“For when the morn came dim and sadAnd chill with early showers,His quiet eyelids closed—he hadAnother morn than ours.”
Thomas Hood.
HADMr. Guildford been a native of Sothernshire, he could not but have been familiar with the name of the Methvyns of Carling, one of the oldest and wealthiest families of the county. Had he been in the least addicted to local gossip, or less preoccupied, he could hardly have failed, even at Sothern, to hear casual mention of them and of their younger branch, the Methvyns of Greystone. But if he had ever heard of either Carling or Greystone, he had forgotten all about it; and as he was whirled along to Haverstock that cold February evening, his mind was a perfect blank as regarded Methvyns of anywhere. Nor did he feel much interest or curiosity respecting the summons he had received.
He had brought a book with him, but the lamp gave so feeble and uncertain a light that reading was out of the question. So for the half-hour of his railway journey, Mr. Guildford set himself to think instead; to work out in his head the results of a certain shadowy theory or suggestion bearing upon an obscure and hitherto but slightly considered department of medical science, which had lately come under his notice for the first time. It had interested and even fascinated him, but he had so often fancied himself on the brink of a great discovery, so often imagined that he saw the flashing of “some bright truth in its prism,” only to be disappointed, that he was already learning to be sceptical and cautious, keen to criticise and slow to pronounce. Outward circumstances too, helped to check his impetuosity, to moderate without damping his ardour—the apparent disadvantage of his leisure consisting mostly of odd snatches of time, liable at any moment to interruption; the being constantly recalled to matters of present fact, obliged suddenly to concentrate his powers on subjects seldom presenting anything in common with his chosen studies; all this was excellent training for an excitable, enthusiastic temperament naturally impatient of discipline or restriction. Gradually he acquired great inward self-control—mental independence of, or rather superiority to, his external surroundings for the time being. He learnt to choose and limit his subjects of thought; a habit as valuable to a man of his profession, as was in another direction the great soldier’s far-famed capability of “sleeping to order.”
So Mr. Guildford was reallythinking—not merely dreaming, or passively receiving the impressions of the objects around him when the train stopped, and the railway officials’ equivalent for “Haverstock,” was shouted along the little platform. It was only a roadside station, badly lighted and dreary looking. Though not yet ten o’clock, there was a sort of middle-of-the-night air about the place, and the two or three men to be seen looked as if they had been wakened out of their first sleep. For a moment or two Mr. Guildford, as he stood alone mechanically watching the green light of the train that had brought him, as it disappeared in the darkness, felt bewildered and confused. But a voice at his side recalled him to what was before him.
“Are you the doctor, sir, if you please—the doctor from Sothernbay?” and turning at the question, Mr. Guildford saw that the speaker was a pleasant-looking man-servant, buttoned up to the chin in a thick driving coat; his tone was eager and anxious.
“Yes. I have come from Sothernbay in answer to a telegram I received this evening,” he replied. “Are you Colonel Methvyn’s man,—have you come to meet me?”
“I have been here since five o’clock, sir. ’Twas I sent off the message. The dog cart is waiting at the gate, and if you please, sir, I was to say as Miss Cicely—my master, I should say,—hoped you’d excuse the dog-cart instead of a close carriage; the road from here to the Abbey is terrible bad just now, and a heavy carriage would have taken twice as long,” said the man, as he led the way through the station-gate to where a two-wheeled vehicle and an impatient-looking horse stood ready for them.
“I prefer it, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford good-naturedly. Like many self-contained people, he had a liking for a frank manner on the part of others, especially perhaps when they were his inferiors.
“You see, sir,” continued the man, “I was hurried both ways, first to get the telegram off, and then to get you to the Abbey when you came.”
His remarks were interrupted by the zeal with which he set to work to tuck Mr. Guildford up in the rugs, of which there appeared a profusion.
“Miss Cicely—leastways my master, I should say, though for that matter itwereMiss Cicely, she never forgets nothing,—she told me as I were to be sure to bring plenty of wraps,” he observed, his language becoming comfortably ungrammatical as he felt himself growing at ease with the “strange doctor.”
“Thank you, that will do capitally,” said Mr. Guildford, as they started off at a brisk pace. “But it doesn’t seem to me as cold here as at Sothernbay, or is there a change in the weather?” he added, glancing up at the sky, in which but few stars were visible.
“Bless you, sir! yes to be sure, there’s a thaw,” said the servant eagerly; “it began this afternoon. We was all so glad, thinking it might be better for little master. Shouldn’t you think so, sir?” he asked with an anxiety in his voice that Mr. Guildford could not understand.
“I have not heard who it is that is ill, my good fellow,” he said kindly; “is ‘little master’ the patient? I am all in the dark, you see; I know nothing except what was in the telegram you sent off.”
“Of course not, sir, of course not,” exclaimed the man. “You see, sir, we’ve been thinking of little else all these days, and it seemed like as if every one must be the same. Yes, sir, it’s little master, bless him! as is ill; it begun with the croup, he’s had that many a time; many a night Miss Cicely has called me up to fetch the old doctor—there’s a bell rings into my room on purpose,—but this time it’s turned to worse. I can’t exactly say what it is. Miss Cicely’s never closed a eye these three nights, Mrs. Moore told me; I’m afraid he’s very bad. But now you’ve come, and the break in the weather, he’ll pull through; don’t you think so, sir?” he inquired wistfully, as if the question of life or death hung upon the opinion it was utterly impossible for Mr. Guildford to express.
“You forget, my good fellow,” said the doctor again, “you forget I have not yet seen the poor little boy; but of one thing you may be sure, I shall do my very best.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the groom fervently.
“Is Dr. Farmer still at the Abbey—was he there when you left?” asked Mr. Guildford.
“Yes, sir, but I don’t think you’ll see him tonight; he was quite wore out, poor old gentleman, and I heard Miss Cicely telling him as I came away he must go to bed. He’s gettin’ on in years is the old doctor.”
“Miss Cicely” again. A passing feeling of curiosity crossed Mr. Guildford’s mind as to whom she could be. A maiden sister or aunt perhaps of Colonel Methvyn’s, who managed his household and looked after his children. The name suggested a quaint old-fashioned maiden lady, and, so far, there had been no mention of aMrs. Methvyn. “Miss Cicely” was evidently the ruling spirit of Greystone Abbey. But it was not Mr. Guildford’s habit to obtain in formation about either people or things save from head-quarters, so he put no more questions to his communicative companion. The road was now becoming so bad that it took all the driver’s skill to avoid catastrophes.
