Chapter III: How Diamonds Flash!

THE SAME.

February 24.

I MUST take up the thread where I left off three days ago. The last evening in Albinia's house has come, and to-morrow I make my plunge into a new life. It is late, and I have been busy; but there is much to think about, and sleep looks impossible at present. As well sit up and write, as toss to and fro in the dark.

Albinia was seated near the drawing-room fire when I went in, reading a little, or working a little, I can't say which. She is always doing a little of something, which ends in nothing. Perhaps she was working, for I noticed the flash of her diamond rings as she moved her hands.

Craven likes his wife to dress richly, and to make a good display of jewellery,—perhaps as an advertisement of his wealth. She is apt to be a little overladen with gems, just as her drawing-room is overladen with gilding. Her natural taste is good, but she conforms to her husband's taste in all such minor matters. Wisely, no doubt. Anything is better than a succession of domestic jars; and when Albinia became Craven's wife, she knew the manner of man who was to be her husband.

"What a dull afternoon we have had," I said.

"Yes," Albinia answered slowly. "Have you been out till now?"

I did not at once respond. Her question fluttered by me, and was forgotten. A reflection of our two figures in a pier-glass, lit up by half-lowered gas and dancing flames, had attracted my attention, and set me cogitating.

Albinia and I are often said to be alike. Though eight years my senior, she looks young for her age, and I—at least when grave—look decidedly old for mine. That brings us nearer together, and makes the mistake as to twinship occasionally possible. If I were to describe Albinia as I saw her in the glass—rather tall, rather thin, with a good figure, long supple limbs, and much natural self-possession; also with grey eyes, dark hair, and tolerably regular features—the description would apply equally well to myself, and probably would give no true impression of either.

For in reality Albinia and I are not alike. It is impossible that we should be. We may be formed on much the same model; eyes and hair may be the same in colouring; but we are not alike. Differences of temperament and character must show in the face. Albinia's torpid easiness of disposition and her willingness to submit, are the precise converse of my untiring energy and troublesome strength of will. Strangers may and sometimes do mistake the one for the other; but those who know us well are apt to deny the fact of any resemblance at all,—which is curious.

I have seen Albinia look very pretty at times,—not always, but under certain circumstances. Generally her fault is a lack of animation; and if this is overcome, she wins a good deal of admiration. Much more than I do. Some indeed tell me that I am far better looking than Albinia, but those are only my particular friends. We always see the best of a face when it is really dear to us. Many, I know, count me not at all attractive; and they are the people for whom I do not care. But I do not know why I should write all this.

The difference of our respective standings in life was well marked, that afternoon, by the blaze of Albinia's diamonds and the lustre of her splendid silk, seen side by side with my plain black serge and jet brooch. I did think she might have worn deeper mourning for the good old aunt to whom in childhood we both owed so much. But—there is Craven!

"Well," Albinia said at length.

"I beg your pardon, Albinia. I went into the park first; and since then I have been in the library, talking,—or rather listening."

"Talking about your plans?"

"I shall go to Glynde House in a fortnight."

A glittering flash of the diamonds showed me that Albinia had stirred suddenly.

"Then you have quite decided?"

"Quite. The Romillys want me, and Craven does not."

"We are expecting visitors soon," she said, rather faintly.

Poor Albinia! It was not her fault. I would not suggest that the house contained eight spare bedrooms.

"Of course I would rather have kept you for a few weeks longer," she went on. "But still—" and a pause. "If Craven—" another break. "And perhaps Mrs. Romilly wants you there before she leaves."

"No; not before. It would be her wish, but the doctors forbid excitement. She starts in a week from to-day; and she wishes me to go a week later,—just allowing the household time to recover a little from the parting. That seems wise, perhaps, as I am not to see her."

"You would have liked to see her."

"One cannot think of one's own wishes in such a matter," I said.

"And you only know Mrs. Romilly,—not the husband or daughters?"

"Except that I have heard so much about them all from Mrs. Romilly,—I can hardly feel myself a stranger."

"Are Mr. and Mrs. Romilly rich?" was the next question.

"Yes,—very comfortably off. And I suppose still more so since the death of a great-uncle of Mrs. Romilly's last autumn. An estate in Yorkshire came to them then. Mrs. Romilly spoke in a letter of their intention to go there every summer: though Glynde House will still be their home for the greater part of the year."

"And you will have the entire education of several girls! Housekeeping too?"

"I really don't know, Albinia. My notions as to what I shall have to do are hazy in the extreme. That is the worst of not seeing Mrs. Romilly. No, not the entire education. There are masters for accomplishments, I believe; and there is a nursery governess for the two youngest. Besides, Maggie must be pretty well out of the schoolroom."

"Oh, then of course she will be housekeeper."

"Craven predicts more need for the exercise of a 'beneficent influence' on my part than of actual teaching."

Albinia opened her eyes non-comprehendingly.

"He expects me to improve the household as a whole,—beginning, as I tell him, with Mr. Romilly. My own fear is that I shall be too much of a girl among girls,—with too little authority."

"It all depends on yourself. You must take a proper stand from the first. I dare say things will fit in well enough."

So easy for her to say and think. Hardly anything is more easy than to be philosophical for somebody else. I do not count that my own feeling in the matter is cowardice. I have never feared work or shrunk from responsibility. But from early childhood, I have been under the dominion of a strong sense of duty; and to half perform a duty has been always a misery to me. And I do feel myself so unfitted, so terribly inadequate, for the duties to which I seem called.

