Chapter VIII: "millie."

THE SAME—continued.

February 27. Friday Evening.

"THANK you," Thyrza said earnestly.

She led me to the tiny mantelpiece, over which hung numerous photographs. Brothers and sisters grouped round the parents were easily recognisable; most of them having been recently taken.

Somewhat apart from the central family collection, I noted two of cabinet size, placed close together. One was the likeness of a remarkably handsome youth, almost a young man, standing in an attitude of careless and smiling ease. The other represented a lad, perhaps two or three years younger, plain-featured, but brimming over with so irresistible a look of fun and merriment, that I fairly laughed aloud, as I looked into the mischievous eyes.

"Who are those?" I asked, smiling still, and turning to Thyrza.

No answering smile met mine. "Keith and Eustace," she said.

I looked again. "Not your brother Eustace, of course. You have a cousin of the same name, perhaps," I suggested. For the one was far too handsome; and there seemed no possible connection between that other radiantly merry face and the grave young man downstairs.

"Yes, my brothers, Keith and Eustace." She spoke in a curt, even hard tone. "The photos were taken six years ago, just before it all happened. Nobody else can bear to see them together like this. But I think—"

Thyrza stopped abruptly.

"I did not know you had had another brother," I said. There had been the loss of one little girl, I was aware, between the twins and Popsie; but of any older son than Eustace I had not heard.

"Then mother never told you. I wonder at that. She can't speak of Keith generally; but you are her friend!"

"I cannot recall any mention of him," I said.

"And you don't know how it all happened?"

"No." Thyrza was silent, and I repeated the name "Keith! That is the same as your friend at the Park."

"Yes; he was named after his godfather, the old Sir Keith."

I looked at the photograph and asked, "What was his age then?"

"Eighteen, and Eustace was sixteen."

"And you were quite a child."

"Yes, not twelve." She gazed fixedly on the ground, as if thinking. "Everybody knows," she said at length; "and you must too. I would rather you should not say that I told you; but of course you will have to know. It was just before Christmas, and they had come home for the holidays. And the ice on the pond was not safe. Eustace persisted in skating, against orders. Only Keith and I were there, and we begged him not, but it was of no use. He was always so high-spirited, and he liked his own way; and father being so nervous about everything, Eustace thought it nonsense. And he went on; and the ice broke; and Keith plunged in to help him."

"And was Keith drowned?" I asked, in a low voice.

"No; not drowned. But the ice kept breaking, and they couldn't get out, and I ran to call some men to bring a rope. Eustace was saved first, and then Keith sank before he could be reached, and he was insensible for hours after, much worse than Eustace. It was a dreadful time. Eustace soon came all right again; but Keith had never been really strong. He caught a very bad chill, and inflammation of the lungs set in. He died in a fortnight."

"How terrible!" I said.

"Yes. Oh, and if you had known him, such a dear fellow. I can't tell you what he was to us all. Everybody thought so much of Keith, and he never seemed the least conceited. They call Denham like him; and I suppose he is in a way. Father and mother think so, and that is why they can't bear to deny Denham anything he wants. But he is so different. Keith was tall, not little like Denham, and so much more clever and hard-working, and so really good! And he and Eustace were so fond of one another. Don't you think it was worst of all for Eustace, much worse than for anybody else?"

Thyrza's dark eyes looked again earnestly into mine, deepening and dilating with the strength of her own feelings. "Keith did so beg and beseech, before he died, that no difference might be made to Eustace. He said we were never to think of it as Eustace's doing. But—there is a difference. Nobody ever forgets; and nobody ever seems quite to forgive—except—"

"Six years!" I said involuntarily, as she paused.

"Six years and a few weeks! It is a long long while to keep the feeling up. And Eustace meant no harm, Miss Conway. He was just a reckless boy,—in wild spirits. Of course he was wrong to disobey,—very wrong. But still, it wasn't worse that time than fifty other times, I suppose. It does seem such a dreadful punishment to have come upon him."

"I suppose one ought rather to put it the opposite way," I said; "that the fifty other times were really no better than that time."

"Yes—perhaps—but such, a punishment to follow upon that once!" she repeated.

"Hardly upon that once alone," I said. "If he had not disobeyed fifty times before, more or less, he would not have disobeyed then. Don't think me hard upon your brother, Thyrza, for indeed I do feel for him. But I believe we are all a little apt to forget how every single step in life is part of a steady working onward towards some good or some terrible goal. No one deed can be weighed by itself, detached from others."

