“Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!”
R. Browning
ITwas the day of the Lingthurst ball. Cicely woke early, and tried to believe that she was in good spirits, and that her anxiety of the evening before had been exaggerated and uncalled for. And when her mother met her with the good news that Colonel Methvyn had had a calm and undisturbed night, and seemed wonderfully refreshed by it, the make-believe seemed something very like reality, and Cicely’s face looked bright enough when she met her cousin in the breakfast-room to satisfy Geneviève that her ebullition of the previous day had been forgiven, if not forgotten, or that at least it was to be tacitly ignored.
Geneviève was excited, but not happy. Some closeness of observation is, however, required to discriminate between the two conditions, and this neither of her companions was this morning sufficiently at leisure to bestow upon her. So, “poor Geneviève is full of her ball. I hope she will enjoy it,” thought Mrs. Methvyn; and “Geneviève cannot have meant what she said yesterday. It must just have been one of her childish little fits of temper, not worth noticing,” was the decision Cicely arrived at.
“Your father is very anxious for his letters this morning,” said Mrs. Methvyn, as they were sitting at breakfast. “I hope there will be nothing wrong in them—nothing to upset him, when he seems so much better.”
Just as she spoke the letter-bag was brought in. Mrs. Methvyn opened it.
“Two for you, Cicely,” she said, as she distributed the budget; “one for Geneviève, three for your father, all business letters I fear.” She looked at them anxiously. “I wish we could keep them till Mr. Guildford comes.”
“It would be no use. Papa would be sure to ask for them,” said Cicely decidedly. “Give them to me, mother; I will take them up to him myself.”
“Is Mr. Guildford coming to-day?” said Geneviève in surprise, as her cousin left the room.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Methvyn; “he promised yesterday, when he had to leave in such a hurry, that he would come again to-day.”
“Oh!” said Geneviève. Then, fancying her aunt looked at her curiously, “I thought that he was so very busy,” she added confusedly.
Cicely meanwhile was knocking at her father’s door. Her first tap was unnoticed. She repeated it.
“Come in,” said Colonel Methvyn’s voice. To Cicely it sounded very weak and feeble. “Oh! is it you, my dear?” he exclaimed when he saw her. “I thought it was Barry with the letters.”
“I have brought them, papa,” said Cicely. “But I do so wish you would not read them yet. They look like business letters, and they always tire you so.”
She stooped and kissed him. He had had a good night Mrs. Methvyn had said, but to Cicely’s eyes he looked sadly white and frail this morning; his voice was tremulous, his hand shook as he held it out for the letters.
“Give them to me, my dear child. I shall be more comfortable when I have read them.”
He opened two of them and tossed them aside with indifference. The third was a longer letter. Colonel Methvyn read it through once—twice—then folded it up again and put it back carefully into its envelope with a little sigh. Cicely watched him anxiously.
“Is it all right, papa?” she said. “Nothing to vex you, I mean?”
“Oh! no, it is all right enough,” he answered rather absently. “Cicely,” he went on, after a little pause, “there will probably be a telegram for me some time to-day. Don’t think of keeping it from me, my dear. It would annoy me inexpressibly if you did so. Let it be brought up at once. Tell your mother so.”
“Very well, papa,” replied Cicely. She leant over him and kissed him again, then she went quietly downstairs.
Her mother looked up quickly as she re-entered the room.
“I don’t think there is anything particular in papa’s letters,” said Cicely, in answer to her mother’s unspoken question. “But he says there may be a telegram some time to-day, and he wishes it taken to him at once.”
“I hope it won’t come,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I don’t feel easy about your father. He is doing far too much. How do you think he is looking this morning, Cicely?”
“Pretty well,” replied Cicely. “What time do you think Mr. Guildford will be here, mother?”
“Early—before luncheon, I fancy,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You will not be out today when he comes, my dear?”
“Oh! no,” said Cicely. “I wish I knew what time he will be coming,” she thought to herself, “I would walk part of the way to meet him.”
For since seeing her father her fears had revived. She felt certain that Mr. Guildford must have thought unfavourably of him the day before, otherwise he would not be coming again so soon; she felt restless and unhappy, and longed with intense longing to express her fears to the only person who could soothe or allay them; the thought of the ball at Lingthurst grew hourly more distasteful to her.
“If only Geneviève could go alone,” she thought, “and mother and I stay at home. But, of course, it would give offence—I must go.”
She could settle to none of her usual occupations, and at last she determined to set off to meet Mr. Guildford. She looked in at the door of her cousin’s room before going. Geneviève was laying out betimes her costume for the evening, apparently perfectly happy in the occupation; she looked up with a bright smile at the sound of Cicely’s voice.
“Is not the effect of these flowers on the skirt beautiful, my cousin?” she exclaimed, pointing to the mass of snowy clouds of gauze that lay on the bed. “I only wish it were time to dress. I am all impatience to put it on.”
“It is very pretty,” said Cicely kindly. “I am sure it will suit you beautifully, Geneviève. I am going out for a little,” she went on, “please tell mamma so if you hear her asking for me. I cannot disturb her just now. She is in papa’s room. You don’t want to come out this morning?”
“Oh! no, thank you,” said Geneviève, “I have twenty things to do. I don’t like the bows they have put on my boots, they make the foot so broad. I am going to arrange them again.”
“Well, good-bye then,” said Cicely, turning to go. Just then there came a ring at the front-door bell. It sounded sharp and loud through the quiet house.
“Who can that be?” exclaimed Geneviève.
“The telegram,” said Cicely. “I must go and see if it is.”
“Stay a moment. I can tell you,” said Geneviève.
One of the windows of the room looked to the front, but the sill was high and narrow. She drew a chair forward and stepped up on to it. Cicely watched her in astonishment.
“What are you doing, Geneviève?” she exclaimed. “You can’t see anything from there. You forget the porch.”
“Ah! but I can,” replied Geneviève triumphantly. She was by this time mounted on the sill, craning her neck round in a peculiar fashion. “You forget there is a window in the side of the porch. From here, when I put my head so, I can see who stands at the door—voilà!I found this out the first days I was here. Now I see. No, Cicely, it is not the boy from the station. It is a tall figure, a gentleman. Can it be Mr. Fawcett?”
She turned round with eager inquiry.
“No,” replied Cicely, “I don’t expect him to-day. Do come down, Geneviève. It would look so strange if any of them saw you climbing up there.”
She spoke rather coldly. Geneviève’s conduct jarred upon her. She only waited till the little lady had accomplished her descent in safety, and then went downstairs, to satisfy herself of the correctness of her cousin’s information.
She was not long left in doubt. Parker was coming in search of her—Mr. Guildford was in the library and had asked for her.
