One might almost as soon credit a newly-hatched chicken with "sublime imaginings" as Maggie Romilly with hidden depths of profound affection and acute suffering.
Maggie grieving terribly over the parting! Maggie hiding intense sorrow under an appearance of cheerfulness! I could laugh as I write the words, remembering the high glee with which two or three hours ago she and Nona were racing round the schoolroom, trying to catch the little ones. Quite right too. I am only glad to see them so happy. But certainly I detect no symptoms in Maggie of severe self-control, of concealed depression, of overmastering anxiety. And with one so quick to betray each passing mood, pain and sorrow could scarcely be held under continuously.
It seems to me that Maggie is rather gratified than otherwise with her present position in the house; and is very much preoccupied with out-of-door engagements, especially tennis. She likes an unbroken course of such amusements as Glynde can afford, and is rather apt at present to let duty wait upon pleasure. Care has not fed yet upon her damask cheek. She looks well, is plump and rosy, and at times she strikes me as quite pretty. Indeed, I should say that she and all the girls, except Elfie, are unconsciously rejoicing under the sudden cessation of the strain which always comes upon a household with long illness.
Now and then I see Maggie to be greatly put out with me, when I have to take some decisive step in opposition to Miss Millington.
One odd phase of affairs is Maggie's devotion to Miss Millington. It is odd, because in some respects Maggie is proud. She will not brook a hint or suggestion from any one as to the management of things and she has an extremely good notion, transparently shown, of her own reflected honours as the daughter of Mr. Romilly, owner of a big house in the south and a fine estate in the north. But pride does not come between her and "Millie."
Certainly I will allow that Miss Millington is quite ladylike, as well as almost pretty. Still, it is a little droll and out of place to see Maggie, the eldest daughter at home and present head of the establishment, running perpetually after the little nursery governess, fondling her, making much of her, holding long consultations with her late at night, behaving, in short, as if Miss Millington were her most intimate personal friend and most trusted adviser. I am wrong to say that Maggie will take hints from nobody; for she will receive any number from Miss Millington.
The most singular part of this devotion is its novelty. I suppose Maggie has been fond of Miss Millington before, but by no means to the same extent. "Maggie always allowed Millie to call her by her name," Thyrza observed a day or two ago, "so of course she has done the same to me. I know Nellie didn't think it a good plan. But they were very little together. Maggie was always dangling after mother and Nellie,—it didn't matter which: and she was the same to Jackie as to Millie. But now Jackie is gone, and mother and Nellie are away, there's only Millie; and Maggie always must have somebody!"
Does the clue lie in those words,—that Maggie "always must have somebody!" Woodbine must cling to something. If one prop be removed, it will find a second.
What to write to Mrs. Romilly, I do not know. For I must comfort her: and yet I cannot say what is not true. Something vaguely kind and cheering will be best. I shall tell her how pretty Maggie's eyes are, and how fond she seems of her sisters—not mentioning poor Thyrza. Then I might perhaps generalise a little—abstractedly—about the deepest natures not being always the most quickly won. Not that I believe in that theory, but it will do as well as anything else just now for my poor friend: and it is safe enough to assert that a thing is "not always" this or the other. But I shall have to be very careful. She is so quick to read "between the lines."
May 14. Thursday.—My letter to Mrs. Romilly has gone off. I feel rather "quaky" as to results.