CHAPTER I.

CICELY.

A STORY OF THREE YEARS.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

ENNIS GRAHAM,

AUTHOR OF “SHE WAS YOUNG AND HE WAS OLD,” “NOT WITHOUT

THORNS,” ETC. ETC.

LONDON TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.

[All rights reserved.]

PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO., LITTLE QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN’S INN

FIELDS.

As long as Love continues the most imperious passion, and Death the

surest fact of our mingled and marvellous humanity, so long will the

sweetest and truest music upon earth be ever in the minor key.

To my Cicely.

December 30th, 1873.

CONTENTS.

Vol.1

I. WIDOW LAFON’S SOUP

II. MR. GUILDFORD OF SOTHERNBAY

III. “LITTLE MASTER”

IV. A SECOND SUMMONS

V. “COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD”

VI. “LE JEUNE MILORD”

VII. SOME ARE WISE, SOME OTHERWISE

VIII. “THE WITCHCRAFT OF A TEAR”

IX. OF THE SAME OPINION STILL

Vol. 2.

I. WORK AND PLAY

II. SHADOWS BEFORE.

III. BY THE OLD WATER-MILL

IV. MAN AND WOMAN

V. ONE OF MANY

VI. LES PAPILLONS

VII. FAILING MISS WINTER.

VIII. SOME SUMMER DAYS

IX. A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER

X. FORGIVE ME, AND GOOD BYE

Vol. 3.

I. DÉSILLUSIONNÉE

II. AFTER THE BALL

III. THE NEWS THAT FLIES FAST

IV. “TO MY AIN COUNTREE”

V. “HOW LITTLE YOU UNDERSTAND”

VI. A NEW TERROR.

VII. ALONE

VIII. MADAME GENTILLE

IX, A SOUTHERN WINTER

X. AMIEL TO THE FORE

XI. FRIEND AND WIFE

CHAPTER I.

WIDOW LAFON’S SOUP.

“Why a stranger—when he sees her In the street even—smileth.”

E. B. Browning

ONLY early April, but already a very hot day—what we dwellers in

the north would consider an almost unendurably hot day! But in the

pleasantest part of the sunny south of France, heat, up to a certain

point, is endurable enough, thanks to the perfect purity of the air,

ever freshened by the near neighbourhood of mountains and sea.

Still it was very nearly too hot to be pleasant. So thought

Geneviève Casalis, the little daughter of the senior pasteur of the

Reformed Church at Hivèritz, as she sat under the shade of the

wooden gallery running round the little square, half garden, half

court-yard, on one side of which was her father’s house. It was

Sunday afternoon; Geneviève had been twice at church, and since

returning from the second service had read the allotted portion of

the history of the Reformation in France, on which she and her

brothers would be cross-questioned by their father in the evening.

So, Sunday being in certain practical respects a day of rest in the

Protestant household, Geneviève felt that her duties for the time

were over, and that she might indulge in a little idle meditation.

Her Bible and her book of Cantiques lay on her knees; the expression

of her girlish face was serious and thoughtful,—“devout,” a

casual observer might probably have pronounced it; what and where

were her thoughts?

“Ah! but it is truly too vexatious,” she was thinking to herself,

“that I should again to-day have had no other dress to wear but this.

To see that great awkward Stéphanie Rousille and her sisters in

their new piqués,—not that they could ever look bien mises in

anything, but it was too provoking. I must absolutely beg maman again

to arrange our summer dresses. Poor maman! she has had much to

consider lately I know well. It is not that I would add to her

troubles; ah! no, but I am sure I could myself alter my last year’s

dresses for Eudoxie, which would already save some expense, if maman

would let me buy one, or, at the most, two new piqués for myself. Or

one piqué and one muslin? I saw some quite charming muslins in the

window at Laussat’s yesterday.”

Her glance fell discontentedly on the black alpaca, her Sunday dress

for many months past. It was scarcely perhaps the dress for a hot

summer’s day, but still far from unbecoming; for it fitted

Geneviève’s pretty figure to perfection, and was relieved from

sombreness by the neat white collar and coquettish little bow of blue

ribbon at the throat.

“This dress,” continued the girl, “will be my every-day one

next winter. I think too it will be well to take it when we go to the

mountains, there are chilly days there sometimes. Ah! if only it were

the time for going. Still six weeks at least, and to me Hivèritz is

detestable when every one has left it. How different people’s lives

are—how I wish my father were rich and noble, like some of those

grand English who come here for the winter and amuse themselves so

well! How I wish—”

But at this point Geneviève’s wishes were interrupted.

“Mademoiselle,” said a voice at her side, “mademoiselle, madame

vous fait demander.”

Geneviève looked up with a momentary impatience. “What is there then,

Mathurine?” she asked.

“Only that madame wished that mademoiselle and mademoiselle Eudoxie

and I should take the soup to the Widow Lafon. ’Tis not so far,

mademoiselle, only round by the allée vert to the other side of St.

Cyprien—une gentille promenade, à present qu’il ne fait plus si

chaud,” added the old servant coaxingly, observing the slight cloud

of unwillingness on Geneviève’s pretty face.

The girl rose slowly. “Ah! well, it must be, I suppose,” she

said. “But why take Eudoxie, Mathurine? She is so tiresome when we

are out, always wanting to run up the banks and pick flowers. I would

much rather—”

“Mais c’est madame qui le veut,” interrupted Mathurine hastily,

with a slight gesture of warning; and, turning in the direction of

the maid-servant’s eyes, Geneviève caught sight of her mother

coming out of the doorway just behind them.

Madame Casalis was tall and thin, with still glossy black hair and

bright dark eyes. She looked as if she might once have been pretty

and graceful. She was still young; young to be the mother of

eighteen-years old Geneviève; but much care and many anxieties had

done their usual work, leaving her in appearance considerably older

than in years. She had had a hard time of it in many ways; for on

her, by nature active, vigorous, and capable, rather than on her

gentle, less practical husband, had fallen the greater share of the

burden and heat of the day. Under such circumstances some amount of

chronic “fussiness,” of irritability even, was, if not

inevitable, surely, at least, excusable? Be that as it may, it is

very certain that it would have fared but ill with the six young

Casalis had their mother belonged to the more easy-going order of

matrons. Yet it is to be doubted if in every direction Geneviève’s

mother was wholly appreciated: the full depth of a tenderness and

devotion which manifest themselves rarely save in ceaseless action is

seldom justly estimated; the poetry which only finds expression in

prose is too often ignored, its very existence little suspected,

least of all by those who benefit most thereby.

But Madame Casalis was on the whole content; she left the dreaming to

her husband, the prettinesses to pretty Geneviève, too busy to think

about herself at all. And in her own domain she reigned supreme.

“What is there then, Geneviève?” she inquired, as she drew near

to her daughter and old Mathurine. “Dost thou not like my little

commission, my child? The soup will not be good if we keep it till

to-morrow, and the old mother Lafon is always so pleased to see

thee.”

Her mother’s tone was unusually gentle. Geneviève felt emboldened

by it to express her real objection to the arrangement.

“I like very well to go, mamma,” said Geneviève amiably, “if

it might be alone with Mathurine. But with Eudoxie it will take us so

long. She is so full of life, the poor child; and surtout le

Dimanche, one meets tant de monde, and then it would be so

distressing if she soiled her best frock with picking flowers and

jumping on the banks. But of course it is as thou wishest, chère

mamma.”

A slight look of disappointment crossed Madame Casalis’ face. She

would have been glad of an hour’s rest from little Eudoxie’s

chatter. But somewhat to Genevievè’s surprise, she answered

quickly,

“It may be better for la petite to stay with me. Hasten then, my

child; thou shalt go alone with Mathurine.”

Geneviève gave all the credit to her judicious suggestion of

possible damage to the best frock; she little suspected that today of

all days it would have been hard for her mother to oppose any wish

she had expressed. She was turning to go into the house to prepare

for her walk, when her mother stopped her.

“When thou shalt be returned, my child,” she said, “come at

once to thy father and me. He wishes to talk to thee a little. We

shall be in his room;” and she re-entered the house as she spoke,

giving Geneviève no opportunity to ask any of the questions her

curiosity immediately suggested.

“What could mamma mean, thinkest thou, Mathurine?” she said, a

few minutes later, when she and her companion had set off on their

errand. “What can my father have to speak about to me?”

“Perhaps some great monsieur, some milord, perhaps—songe à

demander ma demoiselle?” said the old servant gravely.

“Mademoiselle n’est plus enfant, on voit bien.”

“Nonsense, Mathurine,” exclaimed Geneviève impatiently, with a

little toss of her head, “dost thou not understand it will not be

so with me. I am Protestant and half English! Thinkest thou I would

marry any one, even the greatest ‘milord’ in the world, if he did

not make himself agreeable to me myself in the first place? And what

is as much to the purpose, perhaps, I have no dot. Great milords are

not so ready to marry portionless girls as all that, you silly

Mathurine.”

“Pardon, mademoiselle. It is true, I forget often that madame has

the English ideas, and it is quite to be understood that mademoiselle

should have them too. But what mademoiselle says about having no dot

I avow I do not understand. For, à ce que l’on me dit, en

Angleterre tout cela est bien différent. I have heard that the

demoiselles there, the demoiselles sans dot, je veux dire, se marient

souvent très bien,—mais très bien,” with an impressive little

pause, “above all, a demoiselle so beautiful, so gracieuse, as

mademoiselle.”

“Sometimes perhaps it is so,” said Genevieve with an air of

having seriously considered the matter; “still on the whole I would

rather take my chance with, than without, a dot. For I am not sure,

Mathurine, that I should like to marry an English man, not even a

‘milord.’ Life in England must be often triste, and I imagine

also that the husbands there are un peu sévères; expect their wives

to amuse themselves enough with the children and the ménage. Bah!

that would not suit me. When I marry, it shall not be into that sort

of life. I have had enough of it at home. I must have a husband who

will let me do as I like; he must adore me, and he must be rich. Oh,

so rich!”

“Et beau, mademoiselle,” suggested Mathurine, evidently thinking

that as wishing was the order of the day, there was no need to limit

the perfections of her young lady’s hero. “Mademoiselle should

have un bel homme; mademoiselle who is so pretty.”

“Yes,” agreed Geneviève. “Oh! yes; I should like him to be

handsome, though that is not a point of the most important. But every

one may not find me pretty, Mathurine? Perhaps, it is only that thou

hast taken care of me since I was a baby. Tell me, Mathurine, wast

thou pretty in thy youth?” she went on with a sudden change of

tone. “Why didst thou never marry? Is it that one has never asked

for thee?”

“But no, mademoiselle,” replied the girl, though without the

slightest appearance of offence. “One asked for me more than once.

But the rich parti was old and ugly, and, one had told me, not too

good to his wives—il en avait déjà eu trois—and the young parti

was poor, mais très pauvre, and had besides an aged father to

support, and I, mademoiselle, had then an aged mother. So what could

we do? We waited and waited, but times grew worse instead of better,

and other troubles came, and my poor boy and I we lost heart. Then

there was a rich widow, a paysanne only, by origin, but her husband

had left her his property, who took a fancy to my Etienne, and what

prospect had we, that I should keep him? Ah, mademoiselle, dans cette

vie, il faut bien souvent marcher sur le caur à deux pieds! The end

of it was, Etienne married the widow, and I—enfin, me voilà,

mademoiselle, la vieille Mathurine, à votre service.”

“And was Etienne happy with the widow?” asked Geneviève.

“I never heard to the contrary, mademoiselle,” answered

Mathurine. “It was many years before I saw him again; then, as it

happened one day—it was the neuvaine at the convent close to the

village where we lived, and madame, the wife of Etienne, had come

with the other fermières of the neighbourhood, and he had driven her

over, and as I was saying—”

But Geneviève was not destined to hear the particulars of the

meeting of Mathurine and Etienne, for just as the old woman had

reached this point her story was interrupted by a sudden cry of

warning. It came too late, however. They were crossing the road to

enter the allée verte, the ‘Alameda’ of the inhabitants of

Hivèritz, when a large open carriage, drawn by two horses, came

swiftly round a sharp corner, and in a moment both the young girl and

her attendant were thrown to the ground, apparently right under the

wheels. There were screams from the carriage, shouts from the

by-standers, a general commotion. Mathurine was quickly extricated,

still clutching tightly the handle of the little tin soup-can, whose

contents lay in a pool on the white dusty road. She declared herself

unhurt, and was evidently far more concerned about the fate of her

charge than about her own.

“Mais, où est-elle donc, mademoiselle Geneviève, ma petite

demoiselle? Ah! qu’est-ce que madame va me dire!” she exclaimed

frantically. “Est-elle donc tuée, la chère enfant? La voilà qui

ne me ré ponds pas. Dieu, quel horreur!” she continued, as she at

last caught sight of Geneviève, pale as death, with eyes closed and

apparently quite unconscious, lifted in the arms of a gentleman, who

had sprung from the box of the carriage on the first alarm.

“Is she much hurt? Are there any bones broken? Don’t you think

you had better not move her till some one can fetch a doctor? Good

Heavens, how unfortunate it is! Oh dear! Miss Winter, what will Sir

Thomas say?” exclaimed one of the two ladies in the carriage. She

was what is euphemistically called “middle-aged,” though to

reckon by the old “three score years and ten,” she must a good

long time ago have passed the meridian of life. But she was well

preserved and well dressed, refined-looking, and on the whole

sufficiently pleasing in appearance if not to disarm at least not to

suggest criticism. Just now her face was nearly as pale as

Geneviève’s own, and as she turned to her companion she seemed on

the point of tears.

“Don’t distress yourself so, keep calm, I beseech you, dearest

Lady Frederica,” entreated Miss Winter, who, fortunately, had her

wits about her; indeed the keeping them well in hand may be said to

have been a part of her profession. “Ah! here is some one belonging

to the poor girl. What does she say, Mr. Fawcett?”

“I can’t understand her,” replied the gentleman, to whom poor

Mathurine had been vainly trying to make herself intelligible. “She

talks so confoundedly fast. Can’t you make her out, Miss Winter?”

Miss Winter did her best, but it was no easy matter, for poor

Mathurine, in her distress and excitement, unconsciously relapsed at

every two or three words, into her native patois. She was begging the

young man to lay Geneviève on the ground, for Mr. Fawcett was very

tall and Mathurine was very short; in her darling’s present

position, therefore, it was almost impossible for the poor woman to

obtain a clear view of her face.

“She will soon come to herself, is it not?” Mathurine was saying

“She will open her pretty eyes, and will be frightened if she does

not see her old Mathurine. If monsieur will but lay her down—see, I

can spread my shawl. Ah! but monsieur does not comprehend. What then

shall I say?”

She clasped her hands in despair. Miss Winter began a laboured

sentence in the most correct French and with the most English of

accents. In her turn Mathurine was looking hopelessly puzzled, when,

to the amazement of all, a sweet faint voice was suddenly heard in

soft tones thanking “monsieur” for his kindness, begging him to

deposit its owner beside Mathurine. And to the relief of the English

party, the words were in their own tongue, spoken too, without

hesitation, and with only the soupçon of a French accent.

“I am not hurt, not wounded at all, I assure monsieur,” said

Geneviève, while the bright red rushed to her pale face. “’Twas but

the—the shock—is that the word? I can hold myself upright very

well at present, and monsieur must be so—géné. Mathurine will

take care of me.”

She struggled out of Mr. Fawcett’s arms, as she spoke. He still

half held her, however, and but for this she would have fallen. As it

was, she grew very pale again and clung to Mathurine’s sturdy

figure for support.

“’Tis but a little weakness, my angel,” said the nurse, in her

delight at seeing that Geneviève was uninjured, throwing her usual

respectful manner to the winds. “She has no pain, mademoiselle

chérie, n’est-ce-pas? Only an étourdissement in the head.

Naturally, la pauvre enfant! Que le bon dieu soit loué, that it is

no worse! If we had only a glass of water; then she could perhaps

return to the house!”

Mdlle. Casalis repeated the request in English.

“A glass of water,” said Mr. Fawcett, with a smile. “I think a

little brandy would be more to the purpose. Don’t you think so,

Miss Winter? Mother,” he continued, turning to the lady in the

carriage, “I think our best plan will be to drive mademoiselle—I

beg your pardon,” to Geneviève, “I don’t think I heard your

name.”

“Casalis,” murmured the girl, but Mr. Fawcett did not catch the

word.

“To drive the young lady to our hotel,” he went on; “it is

close at hand, and then when you have rested a little,” he turned

again to Geneviève, “you must allow us to drive you home.”

“I would like better to go to the house—home, I mean—now, thank

you,” said Geneviève. “It is not very far—Rue de la Croix. I

think I can walk now.”

“Pray do not attempt it,” said Lady Frederica. “It will be much

better to do as my son proposes. Miss Winter, will you help the young

lady to get into the carriage? Perhaps,” she added to Geneviève,

“your servant (‘maid’ she was going to have said, but poor

Mathurine’s appearance puzzled her; her short stout figure,

sunburnt face, and fête-day cap by no means suggesting the

conventional lady’s-maid) “will follow us if you will direct her

to the hotel. What is the name of our hotel, Miss Winter? I never can

remember; we have been at so many lately.”

“Hotel d’Espagne,” replied Miss Winter briskly, having by this

time settled Geneviève comfortably in the place of honour by Lady

Frederica’s side, and seated herself opposite. Then the handsome

young ‘milord’ jumped up on to the box again, and the carriage

drove off. The little crowd that the accident had collected dropped

off one by one, leaving Mathurine standing alone in the middle of the

road, shading her eyes with her hand, as she watched the carriage

disappear.

“But he is distingué, ce jeune milord!” she murmured to herself,

“those are the English of the first rank without doubt, and

mademoiselle so beautiful, so gracieuse. Quel dommage she had not a

pretty new robe d’été to-day, like the demoiselles Rousille!

Still it might have been spoilt, for she is covered with dust. And a

dress of alpaca one can brush. Without doubt it is all for the

best.”

She gave two or three funny little grunts of satisfaction—it seemed

to Mathurine she could see a long way into the future that

afternoon—and then trotted away down the street in the direction of

the Hotel d’Espagne.

Nearly an hour later, just as Madame Casalis was beginning to think

that her messengers must be loitering greatly on their way, she was

startled by the sound of a carriage driving past the window of the

room where she was sitting and then stopping at the door.

The Rue de la Croix was a quiet little street, leading to nowhere in

particular, and quite out of the thoroughfare of Hivèritz; rarely

entered therefore but by foot-passengers. But Geneviève’s mother

had hardly time to make up her mind whether, in Mathurine’s

absence, she must open the door herself, or depute little Eudoxie or

one of the boys to do so, when she heard familiar voices in the

passage, and in another moment Geneviève, closely followed by

Mathurine, came in.

“You have been rather a long time,” she said. “Did the mother

Lafon like the soup? Tell me then, Geneviève, was there a carriage

in the street as you came in? It seemed to me that I heard one, which

stopped at our door. But it must be that I was mistaken.”

“Du tout, maman,” replied Geneviève. “There was indeed a

carriage, for we came home in it, Mathurine et moi.”

She smiled as she spoke, but her mother looking up in surprise, now

observed her crumpled and soiled dress, her flushed, excited face.

For a moment she felt vaguely alarmed.

“But, don’t be frightened, mamma; there is nothing wrong. I have

had a little adventure, voilà tout,” said Geneviève, and then she

told her story, the dramatic effect of which was considerably

increased by Mathurine’s interpolations. “Ah, madame, que j’ai

eu peur!”—“une si belle voiture.” “Madame la baronne

Anglaise si bien mise—une toilette magnifique”—“un si beau

monsieur,” etc. etc.

And “Was it not fortunate that Eudoxie was not with us?” observed

Geneviève sagely, in conclusion.

“And the soup of the poor mother Lafon!” added Mathurine.

“We must make her some again to-morrow,” said Madame Casalis

calmly. She bore the loss of the soup with equanimity. “My child

might have been killed,” she thought to herself with a shudder, and

the reflection somewhat soothed the bitterness of a new trouble that

had been tugging at her heartstrings for several days—a trouble

that had come in the shape of a thin, black-edged letter from over

the sea, one of the letters from her English relations that at long

intervals still found their way to the pasteur’s wife.

For these cousins of hers had never altogether lost sight of her,

though since the death of her mother, their relation, Madame Casalis

had felt the chain slacken, as must always be the case, however

kindly the intentions, once that the links and rivets of mutual

interests and common associations begin one by one to drop away.

Geneviève had drawn somewhat largely on her imagination in

describing herself as “half English.” She was fond of doing so;

the thought of these unknown relations had always had a strong

fascination for her, and had been the foundation of many a girlish

castle in the air. At school she had studied English with twice the

amount of attention which she bestowed upon her other lessons, and

had eagerly profited by her mother’s instruction at home. And

nothing gratified her more when some little jealousy was expressed by

her companions on her repeatedly carrying off the “English

prize,” than to hear the murmur: “Of course, what can one expect?

Geneviève Casalis is of an English family—at least her mother is,

which is almost the same thing.”

Not that she was ever communicative to those chattering companions of

hers on the subject. By dint of well-timed but persistent

cross-questioning she had elicited from her mother sufficient

information, respecting the social condition of her cousins, to

justify her in occasionally throwing out vague but impressive hints

or allusions for the benefit of Stéphanie Rousille or Marguérite

Frogé. But, notwithstanding the, comparatively speaking, humble

origin and position of the Casalis family, and notwithstanding, too,

Geneviève’s excessive sensitiveness on the point, no one could

accuse her of consoling herself by boasting of her grand relations.

Young as she was, her quick instincts had already taught her the

value, in certain positions, of “an unknown quantity,” the

expediency of judicious reserve, the folly of limiting by such

“stubborn things” as facts the imagination of those she wished to

impress. To old Mathurine alone, in all probability, was the girl

thoroughly natural and unreserved.

Much to Geneviève’s dissatisfaction her mother sent her to bed

very early that Sunday evening. She declared in vain that she was not

in the least tired, and that she did not feel the slightest ill

effects of the accident. Her varying colour and languid movements

told another tale, and, as rarely happened in the Casalis family, her

father looked up from his book to enforce his wife’s authority.

“Go to rest thyself, my child,” he said, “as thy good mother

counsels thee. To-morrow morning we shall wish to speak to thee on a

matter of importance, but not now; and before thou sleepest,

Geneviève,” he added with a certain solemnity of manner,

suggesting the pastor as well as the father, “remind thyself to

thank the good God for having preserved thee from a great danger.”

Geneviève murmured a dutiful “Oui, mon père,” then turning to

her mother—“Wilt thou then, dear mamma, come up to see me before

I sleep, for a minute?” for she was burning with curiosity to learn

something of the nature of the “matter of importance,” which the

excitement of the afternoon had made her temporarily forget; anxious

also to lead the conversation round again to the English family whose

acquaintance she had made so abruptly. “Mamma understands the

English,” she said to herself. “I should like to know what sort

of people this family Fawcett belongs to. I have heard that in

England the sons of the good families may marry to please themselves

much more than in France. The young Monsieur Fawcett seems to be an

only child. How nicely English gentlemen shake hands! He said ‘au

revoir’ too. I wonder if I shall see him again!”

For concerning the seeing him again Geneviève had immediately begun

to dream. She was quite satisfied that he was already over head and

ears in love with her. For alongside of her precocity and

quick-wittedness, a curious credulity, a readiness to be taken in by

flattery, and a dangerous amount of so-called “girlish romance,”

lay hidden in her character.

Madame Casalis was gratified by her daughter’s unusual request.

Geneviève had only just got into bed when her mother appeared. How

pretty the child looked, how bright and innocent! Her dark hair in

its thick plaits on the pillow making a background for the sweet

flushed face, with its deep soft southern eyes! For in appearance at

least, Geneviève bore no trace of the northern ancestry she was so

proud of.

Some unexpressed feeling made Madame Casalis stoop and kiss her

daughter. “Thou hast no uneasiness, no pain of any kind, is it not,

my child?” she asked anxiously.

“Not the least in the world, my mother, I assure thee,” answered

Geneviève. “Mamma,” she went on, “I forgot to tell thee that

the English Lady—Miladi Fawcett, c’est-à-dire—would have

wished to accompany me home, to give me safe back to thee and ask

thee to forgive them for the fright I had had, but I begged her not

to come. I told her it might startle thee to see a stranger. J’ai

bien fait, n’est-ce-pas, maman? Mathurine was out too; there was no

one to open the door.”

“Oh! yes; it was just as well,” said Madame Casalis somewhat

absently.

“And,” continued Geneviève, “Monsieur Fawcett, the

son,—monsieur le père is called Sir Fawcett, mamma—what does

that mean, is it comte, or baron? The son said he would have had the

honour of calling to ask if I was quite recovered, but that they

leave Hivèritz early to-morrow. They are going to Switzerland, and

then to Paris—ah, how delightful! They travel for the health of

madame, miladi, je veux dire.”

“Fawcett, is that their name?” said Madame Casalis consideringly.

“It seems indeed to me that I have heard that name formerly. Ah!

yes, I remember; it was the name of a family living near to the

cousins of my mother. Thou rememberest, Geneviève, I have often told

thee of the visit I made to England with thy grand mother when I was

jeune fille. La famille Methvyn was very liée with la famille

Fawcett. It was soon after the marriage of my cousin Helen to le

Colonel Methvyn. It would be curious if they are the same; and if

thou shouldst see them again in—”

She stopped abruptly, but it was too late.

“If I should see them again, mamma!” exclaimed Geneviève

starting up in bed, her eyes sparkling with eagerness, “what dost

thou mean? Oh! mamma, dear mamma, do tell me,” she went on,

clasping her hands in entreaty, “is it then, can it be, that our

English cousins have invited me to go there? Oh! mamma, how

delightful. And may I go?”

The eager words and tone struck coldly on the mother’s heart.

“Wouldst thou so well like to go, Geneviève?” she said half

reproachfully, “to leave us all—the friends of thy childhood, the

house where thou wast born?”

The girl’s eyes sank; but only for a moment.

“It would not be for ever, my mother,” she murmured, though in

her heart she thought differently. A return to the old dull life, to

the struggles and the privations of home, was not the future she had

planned for herself, should she obtain the object of her

day-dreams—an introduction to her rich English relations.

“One knows not, my child. Changes bring changes,” said Madame

Casalis sadly. Then she kissed Geneviève again, and bade her

good-night. “I can tell thee no more at present,” she said.

“To-morrow thou shalt hear all. Already thy father will blame me

for having told thee anything. Sleep well.”

And Geneviève knew by her mother’s tone that she must obey. It was

long before she slept, however, and hours before day break she was

awake again; awake, and in a fever of excitement, to hear all the

details of this wonderful news.

The invitation was a very cordial one. It came from the only cousin

of her own generation still left to Madame Casalis. “Madame

Methvyn,” she explained to Geneviève, “is the daughter of the

cousin of my mother. Thy grandmother was to her ‘tante à la mode

de Bretagne.’ The relationship is not therefore of the nearest,

which makes the kindness the greater.” And then she told her some

of the particulars contained in the letter. The Methvyns had lately

had a great sorrow, a death in the family, and the person most

affected by this sorrow had been their youngest and only unmarried

daughter.

“She has been very lonely,” wrote the mother, “since her sister

went away, and our sad loss has deprived her of her chief pleasure

and employment. If you will agree to our proposal, my dear cousin,

and let your daughter come to be the friend and companion of our

child (they must be about the same age), we shall do our utmost to

make her happy. And if she is happy with us, we trust she may learn

to look upon this as her home. There are changes, though not

immediate, impending in the future, which may not improbably render

this a desirable arrangement. I have often wished I could have done

more to help you with your large family and many anxieties, but now I

feel that in what I am asking all the obligation will be on my side;

though, as I have said, we shall all do our utmost to make your child

happy and to give her all the advantages in our power. It would at

least be a better arrangement for her than the one you spoke of in

your last letter.”

“What was that, dear mamma?” said Geneviéve, as her mother left

off reading.

“I spoke to my cousin of the possibility of its being necessary

that thou shouldst one day be a governess, my child,” said her

mother. “I thought she might help to place you well—in some good

family. The education of thy brothers is already expensive and will

be more so.”

The colour mounted to Geneviève’s face. It had hardly required

this to strengthen her decision.

“But we had not thought of a separation so soon,” said Monsieur

Casalis with a sigh. “Reflect well, my child. Thou art of an age to

judge for thyself. The proposal, as says thy mother, is a kind one

and may offer advantages for thy future. But it may probably separate

thee for long, perhaps for ever, from thy family. What sayest thou?”

The tears were in the mother’s eyes, but she wiped them away

hastily. Geneviève did not see them; she was looking down,

apparently in deep consideration. Then she said sweetly,

“It seems to me, dear father, I have hardly the right to refuse,

since mamma and you consent. It is not only for myself. I must think

also of my brothers and Eudoxie. In accepting the offer of Madame

Methvyn, I may be able to help them in the future. It would also be a

comfort to my mother and you to reflect that one of your children was

no longer dependent only on your care.”

“It is true,” said the pasteur, but his wife said nothing.

The advantages of Mrs. Methvyn’s proposal were obvious, for besides

what Madame Casalis had read to her daughter, the letter contained a

very distinct promise that should the offer be accepted,

Geneviève’s future should be considered. “We are rich,” wrote

the English lady, “and we have few relations. I should like to feel

that I had done something for you, Caroline. You are the only

representative left of my dear mother’s family.”

So Caroline Casalis dared not take upon herself the responsibility of

refusing, or advising her child to refuse, so generous a proposal.

Neither could she bring herself to urge its acceptance. But what

would she not have given had Geneviève thrown herself upon her neck

and sobbed out her grief at the thought of separation?

As it was, the consultation ended with the young girl’s kissing her

parents prettily and properly, with the slightest possible suspicion

of tears in her eyes, and tremble in her voice as she thanked them

for their bonté in allowing her to decide for herself, and expressed

her hopes that they would find her digne of their parental love and

approbation. Already in her tone there was a slight savour of

independence, of her old child life being a thing of the past.

And it was quite decided that she should go to England at the time

named by her mother’s cousin. So for the next few weeks there was

question not of one, but of several new robes d’été. Only

somewhat to Geneviève’s annoyance, they had to be all of

half-mourning!

CHAPTER II.

MR. GUILDFORD OF SOTHERNBAY.

Angelina. Can he speak, sir?

Miramont. Faith, yes, but not to women. His language is to heaven

and heavenly wonders, To Nature and her dark and secret causes.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

DOWN in the smiling south, spring had come even earlier than its wont

this year, but in England things had been very different. Since

January, the weather had been unusually severe; severe enough to lay

low many even of the healthy and strong, to snap asunder the last

thread of fragile lives, that for long had been quivering like

withered leaves ready at the first stormy blast to drop from the tree.

Even in usually mild and sheltered spots, winter this year had

cruelly asserted his power. Many a poor invalid, who had left a

comfortable home in search of warmth and sunshine, wished himself

back again, where at least, if he died, it would be among his own

people, or resolved if he lived another year, never again to trust to

English climate even at its best. There was illness everywhere;

doctors were worn out; people began to talk of not facing winter

again without artificial defences against the cold, double windows,

Russian stoves, and other devices not often suggested by our modern

experiences of weather.

At Sothernbay—a favourite little winter watering-place, as a rule

exempt from frost and snow, north winds or east, from cold, in short,

in any form—it was just as bad as everywhere else; in the opinion

of the Sothernbay visitors naturally very much worse. It was no use

telling all these unhappy people that their sufferings were no

greater than those of their neighbours in every other part of

England; they had no present personal experience of the climate of

every other part of England, and they had of that of Sothernbay. It

was no use assuring everybody that such a winter had not been known

since the year of the famous whole-ox roasting on the Thames; former

winters were past and gone, this one was unmistakably and most

disagreeably a matter of now, not of then.

In all the seven or eight years during which Mr. Guildford, one of

the younger surgeons of Sothernbay, had been settled there, he had

never felt so tired and dispirited as on one wretched February

evening, when the thermometer had sunk to unknown depths, and there

was not the very faintest sign of thaw or break in the pitiless black

frost which had reigned remorselessly for many weeks. Personally,

Mr. Guildford, who had never been ill in his life, had no fault to

find with the frost. As a boy he had never been so happy as during a

good old fashioned winter; but his boyhood had been spent in a more

invigorating atmosphere, mental and physical, than that of

consumptive, hypochondrical Sothernbay; and there were many times

when he seriously doubted if he had done well in choosing it for his

home. His love for his profession was deep and ardent, and his faith

in its possibilities almost boundless. He realized with unusual

vividness, for one comparatively young and untried, the great, sad

facts of human suffering, and longed for increased power of relieving

it. But the peculiar phase of suffering to be met with at Sothernbay

was of all kinds the most depressing to see. It was usually so

hopeless. What could a doctor do in nine cases out of ten, for

blighted lives, whose knell in many instances may be almost said to

have sounded before they were born? How even could he cheer them,

when the only comfort they craved lay in assurances and promises he

could not bring himself to utter? Or the still more trying class of

patients—the crowd of hypochondriacs, young and old, who season

after season followed each other to the little watering-place, vainly

hoping to recover there, as if by magic, the vigour of mind and body

they would take no rational means to obtain—what could an honest,

intelligent man do for such but tell them the truth, and risk instant

dismissal for his pains? Where the physical suffering was genuine,

however hopeless, there was certainly the occasional satisfaction of

mitigating or temporarily alleviating it; but such satisfaction was

poor and meagre to a man so energetic and enthusiastic as Edmond

Guildford, Then, as will happen where the power is genuine and

steady—a deep, calm flowing river, not a fitful mountain torrent at

one time overwhelming in its impetuosity, at another dwindled to a

thread—his pent up energies found for themselves a new channel.

They turned naturally to study—study and research bearing

indirectly upon his own profession. As a youth he had worked fairly,

displaying an intelligence above the average, and some originality;

as a man he threw his whole soul into these voluntary labours. And

gradually this pursuit of truth—

“Truth tangible and palpable,”

this

“patient searching after bidden lore,”

developed in him a definite, practical ambition—the ambition of

doing something worth the doing to help forward the special branch of

science to which he devoted himself.

“Let me feel before I die that I have advanced if only one step in

practical knowledge—broken if but an inch or two of fresh ground

for others to work in,” he said to himself.

And this, at eight-and-twenty, he believed in as the passion of his

life. And with this he determined no other influence should be

allowed sufficient dominion over him to interfere. He knew little of

women, enough only to dread and deprecate their intrusion beyond a

certain point into a man’s life. That a pure and noble love, of its

very essence ennobles, of its very strength strengthens the whole

powers—the whole “mingled and marvellous humanity” of him who

is capable of it; that a less worthy influence needs not to be

despotic to be insidious; that “thus far thou shalt come and no

farther,” it is but seldom given to man to say—these were truths

which had not entered into the dreams of his philosophy.

He was tired and dispirited this February evening, when at last after

a long day’s work he stood upon the door-steps of his own house. He

felt too tired even to look forward with his usual eagerness to his

quiet evening of study. It was often so with him after a day of the

kind—a day filled with visits to the regular Sothernbay

invalids—a day in which, as he looked back upon it, he could not

feel that he had done any good. And such days and such feelings had

of late been on the increase. He even began sometimes to think

seriously of throwing to the winds the position he had gained for

himself, and trying his fate at a different kind of place. But, being

on the whole a reasonable and cautious man, he restricted his

dissatisfaction to grumbling to himself, or, when the desire for

sympathy was unusually strong upon him, and failing a more responsive

audience, to his sister Mrs. Crichton.

This evening, however, an unexpected diversion of his thoughts was in

store for him.

“There’s a telegram waiting for you, sir,” said the servant who

opened the door.

“A telegram! where? I don’t see it,” he exclaimed, glancing at

the table where letters were usually laid for him.

“No, sir; it’s not there. Mrs. Crichton, if you please sir, took

it into your room and put it on the chimbley-piece, for fear as I

should forget it,” said the boy with a touch of malice in his tone.

Mr. Guildford smiled. “All right,” he said cheerfully, as he went

into his room and shut the door. “All the same,” he added to

himself; “I do wish Bessie would learn to leave my things alone.”

A telegram was an event. Mr. Guildford’s beat lay within a very

small radius, being entirely confined to Sothernbay itself. Now and

then, at long intervals, he had been summoned to town to a

consultation with one of the great men who wanted his report on some

case he had been watching, but this happened rarely, and he knew of

nothing of the kind impending at present. So it was with some

curiosity he opened the big envelope and glanced at its contents.

“Colonel Methvyn,

“Greystone Abbey.”

To Edmond Guildford, Esq.,

“Sothernbay.

“Pray come by first train. The case is very urgent. A carriage

shall be at Haverstock Station. Dr. Farmer has given me your

address.”

The summons was a very unusual one. Mr. Guildford had once met Dr.

Farmer, but he had never been at Haverstock, except when passing

through the station in the railway; he did not remember ever having

heard of Colonel Methvyn, or of Greystone Abbey, for in the few years

he had been at Sothernbay he had had no leisure for exploring the

neighbourhood, and his rare holidays had been spent at a distance. No

doubt the message came from some county family near Haverstock, but

this did not render it the less surprising, for all the county

families had their own country doctors for ordinary cases, and for

extraordinary ones—when they were very ill indeed—they either

went to town to consult one of the great authorities, or summoned him

to come to them. For there was a very orthodox amount of ill feeling

towards Sothernbay on the part of the county, which, to do the little

watering-place justice, it entirely reciprocated.

Mr. Guildford looked about for a railway guide; there was one on his

table, but it was not of recent date. Then he remembered that his

sister, who had only arrived the week before, would probably have a

newer one. He was just leaving his room in search of it, when the

front door bell rang, and Mrs. Crichton came in; she had been at an

evening service, and shivered with cold, notwithstanding her wraps.

“It is colder than ever, Edmond, I do believe,” she exclaimed, as

she saw her brother.

“Yes, I almost think it is,” he answered absently. “Bessie,

have you a Bradshaw for this month?”

Mrs. Crichton was obliged to consider for a minute or two how long it

was since “this month” had begun.

“Let me see,” she said. “What day did I come? Yesterday? no;

the day before yesterday week. And this is the 14th. February began

on a Wednesday, didn’t it? Oh! yes; my Bradshaw must be for this

month. But this is leap year, there are generally only twenty-eight

days in February—will that make any difference about when the month

came in? Oh! no, of course not; it isn’t as if we were in March.

What do you want a Bradshaw for, Edmond? You’re not going away; it

is far too cold for travelling?”

“Tell me first where the Bradshaw is to be found,” said Mr.

Guildford good naturedly; he had served a very fair apprenticeship to

his sister’s peculiar arrangement of reasoning powers, and was not

easily affected by their eccentricity.

“It’s up in my bedroom. No, it’s in my travelling-bag, and that

is in the drawing-room—at least it was there the day after I came.

Oh! no, by the bye, it is in the pocket of my largest

travelling-cloak. It’s here!” and the Bradshaw was triumphantly

produced.

A moment’s consultation of the intricate little volume showed Mr.

Guildford’s quick eyes that there was no train for Haverstock for

an hour and a half. He glanced at the “sent out” date of the

telegram; then looked again at the railway guide. “No,” he said,

“I could not have caught an earlier train even if I had got the

message at once. I am rather glad of that.”

“Glad of what?” said Mrs. Crichton, as her brother, still looking

at the guide, followed her into the drawing-room.

“That I have lost no time. It is so terribly disappointing to find

that some stupid, trivial little accident has delayed one in an

urgent case—a case, I mean, in which there is anything to be

done,” he answered, half forgetting he was speaking to his sister

and not to himself.

“I don’t know what you are talking about. An urgent case! What

urgent case?” said Mrs. Crichton, pricking up her ears in hopes of

a little professional gossip. It was so very rarely she could get

“Edmond” to talk about his “cases” at all. “Oh! by the bye,

that must be what the telegram was about. I was so afraid you would

not get it at once, I put it on the mantelpiece in your study,

Edmond; did you see?”

“Yes,” he said mildly. “I saw it; but on the whole, my dear

Bessie, I prefer all letters being left on the hall-table, then I

catch sight of them at once when I come in, you see.”

“Very well,” said Bessie, looking a little snubbed; but she soon

recovered herself. “Are you really going away to-night, Edmond?”

she asked.

“Yes,” he said again; “I must start in about an hour. I want to

see Brewer on my way to the station.”

“Then you are going by rail?”

“Of course; what else did you think I wanted the guide for?” he

replied. “I have time for a cup of tea, Bessie, if you will have

one ready for me in half an hour. I have one or two letters to write

first,” he added, as he left the room without giving Mrs. Crichton

time to ask any more questions.

“How absurdly mysterious Edmond is!” said Bessie to herself.

“He seems quite to forget what I went through with poor dear Mr.

Crichton.”

Half an hour later, when Mr. Guildford came back for his cup of tea,

Mrs. Crichton tried him on another side.

“What shall I say to any one who calls or sends for you to-morrow,

Edmond?” she asked meekly.

“Whatever you like,” said her brother boyishly, beginning to

laugh as he spoke. “No, Bessie,” he went on, “it’s too bad of

me to tease you. I shall be back before to-morrow, before your

to-morrow begins any way, and I have left notes and directions with

Sims, and I shall see Brewer on my way to the station. If you really

care to know where I am going, I can only tell you it’s somewhere

near Haverstock, but as to whom I am going to see or why I have been

sent for, I know as little as you.”

Bessie was delighted; it sounded quite mysterious and romantic.

“I do hope for once you’ll tell me all about it when you come

back to-morrow,” she said gushingly. “I am sure you must know how

thoroughly I am to be trusted. Poor dear Mr. Crichton used to

say—and you know a lawyer’s nearly as bad as a doctor that way,

about family secrets and all that—he used constantly to say that he

would quite as soon tell anything at the town cross as tell it to

me—no, that’s not it, I mean the other way, that he would quite

as soon tell it to me as to—what are you laughing at so, Edmond?

Perhaps it wasn’t about secrets he said that. I daresay it was that

I was as safe as the Bank of England. He had so many clever

expressions that I confuse them, you see.”

“Yes, my dear Bessie, I see,” said Mr. Guildford gravely. “It

is quite natural you should.”

“I do hope it’s nothing horrid they’ve sent for you for,”

continued Mrs. Crichton, a new idea striking her. “A murder

perhaps, or a suicide, and they may want you to help to hush it up! I

do hope you will be careful, Edmond; you know I often tell you you

are very rash sometimes. You forgot your comforter again this very

morning, and you don’t know what you may get mixed up in if you are

not careful.”

“I’ll be very careful,” he assured her. “But I wish I were

not going, I am tired to-night.”

Mrs. Crichton looked up anxiously,

“You are so much oftener tired than you used to be, Edmond. I

don’t think you can be as strong as you were. I am sure you want a

change.”

“I am as strong as ever, I assure you, Bessie. “My tiredness is

more mental than physical,” he replied.

“But change is good for every sort of complaint,” said Bessie

vaguely.

“But suppose I can’t have a change, said Mr. Guildford carelessly.

“You can if you like. You make me very unhappy, Edmond, when you

talk in that indifferent way,” said Mrs. Crichton plaintively. “I

don’t believe you take a bit of care of yourself when I’m away,

and I can’t be here always, you know. I do wish you were married.

