AND A YORKSHIRE DALE.
THE SAME—continued.
OUR dog-cart took the lead, descending first the steep and rugged road
which led from the station, our driver walking at the horse's head.
I found that the waggonette was Mr. Romilly's property, but that the
dog-cart was hired,—said driver being its owner, a kind and fatherly
old farmer, living near Beckdale House. He and his will be our nearest
neighbours here, I imagine.
Rain still fell, though not heavily; and it soon ceased, for which I
was not sorry. We could not hold up umbrellas. The wind came in blasts.
Elfie would in a general way have been nervous to the last degree about
so abrupt a descent; but she scarcely seemed to notice it. Her whole
mind was with her mother. The horse planted his feet slowly and with
caution, his great haunches going down in successive jerks. I could
hear little cries and exclamations of half-simulated half-real alarm
from the waggonette: yet no sound came from Elfie.
It was getting very dusky, for we had been long at the station. I was
able, however, to see distinctly the small sharp face leaning against
me, whitey-brown in hue, with wide-open terror-stricken eyes fixed on
vacancy; and the chill of Elfie's clasping fingers came through her
gloves and mine. I did not speak to her, however. I knew she would
rather be let alone.
The very steep hillside safely over, our drivers mounted, and we bowled
along a good road, still indeed descending, but often so gently that
one scarcely perceived the fact.
Dusky hills or perhaps mountains rose high on either side of the long
narrow dale through which our way led us: and to our left a brawling
stream rushed downward from the dale-head. My attention was riveted,
as the road brought us near. I have never before seen a genuine
mountain-torrent. The seeing was indeed partial; but the swirl of white
foam gleamed weirdly through semi-darkness, and the roar of small
waterfalls over opposing boulders came to my ears like grand chords of
Nature's music.
I looked to discover if Elfie were able to enjoy all this; but no,
she had not stirred, and the fixed eyes were blank, as of one whose
thoughts are turned entirely inward.
Then I glanced back, to catch a glimpse of Thyrza's straight
characteristic profile—she has the best profile of any one in the
family—and she turned, as if from a simultaneous impulse, to glance at
me, her lips parted, her eyes shining, her whole face softened into a
rare new beauty. I was so glad that enough light remained for me to
gain a clear view of her at that moment. It was a fresh glimpse of
Thyrza's real self.
"You like this?" I breathed, leaning back to speak, and she said—
"Oh, it is splendid!"
I do not think any more passed between us. One cannot always talk when
one feels the most.
Now and then the farmer, Mr. Stockmoor, and I exchanged a few words
across the silent Elfie. I found his Yorkshire dialect less difficult
to understand than I should have expected; but doubtless many speak far
more broadly. He told me that there has been heavy rain lately, so the
river is unusually full. Also I learnt that the Dale is somewhere about
ten miles long; and that Beckdale House occupies a position over six
miles from the Head, and between three and four from the farther and
lower end, where is situated the small town of Beckbergh. We might have
gone to Beckbergh Station, had it been so willed, but an extra change
of trains would have been involved thereby, and Mr. Romilly has a
mortal aversion to changes. I suspect, however, that he will prefer to
endure any number in future, rather than commit himself to the horrors
of "that frightful descent."
The six miles seemed short to me, and I think to Thyrza also, with such
surroundings to study. July twilight, especially in the north, is not
very profound, or very quick to deepen into darkness.
I could hardly believe that the drive was ended, when we found
ourselves entering a garden-gate and immediately stopping before a
house,—"t' hoose" our new friend called it,—grown thickly over with
creepers. It stood very close to the road, and was a less imposing
edifice than I had perhaps expected.
Rouse opened the door; and I explained to her at once, briefly, how
things were. Though I did not exactly state my new position in the
household, she seemed in a measure to understand, appealing to me as
well as to Maggie in respect of sleeping arrangements. After Glynde
House, the rooms appeared limited both in number and size. Rouse had
settled matters to the best of her ability, and I thought wisely: but
Maggie at once proposed a bouleversement of the whole. She objected to
the room set apart for her use and Thyrza's, declined to fall in with
my suggestion that she should for the present occupy the best bedroom,
complained that Miss Millington's was "horridly uncomfortable," roamed
discontentedly up and down stairs, contradicted everybody, kept the
hungry and tired children waiting for their supper, and showed herself
for once unequivocally out of temper. Of course I knew too well the
cause; and I augured badly for the future from her mood.
It was my earnest wish to avoid needless struggles, so I only
counselled patience to the younger girls, and then did the best I could
to smooth matters by offering to share my own bedroom with Thyrza for a
few days. Maggie at first flatly refused the offer, but gradually came
round to it; and as a next move, she requested Miss Millington to share
her bedroom—the same which she had just before denounced as "not big
enough" for two sisters.
"Instead of that poky little hole you have now, Millie dear," she said,
with a defiant glance at me from her pretty grey eyes.