“Do you never have any repairs done hereabouts?” inquired the stranger; “this road is really sadly in want of looking after.”
“It isn’t no road at all, sir, by rights,” replied the servant, when he had time to draw breath after the “joltiest bit” they had yet passed, “it’s only a short cut to Haverstock. Haverstock isn’t our station—not the Abbey station; by the highway, Haverstock is good six mile from us. Our station is Greybridge, but the fast trains don’t stop there, unless notice is given special; and there’s no telegraphy at Greybridge. That’s how I had to bring you such a rough way, sir; it saves four mile and more.”
“Ah! yes, I see,” said Mr. Guildford.
“We’re near home now, sir,” said the man, and the remaining few minutes were passed in silence.
It was far too dark to distinguish anything plainly. Mr. Guildford felt, rather than saw, when they turned off the road or lane into enclosed grounds; the change from the jolting and jogging they had been enduring for the last quarter of an hour to the smooth roll of a well-kept gravel drive was very pleasant.
“We’re going in by the side way, sir,” said the groom, “I left the gate open as I came out; it’s not often this way is used now.”
A few minutes more and they drew up at the front entrance. A wide porch, with deep stone seats at each side, lighted by a heavy iron-bound lamp hanging from the roof, was all Mr. Guildford could distinguish of the outside of Greystone Abbey, It looked more like the entrance to an ancient church than to a modern dwelling house; it was in keeping, however, with the associations of the name, and Mr. Guildford’s perceptions were acute enough for him to infer from what he saw that by daylight the old house must be picturesque and quaintly beautiful.
The door was opened, almost before the servant had time to ring,—anxious ears evidently were on the alert for the first sound of carriage-wheels,—and two or three servants hurried forward. The hall into which Mr. Guildford was ushered was a picture of comfort; a great log fire blazed in the wide open grate, antlered heads threw grotesque shadows on the wainscoted walls, there were furry fleecy rugs under foot, armchairs and sofas, and little tables in every corner; everything looked homelike and inviting, and seemed to tell of happy gatherings and merry voices. And the pet and pride of the house—the “little master”—upstairs dying! Little as the young doctor knew of the Methvyns, a sort of chill seemed to strike through him at the thought.
His arrival had been quickly announced, for almost immediately a door at the opposite side of the hall opened, and a stout elderly person in black silk, and with a general indescribable look of responsibility and trustworthiness, came forward. She made a sort of curtsey as she drew near the stranger, a salutation which said as plainly as any words, “I am the housekeeper, if you please,” and destroyed instantaneously a passing suspicion of Mr. Guildford’s that “the managing spirit” of Greystone Abbey stood before him.
“I am so very glad you have come, sir,” said the housekeeper respectfully; “it will be a great satisfaction. There are refreshments, sir, in the library, but—if you are not very tired and cold, perhaps—Miss Cicely is soveryanxious to see you. Would you take a glass of wine now, sir, and something else later?”
But Mr. Guildford declined everything of the kind for the present. “I should much prefer seeing my patient at once,” he said decidedly; “will you show me the way?”
“Certainly, sir,” she replied, looking relieved. “Miss Cicely wished me to take you upstairs as soon as possible.”
Always “Miss Cicely.” She was becoming a sort of “Marquis de Carabbas” to Mr. Guildford. No mention of the heads of the household; to judge by appearances, Miss Cicely might be the owner as well as the ruler of the whole place. So thought the new-comer, as he followed the worthy Mrs. Moore out of the hall, down a long dimly lighted passage, looking like enclosed cloisters from the vaulted ceiling and succession of narrow sharp-pointed windows along one side, widening at the end into a small square hall, round two sides of which curved a broad shallow-stepped spiral stair case. Upstairs, a long passage again, somewhat wider than the one below, with doors at both sides; at one of these the housekeeper stopped, tapped softly, but, receiving no answer, went in, beckoning to Mr. Guildford to follow her. The room which he entered was small and plainly furnished; it looked almost as if it had once been a schoolroom, but its present contents were somewhat heterogeneous; the carpet was nearly threadbare, the windows had no curtains, but there were two or three good pictures on the walls, a beautiful stand of ferns, several cages, whose little occupants had all retired for the night, each carefully shaded by a curtain drawn round the wires; a glass, filled with lovely flowers, on the table, a Skye terrier asleep on the hearth rug, a bookcase full of books, of which some of the titles would have surprised Mr. Guildford had he read them.
He had time for a certain amount of observation, for the housekeeper, whispering to him a request to wait where he was for a minute, left the room quickly by another door. It was still cold, notwithstanding the thaw. Mr. Guildford instinctively turned towards the fire; the Skye terrier, disturbed by his intrusion, peered up at him for a moment through its shaggy hair with its bright beady eyes, growled lazily, and went off to sleep again. So the stranger took up his position on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, and looked about him with some curiosity. There was a history in this little room—the history not so much of a life, as of a character. But it was not for many a long day that the man who entered it to-night for the first time learnt to read it. There are many such histories that are never read atall.
Still he was conscious vaguely of a certain impress of individuality in the room—some body lived in it and loved all these things thus much was visible at a glance. Perhaps “the marquise” was of the genial order of old maids after all, neither managing nor domineering! Mr. Guildford was smiling at his fancy when the door—the second again. It was not Mrs. Moore returning. Who was it? Couldthisbe “Miss Cicely?”
A tall, fair girl in a crimson dress, with coils of hair that must be sunny by daylight; with a pale, quiet face, and soft, grave eyes. She stood for a moment in the doorway, the lamp-light falling full upon her. Some pictures—a few in a lifetime only—take far less time than our clumsy words can express to imprint themselves for ever on the brain. This was one of them. Through all the chequered future, through happy days and “days of cloudy weather,” in her presence or absent from her, Edmond Guildford never forgot this first vision of Cicely Methvyn, pale, grave Cicely, standing there for a fairy’s moment, in her brilliant crimson dress.
