MISS CON

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON AND STARS," "BERYL AND PEARL," "ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY EDGAR GIBERNE

"Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise."—LONGFELLOW.

NINTH THOUSAND

London

JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED

22 BERNERS STREET, W.

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

PREFACE.

I DO not think I need apologise for sending out another tale about girls and for girls—a tale of everyday life, such as numerous everyday girls in this Nineteenth Century have to live. There may be already a legion of books belonging, more or less, to the same class; but the omnivorous appetite of modern girlhood is not yet satisfied.

Nor, perhaps, need I apologise for its being in some measure a story about and for young Authoresses, incipient or developed. So many girls now crowd the lower rungs of literary ladders, that a few general hints for their guidance can hardly fail to be useful in one quarter or another.

It must not, however, be supposed that "All Those Girls" were would-be Authoresses!

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS

II. AND CONSTANCE CONWAY'S

III. HOW DIAMONDS FLASH

IV. RAILWAY IMAGININGS

V. A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED

VI. A MOTHER'S SWANS

VII. THYRZA'S SANCTUM

VIII. "MILLIE"

IX. THE QUESTION OF ABBREVIATIONS

X. PLENTY OF "ER"

XI. JUVENILE AUTHORSHIP

XII. AND MAGGIE'S EFFORTS

XIII. LETTERS—VARIOUS

XIV. SUBLIMITY AND MAGGIE

XV. THAT PUBLISHER!!

XVI. WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?

XVII. GLADYS HEPBURN'S FIRST SUCCESSES

XVIII. SERIOUS NEWS

XIX. A MOUNTAIN STATION

XX. AND A YORKSHIRE DALE

XXI. THROUGH A STORM

XXII. MYSTERIOUS HOLES

XXIII. "INDEED!"

XXIV. UNPALATABLE ADVICE

XXV. ALONE IN GURGLEPOOL

XXVI. AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?

XXVII. ELFIE'S CONFESSION

XXVIII. NON-RAPTURES

XXIX. AND YET!

XXX. A REAL FIVE-SHILLING BOOK

XXXI. CROOKED AND STRAIGHT

XXXII. VERY UNEXPECTED

XXXIII. CONFIDENTIAL IN A CAVE

XXXIV. DIFFERENCES OF VIEW

XXXV. ENTIRELY VANISHED

XXXVI. AND HE!

MISS CON.

CHAPTER I.

CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

February 20.

"THE very thing for you, Constance. Most satisfactory. Really, if we had—a—if we had hunted all England over, we could not—ahem—could not have hoped to find anything more suitable. Positively, it is, if I may so say—if I may venture to use a somewhat time-worn illustration—the fitting of a round man into a round hole,—a round woman, I should rather say,—ha, ha! Nothing better could be desired."

So Craven declared, about ten days ago, with that oily satisfaction which people are sometimes apt to show about a convenient arrangement for somebody else. If I decided to go to the Romillys, it would be particularly convenient for Craven. I had been a full month in his house, and he was beginning to favour me with plain hints that a month was enough. Albinia never ventures to oppose him.

"Just the very thing," he repeated, rubbing his big flabby hands together. He might be a handsome man, this brother-in-law of mine, if less ponderously rotund, and boasting a smaller allowance of cheek and chin. I could not help thinking that afternoon, as he lounged back in his study-chair, what a huge individual he is for his fifty years. Anybody might take him for sixty.

I have not written in my journal for many months. Time enough now to make a fresh start. The only way is to go straight ahead, letting alone arrears and explanations.

"Precisely the opening for you," he went on. "Really, your course is, if I may so say, plain as daylight. As I say, plain as daylight. I am most happy to have been the means of affording you—ahem—a shelter, until this—a temporary shelter, I should say,—until this opening should appear."

Craven, like many other speech-makers, indulges in broken sentences and needless repetitions.

"Not merely an opening, but a duty,—a positive call to duty. I have always held the opinion—always, I may say,—that you were by nature fitted—peculiarly fitted—for the work of teaching. In fact—a—that you were a first-rate instructress of youth thrown away,—pardon me! And really, after the monotony of your existence—a—with the worthy old lady who has been—ahem—has been so lately removed from our midst,—after the monotony of your existence, as I say, hitherto,—you will find—ahem—will find positive excitement, positive dissipation—a—in the surroundings of your new life with the Romilly circle."

Craven ought to have felt exhausted by this time. If he did not, I did.

"Supposing I go," I answered perversely. Craven always rouses the perverse element in me.

"I was not aware that—ahem—that any other opening had—a—had presented itself, my dear Constance."

"I don't wish to decide in a hurry," I replied, though I knew as well as did Craven, that the matter was already practically settled. "Besides," I added, "it is not generally supposed that a governess' life means too much dissipation. Too much work is more likely."

