But, oh, to think in a very few more weeks I shall have to say 'Good-bye' again to both of them. I can't accept God's will about it. My mind's divorced from His, my wishes in opposition. The constant struggle to feel differently fags me out, but perhaps I shall 'feel better in the morning,' as Mrs Williams used to say.
When Ross came in to say 'Good-night,' he said,—
'By the way, Meg, how's the novel? Got a plot yet?'
'No,' I sighed, and thought that Nannie was right that time. There is no plot in women's lives just now. They only say 'Good-bye,' as I have done to-day. For, oh, this book begun as a joke is now no longer a book at all. The written words are just a mirror which reflects some pictures from that thing I call my 'life.' Each chapter is the reflection of a day. You who can read between the lines will understand why some of them are grave and others gay, and how my fickle mood alters with each day's news, or varies with the irregularity of the posts from France. You will know, too, that though each day stands as a single, separate thing, unconnected, as Uncle Jasper would say, 'by a strong plot,' yet each is linked to each by a great fear and an endeavour to be brave. For those who go have all the 'plot.' Theirs is the splendid hazard, so to them goes all the high adventure and romance. And we who stay at home have just the giving and the waiting. Yet some one said, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' Ah, you dear women folk! I know the splendour of your waiting. I have told you a little of the rebellion that's in mine.
CHAPTER XXV
Here's two-thirds of the merry month of May slipped by! The posts are regular. We have had a glorious telegram to say that father's coming home. The Gidger flourishes like a green bay tree. Ross is better, and the house buzzes and overflows (as the old vicarage used to do) with the jolly men that he asks down to lunch, or to 'dine and sleep,' regardless of the servants. Bless you! they don't mind. They'll always slave for Ross, and 'Our Lady of Ventre' 'dotes upon the military,' so she'll always come and lend a hand. But, and there always is one, isn't there—the roof is not all it ought to be!
On Friday a regular S.W. gale got up with raging winds and driving rain, and in the middle of the night I heard a little sound in the powdering closet which leads out of my bedroom. 'That's a mouse,' I said to myself. The sound increased. 'That's a rat,' I thought. A horrid roar shook the room. 'That's a bomb!' I shrieked, thinking it was a raid. I heard Ross's welcome voice at the door, asking me what I had dropped. I hurriedly lighted the lamp and let him in, and we surveyed the wreckage. A big bit of the ceiling of the powdering closet had fallen in, and there was a small hole in the roof through which I could see the stars.
'Did you say your prayers, last night,' said Ross.
'Of course, I did,' I replied indignantly.
'Meg, you couldn't have said the litany of St Christopher. I always do. I never get night alarms, my ceiling never comes down.'