And the next time he came, he found Cicely in the drawing-room with her mother. They were sitting quietly working and talking, these two all but broken-hearted women, as if no terrible tragedy hung over them, as if they found life the easy, even, pleasant thing it looks to some, till their time of trouble comes too, as in due course it must.
At first they talked about commonplace things—the weather and Leobury and some of the people they had come to know there. Then Mr. Hayle told the two ladies something of his own plans; how he was likely to get a living in the east end of London, where there would certainly be no lack of work for mind and body. At another time Cicely would have listened with the greatest interest—even to-day her sorrowful absorption of thought could not altogether enchain her.
“And you will throw yourself altogether utterly—into your work, I suppose,” she said to Mr. Hayle. “I wish I were you. I suppose with so intense an interest, no personal sorrow would be unendurable. If you were without a friend on earth, you could still find happiness in a life so spent.”
“I hope so—I believe so,” replied he, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “Or if not happiness, something better—better at least than what we commonly understand by happiness—blessedness.”
“It is the old martyr spirit in another form, I suppose,” murmured Cicely in a low voice. “I wish I could catch it.”
There fell a little pause. Then with a little hesitation the girl turned to the young clergyman again.
“Mr. Hayle,” she said, “you remember Mr. Guildford, the Sothernbay doctor who was so good to my father. You liked him, did you not? I wonder if by any chance you have kept up correspondence with him. I should so like to know where he is.”
“I can tell you where he is,” said Mr. Hayle. “I did hear from him once after he left Sothernshire. Yes I liked him very much indeed. He is no longer a doctor. He gave up practising when he left Sothernbay, and accepted some sort of professorship—I forget what exactly; he had to lecture on scientific subjects, that is about all I know. And he writes a good deal too; he is becoming very well known—too well known I fear; for I have heard it said that he is overworking himself dreadfully. But he is not in England now; he is, I think, in India, travelling with a party sent out by one of those learned societies, so I fear my information isn’t of much use.”
“In India,” Cicely repeated sadly, but she said no more.
Soon after, Mr. Hayle left. But he went away, again promising to call in a day or two.