“Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care!Ye’ll break my heart, ye warbling birdsThat wanton through the flow’ry thorn;Ye mind me o’ departed joys,Departed never to return.”
ITwas a very dark night. The full moon, whose services had been reckoned upon to light the guests to and from the Lingthurst ball, was not in an obliging humour. She had gone to bed again in the clouds so early, and the curtains behind which she had hidden herself were so thick, that, for all the use she had been of, she might as well not have risen at all. It was so dark that the cautious old Greystone coachman thought it necessary to drive extra slowly; it seemed to Cicely that hours, if not whole days, or nights rather, had passed, when at last they turned in at the Abbey gates.
Not that she cared. She was not eager to be home now—what comfort could meet her there?—anywhere? What was anything in life to her now? What was life itself? A horrible mockery, a delusion, a sham from beginning to end. There was no goodness, no loyalty, no truth. All these things she had once—long ago it seemed already—believed in so firmly, that till now she had never realised how largely such faith had formed a part of her existence, or how frightful could be the results of its destruction. Already she had tasted the bitterest drop of the bitter cup;she had been deceivedby her nearest and dearest—by the one of all the world who should have been true to her.
“If even he had trusted me,” she moaned, “if he had come and told me all, I could have borne it. I am not beautiful as she is, I could have forgiven him; I could have believed that this new love had come upon him unawares, and that he had fought against it. If he had trusted me!”
To Geneviève, to her share in the whole, Cicely, in this first chaos of misery and indignation somehow hardly gave a thought. She shrank from her, it is true. She was thankful that Geneviève’s silence prevented the necessity of addressing her, but whatever Geneviève had done, however great her portion of responsibility, she wasonlyGeneviève—a new-comer, a comparative stranger. False-hearted, scheming, unscrupulous she might be—in a sense it did not seem to matter; for her conduct there was at least thepossibilityof the excuse of ignorance and inexperience,—there wasnotthe aggravation of a broken vow, of life-long affection trampled under foot.
Over and over again during the three quarters of an hour’s drive from Lingthurst these bitter thoughts chased each other round Cicely’s excited brain. The practical results of her discovery, the explanation she must come to with Trevor, what she must say to her parents, how they would look upon Geneviève—all these points she as yet forgot to consider. Extreme misery makes even the best of us selfish for the time. In Cicely’s nature there was no lack of magnanimity, but thefirstinstinct of the victim is not to heap coals of fire upon the head of him whose hand has dealt the cruel blow. Forgiveness, sincere and generous, would come in due time; but not yet. It was no small injury which Cicely Methvyn had received; that it would leave a life-long scar there could be no doubt: would the wound ever heal? was the question at present. Could the faith, once shattered so cruelly, ever again be made whole?
“If I live to be a hundred I can never endure greater suffering than that of this evening,” thought Cicely, as the carriage stopped at last and the cousins got out. That her present suffering could be increased—even, in a sense, overwhelmed by an anguish of a totally different nature—she would have maintained to be all but impossible. At twenty we are apt to be over hasty in declaring that we have already drunk of misery to the very dregs.
The hall-door was opened quickly. The light streaming out into the darkness dazzled Cicely’s eyes for the instant; she did not notice who it was that was standing just inside, evidently awaiting her. She was passing on, followed by Geneviève and the maid, when a slight exclamation from the latter startled her, and almost at the same moment the sound of her own name caused her to stop short.
“Miss Methvyn,” said a voice, which at first in her bewilderment she failed to recognise, “Miss Methvyn, will you wait a moment.”
Cicely turned; there before her stood the man from whom but a few hours before she had parted, as he said, for ever. What was he doing here again? What had brought him to Greystone in the middle of the night? Once, only once before had he been there at so unseasonable an hour. Cicely shuddered as she recalled that once before. He saw the shudder, even then, through the great unselfish pity which was softening his voice and shining out of his grave eyes; he caught the involuntary movement and groaned in his heart.
“It is hard, very hard upon me to have to break it to her,” he said to himself. “I, that am already repulsive to her. What canIsay to soothe or comfort? Why did they not send for Mr. Fawcett?”
Cicely stood still. Her pale face had little colour to lose; but what there was faded out of it utterly as she gazed, in but half-conscious terror, at Mr. Guildford. Quick as lightning the thought flashed through her mind, “I had forgotten about papa—I had actually forgotten about papa!” Aloud she only said, in a voice that even to herself sounded unnaturally hard and cold, “What is it, Mr. Guildford? What is it you have to tell me. If it is—any thing wrong, why did you not send for me before?”
“I have not been here very long,” began Mr. Guildford with a sort of apology in his manner very new to him. “It was by Mrs. Methvyn’s wish I waited here to see you when you first came in. We should have sent for you at once, an hour ago that is to say, if—if it had been any use.”
“What do you mean?” said Cicely fiercely.
Mr. Guildford glanced round him with a silent appeal. “Will no one help me?” his look seemed to say. Parker had disappeared, but Geneviève was still standing close behind Cicely, and to her his eyes travelled. She understood him, but instead of responding to his unspoken request, she covered her face with her hands, uttered a smothered cry, and rushed away.
