Nothing had been said by any of the Laniers about seeing her again, and
Emily had consulted her book on etiquette in vain for a hint. She was
the more disturbed by this because she had had a letter from Denis--a
solemn, miserable letter, filled with careful descriptions of the
scenery and the weather. Through it all, in every line, she could read
his longing for her and his great anxiety about her. Such a dear,
_stupid_ letter--honest and serious and manly, like Denis himself. He
knew well enough how to love, but nothing at all about making love.
He hadn’t heard yet of his family’s arrival in New York, and, thought
Emily, he was not going to get the news from them first. Very likely his
mother would write to him by the same mail, but he would surely read
Emily’s letter first, and he should have her account of the meeting.
Just what ought she to tell him? She would say, of course, that she had
dined with his people.
“And then shall I say I’m going to call on them? Or should I invite them
here to dinner?” she thought. “Or ought I just to wait?”
She was in her room, struggling with this problem, when Mr. Cecil Lanier
was announced. She hastened down into the lounge, very much pleased.
Here was something else to tell Denis. There was at least one member of
his family that she could praise with candor.
She welcomed Cecil with frank pleasure, and he, on his part, seemed so
remarkably glad to see her again, so very friendly, that a new and
daring idea sprang up in her mind. It might be more diplomatic and more
polite to wait a little, however. In spite of his jolly, friendly
manner, there was something rather impressive about Cecil. He wasn’t to
be treated too casually.
He was really younger than Denis, but he seemed older, not only because
his face was a little worn, and his smiling eyes a little tired, but
because of his affable worldliness. Denis, in his earnestness, his
straightforward simplicity, had sometimes seemed quite boyish to Emily,
but there was no trace of boyishness in Cecil. He was a charming fellow,
handsome, courteous, and amusing, and he knew it. Emily had mighty
little worldly wisdom, but she did not lack intuition, and she
thought--and rightly--that Cecil would be extraordinarily kind and
obliging to any one he liked, and by no means so to those he did not
like; so she decided to make him like her.
It was not difficult. He had already been attracted to her the evening
before, and he was delighted with her this afternoon. The time fairly
flew. They had tea together at five o’clock; and after what seemed only
a few minutes, it was seven.
“Let’s go out somewhere and have dinner,” said he.
“Oh!” said Emily. “I’d like to, but--aren’t there other things you have
to do?”
She was thinking of his mother.
“I never have anything to do,” Cecil assured her cheerfully. “That’s the
great advantage of being hopelessly incompetent. I _can’t_ do anything,
you know.”
“I don’t believe that. I’m sure you could do almost anything, if you
tried,” said Emily.
She hadn’t meant to say it in quite that tone, or with quite that
admiring glance, and she grew a little red as he returned the glance
with interest.
“I’m never going to try,” said he. “Once you start, people begin to
expect things of you.” He paused. “But if there’s anything _you’d_ like
done, Emily--”
She had no more poise left then than you could put into a thimble. She
had a favor to ask of Cecil, and she felt sure he would grant it. She
was determined to ask it, too, and saw no reason why she should not,
and yet--and yet, in spite of his kindliness, Cecil made her uneasy and
confused.
“I just thought,” she began, “that if you were going to write to
Denis--”
“Never wrote to him in my life,” said Cecil; “but look here, Emily!”
She did not look there, but down at her clasped hands. After a glance
around the empty tea room, Cecil bent forward and took one of these
hands.
“Look here!” he said again. “Do you mean--you poor little kid!--do you
mean there’s something you don’t like to tell him yourself? Denis is
such a confoundedly high-minded--”
“Oh, _no_!” cried Emily, shocked. “Mercy, no! I only thought--if you
were going to write--” Well, she had to finish it now. “I thought maybe
you’d tell him that you’d met me, and that you--you didn’t think I was
so horrible.”
Cecil looked at her for a moment with a singular expression.
“I see!” he said, with a faint smile. “I don’t think you’re exactly
horrible, Emily; but still, I don’t think I’d better write and tell old
Denis so.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see--”
Emily, looking at him, did see, in a vague, uneasy fashion. She did not
care to ask Cecil for any explanation. Suddenly she didn’t want to talk
to him any more. She made all sorts of polite excuses, which he accepted
very good-humoredly, and they parted in the most friendly way; but in
her heart, Emily _never_ wanted to see him again.
She cried herself to sleep that night, longing for her dear, honest,
comprehensible Denis, and wishing she need see nobody else but Denis all
the rest of her life.
V
When Cecil came again the next afternoon, she could think of no good
reason for refusing to see him. After all, what had she against him?
Nothing at all--nothing real. He hadn’t said a word that she could
resent. It was only--well, she didn’t know what--something in his smile,
in his tired eyes.
“It’s my own fault,” she decided. “I know he’d be all right, if I
weren’t so--silly. If I had more poise--”
This afternoon she had an unusual amount of poise, for she had had a
letter from Denis that made her happy. She was Denis’s wife, and she
really didn’t care a snap of her fingers about any one else on earth.
She found Cecil charming that day.
“Let’s go out somewhere,” he suggested. “It would do me no end of
good--that is, if you’ll be jolly and a little bit kind to me. I’m not
happy to-day, Emily.”
She believed that. She fancied that perhaps he was never very happy, and
she felt sorry for him. She was still more sorry when she saw how
quickly he responded to her own cheerful mood.
It cannot be denied that this very superficiality of his made him a most
engaging companion. They took a taxi up to the Botanical Gardens, went
into the hemlock forest there, and wandered about for two hours,
breaking the enchanted stillness with their careless, happy talk,
without a moment’s constraint or weariness. Away from hotels and family
conventions, Cecil was a very different fellow. His polite
sophistication vanished, and with it his misleading pretense of being a
cheerful idiot. He wasn’t that. He was clever, adroit, and by no means
apathetic.
As the sun was beginning to sink, they strolled out of the forest and
across the hilltop and the smooth meadows, past the greenhouses, to the
entrance. It was growing chilly, and they were tired and furiously
hungry.
“We’ll have tea now,” said Cecil. “Please don’t always object, Emily!”
So they took another taxi down town, to a sedate little tea room that
Emily suggested, and after tea he left her at her hotel.
“Thank you, Emily,” he said simply. “I’ve never had a better day.”
Emily, too, was happy. She wanted to rush upstairs and write all about
it to Denis. He was always pleased when she spent her time out of doors,
and he looked upon walking as a solemn duty. He said that she didn’t
walk nearly enough--that no American girls did.
“Mrs. Lanier!” said the desk clerk, as she stopped for her key.
With a cordial smile, he handed her a note. She recognized the
handwriting as her mother-in-law’s, and took the envelope with no great
pleasure. Nor was she in a hurry to open it. She took off her dusty
shoes and her street suit, put on slippers and a mandarin coat, let down
her glittering flood of hair, and only then, when she was lying in
comfort on the bed, did she open the thing.