UNPALATABLE ADVICE.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
August 15. Saturday.
WE glide on from day to day, hardly aware, perhaps, how time is
flitting. Better accounts of Mrs. Romilly reach us, but no word is
spoken of Mr. Romilly's return to England.
The holidays once over, I think life may become easier. At present
it is not easy. Often when I get up in the morning the weight of the
hours ahead seems almost more than I can bear. Perhaps the strain of
responsibility has somewhat told upon me lately.
I do not think I am fanciful, or disposed to the foolish magnifying of
small affronts. But one cannot entirely shut one's eyes to what lies
just ahead.
The constant and fretting opposition has increased steadily. Whatever
I suggest, the conclave, headed by Miss Millington, at once resist.
Whatever I arrange, the conclave, headed by Miss Millington, at once
turn into a grievance.
So far as possible, I appeal to Maggie for her wishes before deciding
on any plan: and Maggie of course appeals to "Millie." By this means,
I have managed so far to avoid any serious struggles. Yet I sometimes
wonder if I am acting quite wisely,—if I am not tacitly yielding to
Miss Millington a power which she ought not to possess, and which she
may sooner or later misuse.
If Lady Denham were not probably coming soon to Beckdale, I think I
should appeal to her for advice. Yet it would be very difficult to put
my perplexities into writing; and I am anxious not to take any hasty
step.
The girls are talking of a walk to Gurglepool early next week. It has
been chilly, with frequent rain for some days, and Maggie has had a
cold: otherwise they would have gone sooner. I have fully determined
that when they go, I go too. I have a certain dread of the place for
them: probably a nervous and unnecessary dread; and of course they wish
to see it.
Elfie has been poorly again: and I am still mystified at the change
in her. She looks wretched,—pale, peaked, plain; all prettiness and
animation gone: her moods being variable, but almost always fretful,
and her fancies quite unmanageable. She persistently turns from me to
"Millie." Thyrza is my one comfort.
By-the-bye, I have not mentioned our Church, which is between two and
three miles off. The services are forlorn and sleepy: just in the style
of sixty years ago: and the sermons wind lengthily round and round
in hazy circles. When I go, I cannot help thinking of Sir Keith's
words, the first time I saw him, about the needed help being "always
there," if one is willing. Yes: I am sure he is right. But I do feel
very thankful for the different spiritual food provided for us in
Glynde,—even though the heavier responsibility is involved.
August 17. Monday.—This morning, when the post came in, Maggie cried,
"Oh! Two letters from strangers. I do believe it is both of them at
once!"
There was a small burst of excitement and wonder the girls crowding
round Maggie. She read aloud the first brief epistle, with an animation
which paled visibly towards the close. Thyrza and I kept our seats, but
nobody else did.
The letter was so tersely expressed, that it has remained word for word
on my mind.
"MY DEAR YOUNG LADY,—You are most welcome to such advice as I can
give you. My advice is,—Don't write till you can't help it! Never
write merely for the sake of writing! When you have something to say
which will be said, then say it in your best possible mode, and see if
anybody counts it to be worth publishing. Till then, be a good girl,
and mend your stockings. Yours truly—
"ANNA SMITH"
"How stupid! She can't be at all a nice old lady," said Nona. "And a
friend of yours, Millie!!" The reproachful intonation is not to be
described.
Millie hastened to disavow the friendship. She had met Mrs. Smith
once, she said, and had thought her a kind old lady, only peculiar of
course,—all authoresses being peculiar. This, with a side-glance at me;
for "Millie" does not like Gladys Hepburn, and she knows that I do. I
must honestly confess that Gladys does not like Miss Millington, and
shows the same unequivocally in her manner.
"Yes, she must be peculiar," asserted Maggie, catching at the offered
straw. "It is such a very odd letter,—really almost rude. I shall never
write to ask her advice again."
