CICELY'S SECRET
A hard week's work left Douglas little time for outside thoughts.
Besides his daily articles for the Courier, which in themselves were no
inconsiderable task, he had begun at last the novel, the plot of which
had for long been simmering in his brain. He had certainly received
every encouragement. Rawlinson, who had insisted upon seeing the
opening chapters, had at once made him an offer for the story, and the
publishing house with which he was connected, although of only recent
development, had already made a name and attained a unique position. He
gave up the club, and worked steadily every night at his rooms,
resolutely thrusting aside all alien thoughts, and immensely relieved to
find the excitement of literary creation gradually attaining its old
hold upon him. He took his meals at a shabby little restaurant, which
none of his associates frequented, declined all invitations, and retired
for the next seven days into an obscurity from which nothing could tempt
him. There came no word from Emily de Reuss, for which he was thankful,
and when he left the office at six o'clock on Thursday evening, and
lighting a cigarette strolled through a network of streets towards the
restaurant where he was to meet Cicely, he had very much the feeling of
a schoolboy whose tasks were laid aside and whose holiday lay before
him.
Cicely was there already, looking wonderfully bright and pretty, wearing
a new hat and a black and white dress, which, after her country-made
mourning, seemed positively smart. Douglas drew her hand through his
arm as they entered the room, and felt a pleasant sensation of
proprietorship at her laughing surrender. He chose a table where they
would least likely be disturbed, and imperilled his reputation with the
smiling waiter by ignoring the inevitable Chianti and calling for
champagne. Cicely reproved him for his extravagance, but sipped her
wine with the air of a connoisseur.
"I couldn't help it," he said, smiling. "You know I've years of
parsimony and misery to make up for yet. This new life is so
delightful, and since you have come--well, I couldn't help celebrating.
Besides, you know, I'm earning quite a good deal of money, and I've
started the novel at last."
"Tell me about it," she begged, with sparkling eyes.
"Presently," he answered, "Eat your fish now, please. Over our coffee I
will tell you the first chapter. And what excuse have you for wearing a
new frock to dazzle the eyes of a lonely bachelor with?"
"Like it?" she asked, turning round on her chair towards him.
"Immensely."
"I made it myself," she said, continuing her dinner, "all since last
Thursday, too."
"Wonderful," he exclaimed, looking at her once more with admiration.
"You must be worn out. Let me fill your glass."
"Oh, I rather like dressmaking," she said. "Joan's disapprobation was
much more trying."
"And how is she?"
"Better, I believe, and inclined to be more sensible," she answered
cheerfully. "She has given up those horrid walks, and is thinking about
taking a situation. I can't tell you how grateful I am."
"So am I," he answered fervently.
They avoided, by mutual though unspoken consent, any further reference
to a subject so near akin to grave matters. She was satisfied with
Douglas's declaration of innocence--he was only anxious to forget his
whole past, and that chapter of it in special. So they passed on to
lighter subjects, discussed the people who entered and passed out,
praised the dinner and marvelled at its cheapness. They watched the
head waiter, with his little black imperial and beady eyes, a miracle of
suaveness, deftness, and light-footedness, one moment bowing before a
newcomer, his face wreathed with smiles, the next storming with
volubility absolutely indescribable at a tardy waiter, a moment later
gravely discussing the wine list with a _bon viveur_, and offering
confidential and wholly disinterested advice. It was all ordinary
enough perhaps, but a chapter out of real life. Their pleasure was
almost the pleasure of children.
Later she grew confidential.
"Douglas," she said, "I am going to tell you a secret."
"If there is anything I thoroughly enjoy after a good dinner," he
remarked, fishing an olive out of the dish, "it is a secret."
"You mustn't laugh."
"I'll be as sober as a judge," he promised.
"You know I shall have to earn my own living. We have really very
little money and we must, both of us, do something. Now I have been
trying to do in earnest what I have done for my own pleasure all my
life. Do you know what that is?"
"I think I can guess," he answered, smiling.
"Yes, I told you once--writing children's fairy stories. Now I don't
want you to be bothered about it, but I do wish you could give me an
idea where to send them."
"You have some written?"
She smiled.
"I have two in that little parcel there."
He broke the string and took one out. It was very neatly typewritten,
and a quick glance down the page pleased him.
"Who typed it for you?" he asked.
"Did it myself," she answered. "I learnt shorthand, you know, years
ago, and I bought a typewriter last week. I thought if nothing else
turned up, I might earn a little that way."
"You are certainly not one of the helpless sort of young women," he
said. "Will you let me have the stories for a few days?"
"Will it bother you?" she asked wistfully.
"Well, I don't think so," he assured her. "I won't let it."
Drexley, a little gaunt and pale, but more carefully dressed than usual
in evening clothes, passed their table, looking for a vacant seat.
Douglas touched his arm.
"Sit here, Drexley," he said. "We're off in a minute, and then you can
have the whole table."
Drexley thanked him and surrendered his hat and coat to the waiter.
Douglas leaned across to Cicely.
"Cicely," he said, "let me introduce Mr. Drexley to you. Mr.
Drexley--Miss Strong. Mr. Drexley will probably be my first victim on
your behalf."
Cicely blushed and looked timidly up at the tall, bearded man, who was
regarding her with some interest. He smiled kindly and held out his
hand.
"I am very pleased to know you, Miss Strong," he said. "May I ask in
what way I am to suffer on your behalf?"
"You have the misfortune, sir," Douglas said, "to be the editor of a
popular magazine, and you are consequently never safe from the literary
aspirant. I am one, Miss Strong is another."
"Oh, Mr. Drexley," she exclaimed, in some confusion, "please don't
listen to him. I have never tried to do anything except children's
fairy stories, and I'm sure they're not half good enough for the _Ibex_.
I brought Douglas two to look at, but I'm not sure that they're any good
at all. I meant to offer them to a children's paper."
"Nevertheless, if you will allow me," Drexley said, stretching out his
hand, "I will take them with me and judge for myself. If I can use
them, Miss Strong, it will be a pleasure to me to do so; if I cannot, I
may be able to make some suggestion as to their disposal."
"It's awfully good of you, Drexley," Douglas declared, but Drexley was
bowing to Cicely. All the gratitude the heart of man could desire was
in those soft brown eyes and flushed cheeks.
"I see you've nearly finished," Drexley said. "I am only in time to
offer you liqueurs. I always take a _fin_ instead of a savoury, and I
shall take the liberty of ordering one for you, Jesson, and a _creme de
menthe_ for Miss Strong."
"You're very good," Douglas answered.
The order was given to the head-waiter himself, who stood by Drexley's
chair. Drexley raised his little glass and bowed to the girl.
"I drink your health, Miss Strong," he said, gravely, "and yours,
Jesson. May I find your stories as good as I expect to."
Cicely smiled back at him. Her face was scarlet, for the coupling of
their names, and Drexley's quiet smile, was significant. But Douglas
only laughed gaily as he reached for his hat, and drew Cicely's feather
boa around her with a little air of protection.
"Good night, Drexley," he said.
And Drexley, rising to his feet, bowed gravely, looking into the girl's
face with a light in his eyes which ever afterwards haunted her when his
name was mentioned--a light, half wistful, half kindly. For several
minutes after they had left, he sat looking idly at the "bill of fare"
with the same look on his face. There had been no such chance of
salvation for him.