You have over and over again said to me you did intend to marry some

time or other, and then it has all come to nothing, and everybody

knows it’s the proper thing for a doctor to be married. It would

double your practice.”

“I have quite as much practice as I want, thank you,” answered

her brother; “and if I hadn’t, it wouldn’t at all suit my ideas

to marry for the sake of increasing it; but I do still intend to

marry some time or other, Bessie, whenever I come across the right

person.”

“What do you call the right person?” inquired Mrs. Crichton,

looking far from satisfied. “I dare say you expect all sorts of

things you are sure never to find in any girl.”

“No, indeed I don’t,” replied Mr. Guildford. “I am most

reasonable. I don’t expect much in my wife. She must be

pretty—very pretty, I don’t care how pretty; she may be a little

conceited if it amuses her, she must have some notion of

house-keeping, and a perfectly good temper, that’s about all. Oh!

no, by the bye, she must be fond of work—sewing, stitching, I

mean—and I think, yes I think, she must not be able to play or

sing. I’m not quite sure about singing.”

Bessie looked aghast. “Why, Edmond,” she exclaimed, “you mean

to say you don’t want your wife to be clever, not even

accomplished? I thought you admired clever women so, Miss Bertram

and her sister for instance, though they are so plain-looking, and

just think how you enjoy Mrs. Wendover’s playing.”

“So I do, but I never said I should like to marry either of the

Bertrams, did I? For a friend, I think I would prefer Frances Bertram

to any—man I was going to say—to any one I know. But a wife and a

friend are different. A very wise person once said, ‘Descend a step

in choosing a wife, mount a step in choosing a friend,’ and I quite

agree with him,” replied Mr. Guildford.

“It’s a very nasty, mean, spiteful saying, whoever said it,”

said Bessie wrathfully. “It’s just that men are so jealous that

they can’t bear their wives to be thought more of than themselves.

Who said it, Edmond?” she went on looking rather frightened as an

idea struck her. “It wasn’t Solomon, it isn’t in the Bible, is

it?”

Her brother looked mischievous. “Not quite, but very nearly,” he

said. “It is not in our Bible, but in some other people’s bible.

It’s in the Talmud, I believe. Solomon may have said it originally;

and, as he had fifty wives, he should surely be an authority on the

subject.”

“You shouldn’t joke about such things, Edmond,” said his sister

reproachfully, looking nevertheless relieved at hearing where the

proverb was to be found. “I don’t know anything about the Talmud;

it’s the book those silly hair-dressers in the Arabian Nights’

were always saying verses out of, isn’t it? I remember that story

when I was a child. But I wonder at you taking up those Turkish ideas

about wives, Edmond.”

“About a wife you mean, I suppose?” he answered. “I don’t

intend to have more than one. But you don’t understand me quite,

Bessie. I should never be jealous of my wife in the way you mean,

whatever she was, only—”

“What?” inquired the sister.

“Only,” he went on, “those grand women would come in the way of

other things in a man’s life. A smaller sort of person would be

more comfortable and less intrusive. The noblest woman that ever was

made would be at best a frail bark to risk a man’s all in,” he

added reflectively.

He almost forgot to whom he was speaking, till Mrs. Crichton’s next

observation reminded him of her presence.

“You are very funny, Edmond,” she said, “I suppose it’s with

being so clever and studying so much and all that. But I don’t

believe you have it in you to care much for any woman.”

She gave a gentle sigh as she recalled to herself the days of poor

dear Mr. Crichton’s devotion to pretty little Bessie Guildford,

twenty years younger than himself. She remembered how some of her

friends had laughed at her for choosing to be an “old man’s

darling.” “But we were very happy,” she murmured to herself.

“Perhaps not,” said her brother, as he rose to go. “And if so,

all the better, I dare say. Good night, Bessie.”

“Good night, and don’t forget your comforter. And remember you

are to tell me all your adventures when you come back,” she called

after him.

“We’ll see,” he put his head in again at the door to say, and

then he was gone.

It was dull sitting there alone, duller somehow than if Edmond had

been busy at work in his own room on the other side of the wall.

Bessie soon got tired of it and went to bed early. She got up rather

before her usual hour the next morning in hopes of her brother’s

returning to breakfast with her. But ten, eleven o’clock passed, he

did not come. Mrs. Crichton succeeded in remembering a little piece

of shopping to be done—a skein of silk was wanting for her fancy

work; it would give her an object for a walk. So she went out for an

hour, and when she came in was met by little Sims with the

information that “Master had come in as soon as she had gone out.

He had asked wasn’t Mrs. Crichton in, and he had left word he

wouldn’t be back till late.”

Bessie was very much disappointed. She had been so anxious to hear

the history of the mysterious journey. “And now,” she thought,

“when Edmond comes in, he’ll be tired and thinking about other

things, and I shall not hear about his adventures at all.”

It was not very late after all when Mr. Guildford came in, but as his

sister had expected would be the case, he looked tired and

preoccupied. They dined together, but during dinner he said little.

Afterwards, contrary to his general custom, he followed Bessie into

the little drawing-room and settled himself in a comfortable

easy-chair near the fire.

“I am too sleepy to work to-night,” he said. “It is no use

attempting it. But it is a pity, as I did nothing last night either,

and I was in the middle of something rather particular.”

“You do look very tired,” said Mrs. Crichton sympathisingly.

“I was up all night,” he said shortly. And then they were silent

for a few minutes—Bessie all the while burning with curiosity.

“What poor creatures even the strongest of us are, after all!”

said Mr. Guildford suddenly.

“Do you mean about feeling tired?” said Bessie. “Being up all

night is enough to knock up any one.”

“It was not that only I was thinking of,” he replied. “I did

not think I was still so impressionable. I wish Dr. Farmer had not

suggested my being sent for.”

“Why?” asked Mrs. Crichton with surprise and curiosity.

“There was nothing to be done. I was called in too late—but,

indeed, I strongly suspect nothing could have been done from the

beginning. I see so many hopeless cases in my regular round, that it

is depressing to be summoned to another outside it. No, I am sure

nothing could have been done.”

“Perhaps it is that you are so much cleverer than other doctors

that you see sooner when there is nothing to be done,” suggested

his sister.

But Mr. Guildford hardly seemed to hear what she said. “He must

always have been exceedingly fragile,” he went on as if thinking

aloud.

“Was the person dead before you got there?” asked Bessie.

“No, not till early this morning,” said her brother. “It was

very painful—no, not exactly painful, sad and pitiful rather.”

“Was he a young man?”

“Not a man at all—only a child, a little boy,” answered Mr.

Guildford, but the “only” seemed to reproach him as he uttered

it. “Just at the very first I had faint hopes, but they soon died

away. He had often been ill before, had had frightful attacks of

croup every now and then. But this was bronchitis. There wasn’t a

chance for him. Poor little chap!”

“How old was he?” asked Bessie, her bright blue eyes filling with

tears.

“Above five, I think, barely as much. Dr. Farmer sent for me when

they got very much alarmed, late yesterday. There wasn’t time to

send to town, and they wanted a second opinion. Dr. Farmer is getting

old now and easily upset—he was glad to have some one else for his

own sake too. He could not have watched it to the end; he had quite

broken down before I got there.”

“Was he an only child? How will his mother bear it, poor thing!”

said Mrs. Crichton.

“She is not there. She is abroad somewhere—in India, I think,”

answered Mr. Guildford.

He was silent for a moment or two and sat gazing into the fire.

“What strange creatures women are!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“What mixtures of strength and weakness! I wonder if it is at

moments of intense feeling that one sees the true nature of

women—or is it that feeling ennobles them temporarily, makes

shallow ones seem deep, and selfish ones heroic, and cold-hearted

ones devoted?”

Bessie felt curious to know what had called forth these remarks. It

was not often that her brother troubled himself with speculations

concerning her sex.

“What has put that into your head, Edmond?” she asked. “Are you

thinking of any one in particular?”

“Oh! no—it was just a reflection on women in general,” he said

carelessly.

Then he took up a book and began to read, and Bessie heard no more

particulars of his visit to Greystone. Her curiosity was, however,

satisfied that there was nothing very exciting to hear; it was only a

sad little every-day story. She was very sorry for the little boy’s

friends, and she said to herself she was glad that she had no

children.

CHAPTER III.

“LITTLE MASTER.”

“For when the morn came dim and sad And chill with early showers,

His quiet eyelids closed—he had Another morn than ours.”

Thomas Hood.

HAD Mr. Guildford been a native of Sothernshire, he could not but

have been familiar with the name of the Methvyns of Carling, one of

the oldest and wealthiest families of the county. Had he been in the

least addicted to local gossip, or less preoccupied, he could hardly

have failed, even at Sothern, to hear casual mention of them and of

their younger branch, the Methvyns of Greystone. But if he had ever

heard of either Carling or Greystone, he had forgotten all about it;

and as he was whirled along to Haverstock that cold February evening,

his mind was a perfect blank as regarded Methvyns of anywhere. Nor

did he feel much interest or curiosity respecting the summons he had

received.

He had brought a book with him, but the lamp gave so feeble and

uncertain a light that reading was out of the question. So for the

half-hour of his railway journey, Mr. Guildford set himself to think

instead; to work out in his head the results of a certain shadowy

theory or suggestion bearing upon an obscure and hitherto but

slightly considered department of medical science, which had lately

come under his notice for the first time. It had interested and even

fascinated him, but he had so often fancied himself on the brink of a

great discovery, so often imagined that he saw the flashing of

“some bright truth in its prism,” only to be disappointed, that

he was already learning to be sceptical and cautious, keen to

criticise and slow to pronounce. Outward circumstances too, helped to

check his impetuosity, to moderate without damping his ardour—the

apparent disadvantage of his leisure consisting mostly of odd

snatches of time, liable at any moment to interruption; the being

constantly recalled to matters of present fact, obliged suddenly to

concentrate his powers on subjects seldom presenting anything in

common with his chosen studies; all this was excellent training for

an excitable, enthusiastic temperament naturally impatient of

discipline or restriction. Gradually he acquired great inward

self-control—mental independence of, or rather superiority to, his

external surroundings for the time being. He learnt to choose and

limit his subjects of thought; a habit as valuable to a man of his

profession, as was in another direction the great soldier’s

far-famed capability of “sleeping to order.”

So Mr. Guildford was really thinking—not merely dreaming, or

passively receiving the impressions of the objects around him when

the train stopped, and the railway officials’ equivalent for

“Haverstock,” was shouted along the little platform. It was only

a roadside station, badly lighted and dreary looking. Though not yet

ten o’clock, there was a sort of middle-of-the-night air about the

place, and the two or three men to be seen looked as if they had been

wakened out of their first sleep. For a moment or two Mr. Guildford,

as he stood alone mechanically watching the green light of the train

that had brought him, as it disappeared in the darkness, felt

bewildered and confused. But a voice at his side recalled him to what

was before him.

“Are you the doctor, sir, if you please—the doctor from

Sothernbay?” and turning at the question, Mr. Guildford saw that

the speaker was a pleasant-looking man-servant, buttoned up to the

chin in a thick driving coat; his tone was eager and anxious.

“Yes. I have come from Sothernbay in answer to a telegram I

received this evening,” he replied. “Are you Colonel Methvyn’s

man,—have you come to meet me?”

“I have been here since five o’clock, sir. ’Twas I sent off the

message. The dog cart is waiting at the gate, and if you please, sir,

I was to say as Miss Cicely—my master, I should say,—hoped

you’d excuse the dog-cart instead of a close carriage; the road

from here to the Abbey is terrible bad just now, and a heavy carriage

would have taken twice as long,” said the man, as he led the way

through the station-gate to where a two-wheeled vehicle and an

impatient-looking horse stood ready for them.

“I prefer it, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford good-naturedly. Like

many self-contained people, he had a liking for a frank manner on the

part of others, especially perhaps when they were his inferiors.

“You see, sir,” continued the man, “I was hurried both ways,

first to get the telegram off, and then to get you to the Abbey when

you came.”

His remarks were interrupted by the zeal with which he set to work to

tuck Mr. Guildford up in the rugs, of which there appeared a

profusion.

“Miss Cicely—leastways my master, I should say, though for that

matter it were Miss Cicely, she never forgets nothing,—she told me

as I were to be sure to bring plenty of wraps,” he observed, his

language becoming comfortably ungrammatical as he felt himself

growing at ease with the “strange doctor.”

“Thank you, that will do capitally,” said Mr. Guildford, as they

started off at a brisk pace. “But it doesn’t seem to me as cold

here as at Sothernbay, or is there a change in the weather?” he

added, glancing up at the sky, in which but few stars were visible.

“Bless you, sir! yes to be sure, there’s a thaw,” said the

servant eagerly; “it began this afternoon. We was all so glad,

thinking it might be better for little master. Shouldn’t you think

so, sir?” he asked with an anxiety in his voice that Mr. Guildford

could not understand.

“I have not heard who it is that is ill, my good fellow,” he said

kindly; “is ‘little master’ the patient? I am all in the dark,

you see; I know nothing except what was in the telegram you sent

off.”

“Of course not, sir, of course not,” exclaimed the man. “You

see, sir, we’ve been thinking of little else all these days, and it

seemed like as if every one must be the same. Yes, sir, it’s little

master, bless him! as is ill; it begun with the croup, he’s had

that many a time; many a night Miss Cicely has called me up to fetch

the old doctor—there’s a bell rings into my room on

purpose,—but this time it’s turned to worse. I can’t exactly

say what it is. Miss Cicely’s never closed a eye these three

nights, Mrs. Moore told me; I’m afraid he’s very bad. But now

you’ve come, and the break in the weather, he’ll pull through;

don’t you think so, sir?” he inquired wistfully, as if the

question of life or death hung upon the opinion it was utterly

impossible for Mr. Guildford to express.

“You forget, my good fellow,” said the doctor again, “you

forget I have not yet seen the poor little boy; but of one thing you

may be sure, I shall do my very best.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the groom fervently.

“Is Dr. Farmer still at the Abbey—was he there when you left?”

asked Mr. Guildford.

“Yes, sir, but I don’t think you’ll see him tonight; he was

quite wore out, poor old gentleman, and I heard Miss Cicely telling

him as I came away he must go to bed. He’s gettin’ on in years is

the old doctor.”

“Miss Cicely” again. A passing feeling of curiosity crossed Mr.

Guildford’s mind as to whom she could be. A maiden sister or aunt

perhaps of Colonel Methvyn’s, who managed his household and looked

after his children. The name suggested a quaint old-fashioned maiden

lady, and, so far, there had been no mention of a Mrs. Methvyn.

“Miss Cicely” was evidently the ruling spirit of Greystone Abbey.

But it was not Mr. Guildford’s habit to obtain in formation about

either people or things save from head-quarters, so he put no more

questions to his communicative companion. The road was now becoming

so bad that it took all the driver’s skill to avoid catastrophes.

“Do you never have any repairs done hereabouts?” inquired the

stranger; “this road is really sadly in want of looking after.”

“It isn’t no road at all, sir, by rights,” replied the servant,

when he had time to draw breath after the “joltiest bit” they had

yet passed, “it’s only a short cut to Haverstock. Haverstock

isn’t our station—not the Abbey station; by the highway,

Haverstock is good six mile from us. Our station is Greybridge, but

the fast trains don’t stop there, unless notice is given special;

and there’s no telegraphy at Greybridge. That’s how I had to

bring you such a rough way, sir; it saves four mile and more.”

“Ah! yes, I see,” said Mr. Guildford.

“We’re near home now, sir,” said the man, and the remaining few

minutes were passed in silence.

It was far too dark to distinguish anything plainly. Mr. Guildford

felt, rather than saw, when they turned off the road or lane into

enclosed grounds; the change from the jolting and jogging they had

been enduring for the last quarter of an hour to the smooth roll of a

well-kept gravel drive was very pleasant.

“We’re going in by the side way, sir,” said the groom, “I

left the gate open as I came out; it’s not often this way is used

now.”

A few minutes more and they drew up at the front entrance. A wide

porch, with deep stone seats at each side, lighted by a heavy

iron-bound lamp hanging from the roof, was all Mr. Guildford could

distinguish of the outside of Greystone Abbey, It looked more like

the entrance to an ancient church than to a modern dwelling house; it

was in keeping, however, with the associations of the name, and Mr.

Guildford’s perceptions were acute enough for him to infer from

what he saw that by daylight the old house must be picturesque and

quaintly beautiful.

The door was opened, almost before the servant had time to

ring,—anxious ears evidently were on the alert for the first sound

of carriage-wheels,—and two or three servants hurried forward. The

hall into which Mr. Guildford was ushered was a picture of comfort; a

great log fire blazed in the wide open grate, antlered heads threw

grotesque shadows on the wainscoted walls, there were furry fleecy

rugs under foot, armchairs and sofas, and little tables in every

corner; everything looked homelike and inviting, and seemed to tell

of happy gatherings and merry voices. And the pet and pride of the

house—the “little master”—upstairs dying! Little as the young

doctor knew of the Methvyns, a sort of chill seemed to strike through

him at the thought.

His arrival had been quickly announced, for almost immediately a door

at the opposite side of the hall opened, and a stout elderly person

in black silk, and with a general indescribable look of

responsibility and trustworthiness, came forward. She made a sort of

curtsey as she drew near the stranger, a salutation which said as

plainly as any words, “I am the housekeeper, if you please,” and

destroyed instantaneously a passing suspicion of Mr. Guildford’s

that “the managing spirit” of Greystone Abbey stood before him.

“I am so very glad you have come, sir,” said the housekeeper

respectfully; “it will be a great satisfaction. There are

refreshments, sir, in the library, but—if you are not very tired

and cold, perhaps—Miss Cicely is so very anxious to see you. Would

you take a glass of wine now, sir, and something else later?”

But Mr. Guildford declined everything of the kind for the present.

“I should much prefer seeing my patient at once,” he said

decidedly; “will you show me the way?”

“Certainly, sir,” she replied, looking relieved. “Miss Cicely

wished me to take you upstairs as soon as possible.”

Always “Miss Cicely.” She was becoming a sort of “Marquis de

Carabbas” to Mr. Guildford. No mention of the heads of the

household; to judge by appearances, Miss Cicely might be the owner as

well as the ruler of the whole place. So thought the new-comer, as he

followed the worthy Mrs. Moore out of the hall, down a long dimly

lighted passage, looking like enclosed cloisters from the vaulted

ceiling and succession of narrow sharp-pointed windows along one

side, widening at the end into a small square hall, round two sides

of which curved a broad shallow-stepped spiral stair case. Upstairs,

a long passage again, somewhat wider than the one below, with doors

at both sides; at one of these the housekeeper stopped, tapped

softly, but, receiving no answer, went in, beckoning to Mr. Guildford

to follow her. The room which he entered was small and plainly

furnished; it looked almost as if it had once been a schoolroom, but

its present contents were somewhat heterogeneous; the carpet was

nearly threadbare, the windows had no curtains, but there were two or

three good pictures on the walls, a beautiful stand of ferns, several

cages, whose little occupants had all retired for the night, each

carefully shaded by a curtain drawn round the wires; a glass, filled

with lovely flowers, on the table, a Skye terrier asleep on the

hearth rug, a bookcase full of books, of which some of the titles

would have surprised Mr. Guildford had he read them.

He had time for a certain amount of observation, for the housekeeper,

whispering to him a request to wait where he was for a minute, left

the room quickly by another door. It was still cold, notwithstanding

the thaw. Mr. Guildford instinctively turned towards the fire; the

Skye terrier, disturbed by his intrusion, peered up at him for a

moment through its shaggy hair with its bright beady eyes, growled

lazily, and went off to sleep again. So the stranger took up his

position on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, and looked about

him with some curiosity. There was a history in this little

room—the history not so much of a life, as of a character. But it

was not for many a long day that the man who entered it to-night for

the first time learnt to read it. There are many such histories that

are never read at all.

Still he was conscious vaguely of a certain impress of individuality

in the room—some body lived in it and loved all these things thus

much was visible at a glance. Perhaps “the marquise” was of the

genial order of old maids after all, neither managing nor

domineering! Mr. Guildford was smiling at his fancy when the

door—the second again. It was not Mrs. Moore returning. Who was it?

Could this be “Miss Cicely?”

A tall, fair girl in a crimson dress, with coils of hair that must be

sunny by daylight; with a pale, quiet face, and soft, grave eyes. She

stood for a moment in the doorway, the lamp-light falling full upon

her. Some pictures—a few in a lifetime only—take far less time

than our clumsy words can express to imprint themselves for ever on

the brain. This was one of them. Through all the chequered future,

through happy days and “days of cloudy weather,” in her presence

or absent from her, Edmond Guildford never forgot this first vision

of Cicely Methvyn, pale, grave Cicely, standing there for a fairy’s

moment, in her brilliant crimson dress.

The dress, not improbably, had something to do with the vividness of

the impression. Little as he was given to observing such matters, it

could not fail to strike him, both from its beauty and extreme

unsuitability to the girl’s present occupation. It was of velvet of

the richest and loveliest shade of damask red; there was exquisite

lace round the throat and wrists, and there was something quaint and

peculiar in the shape of the bodice. And to add to the effect, Miss

Methvyn wore a thick gold chain round her neck, from which hung a

very beautiful, very large, and evidently antique gold cross, which

shone out with a rich, dull lustre from its crimson background.

Mr. Guildford stood with his eyes fixed upon her for a moment in

absolute amazement. Afterwards he tried to define to himself his

exact impression of the young girl. Was she “pretty?” The word

seemed utterly unsuited to her. Was she beautiful? Hardly. He could

describe her by no words that satisfied his sense of correctness.

She was tall and fair—and then he stopped. She was neither graceful

nor dignified, or rather perhaps she was, strictly speaking, both.

Only the words did not seem to suit her, for they implied a suspicion

of self-consciousness, from which her bearing, her

expression—everything about her, was utterly and unmistakably free.

But just now he had hardly time to realise anything but surprise

before she came forward and spoke. She spoke rather slowly; it was

evidently her habit to do so, her voice was low but clear, and

perfectly calm.

“I am so very, very glad you have come,” she said. “It is

exceedingly kind of you to have come so quickly. Charlie—it is

Charlie that is so ill, did you know?” Mr. Guildford made a slight

gesture of assent. “He is in the next room. Will you come in and

see him? He is asleep.”

Mr. Guildford hesitated for a moment.

“Shall I not see Dr. Farmer first?” he said. “Is he here?”

“Oh! I was forgetting to tell you,” she said. “No, Dr. Farmer

has gone home. I made him go, and promised to send for him if you did

not come. He lives only a mile away. He was so knocked up, I really

begged him to go. He left this note for you, and he said he was sure

I could tell you everything.”

She drew a letter out of her pocket as she spoke and gave it to Mr.

Guildford. As he read it, his face grew graver. She, watching him,

observed this.

“I think Charlie is better than when Dr. Farmer left,” she said.

“He is less restless. I asked him how he was just before he went go

to sleep, and he answered me quite distinctly, and his voice sounded

much more like itself.”

“How did he say he felt?” asked Mr. Guildford, stopping for a

moment as he was going to follow Miss Methvyn.

“He said he was sleepy,” she replied. “I asked him if he felt

very ‘sore,’ that is his word for ‘ill,’” she explained

with a faint little smile, “and he said, ‘Not so wenny bad,

Cissy,’ He calls me ‘Cissy.’”

“Ah!” said Mr. Guildford. Then they went into the room, and

Cicely led the stranger to the child’s bedside.

He lay there, propped up with pillows to ease his laboured breathing.

He was sleeping, the girl had said, but, ah! what a different sleep

from the rosy, easy rest of healthy infancy! It was very

pitiful—terribly pitiful. Mr. Guildford looked at the child

steadily for some moments. Then he turned to the young lady.

“Dr. Farmer has told me all that has been done,” he said.

“Everything has been tried, I see. I should like to watch the

little fellow for the next hour or two. I hear you have been up for

two or three nights. Will you not go to bed now and let me, who am

quite fresh, take my turn?”

For the first time there was a slight quiver in the pale young face

as she looked up at Mr. Guildford.

“Won’t you tell me first what you think of him?” she said. “I

have been so anxious to hear your opinion.”

Mr. Guildford turned away with a very, very slight gesture of

impatience. He was beginning to be very sorry for Miss Methvyn, but

he felt the position an uncomfortable one. He was by no means sure

that it would be right to express his real opinion to this girl, so

young and apparently so lonely. He wished Dr. Farmer had stayed; or

at least that he could see the heads of the house, the child’s

parents.

“I don’t think you should ask me for my opinion just yet,” he

said somewhat brusquely. “If you will leave me here to watch him, I

shall soon be able to judge better. Shall I not see your parents?

Your father, perhaps I should say? I should like to speak to him

about your little brother.”

“He is not my brother,” she answered quietly. “He is my nephew,

my only sister’s child. My father is a chronic invalid and suffers

a great deal, and my mother is constantly with him. That is why it is

impossible for her to nurse Charlie. He is my especial charge; my

sister left him in my care when she went to India some months ago. I

fancied you understood or I would have explained this before.”

She spoke very gently, almost apologetically. But to Mr. Guildford it

sounded like a reproach.

“I should not have given you the trouble of explaining anything,”

he said quickly. “But will you not do as I proposed? Will you not

take a little rest for an hour or two? I shall stay till the morning.

I arranged to do so before I left home.”

Just then Mrs. Moore, who had left the room before they entered it,

came back again. She heard what Mr. Guildford was urging upon Cicely.

“Oh! do, Miss Cicely,” she said earnestly. “You will be quite

knocked up soon, and what would Master Charlie do then?”

“If he wakes and I am not beside him, he will be so frightened,”

said the girl.

“I promise to send for you the moment he wakes—or—or in case of

any change.” said Mr. Guildford.

So at last she gave in. Could Mr. Guildford have realised the agony

her submission was costing her, he would hardly have had the heart to

enforce it, though his motives were of the best. But how was he, a

perfect stranger, seeing her for the first time, to pierce below the

quiet exterior that puzzled many who had known her for years? She

stooped and kissed the little pale drawn face, and repeating,

“You will promise to call me?” went softly out of the room.

Mr. Guildford had no intention of deceiving her. His fears were

great, but so far, he perceived a chance—a faint chance of their

not being realised, and he had no belief in the wisdom of preparing

oneself or others for the worst by crushing prematurely the last

little blossom of hope which may serve its purpose by cheering hours

of otherwise unendurable anguish. But as the night went on, his own

hopes faded slowly. He did the little that was possible to alleviate

the suffering, more painful, it is to be trusted, at this last sad

stage, to witness than to endure; but long before the morning dawned,

it became evident that the little life was ebbing away. There was no

fear of Charlie waking to miss his young aunt; the short journey

through the dark valley was all but over; Charlie’s waking would be

in the bright country “beyond the sun.”

“I think you had better call Miss Methvyn. I promised to send for

her if there was any change,” said Mr. Guildford to the

housekeeper, who had remained with him. There was no need to tell her

what the only change would be now. But almost before he had finished

speaking the door opened swiftly, and Cicely, still in her beautiful

dress, stood again by the bed side.

“I could not stay away any longer. I tried to sleep, but,” she

was beginning; but the words died upon her lips. “Oh! he is not

better, he is worse,” she exclaimed, catching sight of the

baby-face, and reading in Mr. Guildford’s quiet sadness the

confirmation of her terror. “Oh! my darling, my dear, dear little

Charlie.”

The anguish of her tone was unmistakable; still, by a supreme effort

of self-control, she forced herself to speak quietly. “Will he not

know me when he wakes?” she whispered to Mr. Guildford.

“He will never wake to consciousness again; all his suffering is

over,” said Mr. Guildford very gently, but Cicely interrupted him

with a faint cry. “What is that? He has never looked like that. Oh!

is that dying?” she sobbed—a slight convulsion had momentarily

distorted the exhausted little frame.

“It does not hurt him, he feels no pain. It is far sadder for you

than for him,” said Mr. Guildford, wishing he could spare her this

ordeal.

But it was not protracted; soon, very soon there was no little

Charlie lying there; only the deserted dwelling in which his innocent

spirit had sojourned for four short years.

Then the young girl could no longer restrain her grief. The incentive

to self-control was gone, the unnatural strain broken at last. She

was weakened by her days and nights of watching, and such sorrow as

this was new to her. She laid her head down on the pillow beside the

still white face of the child she had loved so dearly, and cried as

if literally her heart was breaking. She was not a girl who cried

often or easily, and to such natures extreme emotion from its very

rarity is terribly prostrating. Mrs. Moore took the commonplace view

of the matter.

“I never saw Miss Cicely like this,” she said, “but it is

better she should cry. It will do her good in the end; will it not,

sir?”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Guildford. “If she seldom

cries, she will be sadly exhausted by this. There is a good deal of

nonsense talked about tears. To some natures they are like drops of

blood.”

He made one or two efforts to persuade her to come away, but for some

time it was useless.

“Oh! do let me stay here a little,” she prayed. “There is no

need to tell any one yet. There is nothing to do. I must not cry

to-morrow, for it would distress my father and mother; but do leave

me for tonight. And, oh! to-morrow, I must write and tell Amy. Oh!

how can I? Her little Charlie that I was to take care of till she

came back. And now I can never do anything for him again. I even put

on this dress to please him this morning, or was it yesterday

morning?” she said confusedly, lifting her head suddenly and

looking up in Mr. Guildford’s face with an almost wild expression

in her blue eyes. “He was so fond of it, he called it my picture

frock. I shall never, never put it on again. I should like never to

see it again. Oh, Charlie!”

Then she buried her face in the pillow, and her whole figure shook

convulsively. Mrs. Moore looked at Mr. Guildford in despair.

Suddenly an idea struck her.

“Miss Cicely, my dear,” she said, “I am very sorry to disturb

you, but I think you are forgetting that Mr. Guildford must be very

tired. He came from Sothernbay in a hurry, you know, and has been up

all night and has had nothing to eat. And it is nearly morning now.”

A faint streak of dawn was creeping in at the window—the cold

ghastly dawn of a rainy February morning. Cicely sat up, but shivered

as she saw it. This time yesterday she had been glad to see the

daylight, for the night had been long and trying, and Charlie had

wished many times “morning would come.” Oh! how dreadful these

trifling associations sometimes are. “This time yesterday” our

darling was still here; “this day last week,” bright and full of

life perhaps; “this time last year,”—ah! what bitter changes

since then;—to the young, the first tear-stained entries in

life’s calendar seem to dim all the leaves of the book, even the

white blank sheets of the future; to the old, the gentle, merciful

haze of distance mellows and softens the darkness of even the darkest

pages.

But Cicely was young, not old, and today the sight of the cold,

careless daylight returning again, “as if nothing were the

matter,” was strange and repulsive. She shivered, and for a moment

covered her face with her hands. But the old servant had touched the

right chord. When Miss Methvyn spoke again, it was in quite a

different tone.

“I have been very selfish,” she said with a sort of simple

dignity, “very selfish and thoughtless. Mr. Guildford, you must for

give me.”

Then she stood up and was moving away, when a thought struck her, and

she turned back.

“I have not thanked you,” she said, looking up at Mr. Guildford

and holding out her hand. “Good-bye, and thank you very much. It

will always be a comfort to us that you came so quickly, otherwise we

might have thought that something else might have been done.”

Her lips quivered again, in spite of her effort to be calm. She

turned quickly, and stooping over the bedside, once more kissed the

little face and then hurried away.

An hour later, when the grey dreary dawn was growing into dull

daylight, Mr. Guildford was driven away again—to Greybridge Station

this time. The same young groom drove as on the night before, but he

was very silent this morning, and his eyes looked as if he had been

crying all night.

“Little Master” had left some sore hearts behind him.

CHAPTER IV.

A SECOND SUMMONS.

“Se non e vero, e ben trovato.”

Italian Saying.

“All the land. . . . Smelt of the coming summer, as one large

cloud Drew downward; but all else of heaven was pure Up to the sun,

and May from verge to verge, And May with me from head to heel.”

The Gardener’s Daughter.

A FEW weeks past, and with the exception of a note from old Dr.

Farmer, thanking him in Colonel Methvyn’s name for his readiness in

obeying the summons, Mr. Guildford heard no more of the family at

Greystone. Sometimes he could almost have fancied the whole

occurrence a dream.

The weather grew steadily milder: some of the Sothernbay invalids

began to talk of going home; others improved enough to be a good deal

cheerier than they had been; a few, too far gone to be recalled by

even the balmiest air and brightest sun shine, died. Mr. Guildford

was used to sad sights, yet not so used to them as to be insensible

to the ever-varying individual sadness of each; but among the many

phases of sorrow and suffering he had witnessed during this last

winter, no scene had left a stronger impression upon him than that of

the death of the little boy at Greystone Abbey. He had come upon it

so suddenly and unexpectedly; it seemed peculiarly sad that the

little fellow was so far away from his parents, that weeks must pass

before they could even know of their loss. He could not forget the

anguish in the young aunt’s voice when she had exclaimed,

“to-morrow, oh! to-morrow, I must write to tell Amy.” He often

thought about her, and always with pity and interest. But few things

seemed more unlikely than his ever learning more of Miss Methvyn or

her family.

Two months after the February night of his fruitless journey to

Haverstock, Mr. Guildford was surprised at receiving another letter

from old Dr. Farmer, expressing a great wish to see him on as early a

day as he could conveniently name. Dr. Farmer wrote of himself as in

bad health, and on the eve of leaving home for some months. He

offered to meet Mr. Guildford at Sothernbay if necessary, but at the

same time showed plainly that he would be glad to be spared the

journey. Mr. Guildford was not very busy, the “slack season” for

Sothernbay was beginning; he wrote therefore to Dr. Farmer expressing

his readiness to meet him at the old doctor’s own house at

Greybridge, wondering a little as he did so what he could be wanted

for this time, and feeling some curiosity as to whether the summons

was again connected with the family at Greystone Abbey.

It proved to be so.

“Bessie,” said Mr. Guildford to his sister the evening after he

had been over at Greybridge to see Dr. Farmer, “you are always

wanting me to have a change. I am thinking of arranging to have one

every week.”

“What do you mean, Edmond?” said Mrs. Crichton. “A change that

came every week wouldn’t be a change. You might as well say Sunday

was a change.”

“So it is—to me at least. That is to say, when I can go to

church. I like going to church very much. One can think so

comfortably, with such perfect security from interruption; that’s a

very pleasant change to me,” said Mr. Guildford.

“Is that all you go to church for?” said Bessie with mild

reproach. “And you used to be such a good little boy! I remember

the first time you went to church, how still you sat, and how

everybody praised you when we came out.”

“Well, I don’t jump about now, do I?” said Mr. Guildford. “I

don’t see why I should never be praised now as well as when I was a

little boy. Why don’t you praise me, Bessie? It’s very nice to be

praised; and it’s far harder to be good when one’s big than when

one’s little. You should remember that, Bessie, and encourage me

sometimes. You know I do everything you tell me, don’t I?”

But Mrs. Crichton knitted on perseveringly, counting the stitches in

a low voice, and taking no notice of her brother’s remarks. She

was not fond of being made fun of, and when Edmond talked in this

half-lazy, half-bantering way, she waxed suspicious.

“One, two, three, four, take two together,” she murmured.

“These socks are for you, Edmond,” she observed, in a “coals

of-fire-on-your-head” tone.

“Are they? It’s very good of you to make them for me, but I hope

they are not of that prickly wool, Bessie. Some you knitted for me,

made me feel as if little needles were running into my feet. Did you

knit my socks for me when I was a little boy? If you did, I expect

they were of soft wool then; weren’t they?”

Mrs. Crichton tried to go on knitting gravely, but her brother,

standing behind her, managed to give every now and then judicious

little jogs to her elbows, which much interfered with the progress of

the socks. At first, Mrs. Crichton thought the jogs were accidental,

and bore them philosophically enough, with a “Take care, Edmond,”

or, “Please don’t shake my chair.” But a more energetic jog

than usual exhausted her patience.

“Edmond, you are really too bad,” she exclaimed, “I believe you

are shaking me on purpose. Just look now, I have dropped two

stitches! What is the matter with you, you great, idle boy? Who would

think you were a learned man, a solemn, wise doctor?”

She let her knitting fall on her lap, and turning round her pleasant

face, looked up at him with fond pride shining out of her eyes. She

was only ten years his senior, but her affection for him was almost

motherly—she had been the only mother he had known, and no child of

her own had ever interfered with her love for her early orphaned

little brother.

“What are you looking at me for, Bessie?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you are handsome. I mean if any one else would

think you so,” she said naïvely.

Mr. Guildford laughed. “I don’t suppose anybody but you ever

thought about it,” he said carelessly.

“Your wife will,” said Bessie. And as she said so, she thought to

herself that this shadowy personage would be hard to please were she

other than proud of her husband. The bare possibility of her not

being so, gave Bessie a momentary grudge at her imaginary

sister-in-law. Yet Mr. Guildford was not handsome, not even

interestingly ugly, which often serves the purpose just as well. He

was well made and well proportioned; he was neither very tall nor

very short, he had no striking peculiarity of appearance of any kind.

But the grave face could look sunny enough sometimes, the keen grey

eyes could soften into sympathy and tenderness, the dark brown hair

seemed still to have some of the brightness of boyhood about it—he

looked like a man for whom the best things of life were yet to come;

whose full powers were fresh and unexhausted. There was plenty of

strength in the face; strength which the future might possibly harden

into inflexibility; strength which already faintly threatened to

destroy some of the finer touches of the young man’s character, by

concentrating itself into too narrow a channel, too great

independence of external sympathy.

“Leave off knitting for a minute or two, Bessie,” said Mr.

Guildford. “I want to tell you of rather an unusual proposal I have

had made to me to-day. Do you know where I have been, by the bye?”

“Of course not. You never tell me where you are going, and you

don’t suppose I ask Sims, do you?” said Mrs. Crichton virtuously.

“Where have you been?”

“Do you remember my being sent for a few weeks ago by a family I

had never heard of—a family living near Haverstock?” inquired her

brother.

“Where the little boy died?” said Bessie, with more interest.

“Oh! yes, I remember. Have they sent for you again?”

“Not exactly. But I have been asked if I would undertake to visit

there regularly for the next few months. The father—Colonel

Methvyn—is an invalid, and this old Dr. Farmer, who has looked

after him for years, is going away for some months; he is ill

himself, and is anxious to make some comfortable arrangement for

Colonel Methvyn. So he thought of me, knowing the summer was not my

busy time. I shall have to go to Greystone, once a week, for some

months to come. Don’t you think it will be a nice change for me,

Bessie? perhaps they will ask me to stay to dinner sometimes.”

Mrs. Crichton looked up doubtfully.

“Are you in fun, Edmond?” she asked. “I should not have thought

it the sort of thing you would like to undertake. You like to be so

independent, and I dare say this Colonel Methvyn is a disagreeable,

stuck-up old man, who would quite look down upon a Sothernbay

doctor.”

“I don’t care. If he does what I tell him, I’m quite willing to

do my best for him. If he doesn’t, I should give it up,” said Mr.

Guildford carelessly. “Still you are right, Bessie, in a sense. It

isn’t the sort of thing I generally care about at all. I don’t

quite know what made me agree to it.”

His face grew graver; he seemed to be revolving some question in his

own mind. “It will be nice to be forced into the country every week

during the summer,” he said lightly. “I fancy that was partly the

reason I undertook it. I don’t fancy Colonel Methvyn is what you

call a ‘stuck-up’ old man. He really suffers a great deal, Farmer

tells me, and bears it very well. He was a strong, active man not

many years ago, but he had a very bad fall in the hunting-field, and

has never recovered it, and never will. He doesn’t require much

doctoring, but Mrs. Methvyn gets nervous about him, and so on the

whole it is better that some one should see him regularly. Farmer

says it seems to cheer him too. He takes great interest in all that

is going on. Till this year he has been well enough to go to town for

two or three months with his wife and daughter; but he seems to have

failed lately—the little boy’s death affected him a good deal.”

“Was the little boy his son?” asked Bessie.

“Oh! no; his grandson. So you won’t mind my leaving you once a

week, Bessie, for an evening? Sometimes I may have to stay all night

if I go by the late train.”

“It won’t matter much to me, Edmond,” said Mrs. Crichton

regretfully. “I must really go home in a fortnight. I dare say it

will be a good thing for you to leave Sothernbay for a little, if it

is only for a few hours. You know I am always telling you, Edmond,

that you will grow into an old bachelor before you know what you are

about. You never see any one but your patients. I believe it is years

since you have gone out to dinner even. I shall be very glad for you

to make acquaintance with some people out of Sothernbay if they treat

you properly.”

“I shall not require and I don’t intend to ‘make

acquaintance’ with any of the family except my patient, Colonel

Methvyn,” said Mr. Guildford with slight haughtiness, half

repenting his unusual communicativeness to his sister. “I am the

last man on earth to make a social stepping-stone of my profession,

or to wish to have any relations except professional ones with people

out of my own sphere. You might know that, Bessie, I should think.”

Mrs. Crichton looked hurt. “You need not take me up so, Edmond,”

she said rather pettishly. “I don’t understand what you mean

about sociable stepping-stones; you use such odd expressions. As for

people being out of your own sphere, I know what that means, but I

think you are very foolish. You don’t mean to say that you

haven’t every right to call yourself a gentleman? You will be

saying next I am not a lady.”

“‘Gentleman and lady’ are wide words nowadays,” began Mr.

Guildford teasingly, but seeing that his sister looked really

annoyed, he changed his tone. “Don’t be vexed, Bessie,” he said

coaxingly; “I think I am pretty reasonable on these points really.

I am afraid it is true that I am growing rather bearish. I wish you

would come and live with me altogether and civilize me.”

“I can’t dear, you know I can’t,” replied Bessie, mollified

instantly. “You know I promised Mr. Crichton that I would live at

Hazel Bank most of the year and keep everything as he liked it, and

it’s only right, (when you remember how very handsomely he provided

for me), that his sisters should have the pleasure of coming there

often.”

“Yes, I know. You’re quite right,” said Edmond. Then he fell

into a brown study for some minutes. He was lying on the sofa with

his hands clasped above his head. “How like he is just now to what

he was when he was a boy!” thought Bessie as she glanced at him.

Suddenly he spoke.

“I shall be driven to marry, I believe,” he said. “It’s so

uncomfortable when you go away, Bessie. I like the feeling of a woman

about the house, I think. I believe you come and go on purpose to

make me miss you. I can’t think why you want me to marry. Most

sisters would set themselves against it.”

“It’s very silly of them then,” said Bessie sagely. “If you

marry somebody nice, and I don’t think you would marry anybody not

nice, I should be far more comfortable about you.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Mr. Guildford. And then he took up a

book, and Mrs. Crichton’s attention was again absorbed in her

knitting.

A few days later Mr. Guildford paid his second visit to Greystone

Abbey. He had intended going there early in the day, but found it

impossible to do so. It was not till between five and six in the

afternoon that he found himself getting out of the train at

Greybridge station.

Colonel Methvyn’s carriage was to meet him by this train—had he

come by an earlier one, he intended to have walked to the Abbey—but

it had not yet made its appearance. Mr. Guildford set off along the

road to meet it.

