Chapter XX: And a Yorkshire Dale

THE SAME—continued.

OUR dog-cart took the lead, descending first the steep and rugged road which led from the station, our driver walking at the horse's head. I found that the waggonette was Mr. Romilly's property, but that the dog-cart was hired,—said driver being its owner, a kind and fatherly old farmer, living near Beckdale House. He and his will be our nearest neighbours here, I imagine.

Rain still fell, though not heavily; and it soon ceased, for which I was not sorry. We could not hold up umbrellas. The wind came in blasts.

Elfie would in a general way have been nervous to the last degree about so abrupt a descent; but she scarcely seemed to notice it. Her whole mind was with her mother. The horse planted his feet slowly and with caution, his great haunches going down in successive jerks. I could hear little cries and exclamations of half-simulated half-real alarm from the waggonette: yet no sound came from Elfie.

It was getting very dusky, for we had been long at the station. I was able, however, to see distinctly the small sharp face leaning against me, whitey-brown in hue, with wide-open terror-stricken eyes fixed on vacancy; and the chill of Elfie's clasping fingers came through her gloves and mine. I did not speak to her, however. I knew she would rather be let alone.

The very steep hillside safely over, our drivers mounted, and we bowled along a good road, still indeed descending, but often so gently that one scarcely perceived the fact.

Dusky hills or perhaps mountains rose high on either side of the long narrow dale through which our way led us: and to our left a brawling stream rushed downward from the dale-head. My attention was riveted, as the road brought us near. I have never before seen a genuine mountain-torrent. The seeing was indeed partial; but the swirl of white foam gleamed weirdly through semi-darkness, and the roar of small waterfalls over opposing boulders came to my ears like grand chords of Nature's music.

I looked to discover if Elfie were able to enjoy all this; but no, she had not stirred, and the fixed eyes were blank, as of one whose thoughts are turned entirely inward.

Then I glanced back, to catch a glimpse of Thyrza's straight characteristic profile—she has the best profile of any one in the family—and she turned, as if from a simultaneous impulse, to glance at me, her lips parted, her eyes shining, her whole face softened into a rare new beauty. I was so glad that enough light remained for me to gain a clear view of her at that moment. It was a fresh glimpse of Thyrza's real self.

"You like this?" I breathed, leaning back to speak, and she said—

"Oh, it is splendid!"

I do not think any more passed between us. One cannot always talk when one feels the most.

Now and then the farmer, Mr. Stockmoor, and I exchanged a few words across the silent Elfie. I found his Yorkshire dialect less difficult to understand than I should have expected; but doubtless many speak far more broadly. He told me that there has been heavy rain lately, so the river is unusually full. Also I learnt that the Dale is somewhere about ten miles long; and that Beckdale House occupies a position over six miles from the Head, and between three and four from the farther and lower end, where is situated the small town of Beckbergh. We might have gone to Beckbergh Station, had it been so willed, but an extra change of trains would have been involved thereby, and Mr. Romilly has a mortal aversion to changes. I suspect, however, that he will prefer to endure any number in future, rather than commit himself to the horrors of "that frightful descent."

The six miles seemed short to me, and I think to Thyrza also, with such surroundings to study. July twilight, especially in the north, is not very profound, or very quick to deepen into darkness.

I could hardly believe that the drive was ended, when we found ourselves entering a garden-gate and immediately stopping before a house,—"t' hoose" our new friend called it,—grown thickly over with creepers. It stood very close to the road, and was a less imposing edifice than I had perhaps expected.

Rouse opened the door; and I explained to her at once, briefly, how things were. Though I did not exactly state my new position in the household, she seemed in a measure to understand, appealing to me as well as to Maggie in respect of sleeping arrangements. After Glynde House, the rooms appeared limited both in number and size. Rouse had settled matters to the best of her ability, and I thought wisely: but Maggie at once proposed a bouleversement of the whole. She objected to the room set apart for her use and Thyrza's, declined to fall in with my suggestion that she should for the present occupy the best bedroom, complained that Miss Millington's was "horridly uncomfortable," roamed discontentedly up and down stairs, contradicted everybody, kept the hungry and tired children waiting for their supper, and showed herself for once unequivocally out of temper. Of course I knew too well the cause; and I augured badly for the future from her mood.

It was my earnest wish to avoid needless struggles, so I only counselled patience to the younger girls, and then did the best I could to smooth matters by offering to share my own bedroom with Thyrza for a few days. Maggie at first flatly refused the offer, but gradually came round to it; and as a next move, she requested Miss Millington to share her bedroom—the same which she had just before denounced as "not big enough" for two sisters.

"Instead of that poky little hole you have now, Millie dear," she said, with a defiant glance at me from her pretty grey eyes.

