 1. Cecilia Holt and her three friends There came an episode in the life of Cecilia Holt, which it is essential should first be told. When she was 22 years old, she was living with her mother at Exeter. Mrs. Holt was a widow with comfortable means, ample, that is, for herself and her daughter to supply them with all required by provincial comfort and provincial fashion. They had a house without the city, with a garden and a gardener and two boys, and they kept a broom, which was the joint care of the gardener and the boy inside and the boy outside. They saw their friends and were seen by them. Once in the year, they left home for a couple of months and went, wherever the daughter wished. Sometimes there was a week or two in London, sometimes in Paris or Switzerland. The mother seemed to be only there to obey the daughter's behest, and Cecilia was the most affectionate of masters. Nothing could have been less disturbed or more happy than their lives. No doubt there was present in Cecilia's manner a certain looking down upon her mother, of which all the world was aware, unless it was her mother and herself. The mother was not blessed by literary tastes, whereas Cecilia was great among French and German poets. And Cecilia was aesthetic, whereas the mother thought more of the delicate providing of the table. Cecilia had two or three female friends who were not quite her equals in literature, but nearly so. There was mod hippously the dean's daughter, and Miss Alte Fiorla, the daughter of an Italian father who had settled in Exeter with her maternal aunt, in poorer circumstances but with an exalted opinion as to her own blood. Francesca Alte Fiorla was older than her friend and was, perhaps, the least loved of the three, but the most often seen. And there was Mrs. Green, the minor cannon's wife, who had the advantage of a husband, but was nevertheless humble and retiring. They formed the elite of Miss Holt's society, and were called by their Christian names. The Italian's name was Francesca, and the married lady was called Pessie. Cecilia had no lovers till there came in an evil hour to Exeter, one Sir Francis Geraldine. She had somewhat scoffed at love, but at the necessity of having a lover. She and Miss Alte Fiorla had been of one mind on that subject. Mod hippously had a lover and could not be supposed to give her a cot. Mrs. Green had had one, but expressed an opinion that it was a trouble well over. A husband might be a comfort, but a lover was a bother. It's such a blessing to be able to wear my old gloves before him. He doesn't mind it now, as he knows he'll have to pay for the new. But at length there came the lover. Sir Francis Geraldine was a man who had property in the county, but had not lately lived upon it. He was of an old family, of which he was very proud. He was an old baronette, a circumstance which he seemed to think was very much in his favour. Good heavens, from what a height did he effect to look down upon the peers of the last twenty years. His property was small, but so singular were his gifts, that he was able to be proud of that also. It had all been in the possession of his family, since the time of James the First. And he was a man who knew everything, though only forty, and by no means old in appearance. But if you were to believe him, he had all that experience of the world, which nothing but unlimited years could have given him. He knew all the courts in Europe, and all the race courses, and more especially all the jacks and toms who had grown into notoriety in those different worlds of fashion. He came to Exeter to stay with his brother-in-law, the dean, and to look after his property for a while. There he fell in love with Cecilia Holt, and, after a fortnight of prosperous love-making, made her an offer. This the young lady accepted, a verse as she was to lovers, and for a month was the happiest and proudest girl in all Exeter. The happiness and pride of a girl in her lover is something wonderful to behold. He is surely the only man, and she the only woman born worthy of such a man. She is to be the depository of all his secrets, and the recipient of all his thoughts. That other young lady should accept her with submission in this period of her ecstasy, would be surprising, were it not that she is so truly exalted by her condition as to make her for a short period an object to them of genuine worship. In this way, for a month or six weeks, did Miss Holt's friend submit to her and bear with her. They endured to be considered but as the outside personages of an indifferent outer world, whereas Cecilia herself, with her lover, were the only two inhabitants of the small celestial empire in which they lived. Then there gradually came to be a change, and it must be acknowledged here that the change commenced with Cecilia Holt herself. The greater the adoration of a girl the deeper the abyss into which she falls, if she be doomed to fall at all. A month of imperfection she can bear, even though the imperfections be very glaring. For a month or perhaps for six weeks, the desire to subject herself to a newly found superior being supports her spirit against all trials. Neglect when it first comes is not known to be neglect. The first bursts of will temper have about them something of the picture-risk, or at any rate of the grotesque. Even the selfishness is displayed on behalf of an object so exalted as to be excusable. So it was with Cecilia Holt. The period of absolute, unmistaken, unreasonable love lasted but for six weeks after her engagement. During those six weeks, all Exeter knew of it. There was no reticence on the part of anyone. Sir Francis Geraldine had fallen in love with Cecilia Holt, and a great triumph had been won. Cecilia, in spite of her gentle well-known objection to lovers, had triumphed a little. It is not to be supposed that she had miscarried herself outrageously. He is cold-hearted, almost cruel, who does not like to see the little triumph of a girl in such circumstances who will not sympathize with her and join with her, if occasion come, in her exaltation. No fault was found with Cecilia among her friends in Exeter, but it was a fact that he did triumph. How it was that the time of her worship then came to an end it would be difficult to say. She was perhaps struck by neglect or something which appeared to her to be almost scorn. And the man himself, she found, was ignorant. The ill temper had lost its picturesqueness and become worse than grotesque. And the selfishness seemed to be displayed on an object not so high as to render it justifiable. Then came a fortnight of vacillating misery in which she did not dare to tell her discomforts to either of her friends. Her mother, who, though she could not read chiller, was as anxious for her daughter's happiness as any mother could be, saw something of this and at last ventured to ask a question. Was not Francis to have been here this morning? Cecilia was, at that moment, thinking of her lover, thinking that he had been untrue to his trust now for the third time, and thinking also that she knew him to be untrue, not with any valid excuse, not with the slightest cause for an excuse, but with the predetermination to show the girl to whom he was engaged that it did not suit him any longer to be at the trouble of serving her. Oh, Mama, how foolish you are! How can I tell what Sir Francis Geraldine may be doing? But I thought he was to have been here. Mama, please understand that I do not carry him about tied to my apron strings. When it pleases him to come, he will come. Then she went on with her book and was silent for a minute or two. Then she broke out again. I am sure there ought to be a rule in life that people when they are engaged should never see each other again till they meet in the church. I don't think that would do at all, my dear. Perhaps things were different when you were young. The world becomes less simple every day. However, Mama, we must put up with Sir Francis, whether he come or whether he remain away. The world may be less simple, said Mrs. Holt, after a pause. But I don't think it half so nice. Young men used to think that there was nothing so pleasant as a young lady's company when they were engaged, you know. Then the conversation ended and the morning passed without the coming of Sir Francis. After that, a week passed with great forbearance on the part of Cecilia. She thought herself at least to be forbearing. She thought much of a lover and had no doubt tried to interest herself in the usual conversation of her friends. But they, by the end of the week, perceived that Sir Francis was never first spoken of by herself. To Maude hippously, it was very difficult to avoid an expression of her doubts, because Maude was nieced to Sir Francis, and Sir Francis was very much talked about at the denary. Maude was not down here this morning, Maude would say, and then she would go on to excuse the defalcation. He had had business requiring his immediate attention, probably something as to the marriage settlements. But of course he will tell you all that. Cecilia saw through the little attempts. Maude was quite aware that Sir Francis was becoming weary of his lover's cares, and made the best excuse she could for them. But Maude hippously never had liked her uncle. Oh, my dear Maude! said Cecilia. Pray let him do what he pleases with himself in these the last days of his liberty. When he has got a wife he must attend to her, more or less. Now he is as free as air. Pray let him do as he pleases, and for heaven's sake do not bother him. Maude, who had her own lover, and was perfectly satisfied with him, though she had been engaged to him for nearly twelve months, knew that things were not going well, and was unhappy. But at the moment she said nothing further. Where is the Recreant's Knight? said Francesca. There was something in the tone of Miss Artifiola's voice which grated against Cecilia's ears, and almost made her angry. But she knew that in her present condition it behoved her to be especially careful. Had she resolved to break with her betrothed, she would have been quite open on the subject to all her friends. She would have been open to all exitor. But in her present condition of mind she was resolved, she thought she was resolved, to go on with her marriage. Why you should call him a Recreant's Knight, I cannot for the life of me understand, she said. But it seems that Sir Frances, who is not exactly in his first youth, is supposed to be as attentive as a young turtle dove. I always used to think, said Miss Artifiola gravely, that a gentleman was bound to keep his promise. Oh heavens, how grave you all are, a gentleman and his promise. Do you mean to assert that Sir Frances is no gentleman, and does not keep his promises? Because if so, I shall be angry. Then there was an end of that conversation. But she was stirred to absolute anger by what took place with Mrs. Green, though she was unable to express her anger. Mrs. Green's manner to her had always been that of a somewhat humble friend, of one who lived in lodgings in the High Street and who accepted dinners without returning them. And since his engagement with Sir Frances had become a fact, her manner had become perhaps a little more humble. She used to say of herself that of course she was poor, of course she had nothing to give. Her husband was only a minor canon, and had married her, alas, without a fortune. It is not to be supposed that on this account Cecilia was inclined to ill-treat her friend, but the way of the world is such. People are taken and must be taken in the position they frame for themselves. Mrs. Green was Cecilia Holt's humble friend, and that such was expected to be humble. When, therefore, she volunteered a little advice to Cecilia about her lover, it was not taken altogether in good part. My dear Cecilia, she said, I do really think that you ought to say something to Sir Frances. Say something, answered Cecilia sharply. What am I to say? I say everything to him that comes in my way. I think, my dear, he is just a little inattentive. I have gone through it all, and of course know what it means. It is not that he is deficient in love, but that he allows a hundred little things to stand in his way. What nonsense you do talk! But, my dear, you see I have gone through it all myself, and I do know what I am talking about. Mr. Green, do you mean to liken Mr. Green to Sir Frances? They are both gentlemen, said Mrs. Green with a slight tone of anger. And though Sir Frances is a baronet, Mr. Green is a clergyman. My dear Bessie, you know that is not what I meant. In that respect, they are both alike. But you, when you were engaged, were about three years younger than the man, and