“Then I said, ‘I covet truth,Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat—I leave it behind with the games of youth.’”
R. W. Emerson.
MRS.CRICHTONhad left Sothernbay a few days before her brother’s first visit to Colonel Methvyn, so Mr. Guildford was alone again. He missed his sister more than usual; his house looked very dull and uninviting when he returned to it late that Friday evening from Greystone, and, not having many external calls upon his time, for the invalids’ season was now past, he spent the greater part of the next few days in his study.
When the following week was about half over, he began to think of going to Greystone again, and a letter which he received one morning from Dr. Farmer, decided him on choosing that same day for his visit. So—as was arranged between him and Colonel Methvyn—he telegraphed to the Abbey, naming the train by which he would reach Greybridge, and, on arriving there, found the dog-cart in waiting.
The driver this time was not his old friend Dawson, but a much less communicative person, whose observations were confined to “Gently then, old lady,” and “Wo-ho now.” He was evidently not accustomed to driving the “quality,” and his whole attention was given to his steed; so they drove on for a mile or two in silence.
Suddenly a turn in the road made visible a little group of figures in front; they were those of a man and a woman and a horse, walking slowly along side by side. Mr. Guildford observed them with a sort of half idle curiosity, but before the dog-cart was near enough for him to distinguish the features of the man and the girl, they separated, the girl entering a road to the right, the man mounting his horse and riding on quickly; but, before separating, they had stood still for a moment, evidently saying “Good-bye,” thus giving the carriage time to approach them more nearly. Suddenly Mr. Guildford was surprised by a remark from his companion.
“She’s a nice little mare, sir, isn’t she—her as the young squire’s on?”
He pointed with his whip to the gentleman in front, now fast leaving them far behind.
“The young squire?” repeated Mr. Guildford.
“Yes, sir, young Mr. Fawcett.”
“Oh! I did not recognize him,” said Mr. Guildford; “that was Mr. Fawcett in front of us then leading his horse?”
“Yes, sir, him as were walking with the young lady—Maddymuzelle.”
Then he relapsed into silence again.
When they came to where the Abbey road branched off, the figure of Geneviève walking quickly in front was again distinctly visible; but before they overtook her, Mr. Guildford had made a little change in his plans.
“Is there not a short cut to Dr. Farmer’s house somewhere about here?” he inquired of the groom, and finding that it was so, and that ten minutes’ quick walking across the fields would save a long round by road, he left the dog-cart, sending by the servant a message to Colonel Methvyn explaining the delay in his appearance.
Half an hour later Mr. Guildford entered the Abbey grounds, having executed the little commission entrusted to him by Dr. Farmer. He walked slowly up the drive, enjoying the sight of the pleasant, quaint old garden, which as yet he had hardly seen by daylight in its summer dress; it was a garden such as there are few of nowadays,—the paths edged with box, whole beds of lavender and sweet William, sweet peas and clove-pinks, marigold, and snap-dragon; for on this side of the house the good taste of its owners allowed of no “new-fangled” gardening; all—from the moss-grown sun-dial on the lawn, to the curiously cut yew-trees guarding the entrance to the bowling green,—remained as it might have been in many a long, long ago summer, when the ever-young flower faces smiled to old-world Cicelys in hoop and farthingale, just as they did now to the fair-haired girl who came swiftly across the smooth short grass to meet the stranger, the mellow light of the afternoon sun falling full upon her.
The young man started when he first caught sight of her, yet at that very instant she had been in his thoughts.
“I am so very glad you have come today,” she said, as she drew near; “my mother and I have just come back from Haverstock,—and oh! by the bye, I must apologise for that stupid old Hodge having been sent to meet you at Greybridge; he can’t drive a bit, but the coachman was away, and Dawson out with us, when your telegram came,—and we have found my father in a perfect fever of eagerness to go out a little. He has not been out since the day before you were here last, it has been so much colder, you know; do you think he may come out this?”
“I don’t see any reason against it,” said Mr. Guildford; “the air is fresh, but perfectly mild. Shall I go and talk about it to Colonel Methvyn before it gets later?”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I think he is anxious to see you.”
She turned and walked back again with him across the lawn in the direction of the house.
“I should have been here earlier,” said Mr. Guildford, “but I came round by Dr. Farmer’s; he wrote to ask me to look out some books and papers that he wants forwarded, and that his servants could not have found.”
“Did he say how he was?” asked Cicely.
“Yes, he says he is better,” replied Mr. Guildford; “but I thought the tone of his letter seemed dull, and he says he finds it rather lonely work travelling about all by himself.”
“Yes, poor old man,” said Miss Methvyn thoughtfully; “I think it is very sad to see any one grow old with no one belonging to them. Dr. Farmer has nobody at all.”
“Was he never married?” asked Mr. Guildford.
“No,” said Cicely, “but he was going to be married once. There was some story about it, my father knows it I think—Dr. Farmer belongs to this neighbourhood—the girl died I believe. Fancy! it must be nearly fifty years ago, and I speak of her as a girl; but she will always have seemed a girl to him.”
“Yes,” replied the young man, “to him she will always have been sweet-and-twenty. And if she had lived to be Mrs. Farmer, she would probably have grown stout and buxom, and not impossibly the cares of life would have developed a temper.”
Miss Methvyn glanced at her companion with some curiosity. Then she said quietly, “You are not really the least cynical, Mr. Guildford, why do you talk as if you were?”