It was spring now, late spring, all but May. After the severe winter,

spring had come with even more than its usual sweetness and radiance.

April seemed eager to welcome May; there was a glow and promise

everywhere; a sound of cheery bustle and preparation among the

leaves, a whisper of rejoicing in the “sweet breathing of the

fields,” in the “kisses of the daisies.” For once in a way Mr.

Guildford yielded to the soft sensuous enjoyment of the moment; he

strolled along the pretty country road where the dear primroses were

nestling in the hedges, and the coyer violets too, all but hidden in

their leaves; he listened, dreamily to the pretty country sounds, the

ever-distant plaintive “cuck-coo,” the near at-hand homely

clucking of a matronly hen and her brood, the barking of dogs, the

creaking of a mill-wheel, the voices of little children at play, all

mingled into a pleasant whole of living, peaceful happiness. For once

in a way, the young man yielded to the impression that sometimes in

the pauses of a busy life, we are tempted to accept as the

interpretation of the dream, that after all the world is a happy

place, that life is a good and pleasant thing, that to enjoy and not

to suffer is the rule! And a new sort of hopefulness and expectation

seemed to thrill through his whole being. Ever afterwards that

evening stroll—that bit of commonplace country road—seemed to him

to have been an actual realisation of the spirit of the spring; to

have contained a breath of the very essence of youth and hope and

promise. He did not ask himself why these feelings seemed so suddenly

strong within him; he fancied it only the influence of the fresh,

pure air, and pleasant sights and sounds. He would not have owned to

himself, he did not even suspect the curious eagerness, the more than

interest with which he had for some days looked forward to his visit

to Greystone Abbey. He did not know till the light of the future

shone back upon the past how already a sweet, grave woman’s face

had begun to change the world to him, to infuse fresh meaning into

the flowers and the sunshine, to set to new music the songs of the

birds.

Before he had reached the bend where the road, hitherto little more

than lane, grew into wider, unshaded highway, Colonel Methvyn’s

carriage met him. It was a phaeton this time, and the driver was not

Mr. Guildford’s old acquaintance.

The drive in the pleasant evening air along the smooth, well-kept

high-road, was very different from his last approach to Greystone,

and when they reached the Abbey, by a different entrance from the

gate on the Haverstock Road, Mr. Guildford hardly recognised the

place as the same. It was picturesque certainly, as he had expected,

but more homely, less imposing, and venerable than his imagination,

from the little he had seen of it, had unconsciously pictured it. The

hall, which was as lofty as the two stories of the rest of the house,

and the wide porch with its quaint stone seats, were the only remains

of the original building; the rest had been added at various later

dates, some half-ruined walls and outbuildings having been restored

and taken into the plan of the house. The walls, both new and old

however, were well grown over with ivy, so that no incongruity was

visible at first sight, and the effect of the whole was harmonious

and pleasing.

Inside, the hall looked scarcely less attractive in the softly fading

light of the April evening, than when Mr. Guildford had last seen it

in the ruddy blaze of the great log fire. But the servant who had

opened the door led him quickly across the long passage he

remembered, into a smaller hall with a wide low window at one end,

and doors at two sides, one of which he opened and ushered the

new-comer into a sort of half-library, half-morning room. It was a

pretty room, long and low, with windows down to the ground, opening

into a little flower-garden, gay already with crocuses and tulips.

Mr. Guildford, seeing no one, crossed the room and stood looking out

at the flower-beds. But in a moment a faint rustle at the other end

of the library told him that he had been mistaken in imagining it

unoccupied; in the furthest off corner a lady was sitting at a little

table writing. Apparently she had not heard him come in, but now she

looked up suddenly and saw him. For a quarter of an instant, before

he was conscious of anything but a slight figure in a grey dress, Mr.

Guildford imagined the face, when it looked up, would be Miss

Methvyn’s. But he was quickly undeceived. Half mechanically he had

made a step or two forward, and seeing this the lady rose from her

seat and did the same; then stood before him with a pretty sort of

bewilderment.

“I beg your pardon,” he began, resorting to the Englishman’s

invariable relief in awkward positions. “I quite thought you were

Miss Methvyn. I did not see any one in the room when I came in.”

Long before he had finished the sentence, he had acknowledged to

himself that the person before him was the loveliest girl he had ever

seen. She was not tall; perhaps her extreme gracefulness made her

appear smaller than she really was, or rather made one forget to

think about her height at all. She was very simply dressed; but it

was a simplicity productive of great results. No dress could have

shown her figure to more advantage than the soft slate coloured stuff

on the plain make of which apparently no thought had been bestowed;

no colour could have better contrasted with the clear, marble-like

complexion, rich dark hair and softly brilliant eyes, than this

unobtrusive neutral tint; and when, looking up in response to Mr.

Guildford’s slightly clumsy apology, the bright colour rose in her

cheeks, the effect was complete.

“I am so sorry,” she said very timidly. “I did not know that

any one would be coming. I fear I am in the way. Miss Methvyn perhaps

does not know that Monsieur is—that you are here. Can I tell her?”

She spoke with a sort of appealing childishness, and her foreign

accent was quite perceptible. “Who can she be?” was Mr.

Guildford’s first thought. And “She evidently does not know who I

am,” was his second.

“Oh! no, thank you. I should apologise for disturbing you,” he

began. “It is not Miss Methvyn I have come to see,” he went on,

feeling himself somehow stiff and awkward. “I am waiting to see

Colonel Methvyn. I have come from Sothernbay,—instead of Dr.

Farmer,” he added, seeing she still looked perplexed.

“Doctore Farmère,” she repeated. Then a light seemed to break

upon her. “Ah! but I am stupid;” she exclaimed, a merry smile

dimpling over her face. “You are then Monsieur the doctor! I did

not know. All is still strange to me. There are so few days since I

left the house—the home! And here in England all is so different.

No longer the dear mamma to direct me. I fear monsieur will have

thought me strange, unpolite—to have interrupted him.”

Again the vivid red dyed her cheeks, and at the mention of “the

dear mamma,” tears, real tears stood in her eyes.

“Poor little thing; what a mere child she is!” thought Mr.

Guildford. But aloud he only said kindly, “I think,

mademoiselle,” (the word came instinctively) “it was I, not you,

that was guilty of interrupting. Pray do not—”

But at that moment the door, near to which they were standing,

opened, and Cicely came in. They both turned. When she saw them, a

slight, the very slightest expression of surprise crossed Miss

Methvyn’s face, but she came forward quickly, and shook hands with

Mr. Guildford without a moment’s hesitation.

“I fear I have kept you waiting,” she said simply; “my father

wished me to take you to see him, as—as I have seen you before—a

new face makes him a little nervous sometimes—and I had one or two

letters to finish for the post.”

Mr. Guildford looked at her as she spoke. Yes, there was the same

fair, grave face, looking fairer and graver even from the effect of

the heavy black mourning dress, the same quiet eyes looking straight

up into his as she spoke, the same thick coils of hair with golden

lights upon it now, as she stood with the evening sun full upon her.

The same, yet different. She seemed older than when he had seen her

before; he could almost have fancied his former impression of her

girlishness of face and manner to have been mistaken. There was

perfect self possession now in every tone and look. Mr. Guildford

felt it to be in a sense infectious. He answered in the same

matter-of-fact, business-like way.

“Thank you. I am quite ready to see Colonel Methvyn whenever it

suits you. At the same time it is not of the least consequence to me

if I wait a little. I arranged to return by a late train, as I was

not able to come early.”

“I am glad of that. It was very considerate of you to arrange that

your first visit should not be a hurried one,” said Miss Methvyn

with the slightly formal courtesy of manner that Mr. Guildford began

to understand as being habitual with her. Then turning to the young

lady in the grey dress, who still stood with an air of half

hesitation beside them, “Geneviève, are your letters ready? It is

very nearly post time, dear.”

She spoke kindly, but with the tone of an older person to one many

years younger. And there was a pretty air of half apology in the

French girl’s reply.

“Oh! thank you. I go to finish them at once. It was only that I was

not quite sure if monsieur,” with a glance in Mr. Guildford’s

direction, “if this gentleman had been announced. I was going to

seek you, my cousin.”

Cicely smiled. She fancied Geneviève had started up in affright, at

finding herself tête-à-tête with the stranger. She knew that her

cousin had been brought up very secludedly; perhaps, too, she

unconsciously associated the idea of almost conventual restraint with

every French girl’s education, and she was prepared to make full

allowance for Geneviève’s inexperience, and timidity.

“You must let me introduce you to each other, I think,” said Miss

Methvyn. “Geneviève, this is Mr. Guildford, who has kindly agreed

to come all the way from Sothernbay to see my father in Dr.

Farmer’s absence. My cousin, Miss Casalis,” she continued,

turning to Mr. Guildford, “has come a very long way to see all of

us. We intend to make her very fond of England to turn her into an

Englishwoman, don’t we, Geneviève?”

Geneviève smiled sweetly, but rather sadly.

“You are very good for me, my cousin,” she said, “but one must

love one’s country, one’s home—le foyer paternel,—above all

when one has quitted them for the first time,” and she sighed

gently.

It was curious how very French she had become since finding herself

in England.

Cicely looked at her kindly. “Of course,” she said cheerfully,

“of course, you must feel a little home-sick at first.”

Mr. Guildford said nothing, but he fancied Miss Methvyn treated the

matter rather cavalierly. An English girl’s sentimentality would

have annoyed him, but this poor little thing!—He really pitied her.

“I think my father is expecting us,” said Miss Methvyn, turning

to Mr. Guildford. Then she led the way out of the room, across the

hall, down the long passage, and up one flight of stairs, the young

man following her.

“Is Colonel Methvyn pretty well today?” he inquired, as they went

along. “I mean, is this what you consider one of his good days?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Cicely consideringly, stopping for a

moment as she spoke. “He has been better this last week or two on

the whole. Last month,” her voice faltered a very little, and for

an instant she hesitated; “last month he was very far from well. My

little nephew’s death was a great shock to him. He will probably

speak about it to you. I wanted to tell you so. It was a comfort to

him—to us all—that you saw Charlie. I gathered from what Dr.

Farmer told me that you thought him constitutionally a very delicate

child.”

She looked up with a wistful inquiry in her eyes, somewhat at

variance with her perfectly calm tone of voice. Mr. Guildford

understood her.

“I did think so,” he said without hesitation. “I believe him to

have been an exceedingly fragile child. I have no hesitation in

saying that his living to grow up would have been little short of a

miracle. And I am equally sure that the greatest care must have been

taken of him to rear him even so far.”

Miss Methvyn was silent for a moment.

“Thank you for telling me this,” she said at last quietly. “I

am sure it is true. You will say so to my father, if he comes upon

the subject? Invalids, you know,” she went on hurriedly, “are apt

to become morbid about anything they think too much about. My father

could not for long feel satisfied that everything had been done. It

was natural; but,” she paused for a little, “but one must try not

to judge by results,” she said at last, as she opened the door of

her father’s sitting-room.

Colonel Methvyn half lay, half sat on a sort of couch so constructed

as to afford him the greatest possible ease and variety of posture.

On a low chair beside him sat his wife, a fair, somewhat careworn,

but still handsome woman, who must, once upon a time, have been

beautiful. More beautiful, strictly speaking than her daughter,

thought Mr. Guildford, as he glanced at them for a moment as they

stood together, Mrs. Methvyn having risen as Cicely and the stranger

entered. For the resemblance was strong enough to admit of, if not to

provoke, comparison. There was more colour and contrast about the

mother; her hair and eyes were some shades darker, her complexion had

evidently been more brilliant, her expression was more changeful. She

looked many years younger than her husband, though in reality he was

only ten years her senior; her manner to him was full of anxious

devotion, he was evidently her first thought.

Colonel Methvyn greeted Mr. Guildford cordially but nervously; Mrs.

Methvyn made some commonplace remark about the weather with the

evident object of setting the stranger at his ease, her kindly

intention being, however, to some extent defeated by the scarcely

veiled anxiety with which she watched to see if the impression made

by the stranger upon her husband was to be a favourable one. It was

altogether a little stiff and uncomfortable. Miss Methvyn came to the

rescue.

“Mother,” she said gently, “Geneviève is just finishing her

letter, and you said you had a little bit to put in. There is not

much time.”

Mrs. Methvyn looked at her husband irresolutely; a quick glance

passed between her daughter and Mr. Guildford. “You don’t mind

mother leaving you, do you, papa?” said Cicely.

“Not for a few minutes. You will come back in a few minutes,

Helen?” said the invalid.

Cicely was on the alert to take advantage of the permission, and

passing her arm through her mother’s, they left the room together.

“He seems a sensible sort of young man,” said Mrs. Methvyn to her

daughter, when they were out of hearing. “I do hope your father

will take to him.”

“The only way is to leave them alone,” said Cicely. “I do hope

papa will like him for more reasons than one. It will be a relief to

you, poor mother, if he takes a fancy to Mr. Guildford—even two or

three hours change will do you good.”

“Don’t say that, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn hastily. “I am not

happy away from him. I always fancy he must be wanting me. And the

most I can do seems nothing, as I have often told you, when I look

back upon the past and think of all his goodness. And he is so

patient! But do you know, Cicely, I don’t think your father’s

spirits are as good as they were, though I can’t see that his

health is worse.”

“Do you mean since Charlie’s death?” said Cicely quietly.

“No, not only that. It almost seems to me as if some new anxiety

were on his mind,” answered Mrs. Methvyn. “He talks so much about

you and your future.”

“But there is nothing to be anxious about in that?” exclaimed

Cicely in surprise. “It is all settled as he wished.”

“Yes, but he has begun lately to say he wishes he could see you

settled—he seems to dread anything coming in the way. When Trevor

comes home again, I half expect something more definite may be

proposed.”

“Do you mean that papa would prefer our engagement being more

generally known?” inquired Cicely. “I don’t mind. It was

papa’s own wish, you know, that it should not be formally

announced, because it was likely to be a long one. But I am sure

neither Trevor nor I would object to its being known if it would

please papa. Of course that would make no difference about its

length. It must be a long one.”

“I don’t know, dear. Sometimes I think it would be better not to

delay it so long,” said Mrs. Methvyn with some hesitation.

They were in the large hall by now. Mrs. Methvyn had sat down on one

of the sofas, Cicely standing near. As her mother spoke, she knelt

down on the floor beside her, and looked up earnestly in her face.

“Mamma, that could not be. Oh! don’t let it be proposed,” she

said. “I could not marry Trevor if it were to take me away from you

and papa while I know you want me? What would you do without me? Oh!

no, no; you must not talk of sending me away from you for a long

time. Not at least till Amiel comes home again.”

“But, dear, we must consider the Fawcetts’ wishes—Trevor’s

own wishes—as well as ours,” said Mrs. Methvyn.

“Trevor doesn’t mind waiting,” said Cicely naïvely. “I

don’t think he is in any hurry to be married. We understand each

other perfectly. But I don’t quite understand you, mamma. I don’t

believe you have told me all that is in your mind. You first said it

was my father who wanted to see me married, and then you jumped off

to the other side and said it was Trevor. I believe the truth is, you

want to get rid of me.”

She spoke playfully, but with a slight plaintiveness.

“My darling, what nonsense!” exclaimed her mother. “What we

should do without you I cannot even think. But I am not inconsistent.

What I mean is that I can see your father sometimes of late has begun

to fear the Fawcetts may not like the long delay. Frederica said

something of the kind before him one day.”

“She didn’t mean it. She often speaks at random. In reality, she

is very well pleased to defer the day when her son shall be hers no

longer,” said Cicely lightly.

Just then the hall clock struck.

“Geneviève’s letter, mamma,” exclaimed Miss Methvyn. “She is

in the library.”

“I will go at once,” said her mother, rising as she spoke.

“Poor Geneviève how she must feel leaving her home. I hope she

will be happy with us, Cicely. She seems so sweet and gentle, and is

so very pretty.”

“Yes, she is lovely, very lovely,” said Cicely thoughtfully,

“and I hope she will be happy here. Mamma,” with a change of

tone, “you will have to ask Mr. Guildford to stay to dinner.”

Mrs. Methvyn hurried away to write the letter she wished Geneviève

to enclose. But it was too late. She was obliged to defer it till the

next day, and there was only time for Geneviève to add a word to

this effect before the post-bag had to be closed.

CHAPTER V.

“COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD.”

“Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead,

is all her seamen know; And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say,”

A. H. Clough.

ALONE with Mr. Guildford, Colonel Methvyn soon lost the nervousness

and hesitation of manner, which were evidently the result of his

invalidism and secluded life, but the gentleness of tone and bearing,

natural to him, remained. He was a very attractive man, intelligent,

accomplished and thoughtful, but hardly of the stuff to do battle

with the world or to breast unmoved the storms of life.

“You must be patient with me,” he said to Mr. Guildford. “Since

my health has broken down, troubles of all kinds have accumulated,

and I fear I have grown fanciful and selfish. Constant suffering

tries one’s philosophy sadly.”

“It needs not even to be constant to do that,” said Mr.

Guildford. “A very little physical pain goes a long way in its

mental effect.”

“I feel the want of a son sorely,” continued Colonel Methvyn.

“Till my accident I looked after everything myself. This place is

not very large, you know; not large enough to require a regular

agent, and I can’t make up my mind to give it all up to hirelings.

As far as is possible for a woman, my daughter does her best; she

writes my letters, looks over the bailiff’s accounts, and so on, in

a very creditable fashion, but I have no great faith in taking women

out of their own sphere. For her, of course, it was to some extent

necessary, as she stands in the place of a son, and must come after

me here.”

He talked with some amount of egotism, and an almost amusing taking

for granted that the family arrangements of the Methvyns must be

subjects of public interest. But Mr. Guildford did not feel repelled,

as he usually did, by the inference of superior importance in his

patient’s tone. It was too unconscious to offend, even had it not

been softened to the stranger by the natural gratification a young

man cannot but experience at quickly winning the confidence of one

many years his elder. After a while the conversation fell upon Mr.

Guildford’s first visit to Greystone; he repeated in other words

the opinion he had expressed to Miss Methvyn.

“I am glad to hear what you tell me,” said Colonel Methvyn. “I

felt the little boy’s death very much—very much indeed.”

“Naturally,” said Mr. Guildford sympathisingly, “and you would

feel it doubly on your daughter’s account.”

“Yes; she felt it a good deal, poor girl!” said Colonel Methvyn;

“but young people, my dear sir, can throw off trouble—ah! yes,

they can throw it off. It sinks deeper when one is no longer young.”

“But a mother,” said Mr. Guildford, a little surprised, “young

or old, a mother’s feelings must be the same.”

“A mother?” repeated Colonel Methvyn. “Ah! I see. I forgot you

did not understand the relationship. No, the little fellow’s mother

is not my daughter. Lady Forrester is Mrs. Methvyn’s daughter by a

former marriage. By the by,” he went on rather hastily, “what

arrangements have you made for this evening? You will give us the

pleasure of your company at dinner, of course, but will it suit you

best to return to Sothernbay to-night, or to-morrow morning.”

“To-night, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford. “I made no definite

arrangements. It is such a lovely evening I should enjoy the walk to

the station.”

But he did not decline the invitation to dinner, recalling one of Dr.

Farmer’s injunctions. “Don’t be in a hurry when you come over

to Greystone,” the old family doctor had said; “half the good you

can do the colonel will be lost if you fidget him by running away

when he wants you to stay. Come over when you feel you have an

evening to spare.”

And though this was the sort of thing that Mr. Guildford had often

protested he would have nothing to do with—an objectionable mixing

up of the professional and social relations, “dancing attendance on

people who looked upon you as belonging to another world,” etc.

etc.,—somehow when it came in his way he found it nowise

disagreeable. He excused his inconsistency by saying to himself that

the circumstances were exceptional, the Methvyn family really to be

felt for, and so on, and ended before long in forgetting that he was

inconsistent, or that any excuses were necessary.

So he stayed to dinner. Colonel Methvyn felt well enough to be

wheeled into the dining-room, and to eat his dinner on a little table

drawn to the side of his couch, and to take his share in the

conversation that went on, which Cicely did her utmost to make

cheerful and interesting. Geneviève did not talk much, but what she

did say always sounded soft and pretty from the charm of her grace

and beauty and winning, appealing manner. And altogether it was very

pleasant. Colonel Methvyn had plenty to say, and could talk well too

when he was in sufficiently good spirits to make the effort, and his

wife looked happy because he seemed to be so.

After dinner they all went into the library, and Cicely played to her

father till it was quite dark.

It was evidently her custom to do so, and it was easy to see that the

invalid enjoyed it. Mr. Guildford knew too little of music to judge

of or criticise her performance, nor was it of a nature to invite

criticism. She played quietly and simply, with no thought, it was

plain to see, besides that of her father’s gratification, but the

music and all seemed in harmony with the peacefulness and refinement,

the gentleness and homelike feeling of the evening. Then Colonel

Methvyn rang for his servant to wheel him back to his own quarters

and Mr. Guildford began to speak of setting off on his walk to the

station,

“The carriage is ordered,” said Miss Methvyn, looking up quickly,

“you need not leave this till half-past nine, and it is only eight

now. You forget how early we dine here.”

“But I think I should like the walk, thank you,” said Mr.

Guildford.

“I could not consent to your walking, my dear sir,” said Colonel

Methvyn. “I could not, really. I feel already sorry that you should

have to come so far out of your way for me, and I assure you I

appreciate your kindness. But your walking to the station is not to

be thought of for an instant.”

Mr. Guildford judged it wiser, for this time at least, to give in. So

Colonel Methvyn, to make the matter all the surer, repeated the order

for the carriage, and, having thus satisfied his notions of

hospitality, was wheeled away.

Mrs. Methvyn asked Geneviève to play. The girl did so without

hesitation, and it seemed to Mr. Guildford that she played well,

better than her cousin.

“Do you not sing too?” he inquired, when she stopped. He was

standing by the piano, attracted by the music and amused by the

pretty way in which her slender fingers ran lightly up and down the

keys.

“A little, not much—not well,” she answered. “But to-night,

please not. At home we sing all together; maman, the brothers,

all.” And again she sighed gently and the lustrous eyes grew dewy.

“You must forgive me. I should not have asked you,” he said

kindly, and then he turned away, and Geneviève went on playing.

The blinds were not yet drawn down; glancing round, Mr. Guildford saw

Miss Methvyn standing by the window nearest to the piano, looking out

into the garden. It was bright moonlight.

“What a lovely evening it is!” said Cicely. “Mr. Guildford, I

don’t wonder at your wanting to walk to Greybridge.”

“I really should have enjoyed it,” he answered, “but—”

“But what?” asked Miss Methvyn, looking up inquiringly.

“I fancied my persistence might have annoyed Colonel Methvyn, that

was all,” he said lightly.

“That was very good of you,” she said cordially, but some

indefinite feeling prompted him to resent her appreciation of his

thoughtfulness.

“You forget,” he said coldly, “that thinking of such things is

a part of my business.”

Cicely’s face grew graver. When she spoke again, however, there was

no change in her tone.

“It looks so tempting out there,” she said, “I cannot stay in

doors any longer. Mr. Guildford, will you help me to open this?”

The knob of the glass door was stiff, but it soon yielded. Mrs.

Methvyn heard the sound, and looked up.

“What are you doing, Cicely?” she said. “Not going out,

surely!”

“Only for a few minutes, mother,” pleaded the girl. “It is so

mild, and Geneviève’s music will sound so pretty outside. I have

got a shawl. Don’t leave off playing, Geneviève, please.”

Mrs. Methvyn made no further objection, and Cicely stepped out. There

was some little difficulty in closing the door again from the

outside, Mr. Guildford followed to help her—they stood together on

the smooth gravel walk. Before them lay the flower beds, a few hours

ago gay with the brightest colours; now, sleeping crocuses and

“tulips made grey by the moonlight”

were hardly to be distinguished from each other, or from the silvery

grass of the borders.

“What a strange thing light is,” said Miss Methvyn, as she looked

at the flowers. “Light and colour. Not that one should call them

things at all, I suppose. I wish I understood about it better. Why

should the moonlight actually change, change colour, for instance? It

is only faint sunlight really. I could understand its dimming colour,

but not altering it.”

Mr. Guildford smiled. “You had better study optics,” he said.

“I wish I could,” she replied, quite simply, “but there are

difficulties in the way of studying many things I should like to know

about. I get all the books I can, but most scientific books take for

granted a certain amount of preliminary, technical knowledge that I

am deficient in. I had rather an irregular education too, even for a

girl.”

“You are just about the age when your education should be

beginning, according to some of the new lights on the subject,”

observed Mr. Guildford. “Would you not like to go to college, Miss

Methvyn?”

“I don’t know. Yes, perhaps I should if I were not needed at

home,” she replied, in the last few words a sadness becoming

perceptible in her tone. But looking up, she caught the expression on

her companion’s face. “Are you laughing at me?” she said. “I

dare say you are. I don’t mind. I am quite accustomed to it. My

father laughs at me sometimes, and so does—” she stopped suddenly.

“Indeed, I wasn’t laughing, Miss Methvyn,” said Mr. Guildford.

“I should be very sorry to be so impertinent.”

“It would not be impertinent,” said Cicely, seemingly rather

incredulous, and she said no more about wishing to understand things.

“Are you not afraid of catching cold?” said Mr. Guildford

presently. They were still standing in the same place, the sound of

Geneviève’s music coming softly through the moonlight.

“I never catch cold, thank you,” said. Miss Methvyn. Mr.

Guildford fancied she spoke stiffly, and was annoyed with himself for

the suggestion. “That is not a bit of your business,” he imagined

her manner to imply. But her next words reassured him. “Perhaps it

is not wise to stand still so long,” she said, and she set off

walking round the little garden.

There was an opening at the other side in the shrubs and trees that

surrounded the enclosure of flower-beds. Here Miss Methvyn paused.

“By daylight there is such a pretty view from here,” she said.

“You can see Haverstock village, and the church, and the little

river. Even now you can see it gleaming—over there to the right,

over there where the railway bridge crosses it.”

“Ah! yes, I see. Do you think that the railway spoils the

landscape, Miss Methvyn?”

“I don’t know. I never thought about it,” she said. “It has

always been there. Charlie used to be so fond of watching for the

white feathers of steam coming into sight and disappearing again. He

liked the railway, because he had a notion that any day, if he ran to

Haverstock, he could get to his mother at once. The fancy cheered him

when he first came to live here, and she went away. I have never

cared to see the trains go by lately.”

As she spoke a shrill whistle sounded in the distance. Cicely turned

and began to retrace her steps.

“Associations must sometimes be terrible things,” said Mr.

Guildford gently.

Something in his voice encouraged Cicely to say more. “There is a

still more painful feeling that I have never heard described,” she

said. “I have often wondered if other people have felt it. The

sound of that railway whistle put it into my mind, and the speaking

of Charlie’s fancy about it. What I mean is a sort of hatred of

everything tangible—material rather. It came over me dreadfully

after he died. It seemed to me that even the material things he had

loved now separated me from him. Just as he, in his innocence, loved

the railway, because he thought it would take him to his mother, so I

could not endure to see it, because I felt that it—that nothing

material could take me to him or bring him back to me. Everything,

except memory, seemed to separate me further from him. I have had

this feeling twice; yes, I think, twice in my life,” she repeated.

“Did you ever feel it, or is it only a womanish feeling?”

Mr. Guildford had listened to her with some surprise, but still with

attention and a wish to follow her meaning.

“I think I understand you,” he said thoughtfully. “It seems to

me your feeling must somewhere have affinity with what I—like every

student of practical science—realise incessantly; the utter

insurmountability of the barrier between matter and spirit. It sounds

very commonplace, but it is the puzzle. We are so hedged in, in every

direction the old hitting one’s head against the wall. And the only

thing to be done is to turn round and work one’s hardest inside the

limits.”

“Yes,” said Cicely. “Yes. I understand.” Then she was silent

for a minute or two. “I suppose,” she said at last, “I suppose

if we could put our feelings into words, we should always find some

one who shared them.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “Not that I have ever felt your

special kind of revolt against our prison bars, Miss Methvyn. I have

never been separated by death from any one that I cared very much

about.”

“You have been very happy then,” she said.

“I don’t know. There are two ways of putting it. Perhaps the

truth is that I have never had any one to care enough for, for

separation to be or seem terrible,” he answered, in a tone not very

easy to interpret.

They were close to the window again. Geneviève’s music had ceased,

and glancing up, Cicely saw her cousin standing inside the glass door

looking out.

“Mr. Guildford,” she said hastily, “will you just come to the

end of the walk again for a moment. I have wanted to ask you

something all this evening, and I thought you might be annoyed at it.

I want to know what you think about my father. I cannot tell you why

I ask you—there—there is something that depends upon it. And I

know you are very clever. You must not think me very strange. I am so

at a loss,” she hurried on with what she had to say, in evident

fear of Mr. Guildford interrupting her with some cold expression of

disapproval or annoyance; for she could see that he looked grave and

perplexed.

“What do you mean exactly, Miss Methvyn?” he said formally. “Do

you want to know if I think Colonel Methvyn in a critical state, or

what?”

He thought her inquiry uncalled for and hardly delicate. He felt

surprised, and a little disappointed. She was her father’s heiress;

Colonel Methvyn had told him so. Could it be—surely not—that she

was eager to claim her inheritance, making plans contingent on her

speedy succession?

“Yes,” she replied, “that is partly what I want to know. I also

want to know if any vexation—being thwarted about anything on which

he had set his heart, for instance, could do him harm.”

“Most assuredly it would,” he said somewhat sternly, “the very

gravest harm. It is very early for me to give an opinion,” he went

on, feeling anxious to avoid saying much. “I never saw Colonel

Methvyn till to-day, but I have seen similar cases. I should say he

may live as he is for many years, provided his mind is kept at ease,

and that he is not thwarted or exposed to vexation. The effect of any

great shock, of course, I could not predict.”

“Thank you,” she said very gently, almost humbly, "you have told

me what I wanted to know.”

Why did she want to know? he asked himself. She stood still for a

minute or two, as if thinking of what he had said. The moonlight fell

full on her fair face, and as she looked up with her clear honest

eyes, his heart smote him for even his passing misgiving that her

motives, her reasons, could be but of the purest and best.

“She is not a commonplace girl,” he thought, “and she won’t be a

commonplace woman; but she is too self-reliant for one so young.”

It was almost with a feeling of relief, or what he imagined to be

such, that he turned to Geneviève, who had opened the glass door and

stood waiting for them.

“How charming it is!” she said; “but, my cousin, my aunt fears

lest you should take cold.”

“I am coming in now, mother,” Cicely said as they came within

hearing, “do come here for a moment and look at the beautiful

moonlight.”

Mrs. Methvyn rose from her seat by the table, and joined the little

group at the window.

“Yes,” she said, “it is lovely, but it is rather cold.” She

shivered as she spoke, and retired to the fire. The others were

following her, when suddenly a whistle was heard, not a railway

whistle this time. It sounded at some little distance away, down

among the shrubberies. Cicely stopped, and seemed to listen.

“What was that? It surely can’t be” The whistle was repeated.

“Go in, Geneviève,” she said, “I shall be back directly.”

And almost before her cousin and Mr. Guildford saw what she was

doing, she had started off and was lost to sight among the bushes.

Geneviève and Mr. Guildford looked at each other in surprise. Then

Geneviève came into the library again and spoke to her aunt.

“My cousin has gone out again, aunt,” she said; “shall we leave

the door open till she returns?”

“Cicely gone out again!” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn. “How very

foolish! Do you see her Mr. Guildford?” she asked, for the young

man was still standing by the window.

“No, I don’t,” he replied; “Miss Methvyn ran off so quickly.

We had better shut the door in the meantime, however.”

He came inside and closed it. Mrs. Methvyn looked annoyed and uneasy.

“I can’t understand what Cicely is thinking of,” she said.

“There was a—what do you call—siffle, siffle—a

fistle—wistle?” said Geneviève, “down in the garden, and then

Cicely ran.”

“What do you mean, my dear?” said Mrs. Methvyn with slight

impatience. “Do you know, Mr. Guildford?”

He was half annoyed and half amused.

“It is just as Miss Casalis says,” he replied. “We heard a

whistle at some little distance, and Miss Methvyn ran off at once.”

“Was it a peculiar whistle, like two short notes and then a long

one?” inquired Mrs. Methvyn more composedly.

“Yes,” said Mr. Guildford; “I heard it twice; it was just

that.”

“Then the Fawcetts must have returned,” exclaimed Cicely’s

mother. “How surprised every one will be! They intended to stay

abroad till July.”

“The Fawcetts!” repeated Geneviève impulsively.

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Methvyn, “the Fawcetts—our

nearest neighbours Colonel Methvyn’s cousins. Mr. Fawcett has been

in the habit of coming here at all hours since he was a boy, and

there is a short cut through the fields that saves a couple of

miles,” she went on, in a sort of generally explanatory way; “it

comes out at the little gate in the laurel-walk. By the bye, I wonder

if Cicely has the key. We generally keep it locked, for a good many

tramps come round by the Ash Lane, and Trev—Mr. Fawcett, always

whistles, on the chance of our hearing him, before coming round the

other way by the lodge.”

“Cicely had a key to-day,” said Geneviève. “We went through

the little gate when we were out, and my cousin unlocked it.”

“Ah! that is all right, then; she often carries it in her

pocket,” replied Mrs. Methvyn.

She went to the glass door, and opening it, stood listening as if for

approaching voices. Geneviève sat down by the table and began idly

turning over some photographs. Mr. Guildford stood at a little

distance, wishing the carriage would come round that he might go.

From time to time, however, he could not help glancing at the face

bent over the photograph book. In profile it was hardly so perfect as

when in full view; still it was very lovely—every feature so clear,

and yet rounded, the long black eyelashes sweeping the delicately

tinted cheek, the expression so innocently wistful.

“I doubt if that little southern flower will take kindly to this

soil,” thought Mr. Guildford.

Just then Geneviève happened to look up, and catching sight of the

young man’s eyes fixed upon her, blushed vividly. Pitying her

discomfort, and annoyed with himself for being the cause of it, he

hastily made some remark about the pictures she was looking at,

thinking to himself as he did so of the shallowness of the popular

notion that French girls were more artificial, less unsophisticated

and retiring, than English maidens. Geneviève was on the point of

replying to his observation, when the door opened.

“The carriage for Mr. Guildford,” said the footman.

Mr. Guildford turned to Mrs. Methvyn, and was beginning to say

good-bye, when voices were heard outside—cheerful voices they

sounded as they came nearer—Miss Methvyn’s and another, a deeper,

fuller toned voice, and in a moment their owners appeared at the

glass door.

“Mother,” said Cicely, and to Mr. Guildford her tone sounded

bright and eager, “mother, here is Trevor, are you not astonished?

Did you think me insane when I ran off in such a hurry?” she went

on laughingly.

“We only arrived this afternoon,” said the gentleman, “two

months before we were expected. You can fancy what a comfortable

reception we had at Lingthurst. My mother and Miss Winter ended by

discovering they had lost all their luggage, that is to say, only

twenty-nine boxes turned up, and there was such a to-do that I came

off.”

“It was very good of you, dear Trevor,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “It

is so nice to see you again. But why have you come home so soon?

Nothing wrong, I hope?

“Everything wrong,” said the young man laughing. But as he came

into the room he caught sight of Mr. Guildford, and, further off,

Geneviève seated by the table, but with her face turned away from

the others. “You are not alone,” he said hastily, his tone

changing a little. The change of tone, slight as it was, was enough

to make Mr. Guildford wish that his goodbyes had been completed

before the appearance of the new-comers, but almost ere he could

realise the wish Miss Methvyn had come forward.

“It was very rude of me to run away in such a hurry, Mr.

Guildford,” she said gently, “but I did not like to keep my

cousin Mr. Fawcett waiting. I was afraid he would think we had not

heard him.”

“I was just about going round by the lodge when I heard your tardy

footsteps, Miss Cicely,” said Mr. Fawcett. “I had whistled till I

was tired and was thinking of trying a verse or two of Come into the

garden, Maud, for I am very tired indeed of being here at the gate

alone.”

“It would not have been at all appropriate,” said Cicely, a very

slight shadow of annoyance creeping over her face. Then there came a

little pause, which Mr. Guildford took advantage of to finish his

good-nights this time without interruption. He carried away with him

no very distinct impression of the new-comer, only that he was tall

and fair and good-looking, and that his voice was soft and pleasant.

“She said he was her cousin,” Mr. Guildford repeated to himself.

“Ah! well, I am not likely ever to know more of her, but I almost

think she is the sort of woman one might come to make a friend of.”

CHAPTER VI.

“LE JEUNE MILORD.”

“He is as sober a man as most of the young nobility. His fortune is

great. In sense he neither abounds nor is wanting; and that class of

men, take my word for it, are the best qualified of all others to

make good husbands to women of superior talents. They know just

enough to admire in her what they have not in themselves.”

Sir Charles Grandison.

HE was tall and fair and very good-looking. He had pleasant somewhat

sleepy blue eyes, and a pleasant somewhat sleepy manner. Take him as

a whole he was a favourable specimen of the upper class young

Englishman of a certain type, prosperous, amiable, well-principled

according to his lights, very fairly satisfied with things as he

found them, little disposed by nature or education to dive below the

surface.

In the little bustle of Mr. Guildford’s leave-taking, the figure of

the girl sitting quietly by the table had almost escaped Mr.

Fawcett’s notice. But Geneviève had risen to say good-bye to the

doctor, and before she sat down again Mrs. Methvyn addressed her.

“Geneviève, my dear, don’t stay over there all alone. By the bye

I must introduce a new cousin to you. Not exactly a cousin certainly,

but as you both call me aunt, it seems something like it. This is Mr.

Fawcett, Geneviève, and this, Trevor, is my little niece—niece

‘à la mode de Bretagne,’ as your mother says,

Geneviève—Geneviève Casalis who has come to us all the way from

Hivèritz. You must have been near there not long ago, Trevor. I

think your mother,” but she stopped short in her sentence, startled

by a sudden expression of surprise from the young man.

“By Jove,” he exclaimed, but recovering himself almost

immediately, “I beg your pardon, aunt,” he went on, “I was so

astonished at seeing Miss Casalis again. I had no idea—”

Geneviève had come forward when her aunt first spoke to her, and

when Mrs. Methvyn had gone on to introduce the so-called cousins, Mr.

Fawcett had naturally turned towards the young lady, obtaining thus

for the first time a full view of her face, her lovely blushing face,

with timid up-looking eyes; the face that not many weeks ago had

rested white and unconscious on his shoulder, which he had often

vaguely wondered if he should ever see again. This very evening, as

he had stood waiting by the gate, something had recalled to his mind

the accident at Hivèritz, and he had thought to himself that he

would tell Cicely about it and try to describe to her the girl’s

beautiful face.

“If she could see her, she would want to paint her I am sure,” he

thought. “She would make such a stunning gipsy, or Italian peasant

girl, or something like that. I wish Cicely could see her. She is so

ready to admire pretty girls. I never knew any woman like her for

that. Even my mother and Miss Winter began criticising that lovely

girl. My mother said she had no manners—poor little soul! she was

frightened out of her wits—and Miss Winter found fault with her

dress.”

And within ten minutes of his standing at the gate, and thinking over

the adventure of Hivèritz, behold the heroine of it standing before

him in the flesh! It was enough to excuse a pretty forcible

expression of astonishment.

Mrs. Methvyn looked bewildered in the extreme.

“Do you mean that you and Geneviève have met before?” she

inquired. “You never told us so, Geneviève?”

“Perhaps she did not know Trevor’s name,” suggested Cicely,

fancying that Geneviève looked shy and embarrassed.

“I knew it was Fawcett,” said Geneviève, “but I knew not but

that here in England there are many Fawcetts.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Fawcett eagerly. “Of course. I only

wonder you remember the name at all.” He could not have explained

why, but he certainly was rather pleased than the reverse to find

that Mademoiselle Casalis had not talked about their former meeting.

“When was it you met Mr. Fawcett before? On your way through

France?” inquired Mrs. Methvyn of Geneviève.

“Oh! no, dear aunt. It was while I was still at the home. Before I

knew that I should come to England at all,” the girl replied simply

enough. And then she told about the accident, how kind “Miladi

Fawcett” had been, how thankful “maman” had felt that it had

done her no harm—all in her pretty, broken English, stopping here

and there for a word, or glancing up appealingly with a “how do you

say so and so?”—all just as it had happened; Mr. Fawcett now and

then joining in with some observation; reserving only to herself her

mother’s recollection of the English family’s name and

speculation as to whether the Fawcetts of her youth and those of

Geneviève’s adventure could be the same. For the mention of this

would assuredly have led to a repetition of the question, “Why did

you not tell us about it before?” a question that Geneviève was

not prepared to answer, for the simple reason that she could not

really exactly say why she had not done so. It would have been only

natural, girlishly natural, to have inquired of her aunt or cousin if

among their neighbours were any family corresponding to her

description, but though natural to most girls, to Geneviève anything

so frank and straightforward was the reverse. To her the question,

“Why should I not tell?” less frequently presented itself than

the reverse, “Why should I?”

Perhaps the only definite reason she could have given for her

reserve, was one she might certainly be excused for keeping to

herself—a foolish, vague, half-romantic, half calculating

anticipation of the effect and possible result of her sudden

appearance before old Mathurine’s ‘jeune milord,’ the hero of

the girl’s latest day-dream.

So she told her little adventure simply and prettily, with here and

there a timid blush, and a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she

recalled her mother’s thankfulness, the anxiety and terror of

‘cette bonne Mathurine.’

“It is quite a curious coincidence,” said Mrs. Methvyn with

interest. “I must take you to see Lady Frederica some day soon

Geneviève. She will be pleased to meet you again. In any case she

would be glad to see you, for she remembers your mother. In one of

her letters to me she said so, and was sorry I had not given her

Madame Casalis’s address in case of your passing through Hivèritz,

Trevor. It was too late then, for you had already been there.”

“Yes, what a pity,” exclaimed Mr. Fawcett. “I remember my

mother saying something about it when we were in Switzerland. She

could not remember where Madame Casalis lived. We little thought we

had already made her daughter’s acquaintance.”

“Did you not hear Geneviève’s name?” inquired Cicely.

Trevor looked a little bit annoyed—he hardly liked to own that

while the young lady had remembered his, hers had completely escaped

his memory.

“We did hear it, we must have heard it,” he said. “I think Miss

Casalis mentioned it when I was telling our courier where the

coachman was to drive to. But, I suppose it was the stupidity of my

English ears—I did not catch it clearly.”

Geneviève smiled sweetly, as if in condonation of the offence, but

in her heart she was wishing, oh! so earnestly, that she had not

prevented “Miladi Fawcett” from accompanying her home to the Rue

de la Croix blanche, that Sunday evening, to see her safely in her

mother’s care. What would it have mattered that the house was small

and shabby, and that Madame Casalis herself had to open the door, if,

as would almost surely have been the case, the familiar name of

Fawcett had caught her mother’s ears, and led to a mutual

recognition! What pleasant results might not have followed!

Geneviève felt exceedingly provoked with herself, and Mrs. Methvyn,

unconsciously, added to her vexation.

