ELFIE'S CONFESSION.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
Tuesday. September 22.
MY Elfie has come back to me again. It is strangely a comfort to know
that her loving heart has been true throughout, only—But I had better
be consecutive.
The others have gone on an excursion to a certain cave. Elfie was to
have been one of the party: but at the last moment she begged off,
pleading faceache and a wish to be with me. Lady Denham yielded, but
did not fall in with Maggie's suggestion that "Millie" should go
instead. I heard her say in the passage—"Certainly not. I will not
have the children left to Miss Conway. They are in Miss Millington's
charge." So Maggie came in to say good-bye, with a pout of her rosy
lips.
I had intended making an effort to see something of Miss Millington, in
the absence of the rest. Hitherto she has kept resolutely aloof: and I
cannot go after her. Others perhaps are not aware that I have scarcely
spoken to her since my accident. It does not seem quite a right state
of things; yet I do not like to make a stir.
So soon as the waggonette went off, Elfie glided into my room. Until
to-day she has always appeared with one of her sisters, always looking
impassive and dull. But to-day I noted a change of manner. She seated
herself close beside the couch, rested her head on my shoulder, and
sighed deeply two or three times.
"Something wrong, Elfie?" I asked.
Silence answered me, lasting I should think for nearly five minutes.
Then suddenly she turned, clutched my hand between her own hands, and
gasped rather than said—
"I must tell you! I must! I can't go on so any longer!"
"Tell me what, Elfie?"
Another break. "About—" she said, breathing hard. "About—. But you must
promise first not to tell."
"I will do nothing hasty. Cannot you trust me?"
"Oh, I couldn't have you tell Mother! Millie would never forgive me.
And it is only about you—yourself—not anybody else."
"If it is a matter which only concerns myself, I may safely promise to
let it go no farther, without your consent," I said, feeling sure that
she had some little revelation to make about the day at Gurglepool.
"And you won't—you won't—hate me?"
"I should find it difficult to do that," I said, kissing her. "Come,
Elfie, don't be afraid?"
"Oh, I am not afraid. It isn't that. Only, everything is so horrid. And
I ought to have spoken out,—and I didn't. And I don't know how to tell
you—and I must."
"Shall I guess, Elfie? Was it that you knew beforehand, from Nona,
about the trick that was to be played on me? I dare say you wanted
to speak out, and were afraid. But I am quite sure you did not like
the trick, even though you could not guess how things would turn out.
Another time you will be braver."
She listened to me, with her head now lifted, and astonishment in the
large dusky eyes.
"Oh no! You couldn't think that of me! Oh no,—I would never have let
them do it without telling you. But indeed they didn't think of such a
thing, till they got there, and Millie proposed it. She said it was all
so slow, and she wanted some fun. I don't call that fun. Lady Denham
says it was so unladylike: and Nona is sorry now, only she doesn't know
how to tell you."
"If it wasn't that, what was it, Elfie? I am at a loss," I said.
Elfie dropped her face, hiding it from sight.
"It was—when we first came," she murmured almost inaudibly. "I was in
the drawing-room,—on the sofa—and—you were writing—you know—at the
side-table."
One instant brought the scene before me; the sleeping figure of Elfie:
the journal volume: the sudden interruption: the telegram from abroad:
the bitter distress following.
Had I been mistaken? Could Elfie, not Miss Millington, have meddled
with my papers? But the thought only occurred to be put aside. I knew
Elfie better.
"Yes," I said, and my own voice sounded far-away to myself. "Yes. I
remember quite well. You had gone to sleep: and I was called away."
"I didn't hear you go," she whispered, and I could feel the quick
fluttering of her heart, as she pressed against me. "At least I think
not,—not quite. Only there were voices. And somebody came in. I just
peeped sideways. I was only half awake,—and I saw Millie. She was
standing by your table,—the table where you had been writing, I mean.