“Little fool,” muttered Mr. Guildford, between his teeth.
But Cicely did not seem to have observed her cousin’s defalcation. She stood there, still in the same attitude, before Mr. Guildford, and still there was an approach to fierceness in her tone, as she repeated her inquiry. “What do you mean? Tell me what you mean.”
Then the young man gathered up his courage.
“I mean,” he said slowly, speaking with an effort which he did not attempt to conceal, “I mean that even if you had been sent for the very moment Colonel Methvyn was taken ill, it would have been no use. He was utterly unconscious from the first he never spoke again—from the very commencement of the attack there was nothing whatever to be done; not all the doctors in Europe could have restored him to consciousness, or prolonged his life, for five minutes. And, I think,” he added, speaking still more slowly and reluctantly, “I think it was better so.”
Cicely had kept her eyes fixed upon him while he spoke; they seemed to drag the unwilling words out of him by the intensity of their gaze, something in their expression made him instinctively conscious that any attempt at softening what he had to tell, any common-place expressions of sympathy and regret would have been utterly futile; the girl could not have taken in their meaning. Now, when he left off speaking, the strain seemed to slacken; the terrible stony stare left her eyes; she threw out her hands like a child in terror—as if for protection and support. “You mean,” she said, “oh! I know what you mean—but youmustn’tsay it. Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you come sooner? I can’t, indeed Ican’tbear it.”
What could he do—what could he say? The relentless summons had gone forth—Cicely Methvyn was fatherless. Itwasvery hard upon him!
“I would have given ten years of my life to save him for you, if he could have been saved. I would have cut off my right hand rather than have been the one to tell you. I cannot bear to see you suffer,” he broke out passionately. Then he turned away from her, in despair, ashamed of his want of self-control, heart-broken that he could say nothing to comfort her.
The sight of his distress awoke the unselfishness that seldom slumbered long in Cicely’s heart.
“Forgive me,” she exclaimed, “forgive me. I didn’t know what I was saying. I will try to bear it, indeed I will. I know nothing could have been done, if you say so. Tell me about it—tell me how it was—but must I not go to mamma?”
Mr. Guildford shook his head. “No, not yet,” he said, “she was very much excited. I was a little alarmed about her, and gave her something to soothe her. I think she has fallen asleep. I promised to wait here to meet you, and that seemed to satisfy her.”
Then he told her all he knew. He had been sent for about ten o’clock, but, by the time he reached Greystone, even Mrs. Methvyn had seen that his coming would be of no avail; the life had all but flickered out already. “It was as I always feared it would be,” said Mr. Guildford, hesitating again. “I always dreaded the effect of any great shock.”
He looked at Cicely inquiringly. Had she anticipated anything of the kind; was she in the least acquainted with the nature of the shock, which for some time must have been impending?
“A great shock,” she repeated, “what great shock? He did not know—”
She stopped short. With lightning-like rapidity her mind flew back to the events of that evening—could her father have come to the knowledge of what she had discovered? But almost before she had time to dismiss the idea as wild and improbable in the last degree, Mr. Guildford’s next words put it altogether to flight.
“It was some news that came in a telegram this evening, that—that brought on this attack,” he said reluctantly, not feeling sure of his ground with Cicely, but judging it wisest to put her in possession at once of all that there was to tell. By the expression of her face, he saw at once that she did not in the least know to what he referred.
“What was the telegram about? Did you see it?” she demanded.
He hesitated again. “You had better tell me,” said Cicely, “that is, unless mamma did not want me to know.”
“Oh! no; Mrs. Methvyn wished me to tell you everything. The telegram was about the failure of some company in which Colonel Methvyn had largely invested. It told him of a great loss of property.”
“And was that all?” said Cicely. “As if that would have mattered! Oh! Mr. Guildford, why should he have taken that to heart so?”
“It was only natural that he should do so,” said Mr. Guildford. There was no necessity at present for telling her how great he suspected the extent of the calamity to be, and indeed just now the loss of a few hundred pounds or of a quarter of a million would have been looked upon by Cicely as matters of equal indifference. “It was only natural he should have felt it as he did,” he repeated. “That is why I think, perhaps, it is best his consciousness never returned. He would only have awakened to distress and anxiety, and at the very best his life could only have been prolonged for a few hours.”
“But he would have known us, he could have said good-bye; we could have told him how little we cared about the loss of the money,” cried Cicely. “Oh! I cannot think it is better never to have seen him again—I cannot.”
For the first time the tears came into her eyes. She sat down and cried unrestrainedly, refusing to be comforted.
Mr. Guildford left her. He was anxious to know if Mrs. Methvyn was asleep. On the staircase he met the housekeeper.
“Miss Cicely is in the hall—alone,” he said. “She knows. I have told her. Do you think you can get her to go to bed?”
Poor Mrs. Moore’s eyes were streaming. She could not speak, but she nodded her head and set off in the direction of the hall, so Mr. Guildford felt that his task was accomplished.
Cicely went to bed, and, strange as it may seem, to sleep. She was only twenty; she had never been really ill in her life, and sorrow was unfamiliar to her; there were vigour and vitality enough in her to stand a much more prolonged attack from adversity, though, as she laid her head on her pillow, she said to herself that but for her mother she would pray never to wake again.