What a pity,” she too exclaimed. “If Caroline and Lady Frederica

had met, it would probably have been arranged for Geneviève to have

travelled some part of the way here with your party, Trevor, for I

know Madame Casalis was very anxious at that time to hear of a

suitable escort. And you would have seen something of Paris, my dear,

as you wished so much,” she added, turning to Geneviève,

“instead of having to hurry through with Monsieur

Rouet.”—“Geneviève came under the care of a pasteur who had to

attend some meeting in London,” she went on to explain to Mr.

Fawcett.

“And had to travel second-class all the way, and saw nothing of

Paris,” added Geneviève in her own mind (though not for worlds

would she have said it aloud), feeling too disgusted with herself

even to smile. Her one day in Paris had been a Sunday, which the

Reverend Joseph Rouet, faithful to his charge, had caused her to

spend among the Protestant brethren at Passy, attending two services

in a stuffy meeting-house,—Geneviève, whose soul had long ago

soared far beyond the homeliness of the Casalis’ narrow little

circle at Hivèritz, whose imagination had pictured drives in the

Bois de Boulogne, shopping in the Boulevards, nay (‘comble de

bonheur,’ hardly to be thought of but with bated breath), even a

visit to the theatre itself, as blissful possibilities of a few days

in Paris!

“It was really a chapter of cross-purposes,” continued Mrs.

Methvyn. “I wonder your mother did not remember the name Fawcett,

when you told her of your accident, Geneviève?”

“Perhaps I did not rightly pronounce it,” said the girl. “And

mamma was much occupied in her thoughts just then, I remember.”

She happened to catch Cicely’s eye as she spoke, and blushed

vividly. A slight look of perplexity crossed Miss Methvyn’s face.

“I hope Geneviève is not afraid of me,” she thought to herself.

“What was there to make her look so uncomfortable just now! I am so

anxious to be kind to her and win her confidence, but I fear I seem

cold and distant to her, poor girl!”

But no more was said on the subject of Geneviève’s former meeting

with the Fawcetts.

“Shall I come to see your mother to-morrow, Trevor?” said Mrs.

Methvyn as she was bidding Mr. Fawcett good night. “Or will she be

busy?”

“She will probably be rather in a state of mind if the missing

boxes haven’t turned up,” said the young man. “I’ll look in

some time to-morrow and tell you. I have to drive to the village to

call on the new clergyman, and I may as well come round this way.”

“Oh! then the new clergyman has come,” said Cicely. “I am very

glad. I don’t like driving to Haverstock Church half as well as

going to Lingthurst. The walk through the woods is so pretty,

Geneviève,” she added; “I almost think it is what I like best

about our Sundays here.”

“Cicely, my dear!” said her mother in a somewhat similar tone to

that in which Mrs. Crichton had reproved her brother for the avowed

reason of his predilection for church.

Cicely smiled. “Well, mother dear,” she said coaxingly, “the

walk to church was really more edifying than what we heard when we

got there, in the old days. I am so glad Sir Thomas is getting a new

organ,” she went on. “We hear Mr.—I don’t think I have heard

h is name—is a zealous reformer.”

“Tremendous,” said Mr. Fawcett. “I don’t think my father had

any idea what he was bringing upon us when he gave the living to Mr.

Hayle.”

“Mr. Hayle, oh! that’s his name, is it? But I thought he was not

coming for two months,” said Miss Methvyn.

“So thought everybody except Mr. Hayle,” replied Mr. Fawcett.

“There was some mistake about it, and it turned out he had made all

his plans for coming at once; that was one of the things that made us

come home sooner. But I must be going. Good night, aunt. I shall be

sure to look in to-morrow.”

That night when the two girls went upstairs to their rooms, Cicely

accompanied Geneviève into hers. She stood for a moment by the

dressing-table idly playing with some pretty little toilet ornaments

that stood upon it. They were unusually pretty little trifles, and

belonged to a set which had been given to her by an old lady who was

a connoisseur in such things, and Cicely had placed them in her

cousin’s room to please her eye on first arriving. The sight of the

little ornament seemed to remind her of what she had to say, or

perhaps to encourage her to say it.

“Geneviève,” she began, and her blue eyes looked earnest and

thoughtful, “I want to say something to you. I am afraid I seem

cold to you, and it would grieve me if you thought I felt so. I am

not naturally very demonstrative, and since my father has been so

ill, I have had to learn to be even more quiet and calm in manner.

And being the only one at home, I have had to do what I could to help

my parents, and I fear it has given me a sort of decided, managing

manner that may strike you disagreeably. I want to ask you not to be

afraid to tell me if I ever seem either cold or hard. You don’t

know me yet; you can’t trust me all of a sudden; I should not wish

it. But when you know me better, I hope you will believe that I

don’t feel cold and indifferent, and that I am very anxious, dear,

to make you happy.”

Considering that the burden of the speech was herself and her own

feelings, it was an unusually long one for Cicely. But the simple

words betrayed no egotism; the kind, true eyes expressed their

owner’s real feelings. Impressionable Geneviève threw her arms

round her cousin’s neck.

“I do trust you, dear Cécile,” she exclaimed impetuously. “I

love you and trust you, and I think you so good and so wise. I wish I

were good like you, but I am not. I am foolish and discontent, and at

home I did not help the mother and think for her, as you do for my

aunt. Teach me to be like you, dear Cécile; let me trust you and

give you all my confidence.”

Cicely smiled. It was no sudden friend ship she was asking of her

cousin, no romantic compact of girlish devotion which she was

proposing—such things were little in her way. But she would not for

worlds have chilled Geneviève’s affectionate impulse, so she

submitted with apparent satisfaction to a kiss on each cheek, and

kissed her again in return, saying as she did so, “Good night, dear

Geneviève, and thank you. Now you must ring for Parker and go to

bed. It is rather late and you look tired.”

Coming along the passage after leaving Geneviève, Miss Methvyn met

her mother.

“I was looking for you, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “It is late,

but your father is very comfortable to-night. He is still reading the

papers.”

They were close to the door of Cicely’s little sitting-room. They

went in and stood in silence for a minute by the mantelpiece. All

looked the same as on the night little Charlie died; the birds were

all asleep, the flowers looked fresh and cared for, the Skye terrier

lay on the hearthrug. Cicely sighed as she looked round, for her

glance fell on an object she had not yet had the heart to dislodge

from its accustomed place—a toy horse, Charlie’s favourite steed,

stalled in one corner, which he had called his stable.

But the sigh was quickly stifled. “What did you want me for,

mother?” she said.

“I was thinking, Cicely,” began Mrs. Methvyn, “that it would

now be well to tell Geneviève of your engagement—don’t you think

so? It is different now that Trevor is here again. It may seem

strange to her afterwards not to have been told of it.”

Cicely hesitated. “I would much rather she were not told of it just

yet,” she said. “She is so young, and I want so much to make her

feel quite at ease with me. Besides,” she went on, “you know,

mother, what we were saying this afternoon—my engagement is rather

an indefinite one; it is not as if I were going to be married soon.”

“But if your father sets his heart upon it—the Fawcetts have

always wished to hasten the marriage, you know, Cicely dear—it may

not be a very long engagement after all,” said Mrs. Methvyn.

“I hope papa won’t set his heart upon it,” said Cicely with a

faint smile. But she did not oppose the suggestion as vehemently as a

few hours before.

“Then, you don’t object to my telling Geneviève?” asked her

mother.

“Of course not, if you think it best,” said Cicely. “I wish,

however, you would not tell her quite yet. Wait a few days. I think

she is beginning to feel more at home with me. She will not be

surprised at seeing Trevor often here; she knows they are our

cousins.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Methvyn.

Geneviève’s last thought that night before she went to sleep was

of Mr. Fawcett. To her girlish fancy the coincidence of their meeting

again was suggestive of all manner of speculations.

“How I wish Mathurine knew of it,” she said to herself; “how

delighted she would be! She thought him so handsome and

distinguished. So he certainly is, and his manners are so agreeable,

not at all like those of most Englishmen, cold and gloomy”

(forgetting her extremely limited experience of Mr. Fawcett’s

countrymen). “And then how rich they must be! Ah, how I should have

enjoyed travelling with them! No doubt they had a courier, an

appartement au premier—everything of the best.”

And another idea entered her silly little head. How delightful would

be a wedding journey to Paris with such a hero—rich, amiable,

living but to gratify her wishes! Such things had come to pass,

thought Geneviève; such good fortune had been the lot of portionless

girls far inferior to herself in personal attractions. She did not

fear her cousin Cicely as a rival; the idea never even occurred to

her. She liked Cicely, and was very well pleased to make a friend of

her, but in some respects she could hardly help looking down upon her

a little. “She is so good and wise,” thought Geneviève, “but

so slow and quiet. English girls never seem half awake. And her

dress; bah! if I had all the money she has to spend upon it, would I

be content to wear such plain things? She might make herself look

twice as well if she liked.”

Such was the maiden meditation, such the “fancy free” of the

pasteur’s daughter, who had been brought up in the seclusion and

simplicity of a French Protestant household, sheltered, as her

parents fondly thought, from every breath of worldliness or ambition.

Mr. Fawcett made his appearance again about luncheon-time the next

day. Cicely was alone in the morning room when he came in.

“I’ve been to see the new man,” he said, establishing himself

on a comfortable low chair and looking ready for a cousinly chat.

“I’m hardly fit to come in here, Cicely; I’m covered with

dust.”

He looked dubiously at his boots as he spoke, and began switching

them lightly with his riding-whip.”

“Never mind,” said Miss Methvyn; “only please don’t send the

dust on to me.” She spoke laughingly; but her tone sobered into

gravity as she went on, “Black dresses catch dust so easily.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said. Then he looked up from his boots

and fixed his pleasant, good-tempered blue eyes on his cousin. She

was sitting at a little table near him,—writing, in point of fact

making up accounts. She had stopped when Mr. Fawcett first came in,

but had not altogether withdrawn her attention from the papers.

before her; and now in the intervals of his remarks, she ran her eye

up and down the neat little columns of figures, and jotted down the

results of her calculations.

“What are you so busy about, Cicely?” said Mr. Fawcett after a

little pause.

Miss Methvyn stopped to put down a figure before she spoke. “It’s

Saturday,” she replied laconically, glancing up for a moment, and

then putting down another.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” replied her cousin. “What about

it?”

His tone was perfectly good-natured. Something in it struck

Cicely’s sense of the ludicrous. She threw down her pen and began

to laugh.

“You’re very long suffering, Trevor,” she said, “and I’m

very rude. On Saturdays I have always to go over all the accounts;

the bailiff’s, the gardener’s, and all—and make a sort of

summary of them for papa. I generally do them upstairs in my own

room, but Geneviève was working at something up there this morning,

so I brought them down here.”

“It isn’t proper work for you. Your father should get a regular

agent,” said Mr. Fawcett.

“No he shouldn’t,” said Cicely; but the tone and manner

disarmed the abruptness of her speech. She glanced at her cousin with

an expression of half-playful defiance. He smiled.

There was a likeness of feature and complexion between these two—a

material resemblance, which seemed, in a sense, to render more

visible the underlying dissimilarity. Both pairs of blue eyes were

calm and gentle; but those of the young man told of repose from the

absence of conflicting elements; those of the girl, of the quiet of

restrained power. There was decision in both faces; in Trevor’s it

was that of a straightforward, healthy, uncultivated, not acutely

sensitive nature; in Cicely’s it was the firmness of an

organisation strong to resist where the necessity of resistance

should be the result of conviction, but at the same time exquisitely

keen to suffer. A glance at the man told you pretty correctly the

extent of his mental capacity. He was no fool, but there was small

promise of further intellectual development; such as he was, he was

likely to remain; but it took more than many glances to estimate

justly the reserve of power and depths of feeling hidden below the

stillness of Cicely Methvyn’s young face.

Something in the girl’s manner told Mr. Fawcett that the occasion

would not be an auspicious one for entering upon a subject he had

come half prepared to discuss. So he said nothing for a minute or

two, and Cicely went on with her accounts. As Mr. Fawcett watched

her, a slight expression of dissatisfaction crept over his face.

“Cicely,” he said.

“Well,” said Cicely, without looking up this time.

“You’re not going to wear that deep mourning much longer, are

you?”

Cicely’s face lost its brightness. There was a slight constraint in

her tone as she answered.

“It is not very deep mourning,” she said, glancing at her gown.

“There is no crape on my dress. I dislike very deep, elaborate

mourning.”

“If it was handsomer of its kind, perhaps it would be more

becoming,” said Mr. Fawcett agreeably. “As it is, Cicely, I

can’t say I think it so. You are too colourless for that sort of

dull-looking dress. It might suit some people—your cousin, for

instance; I dare say if we saw her in a plain black dress like yours,

we should think she couldn’t wear anything that would suit her as

well. She is so brilliant,” he added reflectively.

“Yes,” said Cicely. “I dare say we should. But then, Trevor, I

strongly suspect we should think so whatever Geneviève wore. She is

so very lovely. But as for me, Trevor, you know I wasn’t thinking

of whether it would suit me or not when I got this dress.”

Her coloured deepened a little as she spoke, and the words sounded

almost reproachful.

“Of course not. I know that,” said Mr. Fawcett hastily. “Of

course, Cicely, you know I didn’t mean to speak unfeelingly. How

curious it is about your cousin by the bye,” he went on, as if

anxious to change the subject, “about our having knocked her down

at Hivèritz, I mean.”

“Yes, it was very curious,” said Cicely. “But you knew a cousin

was coming to stay with us, Trevor; I mentioned it in several of my

letters.”

“Oh! yes. I knew a Miss Casalis was coming,” said Trevor, “but

somehow I didn’t fancy she would be that sort of a cousin.”

“What sort did you expect?” asked Miss Methvyn.

“Oh! I fancied she would be an older person, or at least a plain

ordinary girl. One doesn’t expect a girl like Geneviève to come

out of a French pastor’s household. Do you like her, Cicely?”

“Of course I do,” said Cicely. “It would be very difficult not

to like her; don’t you think so? She is so pretty, and so sweet and

timid.”

“I wish all the same she had been older, more the sort of person I

expected,” observed Mr. Fawcett. “She will be always with you

now, Cicely, and it won’t be half so comfortable.”

“What would you have done if I had had a young sister?” asked

Cicely.

“I should have got accustomed to her and should have known her

always. A stranger coming is quite different. And one must be civil

to her, as she is a young lady,” grumbled Mr. Fawcett.

“And so very pretty,” added Cicely mischievously, but she did not

succeed in making her cousin smile.

“It’s not comfortable,” he repeated.

“My dear Trevor, you are very cross. I assure you Geneviève is the

last person to interfere with your comfort. She is only too timid and

retiring,” remonstrated Cicely.

Mr. Fawcett did not reply. He sat silent for a minute or two,

seemingly a very little less good-humoured than his wont. Then

suddenly he looked up.

“By the bye, Cicely,” he said, “who was that fellow that was

here last night?  I have never seen him before, have I?”

Something in his words made Miss. Methvyn’s tone, as she replied,

hardly as equable as usual.

“It was Mr. Guildford, the doctor from Sothernbay,” she answered

a little coldly. “He is coming over every week now to see my

father, as Dr. Farmer has gone.”

“Oh! yes, I remember. A very good thing for him, I dare say. It’s

not often a Sothernbay surgeon gets such a chance,” said Mr.

Fawcett carelessly.

Miss Methvyn’s face flushed slightly.

“I don’t think you—I wish you wouldn’t speak of Mr. Guildford

in that way, Trevor,” she said gently. “He isn’t that sort of

man. Don’t you remember my telling you how kind he was when

Charlie died?—coming at once and staying so long, though he was a

perfect stranger. I believe he is a very clever man, and a very

kind-hearted one too. Indeed I don’t see how a doctor can be a

really good one if he is always thinking about his own advancement

more than of anything else.”

“It’s the way of the world unfortunately, for doctors and

everybody to do so,” said Mr. Fawcett. “But I didn’t mean to

say anything against your doctor, Cicely. I hadn’t the least idea

who he was last night. But I’ll tell you what,” he added, after a

little pause, as a bright idea suddenly struck him, “if you don’t

take care you’ll have this disinterested young man falling in love

with your pretty cousin, Cicely, if you let him come about in this

tame-cat way.”

Cicely’s face flushed again.

“I wish you would not say those things, Trevor. It is disagreeable;

Mr. Guildford is quite a different man from what you fancy. I am

quite sure his head is full of much more important matters than

falling in love. He is an exceedingly clever and learned man.”

“And do ‘exceedingly clever and learned men’ never fall in

love?” asked Mr. Fawcett. “It is to be hoped you don’t scorn

the idea of exceedingly clever and learned women being guilty of such

a weakness.”

His tone was light and bantering, but to Cicely’s quick ears a

slight and very unusual bitterness was discernible through the

raillery. She looked sorry.

“I don’t believe you care a bit for me, Cicely,” said Trevor,

before she had made up her mind what to say.

She looked up in his face with her clear kind eyes. “Don’t say

that, Trevor,” she said. “How could I not care for you? Have we

not been companions in everything almost longer than I can remember?

I cannot recall any part of my life without finding you in it. Dear

Trevor, don’t speak so. And please don’t laugh at me and call me

clever and learned. I am neither, only things have made me graver and

quieter than other girls.”

Mr. Fawcett was standing beside her now. He stooped and kissed her on

the forehead.

“I didn’t mean to vex you, Cicely,” he said.

Cicely smiled and peace was made. But she owned to herself that

Trevor had not been quite as kindly and good-natured as usual in his

remarks this morning.

Then the luncheon-gong sounded, and Mrs. Methvyn and Geneviève came

into the room.

“Geneviève,” said her aunt, as they were all passing through the

hall, on their way to the dining-room, “Is your address at

Hivèritz, 21, or 31, Rue de la Croix? I always forget. I have just

been writing to your mother.”

“31, Rue de la Croix blanche, dear aunt,” said Geneviève,

wondering in her own mind if Mr. Fawcett would perhaps go a walk with

Cicely and her in the afternoon, and wishing that she had changed her

dress before luncheon.

CHAPTER VII.

SOME ARE WISE, SOME OTHERWISE.

“. . . à quoi bon avoir une jolie figure et une délicieuse

toilette, si on ne les montre pas?”

Les Misérables.

THE next day was Sunday. A Sunday beautiful enough to make Cicely’s

wish that she could spend it altogether in the woods seem excusable.

It was better than “a perfect day;” it was a day brimming over

with promise of better things yet to come, a day to infuse one with

vague, delicious hopefulness, to set one in tune with oneself, and,

as a natural consequence of such a happy state of things, with

everybody else as well.

Mrs. Methvyn could not go to church in the morning, for her husband

had had a restless night, and as was often the case, objected to her

leaving him, so the two girls set off alone. It was Geneviève’s

first Sunday in England. She seemed quiet and preoccupied, but Cicely

was bright and animated.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Geneviève?” said Cicely, stopping for a

moment and gazing up through the thick network of leaves to the

brilliant blue beyond. “Don’t you like to see that green light

among the trees? It looks so fresh and cool up there, I think I

should like to be a squirrel.”

“A what?” said Geneviève, looking puzzled.

“A squirrel—écureuil, isn’t it, in French? Those dear little

creatures with great bushy tails,” said Cicely.

“Oh!” said Geneviève, enlightened, but not interested. But

Cicely was in a talkative mood, and was not to be easily discouraged.

“Did you never play at fancying what animal you would like to be

when you were a little girl?” she asked. “I thought all children

did.”

“I don’t think we ever did,” said Geneviève. “I don’t

remember. I was not very happy when I was a little girl. I was not

like you, Cicely, the only child; there were so many children, and

mamma always busy. Ah! no,” with a slight shrug of her shoulders,

“I am glad to be no longer a child.”

“What a pity!” exclaimed Cicely involuntarily. “I mean,” she

went on, softening her tone, “I am so sorry for any one that has

not a happy remembrance of childhood. I should have fancied you had

had such a happy childhood, Geneviève. Of course I was very happy,

and, I suspect, a good deal indulged, but I often wished for

companions near me in age. My sister Amiel, you know, is seven years

older than I, and Trevor Fawcett, my other companion, is five years

older than I am. And you had brothers and sisters not much younger

than yourself.”

“Brothers,” corrected Geneviève. “Eudoxie is eight years

younger. But my brothers amused themselves always without me; they

were several. One brother would be different; one brother might have

been to me such as Mr. Fawcett was to you.”

Her tone was more animated now. But Cicely did not seem to care to

pursue the subject further.

“Yes,” she said, “perhaps your having several brothers made it

different,” and then they walked on in silence for a few minutes.

It was very quiet in the woods: such sounds as there were, came clear

and crisp; it was too early in the season yet for the rich,

all-pervading hum of full summer life; it seemed the morning of the

year as well as of the day.

“Could you tell it was Sunday without knowing, Geneviève?” said

Cicely suddenly.

Geneviève looked at her with again a puzzled expression on her face;

it seemed to her that her sensible cousin said very silly things

sometimes. Cicely appeared to read her thoughts. She smiled, as she

went on speaking.

“That was another of my fancies when I was little,” she said.

“I always thought the birds and the leaves and the insects and

everything spoke in hushed tones on Sunday. And a rainy Sunday upset

all my theories terribly! Do you hear the brook, Geneviève? When it

is in good spirits, that is to say, pretty full, we can hear it a

long way off. Ah! yes; there it is.”

She stood still, her head bent slightly forward as she listened, her

lips parted, her soft eyes bright with eagerness. And from far away

came the tinkling murmur she loved so well to hear.

“It is not very full today,” she said at last. “Sometimes it

has quite a rushing sound, as if a crowd of fairies were going by in

a great bustle, but to-day it sounds soft and sleepy. But we shall be

late. The wind is not the right way for us to hear the bell. Don’t

you think it is rather difficult to get to church at all when the

road lies through a wood like this, Geneviève?”

“It is very pretty,” said Geneviève; “it would be charming to

have a picnic here, Cicely.”

The idea roused her to something like enthusiasm, and made her

temporarily forget the fears for the well-being of her pretty

lavender muslin, which had considerably interfered with her enjoyment

of the walk.

“Do you like picnics?” said Cicely.

“But yes, certainly I like them,” replied Geneviève; “that is

to say, when there are plenty of agreeable people. At Hivèritz the

picnics are charming. Once, Madame Rousille, the mother of one of my

school companions, invited me to one that she gave when her eldest

daughter was married. Ah, it was charming! But I was only fifteen

then,” she added with a sigh.

“Why do you sigh, Geneviève?” asked Cicely.

“I was thinking how few pleasures I have had compared with

Stéphanie Rousille,” said Geneviève naïvely; “her parents are

so rich, they have a so beautiful house. You do not know what it is

to be poor, my cousin.”

“No,” said Cicely, “I don’t; but I don’t think I should

dread being poor so very much.”

“That is because you do not know,” replied her cousin sagely; and

Cicely, owning to herself that the remark might be true, did not

contradict her. She felt the less inclined to discuss the point that

a certain selfishness in Geneviève’s allusions to her life at home

diminished the sympathy she had felt anxious to express.

They were in good time at church, after all; they were almost the

first-comers, and, considerably to Geneviève’s disappointment,

when she followed her cousin to the Greystone pew, she found that it

was in an extreme corner of the church, commanding no view of the

rest of the congregation. It was very vexatious; she had set her

heart on observing the Fawcett family, on being—not

impossibly—observed and recognized by them, and, full of these

hopes, she had put on her very best bonnet—for nothing, as it

turned out, but a walk with Cicely through the woods, and the feeble

admiration of a row of old women in poke bonnets and scarlet cloaks.

It was not an impressive or picturesque little church inside by any

means, though outside, its ivy-grown old walls looked respectably

venerable, if nothing more. It had never, however, occurred to Cicely

Methvyn to remark its ugliness; it had been familiar to her since

earliest childhood, the high dark pews, the top-heavy pulpit, and

sentry-box reading-desk, even the very stains on the plaster had been

a part of Sunday to her ever since she could remember, and had they

been suddenly removed, their absence would have pained her, for, like

most sensitive children, she shrank curiously from change. But on

this particular Sunday, the bareness and general unattractiveness of

the little building struck her as they had never done before; it had

been shut up for several weeks during the clerical interregnum, and

the superiority of Haverstock church had unconsciously impressed her;

then, too, the unusual brightness and radiance of the morning outside

rendered the contrast with the chill dinginess of the drab-coloured

walls the more striking. Cicely could not restrain a passing feeling

of pity for the new clergyman.

“How ugly he will think it, especially if he has been accustomed to

any of those beautiful new churches,” she thought to herself,

recalling what she had heard of Mr. Hayle, and she watched with some

interest for his appearance.

He was not the least like what she had expected; he was a small,

boyish-looking man—boyish-looking in a way which advancing years

would not affect. He read well, and without hesitation, and his

voice, though low, was not weak; the only nervousness he betrayed was

at the beginning of his sermon, but he quickly recovered his

self-possession as he went on. There was nothing remarkable about the

sermon; it was not in itself strikingly original, nor expressed in

particularly good English, yet Miss Methvyn found herself compelled

to listen to it with attention, and though it contained quite the

average amount of faulty logic and sweeping denunciation, it failed

to irritate or even to annoy her. The gentleness and earnestness of

the preacher’s manner disarmed her latent antagonism, the

matter-of-fact conviction with which he uttered such of the dogmas of

his school as his subject trenched upon, impressed her, in spite of

herself, while the evident goodness of the man, the single-minded

restrained fervour with which he spoke, aroused her admiration. Once

or twice during the service, Cicely glanced at her cousin in some

curiosity as to how she was affected by this, her first experience of

English church-going. Geneviève’s face looked sad; once, it seemed

to Cicely, its expression was troubled and bewildered as well.

“Poor girl!” she thought, “I wonder if it all seems very

strange to her. I dare say she is thinking about her Sundays at home,

when her own father is the preacher.”

Her pity was misplaced; at that moment, home and friends, Monsieur

Casalis and his sermons, were far enough from Geneviève’s

thoughts. She was looking sad, because there was no Mr. Fawcett to be

seen to admire the effect of her pretty bonnet; the distressed

expression arose from the furtive efforts she made from time to time

to obtain a view of that part of the church behind where she sat, in

hopes of catching sight of the tall, fair-haired figure of the young

milord.

Coming out of church, Miss Methvyn was waylaid by one of the scarlet

cloaks with a string of inquiries and confidences; Geneviève was not

partial to poor old women, and was just now too cross and

disappointed to simulate an interest she did not feel, so she walked

on slowly across the churchyard and a little way down the road by no

means in a happy or hopeful frame of mind. This was her first Sunday

in England, and already she was half inclined to wish herself back at

Hivèritz again; she was beginning to think life at the Abbey triste

in the extreme, and to feel provoked with her placid cousin’s

content therewith. She certainly liked the sensation of ease and

plenty, the comforts and luxuries and absence of the incessant small

economies of her home, but this measure of enjoyment was far from

being all that she had looked for in her new circumstances; she

wanted to be féted and admired and amused; she wanted to see

something of English society; she wanted Mr. Fawcett to fall

desperately in love with her, and he had not even been at church.

Suddenly there came a quick step behind her,—in her preoccupation

of mind she had wandered further than she had imagined; now she

turned round with a start at the sound of her own name, and found

herself face to face with Mr. Fawcett.

“Miss Casalis,” he exclaimed, “where in the world are you

going? Cicely sent me after you, and it is a very hot day for May,

let me remind you, and I haven’t a parasol.”

She looked up into his laughing face, all the brightness back again

in her own.

“I am so sorry, so very sorry,” she said with her soft accent and

pretty stress upon the r’s, “so sorry to have troubled you; I

thought not of it.”

“By George!” thought the young man, as he let his eyes rest for a

moment on the lovely blushing face, “she is frightfully pretty.”

Aloud he only made some little joking speech about his perfect

readiness to run all the way to Haverstock in her service if she

chose. “For this is the Haverstock Road you were posting along at

such a rate,” he explained.

A foolish commonplace little speech, but it made Geneviève blush all

the more; she had heard so much of the formality and the stiffness of

Englishmen, that she was ready to attach absurdly exaggerated

importance to the most ordinary little bit of gallantry, and to

treasure up in her memory, as fraught with meaning, idle words

forgotten by the speaker as soon as uttered.

“Where then is my cousin?” she said, turning as if to retrace her

steps, but Mr. Fawcett stopped her.

“Cicely will meet us across the field,” he said; “there is a

stile a few steps further on. You are not going home through the

woods again, Miss Casalis, you are coming back to Lingthurst with me

to luncheon; my mother ordered me to bring you and Cicely back—she

has got a cold or a headache or something, and wants cheering—and

so I came to church on purpose to fetch you. Wasn’t it good of

me?”

He spoke in his usual half-bantering tone, and Geneviève hardly

understood how much was fun, and how much earnest. So she said

nothing, but looked up again and smiled; then a thought struck her.

“Did Cicely say I too should go to your—to Miladi Fawcett’s

house to luncheon?” she inquired; “might it not be better that I

should return to Greystone to tell my aunt?”

“Walk all the way there alone?” exclaimed Mr. Fawcett.

“Certainly not. Of course you must come to Lingthurst, too. Cicely

sent word home by Mrs. Moore. It will be all right. Cicely often

comes back with us on Sundays. And didn’t I tell you, Miss Casalis,

that I came to church on purpose?”

Geneviève made no more objections.

“I knew not that you were at church,” she said; “I could not

see you.”

“Did you look for me?” said Mr. Fawcett lightly.

To his surprise Geneviève grew scarlet, and made no reply. He felt

vexed with himself for annoying her.

“French girls are brought up so primly,” he reflected. “I

suspect she thinks my manners very free and easy, poor little soul.

How sensitive she is!”

There was increased gentleness in his tone when next he spoke.

“We sit up in the gallery,” he said; “we have a sort of little

room up there all to ourselves. So I saw you, Miss Casalis, though

you didn’t see me.”

Geneviève felt that the new bonnet and lavender muslin had not been

donned in vain.

“There is Cicely,” continued Mr. Fawcett, “as happy as a king,

chatting to her old woman. Another stile, Miss Casalis, that’s

right; you are as light as a feather.”

Geneviève laughed merrily; the sound of the cheerful voices reached

Cicely in front; she stopped, said good-bye to her old friend, and

walked back slowly to meet her cousins.

“How much brighter Geneviève looks now,” she thought. “I

wonder if it is really true that French people are so changeable.

Those commonplace sayings must have had truth in them originally,

though one’s inclination is to doubt them. But, certainly,

Geneviève is not like an English girl; she is simpler and less

sophisticated; and yet—”

Geneviève met her with an apology—an apology disproportionate to

the occasion, it seemed to Cicely. She said so.

“Why, Geneviève, you talk as if I were an ogress,” she

exclaimed. “Why should I be so vexed with you for walking on a

little way? I should rather, if we are to be on such terms,

apologize to you for staying behind to talk to old Mrs. Perkins.”.

A little hurt feeling was perceptible in her tone. Geneviève’s

face assumed an expression of great distress, and her eyes grew dewy.

She fell a few steps behind without speaking. Mr. Fawcett walked on

beside Cicely. He looked annoyed.

“Are you put out about anything this morning, Cicely? You don’t

seem like yourself,” he remarked.

Miss Methvyn looked up quickly. “You mean that I spoke crossly to

Geneviève,” she said. “I didn’t mean it. But it is a little

disappointing, Trevor; I can’t get her to understand me. She seems

to forget that I am a girl like herself, and she seems in awe of me

in a way that hurts me. I wish she were more frank.”

“More frank,” repeated Trevor; “upon my word, Cicely, you are

difficult to please. If you had wished the poor little soul were a

little more dignified, a degree more self-confident, I could

understand you. It is no wonder she is in awe of you, as you say. You

must throw off some of your reserve if you want to win her

confidence.”

“I did not know you thought me reserved, Trevor,” said Cicely

sadly. And then, before he had time to answer, she turned back to

Geneviève. “Are you tired, dear?” she said kindly. “I am very

thoughtless in forgetting you are not accustomed to such long walks

as I.”

“I am not tired, thank you. That is to say, only the least in the

world,” said Geneviève, in a sweet but subdued tone. But Cicely

was not discouraged; she talked on persistently, drawing her cousin

into the conversation, till at last Geneviève unconsciously forgot

her role of pretty suffering saint, and Trevor his very rare fit of

annoyance, and they were all three the best of friends again.

“And how do you like Mr. Hayle, Cicely?” asked Mr. Fawcett when

there fell a little pause in the conversation.

“I don’t know,” she replied doubtfully. “I am sure he is a

good man, and there is something in his manner that interests one,

though I suspect I should disagree with him on almost every

subject.”

Mr. Fawcett began to laugh.

“That speech is so like you, Cis,” he said.

“How?” said Cicely; but she laughed too.

“Oh! I can’t tell you,” he replied; “it was just like you, I

can’t explain why. I saw that you were interested. I never saw you

so attentive before. I shall be getting jeal—”

“Trevor,” exclaimed Cicely remonstratingly. The half word had

caught Geneviève’s quick ears. She looked up with a sudden change

of expression, and something in her face struck Cicely curiously; but

in a moment the look had died out again, for Geneviève imagined that

she saw before her the reason of Cicely’s exclamation. A few steps

in front of them, in the lane they had just entered, a sudden turn

showed the figure of the young clergyman. He was walking very fast,

but Mr. Fawcett ran forward and overtook him.

“I looked for you after church,” he was saying to Mr. Hayle when

the cousins came up, “but you had disappeared. My mother is

expecting you at luncheon, you know.”

“At dinner, thank you,” replied Mr. Hayle, “I shall be very

happy to dine with you, but I never take luncheon.”

“Where are you off to, then, in such a hurry?” asked Mr. Fawcett;

“but I am forgetting,” he went on, “that you have not met Miss

Methvyn before; Cicely, may I introduce Mr. Hayle to you?”

The clergyman bowed, growing rather red as he did so. On nearer view

he looked even more boyish than at a little distance, and it was not

difficult to see that he was unaccustomed to society.

“I am afraid Lingthurst church must strike you unpleasantly,”

said Cicely, anxious to say something to set him at his ease. “I

don’t think it ever occurred to me before how very ugly it is. It

looked somehow, extra chilly and gloomy this morning. I even felt

grateful to the row of old Dame Durdens in their red cloaks.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Hayle calmly, “I think it is the ugliest

church, for its size, that I ever saw. I am glad you think it ugly,

Miss Methvyn, for I hope you may help me to do what can be done

towards improving it.”

Cicely looked a little startled.

“You must ask Lady Frederica in the first place,” she said.

“Lingthurst isn’t our church, Mr. Hayle; we only go there because

it is so much nearer than Haverstock.”

“And because it is so much nicer to walk through the woods than to

drive along the dusty high-road,” observed Mr. Fawcett quietly.

“Trevor,” said Miss Methvyn, her face flushing a little.

Geneviève began to laugh, but Mr. Hayle looked graver than before.

He disliked the faintest suspicion of a joke on certain subjects, and

he saw that Miss Methvyn seemed annoyed. He turned to her, completely

ignoring Mr. Fawcett’s remark.

“I am afraid there is not very much that can be done,” he said.

“At the best I do not hope for much at present.”

Then they talked about other things for a few minutes till their ways

separated, Mr. Hayle turning off in the direction of a small hamlet

about a mile away.

“This is my best way to Notcotts, is it not?” he inquired as he

said good-bye, and Mr. Fawcett went a few steps down the lane with

him to make his instructions more clear.

“What in the world is he going to Notcotts for?” Trevor exclaimed

as he rejoined the two girls.

“To see some sick person, no doubt,” said Cicely.

Mr. Fawcett gave a species of grunt. “I think he’s a prig,” he

announced, at which Cicely smiled, and Geneviève, who had not the

slightest idea what he meant, smiled too.

But now they were entering Lingthurst Park, and Miss Casalis’s

whole attention was absorbed in looking about her. It was a much

larger and grander place than Greystone, but neither as picturesque

nor as homelike. It was newer, in every sense of the word, for Sir

Thomas, the grandson of the first baronet, was but the second of his

family who had owned land in Sothernshire, and his position on first

succeeding to Lingthurst was not so assured as not to be strengthened

by his marriage with Lady Frederica St. Ives, one of the four

remaining unmarried daughters of an Irish earl of long descent and

small possessions. Lady Frederica was a cousin on the mother’s side

of Colonel Methvyn; she was not very young, and not very wise; she

was very poor, and had been very pretty; she was still

pleasing-looking, amiable, gentle, and perfectly absorbed in her

immediate interests. So, though Sir Thomas, who might have been a

usefully clever man, had contented himself with taking prizes for fat

oxen and occasional appearances on the board, and though Lady

Frederica’s silliness did not diminish with her years, the Fawcett

household was looked upon as a happy and prosperous one, and there

were not many mothers in Sothernshire who would have been other than

delighted to welcome young Trevor as a son-in-law. And of this fact

the person chiefly concerned was perfectly well aware. There was,

perhaps, but one girl of his acquaintance whose feelings to him he

believed to be completely unaffected by his present position or

future prospects, and this girl was his cousin Cicely—Cicely, whom

he had been trusted to hold in his little arms when he himself was a

tiny lad, whose first toddling steps he had proudly guided—sweet

Cicely, who was to be his wife “some day.”

But of nearly all that concerned Trevor Fawcett, Geneviève was in

ignorance. She only knew that he was rich and handsome and agreeable;

very nearly, if not quite, fulfilling the conditions she had

prescribed to herself as requisite for the hero of her romance. And

the sight of his home went far to confirm her predilections.

Everywhere at Lingthurst signs of wealth were scattered by a profuse

but not vulgar hand. Everything was perfect of its kind, and

perfectly well kept. There were no weeds in the borders, no grass on

the paths, which was more than could be said for all the byways and

corners of the queer, rambling, old garden at Greystone; the fruit

and vegetables were always the finest and earliest of the season; the

Lingthurst “glass” was the boast of the country-side. Indoors it

was the same; carpets, curtains, sofas, chairs and tables of the best

make and material; huge plate-glass windows, beautiful inlaid

fireplaces, ormolu, marqueterie, Sèvres and Dresden everywhere. And

all, to do the owners or their advisers justice, in unexceptionably

good taste. There was no over-crowding, no heterogeneous mixture of

colour, no obtrusive “gold.” But there were no quaint cloister

passages like those at the Abbey, no latticed casements or deep

window seats; no many-cornered, oak wainscoted room with the ivy

leaves, peeping in at the windows, like the old library at Greystone.

And when Cicely Methvyn, as she could not but do sometimes, glanced

forward at her future life as mistress of this rich domain. When she

thought of the days that must come, the days when her free,

unfettered, girl life would be a thing of the past; when father and

mother, already grey haired and ageing, would be further from their

darling than the few miles which separated Greystone from

Lingthurst,—when she looked forward to these things, sometimes

Cicely’s heart failed her; why, she knew not. But a vague wish

would arise that Trevor had been her brother; that he, not she, were

her father’s heir. “If I could have looked forward to living on

always at Greystone with Trevor, just as we are now!” she would say

to herself; “I dread changes. I could have been happy never to have

been married. Only, if Trevor had been my brother, he would have

married—perhaps he would have married some one like Geneviève.”

This last thought came into her head suddenly, as they were all

sitting at luncheon this Sunday in the grand Lingthurst dining-room,

and though she smiled at herself for speculating on impossibilities,

the picture of Geneviève as Trevor’s wife recurred persistently to

her imagination. The pastor’s daughter was looking so bright and so

very pretty, she seemed so wonderfully at home among the luxuries and

splendours of Lingthurst, that Cicely found it difficult to realise

the novelty and strangeness of the girl’s position. They all made

so much of her; Sir Thomas was evidently struck by her beauty, and

Lady Frederica, who prided herself a good deal on her “foreign

travels,” and smattering of French and Italian, kept up a constant,

gentle chatter about Hivèritz and Paris, and the charms of

continental life, as if Geneviève were a little princess travelling

incognita. And Geneviève sat on Sir Thomas’s right hand, with Mr.

Fawcett beside her, and smiled and blushed and talked her pretty

broken English; all with the most perfect propriety, but with a

curious, indefinable taking it all as a matter of course in her

manner, which surprised Cicely—surprised and puzzled her, and gave

her again the uneasy sensation of not understanding her cousin, of

having been mistaken in the estimate she had formed of her character.

And gradually the feeling of bewilderment affected Cicely’s manner.

She grew graver and more silent than usual, and felt provoked with

herself for being so, especially when Sir Thomas’s inquiry if she

had a headache, drew everybody’s attention to her.

“Oh! no, thank you, I am perfectly well,” she answered. But

somehow the words sounded uneasy and constrained, and she felt glad

when Lady Frederica proposed that they should stroll through the

gardens before getting ready for afternoon church.

Sir Thomas’s gout was bad in one foot, and his wife was supposed to

be suffering from influenza, so there were only Mr. Fawcett and Miss

Winter to accompany the two girls in their ramble. And Geneviève

being the stranger, it naturally came to pass that Mr. Fawcett

appointed himself her guide to the points of interest about the

grounds. So Cicely was left behind with Miss Winter, and for some

minutes the two walked on in silence.

Miss Winter was fussy, but truly kind. She had known Cicely since she

was a little girl, and loved her dearly. And, somehow, the order of

things to-day was hardly to her liking. She could not bear to see the

girl so silent and abstracted.

“You are not well, my dear Miss Methvyn,” she exclaimed at last.

“I am perfectly certain you are over-tired, or anxious, or

something.”

Cicely started. “No, indeed, I am not,” she replied hastily, “I

am quite well, I assure you, Miss Winter. I am only very rude and

selfish—I am a little dull, perhaps,” she added hesitatingly,

“but it is very silly of me.”

She stifled a little sigh—she could not tell Miss Winter that for,

as far as she could remember, the first time in her life, Trevor had

to-day spoken unkindly and hurtingly to her.

“Everybody is dull sometimes,” said Miss Winter consolingly.

“Are you?” said Cicely. Then it struck her the question was a

thoughtless one, and she looked up quickly to see if Miss Winter felt

it to be such. “I beg your pardon,” she added hurriedly.

But there was no annoyance visible in the old maid’s kindly face. A

face that had once been young and round and pretty, perhaps, thought

Cicely with a sort of dreamy pity as she looked at it,—a face that

still lighted up cheerily at small enough provocation.

“Why should you beg my pardon, my dear?” she exclaimed. “Of

course, I am dull sometimes, but I try not to give way to it. You

know, my dear, it is part of the business of my life to be

cheerful.”

Poor Miss Winter! Cicely pitied her more than ever she had done

before. But the little diversion of thought had been salutary.

They drove to afternoon church in the Lingthurst brougham, and when

the service was over Miss Methvyn’s pony carriage was waiting for

them. So Cicely had no more talk with Trevor alone. But as he was

putting the reins in her hand, at the church door, he whispered,

“You didn’t think me cross to-day; did you, dear? I am very sorry

if I seemed so.”

A grateful glance was all the reply she had time for, but she drove

home with a lighter heart.

And, “Ah! my cousin, what a pleasant day we have had!” exclaimed

Geneviève. “La famille Fawcett est vraiment charmante; and, ah!”

she added ecstatically, “quelle belle maison, que de jolies choses!

Ah! que je voudrais étre riche!”

