To-day the girls and Miss Millington have been chiefly occupied in unpacking and arranging. I have seen little of any of them, for Elfie has been so ill with neuralgia, that I could neither let her come downstairs, nor leave her alone for any length of time.
We have had drenching rain, without a break, from early morning. I wonder if this is usual in July. Denham has been out, of course, regardless of soaking. Thyrza and Nona ventured a short distance, but they were soon driven back, and had to change everything.
Just opposite our house, on the other side of the Dale, is a fine waterfall,—unusually full and fine just now, from the heavy rain. It begins, not far from the top of the hill, as a straight thread of silver. Then comes a break, where I suppose the stream flows over a slope. Then a great tumbling leap down a rocky descent, followed by a second break, and by a final spreading burst of water to lower levels, where it is hidden by trees. I could stand and watch for hours.
The river, flowing among meadows in the bottom of the valley, is not visible from our windows. We have glimpses of the other road, beyond the river, running parallel with this road; and beyond the road rises a great beautiful mountainous mass, extending far to left and right. I do not know its name yet, but everybody seems to call it "The Fell." The waterfall leaps down its sides near; and far-away to the left we can see upon it "The Scaur," a mass of precipitous bare rock, in a green frame.
The hills on this side of the Dale, behind our house, are more smooth and round, and less lofty. Higher up the Dale, some miles off, we have glimpses of mountains, which I am told are over two thousand feet in height. Their summits are swathed in cloud at present.
July 31. Friday Afternoon.—No news yet from Germany. I cannot make up my mind how soon we ought to hear. Surely a second telegram might have been sent; or a letter written by Nellie just after the accident might arrive.
Elfie was awake all night, and to-day she is shaken and hysterical, tears springing at the least word. I would not let her come downstairs till after lunch. Now she is on the drawing-room sofa, sound asleep, and I am journalising at a side-table. I feel safe in so doing, for once. We have had another wet morning; and the sun having come out since lunch, our whole party started ten minutes ago for a ramble. They will not be back for at least two hours, if rain keeps off. So I may as well utilise the time.
Thyrza alone helps me in taking care of Elfie. Maggie, Nona, the little ones, and "Millie" keep studiously aloof. I cannot but see that this is intentional, and that the ill-feeling towards me is fostered by Miss Millington. Nona has her rude manner. The little ones pout when I come near, and are gushing towards their "sweetest darling duckie Millie!" If I glance at Miss Millington, she bridles and tosses her head. Maggie has scarcely spoken to me to-day, except to oppose whatever I wish or suggest. There has been as yet no actual resistance of my authority, and I hope that there may not be,—also that this state of things may not last. It is very foolish: and Maggie's ill-humour has an odd childishness about it.
A letter unexpectedly reached me this morning from Lady Denham,—short, but very kind. She has had a note from Eustace, written in London; and she writes, plainly with a clear understanding of things generally, to assure me that I must not hesitate to appeal to her, if need should arise.
Of course I have shown and read the letter to no one,—though the postmark was commented on by Maggie and Nona in what I cannot but count an unladylike because interfering style.