“. . . there arrives a lull in the hot race* * * * * *And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.And then he thinks he knowsThe hills where his life rose,And the sea where it goes.”
Mathew Arnold.
WHATa pleasant drive it was! They left the high-road, where the heat and brightness of the July sun were untempered by shade, and drove along the pretty lanes abounding in the neighbourhood, in which the trees met overhead, and the brilliant sky was seen only through a leafy network of every tint of green.
“I never remember a more beautiful summer day than this,” observed Colonel Methvyn. “I wonder if it seems so to all of you, or if my enjoyment is increased by my long isolation from out-door pleasures? An invalid has some compensations after all. I dare say I should not have given two thoughts to the beauty of the day, if I had been going about in my old way.”
“But it is a quite unusually exquisite day, papa,” said Cicely. “It is not sultry just deliciously soft and yet fresh. An invalid’s friends have some compensations too, you see, for we all enjoy this lovely day doubly through knowing that you enjoy it too!”
“You are all very good, my dear,” answered her father, smiling.
“Mr. Guildford best of all, is he not?” said Cicely, “for suggesting that you would be able to enjoy driving.”
She turned to Mr. Guildford with a pretty glance of gratitude, as she spoke, but the young man hardly seemed to appreciate her acknowledgment of what she felt to be owing to him.
“I should be a very poor doctor, Miss Methvyn,” he said, with a very slight emphasis on the objectionable word, “if I contented myself with physicking my patients only. The good effects of fresh air and sunshine are more justly estimated than they used to be, I am glad to say.”
Cicely’s face sobered. “Yes,” she said quietly, “it is a very great blessing that people are growing wiser about such things.”
But the playfulness had died out of her manner. Forthwith Mr. Guildford blamed himself for his touchiness. “Surly idiot that I am,” he said to himself, “why should I be offended at her remembering what my position is?” And he set to work to disperse the little cloud his coldness had brought over the bright young face.
His efforts were successful. Notwithstanding his secluded life, he could talk well and interestingly when he chose; and women of even only ordinary intelligence are as quick to appreciategoodtalking as to see through and despise the superficial chatter in comparison with which silence is golden indeed. Cicely Methvyn’s intelligence was beyond the average, and its vigour and freshness were unchecked by the slightest touch of self-consciousness. And in this perhaps was the secret of her unusual charm. She forgot herself in the interest of discussion, she was eager to understand what she heard, completely frank in confessing her ignorance. But with it all, ever gentle, ever womanly and docile.
Mr. Guildford had never before seen her quite in the light in which this afternoon she appeared to him. She seemed younger and yet older, simpler and more girlish than he had hitherto imagined her, even while unconsciously allowing him glimpses of a mind of unusual grasp and by no means discreditable cultivation.
“When have you found time to read so much, Miss Methvyn?” he inquired at last, in surprise at her evidently thorough acquaintance with the subject they were discussing. It happened to be one of Colonel Methvyn’s pet hobbies, that of engraving.
Cicely blushed slightly; then glancing affectionately at her father. “It is papa who has taught me all I know about it,” she replied. “I have had unusual advantages—ever so many ‘extras’ in my schooling, thanks to him. I should have beenverystupid not to have learnt a little. Shouldn’t I, father?”
Colonel Methvyn smiled. “She has had to be both son and daughter, you see. No wonder she is a little spoilt!” he said, with a sort of half apologetic pride that had in it something both pleasing and pathetic.
“Some kinds of spoiling don’t spoil,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“Or some peoplewon’tspoil?” suggested Mr. Guildford with a smile.
“‘Some people’ is being spoilt now, among you all,” answered Mrs. Methvyn.
Cicely laughed and blushed. “Suppose we change the subject,” she said, “I am growing quite hot and nervous. I wonder how Geneviève is getting on, by the bye,” she added suddenly.
“Yes,” said her mother, “we shall be hearing from her to-morrow morning.”
“Has Miss Casalis gone to any distance?” inquired Mr. Guildford. “Is she to be long away?”
“A few weeks, not longer,” said Mrs. Methvyn, she has gone to the sea side—to the Isle of Wight—with the Fawcetts.”
“Oh! indeed,” said Mr. Guildford. “You must miss Miss Casalis a good deal,” he added to Cicely; “at least, I should think she would be missed.”
His tone was perfectly unconstrained at the beginning of the speech, but something in the expression of Cicely’s eyes as she turned to him, caused him to utter the last two or three words confusedly and somewhat incoherently. Miss Methvyn regarded him coolly till he left off speaking, and Mr. Guildford became aware that even blue eyes can be unpleasantly critical.
“What is she thinking of?” he said to himself.
Quoth Cicely calmly, “Do you mean because she is so pretty?”
“Not only that,” replied the young man, a dash of half-defined contradiction lending weight to his words. “Miss Casalis is much more than pretty. She is perfectly charming.”
“Yes,” said Cicely, as quietly as before, “she is.”
Then at last she turned away. But not in time to check by her gravity, a very slight, the very slightest of smiles, which Mrs. Methvyn was telegraphing to her daughter from her corner of the carriage, and which unfortunately did not reach its destination unperceived by Mr. Guildford.
He did not like it at all. He began to grow cross again, and would have succeeded in becoming thoroughly so had there been time for the completion of the process. But there was not. Just then the carriage turned in at the lodge on the Greybridge Road, and in two minutes more drew up in front of the ivy-clad porch of the Abbey, and everybody’s attention was given to helping the invalid out, and in the little bustle Mr. Guildford forgot all about his impending crossness and its cause.
