Chapter VII: Thyrza's Sanctum

THE SAME.

February 27. Friday.

THE country round Glynde seems to be tolerably pretty, of the English semi-rural description, with fields and hedges, farmsteads and cottages, and enough undulating ground to obviate flatness.

Glynde itself is a sleepy country town, of ordinary type, possessing its two Churches, its clergy, its doctors, its lawyers, its necessary array of second-hand shops, its town-hall and markets, its occasional small concerts and other entertainments, its local business on a limited scale, and its local gossip on a scale unlimited. So much I gather already, from observation and passing remarks.

I have always said that I should detest above all things life in a retired country town,—Bath being a city of too much character and history to come under that appellation. Having declared which, it is not surprising that I find myself now stranded on just such a spot.

For if one is so rash as to assert positively that one will not do a certain thing in life, one is pretty sure to be called on some day to do that thing.

The geography of Glynde House is not difficult to learn. In shape the building is a square substantial block, with a large conservatory jutting out on one side, and kitchen offices protruding behind.

On the ground-floor a broad passage or hall runs from the front door to the storeroom and lavatory, beyond which lie kitchen-premises. To the right of the hall, as one enters, is first, the ante-chamber or small drawing-room, the large drawing-room and the conservatory; next, a small passage and side-door into the garden; and behind these, the schoolroom. To the left of the hall are the dining-room, the study, and the morning-room.

On the first-floor, a broad corridor traverses the house from front to back, ending in a bath-room. To the right are, first, Mr. and Mrs. Romilly's very large bedroom and dressing-room; then a small room occupied by the twins; and lastly, a two-windowed room over the schoolroom, apportioned to me. On the other side, over the dining-room, is the spare-room with its dressing-room; behind that a spacious room belonging to Nellie and Maggie; behind that a room for Eustace and Denham.

On the second floor the left half is entirely set apart for the servants, being divided off by a wall running the whole length of the corridor, which thus becomes two separate passages. To the right are, first, and in front, a big low-roofed nursery, transformed of late into a secondary schoolroom; behind that a locked-up room containing household linen; then a bedroom for Popsie and Pet, and opening into that another for Miss Millington. Behind Miss Millington's again is a narrow strip of a room, appropriated by Thyrza.

It is Thyrza's own choice to sleep there, and she told me so frankly. At one time she shared the elder girls' really luxurious quarters; but about a year ago she entreated that the little box-room might be fitted up for her exclusive use; and the request was granted.

"Anything to have a corner to myself!" she said yesterday afternoon, when explaining this. I was a long time alone in the morning, the girls having promised to walk some distance with friends. They asked dubiously whether I would not like to go also, but I begged off, with thanks. I had unpacking to do, I said, and letters to write. After all, the unpacking and letters resolved themselves into journalising.

Luncheon over, Maggie proposed to drive me out in the pony-carriage, "to see the place;" and the twins accompanied us. Conversation did not flow very easily, I am afraid; and I could not feel that I was making great way as yet. Nona chattered a good deal about nothing; and Elfie scarcely spoke at all. Her little brown impassive face puzzles me. Is she always like this? Maggie seemed to like talking about the Hepburns; and I was interested in what she said, though it did not amount to much.

"This is Glynde Park," Maggie said, as we passed through iron gates. "It belongs to a great friend of ours—Sir Keith Denham."

"There was a gentleman in the train with me yesterday," I said. "Somebody called him 'Sir Keith,' and asked after 'Lady Denham.'"

"Oh, that was the same, of course. How funny!" Maggie said, in her half-childish style. "Lady Denham is his mother. We don't like her so much as we like him, she is so odd. Everybody likes Sir Keith."

She blushed up in her quick way. I could not tell whether it meant anything. Some girls blush at everything, just as others never blush at all.

Nona chimed in, "Oh, everybody! He's the very nicest man that ever was. Eustace is going to dine at the Park to-night. He and Sir Keith are immense friends, aren't they, Maggie?"

I did not admire the little giggle which followed this speech. It sounded foolish, though all else seemed simple and natural enough.

Drizzling rain came on, and our drive was cut short. As I went upstairs I met Thyrza, and she said, "You haven't seen my room yet?"

"No," I answered. "Will you show it to me now?"

Thyrza followed me into my own room, where I removed bonnet and jacket. Then it was that she explained the sleeping arrangements of the family, ending with the ejaculation, "Anything to have a corner to myself!"

"I can understand your wish," I said.

"Can you? Nobody else does. Mother gave way; but she doesn't like my wanting it."

"You have a cosy corner, at all events!" I said, as we entered, glancing round upon the variety of odd knick-knacks and curiosities which adorned the walls of the narrow chamber, or were crowded upon shelves and brackets. Framed photographs and unframed paintings alternated with porcelain figures, china plates, and Japanese fans; and every available space seemed to be filled up with an assortment of quaint cups and teapots, stuffed birds, nursery toys, geologic specimens, everlasting flowers, dried grasses, bulrushes, strings of beads, draped scarves, Swiss sabots, German carvings, and what not! Such a heterogeneous collection in so small a space I had never come across before. The little iron bed was at one end, the fireplace at the other, the window on one side between, looking towards the north-east.

One corner, near the fireplace, seemed to be given up to sacred subjects. Two framed illuminated texts flanked an exquisite engraving of Holman Hunt's "Light of the World;" around the simple Oxford frame of which was entwined a spray of ivy. Beneath the engraving stood a small table; and on the table lay a Bible, a Church Service, a handsome copy of "The Christian Year," Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation," and two or three other volumes.

"Do you like the room?" asked Thyrza.

"I like anything characteristic," I answered. "Some day you must let me into all the secrets of your curiosity-shop."

"Would you care? That will be nice."

The first three words came with quite a flash of pleasure. After a pause, she added, in her abrupt style, "Nobody else likes it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Except Eustace, I mean, and he only because it pleases me. Oh, I don't know why. Tastes differ, I suppose. Father thinks it all nonsense. And mother says that corner is so incongruous with the rest."

We were near the small table already mentioned, and I turned to look upon the kingly Figure depicted above,—the Figure of One waiting with Divine patience at a barred and moss-grown door, and with a wondrous light of loving pity in His glorious Eyes. A hush crept over me as I gazed.

"Isn't it beautiful?" murmured Thyrza. "If only I could see the original painting!"

"I have seen it," I said.

"And you enjoy this—after that?"

"The more, for having seen that."

"It is so beautiful," she said again.

"More than beautiful," I answered. "One seems to gain a fresh insight into His character from studying that Face. There is such a mingling of majesty and tenderness."

I did not expect a sudden little clutch of my hand, and a quick, "Oh, I am so glad you feel that. It's just what I feel, and can't put into words."

"Of course," I added, "it is only a human conception of what He is; and one knows that every human conception of Him must fall infinitely short of the reality."

Thyrza's dark eyes were fixed on me intently. "And you don't think this corner of my room incongruous with the rest," she asked. "I do so like to have all my pet things about me; and I have nowhere to put them except on the walls. Is there any harm?"

"I can understand your mother's feeling," I said cautiously. "And if there were any touch of the really comic, frankly, I should not like that, side by side with the sacred. But the room does not strike me as comic. It is only singular and natural, a putting forth of your mind and tastes. To me, it seems rather to mean the coming of religion into the common little things of everyday life. If our religion doesn't do that, it is not worth much. Perhaps a good deal depends on how one looks upon a question."