For I did and do think that Craven might be a little less willing to let me enter on a life of possible or probable drudgery. Not that I want pity, or that I believe in the need for real drudgery in anybody's life. Plenty to do is my delight, and the question of drudgery depends on the spirit in which one does things. Moreover, I have never expected Craven to offer me a home; and if he made the offer, I would not accept it.

Still one does like a man to act a consistent part. Craven has in his own person so ardent a love for ease and non-exertion, that from his standpoint, he ought justly to spare me some grains of pity. My protest only set him off afresh, however.

"There can be no question, my dear Constance,—ahem—that your post will be a light one. At the same time, it will afford you—a—will offer precisely such a sphere for your talents as you—ahem—will offer, in fact, an appropriate sphere for your talents. For I see no harm in admitting—a—no harm in admitting that you are possessed of certain talents. Here, for the first time in your life,—as I say, for the first time in your life,—here is a field for their exercise. Not in mere lesson-giving, but in the exercise of—a—the exercise of—ahem—the exercise of a mild and beneficent and improving influence on all around you."

"Am I to begin by improving Mr. Romilly?" I asked.

The laboured and monotonous utterances sounded so exactly like a third-rate platform speech, that my gravity was upset. I had to say something which might serve as an excuse for a laugh.

Craven did not smile. He lifted one broad hand silencingly.

"In the shaping—ahem—the moulding—ahem—the general improvement, as I say, of those young people who will be in your charge. A more delightful occupation could—a—could scarcely be found. There can be no hesitation whatever—I say, there can be no hesitation whatever in pronouncing that you, my dear little sister, are by nature—a—singularly adapted for the post." Craven always calls me "little" when he wants to give me a set-down, though really I am almost as tall as himself. To be sure, I am not so broad!

"That is the question," I said. "If I could be sure that I really am fitted—But the responsibilities will be immense. If I were a woman of forty, instead of a girl not twenty-three—"

"With the appearance of—a—of thirty at least," asserted Craven.

There might be some truth in this. Twice in the month before, I had been taken for Albinia's twin. But also I had been twice taken for only eighteen years old. So much depends on the mood one is in.

"If I could be sure that I am fitted," I said again, rather rashly inviting a further flow of speech.

"Adapted undoubtedly, I should say," Craven answered. He drummed his right hand solemnly on the chair-arm, by way of emphasis. "Unquestionably! For you have gifts, my dear sister,—I may say that you have gifts. You are clever,—ahem—intellectual,—ahem—and you have cultivated your intellect. You are well-read. You draw and paint,—really quite tolerably. Yes, I may say—a—quite tolerably. Your music is, on the whole—on the whole, above the average."

Craven's knowledge of music is rather less than that of his favourite puppy, but this only makes it the easier for him to pass judgment.

"You have—" he went on—"you have your faults also: who has not? A certain impetuosity; somewhat too good an opinion of yourself; an over-readiness to oppose your views to those of others; these defects have—ahem—have to be subdued. But again there are faults which in your new position—which, I may say, in your new position will be—a— transformed into virtues! For instance! A certain faculty for spying out others' weaknesses—ahem—a somewhat unenviable readiness to set others to rights—pardon the suggestion, my dear little sister! But the adaptability of things is remarkable—is really, I may say, most remarkable. For henceforth the business of your life will be—the leading aim of your existence will be—a—the setting of others to rights a—the correction of others' faults. Thus, as I may say, as in fact I have already observed—a—thus at least one faulty tendency glides into a positive virtue."

My impetuosity came, I suppose, into play here. I felt all at once that I had endured as much as could reasonably be expected.

"Have you done, Craven?" I asked, standing up.

Craven was astonished. Probably he had not done; but my sudden movement disturbed the beautiful orderliness of his ideas, and put the remainder of his speech to flight.

"Because I think our discussion has lasted long enough," I said. "I will write to Mrs. Romilly by this evening's post, and promise to be at Glynde House in a fortnight."

Craven rose slowly and examined the framed almanack. We were together in the library, whither he had summoned me on my return from an afternoon stroll in the park.

"Nothing keeps Con indoors," Albinia is wont to declare, and certainly that day's fog had not sufficed to do so.

"A fortnight from to-day," he said dubiously. "That brings us to—the twenty-fifth. Yes; if I am not mistaken—the twenty-fifth."

"Mrs. Romilly names the twenty-fifth," I said. "I cannot offer to go sooner. It is unfortunate; but she does not leave England for another week; and she wishes me to arrive a week later. I am afraid you will have to put up with me so long."

Without waiting for an answer, I passed out of the luxurious library into the spacious hall.

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.

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.