“How kind of him to come so early,” thought Cicely, trying to believe that no thing but kindness was the motive for such prompt fulfilment of his promise. “If he were really uneasy about papa, he would certainly have waited to see me last night,” she said to herself, as she entered the room; but, nevertheless, she looked strangely pale, and the tremor in her voice was not quite imperceptible when Mr. Guildford came forward to meet her. He shook hands somewhat abruptly. Cicely glanced at his face. He too seemed discomposed; he looked worn and tired, as if he had not slept all night. A terror seized Cicely. “Has he come to break it to me? Does he think the very worst?” were the thoughts that flashed through her mind. She felt herself beginning to tremble so much that she sat down on the nearest chair without attempting to speak.
Mr. Guildford did not seem to notice her agitation; he did not look at her, but kept his eyes fixed upon the table beside which he was standing.
“He is afraid of looking at me—he cannot make up his mind how to tell me what he must,” thought Cicely, with a sort of shiver. But the silent waiting at last grew unendurable; she felt that it must be broken.
“It is very kind of you to have come so early,” she began. “I cannot tell you how kind I think it.”
Mr. Guildford turned suddenly. “I came early on purpose,” he said. “I was so afraid of missing you. But how ill you look, Miss Methvyn,” he went on hastily. “Is there anything wrong? You look so dreadfully pale. I am afraid I should not have asked to see you.”
Cicely’s pale lips quivered. “I am quite well,” she whispered. “There is nothing wrong with me. I shall be all right again directly—but, Mr. Guildford, I—I know why you have come this morning I know what you have to tell me. Please don’t hesitate—it is better not. I shall not be silly—you will see.”
She tried to smile, but hardly succeeded. Mr. Guildford looked at her in amazement. “You know why I wanted to see you this morning, Miss Methvyn?” he repeated. “You cannot. It is impossible that—that you should suspect,” he stopped in confusion.
“I have thought him much less well the last few days,” said Cicely. “Of course I cannot judge as you can, but still I almost expected you to tell me you were beginning to lose hope. I knew you would tell me first.”
“Are you speaking about your father?” said Mr. Guildford. “Did you think it was on his account I wanted to see you?”
“Yes, of course,” replied Cicely wonderingly. “Is it not so? Do you not think him much worse?”
“No,” said Mr. Guildford. “I have not thought so. I do not think Colonel Methvyn quite as well as he was some time ago—he is more nervous, more easily upset than he used to be; but I see no important change in him. There is no reason why he should not remain as well as he is—or even gain ground a little—for years to come, provided always his mind is kept tranquil. I could not take upon myself to say how he would stand any severe shock.”
Cicely gazed at him as if she could hardly believe him.
“That is just what you said some months ago,” she exclaimed. “And you really don’t think him much worse?
“Certainly not. What made you think so?”
“I don’t know. I have not thought him quite well. I fear he has been worried and troubled, and I have let my fears get the better of me, I suppose. I felt quite certain that you had come this morning to prepare me for something dreadful.”
She smiled, but faintly still—the revulsion from terror to renewed hope was almost too much for her. Mr. Guildford smiled too, but in his smile there was even less sunshine than in Cicely’s, and in his voice there was even a touch of bitterness as he replied,
“Something dreadful! Far from it. You will believe me when you hear what it really is that I want to say to you this morning—” he paused and took a step or two away from where he had been standing. Then he came back again to the table, and, lifting a book that was lying upon it, turned the leaves over idly with his fingers. “I want you to release me from a promise, Miss Methvyn,” he said at last.
Cicely looked up in surprise. “What promise? I don’t understand,” she replied.
“Don’t you remember,” he went on, speaking slowly, but without looking at her, “don’t you remember that some time ago I promised you—tacitly or directly I am not sure which, and it does not matter, the promise was given—that I would not leave this neighbourhood as long as Colonel Methvyn required me—as long as I felt that I could be of use to him?”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I have always depended upon your not doing so. I don’t remember the exact words, but I felt satisfied that you had perfectly re-assured me about it, at the time I was afraid of your going.”
“Yes. I did promise as I said. There is no doubt I did,” said Mr. Guildford, and it is from this promise I want you to release me.”
“You want to go away! You have got some better position in prospect!” exclaimed Cicely. “Oh! how unfortunate—can you not defer going, even for a few months? Papa may be stronger, or Dr. Farmer may be back; of course, we cannot expect you to sacrifice your future to us, but I cannot help telling you I amdreadfullysorry. I was so thankful to hear you say that you do not think papa much worse, and now, I shall just feel more anxious about him than ever.”
She turned her head away, but Mr. Guildfordfeltthat there were tears in her eyes.
“You need not—you must not think I would act without regard to Colonel Methvyn,” said Mr. Guildford hurriedly. “I have heard from Dr. Farmer—he is not likely to be away very much longer—and in the meantime I can assure you that the medical man I should recommend to your father is thoroughly deserving of your confidence.
“I dare say he is,” said Cicely impatiently. “It is notthatthat I am thinking of. I don’t believe any doctor can do much for my father. It is not doctoring he needs as much as cheering and interesting. That is what you have done for him—far better than poor old Dr. Farmer could do. And he will miss you after a while even more than now; there are reasons—” she hesitated. “Oh! I am dreadfully sorry,” she repeated, “but of course we cannot expect you to sacrifice your future. We are only too grateful for what you have done. Forgive me for seeming so selfish.”
Mr. Guildford did not appear to notice her last words. “You mistake me a little,” he said. “My reasons for wishing—for thinking it best I should go away, have nothing to do with my prospects—nothing whatever. At this moment I have not the faintest notion where I shall go, or what I shall do when I leave Sothernbay. I have only one distinct idea.”
“What is that?”
“Merely to go away—the further the better,” he replied, with a sort of reckless despondency that startled Cicely; “to be forgotten, doubtless; to forget if I can.”
Once or twice during the interview a thought had occurred to Cicely which explained Mr. Guildford’s unexpected behaviour. Now it gathered strength; his last words especially seeming to confirm it. A sudden impulse seized her to test its correctness.
“Mr. Guildford,” she exclaimed. “You are not at all like yourself this morning. You are generally far too sensible to talk so. You know very well we are not the least likely to forget you—we are not so ungrateful; and if I believed that you mean what you said, I should be very angry with you for saying you would forget us if you could. But you don’t mean it. Something is wrong with you, and I believe,” she went on slowly, “I believe I know what it is.”
“You cannot. It is impossible,” he said hastily.
“Has it not something to do with my cousin Geneviève?” asked Cicely quietly.
“Certainly not,” he replied promptly. “Not directly, that is to say. She certainly helped me to find it out—for which I suppose I should be very much obliged to her—” he gave a bitter little laugh; “but in no other way has she anything to do with my wish to go away.”
“I thought you admired her so much,” said Cicely.
“So I do. I think she is marvellously pretty and charming, and I dare say she is very amiable and sweet-tempered.”
“Yes, that is what you said of her before. Indeed you almost spoke as if she were—as if she realised your ideal woman,” said Cicely with an attempt at playfulness.
