Chapter XXVIII: Non-Raptures

THE SAME.

October 7. Wednesday.

A WEEK ago to-day Lady Denham and Sir Keith left us, returning home. Some business recalled him suddenly, and she would not stay behind. I was glad to see the very marked warmth of her good-bye to Thyrza.

By-the-bye, I do not think I have noted in my journal the fact of Denham having gone to Eton. Sir Keith kindly saw to minor arrangements, by Mr. Romilly's wish. The boy went off in high spirits, not without an apology to me for his conduct at Gurglepool, which, whether or no suggested by Sir Keith, did him credit.

Thyrza and the twins have been for some weeks working irregularly at lessons, with such superintendence as I was able and permitted to give them. The last few days, since I have become once more responsible head, their work has grown regular. But I cannot induce Maggie to apply herself to anything. She seems to be in a dissipated state of mind, gapes over books, and says she "hates practising." I had a wave little talk with her yesterday, about the evil of yielding oneself victim to a frivolous and self-indulgent course of life. Maggie listened, and even looked impressed; but ten minutes later, I saw her giggling in a corner with Miss Millington.

In the face of such an adverse influence, always pulling in the opposite direction, what can I do with poor Maggie? It seems to me at present,—nothing,—except pray and wait. The harm that one unprincipled girl can do to other girls is terribly great. I do not suppose Miss Millington realises how distinctly she is fighting the battle of wrong against right. She only pleases herself, by giving the rein to her personal dislike of me, her inclination to oppose whatever I do. Yet surely the "not realising" is no excuse. She ought to see, ought to realise. One thing is plain; Maggie has sadly deteriorated under her companionship.

The improvement in my knee of late has been astonishing. I am able, not only to get up and down stairs without severe pain, but to take a turn along the road, with the help of a stick or of somebody's arm. Much of this quick recovery is due, I am assured, to my resolution in keeping the limb perfectly still the first two or three weeks.

I cannot say much as to physical strength. Long confinement, following upon long worry, have told upon me. It is difficult to keep up at times. Everything is a trouble, even journalising, and often I am so haunted by recollections of the past, that I long to rush away from myself and from memory. I cannot turn from these recollections, do what I will!

Has Miss Millington with one cruel touch blighted my life's happiness? Consciously or unconsciously, she may have so done. I do not know. I cannot be sure whether Arthur cares for me still,—whether she did or did not say any word to him, which might have hastened his departure. I am all in the dark as to the true state of things. Only, there are possibilities; and there is nothing in her which could make those possibilities an impossibility.

I thought I had forgiven her, up in the peaceful quiet of my own room. But now, out in the whirl of family life, I find a difference. I know it, by my instinctive shrinking from her presence, by the feeling at times that I can scarcely endure to look at her, or to meet those shallow inquisitorial eyes.

She has never spoken a word of apology for all I have had to go through, though it was partly her doing. But that I do not mind: that I can bear. What stirs me to the depths, is the knowledge that her eyes have seen what no human being was meant to see of my heart,—and that her hand may have given the parting stroke severing me from Arthur Lenox for ever!

Only—"may have." I must fight against any assumption that she has actually done it, without full proof.

But without this, I have much to forgive. And it seems to me that forgiveness of injury is not so much a stated action as a continuous state of mind. I thought I had fought the battle and was conqueror. Now I find that the battle has to be fought over and over again, if I would remain conqueror. It is not enough to say one hour, "I forgive!" And the next hour to be under the dominion of fresh annoyance. I have to aim at a continuous state of loving calm and pity, acknowledging the fact of wrong-doing on her part, yet not exasperated by it,—rather, looking away from her, and taking all pain straight from my Master's Hand.

Is it not so that He looks upon us,—with ceaseless compassionate love? Sometimes we are apt to clothe Him in thought with our own fitfulness. But He does not vary. He is always the same. His forgiveness of us is a constant condition of mind, if one may so reverently speak, not a sensation coming and going, as when man pardons man. We are always grieving Him: He is always forgiving us. And what He is to His children, He would have them be in their little way one to another.

