,
Elfie. You know we may hope for brighter news to-morrow."
"Oh, I don't know,—only don't talk,—don't let anybody speak.
Please!—please!" And she wrung her hands.
I sent her out on the platform, and had a few words with Eustace,
obtaining his help. My aim was, if I could, to keep Elfie away from
the chatterers. After some discussion, she and I were allowed to mount
the front of the dog-cart, with only Thyrza and packages occupying the
back-seat. The remainder of our Beckdale party were packed into the
waggonette.
Once in the course of these arrangements, I found Eustace by my side,
saying something which he evidently meant to be unheard by others.
"My father has asked me to give you these for immediate use," he
observed first: and I found bank-notes and gold in my hand. "We will
write, authorising you to draw, if needful, on the bank for more,—if
our stay should be of any length." Then came a grateful—"It is very
good of you! We are asking you to undertake a great deal!"
"I am most glad to do all in my power," I said. "Yes, the
responsibility is heavy; I wish I had had more experience."
"It always seems that you must have had so much. But I want to say one
word. I think the girls will behave well, and not give trouble;—still,
if any difficulty should arise, there is always Lady Denham. You could
not do harm by appealing to her. And pray write freely to Nellie. She
never makes mischief."
"Thank you very much," I said, and his warm hand-shake was a surprise.
Generally he is so undemonstrative.
It is well that these few words passed between us, for certainly I
should not have thought of Lady Denham in the event of any difficulty.
My impulse would rather have been to appeal to Mrs. Hepburn. But
evidently such an idea never occurred to Eustace: and of course the
Denhams are much older friends.
"We shall send you news as soon as possible," Eustace said, while
tucking the wrapper well in round Elfie and me. "Don't fret, dear;" and
he kissed her cold cheek.
I was struck with his unusual freedom and almost cheerfulness of
manner. I fancy it arose from a certain gratification in finding
himself for once necessary to his father, and useful to all of us.
"Don't fret," he repeated. "Nellie was right to send for me: but you
see, she did not mention my father, and she would have been pretty sure
to do that, if there were any real cause for anxiety. Don't you think
so?"
Elfie tried to smile, and to say, "Yes."