He smiled, “Do you dislike it?”
“I think I do,” she said. “Don’t think me rude for saying that that tone of talk is so commonplace nowadays, that—”
She stopped short. He smiled again, but with a slight change of expression, “You mean that the affectation of it is commonplace, I think,” he said. “It is very easily affected, but I was in earnest. I think it is well to look on both sides of a possible picture, and a disappointed bachelor should surely be allowed the consolation of thinking that, after all, the fairest flowersdofade, or at least lose their beauty.”
“But youth and beauty are not everything,” remonstrated Cicely with a very unusual colour in her cheeks.
“They are a good deal,” said Mr. Guildford drily.
A slight look of disappointment over-clouded the girl’s fair face, but she said nothing. A curious feeling came over her that the man beside her was not expressing his true sentiments, and this instinct made her averse to say more. But Mr. Guildford understood her better than she thought.
“You are disgusted with me, Miss Methvyn,” he said. “You think I am worse than commonplace, that I don’t believe in there being women whose grandeur and real beauty have little to say to ‘the beauty that must die.’ But you are mistaken.”
Cicely’s face cleared; but she still looked puzzled.
“Then I must confess Idon’tunderstand you,” she said.
“You can’t reconcile my having a high ideal of woman, with my talking in a commonplace matter-of-fact way ofmarriage?But do not facts strengthen my position? Don’t think I mean to compare myself with such people; but isn’t it true that the giants among men have not looked for, or wished for anything out of the way in their wives? And when a man is by no means a giant, but still feels he has it in him to dosomething,surely his best strength lies in keeping his powers concentrated, in deprecating any overwhelming outside influence?”
He spoke almost as if he were trying to argue his theory out to himself, to prove its soundness for his own satisfaction rather than for that of his hearer. And his hearer was not to be so readily convinced.
“But, appealing to facts, as you say,” she objected, “you cannot maintain that women’s influence has not in innumerable instances, been an elevating and ennobling one, as well as a softening and purifying one? Of course whatever softens and purifies ennobles, in a sense, but I mean ennobling in the sense of strengthening and widening.”
“Women’s influence has certainly done all you say,” he replied; “but it has seldom been the influence ofwives.The grandest women make splendid friends; but I still appeal to past experience to support the side of my position which I see you dislike.”
“Do I dislike it?” said Cicely. “I don’t know. Is it true, I wonder? I am not clever enough to prove that it is not; but still a strong instinct tells me itshouldnot be true.”
An earnest questioning stole into her blue eyes, and, as she spoke she looked up into her companion’s face without a shadow of embarrassment. They had reached the front of the house by now, and were standing just within the old grey porch. The dark leaves of the thick-growing ivy creeping round its entrance seemed to make a frame for the girl’s fair quiet face, and to throw out in relief the delicate features and pure complexion. For a moment Mr. Guildford forgot, in looking at her, what they had been talking about. But recovering his wits he repeated quietly, “I am afraid it is true. Sometimes I have wished it were not, but then again I see that it is better as it is. But I am sorry to destroy your faith in beautiful impossibilities.”
She turned upon him with a merry laugh.
“Don’t distress yourself about that,” she exclaimed. “I am much more obstinate than you think. I am by no means an optimist in the sense of not thinking that what is might not be made a good deal better. And even your giants may have been short-sighted, and one-sided in some directions, may they not? Are you shocked at my irreverence? As fordislikingyour theory, I am by no means sure that I do dislike it. If I were an ideal woman—that sounds silly, but you know what I mean—hif I were worthy of such a thing, I mean, I should feel infinitely more honoured by being the chosenfriendof a clever man than of being—” she stopped abruptly and blushed a little. Then seemingly ashamed of her confusion, she went on bravely, “than by his just falling in love with me,” she added, with a slight tinge of contempt in her tone.
“Then youdoagree with me,” said Mr. Guildford triumphantly.
And judging it wise to retire while master of the field, he went into the house and ran upstairs to Colonel Methvyn’s room.
Cicely stood in the porch, thinking. Then she went away to see if the cushions of her father’s Bath chair were properly aired, and was standing ready beside it at the door when the invalid was brought down for his little airing.
Poor Colonel Methvyn enjoyed the sun shine and the flowers and the soft fresh air very much. His expressions of pleasure and Cicely’s satisfaction in his enjoyment touched Mr. Guildford infinitely more than the weary complaints, but too often well founded, which so many of his Sothernbay patients seemed to think necessary to enlist his sympathy.
“It is a nice old place of its kind; is it not, Guildford?” said Cicely’s father, when the chair was brought to anchor in a sheltered corner, whence the principal beauties of the garden—the rose fence enclosing “the lady’s walk,” the yew “peacocks,” the ancient sun-dial—were all visible. “It is a home a man may be forgiven for feeling reluctant to leave, surely? It has always been my home; it would break my heart to think of its ever going away to strangers.”
“I can understand the feeling,” said the young doctor quietly. Thanks to Colonel Methvyn’s gentleness, his egotism did not go the length of repelling sympathy; but yet the sympathy Mr. Guildford felt for him was tinged with fully as much pity as respect. “It must be very natural where one’s associations have been so concentrated. But,” he hesitated a little, “I see no reason why it should not be your home for many years to come.”