And she was reading in the big book, with a lock-clasp. I could see her
doing it quite plainly. She turned back a leaf, and leant down a little
to read. And I was so frightened. It seemed to make me hot all over,
and then like ice. I knew I ought to speak out, and I didn't dare. I
knew she would be so angry, and would make me promise not to tell. And
I shut my eyes and kept quiet; and I know she turned round to see if I
was still asleep, for I could feel her eyes on me. And then I heard you
in the passage, and Millie went off in a hurry. And I didn't let you
know directly that I was awake,—not till you had been upstairs and came
down again. But oh, I did feel so miserable,—knowing I ought to tell,
and not daring. Don't you think I was wrong not to speak out? It seemed
like deceiving you,—and like joining with Millie in what she had done."
"And so you turned cold to me, Elfie," I said.
"Did I? It was only that I felt so ashamed. And sometimes I was almost
sure that Millie guessed what I had seen. It gave her a sort of hold
upon me. Oh, I do wish I wasn't such a coward! When you hurt yourself
so, I made up my mind that I wouldn't go on with it any longer: but
I had to wait till you were better, and I couldn't have a quiet time
alone with you till to-day."
"Elfie, have you told me everything now?" I asked, holding her face
between my hands, and looking into it.
She blushed slowly. "Yes,—no,—not all. Millie used to laugh and joke
about you. Must I tell that? She said you were—were—" a pause and a
little sob. "I can't think why Millie dislikes you so,—when you are so
dear and good, and Mother's own friend. But she does. She is always
trying to set Maggie and Nona and the little ones against you. And
then—you know—she said she had a friend in Bath,—and she knew when
Captain Lenox was coming, and she wouldn't let us tell you, though he
was a friend of yours. And she said—things—"
"Yes?" I said gravely.
Elfie sobbed again. "I knew Mother would be so vexed,—Mother can't bear
that sort of talk and nonsense. But Millie would,—and she wanted us to
think that she knew about—about you—from her friend in Bath. But I felt
perfectly sure that she had read something of yours that she had no
business to read,—and it made me feel so miserable. But you won't hate
me,—darling Miss Con, will you?—and you won't tell Mother?"
"I will do neither, Elfie," I said, drawing her into my arms. "Perhaps
some day it may be right for you to tell your Mother; but I am not the
person to do so. Miss Millington has wronged me, and I cannot take any
step that might look like revenge. Still—if she is capable of such an
action, she is hardly fit to train your little sisters."
Elfie's tearful eyes looked up wonderingly.
"Don't you feel angry with her?"
"I have felt so. This is an old trouble, Elfie. I knew at the time what
Miss Millington had done."
"And you didn't speak?"
"It would have been useless. I could not prove what I believed."
After a little hesitation, I added, "You are not a child, Elfie,—not
so much a child as many girls of seventeen,—and I do not mind telling
you that Captain Lenox did at one time wish to marry me, and I refused
him. When Sir Keith once spoke of seeing him at Rouen, it made me very
unhappy to think what pain I had given. So now you understand something
of the matter. But, for Captain Lenox' sake, this must go no farther."
She kissed my hand, with a strangely wistful and comprehending look,
even while saying simply, "It was so bad of Millie."
We did not discuss the subject farther. Elfie seemed relieved, past
expression, at having told me of the burden so long resting on her
mind. She would hardly leave my side all the morning, and her old
affection is completely restored,—or rather the open expression of it,
for I am sure she has loved me throughout. Dear little Elfie!
Now I have sent her for a walk with Miss Millington and the children. I
wanted time for thought and journalising.
The past keen pain at Miss Millington's conduct has revived, but not
the past passion of anger. That battle has not to be fought again. Only
I do feel more than ever that all is over between Arthur Lenox and me,
that where sunshine might have been, I must now be content with life
under a grey-toned sky.
