Cicely noticed that her mother was unusually silent during dinner, and that she trifled with her food. Since Cicely’s engagement the cook, a trusty retainer, had been given a freer hand with eggs and butter. Possibly the Spartan fare at Danecourt Abbey had been too much for Lady Selina. More probably, so Cicely reflected, the bride of Arthur Wilverley must be brought to the post in proper condition. Stimson waited upon her with even greater deference and assiduity. It was almost pathetic to witness his activities, deprived of two footmen. He had asked Lady Selina, almost with tears in his voice, not to engage a parlourmaid. And when Cicely had asked promptly: “Do you object to a parlourmaid, Stimson?” he had replied mournfully: “It means, miss, a loss of dignity. I can manage very well.”

Not till he had left the dining-room did the lady of the manor speak of Grimshaw and his visit. She recited the essential facts truthfully, but they were presented with the usual Chandos gloss and with a note of petulance which Cicely could understand and with which, also, she could sympathise. The details about Isaac Burble horrified her, as, indeed, they had horrified Lady Selina. An awkward silence ensued. Then Lady Selina said slowly:

“He made a sort of threat, my dear.”

“A threat? Mr. Grimshaw? Impossible.”

“I regarded it as a threat, child—a threat which involved, as Mr. Grimshaw made quite plain, humiliation for me. He spoke of calling in the chief medical officer of the county.”

In answer to eager questions from Cicely she explained what authority might do, and the publicity which his doings would entail. Cicely looked miserable. Noting her daughter’s expression, Lady Selina said quietly:

“And then he proposed a happy alternative. For that I am very truly grateful. In fact, I can see no other way out of the wood. He suggests that I should consult dear Arthur, and through him his agent.”

“Oh—h—h!”

“I dislike intensely asking Arthur, but I admit that he is vitally concerned. I need hardly add that I shall give Gridley a chance of pleading his case before I pass judgment, but I fear he has exceeded the powers entrusted to him. Anyway, he will have to explain himself before Arthur.”

“I told you that Arthur does not see eye to eye with Gridley.”

“Yes, you did. I am prepared for the worst. Arthur, no doubt, will insist upon my discharging this old servant. And how I shall find another bailiff in these times is a problem beyond me. However, I count upon Arthur and his agent.”

Cicely felt dazed. But one lobe of her mind worked clearly. Arthur could show her mother a way out of the wood. He would do cheerfully and splendidly everything she demanded. Nobody else could do it half as well. And her mother was well aware of this, although pride would hardly allow her to admit as much. Lady Selina smiled faintly when she mentioned Arthur, and her voice indicated maternal affection. Arthur, for the first time possibly was envisaged as a son. The other lobe of Cicely’s brain refused to function at all. Out of a welter of chaotic sensibilities arose the appalling conviction that the breaking of her engagement had become a task beyond her powers. Dare she procrastinate? Could she permit her mother to ask such a service from a prospective son-in-law only to discover afterwards that the marriage so delightfully arranged would never take place? What would Tiddy say? She could hear Tiddy speaking, as it were, through a long-distance telephone:

“You are fairly up against it.”

Then she heard her mother’s voice, leisurely continuing:

“I shall speak to Arthur myself.”

“He comes to-morrow.”

“So you told me. I hope I shan’t spoil his pleasure in giving you your pearls.”

Cicely had forgotten the pearls. At mere mention of them she contemplated flight. Why not feign indisposition and remain in bed? Wild ideas surged through her head. Could she make a personal appeal to Grimshaw? The one old friend, Dr. Pawley, to whom she might have fled, for counsel, was physically debarred. Her mother said sharply:

“Don’t look so wretched, child. I am positive that Arthur can save this abominable situation. I regard it as saved, so cheer up. After dinner to-morrow night, when he is smoking his cigar, I shall come back here and talk to him.”

Having dismissed Arthur with gracious finality, she turned once more to Grimshaw. Immediately the inflections of her soft voice became querulous. In just the same tone Lord Saltaire bewailed the passing of the old order. All the Danecourts, in fact—and there were not many left of them except Cicely’s aunts—aired certain grievances in private. As a rule Cicely listened patiently enough to a tale—long as the Cromwell Road—which concerned itself mainly with the shortcomings of gardeners, grooms and tradesmen: all the many-headed who interfered directly or indirectly with that love of ease which Grimshaw long ago had described as moss. Grimshaw, during a few minutes, had raked a lot of moss from poor Lady Selina. Cicely reflected humorously, occupied though she was with her own affairs, that her mother presented the appearance of an ancient lawn cruelly lacerated by an up-to-date gardener.

“He means well,” complained Lady Selina.

Cicely replied:

“Who doesn’t? We all mean well. Mr. Grimshaw, so it seems to me, does well. Anyway, he never spares himself.”

“Or others. This afternoon, for instance, he showed little consideration for me. He might have broken this shocking news more gently. And he knew that I was the person most affected.”

“Well, I should have thought that Isaac Burble was that.”

Lady Selina looked penetratingly at her daughter, and then blinked, unable to see her quite clearly. What was the matter with the child?

“Of course, that goes without saying. It annoys me that you should say it.”

This, too, was a Danecourt attribute. A Danecourt cornered, a Danecourt at bay was likely to snarl. When Lady Selina missed a train she blamed invariably the railway company or appeared to do so. Once Lord Saltaire had summoned a man for using bad language. But, according to the testimony of others, the defendant was impeccably innocent. Indeed, it transpired that some swearing had been done by Lord Saltaire. When the case was dismissed Lord Saltaire remarked petulantly: “All I know is this—bad language was used; the fellow is a rogue and a vagabond.”

Cicely was discreet enough to apologise. Lady Selina continued in the same aggrieved tone:

“Mr. Grimshaw is a radical. I deplore that.”

“But these labels mean nothing, mother.”

“Heavens! That a child of mine should say so!”

Chandos obstinately revealed itself. Cicely remarked tartly:

“It happens that Mr. Grimshaw does not label himself as a Radical. He detests party politics. I have his own word for that. Are you angry with him because he disturbs our peace?”

“Angry? And peace! I despair of peace anywhere. Still, one expects consideration from one’s own people. And at such a time as this ...”

She rose majestically and swept out of the dining-room. Cicely lingered to ring the bell and to pull herself together. How stupid to argue with her mother upon subjects like politics! And in a true sense Grimshaw was a Radical. He went to the root of things—an uncompromising reformer.

When she joined her mother Lady Selina smiled sweetly and silently upon her.

Alone in her bedroom Cicely attempted the impossible—an adjustment of utterly conflicting interests. If she considered herself, if she broke her engagement, Lady Selina would be confronted by the chief medical officer. It is likely that an inexperienced girl exaggerated the powers wielded by that official. But Lady Selina had made plain to her that ultimately the lady of the manor would be held responsible for any abuses discovered on that manor. Already she had a glimpse of a dreadful photograph of her mother in some daily illustrated paper. And beneath ... a scarifying lie! Her uncle, as a many-acred magnate, had not escaped criticism.

Lady Selina Chandos at the mercy of the Radical Press!

She remembered that Tiddy had hinted at such a catastrophe. And at the time Cicely laughed. And then Tiddy, resenting ridicule, had cited cases. According to Miss Tiddy, landlord-baiting to certain journalists was more fun than drawing badgers.

She lay back in her arm-chair, closing her eyes.

If she did not break her engagement?

She tried to sense what that would mean to Upworthy, her mother and Arthur—a feat almost equivalent to looking on at a four-ring circle. It is only fair to a bewildered, unhappy girl to state emphatically that she considered Arthur first and last. If she married him would she be perpetrating what Tiddy called an outrage on him? This involved, more or less, a consideration of matrimonial obligations. What did such a man really want from his wife? Did Arthur want more than she could give. Could she not give all that her mother had given to her father? And at this moment she saw Arthur with extraordinary distinctness, thanks, possibly, to the trouble that he had taken to reveal himself to her. She guessed that he had never been swept off his feet by passion. He wanted affection, fidelity, an atmosphere of domestic peace that would enable him to concentrate energy upon his work. All that she could bestow.

She felt strangely tired.

So tired that she fell asleep.

And she dreamed vividly of Grimshaw, although purposely she had banished him from her waking thoughts. Perhaps on that account he took possession of her subconscious mind. When she awoke every detail of the dream presented itself with sharpest definition. She had been working with him as his wife in an enchanting intimacy of spirit and flesh. Interpreters of dreams, those who endeavor to explain the why and wherefore of the amazing vicissitudes which may befall us in our sleep, might affirm with reason that Cicely’s mind had dwelt persistently upon work with Grimshaw. She had wished from the first to work with him; he had wished that she should do so. Also, she had thought more than she dared to admit even to herself of what it might be like to be Grimshaw’s wife. One other point: she had never thought of Grimshaw apart from his work. Accordingly the dream in itself may be logically accepted as natural, almost inevitable. Her first impression on waking was the curious sense of reality that some dreams impose. Everything had been just right. She came out of the dream as a man may walk out of a playhouse after seeing a sincere and convincing presentment of life as it is. It is difficult, on such rare occasions, to realise that what we have seen and felt has not taken place. We believe that somewhere, somehow, the dream has been enacted. That, perhaps, is the great test of a good play.

She had dreamed that Grimshaw and she were fighting death and disease in Upworthy. Together they wandered in and out of cottages familiar to Cicely from childhood. The drudgery of the Red Cross Hospital fell to her. But in the dream this drudgery became glorified, equal to the highly-skilled labours of her husband: a partnership of mind and muscle. Her work, in its way, made what he did possible and successful. And the joy of the dream, the ineffable benediction of it, was this sense of working together for a common end. In the dream the hands of her husband, not his lips, touched hers again and again, each time with an increasing thrill. He hardly spoke to her, nor she to him; because each understood the unspoken thought of the other. It was as if spirit and flesh had been thrown into a melting-pot, to be fused eternally. He became her and she became him.

And she had slept just twenty minutes!

The dream forced upon her what she had avoided—a more rigorous examination of her own feelings. So far, although bewildered and miserable, she had glanced at three rings in the circus. She had realised what marriage with Arthur would mean to Upworthy, to her mother, and to her husband. What it would mean to herself had been left in abeyance.

Presently she saw herself as Arthur’s wife. She remembered what Tiddy had once said about loving two men at the same time. To her that was impossible, preposterous. If she resolutely banished Grimshaw from her mind for ever and ever she believed that the affection she felt for Arthur might bloom into just the same steady, work-a-day love that had sufficed her own parents. She would be reasonably happy and make him happy. She would adore her babies if they came to her. She would play gracefully the part of Lady Bountiful. It would all be so easy, so free from friction and discomfort. In her dream she had seen herself as the wife of Grimshaw. Now, wide-awake, she beheld herself as Lady Wilverley. But any image of Cicely Chandos, unmarried, regarded by her own kinswomen as a foolish jilt, always conscious of her mother’s silent disapproval, was hopelessly blurred.

She undressed and went to bed. For hours she wriggled restlessly between lavender-scented sheets. Then she dropped off into a troubled sleep.