AND HE—!
THE SAME—continued.
I HAD not looked at my watch when Thyrza left me. A glance at it now
showed the afternoon to be far advanced; indeed, this I already knew
from the slant of the sun's rays.
Blaming myself much for the absorption in my own affairs, to which I
had weakly yielded, I stood up and again eagerly scanned the green
slopes; without result.
Had Thyrza reached the top, and there been taken ill from
over-exertion? Such a thing might happen. Or had she lost her footing,
and rolled downward?
If the latter, I should find her without difficulty lying below, hidden
from where I stood, but not far off. The very idea brought a cold
shiver. That I disregarded, however. Action of some kind was necessary.
Feeling had to wait.
It was not, of course, impossible that Thyrza should have reached the
summit, tempted onward by the excitement of climbing, and there should
have vanished for a short time before descending. But the fact which
startled me was the length of the time she had been absent. A brief
disappearance would not have been surprising. I could not understand
her remaining away. Thyrza is so thoughtful; unlike Maggie and Nona;
and especially thoughtful about me. I had said to her laughingly before
she went, "Mind, if anything goes wrong, I shall come after you." She
would remember this; and I knew she did not wish me to attempt the
ascent.
The search below was soon over. I explored every spot where she might
lie hidden, had she slipped and fallen. She was not there; neither was
she on the slopes. I could see the broad green expanse, as I stood
beneath looking upwards,—in parts frightfully near the perpendicular. I
began to think I had done foolishly in consenting to let her go up.
If she did not very soon appear, nothing remained for me but to follow
in her wake. I determined to wait a quarter of an hour; then, if she
had not appeared, to start without more delay.
The fifteen minutes dragged past slowly. I had made my way to a low
wall, and there I sat, waiting, watch in hand, in the soundless
solitude. Nobody passed along the road. No human being was visible on
the heights. It seemed to me that they grew steeper and loftier the
longer I gazed.
"Time up! I must go!" I said aloud.
I suppose I moved too hastily, stepping down from my seat on the wall.
I had gone there for a clear view. The wall was formed of large jagged
stones, piled loosely together. One of these stones gave way under my
foot, and I came to the ground with a sharp jar,—standing, but a good
deal shaken,—and when I took a step away from the spot, I was instantly
conscious of a crick in my weaker knee,—it might be a strain or twist.
For a minute I kept perfectly still, hoping that it would prove to be
nothing. But the first movement showed me conclusively that my climb
was at an end. I might as well have tried to reach the moon as the
summit of the mountain.
It was a severe disappointment. If Thyrza had hurt herself, and were
ill or disabled above, she would be needing me sorely.
Still, it was out of the question that I should go: and the thought now
occurred that I ought at once to return to my seat on the road. If the
dog-cart came to meet us, as it might do later, I had no business to be
out of its direct path. Besides, Thyrza would know where to find me, or
to send a messenger, if she had found it needful to go round some other
way, rather than attempt the descent.
So very cautiously, and not without a good deal of pain in the knee, I
limped back to my old position.
The hour following seemed very long, very dreary. I do not know that
I have ever felt more weighed down and altogether sorrowful. I was
anxious about Thyrza: and my own future seemed so grey and wearisome.
The letter from Miss Millington pressed upon me like lead. Could I in
heart and soul forgive her the wrong she had wilfully done to me?
At the end of an hour, or something like an hour, I looked up,—I had
been gazing on the ground,—and the sunbeams were shining like reddish
gold all along the broad mountain brow, with wonderful beauty. It
seemed to me the gleam of a smile from heaven. The mountain's frown was
lost in that smile.
"I shall find brightness enough in another world, if not in this," I
found myself saying aloud. "One only has to wait a little while."
The deadly stillness of the Pass was so strange: no answer coming. And
then a soft voice seemed to say, "Miss Millington?"—as if asking a
question.
"Yes!" I said; and there was a sudden radiance of joy in my heart,
resembling the outside glow. "Yes, I do forgive! I will write and tell
her so."
The shining radiance deepened, without and within. I had an
extraordinary sense of rest,—of willingness to receive whatever might
be sent me. No thought of fear mingled with the willingness, though I
whispered instinctively, "Does this mean some fresh great trouble?" If
it did, I was willing still. The Presence of my Master would make all
things light.
I almost expected another utterance of the soft voice, speaking to my
heart from without or within—which, I do not know. I waited—listening.
And no voice spoke. But my eyes fell upon a figure, descending the
great green slope, exactly in front.
"Thyrza!" I cried.
It was not Thyrza. It was a man. I saw him distinctly in the full
sunlight. Had he come to tell me ill news of Thyrza?
I cannot think now why I was not more afraid. I did not feel afraid,
sitting there with clasped hands, gazing upward. I could follow every
movement of the descending figure. He seemed to be a good climber. That
was speedily apparent. Down and down he came, steadily. Once he leaped
a wall, perhaps to find an easier slope on the other side.