The dress, not improbably, had something to do with the vividness of the impression. Little as he was given to observing such matters, it could not fail to strike him, both from its beauty and extreme unsuitability to the girl’s present occupation. It was of velvet of the richest and loveliest shade of damask red; there was exquisite lace round the throat and wrists, and there was something quaint and peculiar in the shape of the bodice. And to add to the effect, Miss Methvyn wore a thick gold chain round her neck, from which hung a very beautiful, very large, and evidently antique gold cross, which shone out with a rich, dull lustre from its crimson background.
Mr. Guildford stood with his eyes fixed upon her for a moment in absolute amazement. Afterwards he tried to define to himself his exact impression of the young girl. Was she “pretty?” The word seemed utterly unsuited to her. Was she beautiful? Hardly. He could describe her by no words that satisfied his sense of correctness.
She was tall and fair—and then he stopped. She was neither graceful nor dignified, or rather perhaps she was, strictly speaking, both. Only the words did not seem to suit her, for they implied a suspicion of self-consciousness, from which her bearing, her expression—everything about her, was utterly and unmistakably free.
But just now he had hardly time to realise anything but surprise before she came forward and spoke. She spoke rather slowly; it was evidently her habit to do so, her voice was low but clear, and perfectly calm.
“I am so very, very glad you have come,” she said. “It is exceedingly kind of you to have come so quickly. Charlie—it is Charlie that is so ill, did you know?” Mr. Guildford made a slight gesture of assent. “He is in the next room. Will you come in and see him? He is asleep.”
Mr. Guildford hesitated for a moment.
“Shall I not see Dr. Farmer first?” he said. “Is he here?”
“Oh! I was forgetting to tell you,” she said. “No, Dr. Farmer has gone home. I made him go, and promised to send for him if you did not come. He lives only a mile away. He was so knocked up, I really begged him to go. He left this note for you, and he said he was sure I could tell you everything.”
She drew a letter out of her pocket as she spoke and gave it to Mr. Guildford. As he read it, his face grew graver. She, watching him, observed this.
“I think Charlie is better than when Dr. Farmer left,” she said. “He is less restless. I asked him how he was just before he went go to sleep, and he answered me quite distinctly, and his voice sounded much more like itself.”
“How did he say he felt?” asked Mr. Guildford, stopping for a moment as he was going to follow Miss Methvyn.
“He said he was sleepy,” she replied. “I asked him if he felt very ‘sore,’ that is his word for ‘ill,’” she explained with a faint little smile, “and he said, ‘Not so wenny bad, Cissy,’ He calls me ‘Cissy.’ ”
“Ah!” said Mr. Guildford. Then they went into the room, and Cicely led the stranger to the child’s bedside.
He lay there, propped up with pillows to ease his laboured breathing. He was sleeping, the girl had said, but, ah! what a different sleep from the rosy, easy rest of healthy infancy! It was very pitiful—terribly pitiful. Mr. Guildford looked at the child steadily for some moments. Then he turned to the young lady.
“Dr. Farmer has told me all that has been done,” he said. “Everything has been tried, I see. I should like to watch the little fellow for the next hour or two. I hear you have been up for two or three nights. Will you not go to bed now and let me, who am quite fresh, take my turn?”
For the first time there was a slight quiver in the pale young face as she looked up at Mr. Guildford.
“Won’t you tell me first what you think of him?” she said. “I have been so anxious to hear your opinion.”
Mr. Guildford turned away with a very, very slight gesture of impatience. He was beginning to be very sorry for Miss Methvyn, but he felt the position an uncomfortable one. He was by no means sure that it would be right to express his real opinion to this girl, so young and apparently so lonely. He wished Dr. Farmer had stayed; or at least that he could see the heads of the house, the child’s parents.
“I don’t think you should ask me for my opinion just yet,” he said somewhat brusquely. “If you will leave me here to watch him, I shall soon be able to judge better. Shall I not see your parents? Your father, perhaps I should say? I should like to speak to him about your little brother.”
“He is not my brother,” she answered quietly. “He is my nephew, my only sister’s child. My father is a chronic invalid and suffers a great deal, and my mother is constantly with him. That is why it is impossible for her to nurse Charlie. He is my especial charge; my sister left him in my care when she went to India some months ago. I fancied you understood or I would have explained this before.”
She spoke very gently, almost apologetically. But to Mr. Guildford it sounded like a reproach.
“I should not have given you the trouble of explaining anything,” he said quickly. “But will you not do as I proposed? Will you not take a little rest for an hour or two? I shall stay till the morning. I arranged to do so before I left home.”
Just then Mrs. Moore, who had left the room before they entered it, came back again. She heard what Mr. Guildford was urging upon Cicely.
“Oh! do, Miss Cicely,” she said earnestly. “You will be quite knocked up soon, and what would Master Charlie do then?”
“If he wakes and I am not beside him, he will be so frightened,” said the girl.
“I promise to send for you the moment he wakes—or—or in case of any change.” said Mr. Guildford.
So at last she gave in. Could Mr. Guildford have realised the agony her submission was costing her, he would hardly have had the heart to enforce it, though his motives were of the best. But how was he, a perfect stranger, seeing her for the first time, to pierce below the quiet exterior that puzzled many who had known her for years? She stooped and kissed the little pale drawn face, and repeating,
“You willpromiseto call me?” went softly out of the room.
Mr. Guildford had no intention of deceiving her. His fears were great, but so far, he perceived a chance—a faint chance of their not being realised, and he had no belief in the wisdom of preparing oneself or others for the worst by crushing prematurely the last little blossom of hope which may serve its purpose by cheering hours of otherwise unendurable anguish. But as the night went on, his own hopes faded slowly. He did the little that was possible to alleviate the suffering, more painful, it is to be trusted, at this last sad stage, to witness than to endure; but long before the morning dawned, it became evident that the little life was ebbing away. There was no fear of Charlie waking to miss his young aunt; the short journey through the dark valley was all but over; Charlie’s waking would be in the bright country “beyond the sun.”
“I think you had better call Miss Methvyn. I promised to send for her if there was any change,” said Mr. Guildford to the housekeeper, who had remained with him. There was no need to tell her what the only change would be now. But almost before he had finished speaking the door opened swiftly, and Cicely, still in her beautiful dress, stood again by the bed side.
“I could not stay away any longer. I tried to sleep, but,” she was beginning; but the words died upon her lips. “Oh! he is not better, he is worse,” she exclaimed, catching sight of the baby-face, and reading in Mr. Guildford’s quiet sadness the confirmation of her terror. “Oh! my darling, my dear, dear little Charlie.”
The anguish of her tone was unmistakable; still, by a supreme effort of self-control, she forced herself to speak quietly. “Will he not know me when he wakes?” she whispered to Mr. Guildford.
“He will never wake to consciousness again; all his suffering is over,” said Mr. Guildford very gently, but Cicely interrupted him with a faint cry. “What is that? He has never looked like that. Oh! is thatdying?” she sobbed—a slight convulsion had momentarily distorted the exhausted little frame.
“It does not hurt him, he feels no pain. It is far sadder for you than for him,” said Mr. Guildford, wishing he could spare her this ordeal.
But it was not protracted; soon, very soon there was no little Charlie lying there; only the deserted dwelling in which his innocent spirit had sojourned for four short years.
Then the young girl could no longer restrain her grief. The incentive to self-control was gone, the unnatural strain broken at last. She was weakened by her days and nights of watching, and such sorrow as this was new to her. She laid her head down on the pillow beside the still white face of the child she had loved so dearly, and cried as if literally her heart was breaking. She was not a girl who cried often or easily, and to such natures extreme emotion from its very rarity is terribly prostrating. Mrs. Moore took the commonplace view of the matter.
“I never saw Miss Cicely like this,” she said, “but it is better she should cry. It will do her good in the end; will it not, sir?”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Guildford. “If she seldom cries, she will be sadly exhausted by this. There is a good deal of nonsense talked about tears. To some natures they are like drops of blood.”
He made one or two efforts to persuade her to come away, but for some time it was useless.
“Oh! do let me stay here a little,” she prayed. “There is no need to tell any one yet. There is nothing to do. I must not cry to-morrow, for it would distress my father and mother; but do leave me for tonight. And, oh! to-morrow, I must write and tell Amy. Oh! how can I? Her little Charlie that I was to take care of till she came back. And now I can never do anything for him again. I even put on this dress to please him this morning, or was it yesterday morning?” she said confusedly, lifting her head suddenly and looking up in Mr. Guildford’s face with an almost wild expression in her blue eyes. “He was so fond of it, he called it my picture frock. I shall never, never put it on again. I should like never to see it again. Oh, Charlie!”
Then she buried her face in the pillow, and her whole figure shook convulsively. Mrs. Moore looked at Mr. Guildford in despair. Suddenly an idea struck her.
“Miss Cicely, my dear,” she said, “I am very sorry to disturb you, but I think you are forgetting that Mr. Guildford must be very tired. He came from Sothernbay in a hurry, you know, and has been up all night and has had nothing to eat. And it is nearly morning now.”
A faint streak of dawn was creeping in at the window—the cold ghastly dawn of a rainy February morning. Cicely sat up, but shivered as she saw it. This time yesterday she had been glad to see the daylight, for the night had been long and trying, and Charlie had wished many times “morning would come.” Oh! how dreadful these trifling associations sometimes are. “This time yesterday” our darling was still here; “this day last week,” bright and full of life perhaps; “this time last year,”—ah! what bitter changes since then;—to the young, the first tear-stained entries in life’s calendar seem to dim all the leaves of the book, even the white blank sheets of the future; to the old, the gentle, merciful haze of distance mellows and softens the darkness of even the darkest pages.
But Cicely was young, not old, and today the sight of the cold, careless daylight returning again, “as if nothing were the matter,” was strange and repulsive. She shivered, and for a moment covered her face with her hands. But the old servant had touched the right chord. When Miss Methvyn spoke again, it was in quite a different tone.
“I have been very selfish,” she said with a sort of simple dignity, “very selfish and thoughtless. Mr. Guildford, you must for give me.”
Then she stood up and was moving away, when a thought struck her, and she turned back.
“I have not thanked you,” she said, looking up at Mr. Guildford and holding out her hand. “Good-bye, and thank youverymuch. It will always be a comfort to us that you came so quickly, otherwise we might have thought that something else might have been done.”
Her lips quivered again, in spite of her effort to be calm. She turned quickly, and stooping over the bedside, once more kissed the little face and then hurried away.
An hour later, when the grey dreary dawn was growing into dull daylight, Mr. Guildford was driven away again—to Greybridge Station this time. The same young groom drove as on the night before, but he was very silent this morning, and his eyes looked as if he had been crying all night.
“Little Master” had left some sore hearts behind him.
“Se non e vero, e ben trovato.”
Italian Saying.
“All the land. . . .Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloudDrew downward; but all else of heaven was pureUp to the sun, and May from verge to verge,And May with me from head to heel.”
The Gardener’s Daughter.
AFEWweeks past, and with the exception of a note from old Dr. Farmer, thanking him in Colonel Methvyn’s name for his readiness in obeying the summons, Mr. Guildford heard no more of the family at Greystone. Sometimes he could almost have fancied the whole occurrence a dream.
The weather grew steadily milder: some of the Sothernbay invalids began to talk of going home; others improved enough to be a good deal cheerier than they had been; a few, too far gone to be recalled by even the balmiest air and brightest sun shine, died. Mr. Guildford was used to sad sights, yet not so used to them as to be insensible to the ever-varying individual sadness of each; but among the many phases of sorrow and suffering he had witnessed during this last winter, no scene had left a stronger impression upon him than that of the death of the little boy at Greystone Abbey. He had come upon it so suddenly and unexpectedly; it seemed peculiarly sad that the little fellow was so far away from his parents, that weeks must pass before they could even know of their loss. He could not forget the anguish in the young aunt’s voice when she had exclaimed, “to-morrow, oh! to-morrow, I must write to tell Amy.” He often thought about her, and always with pity and interest. But few things seemed more unlikely than his ever learning more of Miss Methvyn or her family.
Two months after the February night of his fruitless journey to Haverstock, Mr. Guildford was surprised at receiving another letter from old Dr. Farmer, expressing a great wish to see him on as early a day as he could conveniently name. Dr. Farmer wrote of himself as in bad health, and on the eve of leaving home for some months. He offered to meet Mr. Guildford at Sothernbay if necessary, but at the same time showed plainly that he would be glad to be spared the journey. Mr. Guildford was not very busy, the “slack season” for Sothernbay was beginning; he wrote therefore to Dr. Farmer expressing his readiness to meet him at the old doctor’s own house at Greybridge, wondering a little as he did so what he could be wanted for this time, and feeling some curiosity as to whether the summons was again connected with the family at Greystone Abbey.
