Chapter XXIV: Unpalatable Advice

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

August 15. Saturday.

WE glide on from day to day, hardly aware, perhaps, how time is flitting. Better accounts of Mrs. Romilly reach us, but no word is spoken of Mr. Romilly's return to England.

The holidays once over, I think life may become easier. At present it is not easy. Often when I get up in the morning the weight of the hours ahead seems almost more than I can bear. Perhaps the strain of responsibility has somewhat told upon me lately.

I do not think I am fanciful, or disposed to the foolish magnifying of small affronts. But one cannot entirely shut one's eyes to what lies just ahead.

The constant and fretting opposition has increased steadily. Whatever I suggest, the conclave, headed by Miss Millington, at once resist. Whatever I arrange, the conclave, headed by Miss Millington, at once turn into a grievance.

So far as possible, I appeal to Maggie for her wishes before deciding on any plan: and Maggie of course appeals to "Millie." By this means, I have managed so far to avoid any serious struggles. Yet I sometimes wonder if I am acting quite wisely,—if I am not tacitly yielding to Miss Millington a power which she ought not to possess, and which she may sooner or later misuse.

If Lady Denham were not probably coming soon to Beckdale, I think I should appeal to her for advice. Yet it would be very difficult to put my perplexities into writing; and I am anxious not to take any hasty step.

The girls are talking of a walk to Gurglepool early next week. It has been chilly, with frequent rain for some days, and Maggie has had a cold: otherwise they would have gone sooner. I have fully determined that when they go, I go too. I have a certain dread of the place for them: probably a nervous and unnecessary dread; and of course they wish to see it.

Elfie has been poorly again: and I am still mystified at the change in her. She looks wretched,—pale, peaked, plain; all prettiness and animation gone: her moods being variable, but almost always fretful, and her fancies quite unmanageable. She persistently turns from me to "Millie." Thyrza is my one comfort.

By-the-bye, I have not mentioned our Church, which is between two and three miles off. The services are forlorn and sleepy: just in the style of sixty years ago: and the sermons wind lengthily round and round in hazy circles. When I go, I cannot help thinking of Sir Keith's words, the first time I saw him, about the needed help being "always there," if one is willing. Yes: I am sure he is right. But I do feel very thankful for the different spiritual food provided for us in Glynde,—even though the heavier responsibility is involved.

August 17. Monday.—This morning, when the post came in, Maggie cried, "Oh! Two letters from strangers. I do believe it is both of them at once!"

There was a small burst of excitement and wonder the girls crowding round Maggie. She read aloud the first brief epistle, with an animation which paled visibly towards the close. Thyrza and I kept our seats, but nobody else did.

The letter was so tersely expressed, that it has remained word for word on my mind.

"MY DEAR YOUNG LADY,—You are most welcome to such advice as I can give you. My advice is,—Don't write till you can't help it! Never write merely for the sake of writing! When you have something to say which will be said, then say it in your best possible mode, and see if anybody counts it to be worth publishing. Till then, be a good girl, and mend your stockings. Yours truly—

"ANNA SMITH"

"How stupid! She can't be at all a nice old lady," said Nona. "And a friend of yours, Millie!!" The reproachful intonation is not to be described.

Millie hastened to disavow the friendship. She had met Mrs. Smith once, she said, and had thought her a kind old lady, only peculiar of course,—all authoresses being peculiar. This, with a side-glance at me; for "Millie" does not like Gladys Hepburn, and she knows that I do. I must honestly confess that Gladys does not like Miss Millington, and shows the same unequivocally in her manner.

"Yes, she must be peculiar," asserted Maggie, catching at the offered straw. "It is such a very odd letter,—really almost rude. I shall never write to ask her advice again."

Then, the second envelope being opened, Maggie read aloud again. The letter was longer, and I cannot recall it precisely: but it was very nearly as follows:

"DEAR MADAM,—I can scarcely offer to give an opinion about your writing, unless I see a specimen. If you like to send me a few pages, I will tell you honestly what I think. That is all I can do: and my opinion need not settle the matter for you finally. You may have enough of the gift to be worth cultivating: and if so, I may be able to give you two or three suggestions as to the cultivation needed. From the style of your letter, I should judge that you are very young: and that a considerable amount of preparation would be needed, before you could enter the lists of authorship, with the least hope of success.

"Choose one dozen or twenty MS. pages of your best, as a fair
specimen.—I am, yours truly—

"LETITIA GRAHAM."

Maggie did not quite know what to make of this. She read it aloud a second time, commenting on each sentence, and evidently agreeing with Denham in his estimate of successful authoresses as "very odd customers!" But on the whole gratification won the day. For Miss Graham had not seen Maggie's last half-finished story. That was a consoling thought. When she had, it would of course make all the difference. She only wrote now to Maggie as she might write to—anybody!

"Do you mean to stop writing, if Miss Graham tells you?" demanded Thyrza.

Maggie looked astonished. "No. Why should I?" she asked.

"I don't know. It doesn't seem much use to ask for advice, unless you mean to follow it."

