Chapter XXI: Through a Storm

THE SAME.

August 1. Saturday Evening.

YESTERDAY afternoon, when I had written those two words, "I cannot—" Nona darted into the room, and seized my dress, with a scared whisper—

"Come! quick! quick! A telegram for you! We are so frightened."

I could see that she was. She looked quite pale and out of breath. I found later that they had met on the road the messenger from the telegraph-office, had guessed his errand, questioned him, and raced back in a body, at full speed, to find out what I should have to tell them.

Elfie showed no signs of waking. In my anxiety to relieve the poor girls' suspense, I rose at once, just closing my journal volume upon a sheet of blotting-paper, but not fastening the spring-lock according to my invariable habit hitherto. Indeed it was not only for the girls' sake that I made all possible haste. A terrible fear crept over me that my dear and loving friend might be no more.

Miss Millington stood in the passage outside. I think I said something to her in passing, but I do not know what; and I remarked with a vague surprise that she did not follow us. Then I forgot her existence.

Maggie, Thyrza, and Denham, with the little ones, were on the gravel-path outside the front porch, waiting for us. Nona hurried me thither,—not faster than I would have gone without her hurrying. I noticed that Popsie and Pet were half crying; that Thyrza was rigid and sad; that Maggie seemed bewildered, yet kept her usual colour. Denham held out the envelope, saying, "We thought you wouldn't like Elfie startled." Afterwards I learnt that they would all have dashed in together, but for Thyrza's remonstrances.

I tore open the thin paper, and read aloud—

"Mother no worse, doctors give hope!"

Dead silence followed, lasting several seconds. Then, to my astonishment, Maggie remarked in a cheerful tone—

"Oh, well, it isn't so bad! She is getting better!"

"Maggie!!" half-smothered, came from behind, and I turned to see Thyrza on the verge of tears, fighting to control herself.

"'No worse,' Maggie—Hardly 'better' yet," I said gravely.

"I can't think why Nellie didn't send the telegram to me," said Maggie.

"She wished, of course, to avoid startling you," I said.

The children were asking—"Is mother nearly well?" And as Maggie chose to give a particularly hopeful response, I did not interfere.

"I would rather have nothing said to Elfie," I observed, when a few remarks had passed.

"Don't you mean to tell her what we have heard?" demanded Nona.

"I am not sure," I said. "Perhaps, by-and-by; but it must depend on how Elfie is."

"Mother never likes Elfie to be coddled," asserted Maggie with promptitude. She has that notion at her fingers' ends.

"I have not the least intention of coddling Elfie," I answered. "There is such a thing as necessary caution; and neither you nor I wish to have Elfie ill. I must request you all to say nothing about the telegram to her without my leave."

Maggie turned and walked a few paces, remarking, "Well, I suppose we may as well go on now. Where's Millie?"

Did she really not care—or not understand? Or was this only assumed indifference?

"She went indoors," Nona said.

"I will find Miss Millington, and ask her to join you out here," I said. "Elfie is asleep, and I would rather not have her roused."

"Millie can catch us up. Come along, girls," Denham said, with an air of forced cheerfulness. I could not but be glad to see how forced his cheerfulness was,—also how pale and serious Nona and the little ones looked. Thyrza held back and when asked to accompany them, she said, "No!" then vanished round the side of the house. Maggie alone showed no signs of being deeply stirred. And when I remember how that poor mother clings to Maggie—But if she were here, she would believe in Maggie still!

I returned then to the drawing-room. As I opened the door and entered, Miss Millington came hurrying across the room. I was struck with her flushed face and flurried manner. She did not look at me, and would have gone straight past, but I whispered—

"They are expecting you in the garden." She made no answer, and disappeared.

A glance revealed to me Elfie sleeping soundly still. I was thankful for that,—poor child. She had stirred and changed her position, but the coming and going had not roused her.

I sat down again at the side-table; and in one moment I knew that my papers had been meddled with. The consciousness came over me like a clap of thunder.

It is my habit to be very orderly in arrangements when writing. Hurriedly as I had been called away, I could have told exactly how each sheet and envelope lay,—placed in readiness for letter-writing, after journalising. The order of them was changed now. Note-sheets, envelopes and post-cards, had been thrust into a heap. That might mean nothing,—merely a hasty movement of somebody's hand, in going to the drawer. But that was not all. I opened my journal, and I knew at once that it had been opened in my absence. The piece of blotting-paper, which I had left between the leaves, had fallen half out; and the leaves themselves were rumpled, as if by too hurried turning over and too hasty closure.

If further proof were needed, I had it. For straight before my eyes, close to the name of "Arthur Lenox," lay one small yellowish rose-petal, pink-edged. I was well aware from what rose that petal came. Only half-an-hour earlier I had seen Maggie fasten it in Miss Millington's dress, with an apology for its too full-grown condition. The petal must have fluttered down, unseen, at the last moment, as she shut the book, startled by my quick return.