"Millie" demurred, but agreed. I made no objections, though I could
not approve of the plan. I did not believe that Mr. or Mrs. Romilly
would like her to sleep so far-away from the children in her charge.
This difficulty, however, was removed to some extent by Thyrza's
immediate—"Then I shall sleep in that room, and leave Miss Con in
peace."
She said to me later, "I know it is better for you: and of course the
little ones can't be left with no one near. Such a shame of those two!"
I said little in answer, except to thank her for helping me. The
comfort of a room to myself still is not small,—though indeed I would
rather have Thyrza for a companion than any one else.
To-day the girls and Miss Millington have been chiefly occupied in
unpacking and arranging. I have seen little of any of them, for Elfie
has been so ill with neuralgia, that I could neither let her come
downstairs, nor leave her alone for any length of time.
We have had drenching rain, without a break, from early morning. I
wonder if this is usual in July. Denham has been out, of course,
regardless of soaking. Thyrza and Nona ventured a short distance, but
they were soon driven back, and had to change everything.
Just opposite our house, on the other side of the Dale, is a fine
waterfall,—unusually full and fine just now, from the heavy rain. It
begins, not far from the top of the hill, as a straight thread of
silver. Then comes a break, where I suppose the stream flows over a
slope. Then a great tumbling leap down a rocky descent, followed by a
second break, and by a final spreading burst of water to lower levels,
where it is hidden by trees. I could stand and watch for hours.
The river, flowing among meadows in the bottom of the valley, is not
visible from our windows. We have glimpses of the other road, beyond
the river, running parallel with this road; and beyond the road rises a
great beautiful mountainous mass, extending far to left and right. I do
not know its name yet, but everybody seems to call it "The Fell." The
waterfall leaps down its sides near; and far-away to the left we can
see upon it "The Scaur," a mass of precipitous bare rock, in a green
frame.
The hills on this side of the Dale, behind our house, are more smooth
and round, and less lofty. Higher up the Dale, some miles off, we have
glimpses of mountains, which I am told are over two thousand feet in
height. Their summits are swathed in cloud at present.
July 31. Friday Afternoon.—No news yet from Germany. I cannot make up
my mind how soon we ought to hear. Surely a second telegram might have
been sent; or a letter written by Nellie just after the accident might
arrive.
Elfie was awake all night, and to-day she is shaken and hysterical,
tears springing at the least word. I would not let her come downstairs
till after lunch. Now she is on the drawing-room sofa, sound asleep,
and I am journalising at a side-table. I feel safe in so doing, for
once. We have had another wet morning; and the sun having come out
since lunch, our whole party started ten minutes ago for a ramble. They
will not be back for at least two hours, if rain keeps off. So I may as
well utilise the time.
Thyrza alone helps me in taking care of Elfie. Maggie, Nona, the little
ones, and "Millie" keep studiously aloof. I cannot but see that this is
intentional, and that the ill-feeling towards me is fostered by Miss
Millington. Nona has her rude manner. The little ones pout when I come
near, and are gushing towards their "sweetest darling duckie Millie!"
If I glance at Miss Millington, she bridles and tosses her head. Maggie
has scarcely spoken to me to-day, except to oppose whatever I wish or
suggest. There has been as yet no actual resistance of my authority,
and I hope that there may not be,—also that this state of things may
not last. It is very foolish: and Maggie's ill-humour has an odd
childishness about it.
A letter unexpectedly reached me this morning from Lady Denham,—short,
but very kind. She has had a note from Eustace, written in London; and
she writes, plainly with a clear understanding of things generally, to
assure me that I must not hesitate to appeal to her, if need should
arise.
Of course I have shown and read the letter to no one,—though the
postmark was commented on by Maggie and Nona in what I cannot but count
an unladylike because interfering style.
If nothing else prevented me, one sentence would. Lady Denham says,
near the end—
"Is it not singular? We have just come across that young officer
again,—Captain A. Lenox, whom we saw at Rouen. You will remember my son
mentioning him in connection with a photograph. I think you said you
had known some member of the same family. He was at the same hotel with
us in Bath, three days ago. I was glad to see him quite well."
That is all. I do not understand her object in making the remark. She
may have written the words quite innocently,—or she may have some dim
suspicion of the truth.
Either way, what difference can it make? For I can do nothing. Womanly
reserve and self-respect forbid the slightest step on my part. If he
knew—But if he did, he might not care! How can I tell? He is "quite
well," that may mean "quite recovered" in more ways than one. I think a
woman clings longer to a hopeless memory than a man does. And he told
me plainly that he would never place himself in my path again.
What can have taken him to Bath I cannot—
* * * * * * *
Something so terribly unpleasant has happened. I cannot write more
now. My hand is shaking, and I feel altogether upset. I will never
journalise in the drawing-room again.