May 7.
MY DEAREST CONSTANCE,—I have persuaded my watchful Nellie, with great difficulty, to let me send a few words in answer to yours. I cannot get out of my head a haunting fear that somehow you do not quite appreciate my precious Maggie. It would grieve sue intensely if things were so.
Maggie is like me, reserved as to her deepest feelings: and it may be that you have scarcely read as yet her true nature. She is capable of giving such devoted love. Dear Constance, have you won it yet? Forgive me for asking the question. Forgive a mother's anxieties. I can scarcely judge from Maggie's letters, but I have had doubts, and your letter has awakened real fear. Your mention of her is so slight, compared with all that you say of my other dear girls. Does that—can it—betoken indifference?
I know well how terribly my sweet Maggie is suffering at my absence, though she will bear up courageously for the sake of others. And I want you to see below the surface with her. I want you to know my child's real worth and depth. She is so humble, so tender-spirited,—I could not bear, dear Constance, to think that you and she should not fully understand one another.
It rejoices me to hear that darling Elfie is really trying to be brave. She is, as you say, a sensitive little puss—not with the acute sensibilities and intense feeling of dear Maggie, so seldom allowed to appear,—but excitable, nervous, fanciful, and soon overwrought. Miss Jackson had not quite the right method of managing Elfie. I was compelled at one time to make a strong stand, and to insist on no spoiling. I trust to you for more firmness.
Nona's powers will develop. I am not at all afraid for that dear girl. She is capable of anything: but sixteen is very young, and the high spirits which seem to you such a disadvantage, I should call quite a blessing. I wish I could look forward as hopefully for Thyrza as for Nona. I do find there a strange hardness, which exists in no other of my children. If you are able to influence her for good, so much the better. But, dear friend, do think over what I have said about my precious Maggie. I have so depended on your loving companionship for her, now in her time of trial and loneliness. If you knew how that dear girl has always clung to me and depended upon Nellie, you would realise a little of what she must now be suffering. Try to win her heart, dear Constance,—for my sake! I can assure you my Maggie's love is worth having.
I must not write more. I shall suffer severely for this.—Believe me, your warmly-attached friend—
GERTRUDE ROMILLY.
[CHAPTER XIV.]
SUBLIMITY AND MAGGIE.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
May 12. Tuesday.
IF ever anybody managed to write a harmless and non-exciting letter, I should have said that mine to Mrs. Romilly came under that description. Her answer fell upon me like a small thunder-clap.
Of course I showed Mrs. Romilly's letter to nobody: though, equally of course, I was expected to pass the sheet round the breakfast-table. That very bad habit prevails in this house to an unfortunate extent. Mr. Romilly labours under a ludicrous belief that anything written by any near relative of his own must be intended for his eyes: and nobody is supposed ever to receive a letter or note which cannot be regarded as common property. Hence arises an occasional necessity for objectionable little private slips and secret postscripts, as the only possible mode of saying what must be said, and avoiding betrayed confidences.
All eyes were on me as I read, and when I put the letter into my pocket glances of meaning were exchanged. Mr. Romilly, who had just appeared, sighed in an audible and appealing fashion, while Maggie remarked that "Mother could write so seldom and only to one at once, and tell all the news."
"Mrs. Romilly tells me really no news," I said.