The events of Monday had cast a shadow over Rowan-Tree House. Cecil no
longer sang as she went to and fro, Mr. Boniface was paying the penalty
of a stormy interview late on Monday evening with his partner, and was
not well enough to leave his room, and Mrs. Boniface looked grave and
sad, for she foresaw the difficulties in which Frithiof’s disgrace would
involve others.
“I wish Roy had been at home,” she said to her daughter as, on the
Wednesday afternoon, they sat together in the verandah.
Cecil looked up for a moment from the little frock which she was making
for Gwen.
“If he had been at home, I can’t help thinking that this never would
have happened,” she said. “And I have a sort of hope that he will find
out some explanation of it all.”
“My dear, what explanation can there be but the one that satisfies your
father?” said Mrs. Boniface. “Frithiof must have taken it in a fit of
momentary aberration. But the whole affair shows that he is not so
strong yet as we fancied, and I fear is a sign that all his life he will
feel the effects of his illness. It is that which makes me so sorry for
them all.”
“I do not believe that he took it,” said Cecil. “Nothing will ever make
me believe that.”
She stitched away fast at the little frock, in a sudden panic, lest the
tears which burned in her eyes should attract her mother’s notice. Great
regret and sympathy she might allow herself to show, for Frithiof was a
friend and a favorite of every one in the house; but of the grief that
filled her heart she must allow no trace to be seen, for it would make
her mother miserable to guess at the extent of her unhappiness.
“Did you see him last night at the concert?” asked Mrs. Boniface.
“Yes,” said Cecil, choking back her tears; “just when he arranged the
platform. He was looking very ill and worn.”
“That is what I am so afraid of. He will go worrying over this affair,
and it is the very worst thing in the world for him. I wish your father
were better, and I would go and have a talk with Sigrid; but I hardly
like to leave the house. How would it be, dearie, if you went up and saw
them?”
“I should like to go,” said Cecil quickly. “But it is no use being there
before seven, for Madame Lechertier has her classes so much later in
this hot weather.”
“Well, go up at seven, then, and have a good talk with her; make her
understand that we none of us think a bit the worse of him for it, and
that we are vexed with Cousin James for having been so disagreeable and
harsh. You might, if you like, go to meet Roy; he comes back at
half-past eight, and he will bring you home again.”
Cecil cheered up a good deal at this idea; she took Lance round the
garden with her, that he might help her to gather flowers for Sigrid,
and even smiled a little when of his own accord the little fellow
brought her a beautiful passion-flower which he had gathered from the
house wall.
“This one’s for my dear Herr Frithiof!” he exclaimed, panting a little
with the exertions he had made to reach it. “It’s all for his own self,
and I picked it for him, ’cause it’s his very favorite.”
“You know, Cecil,” said her mother, as she returned to the seat under
the verandah and began to arrange the flowers in a basket, “I have
another theory as to this affair. It happened exactly a week after that
day at the seaside when we all had such a terrible fright about Roy and
Sigrid. Frithiof had a long run in the sun, which you remember was very
hot that day; then he had all the excitement of rowing out and rescuing
them, and though at the time it seemed no strain on him at all, yet I
think it is quite possible that the shock may have brought back a slight
touch of the old trouble.”
“And yet it seemed to do him good at the time,” said Cecil. “He looked
so bright and fresh when he came back. Besides, to a man accustomed as
he once was to a very active life, the rescue was, after all, no such
great exertion.”
Mrs. Boniface sighed.
“It would grieve me to think that it was really caused by that, but if
it is so, there is all the more reason that they should clearly
understand that the affair makes no difference at all in our opinion of
him. It is just possible that it may be his meeting with Lady Romiaux
which is the cause. Sigrid told me they had accidentally come across her
again, and that it had tried him very much.”
Cecil turned away to gather some ferns from the rockery; she could not
bear to discuss that last suggestion. Later on in the afternoon it was
with a very heavy heart that she reached the model lodgings and knocked
at the door that had now become so familiar to her.
Swanhild flew to greet her with her usual warmth. It was easy to see
that the child knew nothing of the trouble hanging over the house. “What
lovely flowers! How good of you!” she cried.
But Sigrid could not speak: she only kissed her, then turned to Swanhild
and the flowers once more.
“They are beautiful,” she said. “Don’t you think we might spare some for
Mrs. Hallifield? Run and take her some, dear.”
When the child ran off she drew Cecil into their bedroom. The two girls
sat down together on the bed, but Sigrid, usually the one to do most of
the talking, was silent and dejected. Cecil saw at once that she must
take the initiative.
“I have been longing to come and see you,” she said. “But yesterday was
so filled up. Father and mother are so sorry for all this trouble, and
are very much vexed that Mr. Horner has behaved badly about it.”
“They are very kind,” said Sigrid wearily. “Of course most employers
would have prosecuted Frithiof, or, at any rate, discharged him.”
“But, Sigrid, what can be the explanation of it? Oh, surely we can
manage to find out somehow! Who can have put the note in his pocket?”