But though I see what I ought to be, I am far enough from attainment. I can but plead to be taken in hand by my Master, taught, trained, moulded, into that which will please Him. Meantime bodily weakness no doubt makes the fight harder. Manner can be controlled, and I hope I do control it; but inwardly a jarred and tired irritation is upon me: I am hourly tempted to feel that nothing is worth doing, nothing worth living for.

Thyrza and Elfie are a comfort. Thyrza, however, is a good deal preoccupied just now: and Elfie keeps loving words for when we are alone, evidently not venturing to show her real feelings before Miss Millington.

After all, I find nothing so helpful as to get away from everybody into some quiet nook, near at hand; and there to find myself alone with Nature,—alone with God. For Nature never hinders intercourse with God. Man is the great hindrance. Nature speaks to us of God, and speaks in clear tones too, though in a language not so easily "understanded of the people" as the voice of Revelation. It does seem sad that man, as the highest part of Nature, should not always speak to men of God; but too often he does not. So one naturally turns from human discord to the more true if lower music of things inanimate.

I love to lie upon the grass of a certain favourite bank, and there to lose myself in quiet studying of the mountain-outlines, the long winding of the Dale, the patches of autumn-red bracken on The Fell, the little streamlets coursing each hillside, the peaceful cloudland of sky above. At such times the bitter thought of what might have been and is not ceases to haunt me; and every whisper of the wind among the trees and every ripple of the nearest brook comes like a murmur from the unseen world. At such times, I can see things in a truer perspective: and the Life Beyond looks grand and restful, whatever this little life may be.

October 8. Thursday.—Startling news to-day! They are coming home!

We were all together in the schoolroom, when Nona entered with a rush, crying, "Two letters, and both for Miss Con! One from Mother, and one from Lady Denham!"

All eyes were levelled at me, as I opened and read Mrs. Romilly's, skimming the contents rapidly.

"My DEAREST CONSTANCE,—I am writing a very hasty line to announce to you our immediate return to England. It is a sudden decision; but I think we have all been leaning that way for some time, and a long talk yesterday morning brought matters to a point. I am really so much better, that the doctors think I may safely venture; and now that we are all agreed, we are eager to reach Beckdale as fast as possible.

"Eustace is making arrangements, and Nellie is packing up; so I have
undertaken to write the news.

"Tell my precious Maggie, and all the darling girls, what joy it will be to me to be among them again. You can fancy how a Mother's heartstrings drag her homeward. I wonder now that I can ever have consented to stay away so long.

"We plan to start the day after to-morrow. Everybody says I must not hurry too much. My husband wishes to spend Sunday at Antwerp, and we shall be one night in London: but we hope to reach Beckdale by the evening of next Tuesday,—the 3th,—and to remain there for one week. This will allow us just to become acquainted with the place. It is not thought wise for me to be so far north any later; so on Tuesday the 20th we hope all to return to Glynde for the winter,—you, of course, accompanying us.

"I shall have much to say to you, dear Constance. I owe you a great deal,—more than words can express,—for your devoted care of my girls. Of late it has been a great happiness to me to see in your letters how truly you appreciate my sweetest Maggie. At one time I did fear that you and she were scarcely en rapport. The dear one has, I know, suffered most keenly from our long absence. I can imagine her raptures on hearing of our return. Precious one!—When I think of seeing her again—But I must keep composed.

"From certain little things told me by my dear Nellie, I am afraid your time at Beckdale has been in some respects a trial. Maggie is so young and inexperienced that, with the best intentions in the world, she may not have quite known how to manage; and Miss Millington is a singular person. I have always counted her eminently trustworthy, though, perhaps, like many girls of her age, rather vain and self-asserting. If she should not be what I have thought her—But you will inform and advise me, dear Constance. I cannot tell you how much I shall depend upon your calm judgment in the training of my girls.

"I have no time to write more. Kiss the dear ones for me. Nellie or Eustace will write again more particularly as to the time of our arrival at Beckbergh Station. The journey that way is, I hear, a little more troublesome, but my dear husband objects to the other station. I would rather no one should meet us there. I must see my girls first in the quiet of home,—not in public. Sweet Maggie will understand so fully her Mother's fancy in this little particular.

