CICELY'S RETURN
"When Cicely comes, send her in to me at once," said the Squire, with
the air of a man who was going to take a matter in hand.
Cicely, convoyed by the reliable Miles, was returning to Kencote after
having stayed with Muriel for a fortnight. Mrs. Clinton had left her at
Melbury Park after a three days' visit.
"And I won't have the children meeting her, or anything of that sort,"
added the Squire. "She is not coming home in triumph. You can go to the
door, Nina, and send her straight in to me. We'll get this business put
right once for all."
Mrs. Clinton said nothing, but went out of the room. She could have
small hopes that her husband would succeed when she had failed in
putting the business right. She told herself now that she had failed.
During her many talks with Cicely, although she had been able, with her
love and wisdom, to soothe the raw shame that had come upon her daughter
when she had looked back in cold blood to her flight with Mackenzie, she
had not been able to do away with the feeling of resentment with which
Cicely had come to view her home life. Her weapons had turned back upon
herself. Neither of them had been able to say to each other exactly what
was in their mind, and because Cicely had to stay herself with some
reason for her action, which with her father, at any rate, must be
defended somehow, she had fallen back upon the causes of her discontent
and held to them even against her mother. And there was enough truth in
them to make it difficult for Mrs. Clinton to combat her attitude,
without saying, what she could not say, that it was the duty of every
wife and every daughter to do as she had done, and rigidly sink her own
personality where it might clash with the smallest wish or action of her
husband. She claimed to have gained her own happiness in doing so, but
the doctrine of happiness through such self-sacrifice was too hard a one
for a young girl to receive. She had gained Cicely's admiration and a
more understanding love from the self-revelation which in some sort she
had made, but she had not availed to make her follow her example, and
could not have done so without holding it up as the one right course.
Cicely must fight her own battle with her father, and whichever of them
proved the victor no good could be expected to come of it. She was firm
in her conviction now that in Jim Graham's hands lay the only immediate
chance of happiness for her daughter. But Jim had held quite aloof. No
word had been heard from him, and no one had seen him since he had
parted with Dick on the evening after their journey to London, when they
had dined together and Jim had said he would bide his chance. If he were
to sink back now into what had seemed his old apathy, he would lose
Cicely again and she would lose her present chance of happiness.
The twins, informed by their mother that they must not go to the station
to meet Cicely, or even come down into the hall, but that she would come
up to them when she had seen her father, of course gathered, if they had
not gathered it before, that their elder sister was coming home in
disgrace, and spent their leisure time in devising methods to show that
they did not share in the disapprobation; in which they were alternately
encouraged and thwarted by Miss Bird, whose tender affection for Cicely
warred with her fear of the Squire's displeasure.
Mrs. Clinton was in the hall when the carriage drove up. Cicely came in,
on her face an expression of mixed determination and timidity, and her
mother drew her into the morning-room. "Father wants to see you at once,
darling," she said. "You must be good. If you can make him understand
ever so little you know he will be kind."
It was doubtful if this hurried speech would help matters at all, and
there was no time for more, for the Squire was at his door asking the
servants where Miss Clinton was, for he wanted to see her at once.
"I am here, father," said Cicely, going out into the hall again.
"I want you in here," said the Squire. They went into his room and the
door was shut, leaving Mrs. Clinton alone outside.
The Squire marched up to the empty fireplace and took his stand with his
back to it. Cicely sat down in one of the big chairs, which seemed to
disconcert him for a moment.
"I don't know whether you have come home expecting to be welcomed as if
nothing had happened," he began.
"No, I don't expect that, father," said Cicely.
"Oh! Well now, what is the meaning of it? That's what I want to know. I
have been pretty patient, I think. You have had your fling for over a
fortnight, the whole house has been upset and I've said nothing. Now I
want to get to the bottom of it. Because if you think that you can
behave in that way"--here followed a vivid summary of the way in which
Cicely had behaved--"you are very much mistaken." The Squire was now
fairly launched. It only rested with Cicely to keep him going with a
word every now and then, for she knew that until he had wrought himself
into a due state of indignation and then given satisfactory vent to it,
nothing she could say would have any effect at all.
"I am very sorry, father," she said. "I know it was wrong of me, and I
won't do it again."
This was all that was wanted. "Won't do it again?" echoed the Squire.
"No, you won't do it again. I'll take good care of that." He then went
on to bring home to her the enormity of her offence, which seemed to
have consisted chiefly in upsetting the whole house, which he wouldn't
have, and so on. But when he had repeated all he had to say twice, and
most of it three or four times, he suddenly took his seat in the chair
opposite to her and said in quite a different tone, "What on earth made
you do it, Cicely?" and her time had come.
"I was not happy at home, father," she said quietly.
