Chapter XXVII: Elfie's Confession

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

Tuesday. September 22.

MY Elfie has come back to me again. It is strangely a comfort to know that her loving heart has been true throughout, only—But I had better be consecutive.

The others have gone on an excursion to a certain cave. Elfie was to have been one of the party: but at the last moment she begged off, pleading faceache and a wish to be with me. Lady Denham yielded, but did not fall in with Maggie's suggestion that "Millie" should go instead. I heard her say in the passage—"Certainly not. I will not have the children left to Miss Conway. They are in Miss Millington's charge." So Maggie came in to say good-bye, with a pout of her rosy lips.

I had intended making an effort to see something of Miss Millington, in the absence of the rest. Hitherto she has kept resolutely aloof: and I cannot go after her. Others perhaps are not aware that I have scarcely spoken to her since my accident. It does not seem quite a right state of things; yet I do not like to make a stir.

So soon as the waggonette went off, Elfie glided into my room. Until to-day she has always appeared with one of her sisters, always looking impassive and dull. But to-day I noted a change of manner. She seated herself close beside the couch, rested her head on my shoulder, and sighed deeply two or three times.

"Something wrong, Elfie?" I asked.

Silence answered me, lasting I should think for nearly five minutes. Then suddenly she turned, clutched my hand between her own hands, and gasped rather than said—

"I must tell you! I must! I can't go on so any longer!"

"Tell me what, Elfie?"

Another break. "About—" she said, breathing hard. "About—. But you must promise first not to tell."

"I will do nothing hasty. Cannot you trust me?"

"Oh, I couldn't have you tell Mother! Millie would never forgive me. And it is only about you—yourself—not anybody else."

"If it is a matter which only concerns myself, I may safely promise to let it go no farther, without your consent," I said, feeling sure that she had some little revelation to make about the day at Gurglepool.

"And you won't—you won't—hate me?"

"I should find it difficult to do that," I said, kissing her. "Come, Elfie, don't be afraid?"

"Oh, I am not afraid. It isn't that. Only, everything is so horrid. And I ought to have spoken out,—and I didn't. And I don't know how to tell you—and I must."

"Shall I guess, Elfie? Was it that you knew beforehand, from Nona, about the trick that was to be played on me? I dare say you wanted to speak out, and were afraid. But I am quite sure you did not like the trick, even though you could not guess how things would turn out. Another time you will be braver."

She listened to me, with her head now lifted, and astonishment in the large dusky eyes.

"Oh no! You couldn't think that of me! Oh no,—I would never have let them do it without telling you. But indeed they didn't think of such a thing, till they got there, and Millie proposed it. She said it was all so slow, and she wanted some fun. I don't call that fun. Lady Denham says it was so unladylike: and Nona is sorry now, only she doesn't know how to tell you."

"If it wasn't that, what was it, Elfie? I am at a loss," I said.

Elfie dropped her face, hiding it from sight.

"It was—when we first came," she murmured almost inaudibly. "I was in the drawing-room,—on the sofa—and—you were writing—you know—at the side-table."

One instant brought the scene before me; the sleeping figure of Elfie: the journal volume: the sudden interruption: the telegram from abroad: the bitter distress following.

Had I been mistaken? Could Elfie, not Miss Millington, have meddled with my papers? But the thought only occurred to be put aside. I knew Elfie better.

"Yes," I said, and my own voice sounded far-away to myself. "Yes. I remember quite well. You had gone to sleep: and I was called away."

"I didn't hear you go," she whispered, and I could feel the quick fluttering of her heart, as she pressed against me. "At least I think not,—not quite. Only there were voices. And somebody came in. I just peeped sideways. I was only half awake,—and I saw Millie. She was standing by your table,—the table where you had been writing, I mean. And she was reading in the big book, with a lock-clasp. I could see her doing it quite plainly. She turned back a leaf, and leant down a little to read. And I was so frightened. It seemed to make me hot all over, and then like ice. I knew I ought to speak out, and I didn't dare. I knew she would be so angry, and would make me promise not to tell. And I shut my eyes and kept quiet; and I know she turned round to see if I was still asleep, for I could feel her eyes on me. And then I heard you in the passage, and Millie went off in a hurry. And I didn't let you know directly that I was awake,—not till you had been upstairs and came down again. But oh, I did feel so miserable,—knowing I ought to tell, and not daring. Don't you think I was wrong not to speak out? It seemed like deceiving you,—and like joining with Millie in what she had done."

"And so you turned cold to me, Elfie," I said.

"Did I? It was only that I felt so ashamed. And sometimes I was almost sure that Millie guessed what I had seen. It gave her a sort of hold upon me. Oh, I do wish I wasn't such a coward! When you hurt yourself so, I made up my mind that I wouldn't go on with it any longer: but I had to wait till you were better, and I couldn't have a quiet time alone with you till to-day."

"Elfie, have you told me everything now?" I asked, holding her face between my hands, and looking into it.

She blushed slowly. "Yes,—no,—not all. Millie used to laugh and joke about you. Must I tell that? She said you were—were—" a pause and a little sob. "I can't think why Millie dislikes you so,—when you are so dear and good, and Mother's own friend. But she does. She is always trying to set Maggie and Nona and the little ones against you. And then—you know—she said she had a friend in Bath,—and she knew when Captain Lenox was coming, and she wouldn't let us tell you, though he was a friend of yours. And she said—things—"

"Yes?" I said gravely.

Elfie sobbed again. "I knew Mother would be so vexed,—Mother can't bear that sort of talk and nonsense. But Millie would,—and she wanted us to think that she knew about—about you—from her friend in Bath. But I felt perfectly sure that she had read something of yours that she had no business to read,—and it made me feel so miserable. But you won't hate me,—darling Miss Con, will you?—and you won't tell Mother?"