I am nearly twenty years younger than Sir Frances. You don't suppose that I can put myself all together on the same platform with him as you did with your lover? It is absurd to suppose it. Do you let him go his way and me go mine? You may be sure that not a word of reproach will ever fall from my lips. Till we are married, Cecilia had intended to say, but she did not complete the sentence. But the words of her comforters had their effect, as no doubt was the case with Job. She had complained to no one, but everybody had seen her condition. Her poor dear old mother, who would have put up with a very moderate amount of good usage on the part of such a lover as Sir Frances, had been aware that things were not as they should be. Her three friends, to whom she had not opened her mouth in the way of expressing her grievance, had all seen her trouble. That modhippus Lee and Miss Altifurla had noticed it did not strike her with much surprise, but that Mrs. Green should have expressed herself so boldly was startling. She could not but turn the matter over in her own mind, and ask herself whether she were ill-treated. And it was not only those differences which the ladies noticed which struck her as ominous, but a certain way which Sir Frances had been talking to herself which troubled her. That light stone of contempt, if begun now, would certainly not be dropped after their marriage. He had assumed an easy way of almost laughing at her, of quizzing her pursuits, and were still of only half listening to her, which she felt to promise very badly for her future happiness. If he wanted his liberty he should have it, now and then. She would never be a drag on her husband's happiness. She had resolved from the very first not to be an exigent wife. She would care for all his cares, but she would never be a troublesome wife. All that had been matter of deep thought to her. And if he were not given to literary tastes in earnest, for in the first days of their love making there had been, as was natural, a little prittance, she would not harass him by her pursuits. And she would sympathize with his raising and his shooting. And she would interest herself, if possible, about new market, as to which place she found he had a taste. And, joined to all the rest, there came a conviction that his real taste did take that direction. She had never before heard that he had a passion for the turf, but if it should turn out that he was a gambler, had any of her friends mentioned such an idea to her a week ago, how she would have rebuked that friend. But now she added this to her other grievances, and began to tell herself that she had become engaged to a man whom she did not know, and whom she already doubted. Then there came a week of very troubled existence, of existence the more troubled, because she had no one to whom to tell her trouble. As to putting confidence in her mother, that idea never occurred to her. Her mother among her friends was the humblest of all. To tell her mother that she was going to be married was a matter, of course, but she had never consulted her mother on the subject. But now, at the end of the week, she had almost resolved to break with the man without having intimated to anyone that such was her intention. And what excuse had she? There was excuse enough to her own mind, to her own heart. But what excuse could she give to him or to the world? He was confident enough, so confident as to vex her by his confidence. Though he had come to treat her with indifference, like a plaything, she was quite sure that he did not dream of having his marriage broken off. He was secured. She was sure that this was his feeling, by her love, by her ambition, by his position in the world. He could make her Lady Geraldine. Was it to be supposed that she should not wish to be Lady Geraldine? He could take what liberties he pleased without any danger of losing her. It was a conviction that such was the condition of his mind that operated the strongest in bringing her to a resolution. But she must tell someone. She must have a confidant. Maud, she said one day, I have made up my mind not to marry your uncle. Cecilia? I have. No one as yet has been told, but I have resolved. Should I see him tomorrow or next day or the next, I shall tell him. You're not an earnest. Is it likely that I should jest on such a subject, or that if I had a mind to do so, I should tell you? You must keep my secret. You must not tell your uncle. It must come to him from myself. At the present moment, he does not in the least know me, but he will. And why? Why is there to be this break? Why to be these broken promises? I put it to yourself whether you do not know the why. How often have you made excuses for him? Why have the excuses been necessary? I am prepared to bear all the blame. I must bear it, but I am not prepared to make myself miserable forever, because I have made a mistake as to a man's character. Of course I shall suffer, because I love him. He will not suffer much, because he does not love me. Oh yes! You know that he does not? said Cecilia, shaking her head. You know it. You know it. At any rate, I know it. And after the thing has to be done, it shall be done quickly. There was much more said between the two girls on the subject, but Maude, when she left her friend, was sure that her friend was an earnest. CHAPTER II Sir Francis Geraldine On that same afternoon, at about tea time, Sir Francis came up to the house. He had said that he would be there if he could get there, and he got there. He was shown into the drawing-room, where was sitting Mrs. Holt with her daughter, and began to tell them that he was to leave the denary on the following morning, and not be back till a day or two before his marriage. Where are you going? Cecilia asked, meaning nothing, only gaining time till she should have determined how she should carry out her purpose. Well, if you must know, I am going to Goodwood. I had not thought of it, but some friends have reminded me that as these are to be the last days of my liberty, I may as well enjoy them. Your friends are very complacent to me, said Cecilia in a tone of voice which seemed to imply that she took it all in earnest. Once friends never do care a straw for the young lady on such an occasion, said Sir Francis. They regard her as the conquering enemy, and him as the conquered victim. And you desire a little relaxation from your fetters? Well, just a last flutter. All this had been said with such a mixture of indifferent badness on his part, and of serious anger on hers that Mrs. Holt, who saw it all and understood it, sat very uneasy in her chair. To tell the truth, continued he, all the instructions have been given to the lawyers, and I really do think that I had better be away during the making of the dresses and the baking of the cake. It has come to pass by this accident of my living at the deniery that we have already become almost tired of each other's company. You might speak for yourself, Sir Francis Geraldine. So I do. For to tell the truth, a man does get tired of this kind of thing quicker than a woman, and a man of forty much quicker than a woman of twenty. At any rate, I'm off tomorrow. There was something in the tone of all this which thoroughly confirmed her in her purpose. There should come an end to him of his trodham. This should not be, by many, the last of his visits to Goodwood. He should never again have to complain of the trouble given to him by her company. She sat silent, turning it all over in her mind, and struggling to think how she might best get her mother out of the room. She must do it instantly. Now, at once, she was perfectly resolved that he should not leave that house an engaged man, but she did not see her direct way to the commencement of the difficult conversation. Mrs. Holt, said Sir Francis, don't you think a little absence will be best for both of us before we begin the perilous voyage of matrimony together? I am sure I don't know, said poor Mrs. Holt. There can't be a doubt about it, continued the lover. I have become so stupid that I hardly know how to put one foot before the other, and Cecilia is so majestical that her dignity is growing to be almost tedious. Mama, said Cecilia after a pause. As Sir Francis is going tomorrow, would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes? There is something which I have to say to him. Oh, certainly, my dear, said Mrs. Holt, as she got up and left the room. Now had come the moment, the difficult moment in which Cecilia Holt had to remodel for herself the course of her future life. For the last month or two she had been the affianced bride of a baronet and of a man of fashion. All Exeter had known her as the future Lady Geraldine, and, more than that, she had learned to regard herself as the owner of the man and of his future home. Her imagination had been active in drawing pictures for herself of the life she was to live, pictures which for a time had been rosy-hued. But whatever the tints may have been, and how far the bright colors may have become dimmed, it had been as Lady Geraldine and not as Cecilia Holt that she had looked in the glass which had shown to herself her future career. Now, within the last four and twenty hours, for the last crowning purpose of a resolution was hardly of longer date, she had determined to alter it all. But he, as yet, did not know it. He still regarded her as a affianced bride. Now had come the moment in which the truth must be told to him. As soon as her mother left the room, she got up from her seat, as did also her lover. He, as soon as the door was closed, at once attempted to put his arm around the girl's waist, as was his undoubted privilege. She, with the gentlest possible motion, rejected his embrace, and contrived to stand at a little distance from him. But she said nothing. The subject to be discussed was so difficult that words would not come to her assistance. Then he lent her his aid. You do not mean that you are in a tiff because of what I said just now. Of course it is better that we should not be together for the few days before our marriage. I do not think that I am in a tiff, Sir Francis. I hope I am not, because what I have to say is too serious for ill-humour. Then she paused. What I have got to say is of some importance of very great importance. Sir Francis Geraldine, I feel that I have to ask you to forgive me. What on earth is the matter? You may as well ask. And, indeed, I do not know how to excuse myself. Your friends will say that I am frivolous and vain and discontented. What the mischief is it all about? He demanded with an angry voice. She knew she had not yet told him. She could perceive that he had not gathered from her first words any inkling of the truth. And yet she did not know how to tell him. If it were once told, she could, she thought, defend herself. But the difficulty was to find the words by which she could let him know what was her intention. Sir Francis, I fear that we have misunderstood each other. How misunderstood? Why, Sir Francis? Am I to understand that you want to quarrel with me because I am going away? If so, speak it out. I shall go just the same. Your going has no bearing upon my present purpose. I had made up my mind before I had heard of your going. Only when I did hear of it, it became necessary that I should tell you at once. But you have told me nothing. I hate mysteries and secrets and scenes. There is nothing goes against the grain so much with me as tragedy airs. If you have done anything or missed that it is necessary that I should know, let me know it at once. As he said this, there came across his brow a look of anger and of hot ill humor, such as she had never seen there before. The effect was to induce her to respect him rather than to be afraid of him. It was well that a man should have the power and the courage to show his anger. But it encouraged her to proceed with her task. She certainly was not afraid of him personally, though she did dread what the world might say of her, and especially what might be said by his friends. I do not know that I have done anything or miss of which I need tell you. She said with quiet dignity. It is rather that which I intend to do. I fear, Sir Francis, that you and I have made a mistake in this. What mistake? he shouted. While you beat about the bush, I shall never understand you. In our proposed marriage. What? I fear that I should not make you happy. What on earth do you mean? Then he paused a moment before he continued, which he did as though he had discovered suddenly the whole secret. You have got another lover. There was something in the idea so shocking to Cecilia, so revolting, so vulgar in the mode of expression that