“Geneviève!” exclaimed Cicely, in a tone of some remonstrance.

But Geneviève only laughed. Then sobering down again, she repeated

her speech of the morning. “Ah! Cécile,” she said, “you

don’t know what it is to be poor.”

CHAPTER VIII.

“THE WITCHCRAFT OF A TEAR.”

“She has . . . A heart. . . how shall I say? . . . too soon made

glad, . . . Too easily impressed. . .”

Bells and Pomegranates.

THE week that followed this bright Sunday was dull and rainy.

Geneviève went about the house shivering, and was not consoled by

Cicely’s calm assurance that it was only what was to be expected

for the time of year.

“You forget what a different part of the world you are in,

Geneviève,” she said, “for when you first came, the weather was

exceptionally beautiful for May, and there was nothing to remind you

of being so much further north. Our Mays are generally cold and dull

and very often rainy. The real summer has not begun yet. Last week

was only a foretaste of it.”

“And how long will it last when it does come?” questioned

Geneviève pathetically. “One, two, three weeks perhaps, and

everybody cries ‘how beautiful!’ ‘what weather’ ‘superb!’

as if they had never seen the sun before, and then it is over, and

again the mists and the fogs. Ah! yes, it is true. I love not the

English climate, my cousin.”

“But, my dear child, how can you judge of it yet?” remonstrated

Cicely. “You have only been here ten or twelve days. Everybody

prophesies a beautiful summer this year.”

She was standing by the library window, looking out into the little

garden, where the spring flowers were beginning to look passées

already, and the heavy rain made little brown pools in the gravel

paths. It had poured steadily for three days.

“It is very dull,” she allowed, as she turned away from the

window; “but it may clear this evening. I shall go out to-morrow

whether it does or not. I can’t stay in the house any longer. You

had better come too, Geneviève, if you are not afraid of catching

cold. I dare say it is from not having been out that you feel dull.

At Hivèritz you live so much in the open air, don’t you?”

“It depends,” said Geneviève indifferently. “When the days

begin to get hot, we go not much out except in the evening. Now it is

already very hot at Hivèritz—every one will be going away.

Soon—next week probably, papa, mamma, my brothers, all the family

will go to the mountains.”

She gave a little sigh. Cicely looked at her sympathisingly.

“You have not had a letter from home for some days, have you

Geneviève?” she said.

“Not since two—three days after I came,” the girl replied.

“There will be one soon, I suppose. I wrote last week—it was the

day Mr. Fawcett came first, and the letter of my aunt was not ready.

You remember, Cicely? Yes, I could have a letter to-morrow perhaps.”

She had worked herself into a little animation. Feeling dull about

things in general, she now began to think she must be home-sick, and

was quite ready to accept Cicely’s sympathy.

“You might have a letter this evening,” said Miss Methvyn. “I

wonder if any one has been at Haverstock this afternoon. Oh! by the

bye,” she went on, “if there is a letter for you, you will get it

soon, for Trevor is coming here this evening, and he will be passing

through Haverstock, and he always brings our letters when he comes

that way.”

“Haverstock,” repeated Geneviève, looking puzzled but

interested, “one passes not by there in coming from Lingthurst?”

“No,” said Cicely, “but Mr. Fawcett isn’t coming from

Lingthurst. He has been in town since Monday.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Geneviève; but there was a good deal in that

“oh” little suspected by Cicely.

Her spirits rose on the spot. “I hope there will be a letter for

her,” thought her cousin, half reproaching herself for a suggestion

that might end in disappointment.

“I wonder how Cicely knew of Mr. Fawcett’s being away,” thought

Geneviève, “I am sure he did not speak of it on Sunday.”

Mr. Fawcett came and stayed an hour, but he brought no letter for

Geneviève. It was just possible, however, he said, that it might

have been overlooked; his groom had asked for the Lingthurst and

Greystone letters on his way to the station, and had got them rather

hurriedly.

“So you may have it in the morning after all,” said Cicely

kindly, and she was pleased to see how cheerfully Geneviève bore the

disappointment.

Trevor was in great spirits. He had enjoyed his few days in town and

was full of the newest small talk. He grumbled at his mother’s

decision to remain at Lingthurst through the season, and tried to

make Cicely discontented with her hard fate in having to spend it at

the Abbey, by his descriptions of the pictures he had seen, the music

he had heard, and the people he had met. But Cicely was not to be

tempted.

“I am very glad we are not going to town this year,” she said

quietly, and Geneviève opened wide her dark eyes in astonishment,

and marvelled of what she was made.

“Next year I hope,” began Mr. Fawcett, but Cicely interrupted him

with a sudden inquiry as to when he intended going to town again, and

the sentence was never completed.

Next morning did bring a letter for Geneviève. The post-bag came

just as they were finishing breakfast; there were letters for both

Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely, and little mutual discussions of their

contents in which their young cousin was not interested, followed, so

she carried off hers to her own room to read it in private.

Her home affections were certainly by no means as vivid or vehement

as Cicely imagined, yet Geneviève after all was only a girl of

eighteen, separated for the first time from her parents and early

associations, and there was genuine eagerness in the way she tore

open the long, thin envelope and hastened to read the contents. It

was a loving and motherly letter. Madame Casalis found it easier to

express in written than in spoken words the warm affection of her

nature, and Geneviève was touched by what she read. Two or three

tears rolled down her cheeks, and blistered the thin foreign paper.

“La pauvre chère mère,” she murmured to herself, and her heart

smote her for the little consideration she had given to the pain the

recent separation must have cost her care-worn, unselfish mother.

Then she read on with interest about the family plans and

arrangements—how they were leaving for the mountains in a few days;

how the boys had done well at the last examination at the college;

about Eudoxie’s summer frocks even, and Mathurine’s successful

confitures, about Madame Casalis having met Madame Rousille and

Stéphanie in the street, and of their affectionate inquiries for

Geneviève. “They are going to St. Jean-de-Luz for sea-bathing,”

wrote Madame Casalis, “and Madame Rousille has expressed her regret

that thou wast no longer here; without that, she had hoped to invite

thee to accompany them for one or two weeks.”

“Ah! yes,” thought Geneviève with a little toss of the head,

“ah! yes! It is plain to be seen I am no longer only the little

Casalis, ma chère Madame Rousille! A day may come when thy awkward

Stéphanie will think with yet more respect of her old school

companion.”

She smiled at a thought that crossed her mind. “Yes,” she said to

herself, “I should like to see what Stéphanie would think of

Lingthurst;” and for a minute or two she sat still in a pleasant

reverie, the letter lying idly on her lap. Then she took it up again.

Had she read it all? No, there were a few lines on the other side of

the last page; a postscript bearing the date of a day later than the

letter itself.

“I have just received the letter of my cousin Helen,” said the

postscript,” thy aunt, as she tells me she makes thee call her. She

tells me of thy meeting again with the family Fawcett; that is to say

that the relations of Colonel Methvyn are indeed the same as the

English family of thy adventure! It is truly very amusing that it

should be so. I remember them well. I wish now I had tried to see

Lady Frederica at the time when I heard the name from thee; it would

have been pleasant to me to see some of my child’s new friends.

Give the enclosed to Mrs. Methvyn. I have but a moment in which to

write to her, so it is not worth a separate postage; but I shall

write soon again to thank her more fully for all her kindness to

thee.”

Where was the enclosure? Geneviève looked about her,—yes, there it

lay on the carpet at her feet, whither it had fluttered when she

first hastily drew out the letter from its envelope. A tiny enclosure

it was, evidently but a half sheet of paper, but pretty closely

written upon, as Geneviève could see from the blank side. How she

wished her mother had forgotten to enclose it, how she wished she

could read its contents! The sight of it had destroyed all her

pleasure in her own letter, for the postscript suggested an

unpleasant probability. In this little note to her aunt, written

immediately on the receipt of Mrs. Methvyn’s letter, was it not

almost certain that her mother would allude to Geneviève’s

recognition by Mr. Fawcett, the result of which would be the betrayal

to Cicely and her mother of the indirect falsehood in which

Geneviève had taken refuge that evening when asked by her aunt how

it was that Madame Casalis had not recognised the familiar name of

Fawcett? Geneviève had given Mrs. Methvyn to understand that her

mother had not done so, she had even suggested as reasons for this

her own pronunciation of the name and Madame Casalis’ preoccupation

of mind at the time? And why had she thus misled her aunt? Because

she did not wish the Methvyns to know that she was aware of the

probable identity of the two families and that her mother had

immediately suggested it. She did not want them to know that she had

purposely refrained from frankly inquiring about the Fawcetts,

because she felt instinctively that they would have thought her

reticence strange and ungirl-like. She had no explanation to give

that they would have thought adequate, or satisfactory, or even

intelligible, and indeed, seen with the eyes of her present

discomfort, such reasons as she was conscious of having had for her

reserve now appeared to herself foolish in the extreme; and even

could she bring herself to confess to the only one she could plainly

express in words—the romantic anticipation of bursting upon the

hero of her adventure surrounded by the prestige of mystery and

unexpectedness she was painfully certain that her cousin Cicely would

be the last girl in the world to sympathise with such folly.

“She is so stiff—so English—she takes everything ‘au pied de

la lettre,’” reflected. Geneviève with a curious mixture of

respect and contempt. “She would think me so silly!”

Her cheeks burned at the thought. Then her glance fell again on the

tiresome little letter. What a complication it, or her own folly, had

brought her into! What disagreeable sifting of motives, what

uncomfortable suspicions, what generally undesirable stirring of the

smooth waters of her present surroundings might not the reading of

this stupid note be the introduction to! If only her mother had not

been in such a hurry to answer her aunt’s letter, there might have

been time for Geneviève to write and beg her not to allude to her

recognition of the Fawcett family by name; the girl felt sure she

could trust to her mother to comply with such a request, and to wait

for an explanation till some future day when Geneviève might give it

by word of mouth—(by which time she hoped her mother would have

forgotten all about it). Then a new idea struck her, why should she

not still do so, why not take advantage of the fortunate circumstance

of the note’s being confided to her care? She looked at it, she

turned it about, and wished that she could read it; but it was

sealed, and was most plainly not intended for other eyes than Mrs.

Methvyn’s. And somehow, the idea of destroying it startled

Geneviève.

“I know what I shall do,” she thought suddenly. “I shall send

it back to mamma! I will write to her to-day and enclose it, and I

will beg her to answer my aunt’s letter at once, and not to tell my

aunt that she had said to me the Fawcetts might be the same she had

known. That will make it all right—my aunt will not have expected

an answer so soon—the few days’ delay cannot do harm.”

She set to work immediately, she wrote an affectionate letter to

Madame Casalis, explaining her reason for retaining the little note

and begging her to write without the allusion she dreaded. “Say

only, dear mamma,” she wrote, “that it was curious the English

family should be the same, that it was a pity Miladi Fawcett came not

to our house; but say no more, and trust to thy Geneviève to explain

to thee afterwards her reasons.” Then she begged her mother to

forgive her for what she was doing, not to think she was in any way

forgetting her good counsels now that she was away from her, and

wound up with loving assurances of her affection and pretty little

expressions of gratitude for the motherly love and care she had never

valued so highly as since she had been separated from this mère

chérie.

When the letter with its enclosure was all ready to be posted;

sealed, addressed, and stamped, Geneviève breathed more freely. She

put it into her pocket to be ready for the post-bag, and went

downstairs to look for her aunt and cousin, uneasy lest her long

absence should have attracted their attention. They were not in the

library, but her cousin’s maid, whom she met in the passage, told

her that Miss Cicely was busy writing in the colonel’s room, and

that her aunt was out in the garden, giving directions about some new

beds.

“It is all right then; they have not missed me,” thought

Geneviève, and she went down again to the library, and played and

sang in perfect comfort till the gong sounded for luncheon.

It was not till they were seated at the table that anything was said

about her letter.

“You heard from home to-day, my dear,” said her aunt. “I hope

you had good news. By the bye, was there nothing for me in your

letter?”

Geneviève looked startled and confused. “Nothing for you, aunt?”

she repeated, as if hardly taking in the sense of Mrs. Methvyn’s

words.

“Yes, don’t you understand me, my dear?” said her aunt, with a

touch of impatience, “was there no message? I half expected a

letter myself, though—no, perhaps there was hardly time—your

mother did not say she had got my letter, did she?”

Geneviève looked still more bewildered. “Oh! yes,” she said

slowly, “there was a message. I did not understand.”

“Well, don’t look so frightened about it, my dear child,”

exclaimed her aunt, half inclined to laugh at her, “tell me the

message. No one is vexed with you when you don’t understand.”

Geneviève looked relieved—the little discussion had given her time

to collect her wits; she must tell that her mother had received Mrs.

Methvyn’s letter, otherwise her aunt would be expecting an

immediate direct acknowledgment of it which would not come.

“I will read you what mamma says,” she replied, putting her hand

into her pocket. “Ah! no,” she exclaimed, “the letter is

upstairs! But I remember the message quite exactly, I think mamma

told me to thank you much for your letter.”

“Ah! then she had got it,” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn.

“Yes,” said Geneviève, “she had just got it, just as she sent

off my letter. She was very busy, she said, preparing to go to the

mountains, but she sent many loves to you and my cousin, and she said

she would write soon. I think,” she added more slowly, as if

endeavouring to recall the exact words, in reality calculating how

soon her mother’s letter could arrive, “I think she said she

would write to you, my aunt, as soon as they get to the mountains.

There mamma is not so occupied, so affairée as at Hivèritz.”

“Still I wish she had sent me a word,” said Mrs. Methvyn, looking

hardly satisfied. “It is not like Caroline—she is generally so

exact. My letter was a very particular one. But if she got it, I dare

say it is all right.”

An uneasy look came over Geneviève’s face. Cicely, observing it,

fancied she was pained by the slight reflection on Madame Casalis’

carefulness.

“I am sure it is all right, mother,” she said, “you know

Geneviève says they are very busy, and the particular message about

the letter having arrived shows it must be all right.”

“Oh! yes, I have no doubt it is,” answered Mrs. Methvyn, and then

they talked of other things.

But Geneviève did not recover her cheerfulness or composure

thoroughly throughout the meal, and when it was over she seemed eager

to run off. Just as she was leaving the room, her aunt called after

her,

“I am quite satisfied with the message you gave me, Geneviève.

Don’t say anything to your mother about what I said, when you

write. It might worry her, and I am sure she is busy. You will not be

writing just yet, by the bye; it is only two days since you wrote,

isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Geneviève timidly.

“Then you won’t be writing again this week?”

“No,” said Geneviève still more timidly.

“I thought not. Tell me when you do, I shall have a few words for

you to enclose,” and then Geneviève was allowed to go.

“I am afraid she was hurt by what I said. I wish she did not look

so frightened,” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn uneasily. You know the

reason I was anxious about that letter Cicely? It contained a rather

large money order, for what Caroline had advanced for Geneviève’s

journey and her little outfit, poor child. I did not want her to hear

anything about the money, and therefore I think her mother should

have sent me a word direct. A mere message through Geneviève was not

business-like, and under the circumstances hardly delicate. I sent

more money than they advanced—I am sure they want it all, poor

people—and I thought they would have been so pleased. But I wish I

had not said anything about it to Geneviève.”

“It does not matter, dear mother,” said Cicely consolingly,

“you said so very little. When Geneviève gets to know us better,

she will not be so easily distressed. She is exceedingly sensitive.”

And through her own mind there passed the reflection that this

extreme sensitiveness of her cousin’s had nearly made her do her

injustice.

“I have once or twice been inclined to doubt her perfect

straightforwardness,” Cicely thought to herself. “That

frightened, startled look puzzled me. But this shows I have misjudged

her. She had just the same look just now, when there was nothing she

could possibly have not been straightforward about. I am glad of

it.”

Geneviève went slowly upstairs to her own room. Here was a new

complication! She must not let her aunt see the letter she had ready

to send, yet there must be no delay in despatching it. How angry she

felt with her want of presence of mind! It would have been so easy to

have told her aunt that she had already written again that something

in her mother’s letter required an immediate answer. Then her reply

could have been openly sent in the bag. But for this it was now too

late. She must get it posted without any one seeing or knowing of it.

How could this be managed? It was nearly two miles to Greybridge, the

nearest post-town. How could she possibly get there and back without

her absence being observed? Oh, how tiresome it was! She felt ready

to cry with annoyance and irritation.

Circumstances favoured her unexpectedly. Her cousin came running

upstairs in search of her.

“Geneviève,” she exclaimed, “would you like to go out with

mother, or would you mind being alone this afternoon? Mother can only

take one of us, for she is going in the pony-carriage to Haverstock.

If you go, Dawson will drive and you must sit behind, but if I go I

can drive and he can go behind. I really don’t care whether I go or

not; so choose, dear, which you would like.”

Quick as lightning a calculation of her chances flashed through the

girl’s mind. Was it likely she would have an opportunity of posting

her letter unobserved at Haverstock? Hardly. Better trust to the

certainty of two hours to herself and Greybridge.

“Thank you, dear Cicely,” she replied; “I think perhaps it

would be best for you to go to-day. I can amuse myself quite well

alone. I may go out a little perhaps. Yes, truly, Cicely, I think I

would rather not go,” she repeated, fancying her cousin looked a

little incredulous.

“Very well,” said Cicely. But she stood still for a minute or

two, as if not perfectly satisfied. “Geneviève,” she added

suddenly, “you are not refusing to go because you are afraid of

being with mother, are you?”

“Afraid of being with your mother!” exclaimed Geneviève, the

blood rushing to her face, “how do you mean, Cicely? Why need I be

afraid?”

“I don’t think you need be afraid,” replied her cousin, “I

only mean that you may misunderstand mother till you know her better.

She says little things sharply sometimes, but she never has any sharp

feelings, Geneviève; she has the kindest, gentlest heart in the

world. You need never be afraid of her, dear.”

“I know,” said Geneviève gently. “I know she is good, very

good, and so are you, Cicely. But I cannot help sometimes being

afraid. I am not so good. I am silly and foolish, yet I wish not

that you should think me so,” she added naïvely.

She looked up in her cousin’s face as she spoke, and Cicely smiled

kindly. Oh, how Geneviève wished she could tell her all about the

complication she had got herself into! But, no; it was not to be

thought of. After this, however, once clear of the present

entanglement, Geneviève resolved she would take care never to

involve herself in another; she really felt inclined for the future

to make a friend of her cousin, and to appeal to her for advice and

counsel.

So Cicely drove off with her mother to Haverstock, and as soon as she

was sure that the coast was clear, Geneviève equipped herself for

her walk to Greybridge.

She knew the way, as she had been there once with her cousin, and the

road was direct. She walked quickly, and reached the little

post-office without misadventure of any kind, and having safely

posted her letter, she turned with a considerably lightened heart to

retrace her steps.

Greybridge was a funny little town. There was a main street, with

half-a-dozen tiny short ones leading to nowhere, running out of it on

one side. And the great thoroughfare was, of course, called the High

Street. There were about a dozen shops in the place, a church in no

way remarkable, a melancholy and antiquated inn, which like so many

of its kin had been brisk and cheery in the old, old days, when his

Majesty’s mail clattered over the stones; and there were two or

three genteel little terraces, in which dwelt the doctor, the lawyer,

the curate, whoever he might be for the time, and several “genteel

ladies, always genteel,” though the patent of their gentility bore

date long ago. These ladies, spinsters for the most part, were, as a

matter of course, perfectly au fait of the doings and sayings, and

thoughts even, of their wealthier neighbours. They knew all about the

Methvyn household, the nearest of the adjacent families. They were

thoroughly posted up in all the details of little Charlie

Forrester’s illness and death, which latter event they had

predicted with surprising prevision; they knew far more than either

old Dr. Farmer or “the young man from Sothernbay” of the

concealed progress made by Colonel Methvyn’s somewhat mysterious

disease; they could have related all that took place in the family

conclave (which had never assembled) in which it was decided that

“Miss Cicely and young Mr. Fawcett were to make a match of it,”

and they quite understood Mrs. Methvyn’s reasons for sending for

“the little French girl” from unknown parts. So, as all their

windows looked out directly upon the High Street, and as the

post-office lay at the opposite end of the town from that by which

Geneviève entered it from the Abbey Road, it was not to be supposed

that Mdlle. Casalis’s progress to and from her destination would be

unobserved by the several pairs of eyes ever on the look out for a

little harmless excitement.

But Genevieve was as yet happily ignorant of the manners and customs

common to little out-of-the-way English country towns, so she made

her way to the post office, there deposited her letter, and turned to

go home again without misgiving, when suddenly she heard the

clattering of a horse’s hoofs upon the cobble-stones with which

Greybridge High Street was paved, and looking up, to her surprise,

recognised Mr. Fawcett riding slowly down the street in her direction.

Her first sensation was one of pleasure, her second of dismay—he

would tell of having seen her—her third, which she arrived at just

as the gentleman came within speaking distance, a mixture of the two

former; she was pleased, yet frightened to see him; she would take

him into her confidence to the extent of begging him not to betray

her. So it was an eager yet blushing face which looked up at Mr.

Fawcett from under the broad-brimmed straw hat which Geneviève had

chosen for her walk in the sun. And as the young man recognised the

sweet face, notwithstanding his amazement, its loveliness struck him

yet more vividly than heretofore.

“What in the world is she doing here? Is that the way they take

care of her? Why, my aunt would as soon think of Cicely’s cooking

the dinner as of letting her walk to Greybridge alone!” were his

first thoughts. And “I do believe she grows prettier every time I

see her,” came next.

But neither surprise nor admiration startled away his presence of

mind. He knew by woeful experience the preternatural sharpness of the

Greybridge eyes; he knew, too, that pretty Geneviève, the French

girl from over the sea, who had suddenly appeared on the scene as the

distant cousin of Mrs. Methvyn, was just the sort of person, and just

in the position, to attract all the gossip of the neighbourhood. He

could not understand what his aunt and cousin were thinking of to let

her wander about the country in this fashion by herself; but, he at

least, was determined to be on the safe side. As he came up to

Geneviève, he caught sight of two heads in suspicious proximity to

the window panes of the house he was passing, and one of them he

recognized as that of the greatest gossip of the little town. So

without drawing rein he lifted his hat to the young lady with

respectful deference, and rode on.

Geneviève had almost stopped, the smile of welcome was on her face,

the first words of greeting all but uttered. And when Mr. Fawcett,

after thus giving unmistakable sign of having observed her, proceeded

calmly on his way, her dismay was great—for half a second she stood

still in consternation. Then pride came to her aid. As if she thought

the young man had eyes in the back of his head, she walked steadily

and swiftly up the street, glancing neither to the right nor left,

hurried along the high-road till all signs of the town were left far

behind, then sat down on a low bank at the side and burst into tears.

And Miss Hinton withdrew her head from the window in disgust. “I

really thought young Fawcett and that French girl had met by

appointment,” she observed to the friend who was visiting her.

“It is just the sort of way French girls go on. You remember my

telling you she had come to be companion, or something to Mrs.

Methvyn when Miss Methvyn is married—not that that marriage will

ever take place—you mark my words, my dear. Young Fawcett is the

most bare-faced flirt, and Miss Cicely, for all her quietness, has a

temper of her own.”

Geneviève felt that she really had something to cry for. It was not

only wounded vanity that prompted her tears, she was seriously afraid

of the consequences of Mr. Fawcett’s having seen her in Greybridge.

Not that she was conscious of having done anything that could gravely

displease Mrs. Methvyn, but she dreaded the inquiries that might

result from the mention of her expedition. At home, certainly she

would never have thought of walking so far alone, but here in

England, in the country, she fancied it was different. Cicely and

she had walked to church by themselves on Sunday; it never occurred

to her that had she openly spoken of her intention, her aunt would

have expressed any objection. So of the real reason of Mr.

Fawcett’s strange behaviour, she had not any idea. She only fancied

he was tired of her, disliked her, perhaps, or found her

uninteresting, and, like the mere girl that she was found relief for

her mingled feelings in tears.

Suddenly there fell again on her ears the same sound that had

startled her in the High Street—horse’s hoofs coming behind her.

She did not hear them till they were nearer, this time, for the road

was less communicative than the Greybridge cobble-stones, and her

ears were dulled by her preoccupation. She had only just time to

start to her feet, to wish that she had a veil, or that her parasol

were an umbrella, when the steps slackened abruptly, and a well-known

voice addressed her by name.

“Miss Casalis,” exclaimed the new-comer, “I could hardly

believe it was you I saw just now. Have you run away from

Greystone?”

But the jesting tone failed to restore Geneviève’s composure. She

felt as if she would burst into tears if she tried to speak. Despite

the parasol and the broad-brimmed hat, something in her manner

startled Mr. Fawcett. He jumped off his horse, and passing his arm

through the reins walked on slowly beside her.

“Is there anything the matter, Geneviève?” he asked gravely,

though at a loss to picture to himself what could be the matter to

cause Mrs. Methvyn’s niece to be sitting crying by the wayside.

“No, thank you,” she replied, controlling herself to the best of

her ability, “there is nothing the matter. If you thought there was

something, what for then did you not ask me when you saw me just

now—in the street down there?” and she made a little gesture in

the direction of Greybridge.

“You were not crying then?” said Mr. Fawcett, somewhat at a loss

what to say, and choosing perhaps the unwisest words he could have

uttered.

“And because you think I cry now, you follow me and—and—”

Geneviève’s inconsequent accusation was lost in a fresh flood of

tears.

Mr. Fawcett was considerably embarrassed. It was very evident to him,

even though he was not gifted with peculiarly acute perception, that

the girl was offended with him. It was annoying, but somehow he could

not feel annoyed. He could only feel sorry and concerned and vexed

with himself for his own clumsiness.

“I beg you to forgive me,” he said earnestly. “I did not

know—how could I—that you were really in distress. I would not

have followed you if I had known it would vex you. At least—”

The gentleness and deference of his tone disarmed Geneviève’s very

passing indignation.

“There is nothing wrong,” she said, anxious to take him into her

confidence to the extent she felt necessary. “I wanted to tell you

when I saw you in the street; it was only that I had a letter to

post, and I thought I would walk with it to Greybridge. And now I

fear my aunt and my cousin might be angry if they knew. It was

foolish of me.”

“Then did they not know of your going so far alone?” inquired

Trevor, rather mystified.

“Oh! no, they are gone to the other town—to Haverstock, in the

little carriage, the pony-carriage that my cousin conducts herself.

There is not place for three,” and half unconsciously

Geneviève’s voice took a plaintive inflection.

“I don’t think it is very—” began Mr. Fawcett more vehemently

than usual, but he stopped suddenly. “And so you came all the way

to Greybridge to pass the time, I suppose? There are far prettier

walks than along the high-road.”

“It was not that only,” said Geneviève, her tone growing lower,

the scarlet rushing back to her cheeks, “It was that I wished to

post my letter myself.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the young man, somewhat unreasonably disgusted

at having, as he fancied, lighted upon some silly love affair. “I

fancied French girls were so well looked after,” he thought to

himself.

“It was a letter to my mother,” pursued Geneviève calmly, and an

instant revulsion of feeling for the injustice he had done her took

place in Trevor’s mind, “and I wished not that they should see

it, because I wrote there are but two days, and I feared—” she

stopped and hesitated, “I wish not that Cicely should think me

silly,” she added.

“Think you silly for writing home often! Cicely, who is so over

head and ears devoted to her own home! How could she?” said Mr.

Fawcett. There was a slight undertone of bitterness in his words

which Geneviève did not understand. She feared that he was firing up

in her cousin’s defence.

“Perhaps she would not think so,” she replied meekly.

“But—but—will you not tell that I walked alone to Greybridge? I

am so strange here, I fear to do wrong,” she added pleadingly, the

tears rushing to her eyes again.

“Of course I will say nothing about it if you ask me not,” said

Mr. Fawcett. “But I assure you, my dear child, you mistake Cicely.

I know her so well, you see—I understand her—and she is the best

and kindest girl in the world.”

But in his heart he felt a certain irritation against “the best and

kindest girl in the world.” “She has chilled this poor little

soul by that cold manner of hers,” he said to himself.

“I am foolish,” said Geneviève humbly. “I always am afraid.”

“But you are not afraid of me?” said Trevor rashly. The dewy,

dark eyes which had been raised to his, drooped, and again the soft

colour flooded over her face.

“No,” she whispered, “because you are so kind, so very kind.”

“Then the next time you are in any trouble about letters or

anything, you will tell me first, won’t you?” he said

encouragingly, “and not set off to Greybridge alone. And if you

want to know some of the pretty walks nearer home, I shall be

delighted to show you them. Any day, for instance, that Cicely is

busy with her father or mother—I know she is often so. There are

some awfully pretty walks between the Abbey and Lingthurst Woods.”

“Thank you,” said Geneviève, her face lighting up with pleasure,

“oh! thank you, and thank you too so much that you will not say how

far I went to-day,” she added, more timidly.

They had come to a point where the roads to Lingthurst and Greystone

separated. Just then there came the sound of rapidly approaching

wheels behind.

“I think I must leave you now,” said Mr. Fawcett. “You can’t

miss your way. I must hurry home, I fear.”

He shook hands with even more than his ordinary gentle empressement.

“The English way of shaking hands,” as Geneviève called it, and

which she so admired. Nevertheless, a slight uneasiness was visible

in his manner which puzzled her a little.

He mounted and rode off quickly, managing, however, to obtain a

glimpse of the dog cart, now at no great distance. He recognized the

driver as one of the Abbey grooms, but could not identify the person

beside him.

“Whoever it is, he can hardly have seen me,” he thought, as he

galloped off, and the reflection reassured him, for he still dreaded

any gossip about Geneviève’s escapade. “I hope she will be more

careful in future,” he said to himself. “I wish I could give

Cicely a hint to be more tender with her. I am glad she has confided

her little troubles to me, for in my position of course I am like a

sort of brother to her. There would be no risk of gossip in her

walking about as much as she likes if she would keep to the Abbey

grounds. I must try to make her understand. I wonder, by the bye, if

she quite knows how things are between Cicely and me. Surely she

does—”.

But a slight cloud overspread his bright face.

CHAPTER IX.

OF THE SAME OPINION STILL.

“Then I said, ‘I covet truth, Beauty is unripe childhood’s

cheat— I leave it behind with the games of youth.’”

R. W. Emerson.

MRS. CRICHTON had left Sothernbay a few days before her brother’s

first visit to Colonel Methvyn, so Mr. Guildford was alone again. He

missed his sister more than usual; his house looked very dull and

uninviting when he returned to it late that Friday evening from

Greystone, and, not having many external calls upon his time, for the

invalids’ season was now past, he spent the greater part of the

next few days in his study.

When the following week was about half over, he began to think of

going to Greystone again, and a letter which he received one morning

from Dr. Farmer, decided him on choosing that same day for his visit.

So—as was arranged between him and Colonel Methvyn—he telegraphed

to the Abbey, naming the train by which he would reach Greybridge,

and, on arriving there, found the dog-cart in waiting.

The driver this time was not his old friend Dawson, but a much less

communicative person, whose observations were confined to “Gently

then, old lady,” and “Wo-ho now.” He was evidently not

accustomed to driving the “quality,” and his whole attention was

given to his steed; so they drove on for a mile or two in silence.

Suddenly a turn in the road made visible a little group of figures in

front; they were those of a man and a woman and a horse, walking

slowly along side by side. Mr. Guildford observed them with a sort of

half idle curiosity, but before the dog-cart was near enough for him

to distinguish the features of the man and the girl, they separated,

the girl entering a road to the right, the man mounting his horse and

riding on quickly; but, before separating, they had stood still for a

moment, evidently saying “Good-bye,” thus giving the carriage

time to approach them more nearly. Suddenly Mr. Guildford was

surprised by a remark from his companion.

“She’s a nice little mare, sir, isn’t she—her as the young

squire’s on?”

He pointed with his whip to the gentleman in front, now fast leaving

them far behind.

“The young squire?” repeated Mr. Guildford.

“Yes, sir, young Mr. Fawcett.”

“Oh! I did not recognize him,” said Mr. Guildford; “that was

Mr. Fawcett in front of us then leading his horse?”

“Yes, sir, him as were walking with the young

lady—Maddymuzelle.”

Then he relapsed into silence again.

When they came to where the Abbey road branched off, the figure of

Geneviève walking quickly in front was again distinctly visible; but

before they overtook her, Mr. Guildford had made a little change in

his plans.

“Is there not a short cut to Dr. Farmer’s house somewhere about

here?” he inquired of the groom, and finding that it was so, and

that ten minutes’ quick walking across the fields would save a long

round by road, he left the dog-cart, sending by the servant a message

to Colonel Methvyn explaining the delay in his appearance.

Half an hour later Mr. Guildford entered the Abbey grounds, having

executed the little commission entrusted to him by Dr. Farmer. He

walked slowly up the drive, enjoying the sight of the pleasant,

quaint old garden, which as yet he had hardly seen by daylight in its

summer dress; it was a garden such as there are few of

nowadays,—the paths edged with box, whole beds of lavender and

sweet William, sweet peas and clove-pinks, marigold, and snap-dragon;

for on this side of the house the good taste of its owners allowed of

no “new-fangled” gardening; all—from the moss-grown sun-dial on

the lawn, to the curiously cut yew-trees guarding the entrance to the

bowling green,—remained as it might have been in many a long, long

ago summer, when the ever-young flower faces smiled to old-world

Cicelys in hoop and farthingale, just as they did now to the

fair-haired girl who came swiftly across the smooth short grass to

meet the stranger, the mellow light of the afternoon sun falling full

upon her.

The young man started when he first caught sight of her, yet at that

very instant she had been in his thoughts.

“I am so very glad you have come today,” she said, as she drew

near; “my mother and I have just come back from Haverstock,—and

oh! by the bye, I must apologise for that stupid old Hodge having

been sent to meet you at Greybridge; he can’t drive a bit, but the

coachman was away, and Dawson out with us, when your telegram

came,—and we have found my father in a perfect fever of eagerness

to go out a little. He has not been out since the day before you were

here last, it has been so much colder, you know; do you think he may

come out this?”

“I don’t see any reason against it,” said Mr. Guildford; “the

air is fresh, but perfectly mild. Shall I go and talk about it to

Colonel Methvyn before it gets later?”

“Yes,” said Cicely, “I think he is anxious to see you.”

She turned and walked back again with him across the lawn in the

direction of the house.

“I should have been here earlier,” said Mr. Guildford, “but I

came round by Dr. Farmer’s; he wrote to ask me to look out some

books and papers that he wants forwarded, and that his servants could

not have found.”

“Did he say how he was?” asked Cicely.

“Yes, he says he is better,” replied Mr. Guildford; “but I

thought the tone of his letter seemed dull, and he says he finds it

rather lonely work travelling about all by himself.”

“Yes, poor old man,” said Miss Methvyn thoughtfully; “I think

it is very sad to see any one grow old with no one belonging to them.

Dr. Farmer has nobody at all.”

“Was he never married?” asked Mr. Guildford.

“No,” said Cicely, “but he was going to be married once. There

was some story about it, my father knows it I think—Dr. Farmer

belongs to this neighbourhood—the girl died I believe. Fancy! it

must be nearly fifty years ago, and I speak of her as a girl; but she

will always have seemed a girl to him.”

“Yes,” replied the young man, “to him she will always have been

sweet-and-twenty. And if she had lived to be Mrs. Farmer, she would

probably have grown stout and buxom, and not impossibly the cares of

life would have developed a temper.”

Miss Methvyn glanced at her companion with some curiosity. Then she

said quietly, “You are not really the least cynical, Mr. Guildford,

why do you talk as if you were?”

He smiled, “Do you dislike it?”

“I think I do,” she said. “Don’t think me rude for saying

that that tone of talk is so commonplace nowadays, that—”

She stopped short. He smiled again, but with a slight change of

expression, “You mean that the affectation of it is commonplace, I

think,” he said. “It is very easily affected, but I was in

earnest. I think it is well to look on both sides of a possible

picture, and a disappointed bachelor should surely be allowed the

consolation of thinking that, after all, the fairest flowers do fade,

or at least lose their beauty.”

“But youth and beauty are not everything,” remonstrated Cicely

with a very unusual colour in her cheeks.

“They are a good deal,” said Mr. Guildford drily.

A slight look of disappointment over-clouded the girl’s fair face,

but she said nothing. A curious feeling came over her that the man

beside her was not expressing his true sentiments, and this instinct

made her averse to say more. But Mr. Guildford understood her better

than she thought.

“You are disgusted with me, Miss Methvyn,” he said. “You think

I am worse than commonplace, that I don’t believe in there being

women whose grandeur and real beauty have little to say to ‘the

beauty that must die.’ But you are mistaken.”

Cicely’s face cleared; but she still looked puzzled.

“Then I must confess I don’t understand you,” she said.

“You can’t reconcile my having a high ideal of woman, with my

talking in a commonplace matter-of-fact way of marriage? But do not

facts strengthen my position? Don’t think I mean to compare myself

with such people; but isn’t it true that the giants among men have

not looked for, or wished for anything out of the way in their wives?

And when a man is by no means a giant, but still feels he has it in

him to do something, surely his best strength lies in keeping his

powers concentrated, in deprecating any overwhelming outside

influence?”

He spoke almost as if he were trying to argue his theory out to

himself, to prove its soundness for his own satisfaction rather than

for that of his hearer. And his hearer was not to be so readily

convinced.

“But, appealing to facts, as you say,” she objected, “you

cannot maintain that women’s influence has not in innumerable

instances, been an elevating and ennobling one, as well as a

softening and purifying one? Of course whatever softens and purifies

ennobles, in a sense, but I mean ennobling in the sense of

strengthening and widening.”

“Women’s influence has certainly done all you say,” he replied;

“but it has seldom been the influence of wives. The grandest women

make splendid friends; but I still appeal to past experience to

support the side of my position which I see you dislike.”

“Do I dislike it?” said Cicely. “I don’t know. Is it true, I

wonder? I am not clever enough to prove that it is not; but still a

strong instinct tells me it should not be true.”

An earnest questioning stole into her blue eyes, and, as she spoke

she looked up into her companion’s face without a shadow of

embarrassment. They had reached the front of the house by now, and

were standing just within the old grey porch. The dark leaves of the

thick-growing ivy creeping round its entrance seemed to make a frame

for the girl’s fair quiet face, and to throw out in relief the

delicate features and pure complexion. For a moment Mr. Guildford

forgot, in looking at her, what they had been talking about. But

recovering his wits he repeated quietly, “I am afraid it is true.

Sometimes I have wished it were not, but then again I see that it is

better as it is. But I am sorry to destroy your faith in beautiful

impossibilities.”

She turned upon him with a merry laugh.

“Don’t distress yourself about that,” she exclaimed. “I am

much more obstinate than you think. I am by no means an optimist in

the sense of not thinking that what is might not be made a good deal

better. And even your giants may have been short-sighted, and

one-sided in some directions, may they not? Are you shocked at my

irreverence? As for disliking your theory, I am by no means sure that

I do dislike it. If I were an ideal woman—that sounds silly, but

you know what I mean—hif I were worthy of such a thing, I mean, I

should feel infinitely more honoured by being the chosen friend of a

clever man than of being—” she stopped abruptly and blushed a

little. Then seemingly ashamed of her confusion, she went on bravely,

“than by his just falling in love with me,” she added, with a

slight tinge of contempt in her tone.

“Then you do agree with me,” said Mr. Guildford triumphantly.

And judging it wise to retire while master of the field, he went into

the house and ran upstairs to Colonel Methvyn’s room.

Cicely stood in the porch, thinking. Then she went away to see if the

cushions of her father’s Bath chair were properly aired, and was

standing ready beside it at the door when the invalid was brought

down for his little airing.

Poor Colonel Methvyn enjoyed the sun shine and the flowers and the

soft fresh air very much. His expressions of pleasure and Cicely’s

satisfaction in his enjoyment touched Mr. Guildford infinitely more

than the weary complaints, but too often well founded, which so many

of his Sothernbay patients seemed to think necessary to enlist his

sympathy.

“It is a nice old place of its kind; is it not, Guildford?” said

Cicely’s father, when the chair was brought to anchor in a

sheltered corner, whence the principal beauties of the garden—the

rose fence enclosing “the lady’s walk,” the yew “peacocks,”

the ancient sun-dial—were all visible. “It is a home a man may be

forgiven for feeling reluctant to leave, surely? It has always been

my home; it would break my heart to think of its ever going away to

strangers.”

“I can understand the feeling,” said the young doctor quietly.

Thanks to Colonel Methvyn’s gentleness, his egotism did not go the

length of repelling sympathy; but yet the sympathy Mr. Guildford felt

for him was tinged with fully as much pity as respect. “It must be

very natural where one’s associations have been so concentrated.

But,” he hesitated a little, “I see no reason why it should not

be your home for many years to come.”

“You give me a chance of seeing my grand-children playing about the

old garden, do you, eh, Guildford?” asked the invalid, with an

affectation of cheerfulness which did not conceal his real anxiety.

Miss Methvyn was standing at some little distance, too far off to

overhear what was said, still Mr. Guildford lowered his voice as he

replied,

“Certainly, I do, my dear sir.”

Colonel Methvyn closed his eyes and leaned back. “I think I could

die happily if I could see it so,” he murmured. Then as if afraid

of having betrayed too much feeling, he went on speaking. “It is a

curious thing how few sons there have been in our branch of the

family. I was an only son, and so was my father; this place came to

him from his mother, and now there is only my little girl there for

it to go to.”

“But, happily, that prevents any fear of its going to strangers,”

said Mr. Guildford, more for the sake of showing interest in his

companion’s train of thought, than from any special remembrance of

his remarks.

“Of course, of course,” replied Colonel Methvyn, “of course

that could never be. It was a foolish idea that crossed my

imagination. I grow morbid, quite ridiculously morbid sometimes.”

He spoke with a nervous eagerness that made Mr. Guildford regret the

observation he had made, and he was glad that just at this moment

Cicely rejoined them.

“Here is mother coming,” she exclaimed. “Mr. Guildford, will

you help me to move papa a yard or two this way, and then she can see

him all the way from the house? You have sent Barry in? Ah, that’s

right! it is so much more comfortable without him. Mr. Guildford and

I can push you beautifully, can’t we papa?”

Her father laughed.

“Is there anything you don’t think you can do for me better than

any one else, my darling?” he said fondly, stroking the fair head,

as Cicely knelt on the grass beside him, looking up in his face with

bright tenderness in her blue eyes.

Mrs. Methvyn was not alone when she joined them. Geneviève had seen

her leave the house and ran after her, so the two came across the

lawn together.

“I have finished my letters at last, I am glad to say,” said

Cicely’s mother, after she had shaken hands with Mr. Guildford,

“so now I have nothing to do till dinner-time, and we can all stay

out till the last moment—till Mr. Guildford orders you in, I mean,

Philip. What a delicious afternoon it is!”

“Yes, here it is perfect,” said Cicely; “the sun was just a

little too hot driving to Haverstock, though the road is pretty

shady. Did you not find it disagreeable coming from Greybridge, Mr.

Guildford—that road is so unsheltered?”

“It was rather hot, but it is not a long drive,” he replied.

“You must have found it rather a tiring walk, did you not, Miss

Casalis?” he added, thoughtlessly, turning to Geneviève.

