THE SAME.
October 7. Wednesday.
A WEEK ago to-day Lady Denham and Sir Keith left us, returning home. Some business recalled him suddenly, and she would not stay behind. I was glad to see the very marked warmth of her good-bye to Thyrza.
By-the-bye, I do not think I have noted in my journal the fact of Denham having gone to Eton. Sir Keith kindly saw to minor arrangements, by Mr. Romilly's wish. The boy went off in high spirits, not without an apology to me for his conduct at Gurglepool, which, whether or no suggested by Sir Keith, did him credit.
Thyrza and the twins have been for some weeks working irregularly at lessons, with such superintendence as I was able and permitted to give them. The last few days, since I have become once more responsible head, their work has grown regular. But I cannot induce Maggie to apply herself to anything. She seems to be in a dissipated state of mind, gapes over books, and says she "hates practising." I had a wave little talk with her yesterday, about the evil of yielding oneself victim to a frivolous and self-indulgent course of life. Maggie listened, and even looked impressed; but ten minutes later, I saw her giggling in a corner with Miss Millington.
In the face of such an adverse influence, always pulling in the opposite direction, what can I do with poor Maggie? It seems to me at present,—nothing,—except pray and wait. The harm that one unprincipled girl can do to other girls is terribly great. I do not suppose Miss Millington realises how distinctly she is fighting the battle of wrong against right. She only pleases herself, by giving the rein to her personal dislike of me, her inclination to oppose whatever I do. Yet surely the "not realising" is no excuse. She ought to see, ought to realise. One thing is plain; Maggie has sadly deteriorated under her companionship.
The improvement in my knee of late has been astonishing. I am able, not only to get up and down stairs without severe pain, but to take a turn along the road, with the help of a stick or of somebody's arm. Much of this quick recovery is due, I am assured, to my resolution in keeping the limb perfectly still the first two or three weeks.
I cannot say much as to physical strength. Long confinement, following upon long worry, have told upon me. It is difficult to keep up at times. Everything is a trouble, even journalising, and often I am so haunted by recollections of the past, that I long to rush away from myself and from memory. I cannot turn from these recollections, do what I will!
Has Miss Millington with one cruel touch blighted my life's happiness? Consciously or unconsciously, she may have so done. I do not know. I cannot be sure whether Arthur cares for me still,—whether she did or did not say any word to him, which might have hastened his departure. I am all in the dark as to the true state of things. Only, there are possibilities; and there is nothing in her which could make those possibilities an impossibility.
I thought I had forgiven her, up in the peaceful quiet of my own room. But now, out in the whirl of family life, I find a difference. I know it, by my instinctive shrinking from her presence, by the feeling at times that I can scarcely endure to look at her, or to meet those shallow inquisitorial eyes.