“Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know;And where the land she travels from?Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say,”
A. H. Clough.
ALONEwith Mr. Guildford, Colonel Methvyn soon lost the nervousness and hesitation of manner, which were evidently the result of his invalidism and secluded life, but the gentleness of tone and bearing, natural to him, remained. He was a very attractive man, intelligent, accomplished and thoughtful, but hardly of the stuff to do battle with the world or to breast unmoved the storms of life.
“You must be patient with me,” he said to Mr. Guildford. “Since my health has broken down, troubles of all kinds have accumulated, and I fear I have grown fanciful and selfish. Constant suffering tries one’s philosophy sadly.”
“It needs not even to be constant to do that,” said Mr. Guildford. “A very little physical pain goes a long way in its mental effect.”
“I feel the want of a son sorely,” continued Colonel Methvyn. “Till my accident I looked after everything myself. This place is not very large, you know; not large enough to require a regular agent, and I can’t make up my mind to give it all up to hirelings. As far as is possible for a woman, my daughter does her best; she writes my letters, looks over the bailiff’s accounts, and so on, in a very creditable fashion, but I have no great faith in taking women out of their own sphere. For her, of course, it was to some extent necessary, as she stands in the place of a son, and must come after me here.”
He talked with some amount of egotism, and an almost amusing taking for granted that the family arrangements of the Methvyns must be subjects of public interest. But Mr. Guildford did not feel repelled, as he usually did, by the inference of superior importance in his patient’s tone. It was too unconscious to offend, even had it not been softened to the stranger by the natural gratification a young man cannot but experience at quickly winning the confidence of one many years his elder. After a while the conversation fell upon Mr. Guildford’s first visit to Greystone; he repeated in other words the opinion he had expressed to Miss Methvyn.
“I am glad to hear what you tell me,” said Colonel Methvyn. “I felt the little boy’s death very much—very much indeed.”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Guildford sympathisingly, “and you would feel it doubly on your daughter’s account.”
“Yes; she felt it a good deal, poor girl!” said Colonel Methvyn; “but young people, my dear sir, can throw off trouble—ah! yes, they can throw it off. It sinks deeper when one is no longer young.”
“But a mother,” said Mr. Guildford, a little surprised, “young or old, a mother’s feelings must be the same.”
“A mother?” repeated Colonel Methvyn. “Ah! I see. I forgot you did not understand the relationship. No, the little fellow’s mother is not my daughter. Lady Forrester is Mrs. Methvyn’s daughter by a former marriage. By the by,” he went on rather hastily, “what arrangements have you made for this evening? You will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner, of course, but will it suit you best to return to Sothernbay to-night, or to-morrow morning.”
“To-night, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford. “I made no definite arrangements. It is such a lovely evening I should enjoy the walk to the station.”
But he did not decline the invitation to dinner, recalling one of Dr. Farmer’s injunctions. “Don’t be in a hurry when you come over to Greystone,” the old family doctor had said; “half the good you can do the colonel will be lost if you fidget him by running away when he wants you to stay. Come over when you feel you have an evening to spare.”
And though this was the sort of thing that Mr. Guildford had often protested he would have nothing to do with—an objectionable mixing up of the professional and social relations, “dancing attendance on people who looked upon you as belonging to another world,” etc. etc.,—somehow when it came in his way he found it nowise disagreeable. He excused his inconsistency by saying to himself that the circumstances were exceptional, the Methvyn family really to be felt for, and so on, and ended before long in forgetting that he was inconsistent, or that any excuses were necessary.
So he stayed to dinner. Colonel Methvyn felt well enough to be wheeled into the dining-room, and to eat his dinner on a little table drawn to the side of his couch, and to take his share in the conversation that went on, which Cicely did her utmost to make cheerful and interesting. Geneviève did not talk much, but what she did say always sounded soft and pretty from the charm of her grace and beauty and winning, appealing manner. And altogether it was very pleasant. Colonel Methvyn had plenty to say, and could talk well too when he was in sufficiently good spirits to make the effort, and his wife looked happy because he seemed to be so.
After dinner they all went into the library, and Cicely played to her father till it was quite dark.
It was evidently her custom to do so, and it was easy to see that the invalid enjoyed it. Mr. Guildford knew too little of music to judge of or criticise her performance, nor was it of a nature to invite criticism. She played quietly and simply, with no thought, it was plain to see, besides that of her father’s gratification, but the music and all seemed in harmony with the peacefulness and refinement, the gentleness and homelike feeling of the evening. Then Colonel Methvyn rang for his servant to wheel him back to his own quarters and Mr. Guildford began to speak of setting off on his walk to the station,
“The carriage is ordered,” said Miss Methvyn, looking up quickly, “you need not leave this till half-past nine, and it is only eight now. You forget how early we dine here.”
“But I think I should like the walk, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford.
“I could not consent to your walking, my dear sir,” said Colonel Methvyn. “I could not, really. I feel already sorry that you should have to come so far out of your way for me, and I assure you I appreciate your kindness. But your walking to the station is not to be thought of for an instant.”
Mr. Guildford judged it wiser, for this time at least, to give in. So Colonel Methvyn, to make the matter all the surer, repeated the order for the carriage, and, having thus satisfied his notions of hospitality, was wheeled away.
Mrs. Methvyn asked Geneviève to play. The girl did so without hesitation, and it seemed to Mr. Guildford that she played well, better than her cousin.
“Do you not sing too?” he inquired, when she stopped. He was standing by the piano, attracted by the music and amused by the pretty way in which her slender fingers ran lightly up and down the keys.
