Chapter X: Plenty of "er."

THE SAME.

March 2. Monday.

I MUST carry on to-day my story of Saturday evening. It was impossible to finish before going to bed.

Maggie could not at all get over the little contretemps in the hall. I could see all dinner-time that she was under a weight of shy uneasiness, even talking and laughing with Gladys; and every remark addressed to me was accompanied by a renewed bloom. The little hesitancy of manner, the bright colouring, and the droop of her long curved lashes over the grey eyes, quite changed her from the Maggie of the last three days. I had not guessed before that Maggie could look so sweet. Few people gain in attractiveness from an uncomfortable mood, but just a very few do, and Maggie seems to be one of those few.

The Hepburns not being strictly counted "company," Denham and the twins were present. Talk flowed without difficulty. I found Mrs. Hepburn a charming g person, well-read and well-informed. Gladys Hepburn's simple style of girlish chat with the other girls made me wonder again at her reputed authorship; though now and then a passing flash of something, a little out of the common way, showed possibilities of more below the surface than appeared outside.

Eustace had an engagement at the Park, and Thyrza was unsociably silent—one might almost say, gloomy. But Nona and Denham's tongues seldom ceased to be heard, and I saw Elfie exerting herself in cheerful wise.

Two or three times the subject of news from abroad came up; and each time Elfie eagerly turned the conversation to some other topic. I had noted before this shrinking on her part from speech about the absent mother and sister. It was more marked on Saturday evening, just because the matter was brought forward more often.

Three times Elfie's efforts were successful; but the fourth time, they failed. We were then having dessert, and the two little ones were present. Mr. Romilly, as he cracked nuts for Popsie and Pet, launched into a series of remarks about his wife, addressed to Mrs. Hepburn and myself. He enlarged on the enormous relief to his mind of knowing that his beloved Gertrude had borne the journey so well, so very well, so much better than might have been expected—er!

"At this time of the year," he repeated in his thin small voice, "the risk so great—really we cannot be thankful enough—er! I am sure we may hope in a very short time, Miss Conway, to hear that our dear invalid is truly benefiting by the change—er, and is growing stronger—"

"Father, have you asked Gladys all about her book yet?" broke in Elfie, speaking very fast.

Gladys looked by no means grateful for the suggestion, and Mr. Romilly pursued, unheeding it—

"As I was saying—er—I hope that in a very short time our dear invalid will so benefit from the soft air of Italy—er—"

"It's going to be published very soon, isn't it, Gladys? You know, father, don't you?"

"Yes, my dear, I have heard some mention of it certainly,—er," said Mr. Romilly, with a polite glance at Gladys, and a troubled air at the interruption. "But I was just saying to Miss Conway—er—that I hope we may expect before long to hear—er—"

"It's not to be a big book. Gladys doesn't exactly know yet how big. Perhaps a shilling or two," continued Elfie, running the words one into another, while I could see every muscle in her face to be on the quiver. "And she wouldn't tell us, till—"

"Elfie, we know all that," said Nona. "Gladys has told us herself."

"And you keep on interrupting father," added Maggie. "He wants to say something."

"Elfie isn't well," interposed Thyrza bluntly, making an original remark for the first time. "Can't you see? If mother were here—"

The rest of Thyrza's sentence was lost. Elfie became in a moment the centre of attention. But for this, she might perhaps have fought through to the end of dinner successfully, long and slow as Glynde House dinners are. We had sat down at a few minutes after seven, and now it was a quarter-past eight.

Thyrza's words may have given the finishing touch: I cannot be sure. But Elfie grew white to the lips and started up, gazing round with great despairing eyes.

"May I go? Oh, may I go?" she gasped.

"Nonsense, Elfie. Sit down and be quiet," said Maggie. "You promised mother not to give way to this sort of thing."

"She really can't help it," I heard Thyrza mutter.

What others would have done, if I had kept my seat, I do not know. But the look in Elfie's face was too much for me. I forgot all about being a stranger, and I forgot Maggie's last words. Before another remark could be made, I was by Elfie's side.

"Come, dear, come into another room with me," I said impulsively.

