Chapter XXIX: And Yet—!

THE SAME.

October 13. Tuesday Night.

THEY have come! I may as well write, for I am in no mood for sleep.

I suppose reunions after long partings seldom pass off exactly as one expects beforehand. Imagination sees only the poetry and delight of meeting. But the reality includes a good deal that is by no means poetical, or perhaps delightful.

When the travellers arrived, at the close of long waiting on our part, there was, of course, a general rushing of everybody into everybody's arms,—exclusive of Miss Millington and myself. Maggie was foremost in the rush: her face beaming.

Everybody said how well everybody else was looking; and then Mrs. Romilly grew a little hysterical, and a glass of water had to be fetched; and talk came spasmodically, as if no one knew exactly what subject to venture on next. Mr. Romilly, as usual, appeared upon the scene with a continuous murmur of small complaining tones: "Such a long journey—er; and the luggage not arrived yet—er; and the dear girls all so blooming; he only wished he could say as much for himself—er: and the dear boy absent—er; such a trial—er; but after all so much to be thankful for—er!—" in the dolefully unthankful tone which good men do sometimes adopt when talking of their "mercies."

Mrs. Romilly has lost her young looks. She might be ten years older than when I saw her last, and she is worn, thin, faded, though still graceful, for nothing can do away with the charm of her bearing. Nellie is not precisely what I expected, not at all pretty or graceful, but perfectly ladylike, with a kind good sensible face. I like her much. There is such a charm in her absolute naturalness, her complete forgetfulness of self.

It was very curious to watch Maggie. At first I almost thought her extreme delight must be a little put on. But no: as the evening passed, I became convinced that it was entirely genuine, that in fact, this is the true Maggie. She has evidently reverted at once, and almost instantaneously, from her later to her earlier love. "Millie" has for a time filled the gap in her life: but no gap now exists to be filled. Millie has dropped from the position of necessary prop; Mrs. Romilly and Nellie being at once installed side by side in their old position.

I do not suppose Maggie means to be fickle or unkind. But it is very plain that "Millie" has ceased to be of any importance to Maggie.

For there were no wandering looks after Miss Millington, as Maggie sat on a stool by her mother's side, clasping one of Mrs. Romilly's hands, and gazing up in her face with eyes of sweetest content. It was a look which I have not seen in Maggie's face all these months. Can it be that in her own fashion, she really has suffered far more than I have believed, and has flown to perpetual engagements, tennis and "Millie," as a distraction from loneliness?

I could not but be sorry for Miss Millington, forsaken by her especial ally, and left outside the charmed circle, a forlorn nobody. The children had no eyes for any one but Nellie, and Maggie seemed glued to her Mother. There was in Mrs. Romilly's manner, when she spoke to Miss Millington, a certain slight air of distance and dissatisfaction, which I could not but notice: and Miss Millington plainly felt unhappy under it.

That gave me no pleasure. I am glad to be able to say so honestly. I have not sunk so low as to rejoice in another's pain, even though this "other" has been in a sense my enemy.

Towards me, Mrs. Romilly was all sweetness and affection. She brought me forward, held me lovingly, thanked me again and again for all I had done, bade her husband and Nellie unite their expressions of gratitude, told the girls how dear I was to her. And I—well, I could not but feel her kindness, even while oppressed by it. I had such a stupid longing to slip away from the flow of words, and to be let alone.

Nobody would imagine this evening that Maggie does not like me. She has dropped in the most easy and marvellous manner into her Mother's tone. Instead of glowering or averted glances, I meet softly smiling grey eyes. Instead of rushing off to Millie, she slides her arm quietly through mine, as she stands by her Mother.

Is it genuine?—Or is it assumed? Has she been all these months under an unnatural strain, and in bondage to "Millie," and is this the real Maggie, set free from trammels? Or is she so utterly weak and pliable a character, as to be heart and soul under the dominion of any one present for whom she most cares?

I cannot solve the riddle? I only know that it is shallowness, not depth, which usually results in such a riddle. Lake waters are transparent, while a little pond will be muddy; and nothing is more difficult to see through than mud. But in this mood, Maggie is so lovable, that I can hardly wonder at her Mother's devotion.

At all events, Gertrude Romilly is satisfied. "My Maggie is sweeter than ever," she said, when bidding me good-night; and for her sake, I was pleased that she saw no farther below the surface. I cannot see to the bottom of the pond myself; but, alas! I know there is mud.

"And the other dear girls, so improved," she went on. "Thyrza and Elfie especially. Your doing, dearest Constance!"

I ought to be gratified, but I can hardly say that I am. Everything is a burden just now. I only feel thankful that the long evening has come to an end.

Friday. October 16.—Plans are unchanged. We go south next Tuesday, starting early, and arriving before night. Nellie had a letter from Gladys to-day, in which she writes with delight of her friend's return, and mentions in passing that Arthur Lenox will be at The Park,—"till Wednesday evening." Nothing more.