“A little, not much—not well,” she answered. “But to-night, please not. At home we sing all together; maman, the brothers, all.” And again she sighed gently and the lustrous eyes grew dewy.
“You must forgive me. I should not have asked you,” he said kindly, and then he turned away, and Geneviève went on playing.
The blinds were not yet drawn down; glancing round, Mr. Guildford saw Miss Methvyn standing by the window nearest to the piano, looking out into the garden. It was bright moonlight.
“What a lovely evening it is!” said Cicely. “Mr. Guildford, I don’t wonder at your wanting to walk to Greybridge.”
“I really should have enjoyed it,” he answered, “but—”
“But what?” asked Miss Methvyn, looking up inquiringly.
“I fancied my persistence might have annoyed Colonel Methvyn, that was all,” he said lightly.
“That was very good of you,” she said cordially, but some indefinite feeling prompted him to resent her appreciation of his thoughtfulness.
“You forget,” he said coldly, “that thinking of such things is a part of my business.”
Cicely’s face grew graver. When she spoke again, however, there was no change in her tone.
“It looks so tempting out there,” she said, “I cannot stay in doors any longer. Mr. Guildford, will you help me to open this?”
The knob of the glass door was stiff, but it soon yielded. Mrs. Methvyn heard the sound, and looked up.
“What are you doing, Cicely?” she said. “Not going out, surely!”
“Only for a few minutes, mother,” pleaded the girl. “It is so mild, and Geneviève’s music will sound so pretty outside. I have got a shawl. Don’t leave off playing, Geneviève, please.”
Mrs. Methvyn made no further objection, and Cicely stepped out. There was some little difficulty in closing the door again from the outside, Mr. Guildford followed to help her—they stood together on the smooth gravel walk. Before them lay the flower beds, a few hours ago gay with the brightest colours; now, sleeping crocuses and
“tulips made grey by the moonlight”
were hardly to be distinguished from each other, or from the silvery grass of the borders.
“What a strange thing light is,” said Miss Methvyn, as she looked at the flowers. “Light and colour. Not that one should call them things at all, I suppose. I wish I understood about it better. Why should the moonlight actuallychange,change colour, for instance? It is only faint sunlight really. I could understand its dimming colour, but not altering it.”
Mr. Guildford smiled. “You had better study optics,” he said.
“I wish I could,” she replied, quite simply, “but there are difficulties in the way of studying many things I shouldliketo know about. I get all the books I can, but most scientific books take for granted a certain amount of preliminary, technical knowledge that I am deficient in. I had rather an irregular education too, even for a girl.”
“You are just about the age when your education should be beginning, according to some of the new lights on the subject,” observed Mr. Guildford. “Would you not like to go to college, Miss Methvyn?”
“I don’t know. Yes, perhaps I should if I were not needed at home,” she replied, in the last few words a sadness becoming perceptible in her tone. But looking up, she caught the expression on her companion’s face. “Are you laughing at me?” she said. “I dare say you are. I don’t mind. I am quite accustomed to it. My father laughs at me sometimes, and so does—” she stopped suddenly.
“Indeed, I wasn’t laughing, Miss Methvyn,” said Mr. Guildford. “I should be very sorry to be so impertinent.”
“It would not be impertinent,” said Cicely, seemingly rather incredulous, and she said no more about wishing to understand things.
“Are you not afraid of catching cold?” said Mr. Guildford presently. They were still standing in the same place, the sound of Geneviève’s music coming softly through the moonlight.
“I never catch cold, thank you,” said. Miss Methvyn. Mr. Guildford fancied she spoke stiffly, and was annoyed with himself for the suggestion. “That isnota bit of your business,” he imagined her manner to imply. But her next words reassured him. “Perhaps it is not wise to stand still so long,” she said, and she set off walking round the little garden.
There was an opening at the other side in the shrubs and trees that surrounded the enclosure of flower-beds. Here Miss Methvyn paused. “By daylight there is such a pretty view from here,” she said. “You can see Haverstock village, and the church, and the little river. Even now you can see it gleaming—over there to the right, over there where the railway bridge crosses it.”
“Ah! yes, I see. Do you think that the railway spoils the landscape, Miss Methvyn?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it,” she said. “It has always been there. Charlie used to be so fond of watching for the white feathers of steam coming into sight and disappearing again. He liked the railway, because he had a notion that any day, if he ran to Haverstock, he could get to his mother at once. The fancy cheered him when he first came to live here, and she went away. I have never cared to see the trains go by lately.”
As she spoke a shrill whistle sounded in the distance. Cicely turned and began to retrace her steps.
“Associations must sometimes be terrible things,” said Mr. Guildford gently.
Something in his voice encouraged Cicely to say more. “There is a still more painful feeling that I have never heard described,” she said. “I have often wondered if other people have felt it. The sound of that railway whistle put it into my mind, and the speaking of Charlie’s fancy about it. What I mean is a sort of hatred of everything tangible—material rather. It came over me dreadfully after he died. It seemed to me that even the material things he had loved now separated me from him. Just as he, in his innocence, loved the railway, because he thought it would take him to his mother, so I could not endure to see it, because I felt that it—that nothing material could take me to him or bring him back to me.Everything,except memory, seemed to separate me further from him. I have had this feeling twice; yes, I think, twice in my life,” she repeated. “Did you ever feel it, or is it only a womanish feeling?”
Mr. Guildford had listened to her with some surprise, but still with attention and a wish to follow her meaning.
