Then, too, I must think how my Master, Christ, had the same trial to endure, only to such an overwhelming extent. For what is the utmost incompatibility of character and temper between us and those around us, compared with the infinite incompatibility between His pure and holy Spirit, and the dull grovelling thoughts of His disciples? Only—His love for them was so great! But for that, He never could have borne it all those years. And I am sure a more loving spirit is what I need. If I cannot love Miss Millington for what she is in herself, or for what she is to me, cannot I love her at least with a kind and pitying love—and because she is dear to my Lord and Master?
It is not easy, I know. In the learning of this lesson, I have to spell out the words letter by letter, looking up for Heavenly teaching.
For I have to be patient with her, yet not weakly yielding. I have to do my duty, often in direct opposition to her wishes, yet not be angry when she shows unjust resentment. No light programme to carry out. But "help sufficient" is promised.
June 1. Monday.—No answer has arrived from Mrs. Romilly, and no notice has been taken of my letter. I fear she has been hardly so well lately; and evidently there is no idea of her return to England for many months.
Much talk goes on about our projected journey north, in July. I am looking forward as keenly as anyone to the beautiful surroundings of Beckdale. Mountains will be a new delight to me. But I have my doubts whether we shall get away before the beginning of Denham's holidays. He would be obliged to board with somebody in Glynde if we left earlier. The same difficulty will not exist another year, for after the summer holidays, he goes to Eton. Time he should too; for of all spoilt boys—! Yet there is something winning about the lad too.
Also we have much discussion at meal-times about the future career of Eustace. Poor Mr. Romilly cannot keep any worry to himself: and every day we wander with him round and round the same hazy circles. I never realised before the wearisomeness of a man who is unable to come to any decision, without somebody to lead him by the hand. A woman of that kind is bad enough, but a man is worse. He talks and talks on, in his thin monotonous tones, reviewing all the perplexities of a subject, pulling up first one side and then the other, meekly opposing every suggestion, mournfully refusing to accept any solution of the puzzle. And if by dint of some happy hit, you really think he is at last brought to some more hopeful point—suddenly he slips out of your fingers, and starts the whole question again from the very commencement.
It seems singular that Eustace Romilly should have reached the age of twenty-two, and be still in uncertainty as to his course in life.
He has not been home this half-year, except for three nights at the time of my first arrival, and for one week at Easter. Having finished his University career before Christmas, he is now acting temporarily as tutor to the son of an old friend. This gives umbrage to his father, and is matter for never-ceasing complaint. It seems that Mr. Romilly is bent upon seeing Eustace enter the Church, and that Eustace is at present opposed to the step.
I do not know the ins and outs of the affair, nor am I acquainted with Eustace's motives, but certainly I have a very strong feeling against any man being pressed to take so solemn a charge upon himself, unless distinctly called to it.
All the girls except Thyrza unite in blaming their brother, and Thyrza says nothing.