“It could not be wrong,” she thought. “Except mother nobody wants me. Amiel has her husband, but poor mamma has only me now.” And the thought seemed asomethingto cling to; it made the idea of living on, notwithstanding the wreck of her future, endurable, if nothing more. So Cicely slept.
Who does not know the awful agony of the first waking after some overwhelming sorrow has befallen us? The shuddering glimmer of recollection thatsomethinghas happened, the frantic clutch at the blessed unconsciousness of the sleep that is leaving us, the wild refusal to recall the truth! And, oh! the unutterable loathing at life, at existence even when at last we realize the whole and find that another day has dawned, that the heartless sunshine is over the world again, that we ourselves must eat and drink and clothe ourselves, andlive!If we could see that our individual misery made its mark, if the birds would only leave off singing, if the flowers would all wither, if a veil could be drawn over the sun, would it seem quite so bad?
“No,” thought Cicely, “if the trees and the flowers and all the living things seemed to care, I think I could endure it. But they don’t—they don’t! The world is brighter than ever this morning, though the brightness has died out of my life for ever.”
She was standing by the open window in her room. She had forgotten that the blinds should be drawn down, and was gazing with reproachful appreciation at the beauty of the autumn morning. Yesterday it would have filled her with delight, to-day its very perfection repelled and wounded her. Even Nature, with whose varying moods she had been ever so ready to sympathize, whose face she had learnt to know so well, had played her false. “Why is it so fine to-day?” she said to herself; “why is it not cloudy and raining? Why should it ever be anything else, there must always have been, there always must be, thousands of people to whom the sunshine is as dreadful as it is to-day to me.”
She turned wearily away, and began to think what she had to do. She had been with her mother already this morning, and poor Mrs. Methvyn had clung to her in a way that was pitiful to see.
“You won’t leave me just yet, my darling,” her mother had whispered, and Cicely felt thankful that she could give her the assurance she asked for, without at present adding to her sorrows by explaining the real state of the case. And this reflection led to another. Her father had at least been spared the knowledge of Trevor’s faithlessness.
“Yes,” thought Cicely, “I can be thankful for that.”
Then suddenly she recollected what Mr. Guildford had told her of the news contained in the fatal telegram. Her mother had not alluded to it. “We will talk about everything afterwards. Not yet,” she had said to Cicely. What could “everything” mean? Could it be that the loss of property, the tidings of which had, she reflected with a shudder, actually killed her father; could it be that this loss was somethingverygreat? For herself she did not care; but when she thought of her delicate mother, a vague apprehension for the first time made itself felt. She wished that she had asked Mr. Guildford to tell her more; from his manner she fancied he was in possession of fuller details than he had mentioned to her; but for this it was now too late. Mr. Guildford had gone back to Sothernbay; the chances were that she would not see him again, as in all probability he would now hasten his departure from the neighbourhood.
“He need not have asked me to release him from his promise,” she said to herself with a sort of sorrowful bitterness.
There came a knock at the door. It was Parker.
“If you please, Miss Cicely,” she began timidly, “Miss Casalis has been asking how you are. She would be so pleased if you would let her come and sit with you, or do anythink;anythink she says she would be so pleased to do.”
“Tell her there is nothing whatever she can do to help me, or my mother. And for to-day, at least, Parker, I wish to be leftquitealone.”
The cold tone was discouraging, but the pale wan face and poor swollen eyes, moved Parker to another effort.
“Miss Casalis do seem very miserable,” she said insinuatingly. “I should not have thought she was a young lady as would have taken it to heart so. I don’t think she closed a eye last night. I do wish, Miss Cicely, my dear, you would let her come and sit with you. She’s wandering about like a ghost. She seems as if she could settle to nothing.”
Parker’s conscience was pricked by the sight of Geneviève’s distress. She felt that she had done her injustice. Only the evening before, she had been far from amiably disposed to the girl, whose fresh loveliness had won the universal admiration which, according to the old servant’s way of thinking, belonged of right to “her own young lady,” and any appearance of indifference or carelessness would have confirmed her prejudice. But that Geneviève was in real distress, no one could doubt. “She must have a tender heart, for all her flighty, foreign ways,” thought Parker, and she waited with some anxiety for the result of her second appeal.
“I am sorry for her,” said Cicely slowly. The thought of the miserable little figure wandering about alone in the desolate rooms downstairs, the remembrance of Geneviève’s great brown, velvety eyes with the tears in them, moved her in spite of herself. “I am very sorry for her,” she repeated with a quiver in her voice. “I dare say she is very unhappy, but, Parker, I reallycannotsee her. I don’t want to see any one—not even, remember, Parker, not even Mr. Fawcett if he calls to-day.”
Parker gazed at her young lady in astonishment. “Not Mr. Trevor!” she exclaimed under her breath.
“No; I wish to seeno one,” repeated Cicely.
“There is never any telling how trouble will change people,” thought the old servant philosophically. “Poor Miss Cicely doesn’t hardly know how she feels yet; we must let her have her own way for awhile.”