“You give me a chance of seeing my grand-children playing about the old garden, do you, eh, Guildford?” asked the invalid, with an affectation of cheerfulness which did not conceal his real anxiety.
Miss Methvyn was standing at some little distance, too far off to overhear what was said, still Mr. Guildford lowered his voice as he replied,
“Certainly, I do, my dear sir.”
Colonel Methvyn closed his eyes and leaned back. “I think I could die happily if Icouldsee it so,” he murmured. Then as if afraid of having betrayed too much feeling, he went on speaking. “It is a curious thing how few sons there have been in our branch of the family. I was an only son, and so was my father; this place came to him from his mother, and now there is only my little girl there for it to go to.”
“But, happily, that prevents any fear of its going to strangers,” said Mr. Guildford, more for the sake of showing interest in his companion’s train of thought, than from any special remembrance of his remarks.
“Of course, of course,” replied Colonel Methvyn, “of coursethatcould never be. It was a foolish idea that crossed my imagination. I grow morbid, quite ridiculously morbid sometimes.”
He spoke with a nervous eagerness that made Mr. Guildford regret the observation he had made, and he was glad that just at this moment Cicely rejoined them.
“Here is mother coming,” she exclaimed. “Mr. Guildford, will you help me to move papa a yard or two this way, and then she can see him all the way from the house? You have sent Barry in? Ah, that’s right! it is so much more comfortable without him. Mr. Guildford and I can push you beautifully, can’t we papa?”
Her father laughed.
“Is there anything you don’t think you can do for me better than any one else, my darling?” he said fondly, stroking the fair head, as Cicely knelt on the grass beside him, looking up in his face with bright tenderness in her blue eyes.
Mrs. Methvyn was not alone when she joined them. Geneviève had seen her leave the house and ran after her, so the two came across the lawn together.
“I have finished my letters at last, I am glad to say,” said Cicely’s mother, after she had shaken hands with Mr. Guildford, “so now I have nothing to do till dinner-time, and we can all stay out till the last moment—till Mr. Guildford orders you in, I mean, Philip. What a delicious afternoon it is!”
“Yes, here it is perfect,” said Cicely; “the sun was just a little too hot driving to Haverstock, though the road is pretty shady. Did you not find it disagreeable coming from Greybridge, Mr. Guildford—that road is so unsheltered?”
“It was rather hot, but it is not a long drive,” he replied. “You must have found it rather a tiring walk, did you not, Miss Casalis?” he added, thoughtlessly, turning to Geneviève.
The girl looked at him with a curious half-terrified, half-appealing expression. Her lips parted as if she were going to speak, but before she had time to say anything, Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely interrupted her.
“Geneviève has not been at Greybridge, Mr. Guildford,” they exclaimed; “you must have been mistaken.”
“I did not mean to say I saw Miss Casalis at Greybridge,” he replied quietly. “It was on my way here I thought I saw you in the distance,” he went on, turning to Geneviève.
“Oh! that may be,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You did go for a little walk you told me, I think, my dear, but of course you would not dream of going so far as Greybridge alone—that would never do.”
“I did not see Mr. Guildford when I was out,” said Geneviève. “Was it at the distance you thought you saw me?”
The words sounded simple in the extreme, and her tone of voice was quiet and collected, but as the young man turned to reply, he saw in her eyes the same expression of mute appeal. A slight chill seemed to run through him; so young, yet so disingenuous! Yet surely, surely, more to be pitied than blamed; and with this reflection there set in a strong feeling of contemptuous indignation against Mr. Fawcett, the man who could in the least take advantage of a young girl’s ignorance and inexperience. Not that Mr. Guildford was a man of the world in the sense of being ready to give the worst explanation to even the faintest appearances of evil, or of crediting his fellow-beings in advance with wrong-doing; he would not have given a second thought to what he had seen but for Geneviève’s unmistakable terror of its being known to her aunt. That she had really been at Greybridge, unknown to her friends, and thatthis,and not the meeting with Mr. Fawcett, was the terrible secret, naturally, never occurred to him. Had he known it, he would have been saved some present regret and future embarrassment. He looked at Geneviève gravely, as he answered her question.
“Yes, Miss Casalis, when I thought I saw you it was at some distance.”
Something in his tone inclined Cicely to start up in her cousin’s defence—defence from what, she knew not, but she fancied there was a coldness and constraint in his manner to Geneviève, which annoyed her. “Poor little Geneviève is looking quite frightened again,” she thought to herself. “Mr. Guildford may be very clever and estimable—I have no doubt he is, but he would be much pleasanter if he were less abrupt.”
But aloud she only said, “If it was at a distance you thought you saw her, I dare say it was not Geneviève at all. One requires to know a person very well indeed—their appearance, I mean—to recognise them at a distance.”
“Perhaps so,” said Mr. Guildford.
Then he turned to Colonel Methvyn, and began talking of some different subject, but somehow the brightness and harmony of the pleasant afternoon seemed to have fled.
But Cicely had no idea of allowing such desirable guests to take their departure without making an effort to detain them.
“Papa,” she said, suddenly, “do you know what this day week will be?”.
“This day week, my dear?” repeated her father, “this day week?—no, I don’t remember. Oh! yes, to be sure, it will be—”
“My birthday,” she interrupted. “What shall we do to celebrate it? Geneviève, help us to an idea.”