"I will do neither, Elfie," I said, drawing her into my arms. "Perhaps some day it may be right for you to tell your Mother; but I am not the person to do so. Miss Millington has wronged me, and I cannot take any step that might look like revenge. Still—if she is capable of such an action, she is hardly fit to train your little sisters."

Elfie's tearful eyes looked up wonderingly.

"Don't you feel angry with her?"

"I have felt so. This is an old trouble, Elfie. I knew at the time what Miss Millington had done."

"And you didn't speak?"

"It would have been useless. I could not prove what I believed."

After a little hesitation, I added, "You are not a child, Elfie,—not so much a child as many girls of seventeen,—and I do not mind telling you that Captain Lenox did at one time wish to marry me, and I refused him. When Sir Keith once spoke of seeing him at Rouen, it made me very unhappy to think what pain I had given. So now you understand something of the matter. But, for Captain Lenox' sake, this must go no farther."

She kissed my hand, with a strangely wistful and comprehending look, even while saying simply, "It was so bad of Millie."

We did not discuss the subject farther. Elfie seemed relieved, past expression, at having told me of the burden so long resting on her mind. She would hardly leave my side all the morning, and her old affection is completely restored,—or rather the open expression of it, for I am sure she has loved me throughout. Dear little Elfie!

Now I have sent her for a walk with Miss Millington and the children. I wanted time for thought and journalising.

The past keen pain at Miss Millington's conduct has revived, but not the past passion of anger. That battle has not to be fought again. Only I do feel more than ever that all is over between Arthur Lenox and me, that where sunshine might have been, I must now be content with life under a grey-toned sky.

Gladys said to me one day, in a puzzled tone, before we came north, "Uncle Tom always says everything is sure to be for the best; but I don't see how it can,—or else people needn't mind making blunders and doing stupid things."

But—as I said to her in answer,—"We know that all things work together for good to them that love God." Enough for me to know that it is so, without fathoming the "how."

Blunders must bring their natural results; and wrong-doing must be followed by its train of bitter consequences, to oneself and others. And yet—yet—a Father's Hand can turn even those natural results and bitter consequences into pure and lasting good to those who love Him. But the good may not be always apparent in this life.

Wednesday, September 23.—I never saw Thyrza look so handsome as when she came in yesterday afternoon. She holds herself well always; and she had on a particularly becoming grey dress, with grey feathers in her hat. The fresh air had given her an unusual colour; and the dark eyes, often too grave, were actually sparkling. The fine lips, too, were parted with a wistful expression, which I don't remember seeing there before. I said to myself, "A new development—" and then a thought struck me. She has left off speaking against Sir Keith lately.

I was alone, and she sat down by my side, pouring out what had passed.

"It was a splendid drive, Miss Con, some hours both ways. I don't know how long. One doesn't count time when one is perfectly happy. I only wanted you there, to make everything complete. But still—" and a far-away look. "Yes, I did enjoy it. And Sir Keith is so kind. The next best to having you, was hearing him talk about you. We quite agree on that point,—" with a smile, and a squeeze of my hand. "I sat by him all the way, and Maggie opposite with Lady Denham. I think it is rather pleasant to be drawn out by a person who understands how, and to have to say what one really thinks. Sir Keith knows how, when he will take the trouble."

"Very pleasant indeed," I assented.

"And then Sir Keith—" I found this expression recurring perpetually. "And then Sir Keith" did this; "and then Sir Keith" said that.

"How about the cave?" I asked when she paused.

"Oh, well worth seeing. I do wish you could have been there. It is almost like a sort of underground cathedral, a growth of nature,—quite dark. The candles only cast glimmers,—even a queer concern, holding a dozen candles all lighted together, could not make one see far. It was rather a muddy floor; and a stream of water runs in one part. We had to get over by stepping-stones, and Sir Keith gave me his hand across. Lady Denham and Maggie wouldn't go farther: and the guide looked after Nona. In one place there is a sort of stalactite imitation of a pulpit, jutting out from the wall: and another stalactite formation is like a great Westminster Abbey monument. At least I thought so. Sir Keith only laughed, and said I must read up about stalactites and stalagmites with you. I didn't much like the sliminess farther in, and when it came to stepping up on a board to look through a big opening into another cavern beyond, I said I wouldn't. But Sir Keith had got up, and he held out his hand, and said, 'Yes, you must!' So I went, and it was like a round belfry sort of place, underground, you know. And there was a waterfall in the belfry, about thirty feet high, tumbling from black depths overhead to black depths below, and keeping up a roar. I believe they call that inside cavern 'the chapter-house.' It is a most extraordinary place."

"Worth seeing indeed!" I observed.

"Yes, I do like uncommon sights. And Lady Denham and Sir Keith have been so good to me. He likes you, Miss Con."

"I dare say he does, my dear," I said. "And I like him. We are on most agreeable terms of polite friendship."

"Oh, but not only—" and she stopped.

"Anything more would be equally impossible for him and for me."

She looked at me with serious eyes before saying, "But he is so—nice!"

Whereupon I thought of Craven and cretonnes.

"Not quite so disagreeable as you once counted him, Thyrza?"

"Did I? Oh, that was only because Maggie behaved so absurdly. I hope I shall never be so absurd. Only, really and truly, there is nothing we both like so much to talk about as about you."

"I am sorry you should both be content with so unprofitable a subject," I answered: and then we were interrupted.

But I fancy it is not difficult to foresee what may be coming.