She was leaving the room when Cicely called her back. “On second thoughts,” she said, speaking with an effort, “you may tell Miss Casalis that if she likes to come up here in half an hour or so, I will ask her to write some letters for me.”
Parker departed in triumph. Half an hour later Geneviève, pale, worn-looking, with great black circles under her eyes, and dressed in the plain black gown in which she had travelled from Hivèritz, crept into the room; Cicely looked at her and her heart melted.
“Will you write these letters for me, Geneviève?” she said, pointing to a slip of paper on which she had written down some addresses. “I can easily tell you what to say. Mother asked me to see about her mourning—and I think you had better write home to-day to tell your mother what has happened.”
Her lips quivered, she turned her head away. Geneviève threw her arms round her.
“Oh! Cicely, dear Cicely, Idolove you. Ido. I am so sorry, oh! I am so sorry. Oh, Cicely, I wish I had never come here!”
Cicely disengaged herself gently, very gently, from her cousin’s embrace.
“I am glad you are sorry for our sorrow, Geneviève,” she said quietly, “even though it is impossible you should understand all we—I—am feeling.”
Geneviève looked up at her with a puzzled air. “I thought you were colder than you are,” she said. “Perhaps I have mistaken you altogether. I—I don’t know what to do. Shall I go home—to Hivèritz to-day, this afternoon? You would never hear of me again. Would you like me to go?”
“What do you mean, Geneviève?” asked Cicely sternly. “Why should I wish you to go? Do you know any reason why I should?”
Geneviève grew scarlet. In her excitement and confusion of thought, she had almost persuaded herself that Cicely must suspect her secret, or that, if this were not so, that she must confess it. But now that the opportunity offered, her natural cowardice returned and tied her tongue. “I do not know what I mean,” she said. “I thought, perhaps, now that you are sad, I should be a trouble to you.”
Cicely looked at her. “You have no reason to think so,” she said coldly. But she did not press Geneviève to explain herself further. “I shall say what I have to say to Trevor, and to him alone,” she resolved.
Geneviève had begun to cry again. “I am so unhappy, so very unhappy,” she said miserably.
“I am sorry for you,” said Cicely kindly.
“You would not be if you knew the whole, why I am so unhappy,” sobbed Geneviève.
“Yes, I should be. If I thought even that your unhappiness was of your own causing, that you deserved it,” said Cicely impressively, “stillI should be sorry for you—more sorry, perhaps.”
“You are very good. I will never again say you are not,” exclaimed Geneviève impulsively. “You deserve to be happy, Cicely, and I am very sorry for your troubles. I am very sorry you have lost a father so kind, so indulgent. And, oh! Cicely,” she continued impetuously, “can it be that it is also true that you have lost all your riches?”
At any other time the indescribable tragedy of Geneviève’s manner as she reached this climax in her recital of her cousin’s misfortunes would have provoked Cicely to smile. As it was, she turned from her with some impatience. “What would it matter if it were true?” she said wearily. “How can you think of such things just now? You should not listen to servants’ gossip.”
“I did not mean to listen. I could not help hearing,” replied Geneviève timidly. “Cicely says it would not matter to her if she had lost all,” she said to herself. “She must then be sure he will marry her. And I!—he will be sorry forhernow; he will think no more of me.”
And the letters Geneviève wrote that morning were plentifully bedewed with tears.
“When sorrows come, they come not single spies,But in battalions.”
Hamlet.
WHOare the social ravens that at all times and places are ready and eager to perform their self-appointed task as bearers of ill tidings? Like the mysterious “rats of Paris,” ever watching their opportunity, they come to the surface, as if by magic, whenever the tocsin of misfortune sounds; but, unlike that very undesirable community, these evil newsmongers remain in visible, even when hardest at work. We know of their existence but by the unfailing promptitude with which they fulfil theirrôle; like will-o’-the-wisp, they are never to be caught.
Some of these mysterious beings were of course on the spot to carry to Lingthurst without delay the news of poor Colonel Methvyn’s death, and full details of its manner and cause. The household was not astir very early on the morning succeeding the ball, but the indefatigable ravens were at work betimes. When Mr. Fawcett’s man knocked at his master’s door with hot water and an armful of clothes, he was in full possession of the “latest particulars,” and not a little delighted to find his master awake, so that he might have the privilege of “breaking” to him the news of the sorrow which had befallen his friends.
“The coloneldead,Green? Impossible! It must be some absurd exaggeration,” exclaimed Trevor, greatly shocked, notwithstanding his expressed incredulity. But Green shook his head mournfully, and said he was afraid it was only too true; and when his master heard all the story that the man was brimming over with eagerness to tell, he too was compelled to admit that there was small probability of exaggeration or incorrectness in the version of the facts which had reached them.
Mr. Fawcett dressed hastily. He gave Green no opportunity of “breaking” to him the special bit of news which, in the opinion of the authorities of the servants’ hall, could not but affect their young gentleman more deeply “than all beside,” the news of the overwhelming loss of fortune, the telegraphic announcement of which, said gossip, speaking for once correctly, had been the immediate cause of Colonel Methvyn’s death. But though he knew nothing of this part of the calamity, Trevor knew enough to send him down stairs with a very small appetite for breakfast, and far from hospitable sentiments towards the large party of guests whom it was his bounden duty to help to entertain.
