Chapter II: And Constance Conway's

THE SAME—continued.

February 21.

ALBINIA has a comfortable home,—so far as carpets and curtains are concerned. If only that mountain of human pomposity were not appended! But then she need never have accepted him unless she wished. Albinia went in for the man, with the carpets and curtains, of her own free-will.

Of course it is pleasant to be comfortable. I should be the last to deny that fact. Velvet-piled carpets, into which the foot sinks as into moss, are superior to bare boards; and tapestry at twelve or fifteen shillings the yard is very much nicer than a cheap cretonne at twelve or fifteen pence. Still a good deal depends on how much may be involved in the possession of mossy carpets and rich tapestry.

Sometimes I find myself wondering whether, if ten years ago could come over again, Albinia would say "Yes" a second time. She was only twenty then, and he was by no means so portly as now. But Craven Smyth was Craven Smyth always. He never could be anything else. He managed invariably to excite naughty feelings in me, though I was a child under twelve. Albinia could not understand why. She used to say he was "so nice!"—That delightfully indefinite term which does quite as well for a man as for a cretonne. And her one hesitation seemed to be on the score of his surname. "To think of becoming Mrs. Smyth!" she remarked often.

After leaving the library, I lingered in the hall, thinking. Should I write my letter first, or speak to Albinia first? Time enough for both before I needed to dress for dinner. The latter seemed right, so I passed on into the drawing-room, with its costly furniture and superabundant gilding.

Not four days had gone by since I first heard of this "desirable opening" in the Romilly household. I had answered the earliest appeal by return of post, asking further particulars, and expressing strong doubts as to my own capacity. A letter had now arrived from Mrs. Romilly herself, urging, nay, imploring me to accept the position.

Had the request come from any one else except Mrs. Romilly, I must have unhesitatingly declined. For whatever Craven may say, I am not fitted for the post. I, a girl of twenty-two, unused to teaching, inexperienced in family life,—I to undertake so anomalous and difficult a task! The very idea seems to me wild, even foolish. Humanly speaking, I court only failure by consenting to go!

And yet—what if it is indeed the right thing for me? For all along it has appeared as if that were the one open path; as if all other paths were hedged up and shut. Any one else except Mrs. Romilly! Yes; that would make all the difference. But then, it is Mrs. Romilly! And she is ill, depressed, troubled, in difficulties, and she implores my help. How can I hesitate or think of self?

I have no other friend in the world like Mrs. Romilly. Not that we have been so very much together; but I think I fell in love with her at first sight, and the love has gone on growing ever since, steadily. Three times, at intervals, she has spent a month with an aged relative in Bath,—an acquaintance of Aunt Lavinia's and mine,—and each time we met as often as possible. We walked and drove together; read and sang together; went often to the Abbey Church together. I can talk freely to her, as I have never talked with any other human being; and she is no less free with me. She has often said that I helped her; and this seemed strange, because she has so often helped me.

Sweet Gertrude Romilly! I have never met with any one else quite like her; and I doubt if I ever shall. She is twenty years my senior; yet I do not think we have found disparity of age any bar to friendship. It would be unreasonable to suppose that I am as much to her as she is to me. She is so lovely, so beloved; and she has so many who are very near and dear to her, while I have but few. But, indeed, I find the love that she gives to me very full and satisfying.

I suppose her spirits in girlhood must have been wonderfully high. She has gone through much trouble, and has suffered under it most acutely; and notwithstanding all, she seems often to be just rippling over with happiness and fun. I never quite know whether to count her more winning in her gay or in her pensive moods.

During the three years since our acquaintance first began, Mrs. Romilly and I have corresponded regularly; and she has pressed me often to pay her a visit at Glynde House. But I have never felt that I could rightly leave poor Aunt Lavinia, since she grew so very infirm.

Now that my dear old aunt has been taken from me, things are changed. It did seem strange for a while that no word of sympathy came from Glynde House. The response has always been so quick, if I were in any trouble. But a few lines from the eldest daughter, Nellie, with a dictated message from my friend, soon let me know the cause.

I cannot now understand precisely what is wrong. Mrs. Romilly has broken down in health, though to what extent I do not know. A sudden attack on her chest has revealed a condition of things there, unsuspected before; and she is ordered off in haste to the south of Europe before March winds begin. That is not all, however. Nellie alludes to "the state of her nerves;" and it seems to be expected that she may have to remain many months away,—perhaps a great part of the summer. Nellie goes in charge of the invalid, and Mr. Romilly remains behind.

In the midst of these anxieties, another blow has fallen. The governess, Miss Jackson, who for fifteen years has lived with the Romillys, was summoned home to the bedside of a dying mother just before Mrs. Romilly's illness. After weeks of absence she wrote, unexpectedly, to plead the claims of a widowed father, begging to be if possible at once released. The claim could hardly be disallowed, and no difficulties have been made. But then it was that Mrs. Romilly turned to the thought of me. She knew of my plans for self-support. Would I, she asked, step into the vacant post, and be—not merely governess, but companion, caretaker, elder sister, guide, and friend to her darling girls?

The first letter on this topic was dictated, but the second was in her own hand,—so changed and feeble a hand, that it grieved my very heart,—pleading earnestly. Would I—could I—refuse to set her mind at rest?

No, I could not; and were the moment of decision to come over again, I feel that my reply would be the same. I could not refuse; even though the sense of incapacity weighed then and weighs still most heavily. I am not old enough or experienced enough for the position. Yet it did seem to me then, and it seems so still, that I have no choice.