“Let us have a picnic,” exclaimed Geneviève, clapping her hands, her eyes dancing with excitement and glee in a manner that altogether nonplussed Mr. Guildford’s new opinion of her. He looked at her in amazement.
“How can she be so childishly light hearted, and yet so deceitful?” he thought.
Then he wondered if this could be “acting,” but a glance at her pretty flushed face, at her dark eyes raised to Cicely’s in sweet eagerness as they discussed the possibilities of the scheme, altogether put to flight so terrible a suspicion, and the young man was fain to take refuge in the old commonplace axiom of the incomprehensible nature of even the most apparently transparent of women. But, once or twice in the course of the afternoon, a certain something in Geneviève’s manner to him touched his gentler feelings; she seemed to be tacitly appealing to his forbearance and pity. “Don’t judge me till I can explain it all,” she seemed to say, and though he made no effort to reassure her, he grew unconsciously softened by her trust in him. She certainly succeeded in making him think a good deal more about her than would have been the case but for the confidence thus forced upon him, and which he was the last man in the world to welcome.
They all went on talking over Geneviève’s suggestion, but Mr. Guildford hardly noticed what they were saying till he found himself suddenly appealed to.
“Yes, the Lingthurst Copse would be the nicest after all,” Cicely was saying. “If we could get you to the Witch’s Ladder, papa, wouldn’t it be delightful? Think how many times we have had birthday treats there when Amy and Trevor and I were children! Would you not like to see the copse againdreadfully,papa?”
Colonel Methvyn laughed, half sadly. “You want to coax me into fancying myself well again, Cicely,” he said. “But you forget, dear, it is four years since I have been outside the gates except for those weary journeys to town. No, you must go without me.”
“But we won’t; if you can’t come we shall give it up,” persisted Cicely. Then she turned to Mr. Guildford, and unfolded her scheme in full to him. Her father was to be driven in her low pony-carriage to the Copse Farm, and there to be met by Barry and the Bath chair. “It can be sent in a cart to the farm the day before,” she said, “and Barry can go in it if it’s too far to walk, lazy creature that he is! And the paths through the copse are quite wide enough for the chair. It is so pretty there, Geneviève,” she exclaimed to her cousin, “prettier even than in the woods we go to church by. And don’t you think it would do my father good, Mr. Guildford? It is only a three miles’ drive.”
Mr. Guildford was able honestly to agree with her, for he had seen enough of Colonel Methvyn to judge more favourably of his case than at first sight, and to be of opinion that his general health would be improved by less vigorous adherence to invalid rules. So it was settled that Geneviève’s idea should be actually carried out, and that Mr. Guildford’s next visit should be timed so that he should make one of the party.
“Is it not inconvenient for you to promise to come on any particular day?” said Cicely, as she was bidding him good-bye, after her father had been wheeled back to the house again.
“Not now,” he said, “I have not much to do except what I give myself; and before another busy season comes round, I shall probably have left Sothernbay, so I don’t care much about extending my acquaintance—my “business”—there,” he said lightly.
“Are you going to leave Sothernbay? Oh! I am so sorry,” exclaimed Cicely in sudden alarm, “my father will miss you so!”
“I am not thinking of leaving at present,” he replied quickly. “I shouldcertainlynot leave till I have done what I undertook to do; that is to say, till I can resign my charge of Colonel Methvyn to Dr. Farmer again.”
“Oh! thank you. I am so glad to be assured of it,” said Cicely gently, but in a tone of great relief.
“Eventually,” continued Mr. Guildford, “I have quite made up my mind that it will be best to leave. I think I see my way to doing more good elsewhere and in a different way.”
But though Miss Methvyn listened courteously she made no reply which could have led him to say more.
“She thinks of me only as her father’s doctor,” reflected Mr. Guildford with a little bitterness when he had said good-bye and was on his way home. It was disappointing. He had rather looked forward to telling her of his change of plan, of his rapidly maturing belief that by increased study and research, he might fit himself for a position which he had long aspired to, and had considerable chance of attaining—a position which would put him in the way of fulfilling his darling ambition, that of doing something worth the doing for the science of medicine. He had fancied she was the sort of woman to have entered into his hopes and sympathised with his aspirations—he had, in his own mind, begun to think of her, young as she was, as belonging to the rare class of women of whom a man might makefriends.He had all but said so to her this very afternoon, and she had then seemed thoroughly to enter into his feelings and opinions. But this evening he felt unreasonably chilled and disappointed.
“After all,” he reflected, “I suspect it is safest to restrict one’s relations with women in every direction. There are plenty of good staunch men in the world to make friends of, fortunately—and a gentle, clinging creature like poor little Geneviève even, would be more satisfactory in the end. What can that fellow Fawcett be thinking of to involve her in any underhand flirtation—I can’t make it out.”
His brow darkened as he meditated upon what he had seen. He determined to watch for an opportunity of giving Geneviève a word of advice.
END OF VOL. I.
VOLUME II.
“If all the world and love were youngAnd truth in every shepherd’s tongue”
The Nymph’s Reply.