“I think I understand you,” he said thoughtfully. “It seems to me your feeling must somewhere have affinity with what I—like every student of practical science—realise incessantly; the utter insurmountability of the barrier between matter and spirit. It sounds very commonplace, but it isthepuzzle. We are so hedged in, in every direction the old hitting one’s head against the wall. And the only thing to be done is to turn round and work one’s hardest inside the limits.”
“Yes,” said Cicely. “Yes. I understand.” Then she was silent for a minute or two. “I suppose,” she said at last, “I suppose if we could put our feelings into words, we should always find some one who shared them.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “Not that I have ever felt your special kind of revolt against our prison bars, Miss Methvyn. I have never been separated by death from any one that I cared very much about.”
“You have been very happy then,” she said.
“I don’t know. There are two ways of putting it. Perhaps the truth is that I have never had any one to care enough for, for separation to be or seem terrible,” he answered, in a tone not very easy to interpret.
They were close to the window again. Geneviève’s music had ceased, and glancing up, Cicely saw her cousin standing inside the glass door looking out.
“Mr. Guildford,” she said hastily, “will you just come to the end of the walk again for a moment. I have wanted to ask you something all this evening, and I thought you might be annoyed at it. I want to know what you think about my father. I cannot tell you why I ask you—there—there is something that depends upon it. And I know you are very clever. You must not think me very strange. I am so at a loss,” she hurried on with what she had to say, in evident fear of Mr. Guildford interrupting her with some cold expression of disapproval or annoyance; for she could see that he looked grave and perplexed.
“What do you mean exactly, Miss Methvyn?” he said formally. “Do you want to know if I think Colonel Methvyn in a critical state, or what?”
He thought her inquiry uncalled for and hardly delicate. He felt surprised, and a little disappointed. She was her father’s heiress; Colonel Methvyn had told him so. Could it be—surely not—that she was eager to claim her inheritance, making plans contingent on her speedy succession?
“Yes,” she replied, “that is partly what I want to know. I also want to know if any vexation—being thwarted about anything on which he had set his heart, for instance, could do him harm.”
“Most assuredly it would,” he said somewhat sternly, “the very gravest harm. It is very early for me to give an opinion,” he went on, feeling anxious to avoid saying much. “I never saw Colonel Methvyn till to-day, but I have seen similar cases. I should say he may live as he is for many years, provided his mind is kept at ease, and that he is not thwarted or exposed to vexation. The effect of any great shock, of course, I could not predict.”
“Thank you,” she said very gently, almost humbly, “you have told me what I wanted to know.”
Why did she want to know? he asked himself. She stood still for a minute or two, as if thinking of what he had said. The moonlight fell full on her fair face, and as she looked up with her clear honest eyes, his heart smote him for even his passing misgiving that her motives, her reasons, could be but of the purest and best.
“She is not a commonplace girl,” he thought, “and she won’t be a commonplace woman; but she is too self-reliant for one so young.”
It was almost with a feeling of relief, or what he imagined to be such, that he turned to Geneviève, who had opened the glass door and stood waiting for them.
“How charming it is!” she said; “but, my cousin, my aunt fears lest you should take cold.”
“I am coming in now, mother,” Cicely said as they came within hearing, “do come here for a moment and look at the beautiful moonlight.”
Mrs. Methvyn rose from her seat by the table, and joined the little group at the window.
“Yes,” she said, “it is lovely, but it is rather cold.” She shivered as she spoke, and retired to the fire. The others were following her, when suddenly a whistle was heard, not a railway whistle this time. It sounded at some little distance away, down among the shrubberies. Cicely stopped, and seemed to listen.
“What was that? It surely can’t be” The whistle was repeated. “Go in, Geneviève,” she said, “I shall be back directly.”
And almost before her cousin and Mr. Guildford saw what she was doing, she had started off and was lost to sight among the bushes.
Geneviève and Mr. Guildford looked at each other in surprise. Then Geneviève came into the library again and spoke to her aunt.
“My cousin has gone out again, aunt,” she said; “shall we leave the door open till she returns?”
“Cicely gone out again!” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn. “How very foolish! Do you see her Mr. Guildford?” she asked, for the young man was still standing by the window.
“No, I don’t,” he replied; “Miss Methvyn ran off so quickly. We had better shut the door in the meantime, however.”
He came inside and closed it. Mrs. Methvyn looked annoyed and uneasy.
“I can’t understand what Cicely is thinking of,” she said.
“There was a—what do you call—siffle,siffle—a fistle—wistle?” said Geneviève, “down in the garden, and then Cicely ran.”
“Whatdoyou mean, my dear?” said Mrs. Methvyn with slight impatience. “Do you know, Mr. Guildford?”
He was half annoyed and half amused.
“It is just as Miss Casalis says,” he replied. “We heard a whistle at some little distance, and Miss Methvyn ran off at once.”
“Was it a peculiar whistle, like two short notes and then a long one?” inquired Mrs. Methvyn more composedly.
“Yes,” said Mr. Guildford; “I heard it twice; it was just that.”
“Then the Fawcetts must have returned,” exclaimed Cicely’s mother. “How surprised every one will be! They intended to stay abroad till July.”
“The Fawcetts!” repeated Geneviève impulsively.
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Methvyn, “the Fawcetts—our nearest neighbours Colonel Methvyn’s cousins. Mr. Fawcett has been in the habit of coming here at all hours since he was a boy, and there is a short cut through the fields that saves a couple of miles,” she went on, in a sort of generally explanatory way; “it comes out at the little gate in the laurel-walk. By the bye, I wonder if Cicely has the key. We generally keep it locked, for a good many tramps come round by the Ash Lane, and Trev—Mr. Fawcett, always whistles, on the chance of our hearing him, before coming round the other way by the lodge.”