She gave me a startled glance, and said, "Every single step!"

"It must be," I said. "Everything that we do strengthens either the good or the evil in us; and no one thing done can ever be undone."

Thyrza drew a long breath. "Ah, that is the worst!" she said. After a moment's hesitation she went on, "Eustace has never been the same since. He never speaks of Keith, or of that time. Some don't understand, and think him unfeeling. I have heard him called 'callous.' As if people could not see for themselves!"

"I should have thought it would be enough to compare that photograph with his face now," I said.

"Then you understand," responded Thyrza abruptly.

"And your mother so bright still," I said, with surprised recollection.

"Mother! Oh yes, she is bright by fits and starts. I don't think she can help having a bright manner with strangers, it is her way. But she perfectly worshipped Keith. They thought mother wouldn't have lived through it, when he died."

We did not carry on the conversation farther. I had more unpacking to do, and I went to my room, inviting Thyrza to accompany me. She acquiesced with evident pleasure. Five minutes later there came a tap at the door, and Rouse, the upper housemaid, entered, glancing at my half-empty trunks. She is very staid and superior in look, with the pleasant noiseless manner of a really good servant. "Would you like any help this afternoon, Miss?" she asked.

"Oh no, Rouse, I am going to unpack for Miss Conway," said Thyrza.

Rouse's face showed some lurking amusement. I thanked her, and she withdrew, begging me to ring if I wanted anything.

"What a nice person she seems!" I said.

"Rouse has been with us seven years, and always thinks of everything. Fortunate that she does, for Maggie remembers nothing, and she won't be reminded," said Thyrza.

"People cannot learn housekeeping in a day," I observed; and as I lifted out a dress, Thyrza standing by in a rather helpless attitude of would-be helpfulness, I inquired about the daily arrangements as to meals.

"Breakfast is always at eight, like this morning," she answered. "Father isn't often down till half-past, as you saw to-day, and Prayers are always at half-past, and he breakfasts alone after. And luncheon is at one, always the same, only it is sometimes more of a dinner, and sometimes less. The schoolroom tea is at five, and it is open to anybody. Miss Jackson always made tea, and of course you will now, but Millie is pretty sure to try and oust you, if you don't look out. She dearly likes to put herself first. Mother and Nellie sometimes come to the schoolroom tea; but as a rule they have tea in the drawing-room. Maggie is bent on keeping up the drawing-room tea, though really it is absurd, except just when callers come rather late. Father and Eustace never take tea, and Maggie is only just out of the schoolroom."

"Then she is out of it," I said.

"Yes; and mother wanted me to be out too, so as to be a companion to Maggie. But of course I could not. Why, I am not eighteen for another two months, and Maggie has gone on till her nineteenth birthday is over. Father always promised that I should do the same. I am to pay calls sometimes with Maggie, while mother and Nellie are away. That is bad enough, for I hate calls. Don't you?"

"Not if they come in the way of my duty," I said.

"Are calls ever a duty?" asked Thyrza. "It always seems to me such a sham, going and hoping to find everybody out."

"Is that always a necessary state of things?"

"I don't know," she said. "Not with everybody, but with me. Then there is late dinner at seven, and schoolroom supper at half-past seven. When we are quite alone, all we elder ones down to Denham dine with father, and so will you, because mother settled it so. Miss Jackson never would. She said late dinners disagreed with her. I believe she really was afraid of Millie; for it was only since Millie came that she said so. But you are mother's friend, and differences are to be made. Millie—Miss Millington, I mean,—is awfully jealous of you, because she always has her supper in the schoolroom with the children."

"Thyrza, you must not try to set me against Miss Millington," I said gravely.

"There's no need. You will see for yourself. Besides—" after a pause,—"it is only I who dislike Millie. The others are no end devoted to her, and so was Jackie,—Miss Jackson, I mean. We always called her Jackie. I am afraid it was rude, but she didn't mind. She never minded anything, so long as nobody was cross."

"I should like the schoolroom supper quite as much as the late dinner," I said.

"I like it much best of the two! But mother made a great fuss about that, and it will never do for you to say you don't wish it. Father would be desperately vexed—hurt, I mean! I advise you just to take everything as a matter of course. You will soon learn all the ins and outs of the house."

"One thing is quite certain," I said. "I am your mother's friend, but I am also your governess; and I will not have the last fact forgotten in the first."

Thyrza gave me a wide-eyed glance of wonder and approval.

"You'd better not say that in Millie's hearing."

"Why?" I asked imprudently.