He had time to get back into a very happy and amiable state of mind before he left, for he stayed till even the last lights of the long July day had sunk into the soft, mellow darkness of a midsummer night. And as he walked back to Greybridge station—slowly, all but indifferent to whether he lost the last train to Sothernbay or not, enjoying the delicious summer scents of new mown hay and dewy grass and sleeping flowers which came to him in mysterious wafts from unseen fields and hedgerows—it seemed to him as it had seemed on that bright May morning that now looked long ago, that the world was a happy place, and life a blessed thing, and that the future was rich with golden possibilities.
For Midsummer’s day must come once a year even in the coldest lands—and to all of us there must be midsummer once in life—a pause of mingled joy and hope, a living in the blissful present, a foolish dream of its continuance!
And for a while it almost seemed to the young man as if he had succeeded in cheating time into restfulness. He thought himself so different from other men, he thanked God that he was not as they, he stood strong and serene in his self-dominion; he had mastered his life and mapped it out as, it seemed to him, to the best advantage for his fellow-creatures in the special direction in which he felt that he could benefit them. And hitherto his intentions had been fulfilled, and his efforts crowned with success, and the future lay bright before him. He had worked hard, he had allowed nothing to beguile him from his labours, he felt that he had earned a right to some rest and enjoyment when they came in his way. And they offered themselves in so attractive and refined a form at this time; he felt that the society of such a woman as Cicely Methvyn could not but benefit as well as refresh him. He congratulated himself on the perfect knowledge of himself, and on the clear sighted resolution which enabled him to enjoy a pleasure and advantage of the kind with no fear of their leading him too far. For as firmly as ever he believed in his own theories, as determinedly as when he had aroused his sister’s indignation by the expression of his ideas on the subject, was he resolved that when he did marry, his choice should not fall upon a woman of character or intellect likely to lead her beyond the charmed circle of “her own sphere.” The only change in his feelings was an apparently unimportant one. Lately, quite lately, he had begun to doubt if he would marry at all.
“That lovely little cousin of Miss Methvyn’s,” he said to himself, as he was walking to Greybridge that night, “so she has gone away with the Fawcetts! I hope that young Fawcett is not amusing himself with her. He is not likely to be in earnest, for his family would be sure to think her beneath him—poor girl—she is too pretty to be in anything even approaching a dependent position.”
And a vague notion, born half of a sort of chivalry towards Geneviève, half of his admiration of her beauty, floated across his mind, of this innocent little creature as a possible wife. Did she not possess every qualification he had pronounced desirable? She was more than pretty, sweet-tempered certainly—who so gentle and clinging could be otherwise?—unselfish, he felt assured, transparent to a degree; the last sort of woman to trouble herself with understanding matters “too great for her,” or to dream of discontent with her own domain. Yet it had annoyed him to imagine that Cicely had had any deeper meaning than her words had expressed in her remarks about Geneviève that afternoon; the grave inquiry in her eyes had irritated him as much as the smile he had detected on her mother’s face.
“It is so like women to be always jumping to conclusions; their heads are always running on lovers and marriage, but I had fancied Miss Methvyn quite above such folly,” he said to himself by way of explanation of his annoyance.
Then he forgot all about Geneviève, and began considering how to arrange his work for the next day so as to be free to be at the Abbey again on that following, as he had promised to be if the weather should be fine enough for Colonel Methvyn to go out again.
It did prove fine enough, and so did a great many other days in the course of the next few weeks. And even when there came rainy days, such as there must be some of in the brightest summer, and there could be no question of out-of-doors for the invalid, there was yet sure to arise some unavoidable reason why Mr. Guildford’s visit to Greystone—should not be postponed. Either he would fancy it was going to clear, and in this expectation start on his little journey, or, if it were an unmistakable case of “cats and dogs,” his conscience would reproach him for inattention to poor Colonel Methvyn, and carelessness of his probable dreariness in such depressing circumstances, and he would remember some old book he had picked up which might amuse the invalid, or the announcement of some forthcoming sale of rare engravings would catch his eye in the morning paper and furnish the “way” which his “will” was alert to take advantage of.
And so, like many who pride themselves on the perfection of their self-knowledge, who imagine that under no conceivable circumstances could they be so deluded as to call a spade by any other name, “regardless of his doom” the young man marched calmly along the old, old road, seeing but the flowers by the wayside, all heedless and ignorant of what awaited him at the end.
But the close of that pleasant midsummer time was at hand.
Six or seven weeks passed. There came frequent letters from Geneviève, and an occasional one from Lady Frederica. Geneviève wrote cheerfully on the whole, though often expressing a wish that she were again with her kind friends at Greystone—pretty words which pleased Mrs. Methvyn, which Cicely smiled at with a sort of kindly indulgence, though less inclined than her mother to estimate them at more than their value. But Cicely had grown softer of late; it seemed to herself that her character was maturing and mellowing in the peace and congeniality of her present life.
“I have been very happy this summer,” she said to herself, “I shall always be so thankful to have the remembrance of it. My last summer at home!”
She could not even regret Mr. Fawcett’s absence, for she was satisfied by his cheerful letters that he was enjoying his visit to the north; and for the short time now left to her of home life, it was a relief to feel that no other duties clashed with the devotion she loved to lavish on her parents.