EARLYsummer was the time of all others for seeing Lingthurst Copse to advantage, for the soil thereabouts was dry and gravelly, and a few weeks of hot weather destroyed the freshness of the tints and made all the vegetation look thirsty. It was only a copse, and the trees which composed it were somewhat stunted and meagre, but still it was a very pretty spot in itself, and worth driving more than three miles to, for the sake of the loveliness of the view from the top of the rugged old rock, one side of which was skirted by the miniature forest. The latter part of the ascent of this rock was very steep—in places almost perpendicular, but a series of rough steps greatly facilitated matters in the hardest parts of the climb—these were the steps known as the Witch’s Ladder. Who the witch was and from what uncanny motive she had devoted herself to thus amiably preparing the way for those who were to come after her, had been matter for much grave speculation, but had never been satisfactorily explained, and remained a pleasantly tantalising mystery to the visitors of her ancient haunts. That there had never been a witch at all, and that the steps were but natural irregularities on the rock’s surface, worn, in the lapse of time, to more definite shape by the feet of many climbers, was a theory which had suggested itself to some few irreverent minds. But, as a rule, these scoffers had the grace to keep their scepticism to themselves, and the witch, young or old, fair or hideous, was allowed to retain undisputed possession of Lingthurst Copse and Rock.
Cicely’s—or rather Geneviève’s picnic—had assumed unexpected dimensions. Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica had been invited to join the expedition and had asked leave to bring with them two young ladies, no longer in theveryfirst blush of youth, the daughters of the Haverstock rector, whom Lady Frederica had invited to spend a week with her, from a vague notion that “it would be nice for them to meet Mr. Hayle, poor girls!”—a young and unmarried clergyman being an unprecedented novelty in the neighbourhood. But though the “poor girls” were very ready to come, Lady Frederica found the entertaining of them by no means so easy a matter as she had anticipated. She asked Mr. Hayle to dinner every other day at least, and in her innocent way prepared him to be captivated by one, if not by both, of the Misses Kettering by telling him beforehand what dear good girls they were, how indefatigable in the manufacture of ecclesiastical cushions and altar cloths, how unfailing in their attendance at the daily service instituted since the opening of the new Haverstock church. And Mr. Hayle listened gravely, expressed his satisfaction at finding that the neighbourhood contained such right thinking young women, came to dinner when he was asked, disgusted the elder Miss Kettering the very first evening by remarking that he wondered she had never thought of joining a sisterhood if the secular tone of her home life was not to her mind, and still more desperately offended the younger and better-looking sister by not admiring her rendering of Liszt’s ‘Ave Maria,’ got up by her with considerable labour for the occasion. So Lady Frederica’s benevolent intentions were defeated, and her guests lay heavy on her mind, and the news of the Methvyns’ picnic was welcome indeed, not only to the young ladies themselves but to all their entertainers, including Miss Winter and Mr. Fawcett who were growing very tired indeed of the labours Lady Frederica’s good nature had imposed upon them.
Mr. Hayle, in happy unconsciousness of the offence he had given, accompanied the Lingthurst party to the rendezvous at the Copse Farm, and almost reinstated himself in Miss Kettering senior’s favour by calmly declining to agree with her, when she gushingly demanded of him if he did not think that lovely Miss Casalis the most exquisitely beautiful girl he had ever seen.”
“I don’t care about that sort of beauty,” said Mr. Hayle, and then he walked away to where Cicely and Mr. Guildford were improvising a comfortable couch for Colonel Methvyn with the cushions of the carriages, as the invalid declared himself able to join the lowly luncheon party instead of remaining in the solitary state of his Bath chair.
He really looked and felt better than he had done for years, and Mr. Guildford was not a little elated at the success of his new mode of treatment. Long, long afterwards Cicely looked back with pleasure on that bright morning in the copse, and felt warm gratitude to the man whose care and kindness had enabled her suffering father to enjoy again a breath of the out-door life he had loved so well. And to-day the sight of the invalid’s pleasure seemed to cheer every one else. To all outward appearance they were a very happy little party. Geneviève’s clear soft laugh rang as merrily as if its owner had never known a care or perplexity, and the tender brightness of Cicely’s face was sunshine in itself. Mr. Hayle looked at her and wondered. Edmond Guildford forgot all his cynical theories in the unconscious happiness of the present, forgot even to marvel at his own inconsistency—only Trevor looked moody and dissatisfied, unlike his usual equable contented self.
There were more reasons than one for his gloom. Good-natured and kindly as he was, Cicely’s extreme devotion to her parents and home interests at times tried his patience, and suggested unpleasing comparisons. And a long conversation he had had the night before with his father was also on his mind. Nor was the day to close without yet further annoyance falling to his share.
Mr. Guildford had not forgotten his intention of coming to some sort of understanding with the little lady whose eyes had so successfully appealed to his forbearance. After luncheon the able-bodied members of the party felt themselves in duty bound to scale the Witch’s Ladder; in the ascent they naturally fell apart into little groups of twos and threes, and Mr. Guildford found himself alone with Miss Casalis. He had not sought the opportunity, and she had not evaded it, but now that it occurred, both were plainly conscious that the sooner what had to be said could be got over, the more comfortable they would feel. Somewhat to Mr. Guildford’s surprise, Geneviève herself hastened to break the ice.
“I fear much you thought me very strange the last day you came to Greystone,” she began, with some timidity, but on the whole less trepidation than he had expected. “I know well you did see me on the road, and it grieved me—indeed it grieved me to seem deceitful. But I was so frightened, oh! oh! so frightened, that my aunt would be very angry. And I would not for all the world make her angry. She is so very good for me. And I thank you so much that you did not insist that it was me that you had seen.”