Then, the second envelope being opened, Maggie read aloud again. The
letter was longer, and I cannot recall it precisely: but it was very
nearly as follows:
"DEAR MADAM,—I can scarcely offer to give an opinion about your
writing, unless I see a specimen. If you like to send me a few pages,
I will tell you honestly what I think. That is all I can do: and my
opinion need not settle the matter for you finally. You may have enough
of the gift to be worth cultivating: and if so, I may be able to give
you two or three suggestions as to the cultivation needed. From the
style of your letter, I should judge that you are very young: and that
a considerable amount of preparation would be needed, before you could
enter the lists of authorship, with the least hope of success.
"Choose one dozen or twenty MS. pages of your best, as a fair
specimen.—I am, yours truly—
"LETITIA GRAHAM."
Maggie did not quite know what to make of this. She read it aloud
a second time, commenting on each sentence, and evidently agreeing
with Denham in his estimate of successful authoresses as "very odd
customers!" But on the whole gratification won the day. For Miss Graham
had not seen Maggie's last half-finished story. That was a consoling
thought. When she had, it would of course make all the difference. She
only wrote now to Maggie as she might write to—anybody!
"Do you mean to stop writing, if Miss Graham tells you?" demanded
Thyrza.
Maggie looked astonished. "No. Why should I?" she asked.
"I don't know. It doesn't seem much use to ask for advice, unless you
mean to follow it."
"I didn't ask her if I ought to write. I asked her what was the best
way of getting into print."
If more were needed, Nona's remark supplied it:
"And of course, if she is a nice person, she'll tell you how, Maggie
dear."
August 18. Tuesday.—This evening, after supper, I found that an
excursion to Gurglepool was planned for to-morrow. Thyrza alluded to
it, in evident unconsciousness that the matter had been concealed
from me; and Maggie then explained. The party would walk, not drive,
starting directly after lunch. Elfie, not being well enough for the
fatigue, would of course stay behind under my guardianship: and Thyrza,
having been before, could act as guide to the rest. Mr. Stockmoor had
explained to Denham all about the short-cut over the hills.
I wished that I had told Thyrza my intentions about Gurglepool. Had she
known them, she would have refused to join in any such scheme, without
reference to me first.
For a moment the temptation to yield was strong. I knew that any
interference with the plans of Maggie and Millie would be a dire
grievance. Yet I could not shirk my own responsibilities.
"I am very sorry, Maggie," I said, when she had done; "but things
cannot, I am afraid, be exactly as you wish. If you go to Gurglepool
to-morrow, I must go too."
"Why?" was asked all round, in astonished accents.
"Because I do not think it is a very safe place; and I wish to be with
you—at all events, the first time."
Maggie and Miss Millington exchanged glances. "Elfie can't walk so
far," Nona burst out.
"No," I said. "I must ask Thyrza to stay behind in my stead: or else
the excursion must be deferred."
"What nonsense!" I heard this distinctly in Miss Millington's murmur.
"Yes,—of course I will," assented Thyrza at once, though she could not
quite suppress a look of disappointment.
"But we want Thyrza with us," said Maggie. "And Millie will be there.
You don't suppose Millie can't take proper care of the children, Miss
Con!" Her pretty grey eyes sparkled and met mine defiantly, and the
peach-bloom deepened.
"No, Maggie," I said. "I am not questioning Miss Millington's powers.
It is for my own satisfaction that I must go. I am answerable to your
father."
"Not more than Millie is."
Maggie tossed her head as she spoke. The childishness of the utterance
struck me oddly.
"Yea, certainly more," I replied. "Miss Millington has no
responsibility about you older girls. You cannot have forgotten your
father's words at the station, Maggie. I don't question the fact that
you might all walk to Gurglepool a dozen times, and come home safely.
But I have made up my mind that, as a matter of duty, I must the first
time be one of the party. It is not for my own pleasure, and I am most
sorry to disappoint Thyrza: still I have to do what I believe to be
right."