The girl looked at him with a curious half-terrified, half-appealing

expression. Her lips parted as if she were going to speak, but before

she had time to say anything, Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely interrupted her.

“Geneviève has not been at Greybridge, Mr. Guildford,” they

exclaimed; “you must have been mistaken.”

“I did not mean to say I saw Miss Casalis at Greybridge,” he

replied quietly. “It was on my way here I thought I saw you in the

distance,” he went on, turning to Geneviève.

“Oh! that may be,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You did go for a little

walk you told me, I think, my dear, but of course you would not dream

of going so far as Greybridge alone—that would never do.”

“I did not see Mr. Guildford when I was out,” said Geneviève.

“Was it at the distance you thought you saw me?”

The words sounded simple in the extreme, and her tone of voice was

quiet and collected, but as the young man turned to reply, he saw in

her eyes the same expression of mute appeal. A slight chill seemed to

run through him; so young, yet so disingenuous! Yet surely, surely,

more to be pitied than blamed; and with this reflection there set in

a strong feeling of contemptuous indignation against Mr. Fawcett, the

man who could in the least take advantage of a young girl’s

ignorance and inexperience. Not that Mr. Guildford was a man of the

world in the sense of being ready to give the worst explanation to

even the faintest appearances of evil, or of crediting his

fellow-beings in advance with wrong-doing; he would not have given a

second thought to what he had seen but for Geneviève’s

unmistakable terror of its being known to her aunt. That she had

really been at Greybridge, unknown to her friends, and that this, and

not the meeting with Mr. Fawcett, was the terrible secret, naturally,

never occurred to him. Had he known it, he would have been saved some

present regret and future embarrassment. He looked at Geneviève

gravely, as he answered her question.

“Yes, Miss Casalis, when I thought I saw you it was at some

distance.”

Something in his tone inclined Cicely to start up in her cousin’s

defence—defence from what, she knew not, but she fancied there was

a coldness and constraint in his manner to Geneviève, which annoyed

her. “Poor little Geneviève is looking quite frightened again,”

she thought to herself. “Mr. Guildford may be very clever and

estimable—I have no doubt he is, but he would be much pleasanter if

he were less abrupt.”

But aloud she only said, “If it was at a distance you thought you

saw her, I dare say it was not Geneviève at all. One requires to

know a person very well indeed—their appearance, I mean—to

recognise them at a distance.”

“Perhaps so,” said Mr. Guildford.

Then he turned to Colonel Methvyn, and began talking of some

different subject, but somehow the brightness and harmony of the

pleasant afternoon seemed to have fled.

But Cicely had no idea of allowing such desirable guests to take

their departure without making an effort to detain them.

“Papa,” she said, suddenly, “do you know what this day week

will be?”.

“This day week, my dear?” repeated her father, “this day

week?—no, I don’t remember. Oh! yes, to be sure, it will be—”

“My birthday,” she interrupted. “What shall we do to celebrate

it? Geneviève, help us to an idea.”

“Let us have a picnic,” exclaimed Geneviève, clapping her hands,

her eyes dancing with excitement and glee in a manner that altogether

nonplussed Mr. Guildford’s new opinion of her. He looked at her in

amazement.

“How can she be so childishly light hearted, and yet so

deceitful?” he thought.

Then he wondered if this could be “acting,” but a glance at her

pretty flushed face, at her dark eyes raised to Cicely’s in sweet

eagerness as they discussed the possibilities of the scheme,

altogether put to flight so terrible a suspicion, and the young man

was fain to take refuge in the old commonplace axiom of the

incomprehensible nature of even the most apparently transparent of

women. But, once or twice in the course of the afternoon, a certain

something in Geneviève’s manner to him touched his gentler

feelings; she seemed to be tacitly appealing to his forbearance and

pity. “Don’t judge me till I can explain it all,” she seemed to

say, and though he made no effort to reassure her, he grew

unconsciously softened by her trust in him. She certainly succeeded

in making him think a good deal more about her than would have been

the case but for the confidence thus forced upon him, and which he

was the last man in the world to welcome.

They all went on talking over Geneviève’s suggestion, but Mr.

Guildford hardly noticed what they were saying till he found himself

suddenly appealed to.

“Yes, the Lingthurst Copse would be the nicest after all,” Cicely

was saying. “If we could get you to the Witch’s Ladder, papa,

wouldn’t it be delightful? Think how many times we have had

birthday treats there when Amy and Trevor and I were children! Would

you not like to see the copse again dreadfully, papa?”

Colonel Methvyn laughed, half sadly. “You want to coax me into

fancying myself well again, Cicely,” he said. “But you forget,

dear, it is four years since I have been outside the gates except for

those weary journeys to town. No, you must go without me.”

“But we won’t; if you can’t come we shall give it up,”

persisted Cicely. Then she turned to Mr. Guildford, and unfolded her

scheme in full to him. Her father was to be driven in her low

pony-carriage to the Copse Farm, and there to be met by Barry and the

Bath chair. “It can be sent in a cart to the farm the day

before,” she said, “and Barry can go in it if it’s too far to

walk, lazy creature that he is! And the paths through the copse are

quite wide enough for the chair. It is so pretty there,

Geneviève,” she exclaimed to her cousin, “prettier even than in

the woods we go to church by. And don’t you think it would do my

father good, Mr. Guildford? It is only a three miles’ drive.”

Mr. Guildford was able honestly to agree with her, for he had seen

enough of Colonel Methvyn to judge more favourably of his case than

at first sight, and to be of opinion that his general health would be

improved by less vigorous adherence to invalid rules. So it was

settled that Geneviève’s idea should be actually carried out, and

that Mr. Guildford’s next visit should be timed so that he should

make one of the party.

“Is it not inconvenient for you to promise to come on any

particular day?” said Cicely, as she was bidding him good-bye,

after her father had been wheeled back to the house again.

“Not now,” he said, “I have not much to do except what I give

myself; and before another busy season comes round, I shall probably

have left Sothernbay, so I don’t care much about extending my

acquaintance—my “business”—there,” he said lightly.

“Are you going to leave Sothernbay? Oh! I am so sorry,” exclaimed

Cicely in sudden alarm, “my father will miss you so!”

“I am not thinking of leaving at present,” he replied quickly.

“I should certainly not leave till I have done what I undertook to

do; that is to say, till I can resign my charge of Colonel Methvyn to

Dr. Farmer again.”

“Oh! thank you. I am so glad to be assured of it,” said Cicely

gently, but in a tone of great relief.

“Eventually,” continued Mr. Guildford, “I have quite made up my

mind that it will be best to leave. I think I see my way to doing

more good elsewhere and in a different way.”

But though Miss Methvyn listened courteously she made no reply which

could have led him to say more.

“She thinks of me only as her father’s doctor,” reflected Mr.

Guildford with a little bitterness when he had said good-bye and was

on his way home. It was disappointing. He had rather looked forward

to telling her of his change of plan, of his rapidly maturing belief

that by increased study and research, he might fit himself for a

position which he had long aspired to, and had considerable chance of

attaining—a position which would put him in the way of fulfilling

his darling ambition, that of doing something worth the doing for the

science of medicine. He had fancied she was the sort of woman to have

entered into his hopes and sympathised with his aspirations—he had,

in his own mind, begun to think of her, young as she was, as

belonging to the rare class of women of whom a man might make

friends. He had all but said so to her this very afternoon, and she

had then seemed thoroughly to enter into his feelings and opinions.

But this evening he felt unreasonably chilled and disappointed.

“After all,” he reflected, “I suspect it is safest to restrict

one’s relations with women in every direction. There are plenty of

good staunch men in the world to make friends of, fortunately—and a

gentle, clinging creature like poor little Geneviève even, would be

more satisfactory in the end. What can that fellow Fawcett be

thinking of to involve her in any underhand flirtation—I can’t

make it out.”

His brow darkened as he meditated upon what he had seen. He

determined to watch for an opportunity of giving Geneviève a word of

advice.

END OF VOL. I.

VOLUME II.

CHAPTER I.

WORK AND PLAY.

“If all the world and love were young And truth in every

shepherd’s tongue”

The Nymph’s Reply.

EARLY summer was the time of all others for seeing Lingthurst Copse

to advantage, for the soil thereabouts was dry and gravelly, and a

few weeks of hot weather destroyed the freshness of the tints and

made all the vegetation look thirsty. It was only a copse, and the

trees which composed it were somewhat stunted and meagre, but still

it was a very pretty spot in itself, and worth driving more than

three miles to, for the sake of the loveliness of the view from the

top of the rugged old rock, one side of which was skirted by the

miniature forest. The latter part of the ascent of this rock was very

steep—in places almost perpendicular, but a series of rough steps

greatly facilitated matters in the hardest parts of the climb—these

were the steps known as the Witch’s Ladder. Who the witch was and

from what uncanny motive she had devoted herself to thus amiably

preparing the way for those who were to come after her, had been

matter for much grave speculation, but had never been satisfactorily

explained, and remained a pleasantly tantalising mystery to the

visitors of her ancient haunts. That there had never been a witch at

all, and that the steps were but natural irregularities on the

rock’s surface, worn, in the lapse of time, to more definite shape

by the feet of many climbers, was a theory which had suggested itself

to some few irreverent minds. But, as a rule, these scoffers had the

grace to keep their scepticism to themselves, and the witch, young or

old, fair or hideous, was allowed to retain undisputed possession of

Lingthurst Copse and Rock.

Cicely’s—or rather Geneviève’s picnic—had assumed unexpected

dimensions. Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica had been invited to join

the expedition and had asked leave to bring with them two young

ladies, no longer in the very first blush of youth, the daughters of

the Haverstock rector, whom Lady Frederica had invited to spend a

week with her, from a vague notion that “it would be nice for them

to meet Mr. Hayle, poor girls!”—a young and unmarried clergyman

being an unprecedented novelty in the neighbourhood. But though the

“poor girls” were very ready to come, Lady Frederica found the

entertaining of them by no means so easy a matter as she had

anticipated. She asked Mr. Hayle to dinner every other day at least,

and in her innocent way prepared him to be captivated by one, if not

by both, of the Misses Kettering by telling him beforehand what dear

good girls they were, how indefatigable in the manufacture of

ecclesiastical cushions and altar cloths, how unfailing in their

attendance at the daily service instituted since the opening of the

new Haverstock church. And Mr. Hayle listened gravely, expressed his

satisfaction at finding that the neighbourhood contained such right

thinking young women, came to dinner when he was asked, disgusted the

elder Miss Kettering the very first evening by remarking that he

wondered she had never thought of joining a sisterhood if the secular

tone of her home life was not to her mind, and still more desperately

offended the younger and better-looking sister by not admiring her

rendering of Liszt’s ‘Ave Maria,’ got up by her with

considerable labour for the occasion. So Lady Frederica’s

benevolent intentions were defeated, and her guests lay heavy on her

mind, and the news of the Methvyns’ picnic was welcome indeed, not

only to the young ladies themselves but to all their entertainers,

including Miss Winter and Mr. Fawcett who were growing very tired

indeed of the labours Lady Frederica’s good nature had imposed upon

them.

Mr. Hayle, in happy unconsciousness of the offence he had given,

accompanied the Lingthurst party to the rendezvous at the Copse Farm,

and almost reinstated himself in Miss Kettering senior’s favour by

calmly declining to agree with her, when she gushingly demanded of

him if he did not think that lovely Miss Casalis the most exquisitely

beautiful girl he had ever seen.”

“I don’t care about that sort of beauty,” said Mr. Hayle, and

then he walked away to where Cicely and Mr. Guildford were

improvising a comfortable couch for Colonel Methvyn with the cushions

of the carriages, as the invalid declared himself able to join the

lowly luncheon party instead of remaining in the solitary state of

his Bath chair.

He really looked and felt better than he had done for years, and Mr.

Guildford was not a little elated at the success of his new mode of

treatment. Long, long afterwards Cicely looked back with pleasure on

that bright morning in the copse, and felt warm gratitude to the man

whose care and kindness had enabled her suffering father to enjoy

again a breath of the out-door life he had loved so well. And to-day

the sight of the invalid’s pleasure seemed to cheer every one else.

To all outward appearance they were a very happy little party.

Geneviève’s clear soft laugh rang as merrily as if its owner had

never known a care or perplexity, and the tender brightness of

Cicely’s face was sunshine in itself. Mr. Hayle looked at her and

wondered. Edmond Guildford forgot all his cynical theories in the

unconscious happiness of the present, forgot even to marvel at his

own inconsistency—only Trevor looked moody and dissatisfied, unlike

his usual equable contented self.

There were more reasons than one for his gloom. Good-natured and

kindly as he was, Cicely’s extreme devotion to her parents and home

interests at times tried his patience, and suggested unpleasing

comparisons. And a long conversation he had had the night before with

his father was also on his mind. Nor was the day to close without yet

further annoyance falling to his share.

Mr. Guildford had not forgotten his intention of coming to some sort

of understanding with the little lady whose eyes had so successfully

appealed to his forbearance. After luncheon the able-bodied members

of the party felt themselves in duty bound to scale the Witch’s

Ladder; in the ascent they naturally fell apart into little groups of

twos and threes, and Mr. Guildford found himself alone with Miss

Casalis. He had not sought the opportunity, and she had not evaded

it, but now that it occurred, both were plainly conscious that the

sooner what had to be said could be got over, the more comfortable

they would feel. Somewhat to Mr. Guildford’s surprise, Geneviève

herself hastened to break the ice.

“I fear much you thought me very strange the last day you came to

Greystone,” she began, with some timidity, but on the whole less

trepidation than he had expected. “I know well you did see me on

the road, and it grieved me—indeed it grieved me to seem deceitful.

But I was so frightened, oh! oh! so frightened, that my aunt would be

very angry. And I would not for all the world make her angry. She is

so very good for me. And I thank you so much that you did not insist

that it was me that you had seen.”

Mr. Guildford was rather taken aback by the calmness of this

confession—the girl did not seem by any means ashamed of herself,

even though tacitly owning that her conduct deserved her aunt’s

serious displeasure—he walked on (they were just now on a

comparatively speaking level piece of ground, a sort of landing

between the flights of stairs), for a few moments in silence; then he

said abruptly,

“Why do you do what would make Mrs. Methvyn angry, if you dread her

anger so much?”.

“I could not help it—indeed I could not,” said Geneviève

penitently, without appearing in the least to resent his tone. “I

was obliged to go to Greybridge, and at the first I did not think how

it might displease my aunt.”

Mr. Guildford grew still more puzzled.

“I didn’t know you had been at Greybridge,” he said. “It was

not there I saw you—indeed it was not very far from home. It

wasn’t on account of—of the distance from home I thought Mrs.

Methvyn would be displeased.”

“How then?” exclaimed Geneviève, looking up at him in

perplexity. “What else for could I have feared? I went but to

Greybridge to the post-office—” and in a few words she explained

to him the reason of her secret expedition—the same reason that she

had given to Mr. Fawcett, the wish to post unobserved the letter she

feared she might be “thought silly” for having written. It

sounded sincere enough, indeed; so far as her explanation went, it

actually was so, but still Mr. Guildford felt puzzled. Was she

telling him all? Had there been no second motive for her walk?

Hitherto Mr. Fawcett had not been named, and it had actually not

occurred to Geneviève that he was in any way connected with Mr.

Guildford’s disapproval of her behaviour. So she looked up with

some anxiety, but without embarrassment, to read in her companion’s

grave face the effect of her explanation. And something in her

expression made him ashamed of his suspicions, though it was not

without an effort that he made up his mind to discard them.

“I have done you injustice, Miss Casalis,” he said at last, and I

beg your pardon. Don’t you see that if I had had any idea that the

mere fact of your being out on the road would have displeased your

aunt, I would not have mentioned it so carelessly and casually as I

did?”

“Yes,” said Geneviève, after a little cogitation; “I see, but

I understand not. You saw nothing wrong, yet you spoke as if you

thought I had done wrong. What then was there?”

“There was nothing,” replied the young man, half annoyed, half

inclined to laugh. “I should have thought nothing of seeing you

walking along the road, had you not immediately shown me you were

afraid of its being known, Then, of course, I began to wonder why,

and pitched upon the most natural explanation. Now I know why you

were afraid, so there is nothing more for me to say except to repeat

that I am sorry for having misunderstood you.”

But Geneviève was not satisfied. Light was beginning to dawn upon

her. She stood still, her hands clasped together, the colour coming

and going in her face.

“What then was it you thought I feared?” she exclaimed

vehemently. “I must know. Mr. Guildford, you shall then tell. You

are not kind.”

She seemed on the point of tears, and Mr. Guildford was not fond of

tears. Still he was sorry for her, and provoked with himself.

“I wish you would believe me, Miss Casalis,” he said earnestly,

“that I saw nothing in your conduct that I even fancied

unbecoming—nothing that I would have given a second thought to.”

“But what thought you then when you saw that I feared?” she

persisted, beginning to lose command both of her temper and her

English. “Was it that you have seen me walk with Mr. Fawcett? I

thought not that one was so little amiable, so little kind in

England! What then was there of wrong in what I have done? I meet the

nephew of my aunt, he speaks to me, I answer him—voilà tout!

Would you that I should run away—would you—?”

But by this time the tears have come in earnest—the rest of the

sentence is lost in sobs.

“My dear Miss Casalis,” exclaimed Mr. Guildford in desperation,

“I really entreat you to be reasonable. Have I not told you

half-a-dozen times that your behaviour so far as I know was

irreproachable? Nor, whatever I had thought of it, would I have

presumed to express an opinion but for this unfortunate

misunderstanding, brought about—you must do me the justice to

allow—by yourself. You appealed to me, silently it is true, but

still you did appeal to me, to refrain from drawing attention to what

I had seen, and to-day you honoured me with an explanation of the

whole. I understand it all now, and for the third time I beg your

pardon.”

“Then you do not think I—I was to blame for—for speaking to Mr.

Fawcett?” said Geneviève, calming down, but still sobbing.

“Of course not,” said Mr. Guildford, kindly. “I am not much

accustomed to young ladies, as I dare say you have found out before

now, but if you will forgive plain speaking, what I would think wrong

would be your meeting any gentleman and going walks with him without

Mrs. Methvyn’s knowledge or approval.”

“But Mr. Fawcett is the relation of my aunt,” said Geneviève,

not feeling perfectly comfortable. “I see not that I may not walk

with him when I meet him.”

“Of course that is for Mrs. Methvyn to decide,” said Mr.

Guildford. “But—”.

“But what then?”

“I would much rather not say anything more about it,” said Mr.

Guildford. “I was going to say, ‘but if you were my sister’ but

you are not my sister, Miss Casalis.”

“But let it be—let me suppose myself your sister, what then? Say

then,” she persisted, looking up in his face with a half tearful

anxiety, the rosy lips still quivering with agitation.

More to humour her and give her time to recover herself than with any

real intention of advising or warning her, Mr. Guildford went on,

smiling as he did so,

“If you were my sister then, Miss Casalis (and if I had a young

sister like you, you don’t know what care I should take of her), I

should try to make you understand that a girl like you cannot be too

careful—that you are very beautiful, and that a young man like Mr.

Fawcett would naturally find your society charming, but that in the

world in which he lives there are many beautiful and charming girls

who must be far more worldly wise, whose hearts cannot possibly be as

fresh and tender as yours.”

Geneviève understood him. She grew scarlet, and again the tears

welled up into her lovely, troubled eyes.

“Of course,” pursued Mr. Guildford, “I am speaking in the dark.

There may be circumstances which I am ignorant of—very probably

there are—which make your position towards Mr. Fawcett a perfectly

unconstrained one. To you he may actually seem what we have been

imagining I might have been to you, a brother—a sort of a brother,

I should say?”

“How?” asked Geneviève sharply.

“Well, a brother in the sense in which Miss Methvyn must seem a

sister to you. I only say this because if it is so, all I have said

must have seemed ludicrously inappropriate—I have no wish to pry

impertinently into your relations’ family affairs.”

His last few words were haughty enough; they ill accorded with the

anxiety, quite unowned to himself, with which he waited for her

reply. She did not notice his disclaimer of curiosity, she was too

selfishly startled by the suggestion which her quick wits had at once

seized the full meaning of.

“You would say that my cousin Cicely is perhaps the fiançée of

Mr. Fawcett?” she exclaimed, and though Mr. Guildford smiled in

assent, he recoiled a little from her distinct expression of his

meaning. “But, oh! no,” she went on. “It is not so, I assure

you. They are brother and sister, voilà tout!”

She spoke lightly, but a slight cloud had nevertheless risen on her

horizon; a cloud whose presence she resolutely ignored, but which to

her took the brightness out of the sunshine for the rest of the day.

But she had spoken confidently, and her inward misgiving was

unsuspected by her companion. And to him the sunshine suddenly

increased tenfold in brilliance and beauty, the birds’ songs

trilled more joyously than before, the whole world seemed

“to lift its glad heart to the skies.”

Geneviève came in for her share in this generally happy state of

things. She was somewhat pale and pensive, but had quite recovered

her equilibrium, and before they rejoined the others she said

something in her pretty, gentle way, of thanks to Mr. Guildford for

his kindness and appreciation of his advice.

“Then you are not offended with me you are quite sure you are

not?” he inquired.

“Offended!” Geneviève repeated. “Oh! no, no. I was afraid I

had done more wrong than I knew. It is all strange here. I fear to do

wrong. I thank you very much, Mr. Guildford.”

So the interview which had threatened to be stormy ended most

amicably, and Edmond owned to himself that it would not be to be

wondered at if Mr. Fawcett did fall in love with the pretty little

creature.

They found the rest of the climbers established on the little plateau

at the top of the rock, admiring, or fancying they admired, the

really beautiful view. The absence of Mr. Guildford and Miss Casalis

had not been unobserved, and more than one pair of eyes were sharp

enough to detect in Geneviève’s face and manner the traces of

recent agitation. She looked so pale and subdued that Cicely felt

anxious about her, but, with the quick instinct of shielding her from

disagreeable observation, did her utmost to divert the Misses

Ketterings’ attention. Mr. Guildford, whose spirits appeared to

have risen as incomprehensibly as Geneviève’s had sunk, seemed

instinctively to understand Miss Methvyn’s wishes and did his best

to help her; and so, in his own way, did Mr. Hayle, but Trevor

stalked about gloomy and dissatisfied, was barely civil to Mr.

Guildford and ignored poor Miss Fanny Kettering altogether.

It was so unusual for him to be out of temper that it distressed

Cicely, though she attached no great importance to the passing cloud.

She watched for an opportunity of dispelling it.

“Trevor,” she said gently, as, on their way down again she found

herself for a moment alone beside him, out of earshot of the others,

“Are you unhappy about anything? I wanted everybody to be in good

spirits to-day.”

“You haven’t succeeded very well I’m afraid,” he replied

moodily; “Miss Casalis looks as if she had been crying all the

morning.”

“It does not take much to make Geneviève cry,” said Cicely.

“She will be as merry as ever again in a little while, you will see.”

There was no intention of unkindness in her words, but Mr. Fawcett

chose to misunderstand her.

“I think you are rather hard upon your cousin, Cicely,” he said

coldly. “It is all very well to be strong nerved and self

controlled and all the rest of it, but in my opinion that sort of

thing may be carried too far.”

“Trevor, you hurt me,” exclaimed Cicely. “More than once lately

you have said something like that to me and it pains me. I thought

you knew me better. And to-day is my birthday!”

No one could accuse her of want of feeling now. There were tears in

her eyes. Mr. Fawcett felt ashamed of himself.

“Dear Cicely, forgive me,” he exclaimed. “I am cross and

unreasonable. But it does seem to me sometimes that you think of

everybody else more than of me. But I am sorry to have been

ill-tempered, especially on your birthday. Next year if all’s well,

I hope it will be celebrated differently—I shall have a hand in the

arrangements.”

“I shall be twenty-one next year,” said Cicely. “If I were a

son there would be a fuss about it, I suppose.”

“Coming of age doesn’t matter to a married woman,” said Trevor

pointedly.

Still Cicely seemed determinedly blind to the meaning of his remarks.

“I do hope papa will not be very tired,” she said. “Mr.

Guildford thinks it would do him good to come out oftener, Trevor.”

“I dare say it would,” replied Mr. Fawcett rather indifferently.

“I always thought Farmer an old woman. Still I very much prefer him

to your new authority, Cicely.”

“Mr. Guildford is considered exceedingly clever,” said Cicely.

“I dare say he is. It is the man himself I object to; he is so

uncommonly free and easy, and makes himself so much at home,”

replied Mr. Fawcett, kicking away some loose pebbles on the rough

path before him.

Miss Methvyn was silent. Trevor persisted.

“Don’t you agree with me?” he said. “I don’t care about his

manner to Geneviève for one thing—he seems to think himself so

completely on a par with all of us.”

“I don’t want to vex you, Trevor,” replied Cicely, “but I

cannot say I agree with you in the least. I don’t think Mr.

Guildford’s manner could be kinder and nicer than it is. He is a

little abrupt perhaps, but that is often the case with men who spend

their time in work instead of in play.”

Mr. Fawcett laughed, but his laugh was not genial or hearty.

“I had better not say anything more about him, I think,” he

remarked carelessly. Then, as if he were quite above feeling annoyed

by what Cicely had said, he changed the subject. “I want to see

your father very much, Cicely,” he said. “What is his best time?

I can come at any time you like to-morrow.”

“The afternoon would be best, I think,” said Cicely with a little

surprise and anxiety in her tone. “It isn’t about anything that

will worry him, Trevor?” she added.

There was no time for Mr. Fawcett to reply, for just at this moment a

turn in the path brought them up to Geneviève and Miss Fanny

Kettering, who, having arrived at the foot of the Witch’s Ladder,

were now staring about them in bewilderment as to which was the right

way to go. Geneviève was laughing as the new-comers drew near, but

when she saw that they were Cicely and Mr. Fawcett she grew suddenly

silent. Cicely noticed it, but imagined her cousin’s change able

humour to be simply the result of the little excitement of the day.

Trevor noticed it, and set it down to some meddling fool or other who

had been frightening the poor little soul again, and resolved to find

out the reason of the tears and agitation of which her pretty face

still bore traces.

“I wonder if we shall ever come here again,” said Cicely,

suddenly, as they were all preparing to leave the copse, for the

afternoon was well advanced by now, and Colonel Methvyn had already

been wheeled away in his Bath chair. No one heard her but Geneviève

and Mr. Guildford, who happened to be standing near.

Geneviève opened her eyes and stared at Cicely in surprise.

“Why should we not come here again?” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” said Cicely; “it was a stupid thing to say.

It was just a feeling that came over me. Birthdays and anniversaries

make one look backwards and forwards in a silly, childish way.”

“In a more advanced state of society, perhaps, we shall have got

rid of them,” observed Mr. Guildford.

“Got rid of what?” inquired Mr. Fawcett, coming up to them laden

with an armful of his mother’s shawls. His tone was friendly and

good-natured, he evidently meant to please Cicely by behaving with

more cordiality to the Sothernbay surgeon; and his cousin rewarded

him with a smile as she answered,

“Of birthdays and festivals of all kinds. Mr. Guildford thinks that

when the world gets wiser holidays will be discarded. We shall be too

big for them,” she said.

“Nay, Miss Methvyn,” exclaimed Mr. Guildford, “you have twisted

my meaning a little. I should be sorry to look forward to the

world’s ever growing beyond holidays. What a dreadful place it

would be!”

“But too much work would be infinitely better than too much

play,” said Cicely. “Life to me would be utterly insupportable

without plenty of things one must do.”

“I hate must,” said Trevor.

“I love it,” said Cicely.

“We are like Jack Sprat and his wife,” observed Trevor, laughing.

Cicely grew crimson. “I wish you would not turn everything into

ridicule, Trevor,” she said, with an impatience very unlike her

usual manner.

As she spoke she became aware that Mr. Guildford was observing her

with a curious mixture of expressions in his face. Something in what

she saw helped her to recover her composure.

“Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Guildford?” she said. “You must

know something of hard work—don’t you prefer it to having nothing

to do but to amuse yourself?”

“I can hardly say I have ever known what it is to feel free to

amuse myself. I have had to work hard all my life, but I have not got

tired of it yet,” the young man replied simply. “But the truth of

it is that too much play becomes very hard work, I suspect.”

“It depends on the person,” said Trevor. “You, for instance,

Cicely, set to work even at croquet with such earnestness and

consideration that it is quite fatiguing to watch you, and Miss

Casalis, on the other hand, flutters over her most laborious duties

as if—as if—”

“As if she were a butterfly, and I a drone,” said Cicely lightly.

She felt touched by Trevor’s good humour, and conscious that she

had hardly deserved it. Geneviève looked up and laughed, for the

first time since the beginning of the little conversation.

“I think not that I have done even as much work as a butterfly

since I have been in England,” she said.

“What would you be doing if you were at home now—at Hivèritz?”

asked Cicely.

“At home? Home is not Hivèritz just now. They are all in the

mountains. Ah, there we occupy ourselves so well! We make the

confitures, we help the old farm wife with the butter, the cheese, we

seek the eggs. Ah, the life in the mountains is charming!” she

replied.

“How nice!” said Cicely contemplatively. “I should like not to

be rich—I mean,” she added hastily, fearful of hurting Geneviève

by the inference of her words—“I mean I should like to manage

everything for ourselves, without servants; to feel that one really

worked for one’s living would be so satisfactory.”

“Oh, you silly girl!” said Mr. Fawcett with a smile.

Mr. Guildford smiled too.

“You would find it very different from what you fancy, in practice,

I fear, Miss Methvyn,” he said; “still, the instinct is a sound

and healthy one.”

“Sound and healthy!” repeated Trevor to himself. “Can’t he

forget for five minutes that he’s a doctor?”

CHAPTER II.

SHADOWS BEFORE.

“What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle

gate?”

Christabel.

TREVOR called at Greystone the next day, and was closeted with

Colonel Methvyn for some time. Cicely and her cousin were in the

house when he came, but, considerably to their surprise, he went away

without seeing them. Geneviève said nothing, but felt annoyed.

Cicely grew uneasy and anxious, for at dinner it struck her that her

mother looked grave and preoccupied; but she had no opportunity

during the evening of inquiring if there was any cause for this, as

Mrs. Methvyn went straight from the dining-room to her husband,

leaving the two girls to their own devices.

“What shall we do, Geneviève,” said Cicely. “I fancy mother

will stay in my father’s room this evening. Shall we go out a

little? It is deliciously mild.”

“Is your father not well to-day?” asked Geneviève, without

replying to her cousin’s proposal.

“Oh! yes. I mean, at least, he is just the same as usual,”

answered Cicely. “He said this morning he felt a very little tired

with yesterday, but he was in good spirits, and he seems to think the

little change did him good.”

“Then what for did my aunt look so distraite—so sad at dinner?”

asked Geneviève. She was standing listlessly by the window, but as

she spoke she turned round with a certain sharpness which annoyed her

cousin more than the question itself.

“If my mother is anxious or uneasy, I don’t think either you or I

should notice it or make any remarks about it,” said Cicely coldly.

She had hardly uttered the words before she wished she could recall

them. “Geneviève meant no harm,” she reflected; “it is because

I am uneasy too, that I am cross, but that is no excuse.”

She began to think how she could best soften the harshness of what

she had said.

“Geneviève,” she was commencing, “I am sorry I said that;

don’t think I meant it—” when her cousin interrupted her.

“You are not sorry. You are not kind,” she exclaimed

vehemently.“You wish that I should be a stranger. Nobody cares for

me here, nobody. I wish, oh! that I wish I had never come to

England.” And she wound up by bursting into tears and sobbing

violently.

Cicely was dismayed. She was sorry for Geneviève, she was vexed with

herself for having seemed unkind, but she also thought her cousin

very silly. Exaggerated display of feeling chilled and repelled her;

it cost her, therefore, a little effort to try to smooth poor

Geneviève’s ruffled plumage.

“Dear Geneviève,” she said gently, “I am sorry, very sorry for

having hurt you. I am sure you meant no harm, and I am very unkind.

It is quite true what Trevor says.”

The last few words were added in a lower voice, as if speaking to

herself; but they caught Geneviève’s attention far more

effectually than what had preceded them.

“What does he say?” she exclaimed, raising her flushed,

tear-stained face from the sofa on which she had thrown herself in

her outburst.

Cicely hesitated. “I should not have said it,” she began; “but,

after all, I dare say it doesn’t matter. Trevor said I was cold and

formal in my manner to you, and that he was afraid you were not happy

with us, and that it was my fault Is it so, Geneviève?” she added

a little wistfully.

But Geneviève did not answer directly.

“When did Mr. Fawcett say that?” she asked. “I never said to

him you were not kind, Cicely.”

“Oh! no; he never said you did. He only spoke from what he had

noticed himself. He has said something of the sort two or three

times. It was all out of kindness and regard for you,” explained

Cicely hastily, a little afraid of rousing another storm.

Her fears were ill-founded. Geneviève’s irritation seemed to have

completely disappeared.

“I know,” she said; “I know. He is very kind. He is like your

brother, is he not, Cicely?”

“We have been together all our lives,” answered Cicely evasively.

“Yes,” pursued Geneviève, hardly noticing the reply; “yes, he

is like your brother. It has seemed so to me since ever I came. But

you must tell him it is not true that I am unhappy here. You are very

good and kind, dear Cicely, and I am very cross. I am sometimes so

that the least word makes me cry, and then I wish I were at home

again; but it soon passes. I love you and I love to be here, and you

must forgive what I said. Kiss me, my cousin, and let us forget the

foolish words.”

She held up her rosy lips, and Cicely kissed her; it would have been

difficult to refuse to do so. Cicely felt a little bewildered by the

girl’s changeableness, but was glad that peace should be restored,

and could not but own to herself that, childish as she might be,

Geneviève was very sweet.

For the rest of the evening she was sweetness itself. They went out a

little after awhile and paced slowly up and down the avenue, where

the shade of the trees brought night before its time. It was a mild

evening, mild but not oppressive, for little gusts of breeze came

every now and then sweeping round among the leaves and causing the

branches to nod fantastically in the waning light. Once or twice

Miss Methvyn shivered.

“Are you cold, Cicely?” asked Geneviève.

“No, not exactly, but there is something rather chilly in the

air,” she replied. “Don’t you feel it? If I did not know it was

only June, I should fancy it October. There is an autumn feeling

about, though it is mild too.”

“I did not feel it so,” said Geneviève. Then suddenly a thought

struck her. “I wonder, Cicely, why Mr. Fawcett went away in so

great a hurry this?” she exclaimed.

“Did he?” said Cicely absently. “I thought he was a long time

with papa.”

“Oh! yes; he was till five o’clock in Colonel Methvyn’s

room,” said Geneviève. “It was after that I mean that he must

have been in a hurry. I was thinking if he had stayed to dinner, we

might have walked part of the way home with him it is such a pretty

way, by the mill.”

“Yes, and you have never been that way,” said Cicely. “We can

go any day you like. I generally bring the key of the door into the

plantations with me. But it is too late to-night to set off on a

walk.”

“Oh! yes; not to-night,” said Geneviève, and they slowly turned

back to the house again.

“Are you beginning to like this old place, Geneviève?” said

Cicely suddenly.

They were standing still, in front of the porch, and as Miss Methvyn

spoke, her gaze rested lovingly on the quaint old house, every stone

of which seemed a part of her life, and then wandered away over the

garden and the trees and through the network of branches to where the

summer moon was slowly rising. “It will be a lovely moonlight

night,” she added softly.

“I love not the moon, she makes me sad,” said Geneviève

decidedly.

Cicely laughed gently. “You silly little thing,” she said. Then

she stooped and kissed Geneviève and they both went in.

When Cicely reached her own room, she found her mother there, waiting

for her.

“Your father has just fallen asleep,” said Mrs. Methvyn; “it

was not worth while for me to go downstairs again, and I wanted to

see you alone, Cicely. And I did not want Geneviève to fancy there

was anything the matter.”

“Is anything the matter? I thought you looked dull at dinner,”

said Cicely quickly. “You don’t think papa is worse?”

“No, I think he is very well. But he is anxious and worried,”

answered Mrs. Methvyn.

Cicely’s face grew grave, but she said nothing

“Trevor was here to-day, you know, Cicely,” her mother went on;

“he was a long time with your father. You can guess what they were

talking about.”

Cicely sat down on the floor at her mother’s feet and laid her head

upon Mrs. Methvyn’s knee.

“Mamma,” she said, “I thought it was fixed that nothing more

should be said about it just yet. Mamma, I cannot leave you yet.”

“But my child, it must come, and when ever it comes it will seem as

bad.”

“No, not if Amiel were home again. If she were here, I should not

mind leaving you half so much,” said Cicely. “I don’t

understand it, mother. Long ago—when it was first spoken of—it

was always taken for granted that I should stay with you till Amiel

came home. What has made any change? Is it Trevor’s doing?”

Mrs. Methvyn hesitated. “Trevor has always hoped things might

hasten the marriage,” she said, “but—I don’t think he felt at

liberty to say much about hastening it. It is your father who seems

to wish it so much, and of course Trevor is delighted to have him on

his side. And the Fawcetts wish it too.”

“But why does papa wish it so much? It is very unnatural,” said

Cicely with a tinge of bitterness.

“Don’t say that, dear,” remonstrated her mother. “Your father

only wishes it because he dreads the possibility of your being left

without a protector. He has a very high opinion of Sir Thomas. As

your father-in-law, your interests would be even more to him than

now.”

Cicely remained silent for a minute or two. Then she said

consideringly, “I suppose it is natural that papa should wish to

see me married, but do you know, mother, there are times when I wish

things had been left to take their chance. Even if I were left to

“fend for myself,” as old Elspeth used to say, I should get on

very well, I believe. I should not dread having to fight my way,

mother. I should like to know something of the other side of life. I

feel sometimes as if there was a sort of energy in me which will

never need to be used.”

“But, my child, you forget your position,” said her mother.

“Our anxiety to see you well—I mean happily and safely—married,

arises greatly from the fact of your being your father’s heiress. I

did not feel half as anxious about Amiel’s future—long ago when

you were both children and I used to look forward, as all mothers do,

I suppose—as about yours. The position of a girl who is known to be

an heiress is a very dangerous one.”

“But I have you and papa to take care of me and advise me,”

persisted Cicely.

“Yes, but for how long? There is no good trying to deceive

ourselves, my darling. Your father’s life is a very uncertain one,

and—I can scarcely bear to say it to you, dear—but there are

times when I can hardly picture myself as living without him. My

whole life has been so given to him, and you know how he has deserved

all the devotion I can give him. And it would be terrible to us to

leave you alone, Cicely.”

“I see, yes I see how you feel,” answered the girl after a

moment’s silence. “I dare say I should feel the same in your

place. But, mamma, I wish I had had a brother—then I should have

been able to choose my own life; not to marry at all, very likely.”

“Cicely, you make me unhappy when you speak so,” said her mother

gravely. “You have been left free to choose. Your father and I

approve of your marriage to Trevor, but it was not forced upon you.

You do not wish to draw back from it, surely? If you do, however it

may disappoint us, it will be far better for you to say so. Cicely,

my dear child, you frighten me.”

“But you are not to be frightened, you are not to be unhappy about

me, mother,” exclaimed Cicely, smiling up reassuringly in Mrs.

Methvyn’s face. “I don’t want to break off my engagement to

Trevor. I am quite happy to be going to marry him some time

only—only—I don’t want it to be just yet. I want to stay at

home with you and papa.”.

“But it cannot always be only going to be,” said Mrs. Methvyn,

smiling too, not withstanding her anxiety. “It is not using Trevor

or his parents well to keep putting it off. And it disappoints your

father.”

“If it disappoints and worries papa, that is a different matter,”

replied Cicely. “I would marry Trevor to-morrow morning if it would

do papa any good. As for the Fawcetts, I don’t see that it is using

them ill, mother. When we were first engaged, it was understood we

were not to be married for a long time, and I don’t believe that

Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica are in such a desperate hurry to have

me for their daughter. They like me very well, but they would have

liked lots of other girls just as well. Geneviève, for instance,

they were both perfectly captivated by her, and no wonder. She is a

hundred times prettier than I, and she kisses Lady Frederica on both

cheeks! And as for Trevor, mother, I am sure he is very contented to

go on being comfortably engaged without any fuss. He dislikes fuss

exceedingly.”

“You are talking nonsense, Cicely, to make me forget the serious

part of it,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “But you must not. It is

perfectly true that both your father and Trevor wish something to be

decided. Trevor has begun to think of it very seriously of late I can

see.”

“What is it that papa does want? Tell me plainly, mother. I will

not joke any more,” said Cicely growing suddenly quiet.

“I think, indeed I am sure,” answered her mother, “that he

would like your marriage to be this summer.”

“This summer; oh, mother! It is only three months since Charlie

died,” said Cicely, her voice quivering. “Mother, I tried to be

cheerful at that time, because I knew you had enough on your mind,

but, oh! I have missed him so! Don’t send me away from you yet.

Six months hence perhaps I shall have a different feeling, and it

does seem a sudden change. A few months ago there was no thought of

my being married this year. I don’t understand it.”

“But I have explained it to you, dear; it is quite easy to

understand. Are you sure you understand yourself, Cicely? You speak

of wishing you had difficulties and obstacles to face, but yet you

shrink from any change in your life?”

“It is different,” said Cicely. “There will be no scope for my

energies, mother, in my new life. Living at Lingthurst will be ever

so much smoother and more luxurious than here even! I shall have no

house-keeping, no responsibilities. Of course I shall try to be like

a daughter to Trevor’s parents, but I shall always be wishing they

were you and papa, and fancying you want me. We shall be so

dreadfully rich! I wish Trevor had his way to make, and that we were

going to live in a little house of our own!”

Mrs. Methvyn sighed. There had been a time in her life when she had

known what it was not to be “dreadfully rich,” when poverty had

destroyed much of the charm even of “a little house of her own.”

“But then in my case there were worse troubles than poverty,” she

reflected. She had been so anxious for Cicely’s happiness, surely

it was not all to turn out a mistake.

Cicely heard the sigh and it grieved her.

“Mother,” she exclaimed hastily, “I am wrong to speak so. I am

foolish and discontented. Of course, I know it is right for Trevor to

live at Lingthurst, and I dare say I shall find plenty of interests.

But, mother, it must not be just yet. Not for six months. Will you

tell my father what I say. He will not be vexed; it will not do him

harm or trouble him, will it?”

“No, I think not. Not, at least if it is really definitely fixed

for six months hence. I hope the Fawcetts will not be disappointed.”

“What does Trevor expect? Did he go away this afternoon under the

impression that it was all going to be settled to be at once? As if I

were a doll without any feelings of my own!” said Cicely with some

bitterness, again.

“Oh! no,” replied her mother,“he went away in rather low

spirits. I told him I feared the idea of leaving us all so very soon

would be startling to you, and I asked him to let me speak about it

to you first. I am rather sorry for Trevor sometimes.”

“Do you think I don’t consider him enough, mother?” said Cicely

anxiously. “I think I do—at least, till quite lately there never

seemed to be a cloud between us. But, somehow, Trevor is a little

changed. I am sure he is—I don’t understand it. I understand my

father’s having grown morbid about it, but I don’t know why

Trevor wants to hurry it on so. Mother,” she added, “I will speak

to Trevor myself about it. It will be better.”

