Mother and daughter were left alone in the Vicarage drawing-room, pending the arrival of Grimshaw, who was likely to come in at any moment. The parson bustled off to collogue with an ancient parlour-maid, who exacted tactful treatment. Long ago the parson’s wife had passed to a much-needed rest, a fact, indeed, stated positively upon her tombstone.
Lady Selina sank pathetically into a comfortable arm-chair. Cicely regarded her anxiously, but admiringly. She bent down to kiss her cheek, murmuring:
“Dear mother, you are brave.”
Lady Selina sighed, leaning her head upon her uninjured hand. It was difficult to interpret the expression upon her fine face. Behind the physical weariness, an odd look of bewilderment revealed itself. When she spoke, something else—was it acrimony or amazement?—challenged Cicely’s attention.
“How smug this room is!”
Cicely glanced round. Her mother had hit the right word. Smug, indeed! But, familiar as she was from childhood with every stick of furniture, Cicely had never till this moment realised the smugness. And that, of course, jumped to the eye when it was mentioned. Every room has its particular message. Cicely knew that nothing in that prim apartment had been changed during five-and-twenty years. Anæmic water-colour drawings adorned the walls, which were demurely grey, a lasting tint. The curtains and the seats of sundry chairs were excellent samples of Mrs. Goodrich’s tireless needlework. They seemed to say, modestly: “See what patient industry can achieve!” The steel fender and fire-irons were more vocal “Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.” The well-worn carpet was immaculate; not a speck of dust could be detected upon the china ornaments or upon the rosewood furniture. A betting man would have laid heavy odds against finding cobwebs under the upright piano, starkly upright, naked and not ashamed. Cicely could remember the parson’s wife playing hymns and sonatinas upon it. Surely it would explode with indignation if the syncopated rhythm of rag-time were blasphemously imposed upon the ivory keys——! It was terrible to reflect that such an instrument, sanctified, so to speak, to Divine Service, might be debased—after a defiling public sale—to a worst inn’s best room, to be banged by trippers.
These thoughts flashed into Cicely’s mind.
“It is smug,” she assented. “It knows, probably, that it’s just right. Yes, self-righteousness is the note.”
She laughed a little, but Lady Selina remained unamused.
“Cicely, some of my people didn’t help at the fire.”