Chapter IV: Railway Imaginings

THE SAME.

February 25. Evening.

"SO you leave us—a—to-day, my dear Constance, and—ahem—proceed to your new sphere of work. I am sure I may say—a—that you carry with you our best wishes—my wife's and mine, I should say."

N.B. * I have a great deal to write of first impressions in my new home, but Craven's utterances come up irresistibly, and insist on first attention.

* N. B.—nota bene

"Thanks," I replied. "It is quite a case of speeding the parting guest."

Now this was unkind to Albinia. She never can withstand her husband, but the gratification which beamed from his rotund face was not reflected in hers. I thought her even a little depressed in her apathetic way.

Craven showed no signs of being affected by my sharp utterance, but drawled out his next inquiry, "I believe you—a—start some time this morning—a—my dear Constance."

"The twelve o'clock train. Different lines don't fit in their time-tables well," I said. "It is unkind to passengers. I shall have two changes, and scant time for either."

"No doubt—a—if one train is missed, another runs later," said Craven.

"No doubt," I answered. "But I don't particularly want three or four hours' delay."

"I believe you—a—change trains at—a—at Hurst," said Craven.

"That is my first change," I replied. "The second is at Glynde Junction." But Craven was talking, not listening, so I stopped.

"At Hurst,—yes. Just so,—yes. To be sure,—yes. No doubt you will obtain lunch there,—yes, a very good plan. You will write and inform Albinia soon—inform Albinia as to your welfare—ahem. I may say that—a—I believe—a—that I feel no doubt whatever you will do well—ahem—will do excellently well in your new sphere. Yes, I may say—excellently. You have acted hitherto an exemplary part in the care of—a—your worthy relative,—looking for no return."

This was quite true. Aunt Lavinia cared for me in childish days, and I have cared for her in later years. It was a matter of course that I should do so. She has depended upon me entirely. But I have had no thought of reward. I always knew that the greater part of her income consisted of a life annuity. And it was my friends, not I, who were disappointed when, after her death, it became known that with the exception of one hundred pounds everything at her disposal was left to Albinia, not to me.

"Looking for no return," repeated Craven, with an unctuous little smack of approval peculiar to himself. "Yes, I may say—looking for no return. One reward you have doubtless, my dear little sister,—namely, the satisfactory mandate of your own conscience, and ahem—and a very respectable nest-egg of one hundred pounds, which you will do well to allow to accumulate at—a—at compound interest. The world now lies open to you, and an opportunity has at last arrived—a—has, I may say, at last arrived—for the exercise of your intellectual gifts. As I was about to remark, you—a—you undoubtedly possess—"

"I seem to have heard all this before, Craven," I said, glancing at the clock, which pointed to more than half-past ten. Breakfast in the Smyth household is not inordinately early.

"In a governess, my dear Constance," Craven said slowly, helping himself to fish for the fourth time, "in a governess—a—this fish is very much overboiled, Albinia, very much indeed—a—in a governess, my dear Constance, such impetuosity as yours is, I may say,—"

"Really! I thought I was particularly well adapted for being a governess," I exclaimed.

"Is, I may say,—" pursued the imperturbable Craven, "likely—a—to lead you into serious difficulties—ahem. Remember, my dear sister,—you should—a—remember that your office now is to guide—a—to instruct—a—the young. More than this, you depend—ahem—entirely upon your own exertions; and if—a—if, in a temporary fit of impetuosity, you are led to throw up your situation, you—a—you find yourself homeless—absolutely homeless, my dear Constance."

"I understand," I said. "I shall not come to you for shelter, Craven," and I stood up. "Will you kindly excuse me, Albinia? It is getting late, and I have not done my packing."

Albinia assented, not reluctantly; and I vanished. But I felt very vexed with myself. After many resolutions to keep calm and smooth to the end, here was I giving vent to irritability, like a pettish school-girl. Apart from the wrong-doing, what was the use? Craven would not understand.

As I turned the key of my travelling bag, Albinia glided into the room.

"The cab has come," she said. "It is rather early, and I meant to send you in the carriage; but—"

"No need for excuses," I said. "You can't help things, Albinia. I am only amazed that I could stoop to be angry with him."

Pretty severe, this; but I do not think the words touched Albinia. She said only, "I have brought you a little packet of sandwiches."

"Thank you," I answered. "Craven's plan of luncheon at Hurst is not quite feasible. I shall have just three minutes there."

"You need not say anything about the sandwiches downstairs," observed Albinia. Craven, with all his wealth, is no "lover of hospitality."

