A LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA
“David is growing impatient,” Celia said the next morning, after
breakfast. “He thinks we have been engaged long enough, and wants me to
name the day.”
“I am not surprised at that,” returned Lady Marjorie, looking up from
her work. “What are you going to do?”
That was just what Celia did not know. She sighed heavily, and remained
lost in thought. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, for she had
lain awake all night in uneasy deliberation of the question. Souvie
jumped on her knee and demanded her attention; he never allowed his
mistress to leave him unnoticed if she happened to have any spare time
on her hands.
Lady Marjorie was artistically arranging some flowers in a bowl. She
looked just as nice in her morning blouse as she did in a Parisian
toilette. When she had finished, she came over to the couch where Celia
was sitting.
“Girlie,” she said, “I want to talk to you seriously.”
Celia looked up in surprise.
“I have been watching you for the past few months, and I don’t quite
know what to make of you. When you became engaged to David Salmon, I
supposed it was because you were in love with him; but it seems to me
now that you are not quite happy in your engagement. Now listen, Celia.
Either you mean to marry him, or you do not. If you do, why have you
this unnatural desire for procrastination? I consider, honestly
speaking, that you have kept him waiting an unreasonable length of time.
If, on the other hand, you do not intend to marry him, the sooner you
break off the engagement the better, both for his sake and your own.
Perhaps, during your long courtship, you have found out that he and you
are not so suited to each other as you thought you were, and yet you do
not like to hurt his feelings by telling him so? You long for freedom,
but you are reluctant to strike the blow that will set you free. Girlie,
darling, tell me the truth as it is in your heart. Am I right?”
She sank on to the couch, and looked into the girl’s face with a tender
solicitude in her kindly blue eyes.
Celia’s heart gave a leap. How exactly had her chaperon diagnosed the
case, and how she despised herself that it should be so! The blood
rushed to her cheeks, as, hiding her face in Souvie’s silky coat, she
murmured, so low that it could scarcely be heard, the single
monosyllable, “Yes!”
Lady Marjorie did not exhibit surprise. She had guessed as much for some
time. But she thought, and did not hesitate to say, that Celia had done
very wrong in allowing the engagement to continue, when on her part she
did not intend it to terminate in marriage. She came to the conclusion
that the girl had not possessed the courage to face the question out;
she had always put away the thought of her marriage with David as a
disagreeable necessity of the future; she had dissembled with her own
conscience.
In this she was right. Celia had given way to weakness, but she had not
intentionally done wrong; and when the matter was threshed out, as Lady
Marjorie was threshing it out now, she saw the magnitude of the injury
she had done to her _fiancé_.
One thing was certain: there must be no more equivocation.
“You will have to give David his _congé_ as nicely as you can,” her
chaperon said when it was all explained. “It will be a painful
interview, of course; but it will have to be gone through, and the
sooner you get it over the better.”
But Celia had decided otherwise. It became evident to her that, having
plighted her troth, she was bound to abide by it. If she had acted
foolishly in becoming engaged before she knew her own mind, she must be
ready to pay for her folly. How could she, who almost prided herself on
her fidelity and stability of character, allow herself to be accused of
inconstancy, classed as a fickle coquette? Her cheeks tingled at the
very thought.
“There will be no painful interview,” she replied, in a firm low voice.
“I shall marry him before the year is out.”
“You will, after what you have admitted!” Lady Marjorie was genuinely
astonished now.
“Yes, I will. I must! What would he think of me if I jilted him now,
after three years? What would his friends say? Would they not have
reason to condemn me? Oh, I couldn’t do it. I should never be able to
hold up my head again.”
It was a difficult predicament. Lady Marjorie acknowledged that, from
David Salmon’s point of view, Celia’s conduct would be looked upon as
reprehensible; but, on the other hand, she did not consider that the
girl was justified in making an unhappy marriage for the sake of saving
some immediate unpleasantness. Secretly she thought that he was not
worth the sacrifice; she had never been very favourably impressed with
him from the first.
“I am sure it will be better for you to tell Mr. Salmon the truth now,
before the irrevocable step has been taken,” she said, after a pause.
“It will be unpleasant, I admit, especially if he is reluctant to
release you from your promise; but it will blow over after a little
while, and at least you will be free. Just think what a loveless
marriage means: an uncongenial husband, an unhappy home. And, perhaps,
when it is too late, you may come across a man whom you could really
love. How would you feel then? Dear child, do consider well before you
lay up for yourself a store of unhappiness which will last until your
life’s end.”