“Cicely had a key to-day,” said Geneviève. “We went through the little gate when we were out, and my cousin unlocked it.”
“Ah! that is all right, then; she often carries it in her pocket,” replied Mrs. Methvyn.
She went to the glass door, and opening it, stood listening as if for approaching voices. Geneviève sat down by the table and began idly turning over some photographs. Mr. Guildford stood at a little distance, wishing the carriage would come round that he might go. From time to time, however, he could not help glancing at the face bent over the photograph book. In profile it was hardly so perfect as when in full view; still it was very lovely—every feature so clear, and yet rounded, the long black eyelashes sweeping the delicately tinted cheek, the expression so innocently wistful.
“I doubt if that little southern flower will take kindly to this soil,” thought Mr. Guildford.
Just then Geneviève happened to look up, and catching sight of the young man’s eyes fixed upon her, blushed vividly. Pitying her discomfort, and annoyed with himself for being the cause of it, he hastily made some remark about the pictures she was looking at, thinking to himself as he did so of the shallowness of the popular notion that French girls were more artificial, less unsophisticated and retiring, than English maidens. Geneviève was on the point of replying to his observation, when the door opened.
“The carriage for Mr. Guildford,” said the footman.
Mr. Guildford turned to Mrs. Methvyn, and was beginning to say good-bye, when voices were heard outside—cheerful voices they sounded as they came nearer—Miss Methvyn’s and another, a deeper, fuller toned voice, and in a moment their owners appeared at the glass door.
“Mother,” said Cicely, and to Mr. Guildford her tone sounded bright and eager, “mother, here is Trevor, are you not astonished? Did you think me insane when I ran off in such a hurry?” she went on laughingly.
“We only arrived this afternoon,” said the gentleman, “two months before we were expected. You can fancy what a comfortable reception we had at Lingthurst. My mother and Miss Winter ended by discovering they had lostalltheir luggage, that is to say, only twenty-nine boxes turned up, and there was such a to-do that I came off.”
“It was very good of you, dear Trevor,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “It is so nice to see you again. But why have you come home so soon? Nothing wrong, I hope?
“Everything wrong,” said the young man laughing. But as he came into the room he caught sight of Mr. Guildford, and, further off, Geneviève seated by the table, but with her face turned away from the others. “You are not alone,” he said hastily, his tone changing a little. The change of tone, slight as it was, was enough to make Mr. Guildford wish that his goodbyes had been completed before the appearance of the new-comers, but almost ere he could realise the wish Miss Methvyn had come forward.
“It was very rude of me to run away in such a hurry, Mr. Guildford,” she said gently, “but I did not like to keep my cousin Mr. Fawcett waiting. I was afraid he would think we had not heard him.”
“I was just about going round by the lodge when I heard your tardy footsteps, Miss Cicely,” said Mr. Fawcett. “I had whistled till I was tired and was thinking of trying a verse or two of Come into the garden, Maud, for I am very tired indeed of being here at the gate alone.”
“It would not have been at all appropriate,” said Cicely, a very slight shadow of annoyance creeping over her face. Then there came a little pause, which Mr. Guildford took advantage of to finish his good-nights this time without interruption. He carried away with him no very distinct impression of the new-comer, only that he was tall and fair and good-looking, and that his voice was soft and pleasant.
“She said he was her cousin,” Mr. Guildford repeated to himself. “Ah! well, I am not likely ever to know more of her, but I almost think she is the sort of woman one might come to make a friend of.”
“He is as sober a man as most of the young nobility. His fortune is great. In sense he neither abounds nor is wanting; and that class of men, take my word for it, are the best qualified of all others to make good husbands to women of superior talents. They know just enough to admire in her what they have not inthemselves.”
Sir Charles Grandison.
HEwas tall and fair andverygood-looking. He had pleasant somewhat sleepy blue eyes, and a pleasant somewhat sleepy manner. Take him as a whole he was a favourable specimen of the upper class young Englishman of a certain type, prosperous, amiable, well-principled according to his lights, very fairly satisfied with things as he found them, little disposed by nature or education to dive below the surface.
In the little bustle of Mr. Guildford’s leave-taking, the figure of the girl sitting quietly by the table had almost escaped Mr. Fawcett’s notice. But Geneviève had risen to say good-bye to the doctor, and before she sat down again Mrs. Methvyn addressed her.
“Geneviève, my dear, don’t stay over there all alone. By the bye I must introduce a new cousin to you. Not exactly a cousin certainly, but as you both call me aunt, it seems something like it. This is Mr. Fawcett, Geneviève, and this, Trevor, is my little niece—niece ‘à la mode de Bretagne,’ as your mother says, Geneviève—Geneviève Casalis who has come to us all the way from Hivèritz. You must have been near there not long ago, Trevor. I think your mother,” but she stopped short in her sentence, startled by a sudden expression of surprise from the young man.
“By Jove,” he exclaimed, but recovering himself almost immediately, “I beg your pardon, aunt,” he went on, “I was so astonished at seeing Miss Casalis again. I had no idea—”
Geneviève had come forward when her aunt first spoke to her, and when Mrs. Methvyn had gone on to introduce the so-called cousins, Mr. Fawcett had naturally turned towards the young lady, obtaining thus for the first time a full view of her face, her lovely blushing face, with timid up-looking eyes; the face that not many weeks ago had rested white and unconscious on his shoulder, which he had often vaguely wondered if he should ever see again. This very evening, as he had stood waiting by the gate, something had recalled to his mind the accident at Hivèritz, and he had thought to himself that he would tell Cicely about it and try to describe to her the girl’s beautiful face.
