CROOKED AND STRAIGHT.
GLADYS HEPBURN'S DIARY.
February 20. Saturday.
No answer has come yet from the Society about my MS. "Winnie." I did
not think I should have to wait so long: but I sent it at a busy time,
so delay is not surprising.
I am working hard at a tale which I mean to call "Selina's Wish."
Miss Con has not been away yet. A holiday at Christmas was talked of
for her, but I fancy she has nowhere to go. She said one day that "her
big brother-in-law had not pressed his hospitality on her." It seems
strange, for one would expect any one to be glad to have Miss Con. He
must be a very queer sort of man.
Everybody at Glynde House is so fond now of Miss Con,—even Maggie and
Nona! Things are quite altered since Miss Millington left. Mrs. Romilly
consults her about everything, and Nellie says she never saw her equal,
and Maggie always thinks the same as Mrs. Romilly and Nellie,—at least
when she is with them.
Miss James is a harmless little person, with no particular ideas of
her own; but I like her because she is pleasant to Miss Con. The girls
actually have begun to call her "Jamie," as Ramsay foretold.
I am rather disappointed with Thyrza, for instead of working hard this
winter, as she meant to do, at Geology and Political Economy, she seems
to be doing hardly anything. She has grown so oddly absent and dreamy
too. I really thought there was more stuff in Thyrza.
Miss Con doesn't look well. She is very thin; and though she works
hard, and has her cheerful manner again, I often fancy it is all put on.
April 1. Thursday.—Cold weather still, but signs of a change. I hardly
know how to wish for spring warmth, much as I love summer. For the
Romillys are already talking about Beckdale, and I am afraid they will
go north early this year. Mrs. Romilly is said to need the change. I am
sure Miss Con does. But I can't bear to think of losing Nellie again
for months.
Yesterday evening I finished my story, "Selina's Wish." It is 690 pages
of MS., each page having, I believe, about 130 or more words. I hope to
get it off in three or four days.
April 14. Wednesday.—My little book "Winnie" has come back from the
Society, declined.
Of course I do not let anybody see how disappointed I am. I always like
to seem quite philosophical; as if it were only what one might expect.
But somehow I didn't expect failure this time. I thought it was almost
sure to be taken.
It is politely refused; still it is refused. The Editor says that the
Readers objected to such a very faulty mother in a book written for
children. I dare say I was wrong to make her so: and it is good of him
to explain. Uncle Tom says that one learns as much from failure as from
success, and that of course it is all for the best. I suppose that is
true; but still, I do feel flat.
Mother and all of them are so kind. They don't go on bothering about
it, as some people would.
Well, I just have to try afresh. And after all there is "Selina's
Wish." That is the really important one. This is quite a small affair.
April 22. Thursday.—I am waiting anxiously for an answer about my
"Selina." And I am trying hard to believe that all will be for the
best, either way.
However, I don't think the real difficulty lies there. For of course
God knows what is best. He knows everything, and He must know that.
And I never feel the least doubt that He loves us, and that He will
do what is most for our happiness. The real difficulty with me is to
be willing that He should choose for me, not I for myself. I do long
so terribly to have my own way; and when I want a thing, I want it so
desperately,—I don't seem to care to wait for what is best in the end,
but only to have my wish now! That must be impatience; and it is wrong
to wish for one's own will at any cost; but I am afraid I often do. And
then I ought to be thankful if God does not take me at my word, and
give me what I wish; because that would be very dreadful.
April 23. Friday.—Mrs. Romilly was talking to-day in a worried manner
about Miss Con looking so thin, and taking no rest. And Mother asked
if she would not come to us for a week. It was a sudden thought of
Mother's; and Mrs. Romilly was quite pleased. She said any break would
be a good thing. So Miss Con has been spoken to, and she will come next
Thursday,—for she will not consent to stop lessons sooner. We hope to
make the week grow into a fortnight.
Same day. Evening.—The last post has brought back my MS. "Selina's
Wish" from Mr. Willis,—declined.
April 27. Tuesday.—I could not write more on Friday about my story: and
I have had no heart to do so since,—until now.
I won't say that I was not disappointed, for I was,—intensely
disappointed. Of course nobody knew how much. I woke up next morning
feeling perfectly wretched, not the least able to rise above it,
and really believing I had come to the end of any hopes of future
authorship. And the only comfort was in saying over and over
again,—"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine
own understanding." For of course I can't possibly know what is really
best for myself or for any of us. And somehow, even before I left my
room, things did look a little brighter, and I felt sure I should be
helped.
At breakfast-time Mother asked what I meant to do, and after some
little talk we settled that I had better write and ask frankly for the
reason why the tale is refused,—which I did.
The answer came this morning,—a kind and pleasant answer. We are sure
from it that the publisher doesn't at all mean that he will never
take a book of mine again; and that is a great comfort. Mr. Willis
says that "the character of Selina is too naughty and disagreeable.
People would say in reference to several chapters at the beginning—What
is the use of it all? Too much of her naughtiness and impertinence
are given in detail. The books that are most popular are those with
pleasant characters in them. He could understand the interest of the
MS. carrying a reader to the end, but the impression left would be
unpleasant, and it would not be taken up a second time. Also he thinks
the main incident of the book too melancholy. People like cheerful
books."
