“He is going to propose now,” thought Cicely. “How can I prevent him?”
They were in the big library filled with superbly-bound tomes that were never read, bought wholesale, with true decorative instinct, by the first Lord Wilverley. Opulence characterised the room from floor to ceiling. Cicely sank into the carpet and into an arm-chair, almost overpowered by the sense of luxury and comfort. A violent temptation assailed her. Why not float with the current instead of against it? The excitement of any change from apathetic and dull conditions beguiled her. All of us know how the Great War engendered excitement. Possibly women were more susceptible to a craving for action than men. Action was forced upon men.
She heard Wilverley’s sincere voice repeating what his sister had affirmed, but with an emphasis not to be denied.
“I have missed you horribly.”
“But you hardly ever saw me.”
“You were here, in my house. When you left it seemed empty to me. Now that you have come back——!”
He broke off abruptly, waiting, perhaps, for some encouraging glance. Cicely stared at the carpet. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. Although she wished to procrastinate, she was sensible that this big man, so close to her, so alive with energy, was presenting himself insistently. A strong mind was modifying and reconstructing hers. All that he represented seemed to force itself upon her notice. If he won her, she would be regarded as his most precious possession. He stood, first and last, for—Security. The time and attention that he gave to the humblest of his dependents would be hers inalienably. He would be faithful and true to his marriage vows. She would be enshrined in a velvet-lined casket.
Safe harbourage!
How much it means to women! And particularly to women of imaginative temperament, who, like homing birds, are gifted with the sense of direction. Cicely’s imagination had carried her afield. In Miss Tiddle’s agreeable company she had explored highways and byways, wandering down the latter with the comforting reflection that she could leave them at a moment’s notice. Girls who indulge in such mental vagabondage are more likely to return to the highways than the unimaginative, who may fly the beaten track suddenly. With Miss Tiddle Cicely had dared to enter (metaphorically) the Divorce Court; she had flown upon imaginative wings into drawing-rooms where Mrs. Grundy refuses to go, where derelict wives bewail their mistake in marrying the wrong men.
To such a girl as Cicely the broad high road appears to be the only way. All the women of kin to her, with one notable exception, had stuck religiously to the main thoroughfare which stretches from Mayfair to John o’ Groat’s. And these kinswomen, taking them by and large, appeared to be happy and contented. The notable exception, who was never mentioned, remained an unseen object lesson of how not to do it!