But Mr. Guildford did not smile.
“You have a good memory, Miss Methvyn,” he said rather coldly. “If you remember so much, don’t you remember a little more? By what you call my ideal woman, you mean the sort of woman I should choose for a wife; don’t you? But I have had a higher ideal woman—a woman whom I would choose for afriend—don’t you remember my telling you that?”
“Yes,” said Cicely with interest. “I remember. But what about it?”
“I have made a mistake—that’s all.” said the young man drearily. “I have thought I was wiser than other men, and I find I am a greater fool than any man I ever knew. My theories are all smashed. In plain words, Miss Methvyn, I have come across such a woman as in my wildest dreams I never dreamt of—a woman, whomanyman would be honoured by having as a friend, but whose friendship only will not satisfy me. The sort of affection I used to picture myself as giving to a wife—to my ‘ideal wife’ remember—seems to me now like the light of a farthing candle beside that of the midday sun. Good God, what a presumptuous fool I have been! I thought I was so strong, so perfectly able to take care of myself—and see where I am now. At this moment I care for nothing—all my studies, all my hopes seem to have turned to ashes between my teeth—I have only one instinct left—that of flight.Now, Miss Methvyn, will you forgive me?”
Cicely had sat in perfect silence, listening to his impetuous words. When he stopped, she said softly, “I am very, very sorry for you.”
“You should not be sorry for me,” he said with a sort of reluctant gentleness. “I have myself to thank for it. I think now,” he went on slowly, “I think that my grand theories about women must have arisen from an instinct in me that if ever Ididcome under an overwhelming influence of the kind, it would go hard with me—very hard indeed.”
“But,” said Cicely, speaking with an effort, yet earnestly, “I don’t understand you. Do you mean that you are tearing yourself away from the influence you tell me of?—a good and noble influence as far as I can judge—simply because you have resolved that no woman ever shall influence you strongly and entirely? How can you take upon yourself so to thwart your best self? How do you know that this woman, whoever she is, might not be all the truer a friend for being your wife? If you are sacrificing yourself all for the sake of consistency, I should respect you more if you were inconsistent.”
“I am not doing so,” replied Mr. Guildford sadly. “I cannot say whether I think Ishouldhave acted as you suppose. I tell you all my theories are put to confusion; I shall have hard work to gather them together again. I have no choice; the longer I remain in this neighbourhood, the worse it will be for me. It is a mere selfish instinct of self-preservation that urges me to flight—a shadowy hope of retaining some of the shreds of whatusedto be my interests in life. Some day, I suppose—I have read of such things, though I never understood them before—some day, I suppose, I shall find I have outlived this after all, and then I may set to work again in the old way. I can’t say, I don’t think I care. I only want you to give me back my promise, Miss Methvyn, and to forgive me, and let me go.”
There was a despairing tone in the last few words which, coming as they did from a man usually so self-contained, so resolutely cheerful, so strong and manly, seemed, to Cicely, full of a strange pathos. But she did not again say that she wa “very, very sorry” for Mr. Guildford, nor did she at once answer his request. She looked up timidly, and a faint colour rose in her cheeks. “Do you mean—do you mean,” she said, “that you have no choice because you knowcertainlythat—she—does not care for you? Are you sure that you are not letting false pride influence you, that you are not taking for granted what may not be certain after all? Forgive me for saying it—I am so reluctant for you to be unnecessarily unhappy—and in such cases, lives are often ruined by some misapprehension.”
She spoke very gently. Mr. Guildford looked at her for a moment. Then he rose from the chair where he had sat down, and walked a few steps away.
“There is no misapprehension,” he said at last. “In no circumstances could I have imagined it possible that—that I could have been cared for in the only way that would have satisfied me. But, as it happens—fortunately for me, I suppose—circumstances, outward circumstances I mean, are dead against me. Socially even, there could never have been a question of—of such a thing, and besides that—”
He stopped abruptly. He had been standing near the window, at some little distance from Cicely, not looking at her as he spoke. Suddenly he turned, and came back again, close to the table by which she was sitting. “Miss Methvyn,” he said, and his voice sounded so strange that Cicely looked up quickly in affright, “Miss Methvyn,” he repeated, “there is no use in beating about the bush. Even if you despise me, and refuse ever to speak to me again, I think it will be a relief to tell you the truth, if you have not already guessed it. Don’t you know what has opened my eyes? Don’t you know what Miss Casalis told me yesterday—about you—what I never suspected before, blind fool that I was!—don’t you know what I mean?”
“No,” said Cicely. But her voice was low and tremulous. She hesitated a moment, “at least,” she added, “I don’t understand altogether.”
She would rather not have said as much, but it seemed to her as if the words were drawn from her against her will.
“Don’t you?” said Mr. Guildford, “are you sure you don’t?”
He was looking at her now, so earnestly that Cicely, who had grown very pale, felt her cheeks burn with the consciousness of his gaze. She could bear it no longer. She got up from her seat, and, leaning one hand upon the table, spoke out bravely.
“Mr. Guildford,” she exclaimed, “you are trying me painfully. I am very, very sorry for you, but—I think you may regret if you say any more. I don’t know what my cousin told you yesterday—it is true that I do not altogether understand what you mean, and I would rathernotunderstand. Let me tell you again howverysorry I am that you should be troubled or pained; but—you are a man, Mr. Guildford; you have life before you and great aims to live for. Whatever it is that is troubling you now will pass away and leave no lasting traces. I won’t insult you by supposing it could be otherwise. You are a man—some things are harder to be borne by women than by men.”
She stifled a little sigh, and was moving away, but Mr. Guildford stopped her.
“Miss Methvyn, you must listen to me. I want you to understand me, if not you may think worse of me than I deserve. I had no intention of troubling you, but I cannot bear you to think of me as I see you do—as a foolish boy who has forgotten himself and his place—” he hesitated a moment, then went on again, without bitterness this time, but with a depth of restrained suffering in his voice which touched Cicely to the quick. “I told you that I had to thank Miss Casalis for bringing me to my senses,” he said. “It was she who told me yesterday that you are shortly to be married to Mr. Fawcett. She told it very abruptly. I had had no idea of it—not, of course, that it could have made any difference to me—but it came upon me very suddenly. People who have been blind, you know, are startled when they first gain the use of their eyes. I am in that condition. As I have told you, I am shaken to the very foundations. Iama man, as you reminded me, not a boy; but, kind and good as you are, you don’t know how a man can suffer. Miss Methvyn, I cannot remain here. I am not really required. I entreat you to absolve me from my promise, and let me go.”
Cicely had turned her face away while he was speaking. She could not bear him to see the tears that were gathering in her eyes. Now she only said gently, and it seemed to him coldly, “I would not dream of preventing your going. It is very good of you to have asked me to release you. Many people would have forgotten all about such a promise.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Will you say good-bye to me, Miss Methvyn?” he added. “I should like to think you have forgiven me.”