“What!” cried Sigrid. “Do not you, too, hold Mr. Boniface’s opinion, and
think that he himself did it unintentionally?”
“I!” cried Cecil passionately. “Never! never! I am quite sure he had
nothing whatever to do with it.”
Sigrid flung her arms round her.
“Oh, how I love you for saying that!” she exclaimed.
It was the first real comfort that had come to her since their trouble,
and, although before Frithiof she was brave and cheerful, in his absence
she became terribly anxious and depressed. But with the comfort there
came a fresh care, for something at that moment revealed to her Cecil’s
secret. Perhaps it was the burning cheek, that was pressed to hers, or
perhaps a sort of thrill in her companion’s voice as she spoke those
vehement words, and declared her perfect faith in Frithiof.
The thought filled her with hot indignation against Blanche. “Has she
not only spoilt Frithiof’s life, but Cecil’s too?” she said to herself.
And in despair she looked on into the future, and back into the sad
past. “If it had not been for Blanche he might have loved her—I think he
would have loved her And oh! how happy she would have made him! how
different his whole life would have been! But now, with disgrace, and
debt, and broken health, all that is impossible for him. Blanche has
robbed him, too, of the very power of loving; she has cheated him out of
his heart. Her hateful flirting has ruined the happiness of two people,
probably of many more, for Frithiof was not the only man whom she
deceived. Oh! why does God give women the power to bring such misery
into the world?”
She was recalled from her angry thoughts by Cecil’s voice; it was sweet
and gentle again now, and no longer vehement.
“Do you know, Sigrid,” she said, “I have great hopes in Roy. He will be
home to-night, and he will come to it all like an outsider, and I think,
perhaps, he will throw some light on the mystery. I shall meet him at
Charing Cross, and as we drive home, will tell him just what happened.”
“Is it to-night he comes home?” said Sigrid, with a depth of relief in
her tone. “Oh, how glad I am! But there is Swanhild back again. You wont
say anything before her, for we have not mentioned it to her; there
seemed no reason why she should be made unhappy, and Frithiof likes to
feel that one person is unharmed by his trouble.”
“Yes, one can understand that,” said Cecil. “And Swanhild is such a
child, one would like to shelter her from all unhappiness. Are you sure
that you don’t mind my staying. Would you not rather be alone to-night?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Sigrid. “Do stay to supper. It will show Frithiof
that you do not think any the worse of him for this—it will please him
so much.”
They went back to the sitting-room and began to prepare the evening
meal; and when, presently, Frithiof returned from his work, the first
thing he caught sight of on entering the room was Cecil’s sweet,
open-looking face. She was standing by the table arranging flowers, but
came forward quickly to greet him. Her color was a little deeper than
usual, her hand-clasp a little closer, but otherwise she behaved exactly
as if nothing unusual had happened.
“I have most unceremoniously asked myself to supper,” she said, “for I
have to meet Roy at half-past eight.”
“It is very good of you to come,” said Frithiof gratefully.
His interview with Carlo Donati had done much for him, and had helped
him through a very trying day at the shop, but though he had made a good
start and had begun his new life bravely, and borne many disagreeables
patiently, yet he was now miserably tired and depressed, just in the
mood which craves most for human sympathy.
“Lance sent you this,” she said, handing him the passion-flower and
making him smile by repeating the child’s words.
He seemed touched and pleased; and the conversation at supper-time
turned a good deal on the children. He asked anxiously after Mr.
Boniface, and then they discussed the concert of the previous night, and
he spoke a little of Donati’s kindness to him. Then, while Sigrid and
Swanhild were busy in the kitchen, she told him what she knew of
Donati’s previous life, and how it was that he had gained this
extraordinary power of sympathy and insight.
“I never met any one like him,” said Frithiof. “He is a hero and a
saint, if ever there was one, yet without one touch of the asceticism
which annoys one in most good people. That the idol of the operatic
stage should be such a man as that seems to me wonderful.”
“You mean because the life is a trying one?”
“Yes; because such very great popularity might be supposed to make a man
conceited, and such an out-of-the-way voice might make him selfish and
heedless of others, and to be so much run after might make him consider
himself above ordinary mortals, instead of being ready, as he evidently
is, to be the friend of any one who is in need.”
“I am so glad you like him, and that you saw so much of him,” said
Cecil. “I wonder if you would just see me into a cab now, for I ought to
be going.”
He was pleased that she had asked him to do this; and when she had said
good-by to Sigrid and Swanhild, and was once more alone with him,
walking through the big court-yard, he could not resist alluding to it.
“It is good of you,” he said, “to treat me as though I were under no
cloud. You have cheered me wonderfully.”
“Oh,” she said, “it is not good of me—you must not think that I believe
you under a cloud at all. Nothing would ever make me believe that you
had anything whatever to do with that five-pound note. It is a mystery
that will some day be cleared up.”
“That is what Signor Donati said. He, too, believed in me in spite of
appearances being against me. And Sigrid says the same. With three
people on my side I can wait more patiently.”
