THE DECLARATION
It was true enough that Clifford Marsh
would have relished an invitation to accompany that
party of four to Pompeii. For one thing, he was
beginning to have a difficulty in passing his days;
if the present state of things prolonged itself, his
position might soon resemble that of Mr. Musselwhite.
But chiefly would he have welcomed the prospect of
spending some hours in the society of Miss Doran, and
under circumstances which would enable him to shine.
Clifford had begun to nurse a daring ambition.
Allowing his vanity to caress him into the half-belief
that he was really making a noble stand against the
harshness of fate, he naturally spent much time in
imagining how other people regarded him above
all, what figure he made in the eyes of Miss Doran.
There could be no doubt that she knew, at all events,
the main items of his story; was it not certain that
they must make some appeal to her sympathies?
His air of graceful sadness could not but lead her
to muse as often as she observed it; he had contemplated
himself in the mirror, and each time with reassurance
on this point. Why should the attractions which
had been potent with Madeline fail to engage the interest
of this younger and more emotional girl? Miss
Doran was far beyond Madeline in beauty, and, there
was every reason to believe, had the substantial gifts
of fortune which Madeline altogether lacked. It
was a bold thing to turn his eye to her with such a
thought, circumstances considered; but the boldness
was characteristic of Marsh, with whom at all times
self-esteem had the force of an irresistible argument.
He was incapable of passion.
Just as he had made a pretence of pursuing art, because
of a superficial cleverness and a liking for ease and
the various satisfactions of his vanity in such a
career, so did he now permit his mind to be occupied
with Cecily Doran, not because her qualities blinded
him to all other considerations, but in pleasant yielding
to a temptation of his fancy, which made a lively picture
of many desirable things, and flattered him into thinking
that they were not beyond his reach. For the
present he could do nothing but wait, supporting his
pose of placid martyrdom. Wait, and watch every
opportunity; there would arrive a moment when seeming
recklessness might advance him far on the way to triumph.
And yet he never for a moment regarded
himself as a schemer endeavouring to compass vulgar
ends by machination. He had the remarkable faculty
of viewing himself in an ideal light, even whilst
conscious that so many of his claims were mere pretence.
Men such as Clifford Marsh do not say to themselves,
“What a humbug I am!” When driven to face
their conscience, it speaks to them rather in this
way: “You are a fellow of fine qualities,
altogether out of the common way of men. A pity
that conditions do not allow you to be perfectly honest;
but people in general are so foolish that you would
get no credit for your superiority if you did not
wear a little tinsel, practise a few harmless affectations.
Some day your difficulties will be at an end, and
then you can afford to show yourself in a simpler guise.”
When he looked in the glass, Clifford admired himself
without reserve; when he talked freely, he applauded
his own cleverness, and thought it the most natural
thing that other people should do so. When he
meditated abandoning Madeline, his sincere view of
the matter was that she had proved herself unworthy:
however sensible her attitude, a girl had no right
to put such questions to her lover as she had done,
to injure his self-love. When he plotted with
himself to engage Cecily’s interest, he said
that it was the course any lover would have pursued.
And in the end he really persuaded himself that he
was in love with her.
Yet none the less he thought of Madeline
with affection. He was piqued that she made no
effort to bring him back to her feet. To be sure,
her mother’s behaviour probably implied Madeline’s
desire of reconciliation, but he wished her to make
personal overtures; he would have liked to see her
approach him with humble eyes, not troubling himself
to debate how he should act in that event. With
Mrs. Denyer he was once more on terms of apparent
friendliness, though he held no private dialogue with
her; he was willing that she should suppose him gradually
coming over to her views. Barbara and Zillah showed
constraint when he spoke with them, but this he affected
not to perceive. Only with Madeline he did not
converse. Her air of unconcernedness at length
proved too much for his patience, and so it came about
that Madeline received by post a letter addressed in
Clifford’s hand. She took it to her bedroom,
and broke the envelope with agitation.
“Your behaviour is heartless.