"It is, I hope, at last settled that dear Eustace will enter the Church. He intends to read hard this winter, and we trust that he may receive Ordination next spring or autumn. This decision is a great happiness to us both. He is a good dear fellow.—Ever, dearest Constance, your affectionate friend—

"GERTRUDE ROMILLY."

Maggie's raptures! Where were they?

I found myself telling the news, quickly and briefly. There was a deepening glow of pleasure in Thyrza's face: while Nona caught the two little ones, whirling round the room with them: and Elfie flung herself on me, with a smothered cry which was half a sob, and a tremulous clutch of delight.

But Maggie only sat still, and said, "Mother really coming! How nice!" Then her eyes went to Miss Millington, and travelled round to me. "How nice!" she repeated, as if considering the question. "We must take her to Gurglepool."

"And show her the scene of my disaster," I said.

I met Miss Millington's glance. Maggie spoke hastily: "Oh, I didn't mean that. I only meant that Mother would, of course, want to see everything. I suppose we shall all have a holiday that week. It will be most awfully nice, won't it, Nona?"

But somehow the real ring of joy seemed wanting: and as I listened, my heart ached for Gertrude Romilly. Will she when she comes find any lack of response in this child, so passionately beloved? I think it would almost kill her, if she did.

Elfie is radiant with happiness: Thyrza has a look of dreamy content: Nona and the little ones are in mad spirits. Miss Millington seems far from cheerful, however, and she and Maggie are going about arm-in-arm, with divers whispers and expressive looks. Is "Millie" trying to cement her power over Maggie? If so, will she succeed? Am I wrong to conjecture this of her?

O life and its perplexities—how weary one grows of the whole sometimes! Yet is that right? For God our Father has bidden us live,—and live unto Him!

So much for the one letter which reached me to-day. The other was from Lady Denham.

I opened it then, when we were all together, but I did not read it. My eyes fell upon a familiar name, and a sudden chill and trembling warned me to desist. I am not so strong as before my accident, not so well able to master emotion. I put the letter away, and nobody remembered that I had received it.

An hour later, in the quiet of my own room, I read and re-read the four pages. They are full of kind friendliness. Lady Denham seldom favours her correspondents so far. She is noted for brevity of expression: therefore I value this the more.

One sentence above the rest touches me. It may mean so much or so little.

"You will, perhaps, be interested to learn that your old acquaintance, Captain Lenox—he will be Major Lenox immediately, I hear,—is coming to us. He forsook us quite shamefully when we went to Yorkshire, but he has written to apologise, and my son has invited him here for a week's furlough from next Wednesday. It is rather surprising that he should have leave again so soon: but it seems that he has been unwell, and we hear that he is a great favourite with the Colonel of his regiment, which may facilitate matters.

"I shall be glad to see him, for he really is a most agreeable young man. It is rather a pity that you will be away, if it would be any pleasure to you to renew the acquaintance. Of course Yorkshire is tempting still to all you young people. Captain Lenox writes that he is tired of England, and that he hopes to exchange soon into a regiment going to India or on foreign service. So I fancy this is the last time we may see him for a good while. I wonder he does not marry. He seems very much alone in the world, poor man, with so few ties in the way of relationship."

And that is all. She writes easily, not as if she in the least suspected the true state of affairs. I do not suppose that she does suspect. Sometimes I have felt that I could almost tell her all,—only never quite. For she has never sought or invited my confidence in this matter: and I cannot give confidence unasked.

Next Wednesday, for a week's furlough! That means—if we go to Glynde on Tuesday the 20th, he will be at The Park one night after our arrival.

But our journey may be delayed; or his going away may be hastened. And even if we do reach Glynde on the day named, and he is there, is it likely that we shall meet?

Hardly,—unless he wishes it.

I dread the next fortnight of suspense. But I must hold myself strongly in. No one must see what I feel. To Lady Denham I can only intimate in most general terms a polite hope or willingness to see him again. Some in my place might perhaps say more, confidentially, but I cannot.

How do I know that Arthur Lenox would go to Glynde at all just now, but for the fact that he expects my absence?