He had come to a decision the night before; he had slept upon it,—very little it is true, for his slumbers had been fitful and broken,—and had not wavered. The words which Cicely had overheard in the fernery were the key to Trevor’s state of mind. For Geneviève he had broken his faith to Cicely—for her he had lost his self-respect and been false to the girl whom still at heart he loved; but he would deceive her no longer. “I must confess it all to Cicely and say good-bye to her; I have promised Geneviève—I must do it,” he repeated to himself over and over again through that weary night. “Cicely is good and generous; if it is true that she has never really cared for me, it will be easier for her to forgive me. She has a home and friends; I cannot think that she will regret me. Geneviève is poor and dependent, and I must not desert her. I have to thank my own folly for all this wretchedness.”
At times he almost felt as if he hated Geneviève; then again the remembrance of her loveliness, her devotion to him, her clinging belplessness came over him powerfully, and he tried to persuade himself that Cicely’s coldness and indifference were the real culprits. But had she looked cold or indifferent last night, when, with the tears in her eyes, she had whispered, “Dear Trevor, there cannot really be any change between us; if you are not vexed with me, it is all right?”
Trevor shuddered as he recalled her look and manner. How could he ever tell her how little cause she had had for trusting him? How could he look into those clear blue eyes and confess his faithlessness? How could he endure Cicely’s contempt and scorn?
He fell asleep soundly at last, Notwithstanding his distress of mind; when he awoke, he was thankful to see that it was broad daylight.
“I will go to Greystone to-day,” he said to himself, “and have it over;” for, unspeakably as he shrank from what he had made up his mind to do, he felt that now there was no drawing back; and he was in this frame of mind when he was met by the utterly unexpected news of Colonel Methvyn’s death.
Everybody at the breakfast-table had heard it by the time Mr. Fawcett made his appearance. He was late, notwithstanding the haste with which he had dressed, and as he entered the dining-room he became aware that a hush fell over the guests; evidently he was looked upon somewhat in the light of a chief mourner on the occasion. Lady Frederica was in tears,—Sir Thomas’s florid face looked a shade paler than its wont; such remarks as were exchanged were in low tones and with subdued glances; the spirit of revelry had been abruptly forced to quit the scene. Trevor was sincerely distressed by the death of his kind old friend, and deeply grieved by the thought of Cicely’s sorrow, yet he was conscious also of a curious sort of irritation at the event. Why had it taken place just then? Who could tell what wretched complications might not result from it, in addition to those already existing?
“Things were bad enough before,” thought he, “but now they will be worse. I cannot possibly come to an understanding with Cicely at such a time; and yet how can I go on in the old way with the burden upon me of my promise to Geneviève, and this miserable feeling of hypocrisy?”
He looked ill and haggard; he hardly spoke, and yet he was angry with every one else for being silent; he ate no breakfast, and answered with impatience when his mother, across the table, begged him “to try to take something.”
“Poor dear boy! he feels it very much. Yes, indeed, poor dear Philip seemed like a second father to him,” murmured Lady Frederica to the lady next her. “It is a most dreadful shock. I don’t think I ever felt more upset in my life;” and she subsided behind her handkerchief again.
Breakfast over, Sir Thomas tapped his son on the arm, “Come to my room with me for a few minutes,” he whispered. “I want to say something to you.”
Trevor followed him to his so-called “study,” the little room where, only a few hours before, Cicely, overwhelmed with the shock of her discovery in the fernery, little thinking of what the night had still in store, had sat waiting for her cousin Geneviève.
It was a rather shabby, comfortable room, by no means in keeping with the rest of the house, but a cosy little den nevertheless. Sir Thomas was standing on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, when Trevor came in.
“This is a sad shock, my boy,” he said, “a very sad shock. I am extremely sorry for those poor things—Methvyn’s wife and daughter,—extremely sorry for them.”
“Yes,” said Trevor, wondering if that were all that his father had to say.
“Of course,” continued Sir Thomas, “of course, we all knew his life was a very poor one—must have been so ever since his accident; still it seems very sad it should have been cut short in this way.”
“It was frightfully sudden I understand,” said Trevor.
“Terribly so, poor fellow! they say he never spoke again.” Sir Thomas turned his head away for a moment, then stooped down and gave the fire a supererogatory poke. “If all is true that is said, however, perhaps it is as well he never recovered consciousness; that is what I wanted to speak to you about, my boy. Of course, we can’t tell how much or how little of these reports may be true, but, at the worst, I want you quite to understand it need not makeyouuneasy. I hope and believe it is exaggerated, but, in any case, it need make no difference.”
Trevor had been listening with a puzzled expression to his father; now he looked up with some anxiety. “I don’t understand what you are referring to, my dear father,” he said. “I don’t see why Colonel Methvyn’s death should make me uneasy. I have heard no reports except about its being very sudden, which, of course, we all know must have been the case.”
“You have not heard what is supposed to have killed him?”
“No,” replied Trevor.
