Emily was not surprised at receiving a visit from Cecil the next day,
and not at all displeased. She wanted to see him--once more.
He was waiting for her, and came toward her as she came out of the lift.
It was a relief that he did not smile. He was as grave as she was.
“Emily!” he said. “I’m sorry!”
“I am, too, Cecil.”
“I can’t expect you to understand,” he went on. “I shouldn’t like you so
well if you could understand that sort of thing. No use trying to
explain; but I had to come and thank you for being so decent to me.
Besides, I wanted to tell you that I would set the thing right--tell
them I was the man, you know--before I go away.”
“When are you going?” she asked coldly.
“There’s a ship sailing on Saturday. I’ll try to get a passage on her.
Anyhow, I’ll go as soon as I can, Emily, so that I can clear up this
thing.”
“You mean that you have to run away because you came to see me?” she
cried, with a sort of sorrowful scorn.
“Yes,” he answered. “You see, Emily, I haven’t a penny of my
own--nothing but an allowance from mother. She’s a bit--difficult, at
times. If she hears that I’ve come to see you, she’ll call it disloyal,
d’you see? Fact! She’ll make it too hot for me, so I’d better run home
and--”
“Oh, don’t go on!” said Emily.
It was intolerable to hear him so frankly, almost carelessly, admitting
his shameful humiliation; and a little while ago she had thought him a
fine and gallant figure, so insouciant, so independent!
“No!” she went on headlong. “Don’t tell your mother! I don’t care, no,
not one little bit, what any one thinks! Denis would--”
She stopped, struggling with a sob that rose in her throat.
“It simply doesn’t matter,” she added more calmly. “You needn’t tell any
one. You needn’t--run away; only please don’t talk about it any more.”
He stood before her, not shamefaced, but simply unhappy.
“I’m sorry, Emily!” he said again.
And so was she--terribly sorry, remembering what an endearing companion
he had been, how considerate, how kindly. She was still grateful for
those poor little kindnesses. She saw much that was good in Cecil, no
malice, no harshness, only that pitiable lack of manly pride and honor,
that degradation of which he was not even aware.
With a smile not very steady, she held out her hand.
“Never mind, Cecil!” she said. “It’s all over now, and forgotten. Let’s
just say good-by and--”
“Does it have to be good-by, Emily?” he asked wistfully. “Look here!
Suppose I tell mother, and simply face the row? Suppose I write and
explain to old Denis? Then why couldn’t you and I go on being friends?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing has to be explained to Denis,” she said. “I’ll just tell him,
if he asks me; and--I’m sorry, Cecil, but it does have to be good-by. I
wouldn’t make any trouble in the family for anything in the world!”
He submitted to her decision, as he was inclined to submit to anything
definite, and off he went, with one last miserable look. Emily watched
him with misty eyes.
“Poor Cecil!” she thought. “Poor fellow! But how terribly his mother
must hate me, if it’s disloyal for him even to come to see me!”
Pain and dismay seized her at that thought. Ill will was a new thing in
her life, something which she had never felt in her own heart or in the
air about her. A most potent and subtle poison!
She waited for a letter from Denis with a new feeling of resentment. He
ought to have written at once, to assure her that he only laughed at
other people’s tales--or, better still, that he was angry. Much better
if he would be angry. Emily found herself hoping for that with a bitter
delight that half frightened her. She wanted that! She wanted her
complete triumph, wanted to stand beside Denis while he humbled her
enemies. It was an ignoble hope, she knew, and yet it was beyond measure
precious to her.
On the third day his letter came, and she tore it open eagerly. It was
unusually brief: