Chapter IV: A Letter From Australia

“David is growing impatient,” Celia said the next morning, after breakfast. “He thinks we have been engaged long enough, and wants me to name the day.”

“I am not surprised at that,” returned Lady Marjorie, looking up from her work. “What are you going to do?”

That was just what Celia did not know. She sighed heavily, and remained lost in thought. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, for she had lain awake all night in uneasy deliberation of the question. Souvie jumped on her knee and demanded her attention; he never allowed his mistress to leave him unnoticed if she happened to have any spare time on her hands.

Lady Marjorie was artistically arranging some flowers in a bowl. She looked just as nice in her morning blouse as she did in a Parisian toilette. When she had finished, she came over to the couch where Celia was sitting.

“Girlie,” she said, “I want to talk to you seriously.”

Celia looked up in surprise.

“I have been watching you for the past few months, and I don’t quite know what to make of you. When you became engaged to David Salmon, I supposed it was because you were in love with him; but it seems to me now that you are not quite happy in your engagement. Now listen, Celia. Either you mean to marry him, or you do not. If you do, why have you this unnatural desire for procrastination? I consider, honestly speaking, that you have kept him waiting an unreasonable length of time. If, on the other hand, you do not intend to marry him, the sooner you break off the engagement the better, both for his sake and your own. Perhaps, during your long courtship, you have found out that he and you are not so suited to each other as you thought you were, and yet you do not like to hurt his feelings by telling him so? You long for freedom, but you are reluctant to strike the blow that will set you free. Girlie, darling, tell me the truth as it is in your heart. Am I right?”

She sank on to the couch, and looked into the girl’s face with a tender solicitude in her kindly blue eyes.

Celia’s heart gave a leap. How exactly had her chaperon diagnosed the case, and how she despised herself that it should be so! The blood rushed to her cheeks, as, hiding her face in Souvie’s silky coat, she murmured, so low that it could scarcely be heard, the single monosyllable, “Yes!”

Lady Marjorie did not exhibit surprise. She had guessed as much for some time. But she thought, and did not hesitate to say, that Celia had done very wrong in allowing the engagement to continue, when on her part she did not intend it to terminate in marriage. She came to the conclusion that the girl had not possessed the courage to face the question out; she had always put away the thought of her marriage with David as a disagreeable necessity of the future; she had dissembled with her own conscience.

In this she was right. Celia had given way to weakness, but she had not intentionally done wrong; and when the matter was threshed out, as Lady Marjorie was threshing it out now, she saw the magnitude of the injury she had done to her _fiancé_.

One thing was certain: there must be no more equivocation.

“You will have to give David his _congé_ as nicely as you can,” her chaperon said when it was all explained. “It will be a painful interview, of course; but it will have to be gone through, and the sooner you get it over the better.”

But Celia had decided otherwise. It became evident to her that, having plighted her troth, she was bound to abide by it. If she had acted foolishly in becoming engaged before she knew her own mind, she must be ready to pay for her folly. How could she, who almost prided herself on her fidelity and stability of character, allow herself to be accused of inconstancy, classed as a fickle coquette? Her cheeks tingled at the very thought.

“There will be no painful interview,” she replied, in a firm low voice. “I shall marry him before the year is out.”

“You will, after what you have admitted!” Lady Marjorie was genuinely astonished now.

“Yes, I will. I must! What would he think of me if I jilted him now, after three years? What would his friends say? Would they not have reason to condemn me? Oh, I couldn’t do it. I should never be able to hold up my head again.”

It was a difficult predicament. Lady Marjorie acknowledged that, from David Salmon’s point of view, Celia’s conduct would be looked upon as reprehensible; but, on the other hand, she did not consider that the girl was justified in making an unhappy marriage for the sake of saving some immediate unpleasantness. Secretly she thought that he was not worth the sacrifice; she had never been very favourably impressed with him from the first.

“I am sure it will be better for you to tell Mr. Salmon the truth now, before the irrevocable step has been taken,” she said, after a pause. “It will be unpleasant, I admit, especially if he is reluctant to release you from your promise; but it will blow over after a little while, and at least you will be free. Just think what a loveless marriage means: an uncongenial husband, an unhappy home. And, perhaps, when it is too late, you may come across a man whom you could really love. How would you feel then? Dear child, do consider well before you lay up for yourself a store of unhappiness which will last until your life’s end.”

But Celia’s determination remained unshaken. She would be true to her promise, and she would try not to be unhappy over it either. It seemed to her that the majority of Jewish alliances were marriages of convenience, contracted without much thought of love, yet the consequences were, as a rule, quite satisfactory. Adeline, for instance, had admitted to her in confidence that when she married Mike Rosen she had not cared for him in the least, but love had come in time; and now they were devoted to each other, and to their baby boy.

If Celia did not exactly love David Salmon, she possessed no feelings of animosity towards him; and, being a sensible girl, she would do her best to make him a good and dutiful wife. She felt relieved when she had thus settled the matter in her mind; but her tranquillity was again disturbed when the midday post brought her a letter which had been forwarded from Durlston, bearing the Sydney postmark.

Lady Marjorie, catching sight of the stamp, and Celia’s sudden blush, drew her own conclusions.

“You had forgotten him, girlie, hadn’t you?” she queried softly.

Celia slit the envelope. “No,” she replied; “but I thought he had forgotten me.”

It was a letter of congratulation. Dr. Milnes had read of her _début_ in Paris, and could not resist writing to tell her of the pleasure the account of it had given him. About himself he said very little. He and his partner were rapidly increasing their practice, and had got on as well as they could have hoped. He was on the brink of some new discovery in connection with the prevention of tuberculosis. When it was made, he would probably come to Europe, first to Vienna, then to England. He liked Colonial life, but would be glad to see the mother-country once again. Meanwhile, he sent his kind regards, and remained, “Sincerely yours, Geoffrey H. Milnes.”

The girl passed the letter over for Lady Marjorie’s perusal; there was nothing in it that all the world might not read.

It was the first communication, with the exception of birthday and Christmas cards, that she had received from him since he went away. The sight of it brought back old associations, memories so tender as to be almost akin to pain. Geoffrey’s honest face rose up before her mental vision; his strong young voice almost sounded in her ears; his delightful companionship was brought back to her remembrance. She rested her chin on her hand, and lost herself in a dream of long ago. The pleasant rides and drives they had enjoyed together, the hot-headed discussions, the musical confabulations; with what force they all recurred to her just when she was most anxious to forget.

Why does everything change so, she wondered, half rebelliously? Why do all the sweet things of life pass away so soon to leave only bitterness behind? Why is there so much misunderstanding in the world; so much unhappiness brought about by cruel circumstance, so much heartache which could be avoided if we were all absolutely candid and truthful in our relations one towards another? Here was yet another side to that eternal question, _Why?_

Lady Marjorie’s voice recalled her to the present once more.

“Poor old Geoff!” she exclaimed, replacing the letter in the envelope. “I am glad he is getting on so well. I used to think that he and you----” she paused. “Ah, well, never mind; I suppose I was mistaken after all. It is so easy to make mistakes, isn’t it? Shall you send Geoffrey an invitation to your wedding?”

She did not mean to be unkind; but Celia felt as if she had received a sharp blow. Yet how foolish it was to be so sensitive.

“I shall certainly send him an invitation if he happens to be in England,” she answered quietly; and there the matter dropped.

When she saw David, a few days later, Celia told him that she was willing to be married before the close of the year. She was very quiet, very submissive: and when he proposed, that if all were propitious, the wedding should take place on her birthday, December 15th, she assented without a protest.

In the meantime she had accepted an invitation to spend the month of August with the Wiltons at Woodruffe, their place near Brighton. Enid had left the Academy some time ago to blossom forth as a professor of music at Hove; but although Celia had not seen her for nearly eighteen months, she still kept in touch with her by means of a regular correspondence. The Rev. Ralph Wilton had resigned his curacy at Hoxton--after having seen his parochial affairs greatly improved as the result of Celia’s munificence--to be promoted to a living in a quiet midland town; but he too would be at Woodruffe for his holiday in August, and Celia looked forward to meeting him there.

She would have to return to town in the autumn to attend the rehearsals of “The Voice of the Charmer,” which was to be produced at the beginning of November. Guy Haviland had found it no easy matter to coax Karne into giving his consent, for Herbert possessed some decided views anent the stage; but in the end he managed to overrule all his numerous objections, and returned to London in triumph and great glee.

Lady Marjorie received the news with dubious satisfaction. She was not enamoured of the theatrical life.

“Don’t let it spoil our girlie, will you, Haviland?” she said, when he had acquainted her with the details of his plans. “She is so sweet and unaffected as she is; it would be such a pity if she became imbued with the artificiality of the stage.”

Haviland assured her that she need have no fear.

“I am just as anxious for the welfare of your girlie, as you call her, as yourself,” he replied. “I will guard her as rigorously as any old _duenna_.”

And knowing that he would be as good as his word, Lady Marjorie was content.