There was never a Rachel who had not lurking possibilities of the Jezebel nor a Jezebel who had nothing of the Rachel—in weak moments. Cynthia had no sooner gained her point with Provence, when she began to have misgivings. She was not at all sure that she had been right. She should have waited a little longer : she should have remembered that if genius has an infinite capacity for taking pains it has also the tendency to dream—a process which the practical onlooker is apt to mistake for dawdling. At first she reproached herself bitterly for her want of judgment: she had been betrayed into vulgarity: she wondered—the thought was unbearable—if Provence had a sorrowful contempt for her views on art and the artistic life. But she had always her boundless self-appreciation to come to the rescue in hours like this: when there was no longer any doubt in her mind that a mistake had been made, it did not take long to decide that Provence himself had been entirely to blame. He ought to have shown more firmness : he had given up his most cherished convictions because of some idle words she had spoken in a fit of caprice. The phrase " idle words," which her ingenious conscience had given her at less than a nod, she pounced on and worked up into a whole theory of justification. The case stood thus:—She could not in reason be expected to marry a man whose career as yet was all promise and no execution: she was not a servant-maid nor a Rachel, to wait for her lover while he served his time: she had, in her love for him and in her anxiety to find some practical basis for their engagement, no doubt urged him to take the vulgar and tangible in preference to the aesthetic and visionary: her error was that she had spoken under the pressure of the moment, without due thought and against her own true instincts; he, being the man and the one whose career was in question, should have stood his ground and refused to be influenced. Then, how she would have respected him! She was thinking all this when the postbag arrived and in it a letter from Provence. This was the letter: —
"I cannot keep the promise I made you. I cannot say yes to Dobbs—I would rather slice ham in a cook- shop. Dearest, dearest, do understand this and give me a little time.—G. P."
She read this, trembled with anger, and was perhaps more truly in love with him than she had ever been in her life. Unfortunately, however, she did not know this, but rushed to Lady Theodosia, who was sitting alone in the drawing-room knitting charity comforters for the poor.
"That is the way he treats me," she said, giving her aunt the letter.
"I am tired of him. What does he want me to do? Men are so selfish. I was a fool to listen to him in the beginning."
"Geniuses are never practical," said Lady Theodosia.
"The fact of the matter is this," said Cynthia, "the artistic temperament ought not to marry"
Lady Theodosia looked her perfect agreement, but said nothing.
Cynthia began to march up and down the room.
"The whole thing has been a mistake," she said; "I must put an end to it. I was not destined for a villa a dinner of herbs."
"Some herbs are so richly gravied they might very well pass for ox," said her aunt. "If an author does get on, he gets on very well indeed."
"But how if he doesn't?" said Cynthia.
"That's the point," said Lady Theodosia ; "do you feel like taking the risk?"
Cynthia looked out of the window. It was a singularly clear, bright day; in the distance she could see the clock-tower of Northwold Hall.
"No," she said, slowly, "I do not feel like taking the risk."
Lady Theodosia gave two short sighs—one for Godfrey, one for human nature—and then smiled at her niece.
"A wise decision," she said.
"Although I have been a fool," said Cynthia, "thank goodness I have not had the folly to parade about the country with my fiancé tacked on to my skirts. As it is, nobody knows anything about it."
"I hope he will not do anything absurd when you tell him," said Lady Theodosia.
"I shall write it," said Cynthia.
"Writing is dangerous," said her aunt.
"Not anything that I write," said Cynthia.
And then—was it fate or accident?—the door opened and Edward Cargill was announced.
"That is the man for Cynthia," thought Lady Theodosia at once; "he would be very kind to her and keep her in comfort."
"How awfully jolly to find you in!" exclaimed that amiable gentleman. "Mother sent a lot of messages, but I forget every one of them. I hope you don't mind," and he settled down in a chair with the comfortable air of a man who has determined to be happy for, at least, an hour.