Just when I am in deep distress, and need all possible
encouragement in the grave struggle upon which I have
entered for I need not tell you that I am
resolved to remain an artist you desert
me, and do your best to show that you are glad at
being relieved of all concern on my account. It
is well for me that I see the result of this test,
but, I venture to think, not every woman would have
chosen your course. I shall very shortly leave
Naples. It will no doubt complete your satisfaction
to think of me toiling friendless in London.
Remember this as my farewell. C. M.”
The next morning Clifford received
what he expected, a reply, also sent by post.
It was written in the clearest and steadiest hand,
on superfine paper.
“I am sorry you should have
repeated your insult in a written form; I venture
to think that not every man would have followed this
course. For myself, it is well indeed that I
see the result of the test to which you have been
exposed. But I shall say and think no more of
it. As you leave soon, I would suggest that we
should be on the terms of ordinary acquaintances for
the remaining time; the present state of things is
both disagreeable and foolish. It will always
seem to me a very singular thing that you should have
continued to live in this house; but that, of course,
was in your own discretion. M. D.”
This was on the morning when Cecily
and her companions went to Pompeii. Towards luncheon-time,
Clifford entered the drawing-room, and there found
Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with Madeline.
The former looked towards him in a way which seemed
to invite his approach.
“Another idle morning, Mr. Marsh?” was
her greeting.
“I had a letter at breakfast
that disturbed me,” he replied, seating himself
away from Madeline.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Mr. Marsh is very easily disturbed,”
said Madeline, in a light tone of many possible meanings.
“Yes,” admitted Clifford,
leaning back and letting his head droop a little;
“I can seldom do anything when I am not quite
at ease in mind. Rather a misfortune, but not
an uncommon one with artists.”
The conversation turned on this subject
for a few minutes, Madeline taking part in it in a
way that showed her resolve to act as she had recommended
in her note. Then Mrs. Lessingham rose and left
the two together. Madeline seemed also about
to move; she followed the departing lady with her
eyes, and at length, as though adding a final remark,
said to Clifford:
“There are several things you
have been so kind as to lend me that I must return
before you go, Mr. Marsh. I will make a parcel
of them, and a servant shall take them to your room.
“Thank you.”
Since the quarrel, Madeline had not
worn her ring of betrothal, but this was the first
time she had spoken of returning presents.
“I am sorry you have had news
that disturbed you,” she continued, as if in
calm friendliness. “But I dare say it is
something you will soon forget. In future you
probably won’t think so much of little annoyances.”
“Probably not.”
She smiled, and walked away, stopping
to glance at a picture before she left the room.
Clifford was left with knitted brows and uneasy mind;
he had not believed her capable of this sedateness.
For some reason, Madeline had been dressing herself
with unusual care of late (the result, in fact, of
frequent observation of Cecily), and just now, as
he entered, it had struck him that she was after all
very pretty, that no one could impugn his taste in
having formerly chosen her. His reference to
her letter was a concession, made on the moment’s
impulse. Her rejecting it so unmistakably looked
serious. Had she even ceased to be jealous?
In the course of the afternoon, one
of Mrs. Gluck’s servants deposited a parcel
in his chamber. When he found it, he bit his lips.
Indeed, things looked serious at last. He passed
the hours till dinner in rather comfortless solitude.
But at dinner he was opposite Cecily,
and he thought he had never seen her so brilliant.
Perhaps the day in the open air there was
a fresh breeze had warmed the exquisite
colour of her cheeks and given her eyes an even purer
radiance than of wont. The dress she wore was
not new to him, but its perfection made stronger appeal
to his senses than previously. How divine were
the wreaths and shadowings of her hair! With
what gracile loveliness did her neck bend as she spoke
to Mrs. Lessingham! What hand ever shone with
more delicate beauty than hers in the offices of the
meal? It pained him to look at Madeline and make
comparison.
Moreover, Cecily met his glance, and
smiled smiled with adorable frankness.
From that moment he rejoiced at what had taken place
to-day. It had left him his complete freedom.
Good; he had given Madeline a final chance, and she
had neglected it. In every sense he was at liberty
to turn his thoughts elsewhither, and now he felt that
he had even received encouragement.