This set the Squire off on another oration, tending to show that it was
positively wicked to talk like that. There wasn't a girl in England who
had more done for her. He himself spent his days and nights chiefly in
thinking what he could do for the happiness of his children, and the
same might be said of their mother. He enumerated the blessings Cicely
enjoyed, amongst which the amount of money spent upon keeping up a place
like Kencote bulked largely. When he had gone over the field a second
time, and picked up the gleanings left over from his sheaves of oratory,
he asked her, apparently as a matter of kindly curiosity, what she had
to grumble about.
She told him dispiritedly, leaving him time after each item of her
discontent to put her in the wrong.
Item: She had nothing to do at home.
He said amongst other things that he had in that very room a manuscript
volume compiled by her great-great-grandmother full of receipts and so
forth, which he intended to get published some day to show what women
could do in a house if they really did what they ought.
Item: She hadn't been properly educated.
That was wicked nonsense, and he wondered at a daughter of his talking
such trash. In the course of further remarks he said that when all the
girls in the board schools could play the piano and none of them could
cook, he supposed the Radicals would be satisfied.
Item: There were a great many horses in the stable and she was not
allowed to ride one of them.
Did she think she had gone the right way to work to have horses given
her, bolting out of the house without a with your leave or a by your
leave, etc.? Had her six great-aunts ever wanted horses to ride? Hunting
he would not have. He might be old-fashioned, he dared say he was, but
to see a woman tearing about the country, etc.----! But if she had come
to him properly, and it had been otherwise convenient, he gave her to
understand that a horse might have been found for her at any time. He
did not say that one would be found for her _now_.
Item: She never went anywhere.
A treatise on gadding about, with sub-sections devoted to the state of
drains in foreign cities, the game of Bridge, as played in country
houses, and the overcrowded state of the Probate and Divorce Court.
Item: She never saw anybody interesting.
A flat denial, and in the course of its expansion a sentence that
brought the blood to Cicely's face and left her pale and terrified.
"Why, only the other day," said the Squire, "one of the most talked of
men in England dined here. I suppose you would call Ronald Mackenzie an
interesting man, eh? Why, what's the matter? Aren't you well?"
"Oh yes, father dear. Please go on."
The Squire went on. Fortunately he had not noticed the sudden blush, but
only the paleness that had followed it. Supposing he had seen, and her
secret had been dragged out of her! She gave him no more material on
which to exercise his gift of oratory, but sat silent and frightened
while he dealt further with the subject in hand and showed her that she
was fortunate in living amongst the most interesting set of people in
England. Her uncle Tom knew as much as anybody about butterflies, her
Aunt Grace played the piano remarkably well for an amateur, Sir Ralph
Perry, who lived at Warnton Court, four miles away, had written a book
on fly-fishing, the Rector of Bathgate had published a volume of
sermons, the Vicar of Blagden rubbed brasses, Mrs. Kingston of Axtol was
the daughter of a Cambridge professor, and the Squire supposed he was
not entirely destitute of intelligence himself. At any rate, he had
corresponded with a good many learned gentlemen in his time, and they
seemed anxious enough to come to Kencote, and didn't treat him exactly
as if he were a fool when they did come.
"The upshot of it all is, Cicely," concluded the Squire, "that you want
a great many things that you can't have and are not going to have, and
the sooner you see that and settle down sensibly to do your duty the
better."
"Yes, father," said Cicely, longing to get away.
The Squire bethought himself. He had nothing more to say, although as he
was considering what to do next he said over again a few of the more
salient things that he had said before. He hoped he had made an
impression, but he would have liked to end up on a note rather less tame
than this. With Cicely so meek and quiet, however, and his indignation
against her, already weakened by having been spread over a fortnight,
having now entirely evaporated by being expressed, as his indignation
generally did evaporate, he had arrived somehow at a loose end. He
looked at his daughter for the first time with some affection, and
noticed that she was pale, and, he thought, thinner.
"Come here and give me a kiss," he said, and she went to him and put her
head on his big shoulder. "Now you're going to be a good girl and not
give us any more trouble, aren't you?" he said, patting her on the
sleeve; and she promised that she would be a good girl and not give any
more trouble, with mental reservations mercifully hidden from him.
"There, don't cry," said the Squire. "We won't say any more about it;
and if you want a horse to ride, we'll see if we can't find you a horse
to ride. I dare say you think your old father a terrible martinet, but
it's all for your good, you know. You must say to yourself when you feel
dissatisfied about some little twopenny-halfpenny disappointment that he
knows best."
Cicely gave him a hug. He was a dear old thing really, and if one could
only always bear in mind the relative qualities of his bark and his bite
there would be no need at all to go in awe of him. "Dear old daddy," she
said. "I am sorry I ran away, and I'm very glad to get home again."
