He sat down, weary and dusty from “the parish,” and there was a painful pause. Cicely stole away to the corner where her little brothers were playing, her pulse bounding, her heart throbbing, her cheeks aflame, her whole being, soul and body, full of the strong pain and violent stimulus of the shock she had received. She had never expected anything else, she said to herself; she had steadily prepared for the going away, the ruin that awaited them; but, nevertheless, her heart had never believed in it, since that conversation with Mildmay at the rectory gate. Day by day she had awoke with a certainty in her mind, never put into words, that the good news would come, that all would be well. But the shock did not crush her, as it does some people; it woke her up into freshened force and life; her heart seemed to thrill and throb, not so much with pain as with activity, and energy and power.
“Cicely is very much excited,” said Mrs. Ascott in a low tone. “I fear she is very excitable; and she ought to be more careful in her position—a clergyman’s daughter—what she says. I think you ought to speak to her, Mr. St. John. She flew at me (not that I mind that) and said such things—because I mentioned that Mr. Mildmay’s appointment was in the paper this morning; and that since we must lose you—which nobody can be more sorry for than we are—it was well at least that we were getting so good a man.”
“Ah!” said the curate. The announcement took him by surprise, and gave him a shock too, though of a different kind. He caught his breath after it, and panted for a moment. “Is it in the papers? I have not seen it. I have no time in the morning; and, besides, I never see the Times.”
“We hope you will settle to dine with us one day before you go,” said Mrs. Ascott. “How we shall miss you, Mr. St. John! I don’t like to think of it—and if we can be of any use in your preparations—— I hear there is to be a sale, too?”
“Not till we move. They will not put us to any inconvenience; indeed,” said the curate, with a sigh and a smile, “everybody is very kind.”
“I am sure everybody wishes to be kind,” said Mrs. Ascott, with emphasis. “I must not take up your time any longer, for you look very tired after your rounds. But Mr. St. John, mark my words, you must hold a tight hand over Cicely. She uses expressions which a clergyman’s daughter ought not to use.”
“What were you saying to her, my dear?” said Mr. St. John, coming in again after he had taken the lady to her carriage; “your voice was raised, and you still look excited. What did you say?”
“It was nothing, papa. I lost my temper—who could help it? I will never do it again. To think of that man calmly accepting the living and turning you out of it, after all he said.”
“What good would it have done had he refused?” said Mr. St. John. “My dear, how could he help it?”
“Help it?” cried Cicely. “Can nobody help anything in this world? Must we stand by and see all manner of wrong done and take the advantage, and then think we are innocent and cannot help it. That is what I scorn. Let him do wrong if he will, and bear the blame—that is honest at least. But to say he cannot help it; how could he ever dare to give such a miserable excuse?”