“At least we need not think them so bad till we know,” said Mab, more charitably.
Cicely had excited herself by this impassioned statement, in which indeed the Oxford men were innocent sufferers enough, seeing that she knew nothing about them. “I must not let myself believe it; I dare not let myself believe it,” she said in her heart; “but, oh! if by chance things did happen so!” What abundant compensation, what lavish apology, did this impetuous young woman feel herself ready to offer to those maligned dons!
The advertisement was at last fairly written out, with the exception of the address to be given. “Papa may surely tell me where they are to apply,” Cicely said, though with doubts in her mind as to whether he was good even for this; and then she wrote her letters, one of which was in Mr. St. John’s name to the lawyer who had written to him about the furniture, asking that the sale might not take place until the curate’s half-year, which ended in the end of September, should be out. Mr. St. John would not do this himself. “Why should I ask any favour of those people who do not know me?” he said; but he had at length consented that Cicely might write “if she liked;” and in any case the lawyer’s letter had to be answered. Cicely made this appeal as business-like as possible. “I wonder how a man would write who did not mind much—to whom this was only a little convenience,” she said to her sister. “I don’t want to go and ask as if one was asking a favour of a friend—as if we cared.”
“But we do care; and it would be a favour——”
“Never mind. I wish we knew what a man would say that was quite independent and did not care. ‘If it is the same to you, it would be more convenient for me not to have the furniture disturbed till the 22nd of September’—that is the kind of thing. We girls always make too much of a favour of everything,” said Cicely, writing; and she produced an admirable imitation of a business letter, to which she appended her own signature, “Cecil St. John,” which was also her father’s, with great boldness. The curate’s handwriting was almost more womanlike than hers, for Cicely’s generation are not taught to write Italian hands, and I do not think the lawyer suspected the sex of the production. When she had finished this, she wrote upon another sheet of paper, “My dear Aunt, I am——” and then she stopped sharply. “It is cool now, let us take them out for a walk on the common,” she said, shutting up her desk. “I can finish this to-night.”
It was not, however, the walk on the common Cicely wanted, but to hide from her sister that the letter to Aunt Jane was much less easy than even those other dolorous pieces of business. Poor Cicely looked upon the life before her with a shudder. To live alone in some new place, where nobody knew her, as nursemaid to these babies, and attendant upon her father, without her sweet companion, the little sister, who, though so near in age, had always been the protected one, the reliant dependent nature, believing in Cicely, and giving her infinite support by that belief! How could she do it? Yet she herself, who felt it most, must insist upon it; must be the one to arrange and settle it all, as so often happens. It would not be half so painful to Mab as to Cicely; yet Mab would be passive in it, and Cicely active; and she could not write under Mab’s smiling eyes betraying the sacrifice it cost her. Mab laughed at her sister’s impetuosity, and concluded that it was exactly like Cicely to tire of her work all in a moment, and dash into something else. And, accordingly, the children’s out-door apparel was got from the nursery, and the girls put on their hats, and strayed out by the garden door upon the common, with its heathery knolls and furze bushes. Harry and Charley had never in all their small lives had such a walk as this. The girls mounted them upon their shoulders, and ran races with them, Charley against Harry, till first one twin, and then the other, was beguiled into shrill little gusts of laughter: after which they were silent—themselves frightened by the unusual sound. But when the races ended, Charley, certainly the hero of the day, opened his mouth and spoke, and said “Adain!” and this time when they laughed the babies were not frightened. Then they were set down and rolled upon the soft grass, and throned in mossy seats among the purple fragrant heather. What an evening it was! The sky all ablaze with the sunset, with clouds of rosy flame hanging like canopies over the faint delicious openings of that celestial green which belongs to a summer evening. The curate, coming from a distant round into the parish, which had occupied him all the day, found them on the grass under the big beech-tree, watching the glow of colour in the west. He had never seen his girls “taking to” his babies before so kindly, and the old man was glad.
“But it is quite late enough to have them out; they have been used to such early hours,” he said.
“And Harry wants his tea,” piped that small hero, with a half whimper.
Then the girls jumped up, and looked at each other, and Cicely grew crimson. Here was a beginning to make, an advantage terrible to think of, to be given to the dethroned Annie, who no doubt was enjoying it keenly. Cicely had already forgotten the children’s tea!