I had no time to see what others thought of my sudden move. Elfie literally flung herself into my arms, and lay there, a dead weight, rigid and voiceless. The wide-open fixed eyes alarmed me. Others were starting up from the table, with a medley of exclamations.

"It's about the letter from mother! Poor little Elf!"

"Why couldn't you all have sense to keep clear of that?"

"Denham, for shame! It was father who spoke!"

"Call Millie, somebody! Millie will know best what to do."

"Yes, Millie knows how to manage. Call Millie."

"Mother never likes a fuss made about Elfie, Miss Conway!"

I paid no attention to any of them, but dipped my hand into a tumbler, and dashed water into Elfie's face. Then I carried her resolutely through the throng, past Miss Millington as she entered in response to a summons, and into the study. There I laid her on a sofa, kneeling beside her. The rigidity and the fixed stare passed into a burst of the most passionate weeping. Miss Millington drew close, talking and trying to take possession of the sobbing girl; but Elfie turned from her, and clung wildly to me.

"Elfie is very wrong. She ought not to give way like this," Maggie's voice said.

"She would not, but for being petted," observed Miss Millington.

Maggie took her cue from the suggestion. "It will never do to pet Elfie when she is hysterical, Miss Conway. Mother never allows anything of the sort."

I looked up, and said, "Maggie, there are too many of us here. Elfie will leave off, if she is quiet. You and I are quite enough."

Maggie looked rather astonished, and said nothing. Miss Millington whispered to her, and withdrew, followed by Thyrza and Nona. Mrs. Hepburn and Gladys had wisely not added to the crowd, thereby keeping Mr. Romilly, Denham and the little ones, also away.

"Now, Elfie!" I said.

"Petting never does for her, Miss Conway," persisted Maggie.

Whereupon I stood up, with difficulty releasing myself from Elfie's clutch, and said, "Will you undertake her, Maggie, or would you rather leave her to me? Pulling two ways is quite useless."

"Oh, I never can manage Elfie in these states. Mother always says it is best to leave her alone. She will cry and scream about everything, if she is allowed." Maggie walked off as she spoke, with an offended air, shutting the door.

"Now, Elfie!" I said once more.

She buried her face on my shoulder, fighting hard to obey. I stroked her black hair once or twice with my hand, and the slender arms held me in a tight clasp.

"Poor little woman! It seems a long time, doesn't it?" I said cheerfully, after a while. "But the weeks go very fast. You will be astonished soon to find how they have flown. And I dare say you will feel better for having had a cry."

"I did try so hard, and I could not help it," she sighed. Actual weeping had pretty well ceased, though breath came brokenly still.

"I am sure you tried," I said. "But nobody can be surprised at your feeling her absence, Elfie. She is such a dear mother, isn't she?"

"Yes. Oh, I do love her so! But nobody else cries, and they all say I mustn't. And it almost seems as if nobody else cared, and I can't bear them not to care. And I don't know how to bear her being away—such a dreadfully long time! If only they wouldn't say things—wouldn't speak—"

"Hush, Elfie! You have cried enough," I said gravely.

She laid her face on my shoulder, resolutely suppressing every sound.

"That is brave," I whispered. "And you have to be brave, haven't you? Your mother would be so grieved to hear that any of you were unhappy."

"Yes, oh, I know. If only I needn't think of her! If only nobody would speak—"

"But you would not quite like that really," I said. "It is so natural for you all to speak and think of the dear mother."

And then I tried saying a few words about the need for patience and for submission to God's will. I told her that she must ask for strength to fight on bravely, must ask to be kept from adding to others' troubles. I spoke also about God's loving care of our absent ones; and I reminded Elfie how she might pray very often for the dear mother, and how she might always think of her as safe in a Father's hands, guarded and protected.

"That is the best comfort, Elfie," I said, "the only real comfort! For He is just as much with her out there in Italy as with us here in England."

I was surprised at the sudden calmness which came in response to my few and simple words. Elfie's tears stopped, and the hard long breaths grew easy. She sat up on the sofa, put her arms round me once more, and said, "I am so sorry to have given all this trouble."

"No trouble at all," I said. "But I should like to see you happy, dear Elfie."

