IV
Nothing had been said by any of the Laniers about seeing her again, and Emily had consulted her book on etiquette in vain for a hint. She was the more disturbed by this because she had had a letter from Denis—a solemn, miserable letter, filled with careful descriptions of the scenery and the weather. Through it all, in every line, she could read his longing for her and his great anxiety about her. Such a dear, stupid letter—honest and serious and manly, like Denis himself. He knew well enough how to love, but nothing at all about making love.
He hadn’t heard yet of his family’s arrival in New York, and, thought Emily, he was not going to get the news from them first. Very likely his mother would write to him by the same mail, but he would surely read Emily’s letter first, and he should have her account of the meeting.
Just what ought she to tell him? She would say, of course, that she had dined with his people.
“And then shall I say I’m going to call on them? Or should I invite them here to dinner?” she thought. “Or ought I just to wait?”
She was in her room, struggling with this problem, when Mr. Cecil Lanier was announced. She hastened down into the lounge, very much pleased. Here was something else to tell Denis. There was at least one member of his family that she could praise with candor.
She welcomed Cecil with frank pleasure, and he, on his part, seemed so remarkably glad to see her again, so very friendly, that a new and daring idea sprang up in her mind. It might be more diplomatic and more polite to wait a little, however. In spite of his jolly, friendly manner, there was something rather impressive about Cecil. He wasn’t to be treated too casually.
He was really younger than Denis, but he seemed older, not only because his face was a little worn, and his smiling eyes a little tired, but because of his affable worldliness. Denis, in his earnestness, his straightforward simplicity, had sometimes seemed quite boyish to Emily, but there was no trace of boyishness in Cecil. He was a charming fellow, handsome, courteous, and amusing, and he knew it. Emily had mighty little worldly wisdom, but she did not lack intuition, and she thought—and rightly—that Cecil would be extraordinarily kind and obliging to any one he liked, and by no means so to those he did not like; so she decided to make him like her.
It was not difficult. He had already been attracted to her the evening before, and he was delighted with her this afternoon. The time fairly flew. They had tea together at five o’clock; and after what seemed only a few minutes, it was seven.
“Let’s go out somewhere and have dinner,” said he.
“Oh!” said Emily. “I’d like to, but—aren’t there other things you have to do?”
She was thinking of his mother.
“I never have anything to do,” Cecil assured her cheerfully. “That’s the great advantage of being hopelessly incompetent. I can’t do anything, you know.”
“I don’t believe that. I’m sure you could do almost anything, if you tried,” said Emily.
She hadn’t meant to say it in quite that tone, or with quite that admiring glance, and she grew a little red as he returned the glance with interest.
“I’m never going to try,” said he. “Once you start, people begin to expect things of you.” He paused. “But if there’s anything you’d like done, Emily—”
She had no more poise left then than you could put into a thimble. She had a favor to ask of Cecil, and she felt sure he would grant it. She was determined to ask it,[Pg 164] too, and saw no reason why she should not, and yet—and yet, in spite of his kindliness, Cecil made her uneasy and confused.
“I just thought,” she began, “that if you were going to write to Denis—”
“Never wrote to him in my life,” said Cecil; “but look here, Emily!”
She did not look there, but down at her clasped hands. After a glance around the empty tea room, Cecil bent forward and took one of these hands.
“Look here!” he said again. “Do you mean—you poor little kid!—do you mean there’s something you don’t like to tell him yourself? Denis is such a confoundedly high-minded—”
“Oh, no!” cried Emily, shocked. “Mercy, no! I only thought—if you were going to write—” Well, she had to finish it now. “I thought maybe you’d tell him that you’d met me, and that you—you didn’t think I was so horrible.”
Cecil looked at her for a moment with a singular expression.
“I see!” he said, with a faint smile. “I don’t think you’re exactly horrible, Emily; but still, I don’t think I’d better write and tell old Denis so.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see—”
Emily, looking at him, did see, in a vague, uneasy fashion. She did not care to ask Cecil for any explanation. Suddenly she didn’t want to talk to him any more. She made all sorts of polite excuses, which he accepted very good-humoredly, and they parted in the most friendly way; but in her heart, Emily never wanted to see him again.
She cried herself to sleep that night, longing for her dear, honest, comprehensible Denis, and wishing she need see nobody else but Denis all the rest of her life.