But could that be Mr. Romilly?
[CHAPTER VI.]
A MOTHER'S SWANS.
THE SAME.
February 26. Thursday.
I AM writing at odd times to-day, as I find leisure. A hot fit of journalism is on me just now; perhaps as a relief to certain nameless feelings; and I have a fancy to note down early impressions fully. The first two or three days amid new surroundings are often the future life there in miniature. Lessons do not begin till Monday; and the girls seem very busy in various ways, leaving me more to myself than I should have expected. Also I had a good spell of writing before breakfast. But—to continue!
I found myself on the platform, in the midst of a family gathering. A few other passengers alighted and vanished. There seemed small chance of our speedily vanishing likewise. My trunks were tossed out of the luggage-van, and the train passed on.
We were near the door of the general waiting-room, with a projecting roof over our heads. The roof ended a few paces farther on, and a white paling bounded the uncovered portion of the platform. I could see an open chaise beyond, with a fat brown pony hanging its sleepy head, and a boy lounging on the small box where was only room for one.
Mr. Romilly formed the centre of an eager group; and I, standing slightly apart, had leisure for a few observations. The grave young man, Eustace, stood also apart, and the immobility of his face struck me anew. I could not understand his receiving so moderate a welcome from his sisters. All eyes were bent upon Mr. Romilly, and the girls hovered about their father, with the devotion of satellites round a sun.
Vainly I looked for the "sweet Maggie" of my expectations, vainly also for the Nona and Elfleda of Mrs. Romilly's painting. Thyrza I knew had not appeared, and the boy in charge of the pony I guessed to be Denham. But Maggie, Nona, Elfie, the two little ones, the nursery governess,—enough were present to stand for all these. The two little ones I could of course distinguish. The rest at first sight I could not.