My first feeling was as if I had been stunned by a blow. I could not understand what had happened,—could not let myself face it. How long I sat, gazing in stupefaction at the last unfinished sentence of my journal, I do not know. It must have been quite mechanically that I at last added a few words, found further writing impossible, shut and locked the book, and glanced at Elfie.

Asleep still! I could not see her face in the new position she had assumed,—a crumpled-up attitude peculiar to herself; but her extreme stillness convinced me that there was no fear of an awakening at present. She might be left for a short time.

I took the journal, and went upstairs to my own room.

There the storm broke,—not outwardly, much of it. But all at once I realised what this deed was which Miss Millington had done to me. She had covertly possessed herself of my heart's secret,—had stolen from me my most guarded possession. The agony of having the thing known at all—worst of all known by her!—came upon me fiercely; and then the contemptibleness of her conduct! The miserable paltry curiosity! The shameless lack of honour!—Then again my own helplessness! I could do nothing. How much or how little she had read or understood, I might never know.

I could not even prove that she had really looked: and if I could, what use? Nothing could undo that which she had done. I would never stoop to accuse her of it,—would never put myself further in her power, by letting her know that I had discovered her act. I would only despise and hate her thenceforward, as a creature utterly base and low, beneath contempt, outside the pale of common respect. Forgive her! Love her! Never!

I have always known that I "had a temper," as the saying is,—a temper capable of being roused on occasions, though not susceptible to very small daily worries. But never till yesterday have I felt myself powerless in its grasp, carried away like a leaf in the gale.

The half-hour that I spent alone in my room might have been hours, judged by what I went through in the course of it.

I was unable to sit still, unable to kneel, unable to pray. The overmastering anguish of hate and scorn gradually subdued all other sensations. Pain itself went down for the time before that storm of withering contempt. For I have always had such a horror of anything not strictly and perfectly honourable! I have always been so scrupulous in dealing with others! To look at a thing secretly, not meant for one's eyes, has seemed to me, not merely so wrong, but so absolutely impossible! And now—to be subjected to this!

Half an hour and no more I gave myself. At its close, the battle was not fought out,—was scarcely indeed begun. I had not fought at all. I had only been swept along by a tornado of passion. And I think that the one thing which kept me from losing my balance, which restrained me from resolving on some wild or rash step of reprisal or escape, in that half-hour of fearful resentment, was the consciousness of my Father's pity,—the knowledge that He was looking down all the while tenderly on His poor racked child, and that He would help me, so soon as I could and would glance up to Him for help.

I thought He would not help me—yet! I thought I could not glance towards Him—yet! But I do think now that my very sense of His loving pity was even then a wordless prayer,—and that even then His Hand was holding me back.

For somehow at the half-hour's end, I could be outwardly calm. I washed my face, smoothed my hair, and noted curiously in the glass my unusual degree of pallor, and the strange expression in my eyes. I wondered if others would remark the latter; for I felt that I could not control it. Then I went downstairs to the drawing-room.

Elfie was awake. She showed no surprise at my absence, but seemed poorly and fretful, and would not talk. I saw signs of tears, and when I tried to comfort her, she turned fractiously away, hiding her face in the cushion. So I left her quiet, and sat down with work, resolving to make no mention at present of the telegram.

The walking-party returned earlier than I expected. I was determined that Miss Millington should see no change in my manner. Pride demanded this of me. But whether I was successful, I do not know. When she first came into the room, I had a sensation of being turned to ice. She may not have noted any difference, since, to my knowledge, she never looked at me once during the hour that we were all together. The resolute manner in which her eyes shunned mine was remarkable; for generally they seem to be everywhere. The walking-party had much to say about their ramble,—not to me, but one to another. I would not be left out of the conversation, and talked as much as anybody; but by the time tea was over, the strain had become almost more than I knew how to endure.

Thyrza, who had been very silent, found an opportunity to say to me, unheard by the rest—

"Are you tired, Miss Con?"

"Rather," I answered. "Would you mind sitting with Elfie for an hour, while I have a walk?"

"No, of course I will. I meant to ask if you wouldn't like some fresh air. But you will not go alone?"

"Quite alone," I said. The words sounded hard, and I tried to smile.

"Couldn't Millie or somebody else take care of Elfie? I should so like to be with you."

"Not this evening," I answered. She looked at me with such puzzled eyes, that I became conscious of something peculiar in my manner, and to soften the words, I added, "Better not ask it. They talked of another ramble before supper."

We have given up late dinner for the present, while Mr. Romilly is away.

"Isn't Elfie so well? Are you worried about her?"

"I don't think she is actually ill," I said. "She needs care."

"And you have told her about the telegram?"

"No. Why?"

