THE WOOING OF CICELY
The completion of Douglas Jesson's novel was the principal event of the
following week. There had come no word from Emily de Reuss, nor had
Douglas himself sought her. Better, he told himself, to face his
suffering like a man, grapple with it once and for all, than to become
even as Drexley and those others, who had never found strength to
resist. She was beautiful, magnetic, fascinating, and he loved her; on
the other hand there was his self-respect and the strength of his
manhood. He was young, he had courage and a career--surely the battle
would go for him. But the days which followed were weary and the nights
were pitiless.
He finished his novel, doggedly and conscientiously. The great
publishing house who had been waiting for it had pledged themselves to
produce it within a month, and Douglas was everywhere pursued with
little bundles of proofs requiring immediate attention. These and his
work at the _Courier_ kept him fairly occupied during the day, but the
night time was fast becoming a season of terror. He tried theatres,
music halls, the club--all vainly. For there were always the silent
hours before the dawn, when distraction was impossible--hours when he
lay with hot, wide-open eyes and looked back upon that little scene--saw
Emily with her hands outstretched towards him, and that new light upon
her face, heard her changed tone, saw the wonderful light in her eyes,
felt the thrilling touch of her lips. After all, was he not a fool--a
quixote--he, to dare to make terms with her who offered him her
love--he, unknown, poor, of humble birth--she an aristocrat to the
finger-tips, rich, beautiful, famous. What a gulf between them. She
had stretched out her hands to help him across, and he had lingered
bargaining. He leaped from his couch and stood before his window. He
would go to her at once--her love he would have on any terms until she
was weary of him, and the measure of his life should be the measure of
those days. He would have his day and die. Then the empty streets, the
curling white mists, the chill vaporous breeze, and the far-off sickly
lights gleaming down the riverside reminded him that many hours must
come before he could see her. And with the later morning came fresh
resolutions--the moment of weakness was gone.
One night he did an act of charity. He brought home to his rooms a
homeless wanderer whom he had found discharged from a night in the
cells, gave him his own bedroom and sent for a doctor and nurse. From
them he learnt that so far as Emily de Reuss was concerned, there was
nothing more to be feared from David Strong. His days were numbered at
last, and the end was very near. So Douglas would hear nothing of a
hospital, and spent weary nights at the dying man's side. For which,
and his act of charity, he had soon an ample reward.
One morning a grinning youth invaded his sanctum at the Courier with the
information that a lady wished to see him. The walls spun round and his
heart leaped with delirious hope. But when he reached the waiting-room
it was Cicely who rose smiling to greet him, Cicely in the smartest
clothes she had ever worn, and a new hat, looking as dainty and pretty
as a picture. But it was Cicely--not the woman for whose coming he
would have given years of his life.
She herself was too happy to notice the sudden fall in his countenance.
Her piquant little face was beaming. She held out a pearl-gloved hand
to him.
"Douglas," she exclaimed. "I have come to take you out to lunch. It
was a bargain, remember. I have just drawn a cheque from the _Ibex_ for
twenty pounds."
"Twenty pounds," he repeated, with mock reverence. "Heavens! what
affluence. Will you walk round with me and wait while I change?"
"Why, yes. I came early in case you wanted to go to your rooms first.
Do you know, I've been to the 'Milan' and chosen my table. There's a
lovely band playing, and it's all quite a fairy tale, isn't it?"
He laughed, and they went out together into the street. She looked at
him with sudden gravity. "You're not well, Douglas." "Never better," he
assured her gaily. She shook her head. "You haven't been worrying
about Joan?"
"Never think of her," he answered truthfully. She sighed.
"I wish I didn't. Douglas, I didn't mean to talk of this just now, for
it's a horrid subject, and to-day is a _fete_ day. But supposing Joan
finds you out. Could she make them arrest you?"
"Not a doubt about it," he answered, "if she chose."
"And afterwards?"
"Well, it wouldn't be pleasant," he admitted. "I think I should get out
of it, but it might be awkward. And in getting out of it, I might
perhaps bring more pain upon Joan than any she has suffered yet."
"Did any one kill Father, Douglas?"
He hesitated.
"I didn't."
"Do you know who did?"
"I'm afraid I can guess."
She was silent for a moment. Then they turned off into the side street
where his rooms were, and she passed her arm through his.
"There, now I'm going to banish that and all unpleasant subjects," she
declared. "Do you know, I feel ridiculously light-hearted to-day,
Douglas. I warn you that I shall be a frivolous companion."
