Cicely

by Mrs. Molesworth

“I did not even shake hands with her,” he remembered. “Rude boor that I am. As if I had any business to annoy her by my absurd self-consciousness, when she was so sweet and gracious and unaffected—so evidently anxious to be just as friendly to me as if I had never made a fool of myself. Of course, it is easy for her to be unconstrained and at ease with me—there is no reason why she should not be so—the question is whether I shall ever attain to it with her.”

Then he grew hot at the thought of having allowed her to copy his papers—actually to work for him—and ended by saying to himself that he devoutly wished he had not come into the room, or that, better still, Bessie had held her silly little tongue about his occupation. Yet all the time he was looking forward with unacknowledged eagerness to the next day, cherishing a foolish hope that Cicely might herself bring back her completed work, or that possibly she might find it necessary to apply to him for information or instruction upon some difficult part of the manuscript. And when the next day came, and the papers, beautifully written, and perfectly correct, were brought to the Rue St. Louis by old Mathurine, with a little note from Cicely, hoping that Mr. Guildford would not hesitate to return them if in any way faulty, he felt a pang of disappointment which startled him into acute realisation of the fact that he was as ready as ever, nay, ten times more so, to “make a fool of himself” for this woman, whom he thought he had grown indifferent to. “It is as if some one that one had thought dead had come to life again. It is very hard upon me. For more than a year I have thought of her as Fawcett’s wife, as more than dead to me, and now the old struggle must begin again.”

But after a time he grew calmer. The events of the last two years had altered—some superficial observers might have said, weakened—this man, once so strong a believer in his own opinion, so confident in his own power of acting up to it. But if he were weakened, the weakness was that arising from a greater knowledge of himself, a juster estimate of human nature, a nobler, because truer ideal—it was a weakness promising strength. He was less given to make theories, less loftily determined to live the life he sketched out for himself. “I am well punished for my presumption in thinking I was stronger than other men, or that in such strength there was nobility. Here am I at thirty with powers already curtailed, thankful now not to be threatened with a future of utter dependence. Here am I who despised and depreciated woman’s influence—feeling that without the love of a woman who will never love me, life, in no one direction, can be other than stunted and imperfect. Yes, I am well punished!”

And it was through this last reflection that he attained to a more philosophic state of mind. If the disappointment which this love of his had brought upon him, were a recompense merited by his self-confidence and self-deception, what could he do but accept it? what more futile than to waste his strength of mind in going back upon a past of mistakes and might-have-beens? Why not exert the self-control he possessed in making the best of what remained, in enjoying the friendship which Cicely was evidently ready to bestow upon him, with which, in her altered circumstances, there was little prospect of any closer tie coming into collision?

“I dare say she will never marry,” he said to himself with unconsciously selfish satisfaction. “She is not the sort of woman to ‘get over’ such an experience as she has had, in a hurry. I doubt if she will ever do so. Her very serenity looks as if she had gauged her own powers of suffering pretty thoroughly, and had now reached a tableland of calm—I feel sure she will never marry. I should like to show her that I am able to value her friendship, and that she need have no fear of my ever dreaming of anything more. I should like her to respect me.”

So, considerably to Bessie’s surprise, a day or two after the papers had been despatched, her brother proposed that they should return Monsieur and Madame Casalis’s call.

“I should like to thank Miss Methryn personally,” he said calmly. “And I am sure her relations are kind, good sort of people from what you tell me. It was very civil of them to call. I should not like them to think me a surly hypochondriac.”

“But are you fit for it?” said Mrs. Crichton, hardly able to believe her ears.

“Fit to make a call?” he exclaimed, laughing. “Of course I am; there’s nothing wrong with me now except my eyes, and they are much better. They never pain me now unless I read or write. I don’t want to drive there, Bessie,” he went on, “we can walk. It is only two or three streets off.”

“Very well,” said Bessie, in her heart nothing loth to see something more of their only acquaintances at Hivèritz. She looked up at her brother curiously. “I wonder if Edmond has anything in his head that he hasn’t told me,” she thought. But Edmond met her glance with perfect self-possession. He felt that he had no motive of the kind that she evidently suspected; he only wished to return to his old friendly relations with Cicely Methvyn; there was no fear of further self-deception. He was satisfied that, having now recovered from the first surprise of meeting her again, he was in a fair way of attaining to a composed and comfortable state of mind with regard to this girl, whose path and his had once more so unexpectedly crossed each other.