“We had an unexpected meeting
with Mr. Elgar,” were Cecily’s words,
when she spoke to her aunt of the day’s excursion.
Mrs. Lessingham showed surprise, and
noticed that Cecily kept glancing over the columns
of a newspaper she had carelessly taken up.
“At Pompeii?”
“Yes; in the Street of Tombs.
For some reason, he had delayed on his journey.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Why?”
“Delay is one of his characteristics,
isn’t it?” returned the elder lady, with
unaccustomed tartness. “A minor branch of
the root of inefficiency.”
“I am afraid so.”
Cecily laughed, and began to read
aloud an amusing passage from the paper. Her
aunt put no further question; but after dinner sought
Mrs. Bradshaw, and had a little talk on the subject.
Mrs. Bradshaw allowed herself no conjectures; in her
plain way she merely confirmed what Cecily had said,
adding that Elgar had taken leave of them at the railway-station.
“Possibly Mrs. Baske knew that
her brother would be there?” surmised Mrs. Lessingham,
as though the point were of no moment.
“Oh no! not a bit. She was astonished.”
“Or seemed so,” was Mrs.
Lessingham’s inward comment, as she smiled acquiescence.
“He has impressed me agree ably,” she continued,
“but there’s a danger that he will never
do justice to himself.”
“I don’t put much faith
in him myself,” said Mrs. Bradshaw, meaning
nothing more by the phrase than that she considered
Reuben a ne’er-do-well. The same words
would have expressed her lack of confidence in a servant
subjected to some suspicion.
Mrs. Lessingham was closely observant
of her niece this evening, and grew confirmed in distrust,
in solicitude. Cecily was more than ever unlike
herself whimsical, abstracted, nervous;
she flushed at an unexpected sound, could not keep
the same place for more than a few minutes. Much
before the accustomed hour, she announced her retirement
for the night.
“Let me feel your pulse,”
said Mrs. Lessingham, as if in jest, when the girl
approached her.
Cecily permitted it, half averting her face.
“My child, you are feverish.”
“A little, I believe, aunt. It will pass
by the morning.”
“Let us hope so. But I
don’t like that kind of thing at Naples.
I trust you haven’t had a chill?”
“Oh dear, no! I never was better in my
life!”
“Yet with fever? Go to
bed. Very likely I shall look into your room in
the night. Cecily!”
It stopped her at her door. She
turned, and took a step back. Mrs. Lessingham
moved towards her.
“You haven’t forgotten
anything that you wished to say to me?”
“Forgotten? No, dear aunt.”
“It just come back to my mind
that you were on the point of saying something a little
while ago, and I interrupted you.”
“No. Good night.”
Mrs. Lessingham did enter the girl’s
room something after midnight, carrying a dim taper.
Cecily was asleep, but lay as though fatigue had overcome
her after much restless moving upon the pillow.
Her face was flushed; one of her hands, that on the
coverlet, kept closing itself with a slight spasm.
The visitor drew apart and looked about the chamber.
Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk, where lay
a directed envelope. She looked at it, and found
it was addressed to a French servant of theirs in
Paris, an excellent woman who loved Cecily, and to
whom the girl had promised to write from Italy.
The envelope was closed; but it could contain nothing
of importance was merely an indication
of Cecily’s abiding kindness. By this lay
a small book, from the pages of which protruded a
piece of white paper. Mrs. Lessingham took up
the volume it was Shelley and
found that the paper within it was folded about a
spray of maidenhair, and bore the inscription “House
of Meleager Pompeii. Monday, December 8, 1878.”
Over this the inquisitive lady mused, until a motion
of Cecily caused her to restore things rapidly to
their former condition.
A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily
did not awake. Mrs. Lessingham again drew softly
near to her, and, without letting the light fall directly
upon her face, looked at her for a long time.
She whispered feelingly, “Poor girl! poor child!”
then, with a sigh almost as deep as that of the slumberer,
withdrew.
In the morning, Cecily was already
dressed when a servant brought letters to the sitting-room.