“Very well,” said her mother. “It is getting late, Cicely, say

good-night to me, dear. But, by the bye, I am forgetting something I

wanted to speak about to you. Cicely, I think Geneviève should now

be told of your engagement. She has been here several weeks, and it

may seem strange to her afterwards to have been so long kept in the

dark.”

“I almost think she has guessed it—or partly, at least,” said

Cicely. “But I am not quite sure. Yes, I think you had better tell

her, mamma. If I am really going to be married in six months,” she

went on, with a faint smile, “I suppose I shall begin to realise

it. Till now it has seemed so indefinite, I could hardly feel as if

there were anything to tell—I felt as if Trevor and I should always

be just the same to each other as we are now.”

She gave a little sigh, but repeated, “Yes, please, tell Geneviève

then, mamma.”

“Geneviève may have confidences of her own some day,” said Mrs.

Methvyn; “did you notice how much Mr. Guildford and she seemed to

have to say to each other yesterday?”

Cicely looked grave. “I don’t think Geneviève is the kind of

girl,” she began—“I mean, I don’t fancy Mr. Guildford is

thinking of marrying at all,” she went on. “His head is full of

other things.”

“Then he is just the sort of man who will be startled some day by

finding he has a heart as well as a head,” observed Mrs. Methvyn

oracularly.

“Perhaps,” said Cicely quietly, and then her mother left her.

The idea of Mr. Guildford’s being attracted by her cousin was

somehow distasteful to Miss Methvyn; it jarred against the estimate

she had unconsciously formed of him. “I thought he was above things

of that kind,” she said to herself dissatisfiedly, “and

Geneviève is so young and childish. Still,” she went on to

reflect, “perhaps, on that very account she would better suit him

as a wife.”

The suggestion nevertheless did not find favour with her. She felt

restless and uneasy. She dreaded the impending talk with Trevor; she

was afraid of making him angry by her refusal to agree to an

immediate marriage, though in this refusal she felt herself perfectly

justified. A slight consciousness of not having been treated by Mr.

Fawcett of late, with quite his usual delicacy and consideration

added to her depression and annoyance.

“I don’t think Trevor should have talked about it to any one till

we had talked it over together,” she thought. “It cannot have

been altogether my father’s doing. However anxious he may be for

the marriage, he would not have startled me by proposing that it

should be so very soon. Next month! Trevor must have let papa think

that he and I had talked about it, and that was not kind or

considerate. For it was always understood we were not to be married

for a long time—and lately, since Charlie died, I was glad to put

the leaving home as far back in my thoughts as possible. And Trevor

understands all I feel, so well or, at least, he used to do.”

It was nearly midnight—a midnight, as Cicely had foretold, nearly

as bright as day, for the moon was at the full and the sky was

cloudless. Cicely was restless and excited; she had dismissed her

maid at the beginning of her conversation with her mother, now she

felt disinclined to go to bed, and sat by the still open window

looking out into the garden. The breeze had fallen, every object

shone out in silvery white distinctness against the black shadows,

all the shades and colours of the daylight world merged in the one

sharp contrast. A silly fancy crossed Cicely’s brain.

“I wonder,” she thought, “if there are any worlds where there

is no stronger light than this. How tired we should get of the

everlasting blacks and whites—it would be like living in an

engraving!”

She leant her arms on the broad, low window-sill and gazed before

her. Away down to the right ran the path across the park leading to

the plantations, beyond which again lay the entrance to the long

extent of the Lingthurst woods. This was Trevor’s short cut to the

Abbey. How often Cicely had watched him coming over the park; how

many a time she had run to unlock the little door in the wall, to

save him the additional half-mile of road round by the lodge! Many an

old remembrance stole across her mind as she sat looking out on the

familiar scene in its moonlight dress. Suddenly a small object moving

in the distance caught her attention; a figure was hastening over the

park in the direction of the Abbey—a small dark figure running, as

Cicely could perceive as it drew nearer, at full speed. Who could it

be? Twelve o’clock had struck since the girl had taken up her

station at the window—a strange hour for a child (for such the

figure seemed to be) to be out alone in the great bare expanse of the

park, which no one had occasion to cross except visitors to the

Abbey. Only one conjecture occurred to Cicely as a possible

explanation of what she saw—some cottager’s child must be ill,

and in distress and alarm the parents must be sending for assistance

to some of the outdoor servants belonging to the house. So Cicely

remained at the window watching the gradually approaching figure with

some curiosity. It drew nearer and nearer, somewhat diminishing its

pace as it came on, till at last the run sobered down into a swift

walk. By this time Cicely could distinguish that the strange visitor

was not a child, as she had imagined, but a small woman in a long,

dark cloak. She kept her eyes fixed upon it with increasing

curiosity, not unmixed with a slight flavour of eeriness—was it a

real flesh-and-blood woman she was observing, or the restless spirit

of some black-veiled sister revisiting at this unearthly hour the

haunts which had known her in the flesh? Cicely shivered

involuntarily as the idea occurred to her; then she smiled at her own

folly, and watched to see the small black figure disappear among the

premises at the back of the house. For a minute or two she lost sight

of it. “If she is going to the coach man’s house, she will set

the dogs barking,” thought the watcher, with some anxiety as to the

possible disturbance of her father’s rest. But no dogs began to

bark, and in another moment the little figure reappeared again, out

of the deep shadow of a projecting wall which had hidden it from

view; and then, to Cicely’s amazement, it came on along the front

of the house and turned round a corner, evidently making for the

terrace-garden, on to which opened the low window-doors of the

library. Half mechanically, hardly knowing what she was doing,

holding her breath, nevertheless, in instinctive anxiety, Cicely rose

from her seat by the window and went to the door, still standing

slightly ajar. She stood there, intently listening for any sound from

below, for the library was almost immediately underneath her room.

She was not frightened, she was only vaguely excited and uneasy what

she expected or dreaded she could hardly have put into words.

It came at last—the familiar sound, that till she heard it she

hardly knew her ears had been expecting—the slight click of the

latch of the library glass door opened by some one from the outside.

Then the cautious closing inside, the drawing to of the shutters, the

adjusting of the bar—then a pause, as if the intruder were stopping

to rest for an instant; and then again faint sounds distinguishable

in the intense silence of the house, which told of some one’s

moving across the library and entering the corridor leading to the

stairs. Cicely no longer hesitated; she flew along the passage and

reached the head of the staircase just as the small dark figure began

wearily to ascend. Miss Methvyn stood still in the shadow, but as the

person she was waiting for arrived at the top, she came forward in

the moonlight.

“It is I, Geneviève,” she said at once, speaking clearly, though

softly. “Don’t scream, or you will waken the house. Come

here—come with me into my room and tell me what in the world is the

matter. Where have you been?”

She spoke with a certain authority; she drew her cousin along the

passage to the room she had just left, Geneviève apparently too

startled to dream of resistance, not attempting to say a word. When

they were safely in the room, Cicely closed the door without

speaking. Then turning to her cousin, “Now, Geneviève,” she

said, “tell me what you have been doing. You have startled me very

much.”

Still Geneviève made no reply.

“Geneviève,” repeated Cicely, with a growing impatience in her

tone, “speak to me. What is the matter?”

She was becoming nervous and alarmed. Was her cousin going out of her

mind? Was she walking in her sleep? The last suggestion really

impressed her for a moment. She passed her arm round Geneviève’s

shoulder and turned her face gently towards her.

“Let me see you, Geneviève,” she said softly. The moonlight fell

full on the girl’s face; it looked strangely pale, the lips were

quivering, the eyes were cast down, great tears stood on the long

dark eyelashes. A sudden impulse came over Cicely. She threw her arms

round the poor little trembling figure and kissed her tenderly.

“Geneviève, my dear child!” she exclaimed, “you are in

trouble, you are unhappy about something. Won’t you trust me? Tell

me, whatever it is.”

A vague remembrance of what her mother had observed about Mr.

Guildford, a more distinct recollection of Geneviève’s evident

agitation on the day of the picnic flashed across Cicely’s mind.

Could it really be the case that her cousin had won the heart of the

cynical student, and yielded her own in return? But even if it were

so, Cicely was at a loss to understand why Geneviève should take to

running across the park at midnight instead of going comfortably to

sleep. Still the idea suggested some possible explanation of her

tears and dejection. Perhaps she was of the order of romantic young

ladies who consider outlandish and uncomfortable behaviour a part of

the róle.

But Geneviève’s reply, when at last it came, disappointed Cicely

greatly.

“Please do not be angry, Cicely,” she said. “I did not mean to

startle you. I knew not it was so late. I had only gone a little

way.”

“What do you mean, Geneviève?” exclaimed Cicely. “You must

have intended to go out without any one knowing. It is nonsense to

speak as if you had accidentally stayed out later—as if it were the

day-time instead of the middle of the night. I want to know where you

have been, and what you went out for at such an extraordinary hour.”

She had drawn back a little from Geneviève, for her want of

frankness chilled her. Geneviève began to cry again.

“I have been nowhere,” she said, between her sobs. “At least

only a little way over the park.”

“The way by the mill, that we were speaking of to-night?” said

Cicely.

“No, not so far. I went but across the park. The moon shone so

bright. I saw it from my window, and I thought I would go.”

Cicely looked at her in perplexity.

“I wish I could understand you, Geneviève,” she said wistfully.

“Do you mean that it was just a fancy for going out in the

moonlight that made you behave so strangely? I could have sympathised

with the wish, if you had mentioned it to me? I am a girl like

yourself, why do you seem so afraid of me? We might have gone out a

little together. Mamma would not have minded for once in a way. But I

thought you disliked moonlight.”

“I never saw it so bright and beautiful as to-night,” said

Geneviève, evidently beginning to recover her spirits.

“Nor I,” said Cicely. “It is an unusually lovely night. Well

then, Geneviève, the next time you have a fancy for a moonlight

ramble tell me and we will go together.”

She spoke lightly, for though still a little perplexed her mind was

on the whole relieved.

“Yes, dear Cicely, I will,” said Geneviève. “But I thought you

would think me so silly. And when I turned to come home I felt

frightened, and I ran so fast! I was quite tired when I got back, and

then I thought you would scold me.”

She was chattering away quite as usual by now. Cicely smiled. “You

must go off to bed now, you silly child,” she said, kissing her

cousin as she spoke.

Geneviève turned to go, but as she moved, an end of her cloak caught

in the chair near which she had been standing. She stooped to

disengage it; as she did so something fell from her hand with a sharp

sound on the floor. Before she could pick it up Cicely had caught

sight of it. It was a large key.

“The key of the plantation door!” exclaimed Cicely in amazement.

“Oh! Geneviève, you told me you had only been across the park!

What did you take the key for? Why cannot you be frank and

straightforward?”

She spoke in a tone of wounded and disappointed feeling which stung

Geneviève to the quick.

“I did speak what was true, Cicely,” she exclaimed vehemently.

“I did but go across the park. I took not the key; I went for to

seek it.”

“To seek for the key,” replied Cicely coldly. “I don’t know

what you mean.”

Geneviève began to cry again. She had admitted more than she

intended. Now there was no help for it.

“Yes,” she said, “I went to seek—to fetch the key. I had

taken it this morning when I was out, and I had forgotten it and left

it in the door. And to-night when we talked about that way I

remembered, and I feared to-morrow you might want it perhaps and

would not find it and would be angry; or it might be stolen out of

the door. I could not rest till, I had sought it.”

“And that was why you ran out so late, and you let me fancy it was

only for the pleasure of a little walk in the moonlight. Oh!

Geneviève,” exclaimed Cicely reproachfully.

“But I did not mean to tell you what was not true, Cicely,”

repeated Geneviève, “and I tell you all true now, I do—I do. I

feared you would be angry that I had taken the key. That was all. Do

you not believe me, my cousin?” she sobbed.

“Yes,” said Cicely, “I believe you; but I do not understand

you, Geneviève.”

But she kissed her again nevertheless, and Geneviève thanked her and

promised to trust her kindness for the future, and went off to bed.

CHAPTER III.

BY THE OLD WATER-MILL.

“Never any more While I live, Need I hope to see his face As

before.” R. Browning

THERE were letters from Hivèritz the next morning, one for

Geneviève and one for Mrs. Methvyn. Both had been looked for with

some anxiety, and their contents were fortunately in both instances

satisfactory.

“It is all right about my letter to your mother, Geneviève,”

said Mrs. Methvyn. “She got it quite safely, and thought I should

be satisfied with hearing from you that it had reached her, till she

had time to write. She seems to have been so busy. I am so glad we

did not write again to tease her.”

“Poor mamma!” said Geneviève softly.

She was feeling very anxious to read her own letter, but judged it

safer to defer doing so till she should be alone. The first two hours

after breakfast were generally Geneviève’s own to employ as she

chose, for Cicely always spent them in writing to her father’s

dictation in his own room. So Geneviève hastened upstairs and

eagerly opened her letter. It was a very kind one, and, as before,

the girl’s heart smote her more than once as she read. There was no

reproach for Geneviève’s strange behaviour in not delivering the

letter entrusted to her care for Mrs. Methvyn. Madame Casalis seemed

in a sense touched by her daughter’s trust in her leniency.

“I have written to Mrs. Methvyn again,” she wrote, “and I have

avoided the allusion you objected to. I do not of course understand

your reason for fearing it, but I doubt not that when we meet again

you will explain it. Only, my Geneviève, I would beg you to avoid

even the slightest occasion for not acting with perfect frankness.

You are so young and far from me, and in England the customs, I

believe, are somewhat different. Confide then, my child, as in a

mother, in thy good and amiable aunt.”

A slightly disturbed expression came over Geneviève’s face as she

read these last words.

“My mother understands not,” she said to herself. “It would be

impossible that she could understand. Mais enfin—”

The little time-piece over the fireplace struck the hour—ten

o’clock. As she spoke Geneviève started.

“It is late,” she thought, “and I must this morning go round

the long way by the lodge.”

She hastily put on her jacket and hat, though not so hastily as to

omit a moment’s glance into the looking-glass as she did so.

“How pale I look!” she said to herself; “it is with having sat up

so late. I am not pretty when I look so pale. Voyons—ce nœud

rose—ah! oui, c’est mieux,” and with a somewhat better

satisfied contemplation of herself, she turned away from the dressing

table and left the room.

Half an hour later she was at the entrance to the Lingthurst

woods—a point, which had she been able to leave the Greystone

grounds by the door in the wall, she would have reached in less than

half the time. She hurried along as fast as possible till almost

within sight of the deserted water mill. There, seated on the remains

of what had once been a mill-wheel, long ago, in the days when the

little stream, now diverted from its original course for other

purposes, had come rushing down with incessant chatter and bustle,

Geneviève descried the figure she had been straining her eyes to

see. It was Trevor Fawcett.

He was sitting perfectly still; he seemed to be thinking deeply.

There was considerable suggestion of melancholy in the place itself.

The melancholy of the past, though only the past of a water

mill,—the dried-up desertedness of the empty little river-bed

carried even the least vivid imagination back to a time of brighter

days when the brook and the mill had been in their glory, and

forwards—further still—to the universal, inevitable future of

decay, the “sic transit” branded even on the everlasting hills

themselves.

Mr. Fawcett’s imagination was not exceptionally vivid, nor was he

much given to reflections of a depressing nature; it was new to

Geneviève to see him anything but alert and cheerful, and a

momentary sensation of uneasiness made her heart beat quickly.

“Mr. Fawcett,” she said timidly, for she was quite close to him

before he saw her, “Mr. Fawcett.”

He looked round quickly and started to his feet.

“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed. “I did not hear you. I must

have been in a brown study. How late you are this morning! I fancied

you would not be coming out.”

“Oh! yes,” said Geneviève, “I would not like to miss my

morning walk. It is the pleasantest hour of the day.”

“Yes, in summer especially,” said Mr. Fawcett carelessly. “It

is a pity Cicely can never get out in the morning. We might have some

capital walks if she could come too.”

Geneviève did not answer at once, and when she did so, her tone

sounded constrained.

“My cousin can never leave Colonel Methvyn in the morning,” she

said stiffly. “If you would rather that she should be with us, of

course I can ask her to come in the afternoon, and not come out any

more in the morning. But I thought,” she stopped, and her voice

seemed as if she were going to cry.

“You thought? What did you think?” he asked.

“I thought you were so kind, and I am so strange here,” she began

hesitatingly. “You said you would advise me how to please my

English friends, and that I might confide to you my difficulties.”

She raised her great brown eyes, already dewy with tears, to his.

There had been a slight frown of impatience and annoyance on his

face, but as he looked at her, it melted away.

“You silly child,” he exclaimed with a smile, “What has my

wishing that poor Cicely could have a walk too, to do with it? Have

you some new trouble on your mind? Do you want to trot off to

Greybridge with another letter?”

“Oh! no,” said Geneviève, smiling again. “Oh! no, I have a

letter from home to-day. Maman is very good, very good and kind. She

has done what I asked her.”

“Then you should be quite happy and bright this morning,” said

Trevor. “But I don’t think you are. What makes you look so

pale?”

“I had not a good night,” replied Geneviève; “at least I sat

up very late, and I was foolish.”

“What were you about? Writing letters? You must take care or you

will have my aunt down upon you; she doesn’t approve of such

irregular proceedings,” said Mr. Fawcett.

“I was not writing. I had left the key in the door and I did not

remember it, and then when I thought all were asleep I ran out,”

began Geneviève, going on to tell him all the particulars of her

escapade, Cicely’s alarm and annoyance and her own distress. The

frown came back again to Trevor’s good-tempered face.

“It was very foolish,” he said in a tone of considerable

vexation. “You should not do such silly things, Geneviève. What

must a sensible girl like Cicely think of you? There is no use asking

me to advise you how to please the Methvyns and win their confidence,

if you do such exceedingly foolish things. Did you tell Cicely why

you had had the key?”

“No,” said Geneviève, looking very miserable again; “she knows

not that I had ever had it more than once. I feared you might be

angry if I told her that—that we had walked in the woods.”

“Why should I be angry?” exclaimed Trevor impatiently. “Do you

think I should do anything that I would mind being known to the girl

I am go—” he stopped abruptly, “to a girl I have known all her

life, as I have known Cicely?”—“It is Cicely’s own doing,”

he muttered to himself, “this absurd dilly-dallying and

concealment.”

“No, I do not think so, if you tell me not,” replied Geneviève

with tearful meekness. “If you wish, I will tell Cicely now, as

soon as I go in.”

“No, not now. It is too late. Don’t you see if you tell her now,

it will look as if there were something?—I mean it would hurt her

more that you had not told her before. No; you had better say nothing

more about it. But for the future—don’t think me unkind,

Geneviève; but for the future, I almost think you had better not

come out walks without Cicely. You see anything underhand may cause

so much trouble.”

“Very well,” said Geneviève. “I will no more come out. I will

no more speak to you, Mr. Fawcett. We will be as strangers.”

She began the speech with an attempt at tragic dignity; but long

before she got to its end her voice had broken again, and all the

dignity had melted into sobs. Mr. Fawcett muttered some impatient

exclamation.

“Really, Miss Casalis, you are unreasonable this morning,” he

began. “I was only doing as you asked me to do—advising you for

the best, and you begin to cry.”

“I will go home. I wish I had never come to this unkind country,

where everybody says things so little amiable, so cruel,” sobbed

Geneviève.

“Who says unkind things? Do you mean me?”

“No, not you. Till to-day you have been kind, very kind. But others

do. That médecin, that Mr. Guildford, told me that it was not

convenable that I should walk with you.”

“He did—did he? Upon my soul that fellow must be taught his

place. Meddling snob! When did he condescend to remonstrate with you,

may I ask?”

“The day at the picnic. He had seen us that afternoon, two, three

weeks ago, on the Greybridge Road. But he was not unkind,” said

Geneviève, a little afraid of the effect of her words. “He only

told me other people might—I know not what to say—might say it

was not convenable.”

“How very considerate of him!” observed Mr. Fawcett. “But

perhaps you do not object to his interest, Miss Casalis—perhaps you

consulted him as to the matter.”

“You know well I did not. I like him not,” said Geneviève, her

eyes flashing. “Mr. Fawcett, you are not kind to-day. You are not

as you have been before.”

“I don’t mean to be unkind, my dear child. I don’t indeed. I

have been bothered about things lately, and I was put out at the idea

of any misunderstanding between you and Cicely. But I dare say it

will be all right. Only perhaps we had better all go walks together

in future; for fear, you see, of it seeming to Cicely as if we left

her out.”

“Very well,” said Geneviève meekly, and this time without any

tears. She had sense enough to see that Mr. Fawcett was not in a mood

to care about many more of them this morning. “It is getting

late,” she went on, looking at her watch, “perhaps I had better

go home.”

Her gentleness made Trevor reproach himself for having wounded her.

He set to work forthwith to “reward principle” by undoing what he

had achieved.

“You are a very good child,” he said warmly. “You are very good

not to be angry with me for my roughness. You are not angry with me,

are you?”

She had turned her head away, but on his repeating the question, she

looked up again in his face; with infinite sweetness in the tender

dark eyes and pathos in the droop of the tremulous lips. She looked

like a rose after a storm, like a child unjustly chidden, like

everything sweet and plaintive and piteous.

“Angry with you?” she said reproachfully.

Trevor’s face softened into tenderness as he looked at her.

“You are an angel,” he said impetuously, but checking himself

with a strong effort; “you are a very kind, sensible girl,” he

went on, with a little laugh, “which is better than being an angel,

isn’t it?”

Geneviève smiled. Trevor saw the smile, but he had not seen the

quick flash of gratification and triumph which had lighted up the

dark eyes the instant before.

“I think I must go home now,” she said.

“Very well,” said Mr. Fawcett. I will go as far as the gate with

you.”

“It is no use going that way,” said Geneviève, “you forget I

have not the key.”

“What a bother!” exclaimed Trevor. “Then you must go round by

the lodge. Suppose we cut across the wood for a change, and come out

on the Haverstock Road? It’s hardly any further, and it’s a much

pleasanter way.”

Geneviève seemed to care little where he led her. It was enough for

her to be in his company. So they made their way across the wood,

trampling down the tall bracken and foxgloves as they went, for there

was no path in this direction, startling the pretty wild creatures

whose haunts they approached too unceremoniously.

“Isn’t it a pretty place,” said Trevor, standing still for a

moment. “Hark, there’s the cuckoo!”

“Where?” said Geneviève, staring about her in all directions,

but seeing nothing but the bright eyes of a little rabbit, as he

looked about him for a moment, before running out of the way of these

strange visitors, the like of whom had never come within his

experience before.

Mr. Fawcett began to laugh.

“Where?” he repeated. “Where he always is. Listen, don’t

look. You have not such sharp ears as Cicely, Miss Casalis! Are there

no cuckoos at Hivèritz?”

“I don’t know,” replied Geneviève. Then she relapsed into

silence.

Mr. Fawcett looked at her uneasily, and seemed once or twice on the

point of speaking, but ended by walking on in silence too.

A few minutes brought them to the edge of the wood, then a quarter of

a mile down a pretty shady lane, and they would be on the high-road.

Trevor made one or two trifling observations, but Geneviève scarcely

replied to them. Then he began to lose patience.

“Are you vexed with me again, Miss Casalis?” he said. “I am

very unlucky to-day. I seem to do nothing but vex you, and you

don’t seem in as good spirits as usual.”

“No; it is not I, it is you, all you,” exclaimed Geneviève.

“You are not kind, you do no longer like me. It is all Cicely you

want to-day, not Geneviève. There is no Geneviève; she has gone. It

is Miss Casalis.”

Mr. Fawcett’s fair face deepened in colour as he listened to her

childish words. At first he seemed on the point of answering hastily,

but on second thoughts he checked himself. When he did speak, it was

very quietly.

“You have mistaken me, Geneviève,” he said. “Why should my

mention of Cicely make you think I don’t care for you? Can’t one

care for more than one person in the world? Suppose you and Cicely

had been my sisters, couldn’t I have cared for you both?”

“I could never be like your sister,” said. Geneviève

inconsequently. “Cicely is different; she has been with you

always.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Trevor hastily, “but you can be my

little friend, can’t you? I have wished you to be my little friend,

Geneviève, ever since the first day I saw you; the day I lifted you

up from the dusty road at Hivèritz, where those beasts of horses had

knocked you down. How pitiful you looked, you poor little soul! Yes,

Geneviève, I have always felt a special interest in you since

then.”

Unconsciously to himself, his voice grew soft and tender, as the

remembrance of the lovely pale face with the closed eyelids and flood

of wavy dark hair that had rested on his shoulder, came back to his

mind. He looked at her as he spoke. Was the face beside him now less

lovely; was it not rather ten times more so, as a smile, called forth

by his words, dimpled the flushed cheeks and lighted up the

expressive eyes?

“Have you really? Have you never forgotten that day?” whispered

Geneviève.

Mr. Fawcett’s answer was less sentimental than she expected.

Something just at this moment seemed to spring from the ground at

their feet, and leap away again so quickly that the girl could hardly

distinguish what it was.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Trevor, “what a splendid hare. Did you see

it, Geneviève?”

“I thought it was a rabbit,” she replied, but this time she did

not resent his laughing at her.

Soon they reached the high-road, and here their paths separated.

Trevor hesitated a moment after saying good-bye.

“Will you come out another walk some day, soon?” he said. “I

should like to tell you something that I have not been free to tell

you yet, and I should like to tell it you myself. I could explain to

you why I have been bothered and irritable lately; and—and when you

know it, everything will be all right—at least, I think so, and

hope so. You have promised to be my friend always, haven’t you,

Geneviève?”

“Yes, always,” she replied, blushing up shyly into his face.

“That’s right. Then good-bye again,” and in another moment he

was out of sight.

He hurried on quickly at first, then gradually his pace slackened.

“What a charming little goose it is,” he said, smiling to

himself. “I wonder how many moods and humours she has been in, in

the last half-hour! The happy man who wins you for his ‘hope’ and

‘joy,’ my dear Geneviève, will find his hands full. And yet how

awfully pretty and sweet she is!” An uneasy expression came over

his face. “It isn’t fair,” he muttered, “it is too hard upon

one; it is, by George! I must come to an understanding with Cicely. I

must and shall.”

Geneviève meanwhile went on her way rejoicing. To her self-absorbed

imagination Mr. Fawcett’s last words could bear but one

interpretation, and her fancy, vivid enough in all that concerned

herself, set to work forthwith to build gorgeous castles upon what

she now firmly believed to be a substantial foundation.

The chosen of Trevor Fawcett! What a blissful position would be hers!

How glad she was that she had agreed to carry the soup to the Widow

Lafon that Sunday ever so long ago it seemed now!—how much more

inclined she felt to call Monsieur Béret’s horses “angels”

than “beasts”! What would Mathurine say? How triumphant she would

be at the fulfilment of her prophecy! “Riche, beau, jeune.” Did

not Geneviève’s hero well answer the description? Yes, it would be

all that could be desired; even the living in England, which had

certainly proved a more triste affair than the pastor’s daughter

had imagined, would not be so bad as the wife of a man able and

willing to gratify her every wish.

“We shall travel often,” thought Geneviève, “we shall go to

Paris two—three times a year. All my dresses shall come from there

of course. When Eudoxie grows older and is more reasonable, she shall

come to visit me. I shall send many presents à la maison. All my old

dresses Eudoxie shall have—that in itself will help much my mother.

Poor Maman, but she will be pleased to announce the news to Madame

Rousille! And Stéphanie shall visit me—I shall enjoy, oh! how I

shall enjoy to see her face when she enters Lingthurst! ‘La petite

Casalis,’ indeed! Ah! it will no longer be ‘la petite Casalis’

by then.”

The delightful companionship of her thoughts had lent wings to her

feet. She found herself at the Abbey Lodge before she knew where she

was. She hurried up the drive, then hastened round to the side of the

house by the same path in which Cicely had lost sight of her the

night before. Just as she reached the glass door, she heard herself

called by name, and in another minute Cicely came running across the

lawn.

“Where have you been, Geneviève? I have been looking for you

everywhere,” she exclaimed. Then without waiting for an answer,

“Mother wants you,” she went on, “she is upstairs in her

dressing room.”

“I will go at once,” replied Geneviève readily. Something in her

bright manner and tone caught Cicely’s attention.

“How happy you look this morning, Geneviève!” she observed with

a touch of kindly envy. “You look so fresh and rosy, and yet you

were up so late, you naughty girl. Is it your letter from home that

has pleased you so? At breakfast time I thought you looked pale.”

“I had good news from home,” replied Geneviève. “I am glad I

look well.” She turned to her cousin affectionately; Cicely’s

remark had gratified her, and a half impulse came over her to confide

to her the cause of her bright looks. But Cicely’s face seemed pale

and sad—unusually pale and sad, and the inclination to appeal to

her for sympathy died away.

“You don’t look well, Cicely,” said Geneviève, “is anything

the matter? It is nothing wrong my aunt wants to see me about?”

Cicely smiled—“a smile beneath a cloud”—afterwards Geneviève

wondered to herself how it could be that she of all women in the

world could look sad—and the faint light of the smile seemed to

make her face still paler.

“Oh! no,” she said, “it is nothing wrong, but mother wants to

have a little talk with you.” She was silent for a moment,

hesitating seemingly as if she should say more. “Geneviève,” she

went on, “you must not think I have treated you like a stranger.

It was only that I wanted you to feel quite easy and unconstrained

with me that—that I did not tell you what mother is going to tell

you. Don’t let it make any difference in your feelings to me. Kiss

me, dear.”

A little surprised but nothing loth, Geneviève held up her bright

face for Cicely’s kiss. She was pleased that her cousin should feel

so kindly to her this morning of all mornings, and her pleasure, in

turn, gratified Cicely. She stood watching Geneviève as she ran off,

carolling in her clear high voice a little patois ballad she had been

teaching Cicely.

“Escoutto d’ Jeannetto Veux-tu d’biaux habits, laridetto

Escoutto d’ Jeannetto Pour aller à Paris?” “Laridetto,

laridetto, Baille me unbaiser, laridetto.”

rang Geneviève’s voice, then died away in the distance.

The last words of the song returned to Cicely’s mind.

“Sachez que d’ Jeannetto, Quand ell’ aimo bien, Sachez que d’

Jeannetto Donno ça per rien.”

“I wonder if Geneviève is capable of deep feeling,” thought

Cicely. “Will there ever come a time “quand ell’ aimo bien?”

She seems like a bird.’ But am I capable of it? I thought I cared

for Trevor. I think it still; but, oh! the thought of leaving home is

terrible!”

Then with slower steps she followed her cousin into the house.

Geneviève meanwhile had flown upstairs to her aunt’s room.

“Come in,” said Mrs. Methvyn in answer to her tap at the door.

“Oh! it is you, my dear Geneviève. I am writing to your mother

again; I always like to answer letters at once when I can, and

besides, I have something I want to tell her now; and I want to tell

it to you too; but I hardly think you will be surprised.”

“What is it, dear aunt?” inquired Geneviève with some curiosity,

“It is—I fancy you may have noticed Trevor has been here so

much,” began Mrs. Methvyn rather confusedly. Geneviève’s heart

beat faster, the blood rushed to her cheeks. Could he already have

spoken to her aunt?—it was possible that out of respect to her

French prejudices he might have done so. “He comes here so much,”

her aunt went on, “that even though you know he is our cousin, I

can’t help thinking you may have suspected there was some

particular attraction; but till now Cicely did not want you to be

told of it” (“Cicely, what had she to do with it?” darted

through Geneviève’s mind), “because she fancied you would not so

soon have felt at ease and friendly with her if you had known she was

engaged.”

The room seemed to go round with Geneviève. She caught hold of the

arm of the low chair on which she was sitting to prevent herself

falling. But still she managed to say quietly, “Yes, dear aunt.”

“And so,” Mrs. Methvyn went on, “I agreed to say nothing about

it till you had been a little while with us and felt quite at home.

Besides, hitherto the engagement has been so indefinite—I mean to

say no time has been fixed—but now I think we must begin to make up

our minds to losing Cicely before very long. Not that it will really

be like losing her, of course; she will be so near, we can see her

almost every day.” She spoke with a forced cheerfulness which would

have touched a disinterested listener, but Geneviève was conscious

just now but of one sensation, an agonising inclination to burst into

hysterical weeping—she had no feeling to spare for any one but

herself; she exerted all her strength in forcing herself to remain to

outward appearance calm.

When her aunt stopped speaking, and waited in expectation of

Geneviève’s reply, none came. Mrs. Methvyn looked up in surprise.

“Are you very much astonished, my dear?” she said. “Had you no

idea of it? You are not taking it to heart, dear Geneviève, I hope?

If so, I shall blame myself very much for not having prepared you for

it before, though I can well understand your regret at losing Cicely

just when you have begun to know her.”

Geneviève seized the suggestion. She turned to her aunt, no longer

repressing her tears.

“I had no idea of it,” she whispered.

“My poor child,” said Mrs. Methvyn.

Then she drew the girl towards her and kissed her tenderly, and,

mistaken as was the motive of the tenderness, in Geneviève’s state

of overstrained feeling she had no desire to repel it. She threw her

arms round her aunt and sobbed convulsively till Mrs. Methvyn cried

in sympathy.

“Is it to be very soon?” asked Geneviève at last.

“Oh! no; nothing is fixed yet as to the exact time. It will not be

for six months at least. We shall have Cicely all to ourselves for

some time yet, you see, dear,” replied Mrs. Methvyn soothingly. But

Geneviève felt that she could not bear her present position much

longer. The sound of a door opening gave her an excuse; she started

up.

“There is Cicely coming,” she exclaimed. “I would not like her

to see me crying so. Let me go, dear aunt, and forgive my want of

self-control. I should like to go to my own room for a little.”

“Go then, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn, kissing her again, and

Geneviève hastened away.

“How I have mistaken her, the poor, dear child!” thought

Cicely’s mother. “I had no idea she was capable of such an amount

of feeling. What a loving little creature she is!”

And Cicely was told of her cousin’s unexpected display of affection

for her, and felt vexed with herself that she could not help thinking

it a little ill-timed and uncalled for.

It is a mistake to suppose that suffering must be noble to be genuine

and severe. Geneviève’s distress sprang from no high source: such

of it as was not of the nature of mortification and wounded vanity,

was principally composed of childish disappointment in the

destruction of her dazzling visions of wealth and grandeur. She had

some amount of regard for Trevor himself; she admired him, she liked

his pleasant voice and gentle deference of manner; she thought she

loved him devotedly, she had long ago made up her mind to fall in

love with none but a thoroughly desirable parti, therefore the fact

of his wealth and position by no means interfered with her belief in

the genuineness of her affection for him. That she was very

thoroughly in love with the idea of marrying him, of obtaining all

the pleasant things that would certainly fall to the share of his

wife, there was not the shadow of a doubt. And the disappointment of

her hopes fell upon her with crushing weight. There was nothing of

true pathos or tragedy in her composition; her cup was but a pretty

toy, brittle as egg-shell, though, unlike egg-shell, very capable of

repair, but, such at it was, it was just now full to the brim with

the bitter draught, which no reserve of latent heroism was at hand to

render less unpalatable.

She threw herself down on the bed and sobbed.

“I wish I had never come to England I wish they had told me at

first—I wish, oh! how I wish I had never seen him,” she cried.

Then her glance fell on the little bow of red ribbon which she had

fastened to her dress that very morning.

“Naughty little ribbon, detestable little ribbon, I put you on to

make me look pretty, that he should think me pretty,” she

exclaimed, throwing the rose-coloured knot to the other end of the

room, “and now I must think of him as the fiancé of my cousin! It

matters not now that he thinks me pretty or ugly; he can never be

anything more to me. And Cicely, she who is already rich,

fétée,—who could find partis without number. Ah, but it is

cruel!”

CHAPTER IV.

MAN AND WOMAN.

“La discussion n’est vraiment possible et efficace qu’entre

gens du même avis.”

Deligny.

“Perhaps, however, there is little difference between understanding

and sympathising.”

Casimir Maremma.

GENEVIÈVE came down to luncheon with hopelessly red eyes and a

general air of extreme depression. Cicely looked at her kindly, and

spoke to her gently; it was impossible not to be touched by the

contrast between her present appearance and the bright joyousness

which had attracted her cousin’s notice that very morning. Mrs.

Methvyn was more demonstratively affectionate than Geneviève had

ever known her.

“I am going to Greybridge this afternoon,” said Mrs. Methvyn,

“would you like to come with me, Geneviève? I am going in the

large carriage, so you won’t have to sit in the back seat. You

cannot come, Cicely?”

“No, mother,” said Cicely.

She got up from her chair as she spoke, for luncheon was over, and

went to the window.

“It looks so fine,” she remarked. “Don’t you think my father

might try another drive?”

Mrs. Methvyn shook her head. “I did suggest it,” she said, “but

he did not seem inclined for it. I think he might get over his

nervousness about it if Mr. Guildford could go with him once or

twice.”

“I wish he could,” exclaimed Cicely. “Would it be worth while

to write and ask him if he could come some day soon early enough for

a drive?”

“You might ask your father,” answered her mother. “Well then,

Geneviève, will you come with me?”

Geneviève started. She seemed to wake out of a reverie at the sound

of her own name.

“Yes, thank you. I should like very much to go,” she said. “I

will go and get ready,” and she left the room.

“How nervous Geneviève seems!” remarked Cicely regretfully.

“And this morning she was so bright and happy! I don’t quite

understand her.”

“Not understand her, Cicely, when I have been telling you how

terribly distressed she was at the thought of losing you! It is

entirely that that has upset her. I think you should try to be a

little more demonstrative to her, poor child, a cold word or tone

chills her in an instant,” said Mrs. Methvyn reproachfully.

“Don’t say that, mother, don’t!” exclaimed Cicely in a quick

tone of pain. “I do try, I have tried to be affectionate—more so

a great deal than is natural to me—in my manner to Geneviève.

But,” she hesitated. “Mamma, it is no use struggling against

it,” she went on impetuously, “I would not say so to any one but

you, but I cannot get rid of the feeling that she is not perfectly

sincere.”

“Cicely!” exclaimed her mother, “my dear child, I am surprised

at you. It is not like you to take up an unfounded prejudice. I am

quite certain Geneviève is as straightforward and genuine as

possible. Indeed, she is transparent to a fault. And her mother is

the same. When I knew her as a girl, she was the most guileless

creature living.”

“Yes,” said Cicely thoughtfully. “Yes, there is something in

that. I mean it is not likely that a girl brought up in an atmosphere

of truthfulness and simplicity would be scheming or underhand.”

“Scheming and underhand!” repeated Mrs. Methvyn. “What dreadful

words! Really, Cicely, you must not let your fancy run away with you

so. It is so unlike you.”

“Forgive me, mamma. I should not have said so much,” said Cicely.

“I have been anxious about Geneviève, and I suppose I have grown

exaggerated and fanciful. I will try to get rid of my fancies,

mother, I will indeed. And I will try to be more demonstrative to

poor Geneviève.”

“Very well,” replied her mother. “I should not recognize you,

Cicely, if you were to become prejudiced or suspicious. You will go

out a little now, won’t you? You have not been out to-day, and

Trevor will not be here just yet.”

“Yes, I will go out now,” said Cicely. “Kiss me, mother, and

don’t say I am mean and suspicious. I am cross, I think. Kiss me,

dear mother.”

She left her mother with a bright face and stood on the lawn by the

sun-dial, kissing her hand merrily in farewell as the carriage drove

away. But when it was quite out of sight, in spite of her

resolutions, her face clouded over again and her heart grew heavy.

“I ought to be glad that mother is so fond of Geneviève,” she

thought. “She will miss me the less.”

Then she felt ashamed of her own bitterness.

“I don’t know what is coming over me,” she reflected. “I am

mean and unamiable. Can anything be meaner than for me to be jealous

of Geneviève, I who have so much, and she so little! Yet I am—I am

angry because both Trevor and mother have scolded me for being cold

to her. I am spoilt; I can’t bear being scolded—and I am vexed

with her because she has the power of showing her affection and

enlisting sympathy, whereas I seem to grow colder the more I feel.

And as for sympathy, I seem to repel it now—nobody thoroughly

sympathises with me.”

She sat down on the stone at the foot of the sun-dial in a very

unusual mood of self pity—Cicely, whom at this very moment

Geneviève was thinking of as the very happiest girl in all the

world! So little do we know of the fit of each other’s garments.

From where she was sitting, Cicely could see the drive almost all the

way to the lodge. And in the light dress she wore, she herself was

easily to be distinguished, by quick eyes at least, belonging to any

one approaching, the Abbey by this front road. There came a sound of

wheels. It was too early for Mr. Fawcett, besides which it was more

than probable that he would be riding.

“Some people coming to call,” thought Cicely, groaning in the

spirit. She felt peculiarly disinclined to-day for small talk and

lady-like gossip, and wished she had not placed herself where

ignorance of the arrival was impossible. But when the carriage came

fairly within view, her fears proved to have been ill-founded. It was

only the Greybridge fly. Almost before Cicely had time to wonder who

could be its occupant, the carriage stopped and a gentleman got out.

He had evidently seen her; he came quickly across the lawn in her

direction. Cicely got up from her seat and went forward to meet him.

“Mr. Guildford!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea it was you.”

But there was welcome in her tone. Some thing in his pleasant face,

in his keen glance, in his way of shaking hands even, seemed to

dispel the cloudy atmosphere of dejection and gloom in which she had

been breathing.

“I should have written yesterday to tell you I was coming,” he

replied,“but till to-day I was not quite sure that I could make it

out. My coming again so soon will not annoy Colonel Methvyn, will

it?”

“Oh! dear no; it will please him very much,” she answered

heartily. “I was going to write to you this afternoon to ask if you

could come again some day soon in time to take papa a drive. He is

nervous about going without you; but I am sure going out the other

day did him good. Could you go with him to-day?”

“I could easily,” replied Mr. Guildford. “I am not in any

hurry; but I hardly think the day is suitable. I mean the weather. It

is a good deal colder; the wind is in the east. I noticed it this

morning, and some how it made me feel fidgety about Colonel Methvyn.

I grew so anxious to know that his drive the day before yesterday had

done him no harm that I came to see.”

“It was very kind of you,” said Cicely gratefully. “I think you

will find him very well. So the wind is in the east, is it? In June

too, what a shame! Perhaps that is why I have felt so cross all

day.”

“Do you often feel cross?” asked Mr. Guildford smiling.

“I don’t know. I used not; but lately I think I have been getting

into a bad habit of feeling so from no particular cause. At least,”

she hesitated a little, “from no new cause.”

“You mean that there would have been as much excuse for you

formerly as there is now, but that it is only lately you have yielded

to the irritating influences.”

“No,” said Cicely, laughing. “I don’t think there is now or

ever has been any excuse for me. But somehow I don’t think life is

as interesting as it used to seem.”

“That is not an uncommon phase of youthful experience,” he said

drily. “Don’t you fancy sometimes that nobody understands or

sympathises with you?”

“Yes,” said Cicely, looking up in his face with a questioning in

her eyes. Was he laughing at her?

“Ah! I thought so,” he said, shaking his head gravely. “Once

upon a time I could have sympathised with you, but now—”

“Well, what now?” she asked, eagerly.