"Oh, I thought—I didn't know, of course,—only, she was crying so, just before tea."

"I have said nothing. I hope the children have not let it out," I said.

"They wouldn't dare! If Maggie—" Thyrza paused. "But Elfie always frets, when she is poorly, and her faceache is so bad to-day. I dare say it is only that. I'll go to her now. Do get a walk. I am sure you have been too long indoors."

Thyrza's solicitude was my one touch of outside comfort. I could see that she thought me distressed about her mother, as indeed I was and am. But that pain grows small beside the other.

A few minutes later I was off. The sun had gone in, and it was a grey yet clear evening, some blue sky visible towards Beckbergh, and heavy masses of dark cloud brooding over the upper extremity of the Dale, while mountain-outlines near at hand stood out distinctly against a pale background, dun-tinted. On quitting the garden, I turned to the right, aware that other walkers from our house would turn to the left. I did not yet allow myself to think. I wanted first to work off by rapid exercise some small part of the stony misery.

The road slanted downward, gradually nearing the river. By-and-by I gained glimpses of a broad bridge crossing it, far ahead. One pathway leading up the hillside, on my right hand, attracted me; but I resolved first to have a look at the bridge, then to return and try this path.

As the main road descended, it grew more and more muddy,—not surprising after such heavy rain. I had to choose my steps with some care. There were cows loitering along, a few at a time in charge of a man and a dog, on their way back from afternoon milking. I exchanged a kind "Good-evening" with the man. Old-fashioned greetings from strangers seem the fashion here, why not elsewhere? I pondered this question mechanically, patting the rough side of a cow as I went by. And then I noted one or two distant whitewashed farms: and the pretty silken-coated sheep on the hillsides, so different from our southern sheep, took my fancy. But still I kept at bay the lowering black cloud within.

The bridge was reached at last, by a road which turned down to it from the main road. I leant upon the stone-parapet, and gazed, as in a dream, upon the curdling stream, chocolate-brown in hue, swift and steadfast in its rush. It was hard to believe that the brawling mountain-torrent of a few miles higher up could have already grown to this powerful river.

Somehow I was unable to remain on the bridge. The spot did not satisfy my need. There was a cottage near, and I wanted to be away from anything human. Soon I retraced my steps for some distance along the main road, and struck up by the side-path which I had before noticed.

This path, like the road beneath, led towards the lower Dale-extremity: but it wandered up the steep hillside, instead of keeping near the bottom of the valley, serving evidently as a shorter cut to Beckbergh, over a rocky ridge. It is probably a good deal frequented; yet no one overtook or passed me yesterday. The complete solitude was what I had craved for. I went on, till a distant glimpse of the town, Beckbergh, beyond and beneath, became visible.

I did not wish to get there,—though I might have had time, the evenings now are so long. I only wanted to find a spot, secure from interruption, where I might dare to indulge thought.

I had reached the highest point of the pathway, after which it begins to descend towards Beckbergh. It crosses there a wild green common-like slope, broken by out-standing rocks and big boulders.

So I left the path, and went upwards, regardless of the wet grass, and presently I found a seat upon one flat rock, another rising a little below in just such a position as to hide me effectually from anybody who should pass along the path.

Then at last I knew that I might allow myself to think,—and I meant to begin, and have the matter out. But before I could set to work, my eyes fell on a beautiful plant of real Parsley fern, growing a few paces off, under the shelter of an overhanging boulder.

How delighted Thyrza would be! I would get it for her, of course. She is an ardent fern-collector, and I knew she was hoping to find many specimens while here. Maggie follows suit, as a matter of course, and collects fitfully, under "Millie's" superintendence, neither knowing much about the matter. There had been talk at tea-time about the abundant supplies of Polypody and Adiantum Nigrum, already noted. Maggie had expressed hopes of "Oak" and "Beech," and Thyrza had added—"Perhaps even Parsley!"—almost her sole remark. And here the Parsley was!

My trouble had to wait a while longer. Digging a Parsley fern out of a rocky bed, not having even the help of a knife, is no easy matter. I pulled off my gloves, and knelt down, setting to work with care and determination. The business took some time, but I did it thoroughly, keeping the roots almost intact. My "find" at length was freed, and I went back to the seat I had chosen.

And then I sat silently, looking around, willing to face my grief, yet somehow composed. The storm of rage and contempt did not return. I had felt so sure that it must; and I was mistaken.

I had a good view of the Dale, with its high hill-ranges on either side. "The Fell" lay opposite, extending far up the valley: a great mountainous mass, with curved clear outlines, hummocked and dimpled sides; the frowning Scaur in the distance contrasting with soft green surroundings; masses of bracken varying the grass-tints; slender winding rivulets streaking its sides like silver snakes; and the lights and shades of evening lending a wonderful beauty to the whole. I could see the river below, and near the Dale-Head loftier mountains reared their summits into the grey clouds which clustered there; but my eyes returned persistently to the changeful loveliness of The Fell. For that enchained me.