Nellie read aloud a few sentences from the letter; and when Captain Lenox' name was mentioned, Miss Millington's eyes came straight to my face. I did not look up, but I was keenly conscious of her fixed stare. I felt myself turning slowly cold and pale; and I knew that she must see it. No remarks were made at the time; only somewhat later, Mrs. Romilly said affectionately, "Constance, my dear, I don't like to see you so worn-out. I shall have to send you soon to your sister for a holiday." But I made nothing of it.

Then all at once she spoke to me about Miss Millington, expressing a grave sense of doubt, and begging to hear confidentially my honest opinion. Was Miss Millington, or was she not, a desirable companion for the girls, and a fit person to train the children?

I do not know how much or how little my friend has heard. Nellie, being everybody's confidante, is generally well acquainted with everything, and doubtless she has used her own discretion in passing on facts to her Mother.

I declined to give any advice in the matter. This was the only line open to me; and I said so. I had not succeeded in winning the affection of Miss Millington: and I did not think I ought to count myself a fair judge.

Mrs. Romilly looked at me in questioning silence. Then she said, "That is enough. You would never fail to say what you conscientiously could in favour of anybody."

This may be true: I hope it is. But I would rather have no hand or voice—even tacitly—in the dismissal of Miss Millington: and I cannot but expect that to be the consummation.

Saturday. October 17.—About an hour after lunch to-day, I was in the back-garden, half-reading, half-dreaming. The girls had all started together for a long ramble, from Nellie down to Pet.

A footstep made me look up: and I saw Miss Millington hurrying along the path, her face aflame, her eyes glazed with tears. Finding me there alone, she stopped short in front of me, and burst out—

"It is your doing!"

"What is?" I asked, though indeed I could guess.

She tossed her head, and bit her lips, glaring at me.

"Oh, you needn't pretend! You know very well! It's what you've been scheming for ever since you came! I know well enough. But I'll be even with you yet. I'll have my revenge."

"It would be idle to pretend that I cannot guess what you may mean," I said seriously. "But you are mistaken, Miss Millington. I have not moved in the matter."

"Oh, I dare say! When your very words show it! You knew she was going to get rid of me! And you persuaded her."

"I did not know it," I answered. "I knew only that Mrs. Romilly did not seem satisfied: and I could guess that she might have spoken to you. That is all."

"Oh, of course! It's all very fine When you can twist Mrs. Romilly any way you please! And everybody knows it!" she said, jerking out short sentences With gasps of passion between. "I understand! You've gone and told her! That stupid cooked-up tale about your accident! Such a fuss about nothing! And it's all untrue! A downright lie! And she has told me I'm to go! Doesn't like my influence! I know what that means! But I'll be even with you yet!"

"You are wronging me," I said, and I found it difficult to control myself. "I have told Mrs. Romilly nothing. She questioned me, and I declined to answer."

"Oh, I dare say! With a virtuous air, just showing what you meant! And I'll have my revenge!"

"Is that Christian, Miss Millington?" I asked. It was grievous to see her look. "I cannot pretend to think that you have acted rightly towards me, or with the girls. But I have done my best to keep from influencing Mrs. Romilly. If you go, it is not my doing."

"But I say it is," she retorted violently. "And I'll never forget,—never! I've got you in my power too, though you mayn't think it, and I'll make you feel my power. I tell you I will."

"How am I in your power?" I asked.

A kind of chill ran through me at the words. I thought of her stealthy peep at my journal. But I could not tax her with that; I had promised not to compromise Elfie.

She burst into angry sobs. "It doesn't matter how. You've nothing to do with what I mean. I know, and that's enough. I'll never forget,—never!—what I owe to you. I'm to leave, and I'm not to be recommended, and it is all your doing. If my mother and sister come to want, that's all your doing too! And I'll be revenged! Sneaking and telling lies like that! But I declare I'll have my revenge! I'll be even with you!"

"Miss Millington!" an astonished voice said close behind her, and Mrs. Romilly appeared, passing round the clump of bushes which shut off the house. "Is this Miss Millington speaking? I can hardly believe my own ears."

The girl looked down sullenly, crimson and sobbing.

"Miss Millington is under a mistake," I said. "She believes that I have influenced you, Mrs. Romilly, in deciding to part with her."

"And if you had!—What then? You are my friend. When I asked your advice, you declined to give it: but I had a right to ask."

A short silence followed. I did not say another word. Miss Millington stirred as if to escape.

"Stay! One moment, if you please," Mrs. Romilly said coldly, and she reined up her head in her graceful way. I do not think I should admire the gesture in anybody else; it is so seldom graceful: but it suits Mrs. Romilly.