the feeling at once gave her the strength necessary to go on with her task. She would not condescent to answer the accusation, but at once told her story in plain language. I think, Sir Francis Geraldine, that you do not feel for me the regard that would make me happy as your wife. Do not interrupt me just at present. She said, stopping him, as some exclamation was escaping from his lips. Hear me to the end, and if you have ought to say, I will then hear you. Of my own regard for you, I will say nothing, but I think that I have been mistaken as to your nature. In fact, I feel sure that we are neither of us that which the other supposed. It is lamentable that we should have fallen into such an error, but it is well that even yet we can escape from it before it is too late. As my mind is altogether made up, I can only ask your pardon for what I have done to you, expressing myself sure at the same time that I am now best consulting your future happiness. During this last speech of Cecilius, Sir Francis had sat down, while she still stood in her old place. He had seated himself on the sofa, assuming as it were a look of profound ease, and arranging the nails of one hand with the fingers of the other, as though he were completely indifferent to the words spoken to him. Have you done yet? He said, as soon as she was silent. Yes, I have done. And you are sure that if I begin, you will not interrupt me till I have done? I think not, if there be ought that you have to say. Well, considering that ten minutes since I was engaged to make you Lady Geraldine, and that I am now supposed to be absolved from any such necessity, I presume you will think it expedient that I should say something. I suppose that I have not been told the whole truth. Then he stopped, as though, in spite of his injunction, as to her silence, he expected an answer from her. But she made none, though there came a cloud of anger upon her face. I suppose, I say, that there is something of which it is not considered necessary that I should be informed. There must be something of the kind, or you would hardly abandon prospects, which a few days since appeared to you to be so desirable. I have not thought it necessary to speak of your temper. She said, nor of your own. Nor of my own, she added. But there is. I take it, something beyond that. I do not think that my temper, bad as it may be, nor your own, would have suffice to estrange you. There must be something more palpable than temper to have occasioned it. And though you have not thought fit to tell me, you must feel that my position justifies me in asking. Have you another lover? No, she exclaimed, burning with wrath. But with head so turned from him that he should not see her. Nor have ever had one. I am entitled to ask the question, though perhaps I should have asked it before. You are at any rate not entitled to ask it now. So Francis Geraldine, between you and me, all is over. I can only beg you to understand, most positively, that all is over. My dear Miss Holt, you need not insist upon that, as it is perfectly understood. Then there need be no further words. If I have done you any wrong, I ask your pardon. You have wronged me only in your thoughts. I mistake what consolation I can from the feeling that the injury will fall chiefly upon my head and not upon yours. Then, without a further word of farewell, she marched out of the room. Sir Francis, when he found himself alone, shook himself, as it were, as he rose from the sofa, and looked about the room in amazement. It was quite true that she was gone. Gone, as far as he was concerned, forever. It did not occur to him for a moment that there could be any reconciliation between them, and his first feeling undoubtedly was one of a mailed disappointment. Then, standing there in Mrs. Holt's drawing-room, he began to bethink himself what could have been the cause of it. Since the first week of his engagement, he had begun and had continued to tell himself what great things he was about to do for Cecilia Holt. With her beauty, her grace, her dignity, and her accomplishments, he was quite satisfied. It was expedient that he should marry, and he did not know that he could marry much better. Cecilia, when her mother died, would have twenty thousand pounds, and that, in his eyes, had been sufficient. But he was about to make her Lady Geraldine, and the more that he thought of this, the more grateful it had appeared to him that she should be to him. Then, by degrees, while he had expected from her expressions of gratitude, she had rebelled against him. Of the meaning of this, he had not been quite conscious, but had nevertheless felt it necessary that he should dominate her spirit. Up to the moment in which this interview had begun, he had thought that he was learning to do so. She had not dared to ask him questions which would have been so natural, or to demand from him services to which she was entitled. It was thus that he regarded her conduct. But he had never feared, for a moment, but that he was on the road to success. Up to the moment at which he had entered the room, he had thought that he was progressing favorably. His Cecilia was becoming tame in his hands, as was necessary. He had then been altogether taken aback and surprised by her statement to him, and could not for some moments get over his feeling of amazement. At last he uttered a low whistle, and then walked slowly out of the house. At the front door, he found his horse, and, mounting it, rode back to Exeter. As he did so, he began to inquire of himself whether this step which the girl had determined to take was really a misfortune to him, or the reverse. He had hardly as yet asked himself any such question since the day on which he had first become engaged to her. He had long thought of marrying, and one girl after another had been rejected by him as he had passed them in review through his thoughts. Then had come Cecilia's turn, and she had seemed to answer the purpose. There had been about her a special dignity which had suited his reviews of matrimonial life. She was a young woman, as to whom all his friends would say that he had done well in marrying her. But by degrees, there had come upon him a feeling of the general incombrance of a wife. Would she not interfere with him? Would she not wish to hinder him when he chose to lead a bachelor's life? New market, for instance, and his London clubs, and his fishing in Norway. Would she not endeavour to set her foot upon them? Would it not be well that he should teach her that she would not be allowed to interfere? He had therefore begun to teach her, and this had come of it. It had been quite unexpected, but still he felt as though he were released from a burden. He had accused her of having had another lover. At the moment an idea had passed through his mind that she was suddenly prompted by her conscience to tell him something that she had hitherto concealed. There had been some lover, probably, as to whom everyone had been silent to him. He was a jealous man, and for a moment he had been hurt. He would have said that his heart had been hurt. There was but little of heart in it, for it may be doubted whether he had ever loved her. But there was something pricked him which filled him for the instant with serious thoughts. When he had asked the question, he wished to see her at his feet. There had come no answer, and he told himself that he was justified in thinking so am I to be true. He was justified to himself, but only for the moment, for the next had come her declaration that all was to be over between them. The idea of the lover became buried under the ruins which were thus made. So she intended to escape from him, but he also would escape from her. After all, what an infinite trouble would a wife be to him, especially a wife of whose docility in harness he was not quite assured. But there came upon him, as he rode home, an idea that the world would say that he had been jilted. Of course he would have been jilted, but there would be nothing in that except as the world might speak of it. It was gall to him to have to think that the world of Exeter would believe that Cecilia Holt had changed her mind and had sent him about his business. If the world of Exeter would say that he had ill-used the girl and had broken off the engagement for mere fancy, as she had done, that would be much more endurable. He could not say that such was the case. To so palpable a lie, the contradiction would be easy and disgraceful. But could he not so tell the story as to leave a doubt on the minds of the people? That question of another lover had not been contradicted. Thinking of it again, as he rode home, he began to feel that the lover must be true, and that her conduct in breaking off the engagement had been the consequence. There had been some complication in the way of which she had been unable to rid herself. At any rate, it was quite out of the question that he should have held himself to such an engagement, complicated as it would have been with such a lover. There would be some truth, therefore, in so telling a story as to leave the matter in doubt, and in doubt he resolved that he would leave it. Before he got back to the deniery, he was, he thought, thoroughly glad that he should have been enabled so easily to slip his neck out of the collar. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of Kept in the Dark This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Kept in the Dark by Anthony Trollup. Chapter 3. The End of That Episode Cecilia, during the following day, told no one what had occurred, nor on the morning of the next. Indeed, she did not open her mouth on the subject till mod hippously came to her. She felt that she was doing wrong to her mother by keeping her in the dark, but she could not bring herself to tell it. She had, as she now declared to herself, settled the question of her future life. To live with her mother and then to live alone must be her lot. She had been accustomed before the coming of Sir Francis to speak of this as a thing certain, but then it had not been certain, had not been probable, even to her own mind. Of course, lovers would come till the acceptable lover should be accepted. The threats of a single life made by pretty girls with good fortunes never go for much in this world. Then, in due time, the acceptable lover had come and had been accepted. And to what purpose had she put him? She could not even now say of what she accused him, having rejected him. What excuse could she give? What answer could she allege? She was more sure than ever now that she could not live with him as his wife. He had said words about some former lover, which were not the less painful, in that there had been no foundation for them. There had, in truth, been nothing for her to tell Sir Francis, Geraldine. Out of her milk-white innocencey, no confession was to be made. But what there was had all been laid bare to him. There had been no lover, but if there had, then there would have been a lie told. She had said that there had been none, and he had heard her assertion with those greedy years which men sometimes have for such telling. It was a comfort to him that there had been none. And when something uncomfortable came in his way, he immediately thought that she had deceived him. She must bear with all that now. It did not much matter, she assured herself, what he might think of her. But for the moment she could hardly endure to think of it, much less to talk of it. She did not know how to own to her mother that she was simply a jilt without offering anything an excuse. The truth must be told, but, oh, how bitter must the truth be. Even that accusation, as to the lover, had not been made till after she had resolved to reject him. And she could not bring herself to lie to her mother by pretending that the one had caused the other. After lunch on the second day, Maude hiplessly came down and found her amongst the trees in the shrubbery. It will be remembered that Maude was niece to Sir Francis, and was at the present time living in the same house with him. Cecilia, she said, what is this that has happened? He has told you then? What is it? He has told us all that you have quarrelled, and now he has gone away. Thank God for that. Yes, he has gone, but he told us only just as he went, and he has made a mystery of it, so that I do not know how it has happened, or why. Did I not tell you? Yes, he told me something, something that made me think you're mad, but it is he that has rejected you now. Has he told you that? He has told us all, Sir, just as he was leaving us. After things were packed up, he told us. Cecilia stood still and looked into her friend's face. Maude, she