“If she could see her, she would want to paint her I am sure,” he thought. “She would make such a stunning gipsy, or Italian peasant girl, or something like that. I wish Cicely could see her. She is so ready to admire pretty girls. I never knew any woman like her for that. Even my mother and Miss Winter began criticising that lovely girl. My mother said she had no manners—poor little soul! she was frightened out of her wits—and Miss Winter found fault with her dress.”
And within ten minutes of his standing at the gate, and thinking over the adventure of Hivèritz, behold the heroine of it standing before him in the flesh! It was enough to excuse a pretty forcible expression of astonishment.
Mrs. Methvyn looked bewildered in the extreme.
“Do you mean that you and Geneviève have met before?” she inquired. “You never told us so, Geneviève?”
“Perhaps she did not know Trevor’s name,” suggested Cicely, fancying that Geneviève looked shy and embarrassed.
“I knew it was Fawcett,” said Geneviève, “but I knew not but that here in England there are many Fawcetts.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Fawcett eagerly. “Of course. I only wonder you remember the name at all.” He could not have explained why, but he certainly was rather pleased than the reverse to find that Mademoiselle Casalis had not talked about their former meeting.
“When was it you met Mr. Fawcett before? On your way through France?” inquired Mrs. Methvyn of Geneviève.
“Oh! no, dear aunt. It was while I was still at the home. Before I knew that I should come to England at all,” the girl replied simply enough. And then she told about the accident, how kind “Miladi Fawcett” had been, how thankful “maman” had felt that it had done her no harm—all in her pretty, broken English, stopping here and there for a word, or glancing up appealingly with a “how do you say so and so?”—all just as it had happened; Mr. Fawcett now and then joining in with some observation; reserving only to herself her mother’s recollection of the English family’s name and speculation as to whether the Fawcetts of her youth and those of Geneviève’s adventure could be the same. For the mention of this would assuredly have led to a repetition of the question, “Why did you not tell us about it before?” a question that Geneviève was not prepared to answer, for the simple reason that she could not really exactly say why she had not done so. It would have been only natural, girlishly natural, to have inquired of her aunt or cousin if among their neighbours were any family corresponding to her description, but though natural to most girls, to Geneviève anything so frank and straightforward was the reverse. To her the question, “Why should Inottell?” less frequently presented itself than the reverse, “Why should I?”
Perhaps the only definite reason she could have given for her reserve, was one she might certainly be excused for keeping to herself—a foolish, vague, half-romantic, half calculating anticipation of the effect and possible result of her sudden appearance before old Mathurine’s ‘jeune milord,’ the hero of the girl’s latest day-dream.
So she told her little adventure simply and prettily, with here and there a timid blush, and a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she recalled her mother’s thankfulness, the anxiety and terror of ‘cette bonne Mathurine.’
“It is quite a curious coincidence,” said Mrs. Methvyn with interest. “I must take you to see Lady Frederica some day soon Geneviève. She will be pleased to meet you again. In any case she would be glad to see you, for she remembers your mother. In one of her letters to me she said so, and was sorry I had not given her Madame Casalis’s address in case of your passing through Hivèritz, Trevor. It was too late then, for you had already been there.”
“Yes, what a pity,” exclaimed Mr. Fawcett. “I remember my mother saying something about it when we were in Switzerland. She could not remember where Madame Casalis lived. We little thought we had already made her daughter’s acquaintance.”
“Did you not hear Geneviève’s name?” inquired Cicely.
Trevor looked a little bit annoyed—he hardly liked to own that while the young lady had remembered his, hers had completely escaped his memory.
“We did hear it, we must have heard it,” he said. “I think Miss Casalis mentioned it when I was telling our courier where the coachman was to drive to. But, I suppose it was the stupidity of my English ears—I did not catch it clearly.”
Geneviève smiled sweetly, as if in condonation of the offence, but in her heart she was wishing, oh! so earnestly, that she hadnotprevented “Miladi Fawcett” from accompanying her home to the Rue de la Croix blanche, that Sunday evening, to see her safely in her mother’s care. What would it have mattered that the house was small and shabby, and that Madame Casalis herself had to open the door, if, as would almost surely have been the case, the familiar name of Fawcett had caught her mother’s ears, and led to a mutual recognition! What pleasant results might not have followed! Geneviève felt exceedingly provoked with herself, and Mrs. Methvyn, unconsciously, added to her vexation.
What a pity,” she too exclaimed. “If Caroline and Lady Frederica had met, it would probably have been arranged for Geneviève to have travelled some part of the way here with your party, Trevor, for I know Madame Casalis was very anxious at that time to hear of a suitable escort. And you would have seen something of Paris, my dear, as you wished so much,” she added, turning to Geneviève, “instead of having to hurry through with Monsieur Rouet.”—“Geneviève came under the care of apasteurwho had to attend some meeting in London,” she went on to explain to Mr. Fawcett.
“And had to travel second-class all the way, and saw nothing of Paris,” added Geneviève in her own mind (though not for worlds would she have said it aloud), feeling too disgusted with herself even to smile. Her one day in Paris had been a Sunday, which the Reverend Joseph Rouet, faithful to his charge, had caused her to spend among the Protestant brethren at Passy, attending two services in a stuffy meeting-house,—Geneviève, whose soul had long ago soared far beyond the homeliness of the Casalis’ narrow little circle at Hivèritz, whose imagination had pictured drives in the Bois de Boulogne, shopping in the Boulevards, nay (‘comble de bonheur,’ hardly to be thought of but with bated breath), even a visit to the theatre itself, as blissful possibilities of a few days in Paris!