There were three, and one of them, addressed to herself,
had only the Naples postmark. She went back to
her bedroom with it.
After breakfast Mrs. Lessingham spoke
for a while of news contained in her correspondence;
then of a sudden asked:
“You hadn’t any letters?”
“Yes, aunt; one.”
“My child, you are far from
well this morning. The fever hasn’t gone.
Your face burns.”
“Yes.”
“May I ask from whom the letter was?”
“I have it here to
show you.” A choking of her voice broke
the sentence. She held out the letter. Mrs.
Lessingham found the following lines:
“DEAR CECILY,
“I have, of course, returned
to Naples, and I earnestly hope I may see you between
ten and eleven to-morrow morning. I must see you
alone. You cannot reply I will come and send
my name in the ordinary way.
“Yours ever,
“R. ELGAR.”
Mrs. Lessingham looked up. Cecily,
who was standing before her, now met her gaze steadily.
“The meaning of this is plain
enough,” said her aunt, with careful repression
of feeling. “But I am at a loss to understand
how it has come about.”
“I cannot tell you, aunt. I cannot tell
myself.”
Cecily’s true accents once more.
It was as though she had recovered all her natural
self-command now that the revelation was made.
The flush still possessed her cheeks, but she had
no look of embarrassment; she spoke in a soft murmur,
but distinctly, firmly.
“I am afraid that is only too
likely, dear. Come and sit down, little girl,
and tell me, at all events, something about it.”
“Little girl?” repeated
Cecily, with a sweet, affectionate smile. “No;
that has gone by, aunt.”
“I thought so myself the other
day; but I suppose you have met Mr. Elgar
several times at his sister’s, and have said
nothing to me about it?”
“That would not have been my
usual behaviour, I hope. When did I deceive you,
aunt?”
“Never, that I know. Where have you met
then?”
“Only at the times and places of which you know.”
“Where did you give Mr. Elgar the right to address
you in this manner?”
“Only yesterday. I think you mustn’t
ask me more than that, aunt.”
“I’m afraid your companions
were rather lacking in discretion,” said the
other, in a tone of annoyance.
“No; not in the sense you attach
to the words. But, aunt, you are speaking as
if I were a little girl, to be carefully watched
at every step.”
Mrs. Lessingham mused, looking absently
at the letter. She paid no heed to her niece’s
last words, but at length said with decision:
“Cecily, this meeting cannot take place.”
The girl replied with a look of uttermost astonishment.
“It is impossible, dear.
Mr. Elgar should not have written to you like this.
He should have addressed himself to other people.”
“Other people? But you
don’t understand, aunt. I cannot explain
to you. I expected this letter; and we must see
each other.”
Her voice trembled, failed.
“Shall you not treat my wish with respect, Cecily?”
“Will you explain to me all that you do wish,
aunt?”
“Certainly. It is true
that you are not a French girl, and I have no desire
to regard you as though we were a French aunt and niece
talking of this subject in the conventional way.
But you are very young, dear, and most decidedly it
behoved Mr. Elgar to bear in mind both his and your
position. You have no parents, unhappily, but
you know that Mr. Mallard is legally appointed the
guardian of your interests, and I trust you know also
that I am deeply concerned in all that affects you.
Let us say nothing, one way or another, of what has
happened. Since it has happened, it was
Mr. Elgar’s duty to address himself to me, or
to Mr. Mallard, before making private appointments
with you.”
“Aunt, you can see that this
letter is written so as to allow of my showing it
to you.”
“I have noticed that, of course.
It makes Mr. Elgar’s way of proceeding seem
still more strange to me. He is good enough to
ask you to relieve him of what he thinks ”
“You misunderstand him, aunt,
entirely. I cannot explain it to you. Only
trust me, I beg, to do what I know to be right.
It is necessary that I should speak with Mr. Elgar;
do not pain me by compelling me to say more.
Afterwards, he will wish to see you, I know.”
“Please to remember, dear it
astonishes me that you forget it that I
have a responsibility to Mr. Mallard. I have no
legal charge of you. With every reason, Mr. Mallard
may reproach me if I countenance what it is impossible
for him to approve.”