“Now, I have grown wiser.”

“How?”

“I have come to think one can do very well without much

understanding or sympathy; that too little is better than too much.

Too much is enervating.”

“Is that true?” she said seriously.

“I think so,” he answered.

“But you are a man,” she objected.

“And you are a woman,” he replied.

“Women are more clinging than men,” she remarked somewhat hazily.

“You are shifting your ground,” he said. “It is not the

clinging—the weak side of your nature—that is discontented just

now. It is the energetic, working side that is so.”

“Yes,” she said eagerly, with a sparkle in her eyes, “yes, I

think you are right.”

“Then satisfy it.”

“How can I?”

“Give it work to do.”

Her countenance fell. “I must say again as I did before, “I am a

woman and you are a man,” she answered dejectedly.

He looked at her with more commiseration than he had yet shown. “I

suppose it is true,” he said, at last. “It is harder for a woman

who has anything in her to find a channel for her energies. Still,

you need not despair. You don’t know what is before you.”

“Yes, I do,” she said gloomily. He glanced at her in surprise,

and she grew scarlet.

“I mean to say,” she went on hastily, “I mean to say that I

know quite well that my life will be very smooth and easy, and that I

shall never have anything to do that—that anybody could not do.

Don’t think me conceited,” she added pleadingly. “What makes me

dull just now is that the only duties that I feel I can do specially

well, that seem my own particular business, are going to be taken

from me.”

Mr. Guildford made no answer. “You don’t think women should have

such feelings, I know,” she went on, in a tone of disappointment.

“You think they should take things as they come, and be contented

to stay in their own domain.”

“No, not quite that. There are exceptional women as well as

exceptional men,” he replied. “I don’t consider myself one of

the latter, but still I understand myself. Whatever it was that I

said that you are alluding to now, referred only to my own domain. I

don’t dictate to other people. I know what is best for myself, and

least likely to interfere with the aims of my own life—that is all.

And so far as I understand you,” he went on in a different tone,

“your present trouble seems to be that you want to stay in your own

domain, and you can’t get leave to do so.”

There was a half-veiled inquiry in his tone, but Cicely did not

perceive it. He tried to believe that she was only referring to some

passing trouble, some wish of her parents, perhaps, that she should

enter more into society, or give up the more arduous of her home

duties. For Geneviève’s assurance that her cousin and Mr. Fawcett

were “like brother and sister only,” was strongly impressed upon

him. Cicely’s reply puzzled him still more.

“Perhaps it is rather that I am not sure where is my own domain,”

she said. “And you being a man, can never be troubled with doubts

of that kind,” she added more lightly.

“I don’t know that,” he answered, feeling instinctively that

she wished to turn the conversation from her own affairs. “I often

doubt, as I think I have told you, if I did well to come to

Sothernbay at all.”

“But you are thinking of leaving it eventually!” she asked with

interest.

“Yes,” he answered. “When ‘eventually’ may be I can’t

say, though things lately seem inclined to hasten it. I had a piece

of good luck—at least of great encouragement—a short time ago.

But,” he stopped for a moment, “it is very egotistical of me to

talk about all this. It can’t possibly interest a young lady.”

“Why not?” she said. “If I had a brother who was clever and

learned like you—above all, who worked as hard as you do—do you

think I should not be interested in his success? So fancy I am your

sister. You have no sister?”

“Yes, I have,” he answered. “I have a very good little sister.

She is certainly not the least like you, Miss Methvyn.”

Cicely laughed. Mr. Guildford had a rather original way of expressing

himself sometimes.

“Never mind,” she said. “Tell me about your success. I believe

I can guess what it is. You have written some learned book, which has

set all the medical authorities of Europe in an excitement. And you

are the new light of the day.”

“Not quite. Don’t laugh at me, please. I dare say my success

won’t sound much to you. It is only that some papers of mine have

attracted attention, and I have been invited to contribute a series

to one of the first scientific journals of the day. The subject is

not directly connected with my own profession, but indirectly it

bears upon the very branch of it that I have studied more than any

other. So it will be no loss of time to me in any way.”

“I do consider it a success—a great success!” exclaimed Cicely.

“And what a reward for your past labours to find that they have

been all in the right direction! How I envy you! If it were not so

commonplace, I think I should sometimes say that I wished I were a

man.”

“Don’t say it,” said Mr. Guildford; “but not because it is

commonplace. You needn’t mind that.”

“Why must I not say it, then?”

“Because—because it isn’t womanly,” he answered, smiling at

his own words.

Cicely smiled too.

“I suspect,” she said, “that your interpretation of that word

is as arbitrary as most men’s. And your notions about women are

just as inconsistent and unreasonable as—as—”

“As theories on subjects one knows very little about usually

are?” he suggested. “Perhaps so. Please remember, however, I only

make theories for myself, not for the rest of the world.”

The stable clock in the distance struck three.

“I think papa will be pleased to see you now,” said Cicely. “I

always go to him about this time when my mother is out.”

They turned towards the house. “Did you not meet my mother and my

cousin as you came from Greybridge?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I met them about half a mile from

here—Miss Casalis is exceedingly pretty,” he remarked

inconsequently.

“She is beautiful,” said Cicely.

“No, she is too small to be beautiful. She is just the perfection

of prettiness.”

“Rose-jacynth to the finger tips,”

he observed reflectively.

Cicely looked up quickly. Her mother’s words recurred to her

memory, but Mr. Guildford’s manner perplexed her. Was “the

perfection of prettiness” his ideal? She walked on in a reverie,

and her companion glanced at her once or twice without attracting her

attention. Then he spoke.

“Do you think it is impertinent of me to make such remarks?” he

asked with a little anxiety.

Cicely started, but the start turned into a smile.

“Oh! dear, no,” she replied. “I was only thinking about

something that puzzled me a little about—”

“About Miss Casalis?” inquired Mr. Guildford. His tone was so

gentle that Cicely never thought of resenting the question.

“Yes,” she said; “it was partly about her.”

“But you don’t think her puzzling, do you?” said Mr. Guildford

in surprise. “She seems to me transparency itself.”

Cicely looked up in his face with some perplexity in her own.

“I am afraid I sometimes repel where I should like to win,” she

remarked with apparent irrelevance. But there was no time to say

more, for just then they were met by a servant sent by Colonel

Methvyn in quest of his daughter, and Cicely hastened in to tell her

father of Mr. Guildford’s arrival.

When Mrs. Methvyn and Geneviève drove up to the hall door on their

return from Greybridge, they were met by Mr. Guildford. He came

forward to help them out of the carriage.

“I am still here, you see,” he said to Mrs. Methvyn. “I hope

you will not think I have tired Colonel Methvyn; we have had such a

pleasant afternoon. Colonel Methvyn has been so kind as to let me

look over his portfolios.”

“I am so glad,” answered the wife. “There is nothing he enjoys

more than showing his engravings to any one who understands them.

Your coming to-day was particularly fortunate, Mr. Guildford. I wish

we could send for you by magic now and then.”

Mr. Guildford laughed brightly, and Geneviève, who was just stepping

out, smiled up in his face as if in agreement with her aunt.

“Yes,” she said, “how nice that would be when dear uncle is

tired!”

And as the young man turned towards her as she spoke, he felt half

inclined to modify his verdict of that very afternoon.

“Pretty! She is more than pretty,” he thought. For Geneviève was

at her very loveliest just then. The tears and agitation of the

morning had left their traces in an increased depth and tenderness of

expression; there was a subdued softness about her face which Mr.

Guildford had never remarked before. The unconcealed admiration of

his glance caught Mrs. Methvyn’s observation. She smiled, and the

smile was not misunderstood by Geneviève.

“That is what my aunt means,” thought the girl, referring in her

own mind to something that Mrs. Methvyn had said during their drive,

in the fulness of her motherly heart, about the pleasure it would

give her to see Geneviève happy like her cousin,—happy as she who

showed such appreciation of Cicely, surely deserved to be! And sorely

as the girl was suffering, the idea was not altogether devoid of

consolation.

“Where is Cicely?” said Mrs. Methvyn, as she entered the hall.

“Have you seen her, Mr. Guildford?”

“Not very lately,” he replied. “It must be an hour and a half

at least since I went up to Colonel Methvyn’s room, and I have not

seen Miss Methvyn since then.”

“Miss Cicely is out; Mr. Fawcett called about an hour ago, and Miss

Cicely went out into the garden with him,” said the old butler, in

answer to his mistress’s inquiry.

“She will be in soon, I dare say,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “Run

upstairs and let your uncle know we have come in, Geneviève dear,

and then come and make tea for us in the library. You will not refuse

a cup of tea, Mr. Guildford?”

Somewhat to her mother’s surprise, Cicely made her appearance in

the library almost immediately. She came in by the glass door, alone,

her hat in her hand, an unusual colour in her cheeks, and a forced

brightness in her manner which did not deceive the loving eyes.

“What have you done with Trevor?” asked Mrs. Methvyn, with a

would-be carelessness of tone. “Simmons said he had been here.”

“Yes; but he could not stay long; he had letters to write or

something, and hurried home. Had you a pleasant drive, mother? You

look all the better for it, Geneviève,” said Cicely, speaking more

quickly than usual, and making greater clatter among the tea-cups

than her wont.

“We had a very nice drive,” replied Mrs. Methvyn, and then, quick

to take her daughter’s hint, she went on to speak about the

commissions they had executed at Greybridge, the neighbours they had

met, and the news they had heard, without further allusion to Mr.

Fawcett or his call.

Geneviève had fixed her eyes on her cousin when Trevor’s name was

first mentioned. She, too, had noticed something unusual in

Cicely’s manner. “Can it be that they have quarrelled,” she

said to herself, a throb of joy passing through her at the very

thought. The mere possibility of such a thing made her feel amiable,

and almost capable of pitying her cousin. She got up from her seat

and came forward to the tea-table to help Cicely.

“Thank you, dear,” said Cicely. She glanced at Geneviève as she

spoke. Some thing in her expression smote Geneviève—a look of

distress and endurance, a pained, perplexed expression, new to the

calm, fair face. Geneviève carried a cup of tea to Mrs. Methvyn, and

then went back to her seat, feeling unhappy and bewildered and

hopeful all at once. And as she reflected further on the position of

things, the last feeling gradually came to predominate, the shadow of

self-reproach faded away. What if Cicely and her lover had

quarrelled, and about her! She was not to blame. She had been kept in

the dark as to the true state of affairs; and even if she had known

it, could she have prevented what had happened?

“I did not make my own face,” thought Geneviève complacently.

“I cannot make myself ugly, and if people fall in love with me, it

is not my fault.”

She was quite ready to believe that Mr. Guildford, too, was fast

falling a victim to her charms. The idea was not unpleasing to her.

It brightened her eyes and added sweetness to her smile, as she

turned to speak to the young man who stood beside her, absorbed, so

it seemed to Mrs. Methvyn, in the contemplation of her lovely face.

Cicely noticed them too, and a little sigh escaped her. Was a lovely

face the one thing after all? It almost seemed so.

Soon after Mr. Guildford left them, Geneviève went out into the

garden, and the mother and daughter were alone.

“Don’t you think that what I said is very evident now, Cicely?”

asked Mrs. Methvyn.

“What?” said Cicely absently, listlessly raising her eyes,

“what was it that you said, mother?”

“About Geneviève—about Mr. Guildford’s admiring her. Don’t

you remember?” said Mrs. Methvyn impatiently.

Oh, yes! I dare say it is so. I have no doubt he admires her.

Everybody does. It is not only her face; she is lovable and womanly

and gentle; everything I am not,” exclaimed Cicely with most

unaccustomed bitterness.

“Cicely!” ejaculated Mrs. Methvyn. In the extremity of her

amazement she could say no more.

“Oh! mother, don’t be shocked at me, said Cicely. “I am so

unhappy, so very unhappy, I don’t know what I am saying. Oh!

mother, I wish there were no such thing as marrying in the world!”

“What is it, dear? Is there anything wrong between you and Trevor?

Is he disappointed at your wishing to put off your marriage?” asked

Mrs. Methvyn, anxiously.

“Yes,” replied Cicely. “He is more than disappointed. He has

spoken very cruelly to me. He is cruel. And I don’t deserve it. I

have not put off our marriage, mother. It is Trevor that wished to

hurry it on in a way that had never been thought of. It is

inconsiderate in the extreme of him. I don’t understand him; he is

quite, quite changed.”

Two or three large tears gathered in the troubled eyes and rolled

slowly down the pale face. And Cicely so seldom cried!

Her mother kissed her silently.

“I can’t bear to see you so unhappy, my darling,” she said at

last. “Tell me more about it. How is he changed? You cannot doubt

his affection; his very eagerness to hurry on things is a proof of

it.”

Cicely shook her head.

“I don’t doubt his affection,” she said, “if I did I could

not marry him. But there is something I don’t understand. A few

months ago he was so gentle and considerate—so understanding.

To-day he was quite different. When I told him that six months hence

was quite as soon as I could agree to our marriage taking place, he

got quite angry and indignant. He accused me of not caring for him,

mother; of making false excuses with the hope of delaying it

indefinitely—perhaps for ever—of all sorts of feelings and

schemes that he knows I am incapable of. In fact, he quite forgot

himself. And, mother, my reasons were right and good ones; a few

months ago, yes, even a few weeks ago, he would have completely

entered into them. If I did not know—” she hesitated and stopped.

“What, dear?” inquired her mother.

“I was going to say if I did not know Trevor to be perfectly

honourable, I could almost have fancied he was trying to provoke me

into breaking off our engagement.” She looked up into her

mother’s face with a painful doubt in her eyes.

“No,” said Mrs. Methvyn decidedly; “Trevor is incapable of such

a thing. Cicely dear, you have mistaken him. It was only a passing

fit of irritation, and he said more than he meant.”

“I hope so,” answered Cicely. “Yes, I hope so. He is not

capable of anything scheming or dishonourable. Still, mother, he is

changed. He has grown suspicious and irritable; he who used to be so

sweet tempered and gentle.”

“He will be so again, dear. I am sure he will,” said her mother

confidently. “He is only disappointed. And remember it is partly

your father’s fault; he led him to believe the marriage might be

sooner.”

“But papa says he will be very glad to have me at home for six

months. Six months! It is not long, mother.”

“Your father is in better spirits again just now,” said Mrs.

Methvyn. “But a week or two ago, he seemed to wish he could see you

married at once. He was very dull about himself at that time.”

“Yes, I remember,” replied Cicely. Then she sat silent for a few

moments thinking deeply.

“But—but it was all right again between you before Trevor

went?” asked Mrs. Methvyn somewhat timidly.

“‘All right?’ You mean we did not actually quarrel?” said

Cicely, smiling a little at her mother’s anxiety. “No, we did

‘make it up’ after a fashion. I don’t think Trevor and I could

really quarrel. Only—only—somehow it has left a sore feeling, a

feeling of not understanding him as thoroughly as I used to do; of

not feeling sure that he understands me. But it will go off again.

Forgive me for troubling you, dear mother. I shall be all right again

now. Don’t tell Geneviève that anything was wrong.”

CHAPTER V.

ONE OF MANY.

“‘It is good when it happens,’ say the children, ‘That we

die before our time.’”

E. B. Browning.

WHEN Geneviève woke the next morning, the sun—the beautiful

morning sun of an English June—was shining into her room. Her first

thought was of gladness.

“What a fine day!” she said to herself. “I shall go out as soon

as breakfast is over; I am sure Mr. Fawcett will be out early this

morning.”

But suddenly the occurrences of the previous day returned to her

recollection. Mr. Fawcett, what was he?—her own all but

acknowledged lover, the rich, handsome young Englishman, whom long

ago she had pictured as her future husband? Ah! no, all that was at

an end. What could he ever be to her now? He, the betrothed of her

cousin Cicely,—he, who she now knew had never cared for her as she

had imagined, had only been amusing himself at her expense.

Yet she found it difficult to believe he did not care for her, she

recalled his looks and words and tones, and dwelt on them till she

almost persuaded herself that his engagement to Cicely was repugnant

to him; that she, and not her cousin, was in possession of his heart.

She knew that he admired her beauty, and she hardly understood the

difference between a feeling of this kind and a higher, deeper

devotion. She recalled the depression of Cicely’s manner the

evening before, and her own suspicion as to its cause, and again a

slight uncomfortable sensation of self-reproach passed through her,

but again she checked it quickly.

“It is not my fault,” she said to herself; “if Mr. Fawcett

thinks me prettier than Cicely I cannot help it. I have not

interfered with my cousin’s fiancé, I knew not he was engaged to

her, they never told me; it is their fault, not mine.”

And though yesterday, when she had learnt the real state of things

from her aunt, she had felt, in the first blush of her disappointment

and mortification, as if she could never speak to Mr. Fawcett again,

as if she would be thankful to go away home to Hivèritz at once, and

forget all her English experiences,—she now began to think she

would like to meet Trevor, to see how he bore himself to her now that

she knew all, perhaps even to hear his own account of things,

possibly even—who could say?—his assurance of the depth of his

hopeless regard for her, his soft whispers of regret that they had

not met till “too late.”

It was too late. Of that she now felt satisfied, not from any

scrupulous feeling of honour due to his own vows, or regard to

Cicely’s happiness,—such considerations weighed curiously little

in the scales of Geneviève’s judgment,—but she felt that in

Trevor’s place she herself would have hesitated before the

sacrifice involved by the breaking off of his engagement. Cicely was

rich, well-connected, and in every sense a partie to be desired; his

parents approved of her,—there was no saying what might not be the

results of his displeasing them in so grave a matter. “They might

disinherit him,” reflected Geneviève, “and in that case—”

She did not finish the sentence, but she was none the less clear in

her own mind that Mr. Fawcett penniless and obscure would be by no

means the same person as the hero of her castles in the air.

So, with a sigh, she made up her mind that she must think no more of

Cicely’s fiancé. To do her justice, no feeling of ill will towards

her cousin increased the bitterness of her disappointment; she was

doubtful of Cicely’s appreciation of her good fortune, but that was

all; and then she consoled herself a little by reflecting that, had

Trevor been unfettered, old Mathurine’s predictions would certainly

have been fulfilled.

“I wish I could see him,” she thought; “I wonder what he will

think when he finds that I know of his engagement. I am glad he did

not see me yesterday, when my eyes were so red and swollen. I wonder

if Mr. Guildford observed them.”

The recollection of Mr. Guildford sent her thoughts off in another

direction. She recalled her aunt’s hints when they were driving the

day before, and speculated as to what had called them forth. She did

not care for Mr. Guildford in the least; she thought him abrupt and

“brusque” in manner; painfully “English” in the objectionable

sense of the word, and very far removed in position from that which

she aspired to. Still he was clever, and likely to rise in his

profession; he was not poor,—Mrs. Methvyn had spoken of him as

fairly well off; though not exactly good-looking, he was not without

an air of distinction; it might be possible, thought Geneviève, to

do worse. Stéphanie Rousille’s eldest sister had married a doctor,

and seemed to enjoy most of the good things of life very

satisfactorily; and some English doctors, Geneviève had heard, rose

to high places, to appointments, à la cour even. It was not

unpleasant to feel that if she chose she might, in all probability,

be married as soon as Cicely; she was glad to remember that,

notwithstanding her depression and preoccupation the day before, she

had smiled and talked as usual to Mr. Guildford, and had done nothing

to chill or repel his evident admiration.

“My eyes cannot have looked very bad, after all,” she thought,

“or my aunt would not have stopped when we met him, for I am sure

she wishes me to be admired.”

So Geneviève’s spirits rose again considerably; her distress of

mind had not prevented her sleeping, and though, perhaps a very

little paler and more subdued than her wont, she looked as fresh and

sweet as a newly-opened rosebud when she joined her aunt and cousin

at the breakfast-table.

Cicely, on the contrary, looked ill and almost careworn; it seemed to

cost her an effort to speak or smile. Geneviève observed her with

surprise.

“What then would she have, I wonder?” she said to herself; “I

understand not the English.”

She strolled to the window when breakfast was over, wishing it were

yesterday. How happy she had felt when she came back from her ramble

in the woods! how little she had dreamt of what it was that her aunt

was going to say to her! The tears rushed into her eyes again at the

thought. It was a lovely day, but Geneviève felt no wish to go out;

the morning walk had lost its charm for her; she began again to think

England, despite its midsummer sunshine, a very different place from

what she had pictured it, and almost to wish she had never come.

Almost, not quite, she had made up her mind that she must have

nothing more to do with Mr. Fawcett, except what little intercourse

was unavoidable with him in his position of Cicely’s fiancé, but

still she could not help wishing that she could see him again, if but

once. If she could meet him by accident; in that there could be no

harm—it was too hard to think she would never see him again, except

in her cousin’s presence, in the openly recognised character of her

lover.

A voice beside her made her start; it was only Cicely.

“Geneviève,” she said, “I have just got a note from Mr. Hayle

asking me to send some things to those poor people at Notcotts, whose

child is so ill. I think I shall go myself; my father does not want

me particularly this morning, and I have got a headache, I should

like the walk. Will you come part of the way with me? I don’t want

you to come all the way, because mother wants one of us to help her

in copying out that French catalogue for papa, and you could do it

better than I, but you might come a little way with me if you would

like.”

“Yes,” said Geneviéve. “I will come. I have nothing to do.”

There was a dull listlessness in her tone which attracted Cicely’s

attention.

“Geneviève,” she said, looking at her with some anxiety as she

spoke, “you don’t look happy. And at breakfast-time you seemed so

bright, I hoped you had quite got over your low spirits. And now you

look so dull again! What is it, dear?”

The ever-ready tears filled Geneviève’s eyes. She half turned

away, as if to hide them.

“It is nothing,” she said, but with no abruptness in her tone.

“I was thinking of many things, standing here alone—voilà tout,

I assure you.”

“And is there nothing the matter, truly?” asked Cicely, seemingly

but half satisfied.

“Nothing, truly nothing, except that I was feeling a little sad,”

repeated Geneviève. But after a moment’s pause, she added,

considerably to her cousin’s surprise, “Cicely, do you know I

think it would be better for me to go home?”

“To go home!” exclaimed Cicely. “Why, Geneviève, you have not

been here many weeks, and you have told me several times lately that

you were getting to like being here and to feel happy with us! What

has changed you so suddenly?”

“It is not that I am changed,” said Geneviève, the colour

deepening in her face, “but—but things are changed. I fear now

that I shall be in the way—you will have much to do—all the

preparation of—of marriage to make, by what my aunt told me. It is

all changed. I had thought to be a friend, a companion to you Cicely,

but now you will have your own interests and occupations. I see not

that I am wanted. I would rather go home.”

Cicely hardly knew whether to be vexed or sorry. She looked

distressed and disappointed.

“I wish you would not talk so, Geneviève,” she said at last

“you are quite—quite mistaken. The changes that are coming will

only make you more wanted. Indeed,” she went on, hesitating a

little, “it was partly the looking forward to my leaving home that

made us all anxious for you to come to us—to take my place as it

were. It was my doing that you were not told of my engagement at the

first—before you came even. Now, I almost wish you had known it at

the first.”

“Ah! yes, I wish much—I cannot say how much that I had known! Why

did you not tell me? It was not kind,” Geneviève exclaimed.

There was a sort of vehement though subdued regret in her tone, which

seemed to Cicely exaggerated and uncalled for.

“I don’t think you have any reason to think it unkind,” she

said rather coldly. “I thought you would more readily feel at ease

with me if you did not know that I was going to be married. I seem

older than I am, and I fancied anything of that kind would have made

you feel as if I were very much older than you. That was my only

reason for not telling you. And besides, there seemed no particular

reason for speaking of it immediately—at that time I had no idea

that I should be married for a year or two years to come.”

“Had you not?” said Geneviève, quickly. “Oh, I thought not so!

I thought you always knew it—your marriage—was to be soon.”

“No,” said Cicely, hardly remembering to whom she was speaking,

“No, I had no idea of it—nobody had.”

She sighed as she spoke. She was not looking at her cousin, and did

not see the curiously eager expression on her face.

“Then why—if you do not wish it, I mean—” said Geneviève,

“should it be sooner than a year, or two years, as you said?”

Cicely was too preoccupied to notice Geneviève’s inquisitiveness.

“Trevor wishes it, and so does my father. Everybody wishes it,”

she replied.

“But you do not,” said Geneviève.

Something in the tone roused Cicely.

“I never said I did not wish it,” she answered with a touch of

haughtiness. “Geneviève, you should be careful what you say.”

“Forgive me, Cicely. I meant not to vex you. It was only that—I

do not understand, I suppose—but it seemed to me strange that Mr.

Fawcett should wish to hasten it, if it is your wish to wait a

year.”

“No,” answered Cicely gently again,“no, it is different for

him. Our marriage involves for him no breaking of old ties as it does

for me. It is quite different.”

But in her heart of hearts, Geneviève’s remark had left a little

sting. It was strange that her wishes had no longer their old weight

with Trevor. She had already owned to herself that it was so, but the

putting into words of the thought by another—an outside

disinterested spectator—brought it home to her with increased pain

and acuteness.

And Geneviève, for her part, had got some new lights on the subject

of her cousin’s affairs.

They went out together—through the pleasant shady lanes which led

to Notcotts, Cicely carrying a small basket packed with delicacies

for the little invalid. She had always loved children, but of late

she had seemed to look upon them with an increased tenderness. She

loved to see them happy, but it was the sight of childish suffering

that called forth her deepest sympathy.

“How sad it must be for a little child to be ill in the

summer-time,” she remarked. They had stopped to rest for a moment

or too by a stile, for the basket was rather heavy. Cicely set it

down on the ground beside her, and gazed up into the mid summer sky

with a wistfulness in her eyes.

“Is the little child that you are going to see very ill?” asked

Geneviève, more for the sake of saying something than because she

felt much interest in the matter.

“Yes,” said Cicely laconically; “he is dying.”

Geneviève gave a little start. “How dreadful!” she exclaimed,

feeling very glad that her cousin had not proposed her accompanying

her all the way.

“It is very sad, but not dreadful,” replied Cicely gently. “And

the worst of it is that in one sense it is hardly to be called sad.

Life, so far as we can see, seems sadder than death to most of the

poor little children at Notcotts, the people are so very poor and so

very ignorant. Nobody ever took any interest in the place till Mr.

Hayle came. He does his best, but a dozen Mr. Hayles could not do

enough.”

“Does it belong to Sir Thomas?” asked Geneviève.

“No, I wish it did,” answered her cousin. “It belongs to two or

three different owners, none of whom live near here, or take any

interest in it. But, Geneviève, I think you must turn now; we have

walked slowly, and mother may be wanting you. Good-bye, dear; thank

you for coming so far.”

Geneviève left her. Cicely sat on the stile watching her for a

minute or two. At a turn in the lane Geneviève looked round for an

instant, kissing her hand in farewell.

“She seems quite happy again,” thought Cicely, “poor little

Geneviève!”

She was lifting her basket and preparing to set off again, when

happening to look round, she saw a figure coming quickly across a

field at the side of the lane. It was Mr. Hayle. He hurried up to her.

“How good of you to come yourself, Miss Methvyn,” he exclaimed,

quite out of breath with his haste. “I take for granted you are

going to see that poor child at Notcotts. I hardly hoped you would be

able to come yourself, but he will be delighted to see you again. And

there is very little that can be done to please him now.”

“Is he worse?” asked Cicely.

“Yes; I hardly think he will live over today. That was why I

ventured to send to you for the fruit.”

“I am very glad you did,” said Cicely. “I have brought some

other little things for him,” she added, glancing at her basket,

“but if he is too ill to care for them, I can give them to his

brothers and sisters. Poor little creatures, they are more to be

pitied than he, if he is dying!”

Mr. Hayle looked at her rather suspiciously. His two or three

conversations with Miss Methvyn had rendered him somewhat chary of

subscribing to her sentiments till he had examined them on all sides.

“How do you mean?” he asked warily.

“I mean that life—living rather—in such circumstances as those

of these poor people, is much more pitiable than death.”

“But there must be poor people. We know for a fact that there

always must be,” replied Mr. Hayle. “And knowing this, we have no

right to say that the world would be better without them, or to wish

them out of it.”

“I did not say that,” said Cicely. “I only say that when they

die, they must surely have a better chance than many of them have

here. It was only from their side of the question that I was

speaking. It would be very dreadful to think that, as you say, there

must always be poor—by poor, of course, I mean very poor and

wretched people. I know nothing of Political Economy, but I don’t

quite see why there always must be such terrible blots on the race.

Indeed, I don’t think I do see it at all. Don’t you think that on

the whole, things are improving, Mr. Hayle, and if so, will not the

world be a better place a few thousands of years hence than it is

now?”

She spoke half laughingly, but Mr. Hayle’s face and tone were very

grave as he replied to her.

“I was not speaking as a political economist, Miss Methvyn. You

misunderstood me. I was speaking as a Christian.”

Cicely looked at him in some perplexity, but gradually her brow

cleared.

“I see,” she said, “but I don’t agree with you.”

“I dare say not,” he answered regretfully. “I fear there are

many points on which you would not agree with me.”

The words sounded presumptuous and conceited, but Cicely understood

that they were neither.

“It is the rock so many split upon in the present day,” pursued

Mr. Hayle, his voice sounding as if he was thinking aloud.

“What?” said Cicely, somewhat mischievously.

“The setting up of reason against revelation, of private judgment

against authority,” replied the young clergyman mournfully.

Cicely was not the least vexed. It was impossible for her to take

offence at whatever Mr. Hayle could say—boyish as he appeared, he

was so honestly in earnest, so single-minded in his conviction—but

she felt inclined to smile. And this she knew would wound the young

man far more keenly than the most indignant contradiction. In the

present instance, however, she found no difficulty in evading the

argument she dreaded, for before there was time for her to answer,

they came within sight of their destination, and their attention was

diverted by what they saw.

The cottage where lay the poor sick child was one of a row of hovels,

undrained, unventilated, low-roofed, and dilapidated, so altogether

wretched as to make one inclined to doubt whether, after all, the

poor of great cities, where some amount of attention to sanitary

rules is compulsory, have not the advantage over their country

neighbours. Even on this bright June morning Notcotts looked abjectly

miserable; no amount of sunshine could gild over its squalid

wretchedness. At the gate of little Joe’s home stood a group of

half-a-dozen men and women; they fell back without speaking as Mr.

Hayle and Cicely came up. Cicely was going in, but her companion

stopped her. “Let me ask how he is, first,” he said somewhat

abruptly, gently putting her aside as he hastened in. There was no

one in the kitchen; the clergyman passed through it to an inner room,

and Cicely stood at the door, waiting.

It was some minutes before Mr. Hayle appeared. When he did so, his

face was very grave. “It is as I feared,” he said gently, “the

poor little boy is dead, Miss Methvyn.”

Cicely made a step or two forward into the kitchen, out of the sight

of the curious group at the gate; then two or three large tears

trickled down her face.

“Poor little Joe,” she said; “I am so sorry I was not in

time.”

Mr. Hayle did not speak.

“I will go in and see the mother,” Cicely added in a minute. Mr.

Hayle looked at her doubtfully.

“He—it—the poor little dead body is in there,” he said. “Do

you not mind?”

“Oh! no,” she replied. “I should like to see him.”

She went into the inner room, and the young clergyman stood watching

her.

“What a woman she might be if she were but better influenced!” he

said to himself.

Cicely did not stay very long, and when she came out again, Mr. Hayle

saw that she had been crying. He walked a little way along the road

with her, then their ways separated.

“I must take a short cut home across the fields,” he said.

“Good-bye, Miss Methvyn, and thank you very much.”

“Thank me,” she repeated “I have done nothing; I wish I could.

I wish I had more in my power.”

“You don’t know how much you might have in your power,” he said

impressively. “I wonder,” he added, after a little pause, “I

wonder if you would read some books I would like to lend you, Miss

Methvyn.”

Cicely smiled. “I would read them,” she said, “but I think it

would be better not.”

“Why so?”

“Because it would vex and disappoint you if I could not honestly

say I liked them,” she replied. “I have no doubt I should like

parts, and probably admire a great deal. But I fear it would not be

the sort of liking and admiration you want. And I dislike seeming

presumptuous.”

Then Mr. Hayle went his way. “I wonder if it is true that she is

going to marry Fawcett,” he said to himself. “If it is so, in my

opinion she will be thrown away upon him. A wife like that might

strengthen one’s hands.”

But as he had long ago decided that with marrying and giving in

marriage he and such as he had nothing to do, his spirit was not

perturbed by the reflection.

CHAPTER VI.

LES PAPILLONS.

“La beauté,” reprit Riquet à la Houppe, “est unsi grand

avantage qu’il doit tenir lieu de tout le reste; et, quand on le

possède, je ne vois pas qu’il y ait rien qui puisse vous affliger

beaucoup.”

Charles Perrault.

GENEVIÈVE meanwhile had made her way home again—through the pretty

lanes, across the daisy-besprinkled fields she passed, heeding but

little the summer loveliness surrounding her on all sides, though not

insensible to the direct pleasantness of the sunshine, of the soft

sweet air and universal warmth and brightness.

Daisies were only daisies to her, the birds’ songs no more than a

pretty twitter in a language of which it had never occurred to her

that there could be any interpretation; to her “the witchery of the

soft blue sky” was almost as little known as to the immortal

potter; yet careless and ignorant as she was of Nature’s subtler

influences, of the beauty buried everywhere, of the tender secrets of

“water, earth, and air,” revealed not to the senses “without a

soul behind,” Geneviève was keenly alive to everything affecting,

agreeably or the reverse, her material existence. She was miserable

on a rainy day, she crept together like a sensitive plant at the

approach of cold; she would have drooped and pined far more speedily

than her cousin Cicely, had fate suddenly cast her life in some ugly,

grimy manufacturing town, she loved brightness and warmth and colour

almost as much as admiration.

So this morning her spirits, which had already experienced several

chamelion-like variations since she had wakened, rose again when she

found herself alone in the sunny, green meadows, out of sight of

Cicely’s pale, grave face, which for the last day or two she had

been unable to see without an uncomfortable, indefinite sensation of

self reproach.

“How strange Cicely is!” she reflected; “they say English girls

marry for love—love indeed, they know not what it means. She looks

miserable at the thought of leaving her home and her parents—her

father surtout, who assuredly cannot live long; her mother, who has

all she can wish for, a fine house, carriages, horses, plenty of

money, and yet she imagines herself that she cares for Mr. Fawcett!

It is not in her cold nature to care. Sensibilité, she can have

none; how, if she had any, could she go among those misérables at

Notcotts? To see a child who is dying—what a taste! What good can

she do? She is not a doctor. However, chacun a son goút, as

Mathurine says.”

The recollection of Mathurine brought the cloud back to her face.

“I had meant to send her a so beautiful dress of black silk the day

I was married,” she thought regretfully.

When she reached the Abbey, she found her aunt in the middle of a

housewifely consultation with Mrs. Moore in the store-room.

“Is that you—back again already,—my dear Geneviève?”

exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn. “I am so sorry that you have hurried home.

I find that your uncle has not got his notes arranged yet for the

catalogue of French engravings, so it will have to wait till

to-morrow. I am so sorry.”

“It matters not the least in the world, dear aunt,” said

Geneviève sweetly. I walked quite far enough, and Cicely, I think,

preferred to pay her little visit of charity alone. Is there then

nothing else that I can do for you? If not, I will study the

piano-practice, I mean, in the library.”

“Yes, dear, do so. Mrs. Moore and I have quite a morning’s work

before us, and Cicely will be back by the time her father wants her;

so go and practice, by all means.”

Geneviève went slowly to the library. She opened the piano and

looked out a piece of music she had half learnt. It was a brilliant

waltz, calling for considerable execution, and Geneviève had been

working at it very zealously, for Mr. Fawcett had said that he

admired it, and had mentioned having heard it beautifully played by

some lady of his acquaintance. But to-day it sounded flat and

commonplace, her fingers seemed to have lost their cunning; all the

verve and spirit had deserted her! Geneviève left off playing, and

leant her head wearily on the piano. What was the use of it now? Why

should she care any more to please Mr. Fawcett? He had Cicely to play

to him—her soft, unobtrusive “songs without words,” and

nocturnes, and so on; it was Cicely’s business to play to him,

not hers. Mr. Fawcett did not care about her; he had only been

amusing himself while all the time he had belonged to Cicely. He had

called her butterfly once, had he not? “Yes,” thought Geneviève,

“that is just it. He thinks me a pretty silly little butterfly. He

liked to play with me, that was all!”

But still she was not angry—not indignant; she was only bitterly

disappointed.

She sat thus for a minute or two. She did not hear the glass door,

already unlatched, open softly; her eyes were hidden; she did not see

a shadow that fell across the white pages of her waltz—Les

Papillons, it happened to be called; she was unconscious that any one

had entered the room, till a voice close behind her made her start.

“Geneviève,” it said, “are you asleep?”

Then she looked up, knowing full well before she did so whose it was,

knowing, too, by the quick beating of her heart, the sudden thrill

through all her being, how welcome, how dangerously welcome was its

owner—Cicely’s lover! Little thought she of Cicely at that moment.

She lifted her lovely face; she looked up at Mr. Fawcett with smiles

dimpling about her mouth, though her eyes were still wet with tears.

“Mr. Fawcett!” she exclaimed softly. “No, I was not asleep, but

I did not hear you come in.”

“What are you doing, or pretending to be doing, you idle little

person?” he said, coming nearer and looking over her at the sheets

of music on the desk; “practising ‘Les Papillons!’ That is very

good of you. I have been longing to hear it again.”

“I do not know it well yet,” said Geneviève, with the right hand

idly playing the notes of the waltz. Now that she had got over the

first surprise of his presence, she began to feel constrained and

unhappy, to realise the vast distance between to-day and yesterday.

“Never mind,” he said. “I won’t ask to hear it till you wish

to play it. You will know it soon, your fingers will dance away at it

beautifully. But I won’t interrupt you any more,” he added,

glancing round the room. “Where is Cicely, by the bye, do you know?

Up with her father, I suppose; there is never any getting hold of

her.”

“No,” said Geneviève, feeling the colour deepen in her cheeks as

she spoke, “no, Cicely is not with my uncle. She is out.”

“Out,” exclaimed Mr. Fawcett impatiently. “Where has she gone

to? I thought she never went out in the morning. Or do you only

mean,” he went on, his voice softening again, that she is in the

garden?”

“No,” said Geneviève again, with a curious sort of timid

reluctance in her manner, “no; I think not that she will be long of

returning, above all, if she expected you; oh! no, surely, she will

not be long, but she has gone to Notcotts to see some poor person

that is ill, I think.”

“Gone to Notcotts!” repeated Mr. Fawcett. Then he gave vent to

some angry exclamation, which Geneviève did not understand, and

walked away to the window, muttering to himself. Some of the words

reached the girl’s ear as she sat silently, growing rather

frightened, at the piano.

“Gone to Notcotts!” he repeated again. “Yes, there or anywhere

else rather than wait at home to see me. Father, mother, anything,

anybody, before me. . . By George, what a fool I am!”

He was evidently very much put out, indeed. He had walked over to the

Abbey early this morning on purpose to see Cicely, to “make

friends” again by begging her to forgive him for his unkind words

of the day before. He had been very unhappy in remembering them;

never before had he parted from her in anger; never once before in

all the years during which they had been childish friends, then boy

and girl together, now promised husband and wife. And he could not

bear the thought of having done so now. He was very ready to own

himself to blame, though in his innermost heart he knew that the very

subject of their disagreement, the point on which they differed, was

only insisted on by him through his loyalty to Cicely, through his

half-acknowledged consciousness that for the first time this loyalty

was likely to be tested. Temptation, for the first time in his easy

prosperous life, had drawn near him—might, he felt, draw nearer

yet. He wished, he longed to resist it, to be true to himself, to

Cicely, to what he knew was his best chance in life, what had been,

what would be yet more and more, in very truth, “the making of

him.” And full of these feelings he had hurried over to Greystone

to find—what? Cicely, whom he had been picturing to himself as to

the full as unhappy as he, absent—away calmly and comfortably to

play the Lady Bountiful in a dirty village with which she had nothing

whatever to do—and—Temptation, seated at Cicely’s piano,

learning the music he loved, glancing up in his face with sweetest

smiles and eyes yet glistening with tears, called forth, he strongly

suspected, by his folly.

A pleasant and promising state of things. Being a man, he did what in

such circumstances most men would do. He blamed everybody but

himself; he swore at everything under his breath, he worked himself

up into a passion; but he did not leave the library again by the

glass door, still standing ajar—the unlucky glass door, but for

which he would have gone round to the front entrance, and there made

decorous inquiry for Cicely, or failing her, for her mother; he did

not say good-bye to pretty Temptation, sitting there, gazing at him

with childish alarm and concern in her great lovely eyes.

She was really frightened. Passions and naughty tempers were tabooed

in the peaceful dwelling of Monsieur le Pasteur Casalis, as were

worldly tastes and frivolities of all kinds. Only the latter class of

unholy visitors, being more easy of concealment, had found their way

into one youthful heart in that orthodox household, and made

themselves very much at home there. But Geneviève had very rarely

seen any one in a passion—her father, good man, never. And the

sight of Trevor’s anger altogether overcame her. She sat still for

another minute or two, then jumped up, ran across the room to where

the young man was standing, his fair face dark with irritation and

annoyance, laid her hand on his arm and whispered tremblingly, “Oh!

do not be so angry. Oh! please not. She will come soon. I am so

sorry; oh! so very sorry for you.”

He turned round quickly. For an instant she feared that his anger was

turned upon her, and she trembled more visibly. Trevor’s face

softened as he looked at her.

“Don’t look so frightened, child,” he said, not unkindly, but

with some impatience. “I am only annoyed. There is nothing to be

very, very sorry about.”

“Yes there is,” sobbed Geneviève. “I am sorry for you because

I know all now. I know why you are chagrined—vexed, I mean—that

Cicely is out. I understand all now.”

“Do you?” said Mr. Fawcett. “Who told you, Geneviève?”

“My aunt. She told me yesterday.”

“And were you surprised?” inquired Trevor, with a curious

mingling of expressions in his face.

Geneviève did not reply at once. When she did so, there was a change

in her tone. Mr. Fawcett’s coldness had galled her.

“What matters it?” she said with some indignation, “what

matters it if I was surprised? I, what am I? A butterfly—yes, a

butterfly you call me. Butterflies have no soul, no heart; what

matters what a butterfly feels?”

Mr. Fawcett thought she was going out of her mind. But her eccentric

speech had, at least, the effect of calming down his own irritation.

He began to laugh.

“When did I call you a butterfly?” he said. “I don’t remember

it.”

Geneviève grew more angry.

“You did say so,” she exclaimed. “One day, I know not when; I

forget. It matters not. You think not that I have any heart, any

feeling. I suffer when I see you suffer. I tell you I am sorry, very

sorry, and you laugh! Cicely is not foolish, as I am. She is calm and

quiet. She does not weep when her friends are in trouble. She goes

quietly to see some sick villager when she knows you are coming. I am

a silly butter fly. Soit donc! I leave you to your Cicely.”

She was really so angry, so mortified and miserable that she hardly

knew what she was saying. She was rushing out of the room when Trevor

called her