And Elfie crept close up to me, slipping her hand into mine with mute sympathy.
I had some difficulty in getting off a quiet half-hour indoors with Lady Denham. But I wanted to be on the move, to be able to forget myself and the past, and I pleaded anew for fresh air.
Lady Denham yielded at once, with the genuine courtesy which so distinguishes herself and her son, and she accompanied us into the grounds. She was quite motherly to me in manner, and Sir Keith looked grave and troubled, evidently fearing that he had given pain.
Before we left The Park, I succeeded in doing away with a good deal of the impression caused by my sudden change of colour. Miss Millington's inquisitive eyes kept me up to the mark. I had to submit to being treated as a semi-invalid, a thing I particularly dislike; but by resisting, I should have given countenance to that which I most wished to drive out of people's minds. So when I was told that I looked pale and fatigued, that I must rest in an easy-chair, and must be driven home instead of walking, I gave way without a struggle. The plea of fatigue was a genuine enough plea for me to use. I do not know when I have felt such languor as during some hours, after that little event. Still, in a general way, I would have laughed at any suggestion of care-taking, so long as I had two feet to stand upon.
The girls were all kind. Maggie became quite gentle and sympathising in manner, the moment she thought me unwell. That has been a real comfort. Can it be that she dislikes me less than I have imagined?
Even Miss Millington said, "You really do too much, Miss Conway!" And Nona insisted on carrying my shawl, while Elfie would hardly leave me for a moment. When saying good-night, she threw her arms round my waist, and held me as in a vice. I understand fully the dear child's unspoken sympathy. Of all the girls, I do not think one has crept so far into my heart as this loving tiny Elf.
I must not think more about what Sir Keith said. It unnerves me. For myself I can endure, but I cannot bear to picture Arthur Lenox' grief.
And I have to be very calm and cheerful after this, or others will certainly guess something of the truth.
July 8. Wednesday.—Another short letter from Mrs. Romilly, kinder than the last. I think she must have felt, after sending that off, that it would trouble me. This is more in the old style, only she harps still incessantly on the one string of "her precious Maggie." I suppose nothing in the world would convince her that Maggie is not, all these months, in a broken-hearted condition about her absence.
Yet it is Elfie, not Maggie, whose eyes fill up with tears at any sudden reference to the absent ones. It is Elfie, not Maggie, who craves for every scrap and item of news about them. It is Elfie, not Maggie, who has distinctly lost flesh and strength with worry and anxiety of mind for the dear mother's condition.