elder trustee, who
lived in Manchester, had alone been in personal relations with Mrs. Elgar and
little Cecily; even now Mallard did not make the personal acquaintance of Mrs.
Elgar (otherwise he would doubtless have met Miriam), but saw Mrs. Lessingham in
London, and for the first time met Cecily when she came to the south in her
aunt's care. He knew what an extreme change would be made in the manner of the
girl's education, and it caused him some mental trouble; but it was clear that
Cecily might benefit greatly in health by travel, and, as for the moral
question, Mrs. Lessingham strongly stirred his sympathies by the dolorous
account she gave of the child's surroundings in the north. Cecily was being
intellectually starved; that seemed clear to Mallard himself after a little
conversation with her. It was wonderful how much she had already learnt,
impelled by sheer inner necessity, of things which in general she was
discouraged from studying. So Cecily left England, to return only for short
intervals, spent in London. Between that departure and this present meeting,
Mallard saw her only twice; but the girl wrote to him with some regularity.
These letters grew more and more delightful. Cecily addressed herself with
exquisite frankness as to an old friend, old in both senses of the word;
collected, they made a history of her rapidly growing mind such as the shy
artist might have glorified in possessing. In reality, he did nothing of the
kind; he wished the letters would not come and disturb him in his work. He sent
gruff little answers, over which Cecily laughed, as so characteristic.
    Yes, there was a distinct connection between those homely memories and
picturings which took him in thought to Sowerby Bridge, and the image of Cecily
Doran which had caused him to waste all this time in Naples. They represented
two worlds, in both of which he had some part; but it was only too certain with
which of them he was the more closely linked. What but mere accident put him in
contact with the world which was Cecily's? Through her aunt she had aristocratic
relatives; her wealth made her a natural member of what is called society; her
beauty and her brilliancy marked her to be one of society's ornaments. What
could she possibly be to him, Ross Mallard, landscape-painter of small if any
note, as unaristocratic in mind and person as any one that breathed? To put the
point with uncompromising plainness, and therefore in all its absurdity, how
could he possibly imagine Cecily Doran called