I don't think I like cheerful books so much as sad ones: but no doubt
Mr. Willis is the best judge about people in general: and even before
I heard from him, I was making up my mind to try after pleasanter
characters in my next.
I do not think I will try to get either "Selina" or "Winnie" taken by
any one else, at present. The faults in both seem to be much the same.
Better to start something fresh, in a different style.
There has been a strange mixture of humiliation and encouragement
in all this,—of disappointment now, and hope for by-and-by. I begin
already to think that some day I may be thankful not to have had
"Selina's Wish" published.
April 30. Friday.—Yesterday morning Miss Con came to us. She was so
grateful to Mother for asking her: and she seemed to find it a rest to
be able to be quiet, and not to feel it her duty to work.
This afternoon, when we had had tea, she was sitting in one of the
windows, reading. Mother was gone out, and I had begun to mend some
holes in my gloves. For I do not mean to grow into an untidy authoress,
if I can help it. Untidiness is so unwomanly.
I thought Miss Con must be glad of a little real stillness, and I left
her alone, and did not talk. And for a moment I felt almost vexed, when
Maggie and the twins came rushing in. They were full of fun, and Elfie
was in wild spirits, as she generally is now Mrs. Romilly has come back.
Nona declared they wanted a sight of Miss Con,—she had been away "such
ages." Maggie hugged her, and plumped down into an arm-chair; and the
twins rattled about all sorts of things.
"Oh, I say,—only think," Nona cried all at once. "Maggie has a letter
from Millie,—the first she has ever condescended to write. We met the
postman outside just now, and he gave it to us."
"Oh, I'm forgetting!" Maggie exclaimed, and she pulled out the
envelope, looking round in a half-saucy way at Miss Con, and
asking—"Wouldn't you like to hear Millie's news?"
"I should like to know if she is well and happy," Miss Con said.
"I'll read it out. That will be fun," Maggie said.
Then she began, and we all listened,—not that there was anything worth
hearing. Miss Millington's letters are as inane as she is herself. The
sentences jog on, one after another, in a sort of aimless fashion, all
about nothing.
"She doesn't tell us much," Nona said when Maggie reached the end. "Not
even why she is at her home now. I thought she had gone to live with an
old lady."
"Here is a crossed corner. I didn't see it before," Maggie said,
turning the sheet round. "'Have you—' what is the word?—Oh, 'have you
seen much of the Denhams lately? They will have told you of Captain
Lenox' engagement. A very good thing for him. Quite recent.'"
Elfie was fondling the kitten on the rug, and Nona stood over her. I
believe the twins were only half listening to what Maggie read. Maggie
herself could not see Miss Con's face without turning round; but I
think she was going to turn. She made a movement like it, as she said,
"No, I don't think they have told us. I don't remember."
I would not look at Miss Con, and it just flashed across me to call off
the girls, and leave her quiet. I am so glad,—oh, so glad I did.
There was no time to think. I said, "You haven't looked at Mother's new
plants in the dining-room,—come, Maggie,—before Uncle Tom goes there."
And I caught her wrist, and we all four went off, Elfie prancing about
like a kitten, with my kitten on her shoulder. Maggie said at first,
"What for?" But she did not hang back, and I let her have no time to
ask it again.
As soon as they had seen the plants, I took all three into the garden,
and kept them there. Elfie once spoke of seeing Miss Con again, but I
would not hear; and soon Maggie said they had to be at home before six.
When I went back into the drawing-room, Miss Con was in the same place
as before. She had not stirred a finger. She was sitting on a rather
low chair, leaning back, with a book open on her knee, and her hands
lying carelessly on the book. And her face was calm; only deathly pale.
If her eyes had not been open, I should have thought she had fainted.
She looked up at me, as I came near, and said gently, "Have they gone
home?"
"Yes, Miss Con," I said.
I don't know what made me go close, and kneel down by her side, and
take hold of her hands. They were frightfully cold, and they felt quite
limp, as if all strength had gone out of them. I did not want to show
that I understood anything; but I could not leave her alone like that.
"Dear Gladys!" she said, in a worn-out voice. "You are all so good to
me."
I was trembling by this time, wishing Mother would come in, and yet
knowing that Miss Con would not want anybody else to see her just then.
And oh, I did long to comfort her.
"Miss Con, are you faint?" I asked, and my voice was half choked.
"No, my dear," she said, in a quiet considering tone. "No,—not faint.
I only feel a little—tired, I think, and weak. I wanted to go upstairs
and rest,—but somehow—I had to wait."
Her eyes looked straight into mine, and I don't think I ever saw such
pain and sorrow in any eyes before. I didn't know how to bear it.
She must have seen, perhaps, more than I meant her to see. She must
have felt that I did a little understand,—and that she could trust me.
For suddenly there was a kind of break-up in the quiet of her face.
