no further step shall be taken by either of
you until her guardian, Mr. Mallard, has been communicated with."

"She will not see me?"

"She thinks it better neither to see you nor to write. I am bound to
tell you that this is the result of my advice. Her own intention was to
do as you request in this letter."

"What harm would there have been in that, Mrs. Lessingham? Why mayn't I
see her?"

"I really think Miss Doran must be allowed to act as seems best to her.
It is quite enough that I tell you what she has decided."

"But that is not her decision," broke out Elgar, moving impetuously.
"That is simply the result of your persuasion, of your authority. Why
may I not see her?"

"For reasons which would be plain enough to any but a very thoughtless
young gentleman. I can say no more."

Her caustic tone was not agreeable. Elgar winced under it, and had much
ado to restrain himself from useless vehemence.

"Do you intend to write to Mr. Mallard to-day?" he asked.

"I will write to-day."

Expostulation and entreaty seemed of no avail; Elgar recognized the
situation, and with a grinding of his teeth kept down the horrible pain
he suffered. His only comfort was that Mallard would assuredly come
post-haste; he would arrive by to-morrow evening. But two days of this
misery! Mrs. Lessingham was gratified with his look as he departed; she
had supplied him with abundant matter for speculation, yet had
fulfilled her promise to Cecily.

She finished her letter, then went to Cecily's room. The girl sat
unoccupied, and listened without replying. That day she took her meals
in private, scarcely pretending to eat. Her face kept its flush, and
her hands remained feverishly hot. Till late at night she sat in the
same chair, now and then opening a book, but unable to read; she spoke
only a word or two, when it was necessary.

The same on the day that followed. Seldom moving, seldomer speaking;
she suffered and waited.

CHAPTER XI

THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY

"Hic intus homo verus certus optumus recumbo, Publius Octavius Rufus,
decuno."

Mallard stood reading this inscription, graven on an ancient
sarcophagus preserved in the cathedral of Amalfi. A fool, probably,
that excellent Rufus--he said to himself,--but what a happy fool!
Unborn as yet, or to him unknown, the faith that would have bidden him
write himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself in life, what
perchance his friends and neighbours deemed him