Gladys said to me one day, in a puzzled tone, before we came north,
"Uncle Tom always says everything is sure to be for the best; but I
don't see how it can,—or else people needn't mind making blunders and
doing stupid things."
But—as I said to her in answer,—"We know that all things work together
for good to them that love God." Enough for me to know that it is so,
without fathoming the "how."
Blunders must bring their natural results; and wrong-doing must be
followed by its train of bitter consequences, to oneself and others.
And yet—yet—a Father's Hand can turn even those natural results and
bitter consequences into pure and lasting good to those who love Him.
But the good may not be always apparent in this life.
Wednesday, September 23.—I never saw Thyrza look so handsome as when
she came in yesterday afternoon. She holds herself well always; and
she had on a particularly becoming grey dress, with grey feathers in
her hat. The fresh air had given her an unusual colour; and the dark
eyes, often too grave, were actually sparkling. The fine lips, too,
were parted with a wistful expression, which I don't remember seeing
there before. I said to myself, "A new development—" and then a thought
struck me. She has left off speaking against Sir Keith lately.
I was alone, and she sat down by my side, pouring out what had passed.
"It was a splendid drive, Miss Con, some hours both ways. I don't
know how long. One doesn't count time when one is perfectly happy. I
only wanted you there, to make everything complete. But still—" and a
far-away look. "Yes, I did enjoy it. And Sir Keith is so kind. The next
best to having you, was hearing him talk about you. We quite agree on
that point,—" with a smile, and a squeeze of my hand. "I sat by him all
the way, and Maggie opposite with Lady Denham. I think it is rather
pleasant to be drawn out by a person who understands how, and to have
to say what one really thinks. Sir Keith knows how, when he will take
the trouble."
"Very pleasant indeed," I assented.
"And then Sir Keith—" I found this expression recurring perpetually.
"And then Sir Keith" did this; "and then Sir Keith" said that.
"How about the cave?" I asked when she paused.
"Oh, well worth seeing. I do wish you could have been there. It is
almost like a sort of underground cathedral, a growth of nature,—quite
dark. The candles only cast glimmers,—even a queer concern, holding a
dozen candles all lighted together, could not make one see far. It was
rather a muddy floor; and a stream of water runs in one part. We had
to get over by stepping-stones, and Sir Keith gave me his hand across.
Lady Denham and Maggie wouldn't go farther: and the guide looked after
Nona. In one place there is a sort of stalactite imitation of a pulpit,
jutting out from the wall: and another stalactite formation is like
a great Westminster Abbey monument. At least I thought so. Sir Keith
only laughed, and said I must read up about stalactites and stalagmites
with you. I didn't much like the sliminess farther in, and when it came
to stepping up on a board to look through a big opening into another
cavern beyond, I said I wouldn't. But Sir Keith had got up, and he
held out his hand, and said, 'Yes, you must!' So I went, and it was
like a round belfry sort of place, underground, you know. And there
was a waterfall in the belfry, about thirty feet high, tumbling from
black depths overhead to black depths below, and keeping up a roar. I
believe they call that inside cavern 'the chapter-house.' It is a most
extraordinary place."
"Worth seeing indeed!" I observed.
"Yes, I do like uncommon sights. And Lady Denham and Sir Keith have
been so good to me. He likes you, Miss Con."
"I dare say he does, my dear," I said. "And I like him. We are on most
agreeable terms of polite friendship."
"Oh, but not only—" and she stopped.
"Anything more would be equally impossible for him and for me."
She looked at me with serious eyes before saying, "But he is so—nice!"
Whereupon I thought of Craven and cretonnes.
"Not quite so disagreeable as you once counted him, Thyrza?"
"Did I? Oh, that was only because Maggie behaved so absurdly. I hope I
shall never be so absurd. Only, really and truly, there is nothing we
both like so much to talk about as about you."
"I am sorry you should both be content with so unprofitable a subject,"
I answered: and then we were interrupted.
But I fancy it is not difficult to foresee what may be coming.