"I didn't ask her if I ought to write. I asked her what was the best way of getting into print."

If more were needed, Nona's remark supplied it:

"And of course, if she is a nice person, she'll tell you how, Maggie dear."

August 18. Tuesday.—This evening, after supper, I found that an excursion to Gurglepool was planned for to-morrow. Thyrza alluded to it, in evident unconsciousness that the matter had been concealed from me; and Maggie then explained. The party would walk, not drive, starting directly after lunch. Elfie, not being well enough for the fatigue, would of course stay behind under my guardianship: and Thyrza, having been before, could act as guide to the rest. Mr. Stockmoor had explained to Denham all about the short-cut over the hills.

I wished that I had told Thyrza my intentions about Gurglepool. Had she known them, she would have refused to join in any such scheme, without reference to me first.

For a moment the temptation to yield was strong. I knew that any interference with the plans of Maggie and Millie would be a dire grievance. Yet I could not shirk my own responsibilities.

"I am very sorry, Maggie," I said, when she had done; "but things cannot, I am afraid, be exactly as you wish. If you go to Gurglepool to-morrow, I must go too."

"Why?" was asked all round, in astonished accents.

"Because I do not think it is a very safe place; and I wish to be with you—at all events, the first time."

Maggie and Miss Millington exchanged glances. "Elfie can't walk so far," Nona burst out.

"No," I said. "I must ask Thyrza to stay behind in my stead: or else the excursion must be deferred."

"What nonsense!" I heard this distinctly in Miss Millington's murmur.

"Yes,—of course I will," assented Thyrza at once, though she could not quite suppress a look of disappointment.

"But we want Thyrza with us," said Maggie. "And Millie will be there. You don't suppose Millie can't take proper care of the children, Miss Con!" Her pretty grey eyes sparkled and met mine defiantly, and the peach-bloom deepened.

"No, Maggie," I said. "I am not questioning Miss Millington's powers. It is for my own satisfaction that I must go. I am answerable to your father."

"Not more than Millie is."

Maggie tossed her head as she spoke. The childishness of the utterance struck me oddly.

"Yea, certainly more," I replied. "Miss Millington has no responsibility about you older girls. You cannot have forgotten your father's words at the station, Maggie. I don't question the fact that you might all walk to Gurglepool a dozen times, and come home safely. But I have made up my mind that, as a matter of duty, I must the first time be one of the party. It is not for my own pleasure, and I am most sorry to disappoint Thyrza: still I have to do what I believe to be right."

Thyrza warmly assured me that she did not mind at all: she and Elfie would be perfectly happy together. The other girls drew in a knot round Miss Millington whispering. I have noted lately the growth of this schoolgirlish habit, and also I have seen Miss Millington encouraging it.

I could not hear what was said, and I did not try. Occasional bursts of laughter sounded, with more whispers between. Thyrza looked annoyed and quitted the room. I saw glances now and then levelled in my direction, and presently there was a distinct utterance—

"Captain Lenox!"

I paid no regard to the sound, working steadily. Indignation had to wait. Every faculty was bent to the task of keeping myself cool and unembarrassed.

The words came again more clearly:

"Captain Lenox!"

Still my needle went in and out; and Nona said aloud, pertly—

"Millie says you know him, Miss Con."

"Whom?" I asked.

"Captain Lenox."

"I have known a Captain Lenox," I said, looking up. "It may or may not be the same."

Another whisper, and—"Don't tell!" reached me.

"Captain Lenox who used to be at Bath," Miss Millington said, her eyes fixed upon me.

"That would probably be my acquaintance," I answered. "Have you heard anything of him?"

"Yes,—something," she said pointedly enough; and Maggie giggled.

I put down my work, and threaded my needle with a steady hand,—wondering at myself. It flashed across me in that moment how little my dear Mrs. Romilly, if she knew what Miss Millington really is, would approve of such a companionship for her girls.

"Millie knows somebody in Bath too," Nona remarked. "And she has written to Millie about Captain Lenox."

"Very likely," I answered. "Bath is a large place."

Whispers again. I thought I heard—"Carries it off well! But you know how she looked at—"

This was in Miss Millington's voice. Nona's followed; and I said gravely—

"Nona, I don't know what you and Maggie think, but I am very sure that your mother would not approve of such conduct. Whispering before others is a most unladylike trick. If you have secrets to discuss, you should either go into the dining-room, or ask me to leave you alone."

"Is that meant for me, Miss Conway?" demanded Miss Millington, with a furious flare-up. "Come, girls! We will go!"

And I was left alone, feeling strangely bruised and stunned. Was I right to speak so to Nona just then? Was it wise or unwise? I cannot judge yet. I am writing to-night, because sleep seems impossible: and now I am too tired to write more. How I could love those girls, if they would let me! But they will not. And "Millie" is the hindrance.

Things cannot go on so much longer. Sometimes I feel as if I must write fully to Nellie. Ought I to speak first to Miss Millington? Would she hear me? And what if I was betrayed into saying what I should afterward regret?