knew, could say nothing to her that was not true. He has made a mystery of it, but that has been the impression he has left upon us. At any rate, there has been a quarrel. Yes, there has been a quarrel, and now our only business is to make it up. It is impossible that two people who have loved each other, as you have done, should be allowed to part in so absurd a manner. It is like two children who think they are never to be friends again because of some momentary disagreement. Maude, hippously, who had not lived in the same town with her lover, and therefore had never quarrelled with him, was awfully wise. It is out of the question, she continued, that this thing should go on. I don't think it matters in the least whether you quarrel with him or he with you, but of course you must make it up. And as you are the woman, it is only proper that you should begin. How much had Cecilia to do before she could prove to her friends that no such beginning was possible? In the first place, there was the falsehood, the base falsehood, which Sir Francis had told. In order to save himself, he had declared that he had rejected her. It was very mean. At this moment, its peculiar meanness made her feel doubly sure that the man was altogether unfit to be her husband. But she would allow the false assertion to pass unnoticed. If he could find a comfort in that, let him have it. Perhaps upon the whole, it would be better that some such story should go forth and exitor. It could not be told by her because it was untrue. But for the moment, she thought that she might pass it by without notice. There can be no fresh beginning, she said. We too have already come to the end of all that is likely to take place between us. Dear Maude, pray do not trouble me. No doubt as time goes by, we shall talk of it all again. But just at present, circumstances as you are with him, nothing but silence between you and me can be fitting. I hope that you and I at any rate will never quarrel. After that, she had told her mother and her two other friends. Her mother was for a week or two in despair. She endeavored by means of the family at the Deenery to bring about some reconciliation. The Dean, who did not intrude like his brother-in-law and was a little afraid of him, altogether refused to interfere in the matter. Mrs. Hippesley was of opinion that the lovers would be sure to come around if left to themselves. Maude, who, though she had not liked her uncle, had thought much of his position and had been proud of the idea that he should marry an exitor girl and her own peculiar friend, was in despair. But the Deenery collectively refused to take active steps in the matter. Mrs. Green was of opinion that Cecilia must have behaved badly. There had been some affair of pride in which she had declined to give way. According to Mrs. Green's ideas, a woman could hardly yield too much to a man before marriage, so as to secure him in order that her time for management might come afterwards. With Ms. Altifiorla, Cecilia found for a while more comfort. But even from this noted hater of the other sex, the comfort was not exactly of the kind she wanted. Ms. Altifiorla was of opinion that men on the whole are bad, but seemed to think that among men this baronet was not a bad specimen. He did not want a great deal of attention and was fairly able to get about by himself without calling upon his future wife to be always with him. Then he had a title and an income and a house, and wasn't shot one of those who are in a measure compels to marry. Ms. Altifiorla thought it a pity that the match should be broken off, but was quite ready to console her friend as to the misfortune. There was one point as to which Cecilia was quite decided, and in this Ms. Altifiorla bore her out altogether. That question of marriage was now settled once and forever. Cecilia, much in opposition to her friend's wishes, had tried her hand at it and had failed. She had fallen grievously to the ground and had bruised herself dreadfully in making the attempt. It had perhaps been necessary as Ms. Altifiorla thought. It is not given to all to know their own strength as it had been given to her. They had often discussed these matters, and Ms. Altifiorla had always been very firm. So had Cecilia been firm, but then she had given way, had broken down, had consented to regard herself as a mere woman and no stronger than other women. She had given herself to a man in order that she might be the mother of his children and the head servant in his household. She had shown herself to be false for the moment to her great principles. But Providence had intervened. It may be surmised that Ms. Altifiorla in discussing the matter with herself did not use the word Providence, nor was it chance, and as the rejection had come from the gentleman's hands, so Ms. Altifiorla was taught to believe she could not boast that Cecilia had accomplished it. But some mysterious agency had been at work which would not permit so exceptionally young lady as Ms. Holt to fall into the common quagmire of marriage. She had escaped thanks to the mysterious agency and must be doubly trebly armed with resolution lest she should stumble again. I think, she said one day to Cecilia, I think that you have great cause to be thankful that he should have repented of his bargain before it was too late. Flesh is flesh after all, and human nature no stronger than human nature. Cecilia had consented to bear in silence the idea that she had been jilted and had endured her mother's tender little sympathies on the subject. But there was a difficulty to her in suffering this direct statement from her friend. Why would not her friend let the matter be passed by in silence? It is well, she said, that we both repented. Now the subject had been much disgust in existence, whether Sir Francis had jilted Ms. Holt or Ms. Holt Sir Francis. It had been always present to Ms. Hippisley's mind that her friend had told her of her intention at a time when she was quite sure that Sir Francis had no such notion in his head. And when, on the day but one following, she had told Cecilia of the statement which Sir Francis had made at the dinner-v, Cecilia had not contradicted it, but had expressed her surprise. She therefore was resolved to decide the question against her uncle and had given rise to the party who were on that side. But the outside world was strongly of opinion that Sir Francis had been the first offender. It was so much the more probable. Ms. Artifiola had always taken that side and had spoken everywhere of him as the great sinner. Still, however, there was a doubt in her own mind as to which she was desirous of receiving such solution as Cecilia could give her. She was determined now to push the question. But, said she, I suppose it originated with him. It is a great thing for us to feel that you have not been to blame at all in the matter. I have been to blame, said Cecilia. But how? The man comes here and proposes himself and is accepted and then breaks away from his engagement without reason and without excuse. It is a thing to be thankful for that he should have done so. But we have also to be thankful that the fault has not been on our side. Ms. Artifiola had almost brought herself to believe that the man had made love to her and proposed to her that she in a moment of weakness had accepted him and that she now had been luckily saved by his inconstancy. I think we will drop that part of the question, said Ms. Holt, showing by her manner that she did not choose to be cross-questioned. In such cases, there is generally fault on both sides. Then there was nothing further said on the subject. But Ms. Artifiola pondered much over her friend's weakness in not being able to confess that she had been jilted. All this had happened in the summer, during the gala days of the projected wedding plans had been made, of course, for the honeymoon. Sir Francis, with his bride, were to go here and to go there, and poor Ms. Holt had been fated to remain at home as the no arrangement had been necessary for her happiness. Indeed, none had been necessary. She was quite content to remain at Exeter and expect such excitement as might come to her from letters from Lady Geraldine. To talk to everybody around her about Lady Geraldine would have sufficed for her. And when all these hopes were broken up and it had been really decided that there should be no wedding, when it became apparent that Cecilia Holt was to remain as Cecilia Holt, still there was no autumn to her. Cecilia had declared that in no place would life be so quiet for her as at home. Mama, she had said, let us prepare ourselves for what is to come. You and I mean to live together happily, and our life must be a home life. Then she applied herself specially to the flowers and the shrubs, and began even to look after the vegetables in the fullness of her energy. In these days, she did not see much of her three friends. In August, Maud was married and became Mrs. Tharn. Mr. Tharn was the eldest son of his choir from Haunton, for whom things were to be made modestly comfortable during his father's life. Maud's coming marriage had not been counted as much during the days of her friends' high hopes, but had risen in consideration since the fall which had taken place. Between Ms. Altifiorla and Cecilia, there had come not a quarrel, but a coolness. The two ladies did continue to see each other occasionally, but there was but little between them to console misery. Ms. Altifiorla had attempted to resume her position of equality, unrecent and imaginary equality, with perhaps a slight step in advance to which in their present circumstances she was entitled by their age. Cecilia cared nothing for equality, but would not consent to be held to have lost anything. Though Ms. Altifiorla declared that her friend had risen very highly in her sentiments, there was too evidently a depreciation in her manner, and this Cecilia could not endure. Consequently, the two ladies were not at this period of much comfort one to the other. With Mrs. Green, matters might have been different, but Mrs. Green too manifestly thought that Cecilia had been wrong, and still clung to the idea that with proper management, the baronet might be mage to come back again. With the lady holding such ideas as these, there could be no sympathy. In owning the truth, it must be confessed that Cecilia at this period of her life was too self-conscious. She did not think, but felt, that the world all around her was suffused by a whole Geraldine aspect and flavour. She could not walk abroad without an idea that the people whom she saw were talking about her. She could not shut herself in her garden without a conviction that the pathers by were saying that the girl living there had been jilted by Sir Francis Geraldine. She had been well aware of the greatness of the position in which she was to have been placed, and though she had abandoned the situation, without a doubt, as soon as she had learnt her mistake after the man's character, still she felt the fall and inwardly grieved over it. She had not known herself at first, how grievous would be her isolation, when she found herself alone. Such was the case with her now, so that she fretted and made herself ill. By the grief, she confined herself more and more to the house, till her mother, seeing it, interfered. She became sick, capcious and querulous. The old family doctor interfered and advised that she should be taken away from Exeter. Forever? asked Mrs. Holt. The doctor did not say forever. Mrs. Holt might probably be able to let the house for a year and go elsewhere for that period. Then there arose questions as to all the pretty furniture and their household goods. Cecilia herself was most unwilling, but before Christmas came, arrangements had been made, and the house was lit, and the first of January saw Mrs. Holt and her daughter comfortably established in a pension at Nice. Mrs. Holt at any rate declared that she was comfortable, though Cecilia, on her mother's behalf, stated it to be impossible. She herself told herself, though she had whispered no word on the subject to living years, she herself told herself that she had been driven abroad by the falsehood, which Sir Francis had told. She could not bear to live in Exeter as the girl that had been jilted. This is the episode in the life of Cecilia Holt, which it is necessary should be first told. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Kept in the Dark This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Kept in the Dark by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 4 Mr. Western The Holt's travelled about during the whole of that year, passing the summer in Spitzelint and the autumn in the north of Italy, and found themselves at Rome in November, with the intention of remaining there for the winter. One place was the same to them as another, and it was necessary that they should at any rate exist, until the term had expired for which they had let their house. Mrs. Holt had, I think, enjoyed her life. She had been made more of than at home, and had been happy amidst the excitement. But with Cecilia it had been for many months, as though all things had been made of leather and prunello. She had not cared, nor had she seemed to care for a scenery or for cities. In that last episode of her life, she had aspired to a new career, and had at first been fairly successful. And she had loved the man honestly for a time, and had buoyed herself up with great intentions as to the future duties of her life. Then had come her downfall, in which it was commonly said of her that she had been jilted by her lover. Even when the mountains of Spitzelint had been so fine before her eyes, as in truth to console her by their beauty, she had not admitted that she was consoled. The Campanile at Florence had filled her with that satisfaction which comes from supreme beauty. But still when she went home to her hotel, she thought more of Sir Francis Geraldine than of the Campanile. To have been jilted would be bad, but to have it said of her that she had been jilted when she was conscious that it was untrue was a sore provocation. And yet no one could say but that she had behaved well and been instigated by good motives. She had found that her lover was ignoble and did not love her. And she had at once separated herself from him. And since that, in all her correspondence with her friends, she had quietly endured the idea which would continually crop up that she had been jilted. She never denied it, but it was the false accusation rather than the loss of all that her marriage had promised her which made her feel the Matterhorn and the Campanile to be equally ineffective. Then there gradually came to her some comfort from a source from which she had certainly not expected it. On their travels they had become acquainted with a Mr. Western, a silent, shy, almost middle-aged man, whom they had sat next to at dinner for nearly a week before they had become acquainted with him. But they had passed on from scenery to city and, as had been their fortune, Mr. Western had passed on with them. Who does not know the way in which some strange traveller becomes his friend on a second or a third meeting in some station or hotel saloon? In this way Mrs. Holt and Cecilia had become acquainted with Mr. Western and on parting with him at Venice in October had received with gratification the assurance that he would again turn up in Rome. He is a very good sort of man, said Mrs. Holt to her daughter that night. Cecilia agreed but with perhaps less enthusiasm than her mother had displayed. For Mrs. Holt the assertion had been quite enthusiastic, but Cecilia did think that Mr. Western had made himself agreeable. He was an unmarried man, however, and there had been something in the nature of a communication which he had made to her that had prevented her from being loud in his praise. Not that the communication had been one which had in any way given offense, but it had been unexpected, confidential, and of such a nature as to create one's thought. No doubt an intimacy had sprung up between them, but yet it was singular that a man apparently so reticent as Mr. Western should make such a communication. How the intimacy had grown by degrees need not here be explained, but that it had grown to be very close will appear from the nature of the story told. The story was one of Mr. Western's own life and was as follows. He was a man of good, but not of large fortune. He had been to Oxford and had there distinguished himself. He had been called to the bar, but had not practiced. He had gone into Parliament, but had left it, finding that the benches of the House of Commons were only fitted for the waste of time. He had joined scientific societies to which he still belonged, but which he did not find to be sufficient for his happiness. During these attempts and changes he had taken a house in London, and having a house had thought it well to look for a wife. He had become engaged to a certain Miss Mary Tremaineer, and by her he had been jilted. Since that, for twelve months, he had been travelling abroad in quest, he said, not of consolation, but of some mitigation of his war. Cecilia, when she heard this, whispered to him one little question. Do you love her? I thought I did, he answered, and then the subject was dropped. It was a most singular communication for him to make. Why should he, an elderly man, as she at first took him to be, select her as the recipient for such a tale? She took him to be an elderly man till she found by the accident of conversation that he was two years younger than Sir Francis Geraldine. Then she looked into his face, and saw that that appearance of age had come upon him from sorrow. There was a tinge of grey through his hair, and there were settled lines about his face, and a look of steady thought about his mouth, which dropped him of all youth. But when she observed his upright form, and perceived that he was a strong stalwart man, in the very pride of manhood, as far as strength was concerned, then she felt that she had wronged him. Still he was one who had suffered so much as to be entitled to be called old. She felt the impossibility of putting him in the same category among men as that filled by Sir Francis Geraldine. The strength of manhood was still there, but not the salt of youth. But why should he have told her? Her, who had exactly the same story to tell back again, if only she could tell it. Once or twice there came to her an idea that she would tell it. He had sought for sympathy, not under the assurance of secrecy, but with the full conviction, as she felt it, that a secret would be safe. Why should not she do the same? That there would be great comfort in doing so, she was well aware, to have someone who would sympathize with her. Hitherto she had no one, even her mother, who was kindness, even obedience itself, who attended to her smallest wish. Even her mother regretted the baronet son-in-law. And yet she would have been left all alone. She said to herself, marvelling at the unselfish fondness of her mother. Mr. Western would be bound to sympathize. Having called upon her for sympathy, his must be ready. But when she had thought of it thrice, she did not do it. Where she did tell her story, it would seem as though she were repeating to him back his own. I too have been in love and engaged, and have jilted a gentleman considerably my senior in age. She would have to say that, likening herself to the girl who had jilted him, or else to tell the other story, the untrue story, the story which the world believed, in order that she might be on a par with him. This she could not do. If she told any, she must tell the truth, and the truth was not suitable to be told. Therefore she kept her peace, and sympathized with the one-sided sympathy. In Rome they did again meet, and on this occasion they met as quite old friends. He called upon them at their hotel, and sat with them, happier than usual in his manner, and for him almost light and gay of heart. Parties were made to Saint Peter's, and the Coliseum, and the Capitol. When he left on that occasion, Cecilia remarks to her mother how much less pleased he was than usual. Men, I suppose, she said to herself, get over that kind of thing quicker than women. In Rome it seemed to Cecilia that Mr. Western, when alone with her, had no other subject for conversation than the ill treatment he had received from Mary Treminier. This eagerness in coming back to the subject quite surprised her. She herself was fascinated by it, but yet felt it would be better were she to put a stop to it. There was no way of doing this unless she were to take her mother from Rome. She could not tell him that on that matter he had said enough, nor could she warn him that so much of confidential intercourse between them would give rise in the minds of others to erroneous ideas. Her mother never seemed to see that there was anything peculiar in their intercourse, and so it went on from day to day and from week to week. You asked me once whether I loved her. He said one day, I did, but I am astonished now that it should have been so. She was very lovely. I suppose so. The most perfect complexion that was ever seen on a lady's cheek. Cecilia remembered that her complexion too had been traced before this blow had fallen upon her. The colour would come and go so rapidly that I used to marvel what were the thoughts that drove the blood hither and thither. There were no thoughts, unless of her own prettiness and her own fortunes. She accepted me as a husband because it was necessary for her to settle in life. I was in Parliament, and that she thought to be something. I had a house in Chester Square, and that was something. She was promised a carriage, and that conquered her. As the bride I had chosen for myself, she became known to many, and then she began to understand that she might have done better with herself. I am old and not given to many amusements. Then came a man with better income and with fewer years, and she did not hesitate for a moment. When she took me aside and told me that she had changed her mind, it was a quiescence and indifference that disturbed me most. There was nothing of her new lover, but simply that she did not love me. I did not stoop for a moment to a prayer. I took her at her word and left her. Within a week she was acknowledged to be engaged to Captain Geraldine. The naming of the name, of course, struck Cecilia Holt. She remembered to have heard something of the coming marriage by her lover's cousin, and something, too, of the story of the girl. But it had reached her ear in the lightest form, and it hardly remained in her memory. It was now of no matter, as she had determined to keep her own history to herself. Therefore she made no exclamation when the name of Geraldine was mentioned. How could I love her after that? He continued, betraying the strong passion which he felt. I had loved a girl whose existence I had imagined, and of whom I had seen merely the outward form, and had known nothing of the inner self. What is it that we love? He continued. Is it merely the colour doll, soft to touch and pleasant to kiss? Or is it some inner nature which we hope to discover, and of which we have found the outside so attractive? I had found no inner self which it had been possible that I could love. He was welcome to the mere doll who was wanted simply that she should grace his equipage. I have asked myself, why is it that I am so sorely driven, seeing that in truth I do not love her? I would not have her now for all the world. I know well how providential has been my escape. And yet I go about like a wounded animal who can find none to consort with him. Till I met you and learned to talk to you, I was truly miserable. And why? Because I had been saved from falling when standing on a precipice, because the engine had not been allowed to crush me when passing along on its iron road. What I ought to rejoice and be thankful, rather, as I think of what I have escaped, but in truth it is the poor weakness of human nature. People say I have been tilted. What matters it to me, what people say? I have been saved, and as time goes on, I shall know it and be thankful. Every word of it came home to her and gave her back her own story. There was her own soreness and her own salvation. There was the remembrance of what the people in Exeter were saying to her, only slightly relieved by the conviction that she had been preserved from a life of unhappiness, but she had never been able to look at it quite as he did. He knew that the better thing had happened to him, but she, though she knew it also, was sore at heart because people told the story as she thought to her discredit. There was, indeed, this difference between them. It was said truly of him that the girl had jilted him, but falsely of her, that she had been jilted. She, however, told him nothing of her own life. There had come moments in which she was sorely tempted, but she had allowed them to pass by, telling herself on each occasion that this at any rate was not the moment. She could not do it now, or now, or now, lest there should seem to be some peculiar motive on her own part. And so the matter went on till there had arisen a feeling of free confidence on the one side and of absolute restraint on the other. She could not do it, she said to herself. Much as she trusted