Then she turned towards him, and he saw that she was crying. “That I have forgiven you,” she repeated. “What is there I could possibly have to forgive? I cannot tell you how bitterly I regret that your kindness to us should have brought suffering upon you. I thought you so wise and clever, soabovesuch things. I can hardly even now believe that—thatIcan be the cause of your trouble. It is not only that I have always thought of myself almost as if I were already married, but I never associated you with such possibilities. I never really believed you cared for Geneviève. I thought you were wholly occupied with other thoughts—soabovesuch things,” she repeated. “Have I been to blame in any way?” she added ingenuously.
“Only for believing my own account of myself—for taking me at my own valuation,” he replied with a smile—a curious, bitter smile. “‘Above such things!’ Yes, indeed, I deserve it all. Miss Methvyn, good-bye, and thank you for your gentleness and goodness.”
He was turning away, when Cicely held out her hand. “Good-bye,” she said, simply.
He took her hand, held it for an instant “I don’t think you will ever see me again,” he said in a low voice. “Thank you for being sorry for me;” then he was gone.
Cicely sat down by the table. She buried her face in her hands and cried bitterly. “I am so sorry for him,” she said to herself over and over again. “Why do things go wrong in this world always? I wish I could think that Trevor cared for me as that man does.”
Mr. Guildford went upstairs to see Colonel Methvyn. He sat with him for half an hour, talking as cheerfully as usual, intending, at least once in every five minutes of that half-hour, to break to Cicely’s father the news of his intended departure; but in the end he failed to do so. Colonel Methvyn seemed nervous and depressed, and Mr. Guildford’s courage played him false. He compromised matters at last by promising to call again the next day. “To-morrow,” he said to himself, as he walked slowly down the drive, “to-morrow I shall be better able to talk of my leaving, quietly, so that no one can suspect anything. But I must manage to avoid seeingheragain. Oh, Cicely! When I would give ten years of my life for a moment’s glimpse of you! But she said goodbye, and she meant it.”
END OF VOL. II.
VOLUME III.
“What made the Ball so fine?Robin was there.* * * * * *But now thou’rt lost to me,
“What made the Ball so fine?Robin was there.* * * * * *But now thou’rt lost to me,
Robin Adair.
Robin Adair.
“CICELY,” said Mrs. Methvyn late that afternoon, “I want you to do something to please me.”
“What, mother dear?” said the girl, looking up wearily from the book she was trying to read, “what do you want me to do?”
She had felt very miserable all day. Her anxiety about her father was by no means thoroughly allayed, and she knew that her chief support had failed her; and the impression left upon her by her strange interview with Mr. Guildford was still bewilderingly painful. Her mother was struck by her pallor and depression.
“You don’t look well, Cicely,” she said anxiously; “is there anything the matter?”
“I wish we were not going to Lingthurst,” said Cicely. “I cannot tell you how I shrink from the thought of it.”
It was within a very few hours now of the happy moment which Geneviève had been all day eagerly anticipating. “In four hours more it will be time to dress,” she had reminded Cicely with delight, a few minutes before. And Cicely had smiled and tried to think herself “cross-grained and ill-humoured,” for not being able to sympathise with her cousin’s enthusiasm. But it was no use. As the hours went on, she grew more and more disinclined for the evening’s amusement. “I cannot bear the thought of it,” she repeated to her mother.
Mrs. Methvyn looked troubled. “You used to enjoy dancing, Cicely. You used to be merry enough not so very long ago. What has changed you so?”
“Nothing, mother dear,” exclaimed Cicely, ashamed of her selfishness, “nothing truly. I am only rather dull and cross. Perhaps it is true as some say, that it is not good for people to live so much by themselves as we have done the last year or two.” She was silent for a minute or two, then she looked up again. “It is notallcrabbedness, mother. It is partly that I can’t bear going to a ball when papa seems less well than usual.”
“That is what I was going to speak to you about,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I don’t think your father is very well to-day. I don’t like leaving him. What I wanted to ask you was, if you would very much mind going without me.”
“Going without you,” exclaimed Cicely in surprise, “Geneviève and I by ourselves! How could we?”
“You might go very early and be with Frederica before any one comes, as if you were staying in the house,” replied Mrs. Methvyn. “I can easily send a note to explain it. She will be quite pleased. And I have no doubt she will ask you to stay till to-morrow, which will make it all quite easy.”
Cicely’s face grew graver. “I don’t mind going without you, mother,” she said. “Of course, I would much rather stay at home with you, but there is no use repeating that—butpleasedon’t ask me to stay away till to-morrow. Let Parker go with us; she will be delighted to see the fun, and she will take care to wrap us up and all the rest of it. No one need know we are young women without a chaperone—everybody will think we are staying in the house. Don’t say I am not to come home to-night. I can’t bear the idea of it.”
She held up her face coaxingly for her mother to kiss. “Cis, what a baby you are!” said Mrs. Methvyn fondly. “And yet you are so sensible. What in the world will you do when the time comes for you to—”
“Don’t talk about it, mother, please don’t,” interrupted Cicely. “If you do, I shall begin to cry, and then what a fright I shall look to-night!”
“You are not looking well,” said Mrs. Methvyn regretfully. “Indeed, you look as if you had been crying already—have you, dear?”
“Don’t,” exclaimed Cicely, turning away her head to hide the tears only too ready to spring again, “don’t, mother. Let us talk of something cheerful. Geneviève, for instance. Did you ever see a little mortal in such a state of delight as she is?Shewill look pretty enough to do you credit any way, mother.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Methvyn absently. “Well, then, Cicely,” she added, “I will go and write my note to Frederica and send it at once; and remember, dear, you must be ready very early.”
“Oh! yes,” replied Cicely, “we shall be sure to be in time. I think I am much more likely to enjoy this evening, mother, knowing you are at home with papa. It was partly the feeling of reluctance to leave him alone that made me dull. It is so long, you know, since he has had an evening by himself.”
She spoke more brightly than she felt. She resolved to dismiss her depression and do her best to be cheerful, but it was hard work. Her pretty ball dress seemed a mockery, Geneviève’s fluttering excitement jarred upon her; over and over again she repeated to herself, “Oh! how I wish this evening were over.” And when she went to her father’s room to say good-night, and poor Colonel Methvyn kissed her fondly, and told her he was pleased to see her in a ball dress once more, she could hardly restrain the tears that had seemed strangely near the surface all day.
“Did Mr. Guildford stay long with you this morning, papa?” she asked, anxious to find out if the young man had said anything about the change in his plans.
“Not very long,” replied her father, “he was rather hurried to-day, but he is coming again to-morrow, or the next day. He says he is not at all busy just now, and I am glad of it. I should quite miss his visits.”
“He has not told him,” thought Cicely, with a certain feeling of relief, “he must be intending to do so the next time he comes. But I can’t help feeling glad he did not tell papa to-day; he must have seen he was not quite as well as usual.”