It proved to be so.
“Bessie,” said Mr. Guildford to his sister the evening after he had been over at Greybridge to see Dr. Farmer, “you are always wanting me to have a change. I am thinking of arranging to have one every week.”
“What do you mean, Edmond?” said Mrs. Crichton. “A change that came every week wouldn’t be a change. You might as well say Sunday was a change.”
“So it is—to me at least. That is to say, when I can go to church. I like going to church very much. One can think so comfortably, with such perfect security from interruption; that’s a very pleasant change to me,” said Mr. Guildford.
“Is that all you go to church for?” said Bessie with mild reproach. “And you used to be such a good little boy! I remember the first time you went to church, how still you sat, and how everybody praised you when we came out.”
“Well, I don’t jump about now, do I?” said Mr. Guildford. “I don’t see why I should never be praised now as well as when I was a little boy. Why don’t you praise me, Bessie? It’s very nice to be praised; and it’s far harder to be good when one’s big than when one’s little. You should remember that, Bessie, and encourage me sometimes. You know I do everything you tell me, don’t I?”
But Mrs. Crichton knitted on perseveringly, counting the stitches in a low voice, and taking no notice of her brother’s remarks. She was not fond of being made fun of, and when Edmond talked in this half-lazy, half-bantering way, she waxed suspicious.
“One, two, three, four, take two together,” she murmured. “These socks are foryou, Edmond,” she observed, in a “coals of-fire-on-your-head” tone.
“Are they? It’s very good of you to make them for me, but I hope they are not of that prickly wool, Bessie. Some you knitted for me, made me feel as if little needles were running into my feet. Did you knit my socks for me when I was a little boy? If you did, I expect they were of soft wool then; weren’t they?”
Mrs. Crichton tried to go on knitting gravely, but her brother, standing behind her, managed to give every now and then judicious little jogs to her elbows, which much interfered with the progress of the socks. At first, Mrs. Crichton thought the jogs were accidental, and bore them philosophically enough, with a “Take care, Edmond,” or, “Please don’t shake my chair.” But a more energetic jog than usual exhausted her patience.
“Edmond, you are really too bad,” she exclaimed, “I believe you are shaking me on purpose. Just look now, I have dropped two stitches! What is the matter with you, you great, idle boy? Who would think you were a learned man, a solemn, wise doctor?”
She let her knitting fall on her lap, and turning round her pleasant face, looked up at him with fond pride shining out of her eyes. She was only ten years his senior, but her affection for him was almost motherly—she had been the only mother he had known, and no child of her own had ever interfered with her love for her early orphaned little brother.
“What are you looking at me for, Bessie?” he asked.
“I was wondering if you are handsome. I mean if any one else would think you so,” she said naïvely.
Mr. Guildford laughed. “I don’t suppose anybody but you ever thought about it,” he said carelessly.
“Your wife will,” said Bessie. And as she said so, she thought to herself that this shadowy personage would be hard to please were she other than proud of her husband. The bare possibility of her not being so, gave Bessie a momentary grudge at her imaginary sister-in-law. Yet Mr. Guildford was not handsome, not even interestingly ugly, which often serves the purpose just as well. He was well made and well proportioned; he was neither very tall nor very short, he had no striking peculiarity of appearance of any kind. But the grave face could look sunny enough sometimes, the keen grey eyes could soften into sympathy and tenderness, the dark brown hair seemed still to have some of the brightness of boyhood about it—he looked like a man for whom the best things of life were yet to come; whose full powers were fresh and unexhausted. There was plenty of strength in the face; strength which the future might possibly harden into inflexibility; strength which already faintly threatened to destroy some of the finer touches of the young man’s character, by concentrating itself into too narrow a channel, too great independence of external sympathy.
“Leave off knitting for a minute or two, Bessie,” said Mr. Guildford. “I want to tell you of rather an unusual proposal I have had made to me to-day. Do you know where I have been, by the bye?”
“Of course not. You never tell me where you are going, and you don’t suppose I ask Sims, do you?” said Mrs. Crichton virtuously. “Where have you been?”
“Do you remember my being sent for a few weeks ago by a family I had never heard of—a family living near Haverstock?” inquired her brother.
“Where the little boy died?” said Bessie, with more interest. “Oh! yes, I remember. Have they sent for you again?”
“Not exactly. But I have been asked if I would undertake to visit there regularly for the next few months. The father—Colonel Methvyn—is an invalid, and this old Dr. Farmer, who has looked after him for years, is going away for some months; he is ill himself, and is anxious to make some comfortable arrangement for Colonel Methvyn. So he thought of me, knowing the summer was not my busy time. I shall have to go to Greystone, once a week, for some months to come. Don’t you think it will be a nice change for me, Bessie? perhaps they will ask me to stay to dinner sometimes.”
Mrs. Crichton looked up doubtfully.
“Are you in fun, Edmond?” she asked. “I should not have thought it the sort of thing you would like to undertake. You like to be so independent, and I dare say this Colonel Methvyn is a disagreeable, stuck-up old man, who would quite look down upon a Sothernbay doctor.”
“I don’t care. If he does what I tell him, I’m quite willing to do my best for him. If he doesn’t, I should give it up,” said Mr. Guildford carelessly. “Still you are right, Bessie, in a sense. It isn’t thesortof thing I generally care about at all. I don’t quite know what made me agree to it.”
His face grew graver; he seemed to be revolving some question in his own mind. “It will be nice to be forced into the country every week during the summer,” he said lightly. “I fancy that was partly the reason I undertook it. I don’t fancy Colonel Methvyn is what you call a ‘stuck-up’ old man. He really suffers a great deal, Farmer tells me, and bears it very well. He was a strong, active man not many years ago, but he had a very bad fall in the hunting-field, and has never recovered it, and never will. He doesn’t require much doctoring, but Mrs. Methvyn gets nervous about him, and so on the whole it is better that some one should see him regularly. Farmer says it seems to cheer him too. He takes great interest in all that is going on. Till this year he has been well enough to go to town for two or three months with his wife and daughter; but he seems to have failed lately—the little boy’s death affected him a good deal.”
“Was the little boy his son?” asked Bessie.
“Oh! no; his grandson. So you won’t mind my leaving you once a week, Bessie, for an evening? Sometimes I may have to stay all night if I go by the late train.”