Mr. Western, deeply as she regarded him as her friend, strongly as she wished that the story had been told to him at some former passage of their intimacy, the proper time had passed by, she said, and he must be left in his ignorance. Then one day there happened that which the outside world at Rome had long expected, and among the number Mrs. Holt. George Western proposed to marry Cecilia Holt. Of all the world at Rome who had watched the two together, she probably was the last who thought of any such idea, but even to her the idea must surely have come in some shape before the proposal. He had allowed her to feel that he was only happy in her company, and he had gradually fallen into the habit of confiding to her in everything. He had told her of his money and of his future life, he had consulted her about his books and pictures he had bought and even about the servants of his establishment. She cannot but have expected it, but yet when the moment came she was unable to give him an answer. It was not that she did not think that she liked him, she had been surprised to find how fond she had gradually become of him, how Sir Francis had faded in her memory, and had become a poor washed out dog of a man, while this other had grown into the proportions of a hero. She did not declare to herself that she loved him, but she was sure that she could do so. But two reasons did, for a while, make her feel that she could not accept him. The one was weak as water, but still it operated with her. Since she had been abroad, she had corresponded regularly with Ms. Altifiorla, and Ms. Altifiorla in her letters had been very strong in her aversion to matrimony. Many things had been said apparently with the intention of comforting Cecilia, but written in truth with the view of defending herself. I was chosen the better side, and I have been true to it without danger of stumbling. So it was that Ms. Altifiorla put it. You, dearest Cecilia, have had an accident, but have recovered and stand once more upon the solid ground. Take care, oh, take care, that you do not fall. Cecilia did not remember that any chance of stumbling had come in Ms. Altifiorla's way, and was upon the whole, disgusted by the constancy of her friend's arguments. But still they did way, and drove her to ask herself whether, in truth, an unmarried life was not the safer for a woman. But the cost which operated the strongest with her was the silence which she had herself maintained. There was indeed no reason why she should not at once begin and tell her story. But in doing so it would appear that she had been induced to do it, only by Mr. Western's offer. And she cheated herself by some vague idea that she would be telling the secrets of another person. Had it been to myself only, she said to herself, I would have done it long since. But that which made it improper then would make it still more improper now. And so she held her peace and told Mr. Western nothing of the story. He came to her the day after his offer and demanded her answer. But she was not as yet able to give it to him. She had in the meantime told her mother and had received from her that ready, willing, quick assurance of her sanction, which was sure to operate in a different way than that intended. Her mother was thinking only of her material interests, of a comfortable house, and a steady, well-to-do, life's companion. Of what more should she have thought, the reader will say. But Cecilia had still in her head undefined vague notions of something which might be better than that, of some companion who might be better than the companions which other girls generally choose for themselves. She dreamed of someone who would sit with her during the long mornings and read Dante to her when she should have taught herself to understand it. Of one with a sudden nobility of character which should be all but divine. Her invectives against matrimony had all come from a fear left the man with the hidden nobility should not be forthcoming. She had tried or had nearly tried Sir Francis Geraldine and had made one hideous mistake. Was or was not this Mr. Western a man with all such hidden nobility? If so, she thought that she might love him. She required a week and gave her whole thoughts to the object. Should she or should she not abandon that mode of life to which she had certainly pledged herself? In the first days of the misery created by the Geraldine disruption, she had declared that she would never more open her ears or her heart to matrimonial projects. The promise had only been made to Miss Alte Fiorla, to Miss Alte Fiorla and to herself. At the present moment she did not greatly regard Miss Alte Fiorla, but the promise made to herself and corroborated by her assurance to one other almost overcame her. And then there was a story which she could not now tell to Mr. Western. She could not say to him, Yes, I will accept you, but you must first hear my tale, and then tell him the exact copy of his own to her. And yet it was necessary that he should know. The time must come, someday. Alas, she did not remember that no day could be less painful, less disagreeable than the present. If he did not like the story now, he could tell herself and have done with it. There could be no fault found with her. It had hitherto been free to her to tell it, or not as she pleased. I have not meant to have disclosed my secret, but now it is necessary. Even had he fancied that she had invented it, in part, and made it like to his own, no harm. No dangerous harm would come from that. He could, but be angry and recede from his offer. But she found that she did not wish him to recede. Her objections to matrimony had all been cured. She told herself at the last moment that she was not able to undergo the absurdity of such a revelation, and she accepted him. It became at once necessary that Mr. Western should start off for London. That had been already explained. He would go, whether accepted or refused. When she had named a week, he had told her that he should only have just time to wait for her reply. She offered to be ready in five days, but he would not hurry her. During the week she had hardly seen him, but she was aware that he remained silent, moody, almost sullen. She was somewhat afraid of his temper. But yet she had found him, in other respects, so open, so noble, so consistent. It shall be so, she said, putting her hand into his. Then his very nature seemed to have changed. It appeared as though nothing could restrain him in the expression of his satisfaction. Nothing could be more quietly joyous than his manner. He was to have left Rome by a midday train, but he would wait for a train at midnight in order that he might once dine with his own wife that was to be. You will kill yourself with a fatigue, Cecilia said, but he laughed at her. It was not so easy to kill him. Then he sat with her through the long morning, telling her of the doings of his past life and his schemes for the life to come. He had a great book which he wanted to write, as to which everybody might laugh at him, but she must not laugh. He laughed at himself and his aspiration, but she promised all her sympathy, and she told him of their house at Exeter, and of her mother's future loneliness. He would do anything for her within his power. Her mother should live with them if she wished it, and she spoke of the money which was to be her own, and told him of the offer which her mother had made as to giving up a portion of it. Of this he would have none, and he told her how it must be settled, and he behaved just as a lover should do, taking upon himself to give directions, but giving all the directions just such as she would have them. Then he went, and there came upon her a cold, chilling feeling that she had already been untrue to him. It was a feeling as to which she could not speak, even to her mother. But why had not her mother advised her and urged her to tell him everything? Her mother had said not a word to her about it. Why did her mother treat her as though she were one to be feared and beyond the possibility of advice? But to her mother she said not a word on the subject. From the moment in which Mr. Western had first begun to pay her attention, the name of Sir Francis had never been mentioned between the mother and daughter. And now in all their intercourse Mrs. Holt spoke with an unclouded serenity of their future life. It was to her as though the Geraldine episode had been absolutely obliterated from the memory of them all. Mr. Western to her was everything. She would not accept his magnificent offer of a home, because she knew that an old woman in a man's house could only be considered as in his way. She would divide her income and give at any rate a third to her daughter. And she did bestow much advice as to the manner in which everything should be done, so as to tend to his happiness. His taste should be adopted, and his ways of life should be studied. His pursuits should be made her pursuits and his friends her friends. All this was very well. Cecilia knew all that without any teaching from her mother. Her instincts told her as much as that. But what was she to do with this secret which loaded her bosom and as to which she could not bring herself even to ask her mother's advice? Then she made up her mind that she would write to her lover and relate the whole story as to Sir Francis Jeraldin. And she did write it. But she was alarmed at finding that the story, when told, extended itself over various sheets of paper. And the story would take the shape of a confession as though she were telling her lover of some passage in her life of which she had caused to be ashamed. She knew that there was no ground for shame. She had done nothing which she ought not to have done, nothing which she could not have acknowledged to him without a blush. When the letter was completed, she found it to be one which she could not send. It was as though she were telling him something on reading which he would have to decide whether the engagement should or should not be continued. This was not at all her purpose. Thinking of it all with a view to his happiness and to his honour, she did not wish him to suppose that there could be a doubt on that subject. It was clear to her that a letter so worded was not fit for the occasion, and she destroyed it. Still she was minded to write to him, but for the moment she postponed her purpose. Of course she wrote to her friends in Exeter, where she to be silent to them it would appear as though she were ashamed of what she was now doing. She told Maud Hippesley or Mrs. Thorne as she was now called. And she told Mrs. Green and also Mrs. Altifairla. Immediate answers came from the three. Those from the two married ladies were in old respect satisfactory. That from Mrs. Thorne was quite enthusiastic in its praises of matrimony. That from Mrs. Green was a little less warm, but was still discreetly happy. She had no doubt in her own mind that a married life was preferable, and that Mr. Western, though perhaps a little old, was upon the whole a well-chosen and deserving consort for life. But the letter from Mrs. Altifairla was very different from these, and as it had some effect perhaps introducing the circumstances which are to be told, it shall be given at length. My dear Cecilia, I am of course expected to congratulate you, and as far as Mr. Western's marriage is concerned, I do so with my full heart. He is possessed, I have no doubt, of all those virtues which should adorn a husband, and is in all respects the very opposite to Sir Francis Geraldine. You give me to understand that he is steady, hard-working, and properly ambitious. In spite of the mystic which you made in reference to Sir Francis Geraldine, I will not doubt that your judgment in respect to Mr. Western will be found correct. If it is to be, I dare say it could not be better. But must it be? Of course it must, said Cecilia to herself, feeling very angry with Ms. Altifairla for raising the question at such a time and in such a manner. After all the sweet converse and sweeter resolutions that have passed between us on this matter, must all be abandoned like a breath of summer wind, meaning nothing? Of what infinitely bad taste was not the woman guilty in thus raising the question when the only final answer to it had been already given? Cecilia felt ashamed of herself as she thought of this, in that she had admitted the friendship of such a friend. A breath of summer wind, she said, repeating with scorn her friend's somewhat high-flown words. I cannot but say that, like Martha, you have chosen the worst part, continued the letter. The things of the world which are in themselves but accidents have been for a