Another hour, or less, and I found myself alone in a second-class carriage, passing swiftly out of London, with nearly two unoccupied hours lying ahead.

The train was not an express, and several stoppages took place. Yet no one came into my compartment; and the solitude was not unwelcome. Between the closed chapter of my past life and the opening chapter of my future, this little pause seemed well. I had a book with me, but I could not read. There is something in the steady rush of a train which always inclines me to steady thought; and I had so much to think about.

It is odd to look back to one's previous imaginings of people or things, and to compare those imaginings with the realities.

I can recall clearly now some of the pictures which floated through my mind as I sat in the train. Probably they would soon fade, if I did not jot them down while fresh.

There was Margaret, the second daughter, "my sweet Maggie," as Mrs. Romilly calls her. I felt that I already knew well this dear girl, just nineteen in age, and of a nature so humble and winning that none could fail to love her. Mrs. Romilly doubtless leans more upon the capable Nellie; but it is around Maggie, her "tender, clinging Maggie," that I have seen her heartstrings to be most closely twined. Poor gentle Maggie! How I pitied the young girl yesterday, picturing her left thus suddenly at the head of a large household. She would indeed need all the help and advice that I might be able to give. I longed for Maggie's sake to have had more experience. She was not naturally a gifted manager like Nellie,—so I had heard,—but had always depended on her mother and elder sister.

Then there was Thyrza, some fourteen months younger than Maggie—"that dear difficult Thyrza," she is termed by her mother. I meant to win Thyrza in time, to gain her confidence by slow degrees. But in the reserved and brusque Thyrza, I could not look for so pleasant a return as in the sweet and lovable Maggie. Unconsciously, perhaps, I was a little prejudiced against Thyrza. Mrs. Romilly had so often spoken of her with a sigh.

The twins, Nona and Elfleda came up next, aged sixteen and a half. "My bright Nona," and "my lovely gipsy Elf!" Mrs. Romilly has called them. I could see in imagination the fair face of the one—"all sunshine, with such clouds of auburn hair and such a complexion!"—and the brilliant merry eyes of the little dark beauty. "Not very fond of study, either of them, but able to do anything they liked,—so quick and clever." Yes; Nona and Elfie could not fail to be favourites.

And the two small children, Popsie and Pet; and their young nursery governess, Miss Millington,—I had to be friends with all. There was also the fifteen year old boy, Denham, "my handsome son," Mrs. Romilly has styled him. I thought he must be dearer to her than the elder son, Eustace, which seemed curious. A mother usually clings most to her firstborn. But I had heard little of Eustace Romilly.

In addition to all these, there was Nellie Romilly's great friend, Gladys Hepburn, living "just round the corner," and closely interwoven with life in Glynde House, beside many others with names more or less familiar. But among all these figures, it was that of Margaret Romilly, "sweet Maggie," which stood out with the most inviting distinctness, forming the centre of my expectations. A purely imaginary figure, of course. I pictured Maggie as a girlish reproduction of my friend,—tall, slender, graceful, with liquid loving brown eyes, and pensive winning smile. Mrs. Romilly had shown me few photographs of her people. She always said they were such failures.

The background in my mind to all these moving figures was a fine country mansion, with extensive gardens and something of park land. I can hardly tell how this idea grew into existence; except that Mrs. Romilly has a way of writing and speaking about "our place," which has perhaps misled me. I am sure she does it with the utmost simplicity. It is habit she has fallen into unconsciously.

Mr. Romilly overshadowed the whole. I had formed a vivid idea of him. I knew him to be many years older than Mrs. Romilly, and she has spoken of him always with true wifely enthusiasm. My mental sketch of him was drawn from recollections of things she has said. There could hardly be such another man in the world. His face, his features, his manners, his self-forgetfulness, his kindness, his indulgence, his generosity,—all these have been painted before me, till I could only feel that he must be a very prince among men, and that to live under the same roof with Mr. Romilly must be a priceless privilege. The only marvel to my mind was that he had not gone abroad with his wife. But doubtless a spirit of self-denial restrained him, and he remained in England for the sake of his girls.

I found myself wondering next what manner of Church and of clergyman I should find. Mrs. Romilly may have described them to me, but I could recall no particulars. In my quiet Bath life, I used to attend many week-day Services in addition to those of Sunday. I found them a help—nay, a positive necessity. But things would be different at Glynde. That which had been a duty as well as a privilege in Bath—a duty because I had the leisure to go, and no prior home-claims to hinder me—might at Glynde cease to be a duty, because of such other claims.