About the end of August, by which time allusions had been made more than once in Geneviève’s letters to coming home before long, Cicely one day received a somewhat lengthy epistle from Lady Frederica. The first part contained nothing of importance, only chit-chat about the weather and the fashions, the drives they had taken and the people they had met. Geneviève was evidently in high favour: “She is the sweetest girl in the world,” wrote her hostess; “I cannot tell you, my dear Cicely, how amiable and unselfish she has shown herself, and really, to me personally, quitedevoted.I cannot say that I have missed poor old Winter in the least. I hope she won’t be jealous when she comes back! Of course, Geneviève is admired wherever we go; but we have been moving about too much to make many acquaintances, and I fear it must have been rather dull for her, though she is too unselfish to allow it,”—and so on. But the gist of the feminine letter lay in the postscript. It was quite as long as the rest of the letter.
“What do you think, my dear Cicely,” it began, “Trevor has just returned. He walked into the room all of a sudden when we were at luncheon, and thinking of him as hundreds of miles away; he had not time to write to tell us he was coming, and he says I am to tell you of his arrival, and he will write himself to-morrow. He is looking well, so brown, but he does not seem in his usual spirits. He was so cold and stiff to poor dear Geneviève when he came in, that I felt quite provoked with him; and when she had left the room, he actually said that if he had known we were not alone, he would not have come to us. I fear that Captain Halliday and his friends are a verybachelorset of men; it is quite time you took Trevor in hand, you see, my dear. In writing to him, I wish you would give him a hint that you would feel pleased by his showing kindness to your cousin, for really she deserves it, and, as I told you, she has had very little amusement with us. I really feel quite provoked with him.”
Then came postscript number two:—“Of course you will not tell Trevor that I have written to you about his being so cross.”
Cicely folded up the letter with a somewhat troubled expression of face. “I don’t understand why Trevor should be put out at finding Geneviève with his mother,” she thought. “From what Lady Frederica says, he evidently is so; he always seemed to like Geneviève, and he certainly admired her. He is not like what he used to be; I never remember him cross and unreasonable till lately, never in all his life.” She glanced again at the postscript. “I hate hints,” she said; “besides, what can I say, unless I tell him all his mother has written? Why should I suppose he wouldnotbe kind to Geneviève?”
She was still standing by the window, where she had been reading her letter, the perplexed expression had not left her face, when her mother came into the room.
“I have a letter from Geneviève, Cicely,” she exclaimed; “I don’t at all understand it. She writes begging to come home at once. Is it not silly and unreasonable? They are at Eastbourne now; she could not travel all the way here alone, and I have no one to send for her; and the Fawcetts are coming home themselves in a fortnight; they would certainly be offended if Geneviève left them so suddenly—after all their kindness to her, too. I don’t understand her in the least.”
“Trevor has come back,” said Cicely laconically.
“Trevor come back!” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn, her thoughts diverted for the moment by the unexpected news. “Dear me! he has returned very suddenly, surely. Have you a letter from him?”
“No,” replied Cicely; “he had not time to write himself, he had just arrived; my letter is from Lady Frederica. Does Geneviève not mention Trevor?”
“Oh! no; she is quite full of this absurd idea of returning here at once,” said Mrs. Methvyn in a tone of annoyance. “What can have put it into her head?”
“It may have to do with Trevor’s return,” said Cicely; “Geneviève is exceedingly quick and impressionable, she would discover at once if she were unwelcome.”
“Unwelcome!” repeated her mother, “what do you mean, my dear?”
Cicely hesitated a moment, then she took her letter out of its envelope again, and held it towards her mother. “You had better read what Lady Frederica says, mother; evidently Geneviève has been hurt by Trevor’s coldness.”
Mrs. Methvyn took the letter and read it. When she came to the postscript a smile stole over her face. “How stupid Frederica is sometimes,” she said complacently; “of course, poor Trevor was disappointed at finding Geneviève there, and notyou,Cicely—quite enough to put him out, poor fellow!”
“But he had not the slightest reason to expect to find me there,” said Cicely, “and he must have known Geneviève was with his mother; I have mentioned it several times in my letters to him, I am sure, and of course his mother will have done so too.”
“You don’t know that he has got all your letters, and of course he might not remember every little thing in them,” persisted Mrs. Methvyn. “Very likely when he got to the hotel, and asked for his father and mother, the people would mention there being a young lady with them, and he would hasten in, quite expecting to seeyou.I can thoroughly understand how it has been.”
Cicely smiled, but said no more about it.
“I must write to Geneviève at once,” said Mrs. Methvyn, seating herself at her writing-table.
“Won’t you wait till to-morrow, mother?” said Cicely persuasively. “If Geneviève has written off hastily in a fit of fancying she was not wanted, she will very probably have changed her mind again by this time, and Trevor and she will be quite good friends. I dare say you will have another letter saying something of the kind, to-morrow morning.”
“Do you think so?” said Mrs. Methvyn irresolutely;—“well, then, perhaps I may as well wait. If I wrote at once, I should certainly tell Geneviève how exceedingly absurd I think her.”
Cicely proved a true prophet. There did come another letter from Geneviève the next day, begging her aunt to forgive her hasty request, and saying that she would be quite happy to stay with her friends till they too came home.
“I was not happy when I wrote before, dear aunt,” she said, “because it appeared to me that Mr. Fawcett when he arrived was not well pleased to see me; but now he tells me that he was only surprised, for, though he knew I had been with his mother, he thought I had returned, there is a long time. Now, however, I understand how it was, and I shall not any more be ill at ease.”