moment all in all to you. But knowing you as I do, I am aware how soon they will fade away and have no more than their proper weight. Then you will wake some day and feel that you have devoted yourself to the mending of his stockings and the feeding of his babies. There was something in this which stirred Cecilia to absolute wrath. If there were babies, would they not be her babies as well as his? Was it not the intention of the Lord that the world should be populated? The worst part indeed. Then she took up the cudgels in her own mind on behalf of Martha, as she had often done before. How would the world get on unless there were Martha's? And was it not more than probable that a self-dubbed Mary should fall into idle ways under the pretense that she was filled with special inspiration? Looking at Miss Altifurla as a Mary, she was somewhat in love with the Martha's. I do not doubt that Mr. Western is what he should be. The letter went on. But even judging him by your letter, I find that he is autocratic and self-opinion. It is his future life and not yours, of which he is thinking, his success and not yours, his doings and not your doings. How does she know? exclaimed Cecilia. She has only my account of him and not his of me. And he is right in this, went on the letter, because the ways of the world allow such privileges to men. What would a man be, unless he took the place which his personal strength has obtained for him? For women, in the general, of course matrimony is fit. They have to earn their bread and think of little else. To be a man's toy and then his slave, with due allowance for food and clothes, suffices for them. But I had dreamed a dream that it would not suffice for you. Alas! Alas! I stand alone now in the expression of my creed. You must excuse me if I repine when I find myself so cruelly deserted. All this Cecilia felt to be as absurd as it was ill-timed, and to be redeemed, as it were, from its ill-nature by its ridiculous philosophy. But at last there came a paragraph which admitted of no such excuse. What has Mr. Western said as to the story of Sir Francis Geraldine? Of course you have told him the whole, and I presume that he has pardoned that episode. In spite of the expression of feelings which I have been unable to control, you must believe, dear Cecilia, that I am as anxious as ever for your happiness, and am your most affectionate friend, Francesca Altefiola. Cecilia, when she had completed the reading of the letter, believed nothing of the kind. That last paragraph about Sir Francis had turned all her kindly feelings into wrath, and contained one word which she knew not how to endure. She was told that Mr. Western had pardoned the... She was told that Mr. Western had pardoned the Geraldine episode in her life. She had done nothing for which pardon had been necessary. To merit pardon they must have been misconduct. And as this woman had known all her behaviour in that matter, what right had she to talk of pardon? In what had she deserved pardon, or at any rate the pardon of Mr. Western? There had been a foolish engagement made between her and Sir Francis Geraldine, which had been most wisely dissolved. The sin, if sin there had been, was against Sir Francis, and certainly had never been considered a sin by this woman. Who now wrote to her? Was it a sin that she had loved before? A matter as to which Mr. Western was necessarily in ignorance when he first came to her? But might it not come to pass that his pardon should be required in that the story had never been told to him? It was the sting which came from that feeling which added fierceness to her wrath. Of course you have told him the whole, and I presume that he had pardoned that episode. She had not told Mr. Western the whole, and had thus created another episode for which his pardon might be required. It was this that the woman had intended to insinuate, understanding with her little sharpness, with her poor appreciation of character, how probable it was that Cecilia should not have told him of her previous engagement. She sat thinking of it all that night, till the matter assumed new difficulties in her mind's eyesight. And she began to question to herself whether Mr. Western had a right to her secret, whether the secret did not belong to two persons, and she was bound to keep it for the sake of the other person. She had committed a wrong and injury, and at any rate had inflicted a deserved punishment upon Sir Francis. One as to which a man would naturally much dislike that it should be noised about the world. Was she not bound to keep her secret still a secret for his sake? She was angry with herself when she asked the question, but still she asked it. She knew that she owed nothing to Sir Francis Geraldine, and that she owed all to Mr. Western. But still she asked it, because in that way could she best strengthen herself against the telling of the story. The more she turned the matter in her mind, the more impossible to her became the task of telling it. At last she resolved that she would not tell it now. She would not tell it at any rate till she again saw him, because Ms. Aldefiola had told her that she presumed he had pardoned her that episode. It was arranged that they should be married in Exeter in April. Their house there was not yet vacant, but would be lent to them for a fortnight. After the marriage, Mrs. Holt would go into lodgings and remain there till the house should be ready for her. But they were both to return to Exeter together, and then there would be buzzle and confusion till the happy ceremony should have been performed. It was arranged that she should have but two bridesmaids, but she was determined that she would not ask Ms. Aldefiola to be one of them. A younger sister of Mrs. Green, and a younger sister also of Maude Hippesley were chosen. Ms. Aldefiola, when she came to see Cecilia on her return, expressed herself as quite satisfied. It is best so, dear, she said. I was afraid that you would ask me. Of course I should have done it, but my heart would not have been there. You can understand it all, I know. Cecilia's wrath had become mitigated by this time, and she answered her friend civilly. Just so, you think I ought to be an old maid, and therefore do not like to lend a hand at turning me into a young wife. I have got two girls who have no objection on that score. You might find a hundred in Exeter, said Ms. Aldefiola proudly, and yet I may be right in my opinions. Mr. Western was to come down to Exeter only on the day before the marriage. The Holtz had seen him as they came through London, where they slept one night, but as yet the story had not been told. Cecilia expected, almost wished, that the story might reach him from other quarters. It was so natural now that he should talk about the girl who me intended to marry, and so natural, as Cecilia thought, that in doing so he should hear the name of Sir Francis Teraldin. Sir Francis was a man well known to the world of fashion, and many men must have heard of his intended marriage. Cecilia, though she almost hoped, almost feared that it should be so. The figure of Mr. Western asking with an angry voice why he had not been told did alarm her. But he asked no such question, nor, as far as Cecilia knew, had he heard anything of Sir Francis when the Holtz passed through London. Nor did he seem to have heard it when he came down to Exeter. At any rate, he did not say a word respecting Sir Francis. He spent the last evening with the Holtz in their own house, and Cecilia felt he had never before made himself so happy with her, so pleasant, and so joyous. It had been the same during their long walk together in the afternoon. He was so full of affairs which were his own, which were so soon to become her own, that there was not a moment for her in which she could tell the story. There are stories for the telling of which a peculiar atmosphere is required, and this was one of them. She could not interrupt him in the middle of his discourse, and say, Oh, by the by, there is something that I have got to say to you. To tell the story, she must tune her mind to the purpose. She must begin it in a proper tone, and be sure that he would be ready to harken to it as it should be heard. She felt that the telling would be especially difficult, in that it had been put off for so long. But though she had made up her mind to tell it before she had started on her walk, the desirable moment never came. So she again put it off, saying that it should be done late at night when her mother had gone to bed. The time came when he was alone with her, sitting with his arm about her waist, telling her of all the things she should do for him to make his life blessed, and how he too would enter her to do some little things for her, in order that her life might be happy. She would not tell it then. Though little might come of it, she could not do it. And yet from day to day the feeling had grown upon her, that it was certainly her duty to let him know that one accident in her life. There was no disgrace in it, no cause for anger on his part, nor even for displeasure, if it had only been told him at Rome. He could then have taken her, or left her as he pleased. Of course he would have taken her, and the only trouble of her life would have been spared her. What possible reason could there have been that he should not take her? It was not any reason of that kind which had kept her silent. Of that she was quite confident. Indeed now she could not explain to herself why she had held her peace. It seemed to her as though she must have been mad to have left day after day go by at Rome, and never to have mentioned to him the name of Sir Francis Ceraldin. But such, alas, had been the fact. And now the time had come in which she found it to be impossible to tell the story. As she went for the last time to her solitary bed, she endeavoured to console herself by thinking that he must have heard of it from other quarters. But then again she declared that he in his nobility would certainly not have been silent. He would have questioned her, and then have told her that all was right between them. But now, as she tossed unhappily on her pillow, she told herself that all was wrong. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 OF KEPT IN THE DARK This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org KEPT IN THE DARK by Anthony Trollop Chapter 6 What all her friends said about it. And all went merry as a marriage bell. George Western and Cecilia Holt were married in the cathedral by the dean, who was thus supposed to show his great anger at his brother-in-law's conduct. And this was more strongly event by the presence of all the hipposlies, for all were there to grace the ceremony except Maude, who was still absent with her young squire, and who wrote a letter full of the warmest affection and congratulations. Which Cecilia received on that very morning. Miss Altifiola also came to the cathedral, with pink bows and a bonnet, determined to show that though she were left alone in a theory of life, she did not resent the desertion. And Mrs. Green was there, humble and sweet-tempered as ever, snubbing her husband a little who assisted at the altar, and whispering a word into her friends' ears to assure her that she had done the proper thing. It is hardly necessary to say that on the morning of her wedding, it was in truth impossible for Cecilia to tell the story. It had now to be left untold, with what hope there might be for smoothing it over in some future stage of her married life. She had done the deed now, and had married the man with the untold secret in her heart. The sin surely could not be of a nature to weigh so deeply on her conscience. She endeavored to comfort herself with that idea again and again. How many girls are married who have been engaged to, or at least in love with, half a dozen suitors before the man has come who is at last to be their lord? But Cecilia told herself, as she endeavored thus to find comfort, that her nature was not such as theirs. This thing which she had done was a sin or not a sin. According as it might be regarded, according as it might be regarded by the person who did it, it was a sin to her, a heavy, grievous sin, and one that weighed terribly on her conscience, as she repeated the words after the dean at the altar that morning. There was a moment in which she almost refused to repeat them, in which she almost brought herself to demand that she might retire for a time with him who was not yet her husband, and give him another chance. Her mind entertained an exaggerated feeling of it, a feeling which she felt to be exaggerated, but which she could not restrain. In the meantime, the service