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."