They reached Lingthurst very early, as had been arranged. They had to wait by themselves for some little time, as Lady Frederica and the visitors staying in the house had not yet made their appearance in the drawing-room. At last Miss Winter, in a new and elegant costume, came fluttering into the room, full of regrets and apologies. Lady Frederica was so sorry, so very sorry to leave dear Miss Methvyn and dear Miss Casalis so long alone, but the fact was, she was not feeling very well and had gone to lie down a little after dinner (evidently a ball at Lingthurst was an event!); and the other ladies were dressing—she must run away again for a minute, dear Miss Methvyn would excuse her she was sure—Lady Frederica was not quite satisfied with her head-dress and she was altering it—she would be back in five minutes, etc. etc., and then she fluttered out of the room again.
“What are these for, Cicely?” said Geneviève, touching a basket full of mysterious little white leaflets.
“Cards of the dances,” replied Cicely, glancing to see what she was doing. “You may take one, Geneviève—look, you write down the names of your partners at one side—so—and then you know whom you are engaged to dance with.”
“Oh! how nice—what a good idea!” exclaimed Geneviève gleefully. “But I am only engaged for one dance,” she went on mournfully, “YouCicely, no doubt, are engaged for all.”
“Certainly not,” replied Cicely, laughing. “I am only engaged for those I am going to dance with Trevor. You needn’t distress yourself, Geneviève. You are sure to have plenty of partners.”
But Geneviève’s face did not clear. “You will dance the first with Mr. Fawcett, I suppose?” she said.
“I suppose so,” answered Cicely.
“You mean it is of course, as you are hisfiancée,” observed Geneviève.
It seemed to Cicely that there was a slight sneer in her tone as she made the remark. She looked at Geneviève in surprise, and as she did so there recurred to her mind what Mr. Guildford had told her of her cousin having been the source of his in formation.
“Why do you look so unhappy all of a sudden, Geneviève?” she said quickly.
“I am not unhappy,” replied Geneviève hastily, the colour mounting to her cheeks.
“Well, you seem annoyed, at least. I never know how to avoid annoying you, Geneviève,” said Cicely regretfully. “Only yesterday afternoon you spoke to me very strangely and unkindly for no reason at all that I could find out. And that reminds me—Geneviève, how did you come to be talking to Mr. Guildford about my—I mean about my marriage?”
“Who said I had talked about you to him?” said Geneviève defiantly—the scarlet settling into an angry spot on each cheek.
“He himself,” replied Cicely quietly. “He said that you had told him about my marriage.”
“He knew it before,” said Geneviève evasively.
“No, he did not,” said Cicely. “I thoughthe did—I thought he had always known it, but he never knew it till you told him. I am not blaming you for telling it—it was no secret. I only want to know how you came to be talking about me. Mr. Guildford was quite surprised—he said you mentioned it so suddenly. How was it?”
She looked Geneviève full in the face as she asked the question. At first Geneviève’s eyes fell; she seemed frightened and half inclined to cry. But her glance happened to light on the little white card she held in her hand, and her mood changed. She raised her head, and her cheeks glowed with angry excitement. “I told him,” she said, “because I thought it would vex him. I like him not. You think everybody is in love with you, Cicely. It is not so. It is only that you are rich. Some day you may find you have been too sure—you have wanted too much. Some day perhaps you will not get what you want—then you will no longer think you are to have all because you are rich and I am poor!”
“Geneviève!” exclaimed Cicely. She could not trust herself to say more. She turned away and began examining some books that lay on a side-table, astonished, and wounded to the quick.
Another moment and Geneviève’s passion would have ended as usual in a flood of tears, but there came a diversion. Mr. Fawcett suddenly entered the room. He came in quickly, not expecting to see any one there, and as he opened the door, the first object that met his eyes was Geneviève. Geneviève in the full blaze of her beauty; her loveliness enhanced by the excitement which had reddened her cheeks and brightened her eyes, even though its source was unlovely anger; Geneviève, dressed to perfection, as he had never yet seen her, in a cloud of shimmering white, with crimson flowers in her dark hair and pearls on her pretty neck—Trevor started as he saw her, and a half smothered exclamation escaped him. And in an instant Geneviève’s face was all smiles and blushes as she hastened forward a step or two to meet him.
From her corner, Cicely, pale and silent and discomposed, saw it all; saw Trevor’s start of unmistakable admiration, Geneviève’s pretty self-consciousness, saw them shake hands and murmur a word or two as if no such person as herself were in existence. She saw it, but, with instinctive loyalty, before she had allowed herself to realise the position, she forced herself to come forward.
“You did not expect to find any one here already, did you, Trevor?” she said lightly. “Mother made us come at least an hour too soon that we might be with Lady Frederica before any one else comes—we are supposed to be staying in the house, you know.”
Before she had finished the last sentence, Mr. Fawcett had perfectly recovered himself.
“I am so very sorry to hear your father is not as well as usual to-day,” he said kindly, as he shook hands. “But I am glad it was not bad enough to prevent you two coming. There is not much wrong, is there?”
“No, at least I hope not,” replied Cicely. “I have not thought him as well as usual for some time.”
She turned away and Trevor did not reply. Just then Lady Frederica and a bevy of ladies rustled into the room, and a chatter of greetings and introductions and regrets that “the poor Colonel was not well and poor dear Mrs. Methvyn unable to leave him” began.
Youare not looking well, dear Cicely,” said Trevor’s mother, in her soft, plaintive voice, and somehow even these commonplace words brought the tears into the girl’s eyes. “Henever noticed that I looked ill,” she thought, as she replied to Lady Frederica’s expressions of sympathy, and there rushed through her mind in sharp and painful contrast with Trevor’s indifference, the remembrance of how Mr. Guildford’s firm cheery voice had grown gentle and anxious that morning when he first remarked her paleness and agitation.
“And howperfectlylovely your cousin looks!” continued Lady Frederica. “Pretty as I thought her, I had no idea till to-nighthowlovely she was.”
“Yes,” said Cicely stoutly, “I think she looks as pretty as anything one can imagine. Do you like our dresses, Lady Frederica? They are from Madame Néret’s.”
“Geneviève’s is lovely, quite lovely,” answered Lady Frederica. “And yours—ah! yes, it is very pretty, Chambéry gauze, I see,” she remarked, putting up her eye glass and surveying Cicely’s draperies with a critical air. “Yes, a beautiful material and everlasting wear—I have had my Chambérys dyed black many a time—I was not sure if yours was a new dress or not.”
“Yes, mother ordered both Geneviève’s and mine expressly for to-night,” said Cicely.
“Ah! yes. Yes, I can see it is new now. Thosegooddresses, you know, never do look quite so brilliant a white as more fragile materials. And I was thinking of your trousseau, you know, my dear. It is hardly worth while for you to get any more new dressesnow.”