"Oh, nothing offends her more than the word 'governess.' And 'nursery governess' finishes her off altogether."

I could hardly help smiling. "To my mind 'governess' is an honourable term," I said.

Then for a little while I kept Thyrza hard at work, and conversation flagged. By-and-by tapping outside the door sounded, and Nona's bright face appeared.

"Maggie wants me to ask you, Miss Conway—Is Thyrza here?"

"Why not?" asked Thyrza, suddenly on the defensive.

"Father has just been saying that he has seen nothing of you all day, and he wanted to know where you were."

A slight sound of impatience escaped the elder girl. "What were you going to say about Maggie?" she demanded in a brusque tone, which contrasted not quite agreeably with Nona's good-humoured and sprightly manlier.

"Maggie thinks, Miss Conway, that perhaps you are tired to-day, and perhaps you would like Millie to pour out tea in the schoolroom,—as she has done lately."

"Millie all over!" Thyrza muttered.

"I think that had better be as Maggie likes," I answered. "Please tell her so, Nona. If she wishes Miss Millington to pour out the tea this afternoon, I have no objection. But I am not at all tired; and am quite ready to step into my duties without delay."

Nona vanished, wearing a puzzled face.

Thyrza exclaimed, "I shall see about it!" and vanished too.

I do not know exactly what passed among the girls during the next few minutes. When I reached the schoolroom, I found Thyrza mounting guard over the teapot like a young dragoness, and Miss Millington posing as a martyr at the other end of the table, surrounded by a little group of sympathisers. Maggie and Denham were not present.

"Never mind, Millie darling! We'll tell mother!"

"Poor Millie! When she only meant to be kind, and to save Miss Conway trouble!"

"Thyrza is always so cross about everything to do with Millie."

"I think Millie ought to pour out the tea always."

"So do I. Why, Millie has been here ever so much the longest."

"And I'm sure she's nearly as old as that Miss Conway!"

"Oh, I do wish dear sweet old Jackie had never gone away."

"Poor Millie Never mind, darling Millie. We'll always like you best."

These sentences greeted my ears in a rapid rush, as I gained the half-open schoolroom door, spoken eagerly and in raised tones. For a moment I faltered, and could have fled. The difficulties of my new position came over me keenly.

But the next instant, I rallied and opened wide the door, taking care to make myself heard. The small chorus of utterances died a sudden death, and my chief comfort was that nobody could know me to have heard aught.

"This is your seat, Miss Conway," said Thyrza.

I went half-way thither, and paused. "Maggie proposed that Miss Millington should make tea this afternoon."

"Nonsense, Miss Conway,—I mean, that is all nonsense of Maggie's," said Thyrza. "It is your place."

"Millie thought you would be tired," two or three voices cried.

"I don't think I am exactly tired," I said deliberately. "But everything is strange to me, and I am strange to all of you. So it really will be a kindness if Miss Millington does not mind pouring out the tea, just this once. To-morrow I mean to be quite fresh, and ready for all my duties. May I sit at the side of the table and be lazy this afternoon? I shall not ask it a second time."

I saw glances exchanged, and I knew that Miss Millington felt herself in a manner checkmated. It is a misfortune that I have had to do so soon anything which savours of checkmating. She rose without a word and went to the head of the table, Popsie and Pet hanging on to either arm, and Thyrza yielding to her somewhat sullenly.

I must confess to a feeling of relief, when seven o'clock came, at the absence of Miss Millington from dinner. The presence of that little person acts already as an incubus on my spirits.

The evening has been very much a repetition of yesterday evening. To-morrow may be different, for Mrs. Hepburn and her daughter, Gladys, are expected to dine with us. I am curious to see the young embryo authoress. One gets rather tired of embryo authoresses in these days, when everybody is trying to rush into print, with or without anything to say; still, Gladys Hepburn may possibly belong to the more limited class of those who really have something to say.

Maggie is evidently fired by example. I see her scribbling away at side-tables, the other girls peeping over her shoulder and offering suggestions. Apparently she does not dislike a little fuss made about the matter.

The Hepburns have lived for two or three years past in Glynde Cottage, a small house round the next corner. Gladys, Nellie Romilly's friend, is an only daughter, eighteen years old. Mrs. Hepburn is a widow, and seems to be universally esteemed. A brother of hers—bachelor or widower—lives with them; also a lanky lame youth, rather younger than Gladys, and two little girls, about the same age as Popsie and Pet. These three are Gladys' first cousins, and were left orphans not very long ago, I believe.