Cecily searched the speaker’s face.
“Do you mean,” she asked
gravely, “that Mr. Mallard will disapprove what
I have done?”
“I can say nothing on that point.
But I am very sure that he would not approve of this
meeting, if he could know what was happening.
I must communicate with him at once. Until he
comes, or writes, it is your duty, my dear, to decline
this interview. Believe me, it is your duty.”
Mrs. Lessingham spoke more earnestly
than she ever had done to her niece. Indeed,
earnest speech was not frequent upon her lips when
she talked with Cecily. In spite of the girl’s
nature, there had never existed between them warmer
relations than those of fondness and interest on one
side, and gentleness with respect on the other.
Cecily was well aware of this something lacking in
their common life; she had wished, not seldom these
last two years, to supply the want, but found herself
unable, and grew conscious that her aunt gave all it
was in her power to bestow. For this very reason,
she found it impossible to utter herself in the present
juncture as she could have done to a mother as
she could have done to Miriam; impossible, likewise,
to insist on her heart’s urgent desire, though
she knew not how she should forbear it. To refuse
compliance would have been something more than failure
in dutifulness; she would have felt it as harshness,
and perhaps injustice, to one with whom she involuntarily
stood on terms of ceremony.
“May I write a reply to this
letter?” she asked, after a silence.
“I had rather you allowed me
to speak for you to Mr. Elgar. To write and to
see him are the same thing. Surely you can forget
yourself for a moment, and regard this from my point
of view.”
“I don’t know how far
you may be led by your sense of responsibility.
Remember that you have insisted to me on your prejudice
against Mr. Elgar.”
“Vainly enough,” returned
the other, with a smile. “If you prefer
it, I will myself write a line to be given to Mr.
Elgar when he calls. Of course, you shall see
what I write.”
Cecily turned away, and stood in struggle
with herself. She had not foreseen a conflict
of this kind. Surprise, and probably vexation,
she was prepared for; irony, argument, she was quite
ready to face; but it had not entered her mind that
Mrs. Lessingham would invoke authority to oppose her.
Such a step was alien to all the habits of their intercourse,
to the spirit of her education. She had deemed
herself a woman, and free; what else could result
from Mrs. Lessingham’s method of training and
developing her? This disillusion gave a shock
to her self-respect; she suffered from a sense of
shame; with difficulty she subdued resentment and
impulses yet more rebellious. It was ignoble to
debate in this way concerning that of which she could
not yet speak formally with her own mind; to contend
like an insubordinate school-girl, when the point
at issue was the dearest interest of her womanhood.
“I think, aunt,” she said,
in a changed voice, speaking as though her opinion
had been consulted in the ordinary way, “it will
be better for you to sec Mr. Elgar if you
are willing to do so.”
“Quite.”
“But I must ask you to let him
know exactly why I have not granted his request.
You will tell him, if you please, just what has passed
between us. If that does not seem consistent
with your duty, or dignity, then I had rather you
wrote.”
“Neither my duty nor my dignity
is likely to suffer, Cecily,” replied her aunt,
with an ironical smile. “Mr. Elgar shall
know the simple state of the case. And I will
forthwith write to Mr. Mallard.”
“Thank you.”
There was no further talk between
them. Mrs. Lessingham sat down to write.
With the note-paper before her, and the pen in hand,
she was a long time before she began; she propped
her forehead, and seemed lost in reflection.
Cecily, who stood by the window, glanced towards her
several times, and in the end went to her own room.
Mrs. Lessingham’s letter was
not yet finished when a servant announced Elgar’s
arrival. He was at once admitted. On seeing
who was to receive him, he made an instant’s
pause before coming forward; there was merely a bow
on both sides.
Elgar knew well enough in what mood
this lady was about to converse with him. He
did not like her, and partly, no doubt, because he
had discerned her estimate of his character, his faculties.
That she alone was in the room gave him no surprise,
though it irritated him and inflamed his impatience.
He would have had her speak immediately and to the
point, that he might understand his position.
