How do I know that Arthur Lenox would go to Glynde at all just now, but for the fact that he expects my absence?
[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.