went on. The irrevocable word was spoken, and when it was done, she was led away into the cathedral vestry, as sad, as bright as might be. And yet nobody had seen her trouble. With a capacity for struggling, infinitely greater than that possessed by any man, she had smiled and looked happy beneath her bridal finery, as though no grief had weighed heavily at her heart. And he was as chocked in the bridegroom as ever put a ring upon a lady's finger. All that gloom of his, which had seemed to be his nature till after she had accepted him, had vanished altogether. And he carried himself with no sheepish, shame-faced demeanour, as though half ashamed of the thing which he had done. He seemed as if he had done it, he seemed as proud to be a bridegroom as ever girl was to become a bride. And in truth, he was proud of her and did think that he had chosen well. After the former troubles of his life, he did feel that he had brought himself to a happy haven at last. There was a modest breakfast at Mrs. Hold's house, from which the guests departed quickly as soon as the bride and bridegroom had been taken away to the railway station. But when the others were gone, Miss Altifiola remained out of kindness. Mrs. Hold's need make no stranger of her, and it would be so desolate for her to be alone. So surmised Miss Altifiola. I suppose, said she, when she had fastened up the pink ribbons, so that they might not be soiled by the trifle with which she prepared to regale herself while she asked the question. I suppose that he knows all the story about that other man. Why should he? Asked Mrs. Hold in a sharp tone that was quite uncommon to her. Well, I do not know much about such things, but I presume it is common to tell a gentleman when everything of that kind has occurred. What business has he to know, and what can it matter? Perhaps he does know it. But Cecilia has not told him. Why should she tell him? I don't think that it is a thing we need to talk about. You may be quite sure that Cecilia has done what is proper. In saying this, Mrs. Hold belied her own thoughts. Cecilia had never said a word to her about it, nor had she dared to say a word to her own daughter on the subject. She had been intently anxious that her daughter should be married, and when she had seen Mr. Western in the act of falling in love, had studiously abstained from all subjects which might bring out a reference to Sir Francis Geraldine. But she had felt that her daughter would make that all straight. Her daughter was so much more wise, so much more certain to do what was right, so much more high-minded than was she, that she considered herself bound to leave all that to Cecilia. But as the days went on, and the hour fixed for the marriage became nearer and nearer, she had become anxious. Something seemed to tell her that a duty had been omitted, but the moment had never come in which she had been able to ask her daughter. And now she would not endure to be cross-examined on the subject by Miss Altefiorla. But Miss Altefiorla was not at all afraid of Mrs. Holt, and was determined to push the question a little further. He ought to know, you know. I am sure Cecilia will have thought that. If he ought to know, then he does know, said Mrs. Holt, with great certainty. I am sure we may leave all that to Cecilia herself. If he is satisfied with her, does not matter much, who else may be dissatisfied? Oh, if he is satisfied, that is enough, said Miss Altefiorla as she took her leave. But she felt sure that the secret had not been told, and that it ought to have been told, and she felt proud to think that she had spotted the fault. Cecilia Holt would have done very well in the world had she confined herself, as she had solemnly promised, to those high but solitary feminine duties to which Miss Altefiorla had devoted herself. But she had chosen to make herself the slave of a man who, as Miss Altefiorla expressed it to herself, would turn upon her and rend her. And she, Miss Altefiorla, had seen and did see it all. The time might come when the wounded dove would return to her care. Of course, she hoped that the time would not come, but it might. I'll tell you one thing, said Mrs. Green to her husband, as they walked home from the breakfast. That girl has not yet said a word to that man about Sir Francis, Geraldine. What makes you think that, my dear? Think it. I know it. It was not likely that there should be much talk about Sir Francis, either in the cathedral or at the breakfast, but one can tell from other things whether a subject has been avoided. These are plain when little things would have been said, but are not said. There has been no allusion made to their reason for leaving the house. I don't see that it signifies much, my dear. Oh, doesn't it? What would you have thought if after I had become engaged to you, you had found that a month or two before, I had been engaged to another man? It is more than twelve months, my dear. No, it is not more than twelve months since first they met in Italy. I know what I'm talking about, and you need not contradict me. You'll find that he'll learn it all of a sudden, and then all the fat will be in the fire. I know what men are. It was thus that the gentle Mrs. Green expressed herself on the subject to her husband. At the denary, the matter was spoken of in a different tone, but still with similar feelings. I don't think Cecilia has ever yet said a word to that poor man as to her engagement with Frances. I cannot tell you what has put it into my mind, but I think that it is so. It was thus Mrs. Hippisley spoke to the dean. Your brother behaved very badly. Very badly, said the dean. That has got nothing to do with it. Mr. Western won't care as straw whether Frances behaved well or ill, and for the matter of that, I don't think that as yet we quite know the truth of it. Nor would he care if his wife had behaved ill to the other man as long as she behaved well to him. But if he has heard nothing of it and now finds it out, he's not the man I take him to be if we don't let her hear of it. It's nothing to us, said the dean. Oh no, it's nothing to us, but you'll see that what I say comes true. In this way, all the world of Cecilia's friends were talking on the matter which she had mentioned to no one. She still hoped that her husband might have heard the story and that he kept it buried in his bosom. But it never occurred to her that it would become a matter of discussion among her friends at Exeter. There was one other person who also discussed it very much at his ease. Sir Frances Geraldine among his friends in London had been congratulated on his safe but miraculous escape. With a certain number of men, he had been warned to discuss the chances of matrimony. Should he die without having an heir, his title and property would go to his cousin, Captain Geraldine, who was a man some 15 years younger than himself and already in possession of a large fortune. There were many in the world whom Sir Francis hated, but none whom he hated so cordially as his cousin. Three or four years since he had been ill, nearly to dying, and had declared that he never would have recovered but for the necessity that he was under to keep his cousin out of the baronetage. It had therefore become imperative on him to marry in order that there might be an heir to the property. And though he had for a few weeks been perfectly contented with his Cecilia, there could be no doubt that he had experienced keenly the sense of relief when she had told him that the engagement must be at an end. Another marriage must be arranged, but there would be time for that, and he would take care that on this occasion he would not put himself into the hands of one who was exigent and had a will of her own. By Gad, he said to his particular friend, Dick Ross, I would almost sooner that my cousin Walter had the property than put it and myself into the hands of such a varago. You'll only get another, said Dick, that will not let on, but will turn out to be twice as bad in the washing. That I hardly think probable. There are many things which would go to the choice of a wife, and the worst of it is that they are not compatible one with another. A woman should be handsome, but then she is proud. A woman should have a certain air of dignity, but when she has got it, she knows that herself and shows it off in the wrong place. She should be young, but if she is too young, she is silly. Wait a little, and she becomes strong-minded and headstrong. If she don't read anything, she becomes an ass and a bore. But if she do, she despises a man because he is not always doing the same thing. If she is a nobody, the world thinks nothing of her. If she come of high birth, she thinks a deal too much of herself. It is difficult. I had have nothing to do with any of them. Said Dick Cross. And let that puppy come in. He wrote to me to congratulate me on my marriage, just when he knew it was off. I'll tell you what I'd do, said Dick. I'd marry some milkmaid and keep her down on the property. I'd see that it was all done legally, and I'd take the kid away when he was three or four years old. Everybody would talk about it. Let him talk, said Dick heroically. They couldn't talk you out of your ease or your pleasure or your money. I never could find out the harm of people talking about you. They might say whatever they pleased of me for five hundred a year. Then there came the news that Cecilia Holt was going to marry Mr. Western. The tidings reached Sir Francis while the lovers were still at Rome. Off Mr. Western, Sir Francis knew something. In the first place, his cousin Walter Geraldine had taken away the girl to whom Mr. Western had in the first instance been engaged. And then there were some degree neighbors each possessing a small property in Berkshire. Sir Francis had bought his now some years since for racing purposes. It was adjacent to Ascot and had been let or used by himself during the racing week, as he had or had not been short of money. Mr. Western's small property had come to him from his uncle, but he had held it always in his own hands and intended now to take his bride there as soon as their short honeymoon trip should be over. In this way, Sir Francis had come to know something of Cecilia's husband and did not especially love him. That young lady of mine has picked up old Western honour travels. This Sir Francis said to his friend Ross up in London, the reader, however, must remember that old Western was in fact a younger man than Sir Francis himself. I suppose he's welcome to her, said Ross. I'm not so sure of that. Of course he's welcome in one way. She'll make him miserable and he'll do as much for her. You may let them alone for that. Why should you care about it? Well, I don't know. A fellow has a sort of feeling about a girl when he has been spooning on her himself. He doesn't want to think that another fellow is to pick her up immediately. Dog in the manger, you mean? You may call it that, if you like. You never cared for any young woman, I suppose. Oh, haven't I? Lots of them. But if I couldn't get a girl myself, I never cared who had her. What's the good of being selfish? What's the good of lying? said Sir Francis, propounding a great doctrine in sociology. If I feel cut up, what's the use of saying I don't, unless I want to deceive the man I'm talking to? If I feel that I'd like a girl to be punished for her impertinence, what's the use of my pretending to myself that I don't want it? If I wish a person to be injured, what's the use of saying I wish them all the good in the world, understand something to be gained by my saying it? Now, I don't care to tell you lies. I'm quite willing that you should know all the truth about me. Therefore, I tell you that I'm not best pleased that this minx should have already picked up another man. He has the devil of a temper, said Dick Ross, wishing to make the matter as pleasant as possible to his friend. So your mishold is married, Ross said to his friend on the day of the ceremony. Yes, she is married, and her troubles have now to begin. I wonder whether she has told him the little episode of our loves. You may not be sure of that, said Dick. I'm not at all so sure of it. She may have told him when they first became acquainted, but I cannot imagine her telling him afterwards. He is as proud as she, and is just the man not to like it. It doesn't much signify to you at any rate, said the indifferent Dick. I'm not so sure of that, said Sir Francis. I like the truth to be told. It may become my duty to take care that poor Mr. Western shall know all about it. What a beast that fellow is for mischief, said Dick Ross, as he walked home from his club that evening. End of chapter 6