“What a little goose Geneviève is,” said Cicely laughing; “she will make Trevor quite conceited if she studies his manner so.”
There was no mention of Geneviève in Mr. Fawcett’s letter to hisfiancéebeyond the words, “I was surprised to find your cousin with my mother, I thought she had gone home some time ago; I wishyouwere here.” And Cicely read the passage to her mother, who was much gratified by the testimony it bore to her sagacity.
Early September was so fine this year that, but for the shortening days, it was difficult to realise that summer had fled. There were not many afternoons which did not see the little party at Greystone in the garden enjoying the loveliness of the balmy autumn weather, very few on which they were not joined by Edmond Guildford.
“This fine season is wonderfully lucky for me,” observed Colonel Methvyn one day. He had just returned from a drive, and the afternoon was so sunny and mild that Cicely had begged for tea on the lawn, and had persuaded her father to stay out.
“Yes,” said Cicely, “it will make the winter seem so much shorter; and then next spring, papa, you are going to be so strong and well! I expect to see you walking about quite briskly.”
“Next spring!” repeated Colonel Methvyn. There was a slight undertone of sadness in his voice. Cicely interpreted it in her own way; a slight colour rose in her cheeks, and Mr. Guildford, who was looking at her, almost fancied that there were tears in her eyes. But if it were so, she was quick to conceal all traces of emotion.
“Next spring is a good way off,” she said brightly, “and therefore we must make the most of this beautiful autumn while we have it. Mr. Guildford, can you come again this week? If you can, I do so want to drive to Roodsmere; we have not been there this year.“
“I think I can come,” said Mr. Guildford; “indeed, I am pretty sure I can. I want to make the most of the fine weather too,—it is thanks to it that I have not more to do at Sothernbay yet.”
“How so?” asked Colonel Methvyn.
“Because it delays the influx of visitors. Some years the place has been full of them by this time; it’s weary work for them, poor people!”
“And for you,” said Mrs. Methvyn sympathisingly.
“Sometimes,” he replied with a smile; “but this summer has been such a very pleasant one for me, I don’t feel inclined to quarrel with my fate at present.”
“Then what day shall we go?” said Cicely; “Geneviève will be coming home on Friday, so that day would not do—we must not be out when she arrives.”
“Is Miss Casalis sure to come on Friday?” said Mr. Guildford. “Would it do to wait till next week, and then she could go too?”
“No,” said Cicely decidedly; “there will probably be a change of weather by next week, and then we could not go at all. Will not Thursday do, mother? Will that suit you, Mr. Guildford?”
“Oh! yes, quite well,” he replied. So Thursday was decided upon.
“Cicely,” said her mother, when they were alone, “why did you answer so sharply when Mr. Guildford proposed to put off going to Roodsmere till Geneviève’s return? It sounded as if you did not want her to come.”
“I am not sure that I did want her, mother,” said Cicely, “but I did not mean to speak unkindly. I don’t think Trevor likes Mr. Guildford, and he will be back when Geneviève is; that was another reason for not putting it off. I had just a sort of wish to have this last drive all by ourselves, mother,—you and father and I.”
“But there will be Mr. Guildford,” said her mother.
“I don’t mind him. I think he understands,” said the girl vaguely.
“Why do you say ‘this last drive’?” said Mrs. Methvyn. “If the weather keeps fine, your father may be out a good many times yet.”
“I don’t think the weather will keep fine; I have a feeling that we have got to the last of the summer,” replied Cicely sadly.
“But summer will come again, my child,” said her mother, smiling.
“Not to find us all three the same as now,” said Cicely sadly; “I shall be away. There are always changes, last summer we had little Charlie here.”
She sighed as she spoke. Mrs. Methvyn said no more. “Cicely will be less fanciful when she is fairly settled in her new life,” she thought to herself.
Armado.Comfort me, my boy. What great men have been in love?Moth.Hercules, master.Armado.Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and sweet, my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.Moth.Samson, master. He was a man of good carriage, great carriage. For he carried the town gates on his back like a porter, and he was in love.
Armado.Comfort me, my boy. What great men have been in love?
Moth.Hercules, master.
Armado.Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and sweet, my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.
Moth.Samson, master. He was a man of good carriage, great carriage. For he carried the town gates on his back like a porter, and he was in love.
Love’s Labour Lost.
Love’s Labour Lost.
THEYdrove to Roodsmere on Thursday. The weather was still beautiful—summer seemed very reluctant to say good-bye. But the very next day—the Friday on which Geneviève was expected to return—Cicely’s prophecy of a change in the weather was fulfilled. The rain fell almost without intermission from early morning till dusk, and many times during the day Mrs. Methvyn pitied the travellers, and predicted grievous colds and coughs as the result of their dreary journey.
“I fear poor Geneviève will wish herself away again if we are going to have weather like this,” she said to Cicely more than once. And Cicely herself felt a little afraid that such a return home would have a depressing effect on her cousin’s variable spirits.
But their fears were ill-founded. Geneviève had never looked brighter or better than when she jumped out of the Lingthurst carriage which only stopped for a moment at the Abbey door, and ran into the hall to meet her cousin’s cordial welcome.
“Mother is in the library. We did not expect you quite so soon,” said Cicely. “How well you are looking, my dear Geneviève! You have enjoyed yourself very much, I hope?”
“Oh, so well!” exclaimed Geneviève ecstatically. “The last fifteen days have been all there could be of charming. We have made so many excursions, picnics, and riding parties, and I know not what.”