She did not go into a fit of violent crying, like so many people, and
she sat upright, with her hands together in mine. But her lips grow
whiter, and every muscle in her face and throat worked and quivered, as
if a wave of agony were passing over her, and then her eyes reddened
and filled slowly, and great burning drops came splash, splash, on my
wrist. It was impossible for me to help crying too.
Nobody came near us: and I do not think she went on long, though it
felt long to me. Before I could speak, I heard her saying softly—
"Poor Gladys! I am sorry to have troubled you, my dear."
"O Miss Con, don't!" I whispered; and she stroked my hair, and petted
me, as if it had been she who had to do the comforting, and not I. When
I was able to see her face, it had grown calm again. But somehow that
was worse than the other; and I threw my arms round her, and held her
fast, with such a longing to be any help. And then I could feel her
struggles not to give way, and the tears came splashing again, though
there was not the slightest sound.
"Gladys, my dear, no one must know of this," she said at last, when she
had conquered. She put me from her gently, and looked me in the face
with such sweet sad eyes. "Not even your dear Mother."
"Oh no,—no,—" I said.
"You will not tell—I can trust you," she said. "You and I are friends,
after to-day. I shall not behave so a second time. Now I am going to my
room for an hour: and you will see me myself again at dinner."
She smiled as she spoke, and stood up, slipping her arm into mine, so I
went with her to the spare-room.
"I can't do anything more for you?" I asked when we reached the door.
"Nothing, dear, thank you," she said, in her natural tone. "I should
like a little while alone. But you have been a comfort, Gladys,—" and
she kissed me. "And now I know you will ask no questions, and will try
to forget this little scene."
I said I would "try," though of course forgetting is out of the
question, and I was turning away, when she put her hand on mine.
"One word," she said very low. "My dear,—you have not to blame him.
Remember that. He did once ask me, and I refused him. He was perfectly
free. I did not know till later how much I cared,—and he has never
known."
Then she moved away, and I shut the door. But oh,—what a pity! If
he had but known in time! I wonder if it could not have been helped
somehow,—if only anybody could have put things straight!
And yet perhaps they are really straight, and just what they ought to
be. I wonder if we shall look back by-and-by, and see that all our
worries and disappointments were the best and happiest things for us,
and the very things we would have chosen, if we could have seen farther
ahead!
Only last Sunday Miss Con and I had a little talk about this. I was
thinking about my disappointment, which she does not know of. When I
said something like what I have just written, she said—
"Yes,—except in those cases where we have brought our troubles on
ourselves."
"And never then?" I asked. "Ought we not to say then that they are
God's will?"
"In a sense—yes," she answered. "All things that happen are permitted
by God. It certainly is His will that we should suffer in this life the
natural results of our own wrong-doing or folly. But that is not the
whole of the matter. On the one hand, we must never say that He wills
any one to act wrongly.
"On the other hand, we must never forget that He makes 'all things' to
work together for our good, if we love Him. Those very 'results' which
we find most trying may in His Hand work great good to us in the end.
Whether we are conscious of the good at the time is another question."
I must not write more now. Except that Miss Con seemed quite composed
and natural at dinner. She looked very ill, I thought, and I know my
eyes were red. Mother asked no questions; and this makes me pretty sure
that she suspects something. For I believe she saw the girls, and it is
likely enough that Maggie may have shown her Millie's letter.
Happily Ramsay was too much absorbed in Miss Con to look at me.
May 1. Saturday.—At breakfast to-day there was a letter for Miss Con,
from her sister, Mrs. Smyth. The husband,—that very fat brother-in-law
who will not invite Miss Con to the house,—is dangerously ill; and his
wife begs and implores Miss Con to go and help in the nursing.
Mother and I think Miss Con looks more like being nursed herself, than
like nursing somebody else. But of course she has gone. Mrs. Romilly
consented directly, and in two hours, Miss Con was off.
I should be dreadfully sorry; only, we think the change of scene may do
her good just now. She promises to come to us some other time instead.
One does wonder why it is that sometimes the very best people have the
very most sorrow. But perhaps if they had not the most, they would
not be the best. And, after all, I don't see why we should expect to
understand everything.
Of course I have not said a word to Miss Con about her distress
yesterday; nor has she to me. Only her manner is so affectionate, that
I feel sure she did not mind my having seen what I did.
Next week I hope to start another tale; and to work very hard and very
carefully. I think I have some good ideas for it.
I do believe I have been growing over-confident,—fancying I was sure to
succeed, and counting almost anything good enough, written in ever so
much of a hurry. So I dare say these two checks have been exactly what
I needed. At all events, there shall be no hurried or careless work in
my next.
And then at least, if I fail, it will not be my fault. If it is not
God's will that I should succeed any more, I must not be too much bent
upon it.
I think I do begin to understand that the only safe and happy state of
mind is one of entire dependence upon God,—entire acquiescence in His
will,—just "making known" one's requests to Him, and leaving utterly in
His Hands the time and kind of answer. And then, whatever else He gives
or doesn't give, the peace of Christ is promised.
A sentence in a book I was reading to-day struck me very much,—"the
dread responsibility of choosing our own way!" I am sure I need to pray
to be kept from that.