"I know I ought to be happy," she said quietly.

Then I noticed again a shrinking gesture, and I found her to be suffering from a fit of acute neuralgia.

"It didn't matter," she said gently. She "supposed it had been coming on all day, and crying always made the pain worse. So that was all her own fault, and nobody would think anything of it."

I could not see any "fault" under the circumstances; for Elfie's distress really seemed to me natural, if perhaps a little excessive.

I made her talk more about her mother, thinking anything better than the smothering down all feeling, and I was glad to find that she could respond calmly. One or two facts dropped from her, with which I was not yet acquainted. Mrs. Romilly has evidently been in a state of great nervousness and over-strain for months past. Sometimes for days together she could scarcely endure a voice or a footfall. Nobody has known what was the matter with her. I could not help suspecting from one or two of Elfie's expressions that she has also shown constant irritation.

"It was so difficult to get on," Elfie observed. "And you know I am always the one that teases mother so, not like Maggie."

The pain grew worse, and Elfie seemed hardly able to bear it. She did not complain, and there were no signs of an inclination to cry; but she walked up and down the room, and could not be still an instant. I persuaded her to go to bed, and accompanied her upstairs. Nona presently appeared, and we tried two or three remedies without much success.

"Nothing would do any good, except going to sleep," Nona averred.

I had to endure one of Mr. Romilly's little speeches, later in the evening, when only Maggie was present, beside our two selves; the Hepburns having departed.

"A sensitive girl, Elfie!" he said. "But it is not our way—er—to make much stir about Elfie's little crying fits, Miss Conway. I think—if you will excuse my making the suggestion—er—that it might perhaps be wise on the whole, another time to consult—er—Maggie, or—er—Miss Millington. My dear wife is very particular—er—very particular indeed—about Elfie's hysterical tendencies receiving—er—no encouragement."

"It is necessary of course that she should learn to control herself," I managed to edge in.

"You see—er—Miss Conway,—it is not that Elfie has more heart than the others—but—er—less command—and very nervous. Her dear mother always says—er—that dear Elfie requires much bracing. The dear girls are all so unlike one another. You will find—er—very different modes of treatment required. Elfie has always been something of a trouble to her dear mother. So unlike dear Maggie and Nona, and our dear Nellie—er. Thyrza again—but indeed Thyrza is a difficult girl to comprehend. In Elfie there is no want of feeling—" a slight stress on "Elfie" seemed to imply the want in Thyrza,—"but—er—not a happy temperament, I fear. My dear wife made Elfie promise—er—promise faithfully not to give way in her absence to these hysterical tendencies. I am quite grieved that dear Elfie's resolution—er—should so soon have failed."

"I think Elfie fought well, before giving way," I said. "She is not well this evening."

Mr. Romilly shook his head, demurred, and sighed. Maggie took no part in the dialogue, and her good-night to me was markedly frigid.

I could not but muse much, in the course of going to bed, on things as they were compared with things as I had expected to find them. And never in my life before have I prayed so earnestly for wisdom in everyday life. One false step now might bring on a most unpleasant state of things, and permanently alienate Maggie from me.

Thyrza I have in some measure won already; and Elfie's manner since Saturday evening has been affectionate. But I have no hold on Nona; Maggie does not like me; and Miss Millington is already my distinct antagonist.

"If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, . . . and it shall be given him." Clear enough that. "But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering."

I do lack; and I think I am asking, with full belief in the promise. But the wisdom one asks may not be given precisely as and how one would choose. I must be content to wait.

Late as I sat up, Saturday night, others overhead were later still. A prolonged murmur of voices went on long. Not till I was in bed did it cease, and then I heard footsteps come softly downstairs, and pass into "the girls'" room, where Maggie now sleeps alone.

Could that be Maggie? I thought. And next morning I overheard Denham say—

"What were you after, Maggie, not coming to bed till such unearthly hours last night?"

"I know," Nona answered for Maggie. "She was up with Millie, talking. That's all."

I begin to think my journalising is in danger of running to excess. I must curb myself. Lessons have begun to-day, and my leisure will decrease.