Part 47 (1/2)
And Reuben caught at the suggestion. Not long ago, it would have caused him to smile rather scornfully.
Cecily had lost her faith in the great militant book on Puritanism.
Thinking about it, when it had been quite out of her mind for a few days, she saw the project in a light of such absurdity that, in spite of herself, she laughed. It was laughter that pained her, like a sob.
No, that was not the kind of work for him. What was?
She would think rather of her child and its future. If Clarence lived--if he lived--she herself would take charge of his education for the first years. She must read the best books that had been written on the training of children's minds; everything should be smoothed for him by skilful methods. There could be little doubt that he would prove a quick child, and the delight of watching his progress! She imagined him a boy of ten, bright, trustful, happy; he would have no nearer friend than his mother; between him and her should exist limitless confidence.
But a firm hand would be necessary; he would exhibit traits inherited from his father--
Cecily remembered the day when she first knew that she did not wish him to be altogether like his father. Perhaps in no other way could she have come to so clear an understanding of Reuben's character--at all events, of those parts of it which had as yet revealed themselves in their wedded life. She thought of him with an impartiality which had till of late been impossible. And then it occurred to her: Had the same change come over his mind concerning her? Did he feel secret dissatisfactions? If he had a daughter, would he say to himself that in this and that he would wish her not to resemble her mother?
About once in three months they received a letter from Miriam, addressed always to Cecily. She was living still with the Spences, and still in Italy. Her letters offered no explanation of this singular fact; indeed, they threw as little light as was possible on the state of her mind, so brief were they, and so closely confined to statements of events. Still, it was clear that Miriam no longer shrank from the study of profane things. Of Bartles she never spoke.
Mrs. Spence also wrote to Cecily, the kind of letter to be expected from her, delightful in the reading and pleasant in the memory. But she said nothing significant concerning Miriam.
”Would they welcome us, if we went to see them?” Cecily asked, one cheerless day this winter--it was Clarence's birthday.
”You can't take the child,” answered Reuben, with some discontent.
”No; I should not dare to. And it is just as impossible to leave him with any one. In another year, perhaps.”
Mrs. Lessingham occasionally mentioned Miriam in her letters, and always with a jest. ”I strongly suspect she is studying Greek. Is she, perchance, the author of that delightful paper on 'Modern Paganism,' in the current _Fortnightly_? Something strange awaits us, be sure of that.”
The winter dragged to its end, and with the spring came Mrs. Lessingham herself. Instantly the life of the Elgars underwent a complete change.
The vivacious lady from Paris saw in the twinkling of an eye how matters stood; she considered the situation perilous, and set to work most efficaciously to alter it. With what result, you are aware. The first incident of any importance in the new life was that which has already been related, yet something happened one day at the Academy of which it is worth while speaking.
Cecily had looked in her catalogue for the name of a certain artist, and had found it; he exhibited one picture only. Walking on through the rooms with her husband, she came at length to the number she had in mind, and paused before it.
”Whose is that?” Reuben inquired, looking at the same picture.
”Mr. Mallard's,” she answered, with a smile, meeting his eyes.
”Old Mallard's? Really? I was wondering whether he had anything this year.”
He seemed to receive the information with genuine pleasure. A little to Cecily's surprise, for the name was never mentioned between them, and she had felt uneasy in uttering it. The picture was a piece of coast-scenery in Norway, very grand, cold, desolate; not at all likely to hold the gaze of Academy visitors, but significant enough for the few who see with the imagination.
”n.o.body looks at it, you notice,” said Elgar, when they had stood on the spot for five minutes.
”n.o.body.”
Yet as soon as they had spoken, an old and a young lady came in front of them, and they heard the young lady say, as she pointed to Mallard's canvas:
”Where is that, mamma?”
”Oh, Land's End, or some such place,” was the careless reply. ”_Do_ just look at that _sweet_ little creature playing with the dog! Look at its collar! And that ribbon!”
Reuben turned away and muttered contemptuous epithets; Cecily cast a haughty and angry glance at the speaker. They pa.s.sed on, and for the present spoke no more of Mallard; but Cecily thought of him, and would have liked to return to the picture before leaving. There was a man who _did_ something, and something worth the doing. Reuben must have had a thought not unlike this, for he said, later in the same day:
”I am sorry I never took up painting. I believe I could have made something of it. To a certain extent, you see, it is a handicraft that any man may learn; if one can handle the tools, there's always the incentive to work and produce. By-the-bye, why do you never draw nowadays?”