CECILIA'S SECOND CHANCE.
It became at once necessary that Mr. Western should start off for
London. That had been already explained. He would go, whether
accepted or refused. When she had named a week, he had told her that
he should only have just time to wait for her reply. She offered to
be ready in five days, but he would not hurry her. During the week
she had hardly seen him, but she was aware that he remained silent,
moody, almost sullen. She was somewhat afraid of his temper;--but yet
she had found him in other respects so open, so noble, so consistent!
"It shall be so," she said, putting her hand into his. Then his very
nature seemed to have changed. It appeared as though nothing could
restrain him in the expression of his satisfaction. Nothing could be
more quietly joyous than his manner. He was to have left Rome by a
mid-day train, but he would wait for a train at midnight in order
that he might once dine with his own wife that was to be. "You will
kill yourself with the fatigue," Cecilia said. But he laughed at her.
It was not so easy to kill him. Then he sat with her through the
long morning, telling her of the doings of his past life, and his
schemes for the life to come. He had a great book which he wanted to
write,--as to which everybody might laugh at him but she must not
laugh. He laughed at himself and his aspiration; but she promised all
her sympathy, and she told him of their house at Exeter, and of her
mother's future loneliness. He would do anything for her within his
power. Her mother should live with them if she wished it. And she
spoke of the money which was to be her own, and told him of the offer
which her mother had made as to giving up a portion of it. Of this
he would have none. And he told her how it must be settled. And he
behaved just as a lover should do,--taking upon himself to give
directions, but giving all the directions just such as she would have
them.
Then he went; and there came upon her a cold, chilling feeling that
she had already been untrue to him. It was a feeling as to which
she could not speak, even to her mother. But why had not her mother
advised her and urged her to tell him everything? Her mother had said
not a word to her about it. Why did her mother treat her as though
she were one to be feared, and beyond the possibility of advice? But
to her mother she said not a word on the subject. From the moment in
which Mr. Western had first begun to pay her attention, the name of
Sir Francis had never been mentioned between the mother and daughter.
And now in all their intercourse Mrs. Holt spoke with an unclouded
serenity of their future life. It was to her as though the Geraldine
episode had been absolutely obliterated from the memory of them
all. Mr. Western to her was everything. She would not accept his
magnificent offer of a home, because she knew that an old woman in a
man's house could only be considered as in his way. She would divide
her income, and give at any rate a third to her daughter. And she did
bestow much advice as to the manner in which everything should be
done so as to tend to his happiness. His tastes should be adopted,
and his ways of life should be studied. His pursuits should be made
her pursuits, and his friends her friends. All this was very well.
Cecilia knew all that without any teaching from her mother. Her
instincts told her as much as that. But what was she to do with this
secret which loaded her bosom, but as to which she could not bring
herself even to ask her mother's advice?
Then she made up her mind that she would write to her lover and
relate the whole story as to Sir Francis Geraldine. And she did
write it; but she was alarmed at finding that the story, when told,
extended itself over various sheets of paper. And the story would
take the shape of a confession,--as though she were telling her lover
of some passage in her life of which she had cause to be ashamed.
She knew that there was no ground for shame. She had done nothing
which she ought not to have done, nothing which she could not have
acknowledged to him without a blush. When the letter was completed,
she found it to be one which she could not send. It was as though she
were telling him something, on reading which he would have to decide
whether their engagement should or should not be continued. This
was not at all her purpose. Thinking of it all with a view to his
happiness, and to his honour, she did not wish him to suppose that
there could be a doubt on that subject. It was clear to her that a
letter so worded was not fit for the occasion, and she destroyed
it. Still she was minded to write to him, but for the moment she
postponed her purpose. Of course she wrote to her friends in Exeter.
Were she to be silent to them it would appear as though she were
ashamed of what she was now doing. She told Maude Hippesley,--or Mrs.
Thorne as she was now called; and she told Mrs. Green, and also Miss
Altifiorla. Immediate answers came from the three. Those from the
two married ladies were in all respects satisfactory. That from Mrs.
Thorne was quite enthusiastic in its praises of matrimony. That from
Mrs. Green was a little less warm, but was still discreetly happy.
She had no doubt in her own mind that a married life was preferable,
and that Mr. Western, though perhaps a little old, was upon the whole
a well-chosen and deserving consort for life. But the letter from
Miss Altifiorla was very different from these, and as it had some
effect perhaps in producing the circumstances which are to be told,
it shall be given at length:--
"MY DEAR CECILIA,--I am of course expected to congratulate you, and
as far as Mr. Western's merits are concerned, I do so with my full
heart. He is possessed, I have no doubt, of all those virtues which
should adorn a husband, and is in all respects the very opposite to
Sir Francis Geraldine. You give me to understand that he is steady,
hard-working, and properly ambitious. In spite of the mistake which
you made in reference to Sir Francis Geraldine, I will not doubt but
that your judgment in respect to Mr. Western will be found correct.