"You'll be a very welcome one," he answered. "There was never a time
when I wanted you so much. I've finished my novel and I have a fit of
the blues."
"It is your own fault," she said. "It is because you have not been to
see me for a fortnight."
"And I wonder how much you have missed me all that fortnight. Tell me
what you have been doing."
She looked at him sideways. He almost fancied that she was blushing.
"Tuesday night Mr. Drexley took me out to dinner, and we went to the
Lyceum," she said.
He stopped short upon the pavement.
"What?"
She looked up at him demurely.
"Why, you don't mind, do you, Douglas? Mr. Drexley is a friend of
yours, isn't he? He has been so kind."
"The devil he has!" Douglas muttered, amazed. "And how many more times
have you seen him during the fortnight, I wonder?"
"Well--once or twice," she admitted.
"Any more dinner parties?"
"We went to Richmond one afternoon. Mr. Drexley rows so nicely. He
introduced me to his sister."
"Never knew he had one," Douglas muttered.
"Here we are. Come in and sit down while I change."
Douglas was not long over his toilet. When he returned he was inclined
to be thoughtful. For no earthly reason he could think of, Cissy's
friendship with Drexley irritated him. He did not understand it. He
had looked upon Drexley as a man whose emancipation was an
impossibility, for whom there was no hope of any further social life.
Was it possible that he could be seriously attracted by Cicely? He
watched her with this thought all through luncheon, and gradually there
crept into his mind a fuller and more complete appreciation of her
unmistakable charm. All the time she was chattering gaily to him,
chasing away his gloom, forcing him to breathe the atmosphere of gaiety
and light-heartedness which she seemed at once to create and to revel
in. It occurred to him that if ever a girl in the world was created to
save a man from despair, surely she was that one. Dainty, cheerful,
unselfish, with a charming command of language and a piquant wit, Cicely
had made vast strides in self-development since the days when they had
sat together on the Feldwick Hills and talked of that future into which
it seemed then so impossible that they should ever pass.
"Do you remember," he asked her, "what we used to call the pearl light,
the soft crystalline glow before the sunrise, and how fresh and sweet
the air was when we scrambled up the hill?"
She nodded thoughtfully.
"I think very often of those days, and the dreams we used to weave
together. Sometimes I can scarcely believe how near we have come to
realising them. What a wonderfully still, lonely country it was."
"We used to sit and watch the smoke curl upwards from the cottages one
by one. The farm was always the first."
"Yes, Joan saw to that."
"And the nights. Do you remember how sweet the perfumes were--the
heather and the wild thyme? Those long cool nights, Cissy, when we
watched the lights flicker out one by one, and the corncrakes and the
barn owl came and made music for us."
"It is like a beautiful picture, the memory," she murmured.
"Build a fence around and keep it," he said. "Life there was an
abstraction, but a beautiful one. London has made man and woman of us,
but are we any happier, I wonder?"
"I am," she answered simply.
"You are happy because you have not grasped at shadows," he said,
bitterly. "You have taken the good which has come, and been thankful."
"And you," she replied, softly, "you are known already. In a few
months' time you will be famous."
"Ay, but shall I be happy?" he asked himself, only half aloud.
"If you will," she answered. "If you have spent any of your time
grasping at shadows, be thankful at least that you are man enough to
realise it and put them from you. Life should be a full thing for you.
Douglas, I think that you are wonderful. All that we dreamed of for you
has come true."
He looked into her face with a sudden intensity--a pretty face enough,
flushed and earnest.
"Cissy, help me to realise one at least of those dreams. Will you?"
She looked at him suddenly white, bewildered, a little doubtful.
"What do you mean, Douglas?"
"You were very dear to me in those days, Cissy," he said, leaning over
and taking her fingers into his. "You have always been dear to me. Our
plans for the future were always large enough for two. Take me into
yours--come into mine. Can you care for me enough for that?"
She was silent; her face was averted. They were alone, and his fingers
tightened upon hers.
"We never spoke of it in words, Cissy," he went on, "but I think we
understood. Will you help me to leave the shadows alone? Will you be
my wife?"
"You care--enough for that?" she asked, raising her eyes to his
suddenly.
A moment's wild revolt--a seething flood of emotions sternly repressed.
He met her eyes, and though there was no smile upon his lips, his tone
was firm enough.
"I care--enough for that, Cissy," he answered.