Mr. Guildford was rather taken aback by the calmness of this confession—the girl did not seem by any means ashamed of herself, even though tacitly owning that her conduct deserved her aunt’s serious displeasure—he walked on (they were just now on a comparatively speaking level piece of ground, a sort of landing between the flights of stairs), for a few moments in silence; then he said abruptly,
“Why do you do what would make Mrs. Methvyn angry, if you dread her anger so much?”.
“I could not help it—indeed I could not,” said Geneviève penitently, without appearing in the least to resent his tone. “I was obliged to go to Greybridge, and at the first I did not think how it might displease my aunt.”
Mr. Guildford grew still more puzzled.
“I didn’t know you had been at Greybridge,” he said. “It was not there I saw you—indeed it was notveryfar from home. It wasn’t on account of—of the distance from home I thought Mrs. Methvyn would be displeased.”
“How then?” exclaimed Geneviève, looking up at him in perplexity. “What else for could I have feared? I went but to Greybridge to the post-office—” and in a few words she explained to him the reason of her secret expedition—the same reason that she had given to Mr. Fawcett, the wish to post unobserved the letter she feared she might be “thought silly” for having written. It sounded sincere enough, indeed; so far as her explanation went, it actually was so, but still Mr. Guildford felt puzzled. Was she telling him all? Had there been no second motive for her walk? Hitherto Mr. Fawcett had not been named, and it had actually not occurred to Geneviève that he was in any way connected with Mr. Guildford’s disapproval of her behaviour. So she looked up with some anxiety, but without embarrassment, to read in her companion’s grave face the effect of her explanation. And something in her expression made him ashamed of his suspicions, though it was not without an effort that he made up his mind to discard them.
“I have done you injustice, Miss Casalis,” he said at last, and I beg your pardon. Don’t you see that if I had had any idea that the mere fact of your being out on the road would have displeased your aunt, I would not have mentioned it so carelessly and casually as I did?”
“Yes,” said Geneviève, after a little cogitation; “I see, but I understand not. You saw nothing wrong, yet you spoke as if you thought I had done wrong. What then was there?”
“There was nothing,” replied the young man, half annoyed, half inclined to laugh. “I should have thought nothing of seeing you walking along the road, had you not immediately shown me you were afraid of its being known, Then, of course, I began to wonder why, and pitched upon the most natural explanation.NowI know why you were afraid, so there is nothing more for me to say except to repeat that I am sorry for having misunderstood you.”
But Geneviève was not satisfied. Light was beginning to dawn upon her. She stood still, her hands clasped together, the colour coming and going in her face.
“What then was it you thought I feared?” she exclaimed vehemently. “I must know. Mr. Guildford, you shall then tell. You are not kind.”
She seemed on the point of tears, and Mr. Guildford was not fond of tears. Still he was sorry for her, and provoked with himself.
“I wish you would believe me, Miss Casalis,” he said earnestly, “that I saw nothing in your conduct that I even fancied unbecoming—nothing that I would have given a second thought to.”
“But what thought you then when you saw that I feared?” she persisted, beginning to lose command both of her temper and her English. “Was it that you have seen me walk with Mr. Fawcett? I thought not that one was so little amiable, so little kind in England! What then was there of wrong in what I have done? I meet the nephew of my aunt, he speaks to me, I answer him—voilà tout!Would you that I should run away—would you—?”
But by this time the tears have come in earnest—the rest of the sentence is lost in sobs.
“My dear Miss Casalis,” exclaimed Mr. Guildford in desperation, “I really entreat you to be reasonable. Have I not told you half-a-dozen times that your behaviour so far as I know was irreproachable? Nor, whatever I had thought of it, would I have presumed to express an opinion but for this unfortunate misunderstanding, brought about—you must do me the justice to allow—by yourself. You appealed to me, silently it is true, but still you did appeal to me, to refrain from drawing attention to what I had seen, and to-day you honoured me with an explanation of the whole. I understand it all now, and for the third time I beg your pardon.”
“Then you do not think I—I was to blame for—for speaking to Mr. Fawcett?” said Geneviève, calming down, but still sobbing.
“Of course not,” said Mr. Guildford, kindly. “I am not much accustomed to young ladies, as I dare say you have found out before now, but if you will forgive plain speaking, what Iwouldthink wrong would be your meeting any gentleman and going walks with him without Mrs. Methvyn’s knowledge or approval.”
“But Mr. Fawcett is the relation of my aunt,” said Geneviève, not feeling perfectly comfortable. “I see not that I may not walk with him when I meet him.”
“Of course that is for Mrs. Methvyn to decide,” said Mr. Guildford. “But—”.
“But what then?”
“I would much rather not say anything more about it,” said Mr. Guildford. “I was going to say, ‘but if you were my sister’ but you are not my sister, Miss Casalis.”
“But let it be—let me suppose myself your sister, what then? Say then,” she persisted, looking up in his face with a half tearful anxiety, the rosy lips still quivering with agitation.
More to humour her and give her time to recover herself than with any real intention of advising or warning her, Mr. Guildford went on, smiling as he did so,
“If you were my sister then, Miss Casalis (and if I had a young sister like you, you don’t know what care I should take of her), I should try to make you understand that a girl like you cannot be too careful—that you are very beautiful, and that a young man like Mr. Fawcett would naturally find your society charming, but that in the world in which he lives there are many beautiful and charming girls who must be far more worldly wise, whose hearts cannot possibly be as fresh and tender as yours.”