If it is to be I dare say it could not be better. But must it be?"
"Of course it must," said Cecilia to herself, feeling very angry with
Miss Altifiorla for raising the question at such a time and in such
a manner. "After all the sweet converse and sweeter resolutions that
have passed between us on this matter, must all be abandoned like
a breath of summer wind, meaning nothing?" Of what infinitely bad
taste was not the woman guilty, in thus raising the question when
the only final answer to it had been already given? Cecilia felt
ashamed of herself as she thought of this, in that she had admitted
the friendship of such a friend. "A breath of summer wind!" she
said, repeating with scorn her friend's somewhat high-flown words.
"I cannot but say that, like Martha, you have chosen the worser
part," continued the letter. "The things of the world, which are in
themselves but accidents, have been for a moment all in all to you;
but knowing you as I do, I am aware how soon they will fade away,
and have no more than their proper weight. Then you will wake some
day, and feel that you have devoted yourself to the mending of his
stockings and the feeding of his babies." There was something in this
which stirred Cecilia to absolute wrath. If there were babies would
they not be her babies as well as his? Was it not the intention of
the Lord that the world should be populated? The worser part, indeed!
Then she took up the cudgels in her own mind on behalf of Martha, as
she had often done before. How would the world get on unless there
were Marthas? And was it not more than probable that a self-dubbed
Mary should fall into idle ways under the pretence that she was
filled with special inspiration? Looking at Miss Altifiorla as a
Mary, she was somewhat in love with the Marthas.
"I do not doubt that Mr. Western is what he should be," the letter
went on, "but even judging him by your letter, I find that he is
autocratic and self-opinioned. It is his future life and not yours of
which he is thinking, his success and not yours, his doings and not
your doings." "How does she know?" exclaimed Cecilia. "She has only
my account of him, and not his of me." "And he is right in this,"
went on the letter, "because the ways of the world allow such
privileges to men. What would a man be unless he took the place
which his personal strength has obtained for him? For women, in the
general, of course matrimony is fit. They have to earn their bread,
and think of little else. To be a man's toy and then his slave, with
due allowance for food and clothes, suffices for them. But I had
dreamed a dream that it would not suffice for you. Alas, alas! I
stand alone now in the expression of my creed. You must excuse me if
I repine, when I find myself so cruelly deserted."
All this Cecilia felt to be as absurd as it was ill-timed;--and
to be redeemed, as it were, from its ill-nature by its ridiculous
philosophy. But at last there came a paragraph which admitted of
no such excuse. "What has Mr. Western said as to the story of Sir
Francis Geraldine? Of course you have told him the whole, and I
presume that he has pardoned that episode. In spite of the expression
of feelings which I have been unable to control, you must believe,
dear Cecilia, that I am as anxious as ever for your happiness, and
am,
"Your most affectionate friend,
"FRANCESCA ALTIFIORLA."
Cecilia, when she had completed the reading of the letter, believed
nothing of the kind. That last paragraph about Sir Francis had turned
all her kindly feelings into wrath, and contained one word which she
knew not how to endure. She was told that Mr. Western had "pardoned"
the Geraldine episode in her life. She had done nothing for which
pardon had been necessary. To merit pardon there must have been
misconduct; and as this woman had known all her behaviour in that
matter, what right had she to talk of pardon? In what had she
deserved pardon;--or at any rate the pardon of Mr. Western? There had
been a foolish engagement made between her and Sir Francis Geraldine,
which had been most wisely dissolved. The sin, if sin there had been,
was against Sir Francis, and certainly had never been considered as
sin by this woman who now wrote to her. Was it a sin that she had
loved before, a matter as to which Mr. Western was necessarily in
ignorance when he first came to her? But might it not come to pass
that his pardon should be required in that the story had never been
told to him? It was the sting which came from that feeling which
added fierceness to her wrath. "Of course you have told him the
whole, and I presume that he has pardoned that episode!" She had not
told Mr. Western the whole, and had thus created another episode for
which his pardon might be required. It was this that the woman had
intended to insinuate, understanding with her little sharpness, with
her poor appreciation of character, how probable it was that Cecilia
should not have told him of her previous engagement.