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Sir Thomas excitedly. “Why, everybody’s full of it, though, of course, by the bye, they would not allude to it toyou.Why, they say he’s ruined—poor Methvyn I mean—at least, it is a fact that he got a telegram last night containing some very bad news, and that the shock of it brought on this attack.”
Mr. Fawcett looked incredulous.
“I don’t believe it in the least,” he said. “Of course, he may have got a telegram with bad news, but I don’t believe it could possibly be as bad as you have heard. Such things are always exaggerated.”
“Ye-es,” said Sir Thomas slowly. “I should have said the same but for one or two other things. I know for a certainty that Methvynhaslost money the last year or two. He was very persistent about managing his own affairs, and he meddled with things he did not understand. Falconer thinks badly of it, I can see, and he generally has grounds for his opinions. Still, of course, we must hope it is exaggerated. You will be going over there some time to-day, I suppose?”
“I suppose so,” said Trevor absently.
“Well, we must wait awhile. No doubt we shall hear more before long. But in any case, my boy, as I said, it need not make you uneasy. Cicely Methvyn would be Cicely Methvyn still, though she hadn’t a penny.”
“Thank you, father,” said Trevor, rousing up a little and seeing he was expected to say something of the kind, “thank you. Yes, I hope it will be all right.”
“Then you will go over this morning? And be sure to say I am most anxious to be of any use I can to poor Helen. I would go myself, but you see I have all these people on my hands till the afternoon; they are all leaving to-day. You will take care to say everything that is kind?”
“Oh! yes. I shall not forget,” said Trevor, as he left the room. But he still spoke absently.
“He feels it a good deal, poor fellow,” thought Sir Thomas, a little perplexed by his son’s manner. “No doubt it will be a great shock and disappointment to us all if things turn out badly. I should not like to see Greystone sold. And Methvyn, at best, was not a very rich man, and a far from wise one in money matters. Still, there’s no saying. I would rather buy the Abbey myself than see it go to strangers.”
Then Sir Thomas returned to his guests, apologizing to them for his son’s absence, by saying he had advised him to ride over to Greystone at once to inquire how Mrs. Methvyn and her daughter had borne the shock.
“So sad,” murmured the ladies, “so very sad for poor Miss Methvyn. It was just after she reached home last night—Was it not?”
“Before,corrected Sir Thomas; “it must have been all over before she got home.”
“Poor girl, what a fearful shock! And she was so attached to her father. Dear me, it is reallyverysad.”
Then they all talked it over again with Lady Frederica for another quarter of an hour, after which they dispersed to give directions to their various maids for the unexpectedly hastened packing.
“And I must see about mourning at once, I suppose, Miss Winter,” said Lady Frederica with a sigh. “Such a pity, isn’t it, with all my new autumn things? And I think you had better countermand the dress I told Madame Fanchon to lay aside for me for the wedding. It will probably be delayed for some months, and when it does take place, it is sure to be very quiet.”
Late in the afternoon, when all the visitors had gone, Mr. Fawcett returned home. He looked tired and dusty; he had ridden a long way, with no object but to use up the day and to get rid of his uneasy thoughts. His father and mother saw nothing of him till he came into the drawing-room dressed for dinner.
“Trevor!” exclaimed Lady Frederica.
“I did not know you had come back,” said Sir Thomas. “I thought you would probably be there till late.”
“I came in ever so long ago,” said Trevor shortly.
Lady Frederica waited in expectation of hearing more, but Mr. Fawcett took up a book from the table and sat down as if he were going to read.
“Well?” said his mother.
He looked up impatiently. “What is it, mother?” he said.
“I am waiting to hear how you found them—poor Helen and Cicely,—youmustknow that I am very anxious to hear how they are, and if they will see me if I go to Greystone to-morrow,” said Lady Frederica.
Mr. Fawcett played with the leaves of his book, as if impatient to go on reading it. “I cannot tell you,” he said. “I think your best plan will be to go to-morrow and inquire for yourself. My going is no use.”
“Why?” exclaimed his mother in astonishment.
“Simply because they will not see me,” he replied. “Not Mrs. Methvyn—of course I did not expect to see her—but Cicely, she will not see me.”
“Cicely would not see you! How extraordinary! Is she ill?”
“No, the servant said she was very well. As well as could be expected, or some rubbish of that kind. But she most distinctly refused to see me.”
“Did she know it was you?” said Sir Thomas. “She may have given a general order about seeing no one, without meaning to exclude you.”
“So I thought,” said Trevor, “and I waited while they went up again to tell her who it was; but she only sent down the same message again—that Mrs. Methvyn was pretty well, but that neither she nor her mother felt able to see any one. I don’t understand it.”
“Nor do I,” said Lady Frederica. “Then you saw no one—not even Miss Casalis?”
“Not even Miss Casalis,” repeated Trevor.
Sir Thomas looked very grave. “I am rather afraid Idounderstand it,” he said in a low voice. Only Trevor caught the words. He started.
“How do you mean, sir?” he said hastily. “What reason can there be for it?”
Sir Thomas lifted his eyebrows with a significant gesture in the direction of his wife. “Your mother does not know anything about what we were speaking of this morning,” he whispered. “Wait till we are alone.”