“I am so glad,” said Cicely, heartily. “Here is Geneviève, mother,” she exclaimed as they entered the library, “doesn’t she look well?”
And Geneviève laughed and blushed and kissed her aunt on both cheeks, and chattered and danced about like a fairy, and seemed as if all the rain in the world would be powerless to damp her spirits.
We have had lovely weather till today,” said Cicely. “Mother has been saying you would be wishing yourself back at Hivèritz when you saw the rain.”
“Oh, no!” said Geneviève, “the rain does not trouble me now. I am quite—what do you call it?—climated to England now! I have no more the home-sickness; that is past.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Cicely, smiling—“It is a wonder that her head is not turned,” she thought to herself. “I really think she has grown prettier than ever.”—“We have been very happy too, while you have been away, Geneviève,” she said aloud. “Papa has been out several times and enjoyed it so much.”
“Then he is better, I hope?” asked Geneviève.
“He has been very much better,” said Cicely. “But to-day I don’t think he has seemedquiteso well. Do you, mother? It is the weather I suppose.”
“He had some letters this morning that worried him a little,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “When you have taken off your things, Geneviève, I would like you to go to your uncle’s room. He will be pleased to see you.”
Colonel Methvyn did not come in to dinner—the two girls and Mrs. Methvyn dined alone. Geneviève went on chattering as merrily as before. She was great on the subject of the fashions, and described the dresses of the ladies at Eastbourne with astonishing minuteness and detail.
“There was one lady,” she proceeded, “who dressed beautifully, but she herself was ‘laide à faire peur.’ She had a good figure though. There was a gentleman there, a friend of Mr. Fawcett’s, who knew her in London. He said she danced so well that one forgot how ugly she was. She was tall—it is nice to be tall for dancing, is it not?” She gave a little sigh, but hastened on again in a moment. “Oh! Cicely,” she exclaimed, “do tell me what you think you will wear at the ball.”
Cicely looked up from her work—she was knitting socks for her father—with astonish ment.
“The ball!” what do you mean, Geneviève??
Geneviève looked frightened. “Did you not know?” she said uneasily. “I thought Mr. Fawcett had written to tell you that” she stopped and seemed to grow more confused, but something in Cicely’s face made her go on—“I thought you knew,” she began again, “that there is to be a ball at Lingthurst next month.”
“No,” said Cicely quietly, “I certainly did not know it.”
She said no more, but in a minute or two went on talking as usual on other subjects, and her mother, understanding her to some extent, followed her example. But Geneviève’s gaiety had received a check, and soon afterwards she said she was tired and would like to go to bed. Mrs. Methvyn kissed her affectionately; Cicely laid down her work, and, notwithstanding Geneviève’s protestations, went upstairs with her to see that everything in her room was in its usual order for her.
The pretty little room looked very comfortable; the bright fire blazing cheerily was a welcome sight to Geneviève.
“A fire!” she exclaimed, “Oh, how charming! Yet it is only September! Have you fires so soon, my cousin?”
“Not always,” said Cicely. “But I thought it would be cheerful for you—you will feel the cold too more than we do—so I ordered it. Now, good night, dear.”
“How kind you are!” said Geneviève regretfully. “Cicely,” she went on hesitatingly, “I hope you will not be vexed at what I told you about. I thought—”
“Please don’t speak about it,” interrupted Cicely. She spoke quickly, but not ungently. “I would rather hear about it afterwards, to-morrow I mean, from Trevor himself. Good night again.”
Geneviève could not muster up courage to attempt to detain her a second time. She held up her pretty face to be kissed, and Cicely then went downstairs again to the library.
“Cicely,” said her mother, as she entered the room, “I don’t think, dear, you should take up what Geneviève said, so hastily. It may not be aball;most likely it is just some little evening party, and she, poor child, so unaccustomed to anything of the kind as she is, has taken up an exaggerated idea of it.”
Cicely waited till her mother had finished speaking, though once or twice she seemed on the point of interrupting her.
“No, mother dear, I don’t think Geneviève has made a mistake,” she said. “But,” she went on, making an evident effort to control herself, “I will try not to think about it till I hear what it means from Trevor himself.”
“Yes, dear, that is wise. But, Cicely, even if it be as Geneviève says—a regular ball, I mean—you must remember that the Fawcetts have a perfect right to do as they please in such matters. You must not take it up personally.”
The speech was not judicious. Cicely raised her head proudly; there came an unusual light into the soft eyes, the lines about the gentle mouth grew hard.
“A perfect right,” she repeated. “Yes, of course they have a perfect right to give a ball whenever they please. But they have no right to expect me to go to it. I am engaged to their son certainly, but if they disregard my feelings and consider me no more than a stranger, it leaves me free to behave like one. How could I wish to go to a ball? Think of what sorrow we have had so lately—think of my father’s state oh! mother, it is most inconsiderate.”
“My dear, you are hardly reasonable,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You are very honest, Cicely,” she went on. “Tell me, dear, is it notpartlythat you are hurt at not having been consulted about it at all, at not having been asked if the idea of such a thing was pleasant to you?”
Cicely was silent for a little. Then she said slowly, “Yes, I think it is partly that. But I don’t think it is from any small or mean feeling of vexation at not being consulted. It is that it seems to me that Trevor is different.”