She sat thinking of it all that night till the matter assumed new
difficulties in her mind's eyesight. And she began to question to
herself whether Mr. Western had a right to her secret,--whether the
secret did not belong to two persons, and she was bound to keep it
for the sake of the other person. She had committed a wrong, an
injury, or at any rate had inflicted a deserved punishment upon Sir
Francis; one as to which a man would naturally much dislike that
it should be noised about the world. Was she not bound to keep her
secret still a secret for his sake? She was angry with herself when
she asked the question, but still she asked it. She knew that she
owed nothing to Sir Francis Geraldine, and that she owed all to Mr.
Western. But still she asked it, because in that way could she best
strengthen herself against the telling of the story. The more she
turned the matter in her mind, the more impossible to her became
the task of telling it. At last she resolved that she would not
tell it now. She would not tell it at any rate till she again saw
him,--because Miss Altifiorla had told her that she "presumed he had
pardoned her that episode."
It was arranged that they should be married at Exeter in April. Their
house there was not yet vacant, but would be lent to them for a
fortnight. After the marriage Mrs. Holt would go into lodgings, and
remain there till the house should be ready for her. But they were
both to return to Exeter together, and then there would be bustle
and confusion till the happy ceremony should have been performed. It
was arranged that she should have but two bridesmaids, but she was
determined that she would not ask Miss Altifiorla to be one of them.
A younger sister of Mrs. Green and a younger sister also of Maude
Hippesley were chosen. Miss Altifiorla, when she came to see Cecilia
on her return, expressed herself as quite satisfied. "It is best so,
dear," she said. "I was afraid that you would ask me. Of course I
should have done it, but my heart would not have been there. You can
understand it all, I know." Cecilia's wrath had become mitigated by
this time, and she answered her friend civilly. "Just so. You think
I ought to be an old maid, and therefore do not like to lend a hand
at turning me into a young wife. I have got two girls who have no
objection on that score." "You might find a hundred in Exeter," said
Miss Altifiorla proudly, "and yet I may be right in my opinions."
Mr. Western was to come down to Exeter only on the day before the
marriage. The Holts had seen him as they came through London where
they slept one night, but as yet the story had not been told. Cecilia
expected, almost wished, that the story might reach him from other
quarters. It was so natural now that he should talk about the girl
whom he intended to marry, and so natural,--as Cecilia thought,--that
in doing so he should hear the name of Sir Francis Geraldine. Sir
Francis was a man well known to the world of fashion, and many men
must have heard of his intended marriage. Cecilia, though she almost
hoped, almost feared that it should be so. The figure of Mr. Western
asking with an angry voice why he had not been told did alarm her.
But he asked no such question, nor, as far as Cecilia knew, had he
heard anything of Sir Francis when the Holts passed through London.
Nor did he seem to have heard it when he came down to Exeter. At any
rate he did not say a word respecting Sir Francis. He spent the last
evening with the Holts in their own house, and Cecilia felt that he
had never before made himself so happy with her, so pleasant, and so
joyous. It had been the same during their long walk together in the
afternoon. He was so full of affairs which were his own, which were
so soon to become her own, that there was not a moment for her in
which she could tell the story. There are stories for the telling of
which a peculiar atmosphere is required, and this was one of them.
She could not interrupt him in the middle of his discourse and
say:--"Oh, by-the-bye,--there is something that I have got to say to
you." To tell the story she must tune her mind to the purpose. She
must begin it in a proper tone, and be sure that he would be ready to
hearken to it as it should be heard. She felt that the telling would
be specially difficult in that it had been put off so long. But
though she had made up her mind to tell it before she had started on
her walk, the desirable moment never came. So she again put it off,
saying that it should be done late at night when her mother had gone
to her bed. The time came when he was alone with her, sitting with
his arm around her waist, telling her of all the things she should do
for him to make his life blessed;--and how he too would endeavour to
do some little things for her in order that her life might be happy.
She would not tell it then. Though little might come of it, she could
not do it. And yet from day to day the feeling had grown upon her
that it was certainly her duty to let him know that one accident in
her life. There was no disgrace in it, no cause for anger on his
part, nor even for displeasure if it had only been told him at Rome.
He could then have taken her, or left her as he pleased. Of course
he would have taken her, and the only trouble of her life would have
been spared her. What possible reason could there have been that he
should not take her? It was not any reason of that kind which had
kept her silent. Of that she was quite confident. Indeed now she
could not explain to herself why she had held her peace. It seemed to
her as though she must have been mad to have let day after day go by
at Rome and never to have mentioned to him the name of Sir Francis
Geraldine. But such, alas! had been the fact. And now the time had
come in which she found it to be impossible to tell the story. As
she went for the last time to her solitary bed she endeavoured to
console herself by thinking that he must have heard of it from other
quarters. But then again she declared that he in his nobility would
certainly not have been silent. He would have questioned her and then
have told her that all was right between them. But now as she tossed
unhappily on her pillow she told herself that all was wrong.