“It won’t matter much to me, Edmond,” said Mrs. Crichton regretfully. “I must really go home in a fortnight. I dare say it will be a good thing for you to leave Sothernbay for a little, if it is only for a few hours. You know I am always telling you, Edmond, that you will grow into an old bachelor before you know what you are about. You never see any one but your patients. I believe it is years since you have gone out to dinner even. I shall be very glad for you to make acquaintance with some people out of Sothernbay if they treat you properly.”
“I shall not require and I don’t intend to ‘make acquaintance’ with any of the family except my patient, Colonel Methvyn,” said Mr. Guildford with slight haughtiness, half repenting his unusual communicativeness to his sister. “I am the last man on earth to make a social stepping-stone of my profession, or to wish to have any relations except professional ones with people out of my own sphere. You might know that, Bessie, I should think.”
Mrs. Crichton looked hurt. “You need not take me up so, Edmond,” she said rather pettishly. “I don’t understand what you mean about sociable stepping-stones; you use such odd expressions. As for people being out of your own sphere, I know what that means, but I think you are very foolish. You don’t mean to say that you haven’t every right to call yourself a gentleman? You will be saying next I am not a lady.”
“‘Gentleman and lady’ are wide words nowadays,” began Mr. Guildford teasingly, but seeing that his sister looked really annoyed, he changed his tone. “Don’t be vexed, Bessie,” he said coaxingly; “I think I am pretty reasonable on these points really. I am afraid it is true that I am growing rather bearish. I wish you would come and live with me altogether and civilize me.”
“I can’t dear, you know I can’t,” replied Bessie, mollified instantly. “You know I promised Mr. Crichton that I would live at Hazel Bank most of the year and keep everything as he liked it, and it’s only right, (when you remember howveryhandsomely he provided for me), that his sisters should have the pleasure of coming there often.”
“Yes, I know. You’re quite right,” said Edmond. Then he fell into a brown study for some minutes. He was lying on the sofa with his hands clasped above his head. “How like he is just now to what he was when he was a boy!” thought Bessie as she glanced at him. Suddenly he spoke.
“I shall be driven to marry, I believe,” he said. “It’s so uncomfortable when you go away, Bessie. I like the feeling of a woman about the house, I think. I believe you come and go on purpose to make me miss you. I can’t think why you want me to marry. Most sisters would set themselves against it.”
“It’s very silly of them then,” said Bessie sagely. “If you marry somebody nice, and I don’t think you would marry anybodynotnice, I should be far more comfortable about you.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Mr. Guildford. And then he took up a book, and Mrs. Crichton’s attention was again absorbed in her knitting.
A few days later Mr. Guildford paid his second visit to Greystone Abbey. He had intended going there early in the day, but found it impossible to do so. It was not till between five and six in the afternoon that he found himself getting out of the train at Greybridge station.
Colonel Methvyn’s carriage was to meet him by this train—had he come by an earlier one, he intended to have walked to the Abbey—but it had not yet made its appearance. Mr. Guildford set off along the road to meet it.
It was spring now, late spring, all but May. After the severe winter, spring had come with even more than its usual sweetness and radiance. April seemed eager to welcome May; there was a glow and promise everywhere; a sound of cheery bustle and preparation among the leaves, a whisper of rejoicing in the “sweet breathing of the fields,” in the “kisses of the daisies.” For once in a way Mr. Guildford yielded to the soft sensuous enjoyment of the moment; he strolled along the pretty country road where the dear primroses were nestling in the hedges, and the coyer violets too, all but hidden in their leaves; he listened, dreamily to the pretty country sounds, the ever-distant plaintive “cuck-coo,” the near at-hand homely clucking of a matronly hen and her brood, the barking of dogs, the creaking of a mill-wheel, the voices of little children at play, all mingled into a pleasant whole of living, peaceful happiness. For once in a way, the young man yielded to the impression that sometimes in the pauses of a busy life, we are tempted to accept as the interpretation of the dream, that after all the world is a happy place, that life is a good and pleasant thing, that to enjoy and not to suffer is the rule! And a new sort of hopefulness and expectation seemed to thrill through his whole being. Ever afterwards that evening stroll—that bit of commonplace country road—seemed to him to have been an actual realisation of the spirit of the spring; to have contained a breath of the very essence of youth and hope and promise. He did not ask himself why these feelings seemed so suddenly strong within him; he fancied it only the influence of the fresh, pure air, and pleasant sights and sounds. He would not have owned to himself, he did not even suspect the curious eagerness, the more than interest with which he had for some days looked forward to his visit to Greystone Abbey. He did not know till the light of the future shone back upon the past how already a sweet, grave woman’s face had begun to change the world to him, to infuse fresh meaning into the flowers and the sunshine, to set to new music the songs of the birds.
Before he had reached the bend where the road, hitherto little more than lane, grew into wider, unshaded highway, Colonel Methvyn’s carriage met him. It was a phaeton this time, and the driver was not Mr. Guildford’s old acquaintance.
The drive in the pleasant evening air along the smooth, well-kept high-road, was very different from his last approach to Greystone, and when they reached the Abbey, by a different entrance from the gate on the Haverstock Road, Mr. Guildford hardly recognised the place as the same. It was picturesque certainly, as he had expected, but more homely, less imposing, and venerable than his imagination, from the little he had seen of it, had unconsciously pictured it. The hall, which was as lofty as the two stories of the rest of the house, and the wide porch with its quaint stone seats, were the only remains of the original building; the rest had been added at various later dates, some half-ruined walls and outbuildings having been restored and taken into the plan of the house. The walls, both new and old however, were well grown over with ivy, so that no incongruity was visible at first sight, and the effect of the whole was harmonious and pleasing.
Inside, the hall looked scarcely less attractive in the softly fading light of the April evening, than when Mr. Guildford had last seen it in the ruddy blaze of the great log fire. But the servant who had opened the door led him quickly across the long passage he remembered, into a smaller hall with a wide low window at one end, and doors at two sides, one of which he opened and ushered the new-comer into a sort of half-library, half-morning room. It was a pretty room, long and low, with windows down to the ground, opening into a little flower-garden, gay already with crocuses and tulips. Mr. Guildford, seeing no one, crossed the room and stood looking out at the flower-beds. But in a moment a faint rustle at the other end of the library told him that he had been mistaken in imagining it unoccupied; in the furthest off corner a lady was sitting at a little table writing. Apparently she had not heard him come in, but now she looked up suddenly and saw him. For a quarter of an instant, before he was conscious of anything but a slight figure in a grey dress, Mr. Guildford imagined the face, when it looked up, would be Miss Methvyn’s. But he was quickly undeceived. Half mechanically he had made a step or two forward, and seeing this the lady rose from her seat and did the same; then stood before him with a pretty sort of bewilderment.
