Chapter XXXII: Very Unexpected

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

June 15. Tuesday.

STILL in Town. I little expected six weeks of absence, when I left Glynde.

Craven's attack, though sharp, was short. In less than a week he was out of danger, and on a fair road to recovery. And then I, in my turn, broke down.

Hardly surprising, I suppose. I have gone through much, mentally, the last few months, one way and another. Long continued strain will tell in time.

The letter from Miss Millington was perhaps the finishing stroke. I think the sudden call here, with full occupation for mind and body at first, was sent mercifully,—and then the wonderful holy calm of those three weeks in my own room, alone, and yet not alone!

Albinia could scarcely ever leave her husband: and the maids only came and went. I was not so severely ill as to need constant attendance. The doctor ordered little beyond rest and stillness. Now I have been about again for nearly a fortnight, regaining strength: but the sweetness of that "quiet time" overshadows me yet.

For I think our Lord Himself led me aside into one of His own green pastures, that He might comfort me. And He did it there, as none but He can do,—with Voice and Touch and Smile, with Divine healing and most Human sympathy.

How can any question the good of pain and sorrow in this life?

For no joy could ever have shown me what He is, like these past weeks. And only the extremest stress of need and weariness will ever drive us so to abandon our whole weight upon Him, as to learn fully the rest of His upholding Arms.

June 16. Wednesday.—Plans seem now arranged. I do not return to Glynde, but remain here till early next week. The Romillys propose travelling up to Town on Monday: and on Tuesday we all proceed to Beckdale.

Mrs. Romilly writes that Lady Denham and Sir Keith will be at the Farm. I cannot help expecting something to come about soon.

June 19. Saturday.—This afternoon I went for a stroll in The Park, avoiding as far as possible the crowded parts, and getting into a comparatively neglected side-path. It was pleasantly sunny, with a fresh breeze. One might escape in some measure from the stream of human beings, but there was no escaping from the stream of human sound. I caught myself smiling at the thought of those lovely Yorkshire dales, so soon to surround me! No roar of voices and vehicles there, but only the rustle of leaves, and the rush of torrents. And then I think I wandered off to Thyrza, walking slowly with downward-bent eyes, perhaps speculating on her future.

Something made me glance up. I found myself in a sheltered spot, divided by shrubs from the nearest groups of people. One seat was quite near, and on this seat was one young girl.

My first impression was of the utter misery in her look and attitude. She sat leaning forward, with bent head, rounded shoulders, tightly-clasped hands, and wide-open fixed eyes. There were no tears, only a hard gaze of extreme wretchedness, which was even more strongly expressed in the droop of her lower lip.

Involuntarily I came to a standstill, and stood for one moment, watching. Not more than a moment. My gaze seemed to wake her up from a kind of stupefaction. She lifted her head, and looked at me, in a listless indifferent fashion.

But listlessness and indifference vanished. I knew her then, and she knew me. Strange that I had not recognised her before. In a moment the face changed, the cheeks reddened, the eyes were averted, and she sprang half up.

"Miss Millington!" I said. She would not offer her hand, and I took it, only to have it snatched away.

"What makes you come? As if I wanted to see you! Why can't you leave me alone?" she asked, with bitter scorn, her lips shaking in agitation.

"The Park is free to all," I said gravely. "I did not expect to find you here."

"No, I dare say not! You thought you had got me out of your way, at any rate!" she retorted.

"You do me wrong," I answered. "Miss Millington, I should like a few words with you. Will you sit down here?"

"No, thanks. I'm going home."

"Where is your home?"

She made no response.

"I have, of course, no right to interfere," I said. "But I think you are in trouble; and I would gladly help you if I could. Will you not sit down with me, for five minutes?"

"No! Why should I? If I am in trouble, it is your doing," she broke out passionately.

"You are mistaken. It is not my doing," I said; and after a moment's thought I laid one hand on her arm, adding, "Sit down."

She yielded sullenly, and I placed myself beside her.

"One word of explanation first," I said, speaking gently. "I should like you to understand that I had not, practically, to do with your going. Mrs. Romilly appealed to me for a confidential opinion, and I declined to give any. There were things which she had heard, and which she disapproved: but she did not hear them from me."

Miss Millington shook her head, in evident disbelief.

"There was much that tried and grieved me," I said in a lower voice. "No need to go into particulars. You know well enough to what I allude. I would have been a friend to you, if you had allowed it."

