There was a break in the rector’s voice that made Cicely turn her face towards him and silently hold out her hand.
“What am I to say to them?” he cried; “preach patience to them? tell them it is for the best? I who am not worthy the poor bread I eat, who live for myself, in luxury, while he—ay, and you——”
“Tell them,” said Cicely, the tears dropping from her eyes, “that God sees all—that comforts them the most; that He will take care of the little ones somehow and bring them friends. Oh, Mr. Mildmay, it is not for me to preach to you; I know what you mean; but they, poor souls, don’t go thinking and questioning as we do—and that comforts them the most. Besides,” said Cicely, simply, “it is true; look at me—you spoke of me. See how my way has been made plain for me! I did not know what I should do; and now I can manage very well, live, and bring up the children; and after all these are the great things, and not pleasure,” she added, with a soft little sigh.
“The children!” he said. “There is something terrible at your age to hear you speak so. Why should you be thus burdened—why?”
“Mr. Mildmay,” said Cicely, proudly, “one does not choose one’s own burdens. But now that I have got mine I mean to bear it, and I do not wish to be pitied. I am able for all I have to do.”
“Cicely!” he cried out, suddenly interrupting her, bending low, so that for the moment she thought he was on his knees, “put it on my shoulders! See, they are ready; make me somebody in life, not a mere spectator. What! are you not impatient to see me standing by looking on while you are working? I am impatient, and wretched, and solitary, and contemptible. Put your burden on me, and see if I will not bear it! Don’t leave me a ghost any more!”
“Mr. Mildmay!” cried Cicely, in dismay. She did not even understand what he meant in the confusion of the moment. She gave him no answer, standing at her own door, alarmed and bewildered; but only entreated him to leave her, not knowing what to think. “Please go, please go; I must not ask you to come in,” said Cicely. “Oh, I know what you mean is kind, whatever it is; but please, Mr. Mildmay, go! Good-night!”
“Good-night!” he said. “I will go since you bid me; but I will come back to-morrow for my answer. Give me a chance for life.”
“What does he mean by life?” Cicely said to herself, as, trembling and amazed, she went back into her bare little parlour, which always looked doubly bare after Mab had gone. Annie had heard her coming, and had lighted the two candles on the table; but though it was still cold, there was no fire in the cheerless little fireplace. The dark walls, which a large cheerful lamp could scarcely have lit, small as the room was, stood like night round her little table, with those two small sparks of light. A glass of milk and a piece of bread stood ready on a little tray, and Annie had been waiting with some impatience her young mistress’s return in order to get to bed. The little boys were asleep long ago, and there was not a sound in the tiny house as Cicely sat down to think, except the sound of Annie overhead, which did not last long. Life! Was this life, or was he making a bad joke at her expense? What did he mean? It would be impossible to deny that Cicely’s heart beat faster and faster as it became clearer and clearer to her what he did mean; but to talk of life! Was this life—this mean, still, solitary place, which nobody shared, which neither love nor fellowship brightened? for even the children, though she devoted her life to them, made no warm response to Cicely’s devotion. She sat till far into the night thinking, wondering, musing, dreaming, her heart beating, her head buzzing with the multitude of questions that crowded upon her. Life! It was he who was holding open to her the gates of life; the only life she knew, but more attractive than she had ever known it. Cicely was as much bewildered by the manner of his appeal as by its object. Could he—love her? Was that the plain English of it? Or was there any other motive that could make him desirous of taking her burden upon his shoulders? Could she, if a man did love her, suffer him to take such a weight on his shoulders? And then—she did not love him. Cicely said this to herself faltering. “No, she had never thought of loving him. She had felt that he understood her. She had felt that he was kind when many had not been kind. There had been between them rapid communications of sentiment, impulses flashing from heart to heart, which so often accompany very close relations. But all that is not being in love,” Cicely said to herself. Nothing could have taken her more utterly by surprise; but the surprise had been given, the shock received. Its first overpowering sensation was over, and now she had to look forward to the serious moment when this most serious thing must be settled, and her reply given.
Cicely did not sleep much that night. She did not know very well what she was doing next morning, but went through her work in a dazed condition, fortunately knowing it well enough to go on mechanically, and preserving her composure more because she was partially stupified than for any other reason. Mr. Mildmay was seen on the road by the last of the little scholars going away, who made him little bobs of curtsies, and of whom he asked where Miss St. John was?