“I beg your pardon,” he began, resorting to the Englishman’s invariable relief in awkward positions. “I quite thought you were Miss Methvyn. I did not see any one in the room when I came in.”
Long before he had finished the sentence, he had acknowledged to himself that the person before him was the loveliest girl he had ever seen. She was not tall; perhaps her extreme gracefulness made her appear smaller than she really was, or rather made one forget to think about her height at all. She was very simply dressed; but it was a simplicity productive of great results. No dress could have shown her figure to more advantage than the soft slate coloured stuff on the plain make of which apparently no thought had been bestowed; no colour could have better contrasted with the clear, marble-like complexion, rich dark hair and softly brilliant eyes, than this unobtrusive neutral tint; and when, looking up in response to Mr. Guildford’s slightly clumsy apology, the bright colour rose in her cheeks, the effect was complete.
“I am so sorry,” she said very timidly. “I did not know that any one would be coming. I fear I am in the way. Miss Methvyn perhaps does not know that Monsieur is—that you are here. Can I tell her?”
She spoke with a sort of appealing childishness, and her foreign accent was quite perceptible. “Who can she be?” was Mr. Guildford’s first thought. And “She evidently does not know who I am,” was his second.
“Oh! no, thank you. I should apologise for disturbing you,” he began. “It is not Miss Methvyn I have come to see,” he went on, feeling himself somehow stiff and awkward. “I am waiting to see Colonel Methvyn. I have come from Sothernbay,—instead of Dr. Farmer,” he added, seeing she still looked perplexed.
“Doctore Farmère,” she repeated. Then a light seemed to break upon her. “Ah! but I am stupid;” she exclaimed, a merry smile dimpling over her face. “You are then Monsieur the doctor! I did not know. All is still strange to me. There are so few days since I left the house—the home! And here in England all is so different. No longer the dear mamma to direct me. I fear monsieur will have thought me strange, unpolite—to have interrupted him.”
Again the vivid red dyed her cheeks, and at the mention of “the dear mamma,” tears, real tears stood in her eyes.
“Poor little thing; what a mere child she is!” thought Mr. Guildford. But aloud he only said kindly, “I think, mademoiselle,” (the word came instinctively) “it was I, not you, that was guilty of interrupting. Pray do not—”
But at that moment the door, near to which they were standing, opened, and Cicely came in. They both turned. When she saw them, a slight, the very slightest expression of surprise crossed Miss Methvyn’s face, but she came forward quickly, and shook hands with Mr. Guildford without a moment’s hesitation.
“I fear I have kept you waiting,” she said simply; “my father wished me to take you to see him, as—as I have seen you before—a new face makes him a little nervous sometimes—and I had one or two letters to finish for the post.”
Mr. Guildford looked at her as she spoke. Yes, there was the same fair, grave face, looking fairer and graver even from the effect of the heavy black mourning dress, the same quiet eyes looking straight up into his as she spoke, the same thick coils of hair with golden lights upon it now, as she stood with the evening sun full upon her. The same, yet different. She seemed older than when he had seen her before; he could almost have fancied his former impression of her girlishness of face and manner to have been mistaken. There was perfect self possession now in every tone and look. Mr. Guildford felt it to be in a sense infectious. He answered in the same matter-of-fact, business-like way.
“Thank you. I am quite ready to see Colonel Methvyn whenever it suits you. At the same time it is not of the least consequence to me if I wait a little. I arranged to return by a late train, as I was not able to come early.”
“I am glad of that. It was very considerate of you to arrange that your first visit should not be a hurried one,” said Miss Methvyn with the slightly formal courtesy of manner that Mr. Guildford began to understand as being habitual with her. Then turning to the young lady in the grey dress, who still stood with an air of half hesitation beside them, “Geneviève, are your letters ready? It is very nearly post time, dear.”
She spoke kindly, but with the tone of an older person to one many years younger. And there was a pretty air of half apology in the French girl’s reply.
“Oh! thank you. I go to finish them at once. It was only that I was not quite sure if monsieur,” with a glance in Mr. Guildford’s direction, “if this gentleman had been announced. I was going to seek you, my cousin.”
Cicely smiled. She fancied Geneviève had started up in affright, at finding herselftête-à-têtewith the stranger. She knew that her cousin had been brought up very secludedly; perhaps, too, she unconsciously associated the idea of almost conventual restraint with every French girl’s education, and she was prepared to make full allowance for Geneviève’s inexperience, and timidity.
“You must let me introduce you to each other, I think,” said Miss Methvyn. “Geneviève, this is Mr. Guildford, who has kindly agreed to come all the way from Sothernbay to see my father in Dr. Farmer’s absence. My cousin, Miss Casalis,” she continued, turning to Mr. Guildford, “has come averylong way to see all of us. We intend to make her very fond of England to turn her into an Englishwoman, don’t we, Geneviève?”
Geneviève smiled sweetly, but rather sadly.
“You are very good for me, my cousin,” she said, “but one must love one’s country, one’s home—le foyer paternel,—above all when one has quitted them for the first time,” and she sighed gently.
It was curious how very French she had become since finding herself in England.
Cicely looked at her kindly. “Of course,” she said cheerfully, “of course, you must feel a little home-sick at first.”
Mr. Guildford said nothing, but he fancied Miss Methvyn treated the matter rather cavalierly. An English girl’s sentimentality would have annoyed him, but this poor little thing!—He really pitied her.
“I think my father is expecting us,” said Miss Methvyn, turning to Mr. Guildford. Then she led the way out of the room, across the hall, down the long passage, and up one flight of stairs, the young man following her.
“Is Colonel Methvyn pretty well today?” he inquired, as they went along. “I mean, is this what you consider one of his good days?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Cicely consideringly, stopping for a moment as she spoke. “He has been better this last week or two on the whole. Last month,” her voice faltered a very little, and for an instant she hesitated; “last month he was very far from well. My little nephew’s death was a great shock to him. He will probably speak about it to you. I wanted to tell you so. It was a comfort to him—to us all—that you saw Charlie. I gathered from what Dr. Farmer told me that you thought him constitutionally a very delicate child.”