So all through dinner time Lady Frederica twittered away about how strange it was; she feared poor dear Cicely must be ill, though she would not own to it; she wished she had sent a note by Trevor; might she have the carriageveryearly to-morrow morning to drive to Greystone? etc. etc.; till Mr. Fawcett could bear it no longer. He had eaten next to nothing; he drank two or three glasses of sherry off at once; but they failed to compose his nerves. “Mother,” he said at last, “do think of something else to talk about. You might see it is very painful to me.”
Lady Frederica’s eyes filled with tears. Miss Winter looked reproachful, Sir Thomas uncomfortable, and Trevor felt ashamed of himself. Very few remarks of any kind were exchanged till the two ladies had left the dining-room. Then Sir Thomas began at once, “I am afraid things don’t look well about poor Methvyn’s affairs,” he said. “I happened to see Flaxton to-day, and he was full of it.”
He’s a great gossip—I hate country lawyers,” said Mr. Fawcett irritably.
“Well, well—I don’t say I think much of his opinion,” allowed Sir Thomas. “What he told me was quite in confidence of course. But what you tell me yourself, Trevor, about Cicely’s refusing to see you,that,I must say, makes me uneasy.”
“Why so?” asked Trevor.
“Why? Don’t you see thatsheevidently thinks things are wrong, and she wants you to hold yourself free? The Methvyns are all proud, and I suspect Cicely has her full share of their pride, notwithstanding her quiet ways, poor child. I know what her father was whenhewas young. You may take my word for it, Trevor, if things are as bad as I fear, Cicely will be proposing to break off with you.”
Mr. Fawcett had risen from his seat, and was tramping up and down the room. He did not wish his father to see how exceedingly he was startled by this fresh view of matters. Cicely to givehimup! And why? Because she was no longer rich, could no longer bring Greystone as her dowry—Cicely, his dear old friend and playmate, his promised wife—couldhe accept such a release? Cicely rich, he had come to think, or, to fancy he thought, that she did not care for him, that she was cold and indifferent, that she would be glad to break with him—he had excused his own weakness and folly by such specious arguments, and had tried to think he believed them. But Cicelypoor!
“No,” he said to himself, “if this is true, not all the Genevièves on earth should persuade me to give her up. Was there ever in this world such a fool as I have been? But still, if this is true, my course is clear.”
A momentary relief seemed to come with this reflection, but it was only momentary. A vision of Geneviève, miserable and reproachful, of lovely, silly little Geneviève, came before him, and he groaned in his spirit.
“Father,” he said abruptly, stopping short in his walk, just beside Sir Thomas’s chair, “what you say makes me very uneasy indeed. I have no doubt it is as you say—it quite explains Cicely’s conduct. But it makes it the more necessary that I should see her—at least, that any morbid feeling of the kind she may have should be done away with. What shall we do? Willyougo to the Abbey to-morrow? I don’t think they would refuse to see you.”
Sir Thomas considered a little. “Yes,” he said, “I will go if you like. However things are, I don’t think Mrs. Methvyn would refuse to see me. Indeed, till two years ago, I was one of their trustees. Of course, it would not do to seem as if we were prying into things; but if anything is wrong, I dare say Helen will be glad to tell me, and then I can, at least, find out what fancy it is that Cicely has got into her head.”
“Thank you, father. Thank you very much,” said Trevor, with no lack of cordiality in his tone this time.
“I must see Geneviève,” he said to himself. “I must explain to her how I am placed. I must see her before I see Cicely now.”
But on further reflection, he decided that it would be better to do nothing till Sir Thomas had paid his visit.
Sir Thomas was as good as his word. He drove over to Greystone the next morning, and as he had not returned home by luncheon time, it was evident that he had been admitted. Mr. Fawcett fidgeted about all day, sometimes wishing he had gone with his father, sometimes almost hoping the worst of the rumours that had reached them might be true, sometimes earnestly trusting they might be proved to be altogether unfounded.
At last Sir Thomas returned. Trevor heard the sound of the carriage-wheels, and came out to meet him. It seemed to him that his father looked grave and distressed.
“Well, father?” he said with a faint at tempt at speaking lightly, to cover his anxiety, “well, father, how have you got on?Youwere not turned back at the door it appears.”
“Come into my room,” said Sir Thomas. “Your mother is out? So much the better. Remind me, by the bye, to tell her that those poor things would like to see her to-morrow.”
His son followed him into the study. Sir Thomas took off his gloves, unbuttoned his top-coat, and rubbed his hands together with a sort of affected cheerfulness.
“I have not brought you very good news, I’m afraid, my boy,” he began.
Trevor, who had sat down in one of the old-fashioned leathern arm-chairs beside the fire, looked up anxiously.
“About their affairs, you mean?” he said. “Then the report was true after all. But how can it be certain so soon? It takes a long time to get to the state of a man’s affairs, and Colonel Methvyn has only been dead two days.”