Cecil had spoken very quietly, and quite without the passionate
vehemence which had betrayed her secret to Sigrid, for now she was on
her guard; but her tone conveyed to Frithiof just the trust and
friendliness which she wished it to convey; and he went home again with
a fresh stock of hope and courage in his heart.
Meanwhile Cecil paced gravely up and down the arrival platform at
Charing Cross. She, too, had been cheered by their interview, but,
nevertheless, the baffling mystery haunted her continually, and in vain
she racked her mind for any solution of the affair. Perhaps the anxiety
had already left its traces on her face, for Roy at once noticed a
change in her.
“Why, Cecil, what has come over you? You are not looking well,” he said,
as they got into a hansom and set off on their long drive.
“Father has not been well,” she said, in explanation. “And I think we
have all been rather upset by something that happened on Monday
afternoon in the shop.”
Then she told him exactly what had passed, and waited hopefully for his
comments on the story. He knitted his brows in perplexity.
“I wish I had been at home,” he said. “If only James Horner had not gone
ferreting into it all this would never have happened. Frithiof would
have discovered his mistake, and all would have been well.”
“But you don’t imagine that Frithiof put the note in his pocket?” said
Cecil, her heart sinking down in deep disappointment.
“Why, who else could have put it there? Of course he must have done it
in absence of mind. Probably the excitement and strain of that unlucky
afternoon at Britling Gap affected his brain in some way.”
“I cannot think that,” she said, in a low voice. “And, even if it were
so, that is the last sort of thing he would do.”
“But that is just the way when people’s brains are affected, they do the
most unnatural things; it is a known fact that young innocent girls will
often in delirium use the most horrible language such as in real life
they cannot possibly have heard. Your honest man is quite likely under
the circumstances to become a thief. Is not this the view that my father
takes?”
“Yes,” said Cecil. “But somehow—I thought—I hoped—that you would have
trusted him.”
“It doesn’t in the least affect my opinion of his character. He was
simply not himself when he did it. But one can’t doubt such evidence as
that. The thing was missed from the till and found pinned into his
pocket; how can any reasonable being doubt that he himself put it
there?”
“It may be unreasonable to refuse to believe it—I cannot help that,”
said Cecil.
“But how can it possibly be explained on any other supposition?” he
urged, a little impatiently.
“I don’t know,” said Cecil; “at present it is a mystery. But I am as
sure that he did not put it there as that I did not put it there.”
“Women believe what they wish to believe, and utterly disregard logic,”
said Roy.
“It is not only women who believe in him. Carlo Donati has gone most
carefully into every detail, and he believes in him.”
“Then I wish he would give me his recipe,” said Roy, with a sigh. “I am
but a matter-of-fact, prosaic man of business, and cannot make myself
believe that black is white, however much I wish it. Have you seen Miss
Falck? Is she very much troubled about it?”
“Yes, she is so afraid that he will worry himself ill; but, of course,
she too believes in him. I think she suspects the other man in the shop,
Darnell—but I don’t see how he can have anything to do with it, I must
own.”
There was a silence. Cecil looked sadly at the passers-by, lovers
strolling along happily in the cool of the evening, workers just set
free from the long day’s toil, children reveling in the fresh sweet air.
How very brief was the happiness and rest as compared to the hard,
wearing drudgery of most of those lives! Love perhaps brightened a few
minutes of each day, but in the outside world there was no love, no
justice, nothing but a hard, grinding competition, while Sorrow and Sin,
Sickness and Death hovered round, ever ready to pounce upon their
victims. It was unlike her to look so entirely on the dark side of
things, but Frithiof’s persistent ill-luck had depressed her, and she
was disappointed by Roy’s words. Perhaps it was unreasonable of her to
expect him to share her view of the affair, but somehow she had expected
it, and now there stole into her heart a dreary sense that everything
was against the man she loved. In her sheltered happy home, where a
bitter word was never heard, where the family love glowed so brightly
that all the outside world was seen through its cheering rays, sad
thoughts of the strength of evil seldom came, there was ever present so
strong a witness for the infinitely greater power of love. But driving
now along these rather melancholy roads, weighed down by Frithiof’s
trouble; a sort of hopelessness seized her, the thought of the miles and
miles of houses all round, each one representing several troubled,
struggling lives, made her miserable. Personal trouble helps us
afterward to face the sorrows of humanity, and shows us how we may all
in our infinitesimal way help to brighten other lives—take something
from the world’s great load of pain and evil. But at first there must be
times of deadly depression, and in these it is perhaps impossible not to
yield a little for the moment to the despairing thought that evil is
rampant and all-powerful. Poverty, and sin, and temptation are so easily
visible everywhere, and to be ever conscious of the great unseen world
encompassing us, and of Him who makes both seen and unseen to work
together for good, is not easy.
Cecil Boniface, like every one else in this world, had, in spite of her
ideal home, in spite of all the comforts that love and money could give
her, to “dree her weird.”