“No,” said Cicely quietly.
“What is Geneviève’s dress?” continued Lady Frederica, “tarletane?”
“No, tulle, tulle over—” Cicely was beginning, but just then Mr. Fawcett came up.
“Mother,” he said, “people are beginning to come. You mustn’t stay any longer gossiping in that corner, do you hear, my lady?” Lady Frederica laughed. “Impertinent boy!” she said, rising as she spoke. “Where shall I find you, Cicely?” continued Trevor, “We must be ready when the music begins, to set all the young people agoing. Dances are events, at this season, and these country girls have no idea of wasting time.”
“I shall stay here,” said Cicely, “I shall be ready when you come for me.”
“All right,” replied Trevor, as he went off with his mother on his arm.
Cicely remained in her corner, watching the guests as they began to pour in. Now and then she came forward a little to shake hands with such of her acquaintances as caught sight of her, or to introduce her cousin, who was standing at a little distance, to some of her parents’ more intimate friends who had not yet happened to meet her.
“How lovely Miss Methvyn’s French cousin is! I did not think she wasthatsort of girl.Weheard she was the daughter of a poor Frenchpasteur,”an “how ill poor Miss Methvyn is looking herself!” were the universal remarks on the appearance of the two cousins. “It is the first time Miss Methvyn has been anywhere since the little Forrester boy’s death, you know,” said some kind-hearted girl. Cicely overheard the words, and after that it seemed to her that there was unusual gentleness in the manners and voices of those whom she spoke to, or to whose inquiries about her father she replied. She was glad to think so.
“People are very kindly after all,” she said to herself. “I think I have been growing morbid lately. It must be all my fancy that Trevor is changed. I don’t believe he is. One grows exacting with living so much alone.”
The thought cheered her. She looked brighter and less wearied when Mr. Fawcett came to claim her.
“What has become of Geneviève?” she exclaimed, looking round, as she took Trevor’s arm. “She was standing beside Miss Winter a moment ago.”
Trevor laughed. “You must have been asleep, my dear child,” he said. “Did you not see me introduce Dangerfield to her? There they are. They are to be ourvis-à-vis.I told Dangerfield she couldn’t speak English at all, and he doesn’t know a syllable of anything else. It will be great fun watching them.”
Cicely looked uneasy. “I am afraid Geneviève may not quite like it,” she said rather timidly; “I don’t think she understands jokes, Trevor. I wish you would tell Mr. Dangerfield that she can speak English perfectly, for if he begins trying French she would think it would be rude to speak English.”
“Nonsense,” said Trevor rather brusquely; “nonsense. Geneviève understands a joke as well as any one.Youdon’t understandherCicely, as I have often told you. She knows all about it, and you will see how she will take off Dangerfield.”
Cicely said no more, but already the little gleam of sunshine seemed clouded over. She went through the quadrille languidly and silently. Mr. Fawcett indeed seemed to have no leisure for talking to his partner; his whole attention was absorbed by watching the way in which his prettyvis-à-visbefooled her partner.
Now and then he turned to Cicely. “Do look at Dangerfield,” he would say; “he has been five minutes over one word. Did you ever see anything so mischievous as the way Geneviève looks up at him in bewilderment?”
Cicely smiled faintly. “I did not know she could act so well,” she said. Then she regretted the words and would have said something to soften them, but Trevor did not seem to have caught their meaning. He was in exuberant spirits, almost excitedly gay and jocular, yet to Cicely it seemed that there was something forced in his manner, and when he gave her his arm again after the quadrille was over she fancied he was eager to avoid atéte-à-tête.
“I am afraid I must leave you here, Cicely,” he said, when he had found a comfortable sofa in one of the drawing-rooms,“I have such a terrible amount of introducing and all that to do between the dances.”
“Very well,” said Cecily. Her tone was rather cold, and Trevor, glancing at her, observed for the first time how pale and fagged she looked.
“Are you not well, dear?” he said kindly.
“Oh! yes. I am well enough,” she answered, brightening up at once under the influence of his words; “but, Trevor,” she went on, after a moment’s hesitation, “I am very dull about papa. I don’t think he is well.”
Mr. Fawcett said nothing, but his blue eyeslookedsympathy and encouraged her to say more. “I did not like to make you dull,” she went on, “you seem in such very good spirits, Trevor,” with the slightest possible accent of reproach. “But you must not be vexed with me for being rather stupid. Ican’thelp it.”
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “You are not vexed with me, are you?” she whispered.
Mr. Fawcett’s face had grown grave. “Vexed with you,” he repeated, “of course not. Why should I be? At least I am only vexed with you for one thing. I hate all this—I detest it. I only wish you and I had been married months ago; by this time we should have been away somewhere by ourselves with no one to interfere with us. As it is, I never seem to see you now, Cicely; I don’t know how it is.”
The sunshine seemed to have crept back again,—a somewhat uncertain, tremulous light, but sunshine for all that. “Dear Trevor,” said Cicely softly, “there is not really any change. It is only that I am so much taken up at home, and you have been away so long. But if you are not vexed with me, it will be all right. Sometimes lately I have fancied I had grown dull and stupid and that you—”
She had laid her hand appealingly on Trevor’s arm, his eyes were looking down upon her with an almost remorseful tenderness, some eager words were on his lips, when a voice beside them—it was Geneviève’s—made both him and Cicely start.
“Oh! Mr. Fawcett,” she exclaimed, “I want so much to tell you, ah! is Cicely already tired?” with a curious change of tone from the brightness of the first sentence. “I beg your pardon, I knew not that I interrupted you,” she added timidly, making a little movement as if to retire into the back ground.
“Interrupt! Nonsense,” exclaimed Trevor, laughing. “We have been wondering how you got on with Dangerfield. Cicely, you must remember which are your dances with me.Ours,” to Geneviève, as he passed her, “is the next, you know.”
“Areyou tired, Cicely?” inquired Geneviève somewhat awkwardly.
There was no time for a reply. Up came Lady Frederica, with a gentleman to be introduced to Miss Casalis in humble hope of finding she had still a dance to spare, in which he was not disappointed. This happy person was followed by another and yet another, till the vacant spaces on Geneviève’s card grow few. Then the music begins again. Cicely catches a glimpse of Trevor’s tall figure in the doorway; another moment, and Geneviève disappears on his arm.
“Only the second dance—will the evening never be over?” thought Cicely.
“Are you not dancing, my dear?” said Lady Frederica, coming up to her.
“I don’t know, at least I forget. I think I am engaged for this dance,” replied the girl indifferently. “Oh! yes,” consulting her card, “I am engaged to Sir Arthur Vauxley; but he has not come for me. I don’t care. I would rather not dance. Don’t you think it is rather cold, Lady Frederica?”
“Cold, my dear!” repeated her hostess in astonishment, fanning herself with a nearer approach to vigour than she was often in the habit of exerting; “cold! Why we are in the greatest alarm that the heat will be insufferable before supper; we cannot get all the windows open till then. Cold! You must have got a chill.”