Mrs. Lessingham, quite aware of his perfervid state
of mind, had pleasure in delaying. Her real feeling
towards him was anything but unfriendly; had it been
possible, she would have liked to see much of him,
to enjoy his talk. Young men of this stamp amused
her, and made strong appeal to certain of her sympathies.
But those very sympathies enabled her to judge him
with singular accuracy, aided as she was by an outline
knowledge of his past. Her genuine affection
for Cecily made her, now that the peril had declared
itself, his strenuous adversary. For Cecily to
marry Reuben Elgar would be a catastrophe, nothing
less. She was profoundly convinced of this, and
the best elements of her nature came out in the resistance
she was determined to make.
A less worthy ground of vexation against
Elgar might probably be attributed to her. Skilful
in judging men, she had not the same insight where
her own sex was concerned, and in the case of Cecily
she was misled, or rather misled herself, with curious
persistence. Possibly some slight, vague fear
had already touched her when she favoured Mrs. Spence
with the description of her “system;” not
impossibly she felt the need of reassuring herself
by making clear her attitude to one likely to appreciate
it. But at that time she had not dreamt of such
a sudden downfall of her theoretic edifice; she believed
in its strength, and did not doubt of her supreme
influence with Cecily. It was not to be wondered
at that she felt annoyed with the man who, at a touch,
made the elaborate structure collapse like a bubble.
She imagined Mrs. Spence’s remarks when she
came to hear of what had happened, her fine smile
to her husband. The occurrence was mortifying.
“Miss Doran has put into my
hands a letter she received from you this morning,
Mr. Elgar.”
Reuben waited. Mrs. Lessingham
had not invited him to sit down; she also stood.
“You probably wished me to learn its contents?”
“Yes; I am glad you have read it.”
“It didn’t occur to you
that Miss Doran might find the task you imposed upon
her somewhat trying?”
Elgar was startled. Just as little
as Cecily had he pondered the details of the situation;
mere frenzy possessed him, and he acted as desire
bade. Had Cecily been embarrassed? Was she
annoyed at his not proceeding with formality?
He had never thought of her in the light of conventional
obligations, and even now could not bring himself to
do so.
“Did Miss Doran wish me to be
told that?” he asked, bluntly, in unconsidered
phrase.
“Miss Doran’s wish is,
that no further step shall be taken by either of you
until her guardian, Mr. Mallard, has been communicated
with.”
“She will not see me?”
“She thinks it better neither
to see you nor to write. I am bound to tell you
that this is the result of my advice. Her own
intention was to do as you request in this letter.”
“What harm would there have
been in that, Mrs. Lessingham? Why mayn’t
I see her?”
“I really think Miss Doran must
be allowed to act as seems best to her. It is
quite enough that I tell you what she has decided.”
“But that is not her decision,”
broke out Elgar, moving impetuously. “That
is simply the result of your persuasion, of your authority.
Why may I not see her?”
“For reasons which would be
plain enough to any but a very thoughtless young gentleman.
I can say no more.”
Her caustic tone was not agreeable.
Elgar winced under it, and had much ado to restrain
himself from useless vehemence.
“Do you intend to write to Mr.
Mallard to-day?” he asked.
“I will write to-day.”
Expostulation and entreaty seemed
of no avail; Elgar recognized the situation, and with
a grinding of his teeth kept down the horrible pain
he suffered. His only comfort was that Mallard
would assuredly come post-haste; he would arrive by
to-morrow evening. But two days of this misery!
Mrs. Lessingham was gratified with his look as he departed;
she had supplied him with abundant matter for speculation,
yet had fulfilled her promise to Cecily.
She finished her letter, then went
to Cecily’s room. The girl sat unoccupied,
and listened without replying. That day she took
her meals in private, scarcely pretending to eat.
Her face kept its flush, and her hands remained feverishly
hot. Till late at night she sat in the same chair,
now and then opening a book, but unable to read; she
spoke only a word or two, when it was necessary.
The same on the day that followed.
Seldom moving, seldomer speaking; she suffered and
waited.