Then she went upstairs quite lightheartedly, and along the corridor to
the schoolroom. The twins, arrayed in long blue overalls, were tidying
up, after lessons, and Miss Bird was urging them to more conscientious
endeavour, avowing that it was no more trouble to put a book on a shelf
the right way than the wrong way, and that if there were fifty servants
in the house it would be wrong to throw waste paper in the fireplace,
since waste paper baskets existed to have waste paper thrown into them
and fireplaces did not.
After a minute pause of observation, the twins threw themselves upon
Cicely with one accord and welcomed her vociferously, and Miss Bird
followed suit.
"My own darling," she said warmly, "we have missed you dreadfully and
how are Muriel and Walter I suppose as happy as anything now Joan 'n
Nancy there is no occasion to pull Cicely to pieces you can be glad to
see her without roughness and go _at once_ and take off your overalls
and wash your hands for tea I dare say Cicely will go with you."
"Have you been to your room yet, darling?" asked Joan.
"Not yet," said Cicely.
"Now _straight_ to your own room first," said Miss Bird, clapping her
hands together to add weight to her command. "You can go with Cicely
afterwards."
"All right, starling darling, we'll be ready in time for tea," said
Nancy. "You finish clearing up" and one on each side of Cicely, they led
her to her own bedroom, and threw open the door. The room was garlanded
with pink and white paper roses. They formed festoons above the bed and
were carried in loops round the walls, upon which had also been hung
placards printed in large letters and coloured by hand. "Welcome to our
Sister," ran one inscription, and others were, "There is No Place like
Home," "Cicely for Ever," and "No Popery."
The twins watched eagerly for signs of surprised rapture and were
abundantly rewarded. "But that's not all," said Joan, and led her up to
the dressing-table, upon which was an illuminated address running as
follows:
"We, the undersigned, present this token of our continued esteem to
Cecilia Mary Clinton, on the occasion of her home-coming to Kencote
House, Meadshire. Do unto others as you would be done by.
"_Signed_, Joan Ellen Clinton Nancy Caroline Clinton."
"I think it's rather well done," said Nancy, "though our vermilions had
both run out and we didn't like to borrow yours without asking. Starling
bought us the gold paint on condition that we put in the Golden Rule. It
doesn't look bad, does it, Cicely?"
"I think it's lovely," said Cicely. "I shall always keep it. Thanks so
much, darlings."
After the subsequent embraces, Nancy eyed her with some curiosity. "I
say, there _was_ a dust-up," she said. "Have you made it up with father,
Cis?"
"Don't be a fool," said Joan. "She doesn't want you bothering her. It is
quite enough that we're jolly glad to have her back."
"I was rather dull," said Cicely, with a nervous little laugh, "so I
went away for a bit."
"Quite right too," said Joan. "I should have done the same, and so would
Nancy. We thought of putting up 'Don't be Downtrodden,' but we were
afraid mother wouldn't like it, so we put up 'No Popery' instead. It
comes to the same thing."
"We're doing the Gordon Riots in history," Nancy explained further.
"Father was awful at first, Cis, but he has calmed down a lot since. I
think Dick poured oil on the troubled waters. Dick is a brick. He gave
us half a sovereign each before he went up to Scotland."
"We didn't ask him for it," said Nancy.
"No," said Joan, "we only told him we were saving up for a camera, and
it took a long time out of a bob a week each pocket-money."
"Flushed with our success," said Nancy, "we tried father; but the moment
was not propitious."
"It was your fault," said Joan. "You would hurry it. Directly I said,
'When we get our camera we shall be able to take photographs of the
shorthorns,' you heaved a silly great sigh and said, 'It takes _such_ a
long time to save up with only a shilling a week pocket-money,' and of
course what _could_ he say but that when he was our age he only had
sixpence?"
"I don't believe it for a moment," said Nancy.
"It doesn't matter. He had to say it. I was going to lead up much more
slowly. How often has starling told you that if a thing's worth doing at
all it's worth doing well?"
Here Miss Bird herself appeared at the door and said it was just as she
had expected, and had they heard her tell them to do a thing or had they
not, because if they had and had then gone and done something else she
should go straight to Mrs. Clinton, for she was tired of having her
words set at nought, and it was time to take serious measures, although
nobody would be more sorry to have to do so than herself, Joan and Nancy
being perfectly capable of behaving themselves as they should if they
would only set their minds to it and do exactly as she told them.