She gave me a strange look; then said, "Thanks!" very scornfully.

"And you are in trouble now?" I said once more.

"That is my business; not yours," came in sharp answer.

"It is only mine, in so far as I might be able to help you," I said.

"Nonsense! As if you cared!"

"I do care!" I said, and I spoke truth.

She looked at me again, broke into a mirthless laugh, and said—

"Not enough to lend me fifty pounds,—or fifty shillings, for the matter of that! I know what people mean by caring. There, that's enough! I am going home."

But my hand was on her arm, and she did not rise. A sudden thought came to me. Was this at last—at last!—the opportunity to "overcome evil with good?"

My little legacy of one hundred pounds is lying still at the Bank,—not yet invested, as Craven advised. I had to indent upon it largely, for mourning and other expenses, after my aunt's death. This year, by care and economy, I have made up the amount to something over one hundred pounds laid by; and the question of investment has recurred.

Fifty pounds out of it would be a large proportion,—to be, not lent, but given! For this was the "good" which occurred to me, as that by which I might overcome long-standing evil.

I cannot say the thought was—or is—welcome. I have none but myself to depend upon. A long lonely life may lie before me. Health and strength may at any time fail. Craven will never offer a home. I must save for the future, while working for the present.

And she has so wronged me! It came over me in a rush, as I sat there silently by my silent companion,—how she has resisted and scorned my best efforts, opposed my will, fought against my authority,—nay, far worse, if things are as I verily believe, has ruined my life's happiness, separating me from Arthur Lenox for ever!

Once more I seemed to see her bending over my open journal, dishonourably scanning the lines never meant for her eyes, and meanly afterward making use of the information thus gained.

A great wave of the old passionate wrath and hate surged up within me, and almost broke. I—to forgive her! I—to despoil myself of half the little I possessed, for her sake!

Did she deserve it! No! A thousand times, No!

But—do I deserve the benefits which God has showered upon me?—The love of Christ my Lord? A million times,—No!

And He, in His forgiving pity, has said,—"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good!"

The rising storm was checked, and at the Voice of my Master—"Peace, be still!" There was a great calm.

I cannot say if she saw or knew aught of this. I only know that we both sat in silence,—perhaps for some seconds only, perhaps for five minutes. Then I found myself answering her last utterance, "You need fifty pounds,—for what?"

"To save my mother's life."

Miss Millington's self-command broke down, and she hid her face, sobbing.

I let her cry for a while, before saying, "Tell me a little more."

"What is the use? It is no good," she cried petulantly.

"No,—but I should like to hear," I answered.

A measure still of resistance was followed by yielding. Once started, I think she found the "telling" a relief to herself.

Mrs. Millington is a widow, with only one other and younger daughter. She must have been a good and true mother: and the best side of Miss Millington came out in speaking of this mother.

For many years the three have been in very straitened circumstances, especially of late, depending partly on the eldest daughter's earnings. Since last summer Miss Millington has been in only one situation, which she failed to keep. Under the consequent long pressure of anxiety and money-difficulties, Mrs. Millington became very ill: and the knowledge of her liabilities has so pressed upon her mind, that the doctor to-day foretells a fatal termination, unless the burden can be in some way lightened.

"And of course I can do nothing,—how can I?" the girl said, half-bitterly, half-sullenly. "We've got behindhand with everything. It isn't the doctor,—he is an old friend, and he charges nothing, though he is poor himself. But there's the chemist, and the rent,—and other things,—about fifty pounds altogether. I don't mean to say we were straight last summer, only we were trying to get so. If I had stayed on with the Romillys, it would have come right in time,—and now, instead of that, everything has been getting worse. And I don't see what is to be done. I can't expect to have so much from anybody else as I had from Mrs. Romilly. Besides, I hate being a companion and Mrs. Romilly won't recommend me as a governess. So mother will die—" a sob and a gulp came here,—"and that will be the end of everything. It is all hopeless,—and when the doctor said what he did, I Just set off and walked miles,—and they don't know at home where I am. I ought to be there now. I shall have to go back in a 'bus: though I'm sure we can't afford it."

The same undisciplined nature which had caused me so much trouble. I could not but note this.

"And I don't know why I should say it all to you,—you, of all people," she muttered. "Absurd of me!"

"Not quite," I said. "At least I can feel for you."

She turned away with an impatient movement, standing up.