"Millie" demurred, but agreed. I made no objections, though I could not approve of the plan. I did not believe that Mr. or Mrs. Romilly would like her to sleep so far-away from the children in her charge. This difficulty, however, was removed to some extent by Thyrza's immediate—"Then I shall sleep in that room, and leave Miss Con in peace."

She said to me later, "I know it is better for you: and of course the little ones can't be left with no one near. Such a shame of those two!"

I said little in answer, except to thank her for helping me. The comfort of a room to myself still is not small,—though indeed I would rather have Thyrza for a companion than any one else.

To-day the girls and Miss Millington have been chiefly occupied in unpacking and arranging. I have seen little of any of them, for Elfie has been so ill with neuralgia, that I could neither let her come downstairs, nor leave her alone for any length of time.

We have had drenching rain, without a break, from early morning. I wonder if this is usual in July. Denham has been out, of course, regardless of soaking. Thyrza and Nona ventured a short distance, but they were soon driven back, and had to change everything.

Just opposite our house, on the other side of the Dale, is a fine waterfall,—unusually full and fine just now, from the heavy rain. It begins, not far from the top of the hill, as a straight thread of silver. Then comes a break, where I suppose the stream flows over a slope. Then a great tumbling leap down a rocky descent, followed by a second break, and by a final spreading burst of water to lower levels, where it is hidden by trees. I could stand and watch for hours.

The river, flowing among meadows in the bottom of the valley, is not visible from our windows. We have glimpses of the other road, beyond the river, running parallel with this road; and beyond the road rises a great beautiful mountainous mass, extending far to left and right. I do not know its name yet, but everybody seems to call it "The Fell." The waterfall leaps down its sides near; and far-away to the left we can see upon it "The Scaur," a mass of precipitous bare rock, in a green frame.

The hills on this side of the Dale, behind our house, are more smooth and round, and less lofty. Higher up the Dale, some miles off, we have glimpses of mountains, which I am told are over two thousand feet in height. Their summits are swathed in cloud at present.

July 31. Friday Afternoon.—No news yet from Germany. I cannot make up my mind how soon we ought to hear. Surely a second telegram might have been sent; or a letter written by Nellie just after the accident might arrive.

Elfie was awake all night, and to-day she is shaken and hysterical, tears springing at the least word. I would not let her come downstairs till after lunch. Now she is on the drawing-room sofa, sound asleep, and I am journalising at a side-table. I feel safe in so doing, for once. We have had another wet morning; and the sun having come out since lunch, our whole party started ten minutes ago for a ramble. They will not be back for at least two hours, if rain keeps off. So I may as well utilise the time.

Thyrza alone helps me in taking care of Elfie. Maggie, Nona, the little ones, and "Millie" keep studiously aloof. I cannot but see that this is intentional, and that the ill-feeling towards me is fostered by Miss Millington. Nona has her rude manner. The little ones pout when I come near, and are gushing towards their "sweetest darling duckie Millie!" If I glance at Miss Millington, she bridles and tosses her head. Maggie has scarcely spoken to me to-day, except to oppose whatever I wish or suggest. There has been as yet no actual resistance of my authority, and I hope that there may not be,—also that this state of things may not last. It is very foolish: and Maggie's ill-humour has an odd childishness about it.

A letter unexpectedly reached me this morning from Lady Denham,—short, but very kind. She has had a note from Eustace, written in London; and she writes, plainly with a clear understanding of things generally, to assure me that I must not hesitate to appeal to her, if need should arise.

Of course I have shown and read the letter to no one,—though the postmark was commented on by Maggie and Nona in what I cannot but count an unladylike because interfering style.

If nothing else prevented me, one sentence would. Lady Denham says, near the end—

"Is it not singular? We have just come across that young officer again,—Captain A. Lenox, whom we saw at Rouen. You will remember my son mentioning him in connection with a photograph. I think you said you had known some member of the same family. He was at the same hotel with us in Bath, three days ago. I was glad to see him quite well."

That is all. I do not understand her object in making the remark. She may have written the words quite innocently,—or she may have some dim suspicion of the truth.

Either way, what difference can it make? For I can do nothing. Womanly reserve and self-respect forbid the slightest step on my part. If he knew—But if he did, he might not care! How can I tell? He is "quite well," that may mean "quite recovered" in more ways than one. I think a woman clings longer to a hopeless memory than a man does. And he told me plainly that he would never place himself in my path again.

What can have taken him to Bath I cannot—

* * * * * * *

Something so terribly unpleasant has happened. I cannot write more now. My hand is shaking, and I feel altogether upset. I will never journalise in the drawing-room again.