“Perhaps I have,” said Cicely, shivering a little and drawing back further into her corner.
But she was not long allowed to remain there. Sir Arthur found her out and claimed his dance. Then followed others, for which she was likewise engaged; the evening began to pass a little more quickly than at first; two dances more, and there would come her second one with Trevor—a waltz this time. Cicely’s eyes brightened and a little colour stole into her checks when at last the intervening dances were over and the waltz music began.
“The ‘Zuleika,’” she said to herself, “that is one of Trevor’s favourites. I wish he would come!”
Her feet beat time to the familiar strains, her eyes turned impatiently towards the doorway in search of the pleasant, fair face of her betrothed—again and again, but in vain. Cicely was only twenty after all; she could not but own to herself that it was disappointing.
“Trevor has a good deal on his hands,” she reminded herself however, “and of course he will know it does not matter if he misses one dance with me. We have two still—one other waltz.”
So the face was still sweet and unruffled, the eyes guiltless of reproach, when, at the very end of the waltz—when the last notes of the inviting Zuleika were dying away—the laggard partner made his appearance.Helooked flushed and discomposed, and evidently conscious that he deserved a scolding.
“I am so sorry, so very sorry,” he began. “I was coming here to look for you, but I hadn’t got rid of my last partner, and the music began before I expected, and we found ourselves regularly hemmed in. We took a turn to get clear, and then I had to get Ge—, my partner, an ice, and now it is too late!”
“Never mind,” said Cicely brightly. “What does it matter? I have kept two others for you.”
Trevor looked at her with a curious mixture of expressions in his face. “My dear old Cit,” he said, reverting to a pet name of long ago, “you are awfully sweet-tempered.” Then a frown gathered over his face. Whose soft voice had whispered in his ear a minute before?—“Do not please tell my cousin you were just now dancing with me. It might—it might vex her. She thinks sometimes I forget too much I am but a stranger. I would not that she should think I knew this was the waltz you should dance with her.”
Cicely did not see the frown. She only heard the pleasant words. “Am I?” she said. “I don’t know that it is true, but any way I like you to think so. By the bye, how is Geneviève getting on? I have not seen her for ever so long.”
“Oh! she’s all right. She’s had any number of partners,” replied Mr. Fawcett hastily, as he ran off to fulfil his next engagement—this time probably with some less long-suffering damsel than Miss Methvyn. In the doorway he almost knocked over a small man, quietly making his way in. “I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed. “Ah! Hayle, is it you? Why are you so late?”
“I could not come earlier,” replied Mr. Hayle. “Is Miss Methvyn here?”
“Yes, in the little drawing-room,” said Trevor, as he disappeared.
Mr. Hayle peered about till he caught sight of Cicely.
“How late you are, Mr. Hayle!” she exclaimed. “I suppose you don’t care about balls though.”
“Not much. I have hardly any experience of them. But I could not come earlier to-night. I have been at Notcotts till half an hour ago,” he answered.
“Is anything wrong there?”
“No,—this is the evening I have fixed for my class there. That is what I wanted to ask you about. We are rather at a loss for some books. Would you mind letting me look over again some of those you offered me before?”
“Certainly,” said Cicely, “you can have any of them you like.”
Then Mr. Hayle proceeded to relate to her, as he had got into the habit of doing, the small chronicle of his difficulties, hopes, and fears. Cicely listened with interest—she had found it quite possible to like and respect the boy-faced clergyman, and there was plenty of common ground on which they could meet without jarring. But half an hour before, she could not have listened without impatience to the history of the Notcott’s night-school, the shortcomings of the choir, the ever-increasing necessity for the renovation of Lingthurst church. Whence had the sunshine come again? Trevor had called her his “dear old Cit; it was all nonsense and fancy” about his being changed.
Mr. Hayle did not dance, but he escorted Miss Methvyn in to supper instead. Then he had to resign his charge to the partner to whom she was engaged for the next dance.
It happened to be Mr. Dangerfield. The poor young man could talk of nothing but Geneviève.
“She’s so awfully pretty,” he said. “What a pity she can’t speak English. I didn’t know she was your cousin till just now, when one of the officers from Haverstock asked me if I couldn’t get him an introduction to Miss Methvyn; and being such old friends, of course I said yes. And we were steering away towardsyou, you know, when he holla’ed out to me to stop, and I found out it was your cousin he meant.Hesaid the Miss Methvyn who was engaged to Fawcett, so of course I thought it was all right. She—your cousin I mean—was dancing with Fawcett at the time, so Captain Burnett had made the mistake. Fawcett put it all right, but I couldn’t catch your cousin’s name—Castle, isn’t it? only that doesn’t sound like a French name.”
“Casalis,” corrected Cicely, smiling. She had known young Dangerfield all her life, and had rather liked him for his unaffected good nature, and been tolerant of his matter of-fact prosiness. This evening however, long before her dance with him was over, she began to think he must surely have grown heavier and more stupid than of old. Could he findnothingelse to talk about than Geneviève and that absurd mistake of Captain Burnett’s?
But even the slowest of dances “wears through” at last. Cicely’s next engagement was to one of the aforesaid officers from Haverstock—a quiet man—who danced little but talked sensibly, and did not seem, like every one else this evening, to have had his head turned by Miss Casalis. And when his dance was over, Cicely began to feel tired in earnest. She sat down in the corner where she had been before, resolving not to dance any more—“at least,” she said to herself, “not unless Trevor very much wants to make up for the waltz we missed. I wonder what has become of him? I did not see him dancing the last at all. And Geneviève? She is engaged to Fred Dangerfield again for this one, I think he told me. No, there he is, talking to Miss Falconer. Where can Geneviève be?”
Her speculations were interrupted by Mr. Hayle, who, with great satisfaction, had spied her out again in her retreat.
“I don’t think I remembered to ask you how Colonel Methvyn is,” he began, as he came up to her.
“Not very well, thank you,” said Cicely, “indeed, I was not much inclined to leave him to come here to-night—but—I hardly liked to stay away. My cousin has had very little amusement since she has been with us. I came greatly on her account.”
“Then you yourself don’t care for balls and dancing?” said Mr. Hayle eagerly.
Cicely smiled. “Oh! yes I do,” she answered. “When I am light-hearted about other things, I enjoy them very much.”
Mr. Hayle made no reply.
“Have you seen my cousin lately?” Cicely went on, “I can’t think what has become of her.”
“If you mean Miss Casalis, I saw her just now with Mr. Fawcett. I think they were going to dance,” said Mr. Hayle.
“Oh!” said Cicely, and then relapsed into silence.
“Don’t you think it is rather too hot here,” said Mr. Hayle, “would you not like to find a seat where there is a little more air?”