August 19. Wednesday.—The excursion to Gurglepool has been put off till to-morrow. We actually made the start to-day, and were turned back by rain.

I saw almost nothing of the girls all the morning,—except Thyrza, who is really distressed at Maggie's manner to me, though she does not know what passed yesterday evening, after she left the drawing-room.

Lunch over, I had to be quick if I would not be left behind. I foresaw small pleasantness in my self-imposed trip. Miss Millington was barely civil, and Maggie would scarcely answer when I spoke. Nona and the little ones, of course, followed suit.

So we started,—I, left to walk apart;—Denham rushing hither and thither; Maggie and Nona each hanging affectionately to one of "Millie's" arms, and the little ones keeping close to them, declining to approach me.

The first part of our way lay along the main road, going up the valley. I noted the gathering clouds, and made up my mind privately that we were in for heavy rain. But I said nothing. Others would see for themselves in time.

As we neared the Stockmoors' farm-house, I was somewhat in advance of the rest. Denham had climbed a bank for a flower, and the five stopped short,—perhaps to watch him, perhaps to note something else.

For I glanced back, and saw them gazing towards the whitewashed farm-house which lay close ahead. Involuntarily I looked in the same direction.

A young man was coming through the garden-gate; —a small gate, leading from the tiny flower-garden.

What first struck me was a certain familiarity in his figure and attitude,—the slight lithe figure, the soldierly bearing, the grace, ease, and promptitude with which he swung open the gate and stepped out upon the road.

In a moment I was face to face with Arthur Lenox!

If it had been anywhere else—if I had been behind the others instead of before,—if I had not been conscious of one dozen curious eyes close at hand,—most of all, if I could have had the least assurance that Arthur cares for me still,—I think I must have given some little word or look of welcome, which might perhaps have led to more!

But as things were, it was impossible! How could I, knowing that Miss Millington stood there? How could I, knowing what Miss Millington has seen of my secret thoughts?—If she did see it, which I can never really doubt. How could I, feeling all the while that Arthur Lenox may have utterly changed, may have given up even the wish to meet me again? No; I knew then, and I know still, that I had no choice.

His eyes met mine, and he lifted his hat. He did not change colour or seem startled: and that looks as if he had indeed got over it. And I—I thought for the moment that my heart must die within me, yet I did not even turn pale. The need to keep up was too desperate. And I know that I managed well: perhaps, alas! Too well, if he could care still. For now indeed he must count the matter hopeless.

I bowed coldly,—not in too icy a fashion, which might have been taken for restrained feeling, but with a quiet indifference, as to the most ordinary acquaintance.

Then I felt that, in the natural course of events, acquaintances meeting on such a spot, would certainly exchange a few words. I did not offer my hand, but I paused, and said something about "not expecting to meet Captain Lenox so far out of the world!"

"Odd encounters do take place sometimes," he answered in a manner freezingly polite. "I hope you are well."

"Thanks, quite," I replied. "Are you staying long at the farm?"

"A day or two, perhaps. No, not long. I came here to escape from crowds."

"Then we must not break in on your solitude," I said, slightly smiling. And I would have turned away with another bow, when, to my astonishment, up marched Maggie.

"Miss Con, is it Captain Lenox? Millie heard from her friend that he was coming. And she would like to be introduced."

This very unconventional and schoolgirlish address must have surprised Arthur Lenox even more than it surprised me. But he turned instantly to Maggie, lifting his hat again,—and I could not but see that he was struck. I know his face so well: and the momentary gleam of admiration gave me a keen pain. Yet I could not wonder at it. Maggie was looking her best;—the fresh roseate bloom heightened by walking; the grey eyes sweet and sparkling, half disposed to droop shyly under the curved black lashes.

"Captain Lenox,—Miss Romilly," I said coldly: and as Miss Millington approached, I named her also. Then, as Maggie fell back a pace, and "Millie" seemed disposed to get into a talk about the Bath friend, I added, "We are delaying Captain Lenox: and I do not think we have any time to lose."

Arthur Lenox made at once a responsive movement, not sorry, I thought, to escape from Miss Millington, though his eyes went again towards Maggie with evident interest. I gave him my hand as we said good-bye, distantly enough: and Maggie, with a cordial air, followed suit, actually inviting him to "afternoon tea at Beckdale House any day while he was at the farm." He thanked her, half excused himself, and went off at a rapid pace in the opposite direction to ourselves.

"That was hardly needful, Maggie," I said.

"Why? The Denhams know him. And he is your friend," said Maggie.

"The question for you is what your mother would wish," I said coldly. "My acquaintances are not necessarily always yours. If Mr. Romilly were here it would, of course, be different."

"Well,—I only know he is the handsomest man I ever saw in my life," declared Maggie.

I thought it best to let the matter drop. We went on pretty steadily until heavy rain turned us back, enforcing postponement of the Gurglepool excursion.

To-night, I am terribly weary and overstrained with to-day's encounter: and so hopeless. For this has indeed been destroying the bridge behind me.