Cicely, on the verge of tears, pulled herself together, retorting sharply:
“That’s it, Mother. I broke off the engagement because really it was not what you mean by ‘solemn.’ ” As Lady Selina, slightly taken aback, paused to reply suitably, Cicely continued with vehemence: “I blame myself for that. Arthur has behaved splendidly. I have been stupidly weak. I suppose it comes to this. I simply can’t give him what he wants and what he deserves. If I married him, feeling as I feel, the punishment would fall on him quite as heavily as on me.”
The sincerity and conviction of her voice and manner were not wasted upon a woman who, whatever her faults might be, was honest herself and quick to approve honesty in others. Lady Selina sat down, gazing intently at her daughter’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
“What do you feel?” she asked quietly.
It was a difficult question for any young girl to answer adequately. Cicely made a gesture indicating protest. To Lady Selina it may have indicated more. Perhaps at that moment she measured the distance between herself and her child. Perhaps she wondered if it could be bridged by a mother’s kiss. Deep down in her heart anger smouldered. To suppress this, to use tact, to invite confidence courteously—these considerations burked the natural impulse.
“Have I not the right to ask you how you feel?”
“Of course. But could you tell me exactly how you feel? No. But I can guess how you feel—all the disappointment and vexation and humiliation. But you, being you, couldn’t put all that into words. And it is the same with me. To please you—and I know how it would please you—I would marry Arthur if I could, but I can’t. I have at any rate been brave enough to make that plain to him. He wouldn’t take me now if I hurled myself at his head.”
“You mean there is nothing more to be said?”
“Yes; I mean that.”
Lady Selina stood up. Once more impulse assailed her. And, oddly enough, behind impulse, fortifying it, was the certain assurance that love would break down all barriers. Behind that again, a grim portcullis, was the impossibility of playing a part, of pretending to be other than what she had been trained to be. She told herself that she could kiss this unhappy child when anger had been exorcised by prayer and reflection, not before.