“It is hot,” said Cicely, rising as she spoke; “yes, I think I should like to go into one of the other rooms. I want to find Geneviève—it must be getting late. Will you take me, Mr. Hayle?” she added with a smile.
They made a little tour of the rooms; dancing in the ball-room was still going on vigorously, but no Geneviève, no Trevor, were to be seen.
“I dare say they are in the supper-room,” said Mr. Hayle. “I saw several people there still, a few minutes ago. Suppose we look for a nice cool place in the conservatory, Miss Methvyn; this way—ah! yes, over there among the ferns there is a charming corner. Now, if you will stay here, I will get you an ice and look for Miss Casalis on the way.”
The poor little man seemed quite pleased to find himself of use. Cicely thanked him and established herself comfortably in the nook he had discovered. It was at the further end of the fernery, into which opened the great dining-room, to-night metamorphosed into a ball-room. Cicely looked round her admiringly. She had always coveted the Lingthurst fernery; in the hottest summer day it seemed cool and fresh—there were greens of every shade to rest the eye, an incessant, soothing murmur of trickling water to please the ear; and to-night the soft lights of the many-coloured lamps, hung here and there among the climbing plants which hid the walls, made the whole into a veritable fairy-land.
Cicely leant her head back and shut her eyes. “The music sounds far nicer here than in the ball-room,” she said to herself; “it is almost too loud in there. I shall go to sleep if Mr. Hayle doesn’t come soon. I don’t want an ice in the least, but it would have been a shame to refuse it; he was so pleased with the idea. Ah, there he is!”
Steps were approaching her, but they were not Mr. Hayle’s. Where she sat, some great stands of tall tropical ferns concealed her from the view of any one coming to wards her; but not realising this, it never occurred to her to move when first the sound of voices fell upon her ear. Well known, familiar voices they proved to be, but the words they uttered deprived the girl for the moment of all power or vitality.
“I tell you I will doanything—anything to make you believe me—anything to free myself from this horrible hypocrisy. I can stand it no longer. The words were spoken low, but with a sort of suppressed fierceness; the voice was Trevor’s. Then came a sound of half-smothered weeping, some broken reply of which Cicely could not catch the meaning—then Trevor’s voice again.
“Not care for you? Good God! what will you say next? I wish I did not care for you. I wish we had never seen each other. Not care for you, you say, when I am breaking my word for you, trampling my honour under foot! I only hope that is the worst of what I am doing, Geneviève. I only hope what you tell me is true, that in her heart of hearts Cicely doesnotcare for me except as a brother. If I thought otherwise! No, even for you, Geneviève, I could not do it.”
“But it is true—it is, it is,” broke in the girl’s voice. “I know it is, I have always known it. She does not care as I do—oh, no! Trevor, I shall die if I have to lose you.”
“Hush,” said Trevor, “there is some one behind us. Come this way.”
He led her close to where Cicely was sitting, then through a small doorway in the wall leading into a passage used by the gardeners; as the two passed her, the skirt of Geneviève’s dress almost brushed against Cicely’s, but thanks to the subdued light and to their own absorption, she remained unperceived.
She had sat perfectly still—motionless, as if suddenly turned into stone. It had required no effort on her part to remain so, for now even that they were gone—out of sight and hearing—she moved not so much as a muscle of her whole body; afterwards, on looking back, it seemed to herself that she had almost for a time ceased to breathe. She was stunned into a species of unconsciousness, and how long she might have remained thus it would be impossible to say, had not Mr. Hayle made his appearance with the ice he had gone in search of.
“Here is the ice. I had to wait some time—” he was beginning, but broke off in alarm. “What is the matter?” he exclaimed, “you look so dreadfully pale, Miss Methvyn.”
“I have got a chill, I think,” said Cicely shivering, and attempting to smile. She was surprised to find that she could speak; for the last few minutes a sort of dreamy, almost pleasant feeling of death, or dying, had been stealing over her. Now she awoke to a faint consciousness of pain; like the unfortunate traveller in the Alps, who beseeches to be allowed to sleep, even though the sleep should be unto death, she shrank from coming to life again. “I have got a little chill, I think,” she repeated. “I should just like to stay here quietly.”
She leant her head back again among the graceful nestling ferns—their delicate fronds caressing her colourless cheeks and brushing the coils of her bright fair hair; she closed her eyes, and for a moment Mr. Hayle thought she had fainted. Perhaps in a sense she had—at least she was conscious of nothing more till he was again beside her, this time with a glass of wine.
“Drink this, Miss Methvyn,” he said.
“No, thank you,” she replied, turning her head away.
“But you really must,” he insisted. “The sort of chill you have had may make you ill if you don’t take this. Think how frightened Mrs. Methvyn will be if you go home looking like a ghost.”
Mr. Hayle was not wanting in discrimination and common sense. He had met Mr. Fawcett and Miss Casalis on his way to fetch the ice; he was not without a shrewd suspicion as to the nature of the “chill” which the girl beside him had received. His mention of her mother roused Cicely a little. She took the glass and drank some of the wine.
“Thank you very much,” she said to her companion. “I am all right again now. Must we go back to the drawing-room? Oh! I do so want to go home,” she exclaimed wearily. “It is late now, is it not? I wonder if Geneviève—”
“Would you like me to find out if Miss Casalis is ready to go now?” interrupted Mr. Hayle.
“Yes please, I wish you would,” said Cicely. The mention of her cousin’s name had driven back from her cheeks such faint colour as had begun to return to them. Mr. Hayle’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Do I look very dilapidated?” continued Cicely, smiling and smoothing back the ruffled hair from her temples. “I should not like Lady Frederica to think I was ill. I have felt very dull and tired all the evening. You know my father has not been well; we have been anxious about him, and anxiety is very tiring.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Hayle, “nothing more so. You need not go back to the drawing room, Miss Methvyn. We can go round by the passage behind the dining-room, and you can wait in the study while I find your cousin.”
He was turning towards the door through which Trevor and Geneviève had disappeared.
“Not that way,” exclaimed Cicely sharply.
Mr. Hayle glanced at her. “It is much better than having to go through the ball room,” he said composedly. Cicely made no further objections.
The next quarter of an hour was a dream to her. She sat in Sir Thomas’s little study waiting for Geneviève for about ten minutes, clearly conscious of one sensation only an unspeakable horror of meeting Trevor Fawcett face to face and alone. But this she was spared. How Mr. Hayle managed it she never knew; but in a few minutes he reappeared with Geneviève alone.
Then Cicely remembered a vision of Parker and wraps, a hasty progress across the hall, still escorted by the young clergyman, a glimpse through open doors of the still crowded drawing-rooms, a sound of music in the distance—then she seemed to awake to find herself in the carriage, with Parker’s anxious face opposite, dimly discernible in the uncertain light of the flickering lamps, with some one else beside her; some one whose face she dreaded to see, whose voice she shrank from hearing.
But all the way home Geneviève never spoke.