Chapter V: The Monitor Speaks in Vain

"When two voices parley with a human citadel, that which speaks on the side of self-interest will be victorious; but woe to that city which opens its gates to an enemy of the realm, for the days of its peace are numbered."—ARMY CHAPLAIN.

WILHELMINA went home flattering herself that she had said quite sufficient to convince Cicely of the necessity of being more "circumspect," as she termed it. As regarded the latter's arguments, she smiled to herself as she thought them over, and extracted her fair share of fun out of them for Neville's edification at their next "tête-à-tête."

"Quoting the Bible to me!" she laughed. "The idea! She looked very much like quoting the Bible when Tom Rawlinson asked her to sing last night. She has no intention of turning her voice to perpetual psalms, I know. Ah! Well; she must make her own choice, and satisfy her lively little conscience in her own fashion."

Which was precisely what Cicely was endeavouring to do. In her own heart, she felt that to do as Mina wished was mean and unworthy; but the leaven of ambition had already begun to work with such power in her heart, that she was by no means decided as to what course she herself should pursue with regard to her old playmate.

Before a week had passed, she was put to the test. As the burn began to heal, Mina proposed to take her for a walk. At first Cicely would not hear of appearing in the public streets with her arm in a sling. But Mina ridiculed her so unmercifully, and Mrs. Anderson declared it was such an absurd affectation of sensitiveness to condemn herself to the house for such a trifle, that she at length yielded. And it was agreed that immediately after lunch next day, they should meet and have a good two hours together out of doors.

Accordingly, shortly before two o'clock, Cicely, having been assisted to dress by her mother, sallied forth to the rendezvous, the injured arm comfortably adjusted, and carefully wrapped up to protect it from the chill of the autumn wind.

Now Cicely's home was not far from Joseph's, and it so happened that, the interval between one and two being his dinner hour, he was just returning to work when she started, and they met.

Cicely's face became uncomfortably hot as she descried him afar off, for she could not but remember the unworthy motives which had actuated certain of her thoughts with regard to him, and her resolve to pass him by was shaken. Meanwhile Joseph had recognised her, and his honest face flushed with pleasure at the idea of exchanging greetings. A moment more, and the look of his beaming countenance would have ended the struggle in his favour; but at that very instant, Cicely became aware that Mina was in sight, and her right of judgment deserted her.

Joseph was on the opposite side of the way. Nothing would be more easy than to pass him by as if in a hurry. But as he drew nearer, he perceived the sling.

In an instant, Cicely calculated the result. He would be sure to cross over and inquire how she had hurt herself, and whilst they stood talking, Mina would come up. The situation would not only be awkward, but the whole blame of it would be thrown upon her.

Without further reflection, Cicely steeled her heart to what appeared the only course by which she could avert the calamity. Fixing her eyes upon her friend as the latter tripped along the pavement towards her, she feigned not to have perceived Joseph until, just as they were opposite each other, she glanced across—quite as if by chance—and gave him a passing nod of recognition. Before she could recover from the flutter into which this little stratagem had thrown her, Joseph was already many paces behind, and she was face to face with Mina.

"I was terribly afraid of your sling," the latter said, as they went on together. "I made certain he would come right across to know what was the matter; and of all things in the world, it would have been most inopportune; but you managed splendidly. I saw you fix your eyes on me. The look of determination you assumed amused me intensely."

Cicely was almost startled. How observant Mina was! How she seemed to read her through and through, to the very motives which prompted her actions—motives of which she herself had scarcely been aware in the hurry of the moment. She was far from comfortable during the first half mile of their walk, though she tried to conceal it from Mina. It did not escape the latter, however, but she only exerted herself all the more to let Cicely see how thoroughly she approved of her behaviour. By degrees, the impression wore off, and Cicely quieted her conscience with the conviction that she was on the right side with Mina.

In the meantime, Joseph had pursued his way somewhat disappointed at Cicely's conduct, and not a little puzzled. He felt convinced that she had seen him coming, but what reason she could possibly have had for looking past him in so determined a manner, he could not understand. It occupied his thoughts all the way to work, but no longer; for Joseph was not one to work with his hands alone. "With both hands earnestly" meant that his whole mind must be in what he was about, and if he whistled, it was only because that required no thought.

A few days later, however, something further occurred to deepen the mystery.