“Wait till to-morrow,” said Mrs. Methvyn sagely. What she had said had done some good. It inclined Cicely to restrain her first vehemence of feeling, to receive more gently Mr. Fawcett’s explanation of what had led to this unexpected piece of dissipation. It sounded simple enough when, as Cicely expected, he came the next morning to talk it over with her. They had been speaking about balls, he said, one evening at Eastbourne, and Geneviève, who (though in some mysterious manner she had learnt to dance) had never been at any entertainment of so “wholly worldly” a kind, had expressed with girlish eagerness her intense wish toassisterat a real ball. Half in joke, half in earnest, the idea had been mooted; Sir Thomas, who Trevor declared had altogether lost his heart to his pretty visitor, had taken it up and promised to open the ball with her himself, “and,” said Mr. Fawcett in conclusion, “the day was fixed for the twentieth of October, my birthday, you know, Cicely.”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I remember.”
Her tone of voice aroused Trevor’s misgivings.
“Don’t you like the idea of a ball, Cicely?” he asked. “I am sure you used to like dancing, especially in the country. And I thought you would have been glad for Geneviève to be pleased.”
“Her notions of pleasure and mine differ,” said Cicely coldly, “if she can find it in amusing herself in a way her parents would disapprove of.”
“Rubbish,” said Mr. Fawcett. “What can they know about it? They would not expect Geneviève to behave differently from other people. She is ‘at Rome’ now, and they must take the consequences of sending her there.”
“I am not dictating anything to Geneviève,” said Cicely more gently; “she must judge for herself. As to my own feeling about it, I confess to you, Trevor, I would have much preferred not taking part in anything of the kind at present, but—”
“But what?” said Mr. Fawcett.
“If you wish it, I will try to dismiss the feeling I have,” she answered.
“If I wish it. Cicely, you speak as if I were an unfeeling tyrant. It is not fair to me, upon my soul it isn’t,” said Trevor, working himself up into vexation. “No one felt more for you than I did last spring, but you cannot shut yourself up for ever.”
“It is not onlythat,” said Cicely. “I have other feelings—my father’s state of health, my having to leave him so soon—all these things make me sad. But I dare say it is wrong to feel so. Dear Trevor, don’t be vexed with me. I will try and enter into it cheerfully. If I had been with you and could have talked it over with you and your mother before, it would have been all right.”
“I wish youhadbeen with us when it was first proposed. You don’t know how I wished for you at Eastbourne, Cicely,” exclaimed Trevor.
Cicely looked up at him affectionately. For the moment their old, happy relations seemed to have returned—the vague, painful feeling “that Trevor was different,” which of late had so often troubled her, melted away. And for the rest of that day Cicely’s brow looked clear, and her eyes had a smile in them.
But Geneviève’s brilliant spirits seemed already to have received a check. She was tired, she told Cicely, she thought one always felt so the day after a railway journey more than at the time.
“Are you too tired to talk about what you will wear at the Lingthurst ball?” said Cicely brightly. “Mother wants us to have very pretty dresses, and I am going to order them from town; so we must have a grand consultation, Geneviève.”
Geneviève looked up in amazement.
“I thought you were angry about it—I almost thought you would say you would not go,” she exclaimed.
Cicely was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly,—“It is true I was surprised, and not pleased at the idea of it last night. But I think it was unreasonable of me, and I am sorry for having chilled your pleasure in it.”
“You are very good, Cicely,” said Geneviève. “I wish I were as good as you.”
She sighed. Cicely looked at her with some surprise.
“You are not to go off into a fit of low spirits, Geneviève,” she said, in a rallying tone. “I am not good when I am cross—the least I can do is to say I am sorry, isn’t it? But if you look miserable it will be like a reproach to me. I was so pleased to see you so bright and merry last night. Now tell me about your dress. What would you like it to be?”
“White,” said Geneviève decidedly. “It is as it were my first ball, you see, my cousin.”
“Yes,” said Cicely drily. “I suppose you did not go to balls at Hivèritz?”
“No,” replied Geneviève, in the most matter-of-fact tone. “Papa beinga pasteur,you understand, it would hardly have beenconvenablethat I should go to balls there.”
“And what will your parents say to your going here?” inquired Cicely.
“Oh! I don’t think I shall say anything about it,” answered Geneviève carelessly. “Not that I think mamma would object—she has placed me under the care of my aunt—it is not for me to dictate to your mother, Cicely.”
Cicely did not contradict her, and Geneviève proceeded to discuss the important question of her dress. She warmed into enthusiasm on the subject, quite astonishing her cousin by her display of millinery lore and perfect acquaintance with the requirements of the occasion.
“I can hardly believe you have never been at balls, and all sorts of things of the kind, Geneviève,” she exclaimed at last. “Where did you learn to dance?”
“There was a class at thepensionwhere I went. I used to watch them and then try by myself afterwards,” said Geneviève. “It is quite simple. Mr. Fawcett says I dance very well.”
“Trevor!” exclaimed Cicely. “How does he know?”
“Oh! we only tried once—là-bas—at Eastbourne, I mean, when the band was playing a waltz before our windows,” said Geneviève hastily. “Tell me, Cicely,” she went on quickly, “who will there be at the Lingthurst ball that I shall know. Will Mr. Guildford be there?”
“No, I am sure he will not,” replied Cicely. “He has other things to do.”
“But he comes here very often. He can not be very busy,” pursued Geneviève. “My aunt tells me he has been here three—four times in the week.”
“He doesn’t come here for pleasure—it is perfectly different,” answered Cicely coldly.