"I must go," she said.

"I intend to drive home in a hansom. I will take you to your door first."

She protested. "Nonsense; it would be ridiculous. Our house is miles out of your way."

But I held to my point. If I had simply asked the address, I could not be secure of having a true answer. It was not my intention to go into the house to-day; for I wanted time to consider what I ought to do. I was only resolved to learn her whereabouts.

Yet when we reached the shabby little house, and a sickly young girl came out on the doorstep, saying reproachfully—"Oh how could you leave us so long?"—I did go in.

Not to stay. I knew that I must hasten back, to be in time for dinner. I spoke a few words to the sister; and I had one glimpse of the sick mother, unseen by herself. That face touched me deeply. I said only to Miss Millington, "You shall hear from me again."

June 21. Monday.—This morning, soon after breakfast, I drove to the Bank, with a cheque for fifty pounds, which I there had cashed,—forty pounds in bank-notes, the rest in gold.

I said nothing beforehand to Craven or Albinia. They would count my action utterly foolish; and it is my own concern only. After a day and two nights for quiet thought, I hesitated no longer. It did most distinctly seem that this was the right thing for me to do.

As for my future, what need to disquiet myself? Yesterday, when doubts arose, I could but think of the answer of the prophet to Amaziah,—"The Lord is able to give thee much more than this."

And is He not my Father? A child can surely trust her Father to provide for her!

Of course I may be making a mistake. The fact that this particular step seems the right one for me to take, does not absolutely prove that it is the right one. Of one thing, however, I am sure,—whether or no I mistake His will, He knows that my hearts longing is to do His will. And the root of the matter lies there,—far more in the heart's longing than in the actual doing.

So I went to the Millingtons', arriving about midday. I saw the younger sister, Jeannie, first. She welcomed me warmly, spoke of her mother's state as not improved, then vanished, to send her sister.

Miss Millington entered with a cold and depressed air,—almost with the old look of aversion. Her eyes said plainly—"What brings you here?"

I paid no regard to her manner, but said, "I am sorry to hear that your mother is not better."

"Not likely to be," she answered shortly.

"I have brought a little present, which I hope may be the remedy she needs."

Miss Millington repeated the word, "Remedy!" in a vague tone, adding—"We have our own doctor."

"But this is the medicine he prescribes," I replied, and I put into her hand the purse I held. "You will not be too proud to accept it from me,—for your mother's sake."

Few people know how to receive a gift gracefully, even under favourable circumstances; and the circumstances were hardly favourable to Miss Millington. She stared at first; opened the purse slowly; grew distressingly scarlet and gasped, when she caught sight of bank-notes and gold.

"There are fifty pounds," I said, "the amount you need."

"But—but—you mean—as a loan—" she stammered.

"Not a loan, but a gift," I said distinctly. "You need not hesitate. It is only part of a little legacy which I had, not long ago. I should like it to be a real help to you all, as a loan could not be."

She seemed choked, hardly able to speak. A smothered "Thanks!" escaped her lips. I could see a struggle going on below; but no words came, such as I had half hoped to hear. A misery of embarrassment overpowered her.

I hardly knew what to say. In my then position I could not with delicacy assume the office of adviser,—otherwise, a few words of advice for her future did seem sorely called for. But I could only observe in a low voice—

"You will not doubt me now."

She hung her burning face speechlessly. I went a step nearer.

"There have been some sorrowful passages between us," I said. "But at least by my will I have not offended against you. If I have wronged you unknowingly, I can only ask your forgiveness. And—the things that you have done against me—" I found my voice failing, and I was only able to add—"This will show that you are forgiven, when you care to know it."

Then I went out to the front door, where a hansom waited. Miss Millington followed me, looking crushed. I could not feel that the gift which might restore her mother had brought relief to herself. She did not refuse it, did not spurn the offered help. She only seemed to be bowed beneath the weight of that little purse.

"I must not stay now," I said. "I have a great deal to do: and to-morrow we go to Beckdale. But you will write perhaps some day, and tell me how your mother is getting on. Good-bye."

Her damp fingers closed limply round mine, and the dropped eyes were not raised. I saw her lips tremble, and I caught one sound, half-word, half-sob, which might have been "Sorry!" No more followed. She shrank into herself and from me, with a kind of shudder. I had to leave her thus, and to drive away.

To-night, I can only pray for her, and thank God.