"Stay!" she repeated. "This settles the matter, Miss Millington. One who can speak in such a manner to my friend is no fit companion for my children. You will go to your own home on Monday, instead of accompanying us to Glynde. Of course you will receive three months' salary in full, from to-day: and I will also undertake your travelling expenses to London. I hope you will take warning, and learn a different spirit for the future. And remember,—I am able to recommend you as companion to a lady, but not as a governess."

One scowl of positive hate was cast sidelong at me, and Miss Millington fled. I do not think Mrs. Romilly saw that parting glance. She sat down by my side, and I found her to be trembling.

"Anything agitating tries me," she said. "But it must be so. My husband will agree with me, fully." And when I would have pleaded for some slight relaxation of the sentence, she refused to listen. "No, no, not another word, Constance! I cannot sacrifice my darlings' good to her feelings. She has done harm enough already. Have you not seen?"

"I have feared," I said.

"My Maggie used to be so scrupulously true," she said in a low voice of positive anguish.

I could not deny the change, but I spoke comfortingly, foretelling that under her influence and Nellie's, there would soon be a difference. "Maggie loves you devotedly," I added.

"Yes: but is that all?" she asked, her lips quivering. "I thought my Maggie was the one of them all who had most truly given herself to the service of Christ. And now—Yes, I see it in Thyrza and in Elfie,—the fight going on. But Maggie—my Maggie—could I have been mistaken in her before?"

She broke down, and cried bitterly. I did my best to comfort her. No doubt she is seeing daily more and more those faults and weaknesses which have most markedly developed in Maggie during the last few months. I would not suggest that her whole past estimate of Maggie's character has been a mistaken estimate. If her eyes must be opened, I would rather leave them to open naturally.

Tuesday Evening. October 20.—Only time for a few words. It is very late. The journey has been long, and we did not reach Glynde House till past seven. Since arrival, all of us have been hard at work, unpacking for the night.

Miss Millington left us in London. Her good-byes were hurried and cold. She looked no one in the face, and she would not shake hands with me.

Shall we ever meet again? Our intercourse has been far from happy. Yet I cannot but feel a kindly interest in one with whom I have lived for so many months,—the more so, as I fear she will bring sorrow on herself, wherever she may be.

Maggie has not seemed troubled at losing Miss Millington, being entirely absorbed in her mother—or, if her mother is not present, in Nellie. It is very curious to watch Maggie now, and to contrast the state of things only ten days ago. Then she and "Millie" were inseparable; if "Millie" was pleased, Maggie was pleased; if "Millie" was out of temper, Maggie was out of temper. Now all is changed.

I suppose Maggie cannot stand alone. She must be supported by—must be under the dominion of—somebody else. When Millie was her prop, Maggie thought, felt, acted, in unison with Millie. Mrs. Romilly being now her prop, Maggie thinks, feels, acts, in unison with Mrs. Romilly. This is the real love; that was only a spurious attachment. But the character which can undergo such phases is scarcely to be admired.

Maggie's affectionate manner to myself is amazing. It seems to be quite natural, not assumed; and no doubt she does at the moment honestly feel what she expresses. At all events, it gives Mrs. Romilly pleasure. So I accept the warmth, and I make no remarks; only the affection of Thyrza and Elfie is worth more to me.

I hardly know why I write all this. My mind is full of other matters.

A note from Lady Denham to Mrs. Romilly mentions Sir Keith's intention of calling to-morrow morning, "with their guest, Captain Lenox."

Somehow I feel very calm; not shaken or tremulous. Things will be well, however they turn out. I love the thought that all my life is in a Father's keeping.

"Thy way, not mine, O Lord,
However dark it be;
Lead me by Thine own Hand,
Choose out the path for me.

"Smooth let it be, or rough,
It will be still the best;
Winding or straight, it leads
Right onward to Thy rest.

"I dare not choose my lot;
I would not, if I might;
Choose Thou for me, my God,
So shall I walk aright."

I think I can say these words from my heart to-night.

Wednesday Evening. October 21.—I can still say the same. I would not choose for myself. But the disappointment has fallen heavily.

Sir Keith called alone, not long after twelve. He said that Captain Lenox had suddenly found it needful to go off by an early train, instead of waiting till this evening. A letter by post had caused the change of plan.

"A singular fellow—Lenox!" Sir Keith said musingly. "One never knows what he will do next. Curiously reserved too."

That was all, or nearly all, said about the matter. Nobody seemed to count Captain Lenox' defection a thing of any moment. I of course made no remark: and Miss Millington's inquisitive eyes were absent: while Sir Keith, usually very observant, was absorbed in Thyrza.

I will not allow myself to think who may have written that letter. What use? I cannot know, and I must not run the risk of suspecting unjustly. Better to take the pain straight from my God. Nothing comes, not permitted by Him.

But will life ever again seem worth the trouble of living?