“Is it? Ah! yes, I see. He comes here but as my uncle’s doctor,” said Geneviève so innocently that Cicely felt ashamed of the slight feeling of annoyance which her cousin’s remarks aroused in her.
“I wonder if she has heard Trevor speak of Mr. Guildford in that foolish way,” she thought to herself. “Trevor should be careful. Geneviève does not understand—she will be treating Mr. Guildford as if he were beneath her.”
But her fears were misplaced. When Mr. Guildford came the next day, Geneviève made herself as charming as ever. She smiled and blushed more than she talked, it is true; but once or twice Cicely caught Mr. Guildford’s eyes resting upon her in a way which awoke a new feeling in her mind. “Does he really care for her?” she said to herself uneasily. “He, so clever and good. Is she worthy of it?”
She felt more than ever that she could not understand Geneviève. There were times at which it seemed to her that a creature more artless and ingenuous could not exist—that the feeling of bewilderment about her must arise entirely from her own in ability to be carelessly, childishly transparent like this sunny little fairy. Then again a sudden glimpse of something very like calculating selfishness on Geneviève’s part would startle her into perplexity again, and then would follow a fit of disgust at her own suspiciousness.
“Do you understand Geneviève, Trevor?” she asked Mr. Fawcett one day. It was the very day before the ball. They had been at luncheon at Lingthurst, discussing and admiring the all but completed arrangements, and Trevor had walked home with Cicely. Geneviève had been invited to come with them, but for some reason that Cicely was at a loss to explain, had refused to do so, and had driven home with her aunt.
“Doyou understand her?” Miss Methvyn repeated, for Mr. Fawcett had not seemed to hear her question the first time.
Trevor started. “What are you saying, Cicely?” he exclaimed. “Do I understand Geneviève? Of course, I do. You are always diving into unknown depths or soaring into the clouds, my dear child. Please remember that other people find it fatiguing. You must be at a loss for a subject of speculation if you are going to make one of poor Geneviève—she is just a sweet, simple little creature, very affectionate, and not very wise, and perhaps a little vain; which is certainly excusable. There is not much to understand about her.”
“Is that it?” said Cicely thoughtfully. She had listened attentively to what Trevor said, looking up into his face with a questioning, somewhat anxious expression in her eyes. Somehow it annoyed Trevor. He began kicking the pebbles on the path impatiently. But just for the moment, Cicely was too intent on what she was saying to observe his irritation.
“I wonder if it is so,” she repeated consideringly. “Sometimes I feel as if she were perfectly artless and sweet and unselfish. And then she says and does things that I don’t like, or rather that I don’t understand. To-day for instance.”
“What did she do to-day?” said Trevor sharply. “I declare Cicely you are just as bad as other women after all—everlastingly picking holes in each other—especially if “each other” has the misfortune to be bewitchingly pretty!”
The sneering tone as well as the unkindness of the speech wounded Cicely to the quick. She turned her face away, and walked on without speaking.
“Cicely,” said Mr. Fawcett in a minute or two.
No answer.
“Cicely,” he repeated.
“What, Trevor?” she said gently. Her tone was sad, but nothing more.
“What are you offended at?” he asked. “I did not in the least mean to vex you—you might know that—but you take up things so hastily now. You, who used to be so sweet-tempered.”
His words touched her. Cicely’s conscience was very tender.
“AmI ill-tempered?” she said anxiously. “You never used to think me so, but perhaps it is true. I don’t understandmyselfnow, it seems to me, so I should not be hard upon Geneviève.”
“That’s just it,” said Trevor. “Youarehard upon her, Cicely, and I have always thought so. What was it that she did to vex you to-day?”
“I would much rather not speak about it any more,” said Cicely. “It only makes you think me unkind, and perhaps I am fanciful.”
“No, I won’t think you unkind. Do tell me. I want to know what it was.”
“It was when we were talking about to-morrow. Something was said about your dancing first with me, and you said I must certainly keep half-a-dozen dances for you, as it was so long since we had had any, Don’t you remember?”
“Well? Yes, I think I do.”
“Geneviève was beside me at the time. When I turned round to speak to her, she would not answer me. Then all of a sudden she muttered something about wishing she had never come here. And when you went away, and I asked her what was the matter, she began to cry, and accused me of unkindness and selfishness and all sorts of things. She was just offended at not being made first in everything. And Ihavetried to make her happy, Trevor.”
“She is a spoilt child,” said Trevor carelessly, “but you need not trouble yourself so much about her. When we are married, Cicely, and she has it all to herself at Greystone, she will be all right, you will see.”
“Then you do think she dislikes me, Trevor?” said Cicely quickly. “That is the feeling I don’t understand. She almost seems—I don’t like saying so—but she almost seems jealous of me.”
Trevor laughed, but his laugh was not hearty.
“Really, Cicely, you must not take things up so seriously,” he said. His tone was not unkind this time, however. They were close to the Abbey grounds, and Trevor stopped as if about to turn back.
“I must go home again now, I think,” he said. “Good-bye, Cicely. Youwillgive me the first dance to-morrow, and half-a-dozen others, even if Mademoiselle Geneviève is offended, won’t you?”
Cicely smiled. “I think I can brave her displeasure,” she said. “Good night, Trevor; you won’t come in?”
“I can’t,” he replied. “My mother begged me to come back soon. Miss Winter and I will be kept at work all the evening, I expect, for my mother is never satisfied with anything till it has been undone and then put back again as it was originally. Good night.”