Cicely heard the latter part of the address fading away down the
corridor, shut the door with a smile and began to take off her hat with
a sigh. The chief ordeal was over, but there was a good deal to go
through still before she could live in this room again as she had lived
in it before. If, indeed, she ever could. She looked round her, and its
familiarity touched her strangely. It spoke not of the years she had
occupied it, the five years since she had left the nursery wing, but of
the one night when she had prepared to leave it for ever. It would be
part of her ordeal to have that painful and confusing memory brought
before her whenever she entered it. She hated now to think of that night
and of the day and night that had followed it. She flushed hotly as she
turned again to her glass, and called herself a fool. Then she
resolutely turned pictures to the wall of her mind and made herself
think of something else, casting her thoughts loose to hit upon any
subject they pleased. They struck against her aunts at the dower-house,
and she grappled the idea and made up her mind to go and see them after
tea, and get that over.
She found them in their morning-room, engaged as before, except that
their tea-table had been cleared away. "Well, dear Aunt Ellen and Aunt
Laura, I have come back," she said, kissing them in turn. "Muriel's
house _is_ so pretty. You would love to see it."
But Aunt Ellen was not to be put off in this way. The Squire had come
down to them on the afternoon of the day after Cicely had disappeared,
and had gained more solid satisfaction from the attitude taken up by
Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura when he had unfolded his news than from any
reception it had before or after. Cicely was still in their black books.
"Oh, so you have returned at last," said Aunt Ellen, receiving her kiss,
but not returning it. Aunt Laura was not so unforgiving. She kissed her
and said, "O Cicely, if you had known what unhappiness your action would
cause, I am sure you would have thought twice about it."
Cicely sat down. "I have made it all right with father now," she said.
"I would rather not talk about it if you don't mind, Aunt Laura. Muriel
sent her love to you. I said I should come and see you directly I came
back."
"When I was a girl," said Aunt Ellen--"I am speaking now of nearly
eighty years ago--I upset a glass of table ale at the commencement of
luncheon, and your great-grandfather was very angry. But that was
nothing to this."
"I have seldom seen your dear father so moved," said Aunt Laura. "I
cannot see very well without my glasses, and I had mislaid them; they
were on the sideboard in the dining-room where I had gone to get out a
decanter of sherry; but I believe there were tears in his eyes. If it
was so it should make you all the more sorry, Cicely."
"I am very sorry," said Cicely, "but father has forgiven me. Mayn't we
talk about something else?"
"Your father was very high-spirited as a child," said Aunt Ellen, "and I
and your aunts had some difficulty in managing him; not that he was a
naughty child, far from it, but he was full of life. And you must always
remember that he was a boy. But I feel quite sure that he would never in
his wildest moments have thought of going away from home and leaving no
word of his address."
"I sent a telegram," pleaded Cicely.
"Ah, but telegrams were not invented in the days I am speaking of," said
Aunt Ellen.
"Pardon me, sister," said Aunt Laura. "The electric telegraph was
invented when Edward was a boy, but not when we were girls."
"That may be so, sister," said Aunt Ellen. "It is many years since we
were girls, but I say that Edward would not have run away."
"Certainly not," said Aunt Laura. "You should never forget, Cicely, what
a good father you have. I am sure when I heard the other day from Mr.
Hayles that your dear father had instructed him to refuse Lady Alistair
MacLeod's most advantageous offer to rent this house, solely on account
of your Aunt Ellen and myself, I felt that we were, indeed, in good
hands, and fortunate to be so."
"It is quite true," said Aunt Ellen, "that this house is larger than
your Aunt Laura and I require, I told your father that with my own lips.
But at the same time it is unlikely that at my age I have many more
years to live, and I said that if it could be so arranged, I should wish
to die in this house as I have lived in it for the greater part of my
life."
"He saw that at once," said Aunt Laura. "There is nobody that is quicker
at seeing a thing than your dear father, Cicely. He spoke very kindly
about it. He said we must all die some time or other, which is perfectly
true, but that if your Aunt Ellen did not live to be a hundred he should
never forgive her. He is like your dear Aunt Caroline in that; he is
always one to look at the bright side of things."
"But didn't he tell you at once that he didn't want to let the house?"
asked Cicely. "Did he leave it to Mr. Hayles to tell you afterwards?"
"There was a delicacy in that," replied Aunt Laura. "If there is one
thing that your dear father dislikes, it is being thanked. And we could
not have helped thanking him. We had gone through a week of considerable
anxiety."
"Which he might have saved you," Cicely thought, but did not say.
"When we lived at Kencote House with our father," said Aunt Ellen, "it
was never thought that the dower-house possessed any advantages to speak
of. I do not say that we have made it what it is, for that would be
boasting, but I do say that it would not be what it is if we had not
made it so; and now that the danger is past, it causes both your Aunt
Laura and myself much gratification, and would cause gratification to
your other dear aunts if they could know what had happened, as no doubt
they do, that it should now be sought after."
The topic proved interesting enough to occupy the conversation for the
rest of Cicely's visit. She kept them to it diligently and got through
nearly an hour's talk without further recurrence to her misdoings. Then
she took her leave rather hurriedly, congratulating herself that she had
got safely over another fence.