It was Sunday, and being an unusually mild day for the late time of year, Joseph had walked down to the Sunday-school to meet Ruth, in order to take her for a stroll outside the town. The way by which they had chosen to return lay across some fields by a regular gravelled path, interrupted wherever the hedges intersected it by little "patience" gates. Passing through one of these, they encountered Walter and Cicely together with a girl whose name Joseph knew—Annie Cleveland—but with whom he had no acquaintance.

Cicely's arm was no longer in a sling; but it was still bound up with a kerchief in place of a glove, and Joseph naturally conceived the idea of stopping to ask her what was the matter with it.

Walter, on the other hand, whose conduct towards Joseph had been very cool of late, determined upon preventing any such possibility; for Annie Cleveland was one of the new set—a great friend of Alice Grandpont's. So, holding the gate open for Annie, and quickly slipping through after her with the merest nod to Joseph, he left Cicely to follow. But the latter could not have been more completely caught in a trap. Before she could pass through, Joseph accosted her.

There was nothing for it but to remain behind and answer his inquiries, which Cicely did as concisely as she could. Then glancing uneasily after Walter and Annie, who were already some distance ahead, without so much as a word to Ruth, she muttered an excuse and hurried on.

Joseph was hurt, not so much at her haste,—that perhaps was unavoidable, as Walter was disinclined for the interruption; but because there was something so altered in her manner, something so constrained and cold. He thought so much about it that Ruth found him duller company than usual, and began to try her powers of conversation in such a pointed manner that Joseph took the hint, and—good brother that he was—threw off his annoyance and laid himself out to please her.

But as soon as he was alone, he began to think about it again; and try as he would, he could imagine no reason for the change.

The very next afternoon, the problem was solved. Joseph had occasion to leave the workshop to go with a message to the other side of the town. On the way, he followed his cousin Mina and her new friend the whole length of a street, and thus had an opportunity of observing the affected style of their conversation and manners. He understood now the change in his cousin; but this was not all. Just as he overtook them, Cicely and Annie Cleveland turned the corner. The meeting was evidently by appointment, for they stopped to greet Alice and Mina, and the four girls, after spending several moments in vivacious consultation, continued their way together; but not before Cicely had seen Joseph. He was sure of that. Their eyes had met as she turned the corner, but she had quickly averted hers, feigning not to perceive him, and so he had passed on. But it was all as clear as daylight to him now.

"Neville and Mina are extending their acquaintances among the 'nobs,'" he said graphically to himself; "and Walter and Cicely are hanging on. Well! I don't want to be a disgrace to them, if they're ashamed of me; that's certain."

Nevertheless, Joseph was stung to the quick; for a person must be very truly great to be above minding the contempt of others. For several days, the workshop appeared an intolerably dull, uninteresting sort of place, and he whistled very little. Ruth's unguarded moves at draughts, too, failed to excite the usual amount of amusement. After that, Joseph recovered his spirits, though he did not forget.

During this time Mina's friendship with Alice Grandpont and Annie Cleveland had been growing rapidly, flourishing, like most weeds, on shallow soil; but, like them, in constant danger of being scorched and withered by adversity or caprice. The days were spent for the most part in frivolous conversation, reading together the novels of the day, looking over fashion-books, planning in secret how they might outdo each other in little matters of dress, and wasting hours of gossip over useless fancy-work. The evenings were idled away at one or other of the three houses, and Mina, for one, felt terribly miserable if anything occurred to make her stay at home so much as once in the week. Even Sunday was no exception to the rule; and service came to be regarded as an hour and a half which must be "got through" before they would be at liberty to enjoy each other's society.

It was not to be wondered at that Mina's character was rapidly deteriorating under such influence, and it was well for both her and Neville that Mr. and Mrs. Adams returned at the end of the month. For although the hearts of both parents were set upon the worldly advancement of their children, their riper experience deterred them from going such lengths in the pursuit.

Mina was no longer at liberty to invite her new friends when and how she pleased, and her mother expected that a reasonable proportion of her evenings should be passed at home. But the restraint only rendered her peevish and unamiable. Having once tried her own wings, and tasted the delights of liberty, she could not bring herself to acknowledge any authority but her own, and her mother's was a very unwelcome fetter.

Thus she went on, wasting her youth in utter forgetfulness that "it is not always May;" consuming her oil without a thought of the coming eventide; building upon the shifting sands of time, when the only home of her immortal soul must be a house "not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."