“It was really a chapter of cross-purposes,” continued Mrs. Methvyn. “I wonder your mother did not remember the name Fawcett, when you told her of your accident, Geneviève?”
“Perhaps I did not rightly pronounce it,” said the girl. “And mamma was much occupied in her thoughts just then, I remember.”
She happened to catch Cicely’s eye as she spoke, and blushed vividly. A slight look of perplexity crossed Miss Methvyn’s face.
“I hope Geneviève is not afraid of me,” she thought to herself. “What was there to make her look so uncomfortable just now! I am so anxious to be kind to her and win her confidence, but I fear I seem cold and distant to her, poor girl!”
But no more was said on the subject of Geneviève’s former meeting with the Fawcetts.
“Shall I come to see your mother to-morrow, Trevor?” said Mrs. Methvyn as she was bidding Mr. Fawcett good night. “Or will she be busy?”
“She will probably be rather in a state of mind if the missing boxes haven’t turned up,” said the young man. “I’ll look in some time to-morrow and tell you. I have to drive to the village to call on the new clergyman, and I may as well come round this way.”
“Oh! then the new clergyman has come,” said Cicely. “I am very glad. I don’t like driving to Haverstock Church half as well as going to Lingthurst. The walk through the woods is so pretty, Geneviève,” she added; “I almost think it is what I like best about our Sundays here.”
“Cicely, my dear!” said her mother in a somewhat similar tone to that in which Mrs. Crichton had reproved her brother for the avowed reason of his predilection for church.
Cicely smiled. “Well, mother dear,” she said coaxingly, “the walk to church was really more edifying than what we heard when we got there, in the old days. I am so glad Sir Thomas is getting a new organ,” she went on. “We hear Mr.—I don’t think I have heardhis name—is a zealous reformer.”
“Tremendous,” said Mr. Fawcett. “I don’t think my father had any idea what he was bringing upon us when he gave the living to Mr. Hayle.”
“Mr. Hayle, oh! that’s his name, is it? But I thought he was not coming for two months,” said Miss Methvyn.
“So thought everybody except Mr. Hayle,” replied Mr. Fawcett. “There was some mistake about it, and it turned out he had made all his plans for coming at once; that was one of the things that made us come home sooner. But I must be going. Good night, aunt. I shall be sure to look in to-morrow.”
That night when the two girls went upstairs to their rooms, Cicely accompanied Geneviève into hers. She stood for a moment by the dressing-table idly playing with some pretty little toilet ornaments that stood upon it. They were unusually pretty little trifles, and belonged to a set which had been given to her by an old lady who was a connoisseur in such things, and Cicely had placed them in her cousin’s room to please her eye on first arriving. The sight of the little ornament seemed to remind her of what she had to say, or perhaps to encourage her to say it.
“Geneviève,” she began, and her blue eyes looked earnest and thoughtful, “I want to say something to you. I am afraid I seem cold to you, and it would grieve me if you thought Ifeltso. I am not naturally very demonstrative, and since my father has been so ill, I have had to learn to be even more quiet and calm in manner. And being the only one at home, I have had to do what I could to help my parents, and I fear it has given me a sort of decided, managing manner that may strike you disagreeably. I want to ask you not to be afraid to tell me if I ever seem either cold or hard. You don’t know me yet; you can’t trust me all of a sudden; I should not wish it. But when you know me better, I hope you will believe that I don’t feel cold and indifferent, and that I am very anxious, dear, to make you happy.”
Considering that the burden of the speech was herself and her own feelings, it was an unusually long one for Cicely. But the simple words betrayed no egotism; the kind, true eyes expressed their owner’s real feelings. Impressionable Geneviève threw her arms round her cousin’s neck.
“I do trust you, dear Cécile,” she exclaimed impetuously. “I love you and trust you, and I think you so good and so wise. I wish I were good like you, but I am not. I am foolish and discontent, and at home I did not help the mother and think for her, as you do for my aunt. Teach me to be like you, dear Cécile; let me trust you and give you all my confidence.”
Cicely smiled. It was no sudden friend ship she was asking of her cousin, no romantic compact of girlish devotion which she was proposing—such things were little in her way. But she would not for worlds have chilled Geneviève’s affectionate impulse, so she submitted with apparent satisfaction to a kiss on each cheek, and kissed her again in return, saying as she did so, “Good night, dear Geneviève, and thank you. Now you must ring for Parker and go to bed. It is rather late and you look tired.”
Coming along the passage after leaving Geneviève, Miss Methvyn met her mother.
“I was looking for you, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “It is late, but your father is very comfortable to-night. He is still reading the papers.”
They were close to the door of Cicely’s little sitting-room. They went in and stood in silence for a minute by the mantelpiece. All looked the same as on the night little Charlie died; the birds were all asleep, the flowers looked fresh and cared for, the Skye terrier lay on the hearthrug. Cicely sighed as she looked round, for her glance fell on an object she had not yet had the heart to dislodge from its accustomed place—a toy horse, Charlie’s favourite steed, stalled in one corner, which he had called his stable.
But the sigh was quickly stifled. “What did you want me for, mother?” she said.
“I was thinking, Cicely,” began Mrs. Methvyn, “that it would now be well to tell Geneviève of your engagement—don’t you think so? It is different now that Trevor is here again. It may seem strange to her afterwards not to have been told of it.”
Cicely hesitated. “I would much rather she were not told of it just yet,” she said. “She is so young, and I want so much to make her feel quite at ease with me. Besides,” she went on, “you know, mother, what we were saying this afternoon—my engagement is rather an indefinite one; it is not as if I were going to be married soon.”