When more than half-way down, he stood still, and seemed to be looking
at something or for somebody. I waved my handkerchief, and he at once
waved his. So I knew he was coming to me,—though I did not know yet the
full meaning of "he!" Joys, like sorrows, often dawn upon us step by
step.
The lower portion of the slope was very rapidly got over; so rapidly
that I was afraid he would slip. He took it at a run, and I saw him
spring over some obstacle at the bottom. After which he marched
straightly and swiftly towards where I sat.
Till then no thought of the truth had come into my mind. But something
in the upright bearing, the slender frame, the soldierly walk, brought
recollections thronging and made my heart beat fast.
"Absurd," I murmured. "Ridiculous of me to think—But it is like! I
suppose he must be in the army too, whoever he is."
I do not know how long I fought against the reality,—how soon I
dared to let myself believe it. I only know that I stood up slowly,
and that he came nearer and nearer,—came fast, with his face turned
fixedly towards mine. And the sunshine outside seemed to be filling my
heart again; only this time it was a more earthly tremulous sunshine,
flickering with every stride he took.
And I forgot all about Miss Millington, all about the news of Arthur's
engagement.
For he was standing close in front of me, his hand clasping mine, and I
was looking up into his face with a smile of welcome, such as I had not
dared to give him that other time when we met. The lonely Pass seemed
all at once full of life; and every touch of greyness had gone out of
my future.
For the moment that our eyes met, I think each understood the other;
though I only said, "Where is Thyrza?"
"Gone home with Sir Keith," he answered.
"Then you have seen her?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, and he explained briefly. Thyrza had climbed two-thirds
of the height; then, pausing to look below, she had been seized with
terror and giddiness, for the first time in her life, and had very
nearly fallen down the mountain side. By dint of remaining still, and
looking resolutely upward, she had so far recovered herself as to
continue the ascent, reaching the top with great difficulty.
To descend again, however, had proved out of the question. Every time
she approached the edge, dizziness and dread overpowered her anew. She
had waved her handkerchief and made various signs to me, hoping that I
should understand. Being short-sighted, she could not know whether I
responded, which of course I did not, as I was then wrapped up in my
letter.
Thereafter Thyrza had started off to find another way round. Her first
intention was to go to The Scaur, and to descend the narrow path which
runs down beside the bare rock: but happily she hit upon a shorter cut
to the road by which we had approached the Pass.
Thyrza knew that Sir Keith had gone to Beckbergh to meet Arthur: and
she knew that the two might possibly drive to meet us, if our return
were at all delayed. I believe she had rather liked the prospect, and
had been not indisposed to bring it about by delay: though later, when
hurrying alone down the hills, she little expected to be so fortunate
as to meet them at the moment she reached the road.
However, this really occurred. They pulled up and sprang down,
astonished to see her alone. Thyrza must have been a good deal shaken
by her touch of "vertigo," for she burst into tears when trying
to explain matters,—a most astonishing event. Thyrza never cries
in public, under any consideration, as a rule. Sir Keith was much
troubled, and very sympathising; and Arthur promptly proposed to go in
search of me, while Sir Keith drove Thyrza home.
Thyrza at first resisted, but she had to yield to Sir Keith's
determination. The general impression was that I should certainly
endeavour to climb the height in search of Thyrza, when she failed
to return,—a well-founded theory, as proved by circumstances. Arthur
resolved, therefore, to go by the same way that Thyrza had come. He had
already explored these mountains, when staying last year at the Farm:
besides, he is one of those men who are never at a loss in the wildest
country.
So Sir Keith drove off with Thyrza, promising to bring or send the
dog-cart with all speed to meet Arthur and me: and he made good use of
his opportunity, following the advice I had given.
Arthur meanwhile found his way with all speed to the brow of the
mountain, walking along it till he saw a little figure seated far below
in the road. And as he came down, he stopped now and again to wave his
handkerchief. Twice in vain: the third time I saw him, and waved mine.
Some of this Arthur told me briefly; much more I have heard since.
Then, to his concern, he learnt that I had hurt my knee: and he said
how foolish he had been to let the dog-cart go home first, instead of
driving straight to the Pass. And I said—"Oh no,—I am so glad you did!"
For how could I wish anything to be different? How could I mind waiting?
Then he said something, speaking a little brokenly, about having almost
made up his mind to leave England for ever. He had thought of it for
months. And he had been to Glynde again for a night,—he hardly knew
why. He had seen Mrs. Hepburn and Gladys. And something—something
Gladys said or did not say,—something in her look of reproach, when she
spoke of me,—had made him resolve to try once more.
And in a husky altered voice, he asked—
"Constance, is it true?—Have I been under a great mistake? Could you be
mine now,—after all?"
I have no idea what I said in answer. It matters little what words
one uses at such a moment, or whether one uses any words at all. He
understood me, and I understood him. It was such wonderful unexpected
happiness. All clouds seemed to have been suddenly swept away from my
whole horizon, leaving only sunshine and a blue sky.