But Celia’s determination remained unshaken. She would be true to her
promise, and she would try not to be unhappy over it either. It seemed
to her that the majority of Jewish alliances were marriages of
convenience, contracted without much thought of love, yet the
consequences were, as a rule, quite satisfactory. Adeline, for instance,
had admitted to her in confidence that when she married Mike Rosen she
had not cared for him in the least, but love had come in time; and now
they were devoted to each other, and to their baby boy.
If Celia did not exactly love David Salmon, she possessed no feelings of
animosity towards him; and, being a sensible girl, she would do her best
to make him a good and dutiful wife. She felt relieved when she had thus
settled the matter in her mind; but her tranquillity was again disturbed
when the midday post brought her a letter which had been forwarded from
Durlston, bearing the Sydney postmark.
Lady Marjorie, catching sight of the stamp, and Celia’s sudden blush,
drew her own conclusions.
“You had forgotten him, girlie, hadn’t you?” she queried softly.
Celia slit the envelope. “No,” she replied; “but I thought he had
forgotten me.”
It was a letter of congratulation. Dr. Milnes had read of her _début_ in
Paris, and could not resist writing to tell her of the pleasure the
account of it had given him. About himself he said very little. He and
his partner were rapidly increasing their practice, and had got on as
well as they could have hoped. He was on the brink of some new discovery
in connection with the prevention of tuberculosis. When it was made, he
would probably come to Europe, first to Vienna, then to England. He
liked Colonial life, but would be glad to see the mother-country once
again. Meanwhile, he sent his kind regards, and remained, “Sincerely
yours, Geoffrey H. Milnes.”
The girl passed the letter over for Lady Marjorie’s perusal; there was
nothing in it that all the world might not read.
It was the first communication, with the exception of birthday and
Christmas cards, that she had received from him since he went away. The
sight of it brought back old associations, memories so tender as to be
almost akin to pain. Geoffrey’s honest face rose up before her mental
vision; his strong young voice almost sounded in her ears; his
delightful companionship was brought back to her remembrance. She rested
her chin on her hand, and lost herself in a dream of long ago. The
pleasant rides and drives they had enjoyed together, the hot-headed
discussions, the musical confabulations; with what force they all
recurred to her just when she was most anxious to forget.
Why does everything change so, she wondered, half rebelliously? Why do
all the sweet things of life pass away so soon to leave only bitterness
behind? Why is there so much misunderstanding in the world; so much
unhappiness brought about by cruel circumstance, so much heartache which
could be avoided if we were all absolutely candid and truthful in our
relations one towards another? Here was yet another side to that eternal
question, _Why?_
Lady Marjorie’s voice recalled her to the present once more.
“Poor old Geoff!” she exclaimed, replacing the letter in the envelope.
“I am glad he is getting on so well. I used to think that he and
you----” she paused. “Ah, well, never mind; I suppose I was mistaken
after all. It is so easy to make mistakes, isn’t it? Shall you send
Geoffrey an invitation to your wedding?”
She did not mean to be unkind; but Celia felt as if she had received a
sharp blow. Yet how foolish it was to be so sensitive.
“I shall certainly send him an invitation if he happens to be in
England,” she answered quietly; and there the matter dropped.
When she saw David, a few days later, Celia told him that she was
willing to be married before the close of the year. She was very quiet,
very submissive: and when he proposed, that if all were propitious, the
wedding should take place on her birthday, December 15th, she assented
without a protest.
In the meantime she had accepted an invitation to spend the month of
August with the Wiltons at Woodruffe, their place near Brighton. Enid
had left the Academy some time ago to blossom forth as a professor of
music at Hove; but although Celia had not seen her for nearly eighteen
months, she still kept in touch with her by means of a regular
correspondence. The Rev. Ralph Wilton had resigned his curacy at
Hoxton--after having seen his parochial affairs greatly improved as the
result of Celia’s munificence--to be promoted to a living in a quiet
midland town; but he too would be at Woodruffe for his holiday in
August, and Celia looked forward to meeting him there.
She would have to return to town in the autumn to attend the rehearsals
of “The Voice of the Charmer,” which was to be produced at the beginning
of November. Guy Haviland had found it no easy matter to coax Karne into
giving his consent, for Herbert possessed some decided views anent the
stage; but in the end he managed to overrule all his numerous
objections, and returned to London in triumph and great glee.
Lady Marjorie received the news with dubious satisfaction. She was not
enamoured of the theatrical life.
“Don’t let it spoil our girlie, will you, Haviland?” she said, when he
had acquainted her with the details of his plans. “She is so sweet and
unaffected as she is; it would be such a pity if she became imbued with
the artificiality of the stage.”
Haviland assured her that she need have no fear.
“I am just as anxious for the welfare of your girlie, as you call her,
as yourself,” he replied. “I will guard her as rigorously as any old
_duenna_.”
And knowing that he would be as good as his word, Lady Marjorie was
content.