She looked up with a wistful inquiry in her eyes, somewhat at variance with her perfectly calm tone of voice. Mr. Guildford understood her.
“I did think so,” he said without hesitation. “I believe him to have been an exceedingly fragile child. I have no hesitation in saying that his living to grow up would have been little short of a miracle. And I am equally sure that the greatest care must have been taken of him to rear him even so far.”
Miss Methvyn was silent for a moment.
“Thank you for telling me this,” she said at last quietly. “I am sure it is true. You will say so to my father, if he comes upon the subject? Invalids, you know,” she went on hurriedly, “are apt to become morbid about anything they think too much about. My father could not for long feel satisfied that everything had been done. It was natural; but,” she paused for a little, “but one must try not to judge by results,” she said at last, as she opened the door of her father’s sitting-room.
Colonel Methvyn half lay, half sat on a sort of couch so constructed as to afford him the greatest possible ease and variety of posture. On a low chair beside him sat his wife, a fair, somewhat careworn, but still handsome woman, who must, once upon a time, have been beautiful. More beautiful, strictly speaking than her daughter, thought Mr. Guildford, as he glanced at them for a moment as they stood together, Mrs. Methvyn having risen as Cicely and the stranger entered. For the resemblance was strong enough to admit of, if not to provoke, comparison. There was more colour and contrast about the mother; her hair and eyes were some shades darker, her complexion had evidently been more brilliant, her expression was more changeful. She looked many years younger than her husband, though in reality he was only ten years her senior; her manner to him was full of anxious devotion, he was evidently her first thought.
Colonel Methvyn greeted Mr. Guildford cordially but nervously; Mrs. Methvyn made some commonplace remark about the weather with the evident object of setting the stranger at his ease, her kindly intention being, however, to some extent defeated by the scarcely veiled anxiety with which she watched to see if the impression made by the stranger upon her husband was to be a favourable one. It was altogether a little stiff and uncomfortable. Miss Methvyn came to the rescue.
“Mother,” she said gently, “Geneviève is just finishing her letter, and you said you had a little bit to put in. There is not much time.”
Mrs. Methvyn looked at her husband irresolutely; a quick glance passed between her daughter and Mr. Guildford. “You don’t mind mother leaving you, do you, papa?” said Cicely.
“Not for a few minutes. You will come back in a few minutes, Helen?” said the invalid.
Cicely was on the alert to take advantage of the permission, and passing her arm through her mother’s, they left the room together.
“He seems a sensible sort of young man,” said Mrs. Methvyn to her daughter, when they were out of hearing. “I do hope your father will take to him.”
“The only way is to leave them alone,” said Cicely. “I do hope papa will like him for more reasons than one. It will be a relief to you, poor mother, if he takes a fancy to Mr. Guildford—even two or three hours change will do you good.”
“Don’t say that, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn hastily. “I am not happy away from him. I always fancy he must be wanting me. And the most I can do seems nothing, as I have often told you, when I look back upon the past and think of all his goodness. And he is so patient! But do you know, Cicely, I don’t think your father’s spirits are as good as they were, though I can’t see that his health is worse.”
“Do you mean since Charlie’s death?” said Cicely quietly.
“No, not only that. It almost seems to me as if some new anxiety were on his mind,” answered Mrs. Methvyn. “He talks so much about you and your future.”
“But there is nothing to be anxious about in that?” exclaimed Cicely in surprise. “It is all settled as he wished.”
“Yes, but he has begun lately to say he wishes he could see you settled—he seems to dread anything coming in the way. When Trevor comes home again, I half expect something more definite may be proposed.”
“Do you mean that papa would prefer our engagement being more generally known?” inquired Cicely. “I don’t mind. It was papa’s own wish, you know, that it should not be formally announced, because it was likely to be a long one. But I am sure neither Trevor nor I would object to its being known if it would please papa. Of course that would make no difference about its length. Itmustbe a long one.”
“I don’t know, dear. Sometimes I think it would be better not to delay it so long,” said Mrs. Methvyn with some hesitation.
They were in the large hall by now. Mrs. Methvyn had sat down on one of the sofas, Cicely standing near. As her mother spoke, she knelt down on the floor beside her, and looked up earnestly in her face.
“Mamma, that could not be. Oh! don’t let it be proposed,” she said. “I could not marry Trevor if it were to take me away from you and papa while I know you want me? What would you do without me? Oh! no, no; you must not talk of sending me away from you for a long time. Not at least till Amiel comes home again.”
“But, dear, we must consider the Fawcetts’ wishes—Trevor’s own wishes—as well as ours,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“Trevor doesn’t mind waiting,” said Cicely naïvely. “I don’t think he is in any hurry to be married. We understand each other perfectly. But I don’t quite understandyou,mamma. I don’t believe you have told me all that is in your mind. You first said it was my father who wanted to see me married, and then you jumped off to the other side and said it was Trevor. I believe the truth is,youwant to get rid of me.”
She spoke playfully, but with a slight plaintiveness.
“My darling, what nonsense!” exclaimed her mother. “What we should do without you I cannot even think. But I am not inconsistent. What I mean is that I can see your father sometimes of late has begun to fear the Fawcetts may not like the long delay. Frederica said something of the kind before him one day.”
“She didn’t mean it. She often speaks at random. In reality, she is very well pleased to defer the day when her son shall be hers no longer,” said Cicely lightly.
Just then the hall clock struck.
“Geneviève’s letter, mamma,” exclaimed Miss Methvyn. “She is in the library.”
“I will go at once,” said her mother, rising as she spoke. “Poor Geneviève how she must feel leavingherhome. I hope she will be happy with us, Cicely. She seems so sweet and gentle, and is so very pretty.”
“Yes, she is lovely,verylovely,” said Cicely thoughtfully, “and I hope she will be happy here. Mamma,” with a change of tone, “you will have to ask Mr. Guildford to stay to dinner.”
Mrs. Methvyn hurried away to write the letter she wished Geneviève to enclose. But it was too late. She was obliged to defer it till the next day, and there was only time for Geneviève to add a word to this effect before the post-bag had to be closed.