I almost think that at first there was a sense of disappointment at my own quietness. I hardly wished to be quiet yet. For I had been so grievously wronged. My wrath had been a righteous wrath,—so I told myself, not seeing how far it had passed the righteous boundary. I suppose no anger that has the mastery over one can ever be a purely just anger. The contempt too, I told myself, had been no more than Miss Millington deserved. I despised still, and I must despise. There could be no excuse for her. And a voice seemed to whisper—"No! None! And yet—!"

I hardly know how to tell what followed. I do not wish to lose the recollection, so I must try. But it was not words. It was only—the help I needed.

I must have looked up to Him unknowingly. I did believe that He would help me, sooner or later. And it was sooner, instead of later. Perhaps He sometimes—often—comes, unasked, to the rescue of His own, in peril.

Though passionate anger was lulled, pain was not. It grew keener, deeper, as I sat there. The consciousness of what she had done came over me afresh, and with it a fresh agony at having my secret known. Would she make use of her discovery?—Tell it to others? Surely not! And yet I could believe her capable of even this. I had no fear that she or any one would dare to speak a word to me on the subject. But to know that others know!—This I felt to be enough, more than enough, more than I might endure!

The pain was none the less for being a calm pain. Passion had helped me earlier. Now the very calmness rendered me better able to feel, better fitted to measure the cause which existed for pain. And in a little while, I could not face the sweet scene around—I could only drop my head on my knees, shivering in the cold grasp of a bitter distress, a dull longing to be out of it all and away from everybody—for ever.

My own helplessness was terrible, helplessness to undo the evil, helplessness to meet it, helplessness to guard myself, helplessness to forgive. I seemed to be hedged round on every side.

"Forgive her! Oh never!" I found myself murmuring.

And suddenly I seemed to see that sad Denial-Scene, when one whom the Master loved turned against Him, in cowardly wise abjuring His Name. And I saw in response, no anger, no bitterness, no contempt; only one gentle Look from those wonderful loving Eyes, so grave and sweet, pleading and true, reproachful yet pitying, humanly sorrowful, Royally calm.

What has she done to me, compared with that which the craven disciple did to Him that day? More!—In what has she wronged me, compared with all the wronging of my coldness, heartlessness, ingratitude, towards Him—my Master and King? For I have not loved her,—I have not trusted her,—I have not given up aught for her sake! And what has not He done and endured for me?

The debt of one hundred pence indeed, beside the debt of ten thousand pounds! If He resented my ill-doings as I have resented hers, where should I be?

I think the look which softened St. Peter came to me too, in that hour on the lonely hillside. Perhaps there was the touch as well,—His Hand removing the bitterness, the wrath, the angry contempt; not taking away the pain, but rather laying it upon me anew, as something to be patiently endured for Him; and with it giving His peace.

Had I not only that morning pleaded to have His will worked in me, avowing myself submissive? And if this were His will?

It was not—is not—for me to choose. Just because this trouble so fiercely racks my pride, it may be the very burden I most need.

And, after all, I might have misjudged her. This thought came next. She might not have meant to look,—might have gone to the drawer for something, have moved my papers accidentally, have even thrown the book open by some awkward movement and have shut the page, unread.

If she did read,—then, dishonourable, base, contemptible, are not terms too strong for the deed. But yet I have not to judge her. To her own Master she standeth or falleth. Have I always acted towards my loving Lord with perfect honour, perfect courtesy, perfect thoughtfulness, perfect delicacy? And has He not forgiven me? Oh, times without number!

Besides, she may have been ill-trained. She may have by nature a blunt sense of honour, a defective understanding. There can be no excuse; but there may be considerations inducing pity.

"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."

That command followed. I knew from Whom it came: and I could only feel that I was willing,—if my God would make me able.

* * * * * * *

It was later than I had intended, when I reached home. Thyrza came to meet me at the garden-gate. She gave one long look, kissed me gravely, and said, "The walk has done you good. I am so glad."

I showed her the Parsley fern, and said, "I meant this for you. But what do you think? Shall I give it to Maggie?"

She flushed up and exclaimed at the sight of what I had brought, with genuine enthusiasm. Then I saw a moment's struggle.

"Yes,—please do," she said. "Maggie says you always put me first."

"Maggie would have no reason for saying so in this instance," I answered. "You are our chief fern-collector: so I count that you have the prime right."

"But Maggie has the fancy just now. Poor little fern! She will only let you die," sighed Thyrza. Yet there came again a decisive—"Yes, give it to her."

I did so: and Maggie received my gift awkwardly, glancing between her thanks at "Millie," to discover whether she were being betrayed into over-warmth.