Thyrza warmly assured me that she did not mind at all: she and Elfie
would be perfectly happy together. The other girls drew in a knot round
Miss Millington whispering. I have noted lately the growth of this
schoolgirlish habit, and also I have seen Miss Millington encouraging
it.
I could not hear what was said, and I did not try. Occasional bursts of
laughter sounded, with more whispers between. Thyrza looked annoyed and
quitted the room. I saw glances now and then levelled in my direction,
and presently there was a distinct utterance—
"Captain Lenox!"
I paid no regard to the sound, working steadily. Indignation had to
wait. Every faculty was bent to the task of keeping myself cool and
unembarrassed.
The words came again more clearly:
"Captain Lenox!"
Still my needle went in and out; and Nona said aloud, pertly—
"Millie says you know him, Miss Con."
"Whom?" I asked.
"Captain Lenox."
"I have known a Captain Lenox," I said, looking up. "It may or may not
be the same."
Another whisper, and—"Don't tell!" reached me.
"Captain Lenox who used to be at Bath," Miss Millington said, her eyes
fixed upon me.
"That would probably be my acquaintance," I answered. "Have you heard
anything of him?"
"Yes,—something," she said pointedly enough; and Maggie giggled.
I put down my work, and threaded my needle with a steady
hand,—wondering at myself. It flashed across me in that moment how
little my dear Mrs. Romilly, if she knew what Miss Millington really
is, would approve of such a companionship for her girls.
"Millie knows somebody in Bath too," Nona remarked. "And she has
written to Millie about Captain Lenox."
"Very likely," I answered. "Bath is a large place."
Whispers again. I thought I heard—"Carries it off well! But you know
how she looked at—"
This was in Miss Millington's voice. Nona's followed; and I said
gravely—
"Nona, I don't know what you and Maggie think, but I am very sure that
your mother would not approve of such conduct. Whispering before others
is a most unladylike trick. If you have secrets to discuss, you should
either go into the dining-room, or ask me to leave you alone."
"Is that meant for me, Miss Conway?" demanded Miss Millington, with a
furious flare-up. "Come, girls! We will go!"
And I was left alone, feeling strangely bruised and stunned. Was I
right to speak so to Nona just then? Was it wise or unwise? I cannot
judge yet. I am writing to-night, because sleep seems impossible: and
now I am too tired to write more. How I could love those girls, if they
would let me! But they will not. And "Millie" is the hindrance.
Things cannot go on so much longer. Sometimes I feel as if I must write
fully to Nellie. Ought I to speak first to Miss Millington? Would she
hear me? And what if I was betrayed into saying what I should afterward
regret?
August 19. Wednesday.—The excursion to Gurglepool has been put off till
to-morrow. We actually made the start to-day, and were turned back by
rain.
I saw almost nothing of the girls all the morning,—except Thyrza, who
is really distressed at Maggie's manner to me, though she does not know
what passed yesterday evening, after she left the drawing-room.
Lunch over, I had to be quick if I would not be left behind. I foresaw
small pleasantness in my self-imposed trip. Miss Millington was barely
civil, and Maggie would scarcely answer when I spoke. Nona and the
little ones, of course, followed suit.
So we started,—I, left to walk apart;—Denham rushing hither and
thither; Maggie and Nona each hanging affectionately to one of
"Millie's" arms, and the little ones keeping close to them, declining
to approach me.
The first part of our way lay along the main road, going up the valley.
I noted the gathering clouds, and made up my mind privately that we
were in for heavy rain. But I said nothing. Others would see for
themselves in time.
As we neared the Stockmoors' farm-house, I was somewhat in advance of
the rest. Denham had climbed a bank for a flower, and the five stopped
short,—perhaps to watch him, perhaps to note something else.
For I glanced back, and saw them gazing towards the whitewashed
farm-house which lay close ahead. Involuntarily I looked in the same
direction.
