Miss Con

by Agnes Giberne

I was rather astonished to find that all this delay and discussion had been with reference to a fifteen minutes' walk. The drive proved to occupy quite as long a time, since we had to take a considerable tour in place of a short-cut, and the ground sloped upwards continuously.

Most of our way lay along a dull road, with a hedge on one side and a wall on the other: an occasional house in a garden alternating with small fields.

Mr. Romilly kept up a diminutive flow of talk with Popsie and Pet, addressing a remark now and then to me; but conversation generally was limited in extent. Miss Millington studied me persistently, with eyes which noted every fold and button in my dress, and had power to see very little beyond the folds and buttons. Maggie's pretty eyes studied me too at intervals, in a girlish and interested though not penetrative fashion. I could not feel sure whether or no Maggie were disposed to like me, but I could be very sure that Miss Millington was not.

Reaching Glynde House, my visions of a possible park died a sudden death. For it was evidently just a good-sized "family mansion," so an agent would term it, roomy and comfortable, and standing in a good-sized garden; nothing more and nothing less. Thyrza stood at the front door to welcome us; if her silent reception could be called a welcome. The three others had vanished. She took possession of my bag and shawl, and held them resolutely, while Mr. Romilly insisted on leading me from room to room on the ground-floor, that I might at once know my whereabouts.

So we walked into the large drawing-room, through a kind of ante-chamber or small drawing-room; then into the capacious dining-room; then into the study, the morning-room, and the schoolroom. I was glad to find the latter nicely furnished, with two windows and plenty of book-shelves.

"The morning sun comes in this side," remarked Maggie, who accompanied us, while Thyrza waited at each door in turn. "It would be very cold with only that north-east window. Millie—I mean, Miss Millington—teaches the little ones in the nursery," she added. "Except that she has to give them their music on this piano, because there is no piano upstairs. And, of course, she sits here a good deal. At least she always has. Jackie—I mean, Miss Jackson—was so fond of Millie, and never minded. And they all three come to schoolroom tea and supper here. It saves trouble for the servants."

"This is, of course—er—your special property, Miss Conway," explained Mr. Romilly. "But I hope—er—I trust you will not confine yourself to the schoolroom. My dear wife is counting on your companionship for our dear girls—er—for Maggie especially,—apart from the teaching. Pray consider yourself as our guest—er—as here in every respect as our friend—er—and pray remember that the more we see of you in the drawing-room—er—I am sure you understand."

I did quite, and I wished people would not make speeches, though of course he meant it most kindly. Maggie's expression struck me as a little curious. I could not make it out, for the simple reason, I suspect, that she did not herself know exactly what to think. Maggie's position is almost as new to her as mine to me. She glanced at us both in a kind of puzzled fashion; and when he went on to talk of her inexperience as a housekeeper, and to suggest the benefits of my advice, a look of dissent came.

Some people in my place would have taken her hand affectionately, and said a few words of just the right sort about the mother whom we both loved, and about my readiness to help if asked. But I never am able to manage these little gushes of appropriate feeling at the correct moment. I have often wished that I could. One loses so much time, waiting for others to take the initiative.

I ventured soon to ask after Mrs. Romilly; and her husband entered into a long and sighing dissertation on her state of health, saying much but telling little, and presently diverging to his own condition. Such a comfort it was that they had such a dear girl as their dear Nellie, to undertake the charge of the beloved invalid, he hardly knew what they could have done but for Nellie. He was really so feeble himself, and travelling always affected him so painfully. But dear Nellie was quite invaluable; and everything had been arranged for the comfort of his precious wife. Such a mercy, too, that this very chilly weather had not set in just before they started. And everybody had been so kind, the amount of sympathy from friends under these exceptionally trying circumstances had been really past his power to describe. And then the unutterable consolation to himself and his dear Gertrude, that her chosen friend should be able to come and take her place with the dear girls,—to act, in short, a mother's part to them,—he felt that he might almost lay aside the burden of responsibility, otherwise so heavy in her absence. He had indeed very much to be thankful for, notwithstanding the deep trial of such a prolonged separation.