"Called." Yes; there it is. If indeed "called" to them, I shall find help sufficient. God does not place His children in positions of difficulty, to leave them alone afterward. My prayer has been—"If Thy Presence go not with me, carry me not up hence." And if His Presence does go with me, then nothing else can matter very much.

"I never expected you to have to take to governessing," Albinia said suddenly.

"Did you not?" I asked.

"No. Two years ago I had not a doubt that you would be married before this." She looked at me with questioning eyes. "What were you about, Con?"

"About my own business, I hope," I said. "Nearly time to dress for dinner. I must be quick."

"You can just as well write a line afterwards."

"No; I would rather catch an earlier post. I must set Mrs. Romilly's mind at rest, and I want to have the thing settled."

"You can write here," said Albinia.

I acquiesced, going to a davenport, though solitude would have been preferable. The letter seemed to need careful wording. Between my desire to bring repose to Mrs. Romilly, and my conscientious dread of promising more than I might be able to perform, I scarcely knew what to say. And I leant back in my chair, thinking.

"Do you know what o'clock it is, Con?"

Albinia's words roused me from a dream. She was crossing the room, and before me lay a black-edged sheet, with the date written—nothing more. While, fading from the foreground of my mind, was a vivid picture of a scene in a certain small Bath dining-room—a scene nearly two years old, called up by Albinia's utterances—a scene unknown to any living person, except myself and one other. I had forgotten Mrs. Romilly, forgotten my letter, forgotten the need for haste.

For recollections of that scene are apt to involve me in a train of questionings. They come up afresh now as I write.

Had I then known how soon the dear old aunt was to be taken away, how short a time she would claim my care, I think I should have come to a different decision. But I did not know. There seemed no reason why she might not live another ten or twenty years, always ill and helpless, always dependent on me.

What I did, I did for the best, and under a compelling sense of duty. At the moment I had no doubts, no feeling of hesitation. My path seemed clear as daylight. He thought me fearfully cold, and he was wounded and angry. Yet it was for his sake—because I would not bind him to years of waiting.

Was it quite needful—even as things then stood? Should I have been wrong to let him see that my "No" was a "No" of sheer duty, not of choice? Was there not at least the fault of too impulsive action, too rapid decision,—of not delaying to ask and wait for guidance?

"He that believeth shall not make haste." Those words come to me sometimes with a sharp sense of pain. I did believe, but did I act practically upon that belief? If I had not made quite so much haste, I might at least have worded my answer a little differently. And—I cannot be sure, but sometimes I do wonder if he had not almost a right to know that I was not so indifferent as I seemed.

After-regrets are worse than useless. They only unnerve one for daily life. I feel that, yet I cannot always hold these questionings in leash. They gain the mastery over me once in a while, though to no purpose,—worse than none. For he is gone out of reach. He will never know how things really were. Communication between us is at an end,—utterly! He said that he would take very good care never again to trouble me with his unwelcome presence, and I—I let him think it was unwelcome. I said nothing; and he went.

It was from thoughts such as these that Albinia's voice aroused me to the consciousness of my unwritten letter. She was going across the room, and had paused behind my chair.

"No, I have not done," I answered quietly. "One moment, please."

And I dashed off, in a rapid scrawl,—

"DEAR MRS. ROMILLY,—

"Yes, I will come—on the 25th inst. I am afraid it will be only to disappoint your expectations; but I cannot refuse. I will at least do my best.

"This is in haste, to catch the next country post. I want you to hear to-morrow morning. I will write again more fully in a day or two.—Ever yours affectionately—

"CONSTANCE CONWAY."

The letter went, and I was committed to the undertaking.

Now, sitting alone by candle-light in my room,—mine no longer after to-day,—with packed and half-packed trunks around, I find myself doing what I have resolved not to do,—turning back to that closed page of my history, and conning it anew.

I doubt if there be any occupation more vain than reading the past in the light of the present, and breaking one's heart for the things which might have been,—if only one had known! Except indeed that from the blunders of the past, one may gain wisdom for the future.

God knew all the time! That is the one great comfort. He knew—and cared—and guided. Not indeed with the precise and explicit guidance, which would have come, if I had expressly waited and looked out for His hand to point the way. But He makes all things work together in the end for the good of His loved ones,—yes, I do believe, even their very blunders. A mother does not neglect to watch the hasty steps of her most heedless little one; and I know that my Father does not—did not—forget me.

Nor will He. And does not the little one learn from its own stumbles to cling more to the mother's hand? I think so.

Still, I cannot help a feeling of loneliness to-night,—this last night of shelter in my sister's home, before stepping out into an untried and new world. One does crave at times for somebody to come very close, knowing and understanding all that one could say—or would not say. People think me so matter-of-fact and sensible and cheerful, and when they tell me what I am, of course I assent. If I demurred, they would only count their own opinion worth the most. But one cannot be always sensible or always cheerful, and the thirst for human sympathy has me in its grip this evening.

Yet is it not at such times that the human sympathy of Christ our Lord comes home—or ought to come home—to one? If not, the want is in us, not in Him—never in Him!

Now it is close upon midnight, and I must go to bed. What sort of a home shall I be in, twenty-four hours hence?