“But if your father sets his heart upon it—the Fawcetts have always wished to hasten the marriage, you know, Cicely dear—it may not be a very long engagement after all,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“I hope papa won’t set his heart upon it,” said Cicely with a faint smile. But she did not oppose the suggestion as vehemently as a few hours before.
“Then, you don’t object to my telling Geneviève?” asked her mother.
“Of course not, if you think it best,” said Cicely. “I wish, however, you would not tell herquiteyet. Wait a few days. I think she is beginning to feel more at home with me. She will not be surprised at seeing Trevor often here; she knows they are our cousins.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
Geneviève’s last thought that night before she went to sleep was of Mr. Fawcett. To her girlish fancy the coincidence of their meeting again was suggestive of all manner of speculations.
“How I wish Mathurine knew of it,” she said to herself; “how delighted she would be! She thought him so handsome and distinguished. So he certainly is, and his manners are so agreeable, not at all like those of most Englishmen, cold and gloomy” (forgetting her extremely limited experience of Mr. Fawcett’s countrymen). “And then how rich they must be! Ah, how I should have enjoyed travelling with them! No doubt they had a courier, anappartement au premier—everything of the best.”
And another idea entered her silly little head. How delightful would be a wedding journey to Paris with such a hero—rich, amiable, living but to gratify her wishes! Such things had come to pass, thought Geneviève; such good fortune had been the lot of portionless girls far inferior to herself in personal attractions. She did not fear her cousin Cicely as a rival; the idea never even occurred to her. She liked Cicely, and was very well pleased to make a friend of her, but in some respects she could hardly help looking down upon her a little. “She is so good and wise,” thought Geneviève, “but so slow and quiet. English girls never seem half awake. And her dress; bah! if I had all the money she has to spend upon it, would I be content to wear such plain things? She might make herself look twice as well if she liked.”
Such was the maiden meditation, such the “fancy free” of thepasteur’sdaughter, who had been brought up in the seclusion and simplicity of a French Protestant household, sheltered, as her parents fondly thought, from every breath of worldliness or ambition.
Mr. Fawcett made his appearance again about luncheon-time the next day. Cicely was alone in the morning room when he came in.
“I’ve been to see the new man,” he said, establishing himself on a comfortable low chair and looking ready for a cousinly chat. “I’m hardly fit to come in here, Cicely; I’m covered with dust.”
He looked dubiously at his boots as he spoke, and began switching them lightly with his riding-whip.”
“Never mind,” said Miss Methvyn; “only please don’t send the dust on to me.” She spoke laughingly; but her tone sobered into gravity as she went on, “Black dresses catch dust so easily.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. Then he looked up from his boots and fixed his pleasant, good-tempered blue eyes on his cousin. She was sitting at a little table near him,—writing, in point of fact making up accounts. She had stopped when Mr. Fawcett first came in, but had not altogether withdrawn her attention from the papers. before her; and now in the intervals of his remarks, she ran her eye up and down the neat little columns of figures, and jotted down the results of her calculations.
“What are you so busy about, Cicely?” said Mr. Fawcett after a little pause.
Miss Methvyn stopped to put down a figure before she spoke. “It’s Saturday,” she replied laconically, glancing up for a moment, and then putting down another.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” replied her cousin. “What about it?”
His tone was perfectly good-natured. Something in it struck Cicely’s sense of the ludicrous. She threw down her pen and began to laugh.
“You’re very long suffering, Trevor,” she said, “and I’m very rude. On Saturdays I have always to go over all the accounts; the bailiff’s, the gardener’s, and all—and make a sort of summary of them for papa. I generally do them upstairs in my own room, but Geneviève was working at something up there this morning, so I brought them down here.”
“It isn’t proper work for you. Your father should get a regular agent,” said Mr. Fawcett.
“No he shouldn’t,” said Cicely; but the tone and manner disarmed the abruptness of her speech. She glanced at her cousin with an expression of half-playful defiance. He smiled.
There was a likeness of feature and complexion between these two—a material resemblance, which seemed, in a sense, to render more visible the underlying dissimilarity. Both pairs of blue eyes were calm and gentle; but those of the young man told of repose from the absence of conflicting elements; those of the girl, of the quiet of restrained power. There was decision in both faces; in Trevor’s it was that of a straightforward, healthy, uncultivated, not acutely sensitive nature; in Cicely’s it was the firmness of an organisation strong to resist where the necessity of resistance should be the result of conviction, but at the same time exquisitely keen to suffer. A glance at the man told you pretty correctly the extent of his mental capacity. He was no fool, but there was small promise of further intellectual development; such as he was, he was likely to remain; but it took more than many glances to estimate justly the reserve of power and depths of feeling hidden below the stillness of Cicely Methvyn’s young face.
Something in the girl’s manner told Mr. Fawcett that the occasion would not be an auspicious one for entering upon a subject he had come half prepared to discuss. So he said nothing for a minute or two, and Cicely went on with her accounts. As Mr. Fawcett watched her, a slight expression of dissatisfaction crept over his face.
“Cicely,” he said.
“Well,” said Cicely, without looking up this time.
“You’re not going to wear that deep mourning much longer, are you?”
Cicely’s face lost its brightness. There was a slight constraint in her tone as she answered.
“It is not very deep mourning,” she said, glancing at her gown. “There is no crape on my dress. I dislike very deep, elaborate mourning.”