Geneviève understood him. She grew scarlet, and again the tears welled up into her lovely, troubled eyes.
“Of course,” pursued Mr. Guildford, “I am speaking in the dark. There may be circumstances which I am ignorant of—very probably there are—which make your position towards Mr. Fawcett a perfectly unconstrained one. To you he may actually seem what we have been imaginingImight have been to you, a brother—a sort of a brother, I should say?”
“How?” asked Geneviève sharply.
“Well, a brother in the sense in which Miss Methvyn must seem a sister to you. I only say this because if it is so, all I have said must have seemed ludicrously inappropriate—I have no wish to pry impertinently into your relations’ family affairs.”
His last few words were haughty enough; they ill accorded with the anxiety, quite unowned to himself, with which he waited for her reply. She did not notice his disclaimer of curiosity, she was too selfishly startled by the suggestion which her quick wits had at once seized the full meaning of.
“You would say that my cousin Cicely is perhaps thefiançéeof Mr. Fawcett?” she exclaimed, and though Mr. Guildford smiled in assent, he recoiled a little from her distinct expression of his meaning. “But, oh! no,” she went on. “It is not so, I assure you.Theyare brother and sister,voilà tout!”
She spoke lightly, but a slight cloud had nevertheless risen on her horizon; a cloud whose presence she resolutely ignored, but which to her took the brightness out of the sunshine for the rest of the day. But she had spoken confidently, and her inward misgiving was unsuspected by her companion. And tohimthe sunshine suddenly increased tenfold in brilliance and beauty, the birds’ songs trilled more joyously than before, the whole world seemed
“to lift its glad heart to the skies.”
Geneviève came in for her share in this generally happy state of things. She was somewhat pale and pensive, but had quite recovered her equilibrium, and before they rejoined the others she said something in her pretty, gentle way, of thanks to Mr. Guildford for his kindness and appreciation of his advice.
“Then you are not offended with me you are quite sure you are not?” he inquired.
“Offended!” Geneviève repeated. “Oh! no, no. I was afraid I had done more wrong than I knew. It is all strange here. I fear to do wrong. I thank you very much, Mr. Guildford.”
So the interview which had threatened to be stormy ended most amicably, and Edmond owned to himself that it would not be to be wondered at if Mr. Fawcett did fall in love with the pretty little creature.
They found the rest of the climbers established on the little plateau at the top of the rock, admiring, or fancying they admired, the really beautiful view. The absence of Mr. Guildford and Miss Casalis had not been unobserved, and more than one pair of eyes were sharp enough to detect in Geneviève’s face and manner the traces of recent agitation. She looked so pale and subdued that Cicely felt anxious about her, but, with the quick instinct of shielding her from disagreeable observation, did her utmost to divert the Misses Ketterings’ attention. Mr. Guildford, whose spirits appeared to have risen as incomprehensibly as Geneviève’s had sunk, seemed instinctively to understand Miss Methvyn’s wishes and did his best to help her; and so, in his own way, did Mr. Hayle, but Trevor stalked about gloomy and dissatisfied, was barely civil to Mr. Guildford and ignored poor Miss Fanny Kettering altogether.
It was so unusual for him to be out of temper that it distressed Cicely, though she attached no great importance to the passing cloud. She watched for an opportunity of dispelling it.
“Trevor,” she said gently, as, on their way down again she found herself for a moment alone beside him, out of earshot of the others, “Are you unhappy about anything? I wanted everybody to be in good spirits to-day.”
“You haven’t succeeded very well I’m afraid,” he replied moodily; “Miss Casalis looks as if she had been crying all the morning.”
“It does not take much to make Geneviève cry,” said Cicely. “She will be as merry as ever again in a little while, you will see.”
There was no intention of unkindness in her words, but Mr. Fawcett chose to misunderstand her.
“I think you are rather hard upon your cousin, Cicely,” he said coldly. “It is all very well to be strong nerved and self controlled and all the rest of it, but in my opinion that sort of thing may be carried too far.”
“Trevor, you hurt me,” exclaimed Cicely. “More than once lately you have said something like that to me and it pains me. I thought you knew me better. And to-day is my birthday!”
No one could accuse her of want of feeling now. There were tears in her eyes. Mr. Fawcett felt ashamed of himself.
“Dear Cicely, forgive me,” he exclaimed. “I am cross and unreasonable. But it does seem to me sometimes that you think of everybody else more than of me. But I am sorry to have been ill-tempered, especially on your birthday. Next year if all’s well, I hope it will be celebrated differently—Ishall have a hand in the arrangements.”
“I shall be twenty-one next year,” said Cicely. “If I were a son there would be a fuss about it, I suppose.”
“Coming of age doesn’t matter to a married woman,” said Trevor pointedly.
Still Cicely seemed determinedly blind to the meaning of his remarks.
“I do hope papa will not be very tired,” she said. “Mr. Guildford thinks it would do him good to come out oftener, Trevor.”
“I dare say it would,” replied Mr. Fawcett rather indifferently. “I always thought Farmer an old woman. Still I very much prefer him to your new authority, Cicely.”
“Mr. Guildford is considered exceedingly clever,” said Cicely.
