Her mother’s first marriage was a subject but rarely alluded to. Cicely looked at her with some anxiety as she put the question.
“My child, my child, never draw any comparison between your future and what my life was with Amiel’s father. No, Cicely; I had no misgivings—I would not allow myself to have any. I was wilfully, madly blind—” she paused, and a little shiver ran through her. “These feelings of yours do not trouble me, Cicely. Your life promises to me all the more brightly from the thoughtfulness with which you enter upon it, my darling.”
She kissed the girl tenderly. Cicely was soothed, though not satisfied; but she said no more.
An hour or two later, when she was alone in her little sitting-room feeding her birds, and trying to grow cheerful among her usual little interests and occupations, there came a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Cicely, surprised at the unusual ceremony. The intruder was Mr. Guildford.
“Mr. Guildford!” she exclaimed, “I did not hear you come. How have you got here?”
“I walked,” he said quietly. “I have plenty of time to-day, so I thought I would come to take Colonel Methvyn a drive. The day is unexceptionable; I have just seen your father, and he is quite pleased to go, but he wants you to come. It was he that directed me to come here,” he added, glancing round him, “he said I should find you in your own sanctum.”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I have a great many friends to take care of here, you see. Have you never seen my birds? Why, have you never been in this room before?”
“Only once,” replied he softly. And as he spoke there came before him the picture which had never left his memory—of Cicely as he had first seen her, standing in the doorway in the quaint, rich dress.
“Ah! yes, I remember,” she said. Then there fell a little silence.