As for Cicely, she had not the slightest notion that any one thought of her so, or thought of her at all, and sometimes as the excitement of the beginning died away she felt her life a weary business enough. No society but little Harry, who always wanted his tea, and Charley, with his thumb in his mouth; and those long hours with the crowd of little girls around her, who were not amusing to have all day long as they used to be for an hour now and then, when the clergyman’s daughter went in among them, received by the schoolmistress curtsying, and with smiles and bobs by the children, and carrying a pleasant excitement with her. How Mab and she had laughed many a day over the funny answers and funnier questions; but they were not funny now. When Mab came down, now and then, from Saturday to Monday, with all her eager communications about her work, Cicely remembered that she too was a girl, and they were happy enough; but in the long dull level of the days after Mab had gone she used to think to herself that she must be a widow without knowing it, left after all the bloom of life was over with her children to work for. “But even that would be better,” Cicely said to herself; “for then, at least, I should be silly about the children, and think them angels, and adore them.” Even that consolation did not exist for her. Mab was working very hard, and there had dawned upon her a glorious prospect, not yet come to anything, but which might mean the height of good fortune. Do not let the reader think less well of Mab because this was not the highest branch of art which she was contemplating. It was not that she hoped at eighteen and a half to send some great picture to the Academy, which should be hung on the line, and at once take the world by storm. What she thought of was the homelier path of illustrations. “If, perhaps, one was to take a little trouble, and try to find out what the book means, and how the author saw a scene,” Mab said; “they don’t do that in the illustrations one sees: the author says one thing, the artist quite another—that, I suppose, is because the artist is a great person and does not mind. But I am nobody. I should try to make out what the reading meant, and follow that.” This was her hope, and whether she succeeds or not, and though she called a book “the reading,” those who write will be grateful to the young artist for this thought. “Remember I am the brother and you are the sister,” cried Mab. It was on the way to the station on a Sunday evening—for both of the girls had to begin work early next morning—that this was said. “And as soon as I make money enough you are to come and keep my house.” Cicely kissed her, and went through the usual process of looking for a woman who was going all the way to London in one of the carriages. This was not very like the brother theory, but Mab was docile as a child. And then the elder sister walked home through the spring darkness with her heart full, wondering if that reunion would ever be.
Mr. Mildmay had been out that evening at dinner at the Ascotts, where he very often went on Sunday. The school was not at all in the way between the Heath and the rectory, yet Cicely met him on her way back. It was a May evening, soft and sweet, with the bloom of the hawthorn on all the hedges, and Cicely was walking along slowly, glad to prolong as much as possible that little oasis in her existence which Mab’s visit made. She was surprised to hear the rector’s voice so close to her. They walked on together for a few steps without finding anything very particular to say. Then each forestalled the other in a question.
“I hope you are liking Brentburn?” said Cicely.
And Mr. Mildmay, in the same breath, said: “Miss St. John, I hope you do not regret coming to the school?”
Cicely, who had the most composure, was the first to reply. She laughed softly at the double question.
“It suits me better than anything else would,” she said. “I did not pretend to take it as a matter of choice. It does best in my circumstances; but you, Mr. Mildmay?”
“I want so much to know about you,” he said, hurriedly. “I have not made so much progress myself as I hoped I should; but you? I keep thinking of you all the time. Don’t think me impertinent. Are you happy in it? Do you feel the satisfaction of living, as it seems to me you must?”
“Happy?” said Cicely, with a low faint laugh. Then tears came into her eyes. She looked at him wistfully, wondering. He so well off, she so poor and restricted. By what strange wonder was it that he put such a question to her? “Do you think I have much cause to be happy?” she said; then added hastily, “I don’t complain, I am not unhappy—we get on very well.”
“Miss St. John,” he said, “I have spoken to you about myself before now. I came here out of a sort of artificial vegetation, or at least, so I felt it, with the idea of getting some hold upon life—true life. I don’t speak of the misery that attended my coming here, for that, I suppose, was nobody’s fault, as people say; and now I have settled down again. I have furnished my house, made what is called a home for myself, though an empty one; and lo, once more I find myself as I was at Oxford, looking at life from outside, spying upon other people’s lives, going to gaze at it enviously as, I do at you through the end window——”
“Mr. Mildmay!” Cicely felt her cheeks grow hot, and was glad it was dark so that no one could see. “I am a poor example,” she said, with a smile. “I think, if you called it vegetation with me, you would be much more nearly right than when you used that word about your life at Oxford, which must have been full of everything impossible to me. Mine is vegetation; the same things to be done at the same hours every day; the poor little round of spelling and counting, never getting beyond the rudiments. Nobody above the age of twelve, or I might say of four, so much as to talk to. I feel I am living to-night,” she added, in a more lively tone, “because Mab has been with me since yesterday. But otherwise—indeed you have made a very strange mistake.”