A young man was coming through the garden-gate; —a small gate, leading
from the tiny flower-garden.
What first struck me was a certain familiarity in his figure and
attitude,—the slight lithe figure, the soldierly bearing, the grace,
ease, and promptitude with which he swung open the gate and stepped out
upon the road.
In a moment I was face to face with Arthur Lenox!
If it had been anywhere else—if I had been behind the others instead of
before,—if I had not been conscious of one dozen curious eyes close at
hand,—most of all, if I could have had the least assurance that Arthur
cares for me still,—I think I must have given some little word or look
of welcome, which might perhaps have led to more!
But as things were, it was impossible! How could I, knowing that Miss
Millington stood there? How could I, knowing what Miss Millington has
seen of my secret thoughts?—If she did see it, which I can never really
doubt. How could I, feeling all the while that Arthur Lenox may have
utterly changed, may have given up even the wish to meet me again? No;
I knew then, and I know still, that I had no choice.
His eyes met mine, and he lifted his hat. He did not change colour or
seem startled: and that looks as if he had indeed got over it. And I—I
thought for the moment that my heart must die within me, yet I did not
even turn pale. The need to keep up was too desperate. And I know that
I managed well: perhaps, alas! Too well, if he could care still. For
now indeed he must count the matter hopeless.
I bowed coldly,—not in too icy a fashion, which might have been taken
for restrained feeling, but with a quiet indifference, as to the most
ordinary acquaintance.
Then I felt that, in the natural course of events, acquaintances
meeting on such a spot, would certainly exchange a few words. I did not
offer my hand, but I paused, and said something about "not expecting to
meet Captain Lenox so far out of the world!"
"Odd encounters do take place sometimes," he answered in a manner
freezingly polite. "I hope you are well."
"Thanks, quite," I replied. "Are you staying long at the farm?"
"A day or two, perhaps. No, not long. I came here to escape from
crowds."
"Then we must not break in on your solitude," I said, slightly
smiling. And I would have turned away with another bow, when, to my
astonishment, up marched Maggie.
"Miss Con, is it Captain Lenox? Millie heard from her friend that he
was coming. And she would like to be introduced."
This very unconventional and schoolgirlish address must have surprised
Arthur Lenox even more than it surprised me. But he turned instantly
to Maggie, lifting his hat again,—and I could not but see that he was
struck. I know his face so well: and the momentary gleam of admiration
gave me a keen pain. Yet I could not wonder at it. Maggie was looking
her best;—the fresh roseate bloom heightened by walking; the grey eyes
sweet and sparkling, half disposed to droop shyly under the curved
black lashes.
"Captain Lenox,—Miss Romilly," I said coldly: and as Miss Millington
approached, I named her also. Then, as Maggie fell back a pace, and
"Millie" seemed disposed to get into a talk about the Bath friend, I
added, "We are delaying Captain Lenox: and I do not think we have any
time to lose."
Arthur Lenox made at once a responsive movement, not sorry, I thought,
to escape from Miss Millington, though his eyes went again towards
Maggie with evident interest. I gave him my hand as we said good-bye,
distantly enough: and Maggie, with a cordial air, followed suit,
actually inviting him to "afternoon tea at Beckdale House any day while
he was at the farm." He thanked her, half excused himself, and went off
at a rapid pace in the opposite direction to ourselves.
"That was hardly needful, Maggie," I said.
"Why? The Denhams know him. And he is your friend," said Maggie.
"The question for you is what your mother would wish," I said coldly.
"My acquaintances are not necessarily always yours. If Mr. Romilly were
here it would, of course, be different."
"Well,—I only know he is the handsomest man I ever saw in my life,"
declared Maggie.
I thought it best to let the matter drop. We went on pretty steadily
until heavy rain turned us back, enforcing postponement of the
Gurglepool excursion.
To-night, I am terribly weary and overstrained with to-day's encounter:
and so hopeless. For this has indeed been destroying the bridge behind
me.