But I think my first impulse was to look up,—to feel that this joy was
indeed my Father's gift to me, and to Arthur.
Life was so changed to both of us, in that one short hour. Changed, and
yet the same. For the same Presence is with us still, the same Will
directing us, the same Love surrounding us, the same Light beckoning us
onward.
Only now we hope to live a life of service to Christ together,—not
apart. And that means earthly as well as Heavenly sunshine.
When we reached home, we found that Sir Keith and Thyrza were engaged,
to the great satisfaction of everybody. Thyrza appeared to have quite
recovered from her severe climb. And I wrote at once a few lines of
comfort to Miss Millington, telling her of my new happiness, and of the
Help which might be hers, if only she herself were willing.
GLADYS HEPBURN'S DIARY.
July 27. Tuesday.—Good news! Good news!
I was dreadfully afraid last week that I might have blundered. It is so
fearfully difficult to know always what is just the wisest thing to say
and do.
Major Lenox made his appearance suddenly. He was spending a night at
the Inn, and he asked if he might come in to afternoon tea. And when
he was here, instead of keeping off from the subject of Miss Con, he
seemed to do nothing but bring her name up.
Well,—I really thought I ought to say something. I could not ask
Mother's advice; because, of course, I have never felt free to tell her
or any one about Miss Con's distress that day. It would be a betrayal
of confidence.
An opportunity came up in the garden, when nobody was near for a minute
or two. He said something about Yorkshire, and I spoke of the Romillys;
and he answered me; and I asked him if he knew Miss Millington. He said
"Hardly," in a considering tone; and I said, "Oh, she wrote us word of
your engagement."
I was afraid he would think me blunt and interfering, but I really did
it only for dear Miss Con's sake. He turned sharp round, and said, "How
could she have heard that ridiculous tale?"
I believe I said, "Was it a tale?"
"Certainly," he said. "No foundation whatever!" And he looked quite
fierce, and tugged at his moustaches.
And I said—not knowing what meant to come next—
"One never can depend on anything from Miss Millington. She told
Maggie—and Maggie told me—and Miss Conway."
"Miss Conway heard it?" Major Lenox asked.
I said, "Yes!" and I looked straight at him for a moment. I did not
dare to say any more, but I know what I wanted to say. And somehow it
almost seemed to me that he read my thoughts. Such a curious softened
expression came into his eyes: and his manner was different after that
moment.
Nothing more was said by either of us: only next morning he walked in
to say good-bye, and in a casual sort of way he spoke about "going
north."
The very next thing we heard was that he had seen Miss Con, and that
they are engaged. And he has given up all idea of exchanging into a
regiment abroad. Oh it is so good!
Thyrza is engaged too,—actually on the same day, and to Sir Keith, of
all people.
Mother seems not at all surprised, but it is a great surprise to me. I
like Thyrza much better than I used: because she is more affectionate
and less stiff; but I should not count her the kind of girl to be
fallen in love with easily. And I should never have guessed Sir Keith
to be the kind of man either.
However, of course tastes differ, and they ought to know their own
minds. I am glad it is not Nellie.
July 29. Thursday.—Just ten days since I sent my last MS. to Mr. Willis.
After so many months of disappointment, one thing after another
failing, I could hardly be hopeful. I could only pray and wait,—feeling
that most likely I was not to have a book out at all this year. But I
have worked hard with this tale, and I did do my very best.
Now the answer has come. Mr. Willis offers me thirty pounds for the
first edition of 2000 copies: the copyright after that remaining in my
hands. He says the story seems "interesting and well written," and he
"hopes it may have a fairly good circulation."
At all events, the heroine is not too disagreeable this time!
I have written to accept the offer: and I do feel very happy about it.
It has been desperately hot weather lately: and I wanted so much to get
it done, that I have been copying at the rate of forty to seventy MS.
pages a day. But it was worth while. And I am only just in time for the
autumn.
But I can see the good of failures,—even coming one after another. A
year ago I was getting too confident, and perhaps careless. I think I
have learnt a lesson for life.
August 15. Wednesday.—Plans seem settling into shape. About the middle
of September the Romillys all come south; and early in October the
double wedding will, it is hoped, take place. How droll to think of
Thyrza as "Lady Denham!"
Miss Con is to be married from Glynde House; and perhaps her sister may
be present. Not Mr. Smyth, for he never goes anywhere. He is too fat.
And I am to be one of Miss Con's bridesmaids!
Miss Con writes so brightly. She seems full of happiness. Her knee is
almost well again, which is a great comfort.
She has been very busy lately, finding a situation for Miss Millington,
as companion to an old lady in Bath, and also making arrangements about
a home for the younger sister.
So like Miss Con!
THE END.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
Edinburgh & London
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By AGNES GIBERNE.
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