“If it was handsomer of its kind, perhaps it would be more becoming,” said Mr. Fawcett agreeably. “As it is, Cicely, I can’t say I think it so. You are too colourless for that sort of dull-looking dress. It might suit some people—your cousin, for instance; I dare say if we saw her in a plain black dress like yours, we should think she couldn’t wear anything that would suit her as well. She is so brilliant,” he added reflectively.
“Yes,” said Cicely. “I dare say we should. But then, Trevor, I strongly suspect we should think so whatever Geneviève wore. She is so very lovely. But as for me, Trevor, you know I wasn’t thinking of whether it would suit me or not when I got this dress.”
Her coloured deepened a little as she spoke, and the words sounded almost reproachful.
“Of course not. I know that,” said Mr. Fawcett hastily. “Of course, Cicely, you know I didn’t mean to speak unfeelingly. How curious it is about your cousin by the bye,” he went on, as if anxious to change the subject, “about our having knocked her down at Hivèritz, I mean.”
“Yes, it was very curious,” said Cicely. “But you knew a cousin was coming to stay with us, Trevor; I mentioned it in several of my letters.”
“Oh! yes. I knew a Miss Casalis was coming,” said Trevor, “but somehow I didn’t fancy she would be that sort of a cousin.”
“What sort did you expect?” asked Miss Methvyn.
“Oh! I fancied she would be an older person, or at least a plain ordinary girl. One doesn’t expect a girl like Geneviève to come out of a French pastor’s household. Do you like her, Cicely?”
“Of course I do,” said Cicely. “It would be very difficult not to like her; don’t you think so? She is so pretty, and so sweet and timid.”
“I wish all the same she had been older, more the sort of person I expected,” observed Mr. Fawcett. “She will be always with you now, Cicely, and it won’t be half so comfortable.”
“What would you have done if I had had a young sister?” asked Cicely.
“I should have got accustomed to her and should have known her always. A stranger coming is quite different. And one must be civil to her, as she is a young lady,” grumbled Mr. Fawcett.
“And so very pretty,” added Cicely mischievously, but she did not succeed in making her cousin smile.
“It’s not comfortable,” he repeated.
“My dear Trevor, you are very cross. I assure you Geneviève is the last person to interfere with your comfort. She is only too timid and retiring,” remonstrated Cicely.
Mr. Fawcett did not reply. He sat silent for a minute or two, seemingly a very little less good-humoured than his wont. Then suddenly he looked up.
“By the bye, Cicely,” he said, “who was that fellow that was here last night? I have never seen him before, have I?”
Something in his words made Miss. Methvyn’s tone, as she replied, hardly as equable as usual.
“It was Mr. Guildford, the doctor from Sothernbay,” she answered a little coldly. “He is coming over every week now to see my father, as Dr. Farmer has gone.”
“Oh! yes, I remember. A very good thing for him, I dare say. It’s not often a Sothernbay surgeon gets such a chance,” said Mr. Fawcett carelessly.
Miss Methvyn’s face flushed slightly.
“I don’t think you—I wish you wouldn’t speak of Mr. Guildford in that way, Trevor,” she said gently. “He isn’t that sort of man. Don’t you remember my telling you how kind he was when Charlie died?—coming at once and staying so long, though he was a perfect stranger. I believe he is a very clever man, and a very kind-hearted one too. Indeed I don’t see how a doctor can be a really good one if he is always thinking about his own advancement more than of anything else.”
“It’s the way of the world unfortunately, for doctors and everybody to do so,” said Mr. Fawcett. “But I didn’t mean to say anything against your doctor, Cicely. I hadn’t the least idea who he was last night. But I’ll tell you what,” he added, after a little pause, as a bright idea suddenly struck him, “if you don’t take care you’ll have this disinterested young man falling in love with your pretty cousin, Cicely, if you let him come about in this tame-cat way.”
Cicely’s face flushed again.
“I wish you would not say those things, Trevor. It is disagreeable; Mr. Guildford is quite a different man from what you fancy. I am quite sure his head is full of much more important matters than falling in love. He is an exceedingly clever and learned man.”
“And do ‘exceedingly clever and learned men’ never fall in love?” asked Mr. Fawcett. “It is to be hoped you don’t scorn the idea of exceedingly clever and learned women being guilty of such a weakness.”
His tone was light and bantering, but to Cicely’s quick ears a slight and very unusual bitterness was discernible through the raillery. She looked sorry.
“I don’t believe you care a bit for me, Cicely,” said Trevor, before she had made up her mind what to say.
She looked up in his face with her clear kind eyes. “Don’t say that, Trevor,” she said. “HowcouldI not care for you? Have we not been companions in everything almost longer than I can remember? I cannot recall any part of my life without finding you in it. Dear Trevor, don’t speak so. And please don’t laugh at me and call me clever and learned. I am neither, only things have made me graver and quieter than other girls.”
Mr. Fawcett was standing beside her now. He stooped and kissed her on the forehead.
“I didn’t mean to vex you, Cicely,” he said.
Cicely smiled and peace was made. But she owned to herself that Trevor had not been quite as kindly and good-natured as usual in his remarks this morning.
Then the luncheon-gong sounded, and Mrs. Methvyn and Geneviève came into the room.
“Geneviève,” said her aunt, as they were all passing through the hall, on their way to the dining-room, “Is your address at Hivèritz, 21, or 31, Rue de la Croix? I always forget. I have just been writing to your mother.”
“31, Rue de la Croix blanche, dear aunt,” said Geneviève, wondering in her own mind if Mr. Fawcett would perhaps go a walk with Cicely and her in the afternoon, and wishing that she had changed her dress before luncheon.