He strode away. Cicely stood watching him for a minute, then taking the key from her pocket, she unlocked the little door near which she was standing, and passed through into the park. How many times she had done so in her life; how far from her thoughts it was just then that this might be the last time she would pass through that little old doorway; how seldom any of us think that to even the commonest and most familiar actions of our daily lives theremustcome a “last time!” A last time in many cases not known to be such, till looked back upon from the other side of some sudden crisis in life, or sometimes, it must be, from the farther shore of the dark river itself. And it is well that it should be so. We could make no progress in our journey were we constantly to realise the infinite pathos attending every step; we should sink fainting by the way did we suspect the mines of tragic possibilities over which we are ever treading.
When Cicely entered the hall she met Geneviève, who was crossing it on her way to the library.
“Have you come back alone?” she said quickly, when she saw that there was no one with her cousin.
“Oh! no; Trevor came to the park door with me,” replied Cicely. “He had to hurry back again. Have you and mother been home long?”
“Yes, a good while. You have missed some one,” said Geneviève, “Mr. Guildford has been here.”
“Oh! I am so sorry; I wanted to see him!” exclaimed Cicely. “Why would he not stay?”
“He saw my uncle,” said Geneviève shortly. “That was what he came for. I told him where you were; he left no message.”
“I didn’t expect any message,” said Cicely, not quite understanding Geneviève’s curious tone.
“Yes, you did,” answered the girl bitterly, “or you expected him to wait for the chance of seeing you. You think you are to be queen of all—if you are there no one must have a word, a glance! I have said I loved you, that you were good; but I think not so now. I love you not. You are cold and proud, and know not what love means, yet you gain all! And I—I am miserable and alone, and who cares?”
“Geneviève, you must be mad! I do not know, and I do not wish to know, what you mean. You have yielded to-day to temper till you have completely lost your reason, that is the only excuse I can make for you.”
Then Cicely walked quietly across the hall and down the passage to the library, leaving her cousin standing alone. Geneviève did not follow her. When Cicely had gone, she ran upstairs to her own room and threw herself down upon the bed, sobbing bitterly.
Miss Methvyn found her mother in the library.
“Mr. Guildford has been here, Cicely,” said Mrs. Methvyn as she came in.
“Yes, I know; Geneviève has just told me. I wish I had seen him. I think he might have waited a few minutes.”
“He said he would; he seemed to want to see you,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I told him you would not be out long, and he seemed in no hurry, and went out into the garden with Geneviève. Then, to my surprise, in about a quarter of an hour he came in again suddenly and told me he had just remembered an engagement at Sothernbay, and that he could not possibly wait any longer. But he is coming again to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” repeated Cicely. “Why should he come so soon again!”
“I don’t quite know,” said her mother. “Cicely,” she went on tremulously, “I am afraid he does not think your father quite so well.”
“Do you think so, dear mother?” said Cicely. “I hope not. You get nervous. I wish I had been in.”
“So do I,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I fancied from his manner that he would have spoken more openly to you.”
“What did he say? Tell me exactly, mother,” said Cicely. Her voice sounded calm, but inwardly a sort of icy tremor seemed to have seized her. She would not tell her mother that even to her eyes a slight change had been visible in her father for the last day or two; she had tried to persuade herself that it was “only her fancy;” but she had longed for Mr Guildford’s next visit with intense though concealed anxiety. “Do tell me all he said,” she repeated.
“He did not say much. It was before he had seen Geneviève,” replied Mrs. Methvyn. “After he had been with your father, he came down here and asked when you would be in. Then he said he thought your father rather “low” to-day, and that he had been trying to persuade him not do so much—to get a proper man of business to manage things, and not to worry himself. I think it is true, and I told Mr. Guildford I agreed with him. I know Phillip has been annoyed the last few days by some letters he got.”
“What letters? He never told me about them,” said Cicely.
“You would not have understood them. I do not. I only know they were about money matters,” replied Mrs. Methvyn vaguely.
“Money matters,” said Cicely. “Oh! he really should not trouble himself about things of that kind.”
She spoke more cheerfully. There was a certain relief in being able to name a cause for her father’s depression. And to her happy experience the expression “money matters” bore no terrible significance. She was only thankful that his anxiety arose from no more important cause.
“No; I wish he would not,” sighed Mrs. Methvyn.
“Well, Mr. Guildford will be here to-morrow, and then we can talk it over with him, and make papa do what we tell him,” said Cicely brightly.
She was leaving the room when her mother recalled her.
“Cicely,” she said mysteriously, “do you know that there was something very odd in that young man’s manner this afternoon?”
“How? what do you mean, mother?” replied Cicely. “You speak as if he were going out of his mind.”
“Nonsense, my dear, you know quite well what I mean,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I really do believe he has got something in his head about Geneviève. It was after he had seen her in the garden that he came in and said he must go home at once.”
“But why should seeing Geneviève in the garden have made him say so?” inquired Cicely.
“My dear, how can I tell? When people are in love, there is no accounting for what they will do. Geneviève may have been cold to him, or—he is a very modest young man—he may think we should not approve of it, and may have been afraid of being tempted to say something. Who can say?Ionly say that I feel sure he has got something of the kind in his head.”
Cicely looked grave. “Perhaps he has,” she replied. To herself she said, “I wonder why, if it is so, it should have made Geneviève so desperately cross.”—“Mamma,” she added, after a little silence, “I wish you would do something to oblige me.”
“What, my dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn in surprise.
“Please don’t call Mr. Guildford ‘a very modest young man.’”