“Wait a minute,” said Sir Thomas. “I’ll tell you all if you won’t interrupt me. The reportwastrue, or something very like it, I fear. I am glad I went over to-day. Methvyn’s lawyer had just arrived; it was absolutely necessary for him to see poor Helen, and she begged me to remain with her on that account. She told me all she knew at once. She is excited and fussy—you might almost call it—not the least like herself, or like what I expected to find her. I fancied she would have been utterly prostrated. On the contrary, she is more energetic than I ever saw her.”
“Perhaps she does not realise it yet,” suggested Trevor.
Sir Thomas shook his head. “I suspect that’s it,” he said. “I don’t think she does. Well, as I was saying, she told me all she knew. The actual facts did not look so bad, but she made me uncomfortable by owning that she had known for long that Methvyn was far from easy in his mind about his affairs. The telegram which brought on the attack was telling of the smash of that great mining company—the Brecknock Mining Company. I saw something about it in yesterday’s paper, but I paid very little attention to it. I always thought it a rotten affair. I had not the faintest notion that Methvyn had anything to do with it, and I told her I did not think it possible that he could be in it to any tremendous extent. Nor was he, if that had been all! But when I saw this man from town and heard what he had to say—! My dear boy, it is something frightful. You would hardly believe that any sane man could have made such a mess of his affairs as Methvyn has been doing. No wonder the news of this last smash killed him. It was his very last cast.”
Mr. Fawcett sat up in his chair and stared at his father in amazement. “He must have lost his head!” he exclaimed.
“It looks like it,” said Sir Thomas. “I quite think that terrible fall must have weakened his brain as well as his spine. I can account for it in no other way—in no other way,” he repeated slowly, pausing a little between each word.
“And this man of business of his; what has he been about to let things go so far?” exclaimed Trevor. “Why did he not advise Colonel Methvyn better?”
“He did his best, I think,” said Sir Thomas; “but if a manwillruin himself—? And even he, this Mr. Knox, has not known all, by any means, till quite recently. Methvyn was most persistent in managing for himself, and he has had no one thoroughly in his confidence. And you see he was quite free. Greystone and everything he had was absolutely his own to do what he liked with. If he had had a son it might have been different—but no, I hardly think so. I am certain he meant to act for the best. He was quite as anxious for Cicely as if she had been a boy. Upon my soul, there’s a good deal to be said for tying up property—even a little place like Greystone! Why if it had been entailed on to the Carling Methvyns, Cicely would at least have been sure of her daughter’s portion, whereas now she has nothing.”
“Then Greystone must be sold?” asked Trevor sadly.
“Sold, of course—it is not theirs—at least, very little of the price of it will come to them. I can show you some of the details I got from Knox. It is right you should know.”
Mr. Fawcett hardly felt as if he wished to hear more. He was a poor man of business—an unworthy descendant of his self-made grandsire. But to please his father he listened, wearily enough, to the dreary recital of how poor Philip Methvyn had made ducks and drakes of his patrimony—a commonplace story enough, after all.
“Yes, I see,” he said, when Sir Thomas had come to an end of his history. “I see, at least, that it’s as bad as can be. Excepting Mrs. Methvyn’s settlements, and they are not large, she and Cicely have nothing.”
“Nothing, or next to nothing,” answered Sir Thomas gloomily. And for a few minutes both men remained silent. Then the father spoke again.
“If—if all goes through with you and Cicely,” he began—“I mean if your marriage takes place—I have been thinking, Trevor, the best idea will be for me to buy Greystone. I should be sorry for poor Methvyn’s affairs to become more public than can be avoided; and in this way, managing it privately, things might be kept pretty quiet. It is not a particularly good investment. The house and grounds are far too large for the property, but I can quite afford it. What do you say?”
Mr. Fawcett glanced up quickly. “I should like it extremely,” he said. “The idea had already crossed my mind, but I hardly liked to propose it. But why do you speak so doubtfully, father? Why do you say ‘if?’”
Sir Thomas hesitated. “Because I am not sure of Cicely Methvyn’s state of mind,” he said at last. “I saw her to-day, she was perfectly cordial, thanked me with tears in her eyes for coming to help her mother—she is looking dreadfully ill, poor girl—and all that sort of thing, but still her manner struck me as unsatisfactory. I gave her your message; but she only said she would write to you when she felt able to see you. I told her I thought you would be disappointed; in fact, I said all I could, but she only smiled and repeated that it would be best for her to write to you. I don’t understand it.”
He looked at his son inquiringly.
Trevor got up from his chair, and in his turn began to poke the fire. “I don’t either,” he said at last. “That is to say, I can only explain it by what you said,—that she has got it into her head that her loss of fortune may make a difference.”
“I suppose it’s that,” said Sir Thomas. “Of course it would have been impossible for me, without the grossest indelicacy, to have hinted at such a thing. But she must have seen that I really wanted her to agree to see you at once. However, young people must settle their own affairs. You understandmyfeelings and intentions, at any rate?”
“Quite, thank you,” replied Trevor; “and, however things turn out,youhave been awfully good about it, sir. I shall never forget it, I assure you.”
Sir Thomas fumbled for his handkerchief.
“These things come home to one at my age,” he said after a little pause, “Poor Methvyn was younger than I, Trevor. I am glad you quite understand me, my boy.”