“I dare say he is. It is the man himself I object to; he is so uncommonly free and easy, and makes himself so much at home,” replied Mr. Fawcett, kicking away some loose pebbles on the rough path before him.
Miss Methvyn was silent. Trevor persisted.
“Don’t you agree with me?” he said. “I don’t care about his manner to Geneviève for one thing—he seems to think himself so completely on a par with all of us.”
“I don’t want to vex you, Trevor,” replied Cicely, “but I cannot say I agree with you in the least. I don’t think Mr. Guildford’s manner could be kinder and nicer than it is. He is a little abrupt perhaps, but that is often the case with men who spend their time in work instead of in play.”
Mr. Fawcett laughed, but his laugh was not genial or hearty.
“I had better not say anything more about him, I think,” he remarked carelessly. Then, as if he were quite above feeling annoyed by what Cicely had said, he changed the subject. “I want to see your father very much, Cicely,” he said. “What is his best time? I can come at any time you like to-morrow.”
“The afternoon would be best, I think,” said Cicely with a little surprise and anxiety in her tone. “It isn’t about anything that will worry him, Trevor?” she added.
There was no time for Mr. Fawcett to reply, for just at this moment a turn in the path brought them up to Geneviève and Miss Fanny Kettering, who, having arrived at the foot of the Witch’s Ladder, were now staring about them in bewilderment as to which was the right way to go. Geneviève was laughing as the new-comers drew near, but when she saw that they were Cicely and Mr. Fawcett she grew suddenly silent. Cicely noticed it, but imagined her cousin’s change able humour to be simply the result of the little excitement of the day. Trevor noticed it, and set it down to some meddling fool or other who had been frightening the poor little soul again, and resolved to find out the reason of the tears and agitation of which her pretty face still bore traces.
“I wonder if we shall ever come here again,” said Cicely, suddenly, as they were all preparing to leave the copse, for the afternoon was well advanced by now, and Colonel Methvyn had already been wheeled away in his Bath chair. No one heard her but Geneviève and Mr. Guildford, who happened to be standing near.
Geneviève opened her eyes and stared at Cicely in surprise.
“Why should we not come here again?” she exclaimed.
“I don’t know,” said Cicely; “it was a stupid thing to say. It was just a feeling that came over me. Birthdays and anniversaries make one look backwards and forwards in a silly, childish way.”
“In a more advanced state of society, perhaps, we shall have got rid of them,” observed Mr. Guildford.
“Got rid of what?” inquired Mr. Fawcett, coming up to them laden with an armful of his mother’s shawls. His tone was friendly and good-natured, he evidently meant to please Cicely by behaving with more cordiality to the Sothernbay surgeon; and his cousin rewarded him with a smile as she answered,
“Of birthdays and festivals of all kinds. Mr. Guildford thinks that when the world gets wiser holidays will be discarded. We shall be too big for them,” she said.
“Nay, Miss Methvyn,” exclaimed Mr. Guildford, “you have twisted my meaning a little. I should be sorry to look forward to the world’s ever growing beyond holidays. What a dreadful place it would be!”
“But too much work would be infinitely better than too much play,” said Cicely. “Life to me would be utterly insupportable without plenty of things onemustdo.”
“I hate must,” said Trevor.
“I love it,” said Cicely.
“We are like Jack Sprat and his wife,” observed Trevor, laughing.
Cicely grew crimson. “I wish you would not turn everything into ridicule, Trevor,” she said, with an impatience very unlike her usual manner.
As she spoke she became aware that Mr. Guildford was observing her with a curious mixture of expressions in his face. Something in what she saw helped her to recover her composure.
“Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Guildford?” she said. “You must know something of hard work—don’t you prefer it to having nothing to do but to amuse yourself?”
“I can hardly say I have ever known what it is to feel free to amuse myself. I have had to work hard all my life, but I have not got tired of ityet,” the young man replied simply. “But the truth of it is that too much play becomes very hard work, I suspect.”
“It depends on the person,” said Trevor. “You, for instance, Cicely, set to work even at croquet with such earnestness and consideration that it is quite fatiguing to watch you, and Miss Casalis, on the other hand, flutters over her most laborious duties as if—as if—”
“As if she were a butterfly, and I a drone,” said Cicely lightly. She felt touched by Trevor’s good humour, and conscious that she had hardly deserved it. Geneviève looked up and laughed, for the first time since the beginning of the little conversation.
“I think not that I have done even as much work as a butterfly since I have been in England,” she said.
“What would you be doing if you were at home now—at Hivèritz?” asked Cicely.
“At home? Home is not Hivèritz just now. They are all in the mountains. Ah, there we occupy ourselves so well! We make theconfitures,we help the old farm wife with the butter, the cheese, we seek the eggs. Ah, the life in the mountains is charming!” she replied.
“How nice!” said Cicely contemplatively. “I should like not to be rich—I mean,” she added hastily, fearful of hurting Geneviève by the inference of her words—“I mean I should like to manage everything for ourselves, without servants; to feel that one really worked for one’s living would be so satisfactory.”
“Oh, you silly girl!” said Mr. Fawcett with a smile.
Mr. Guildford smiled too.
“You would find it very different from what you fancy, in practice, I fear, Miss Methvyn,” he said; “still, the instinct is a sound and healthy one.”
“Sound and healthy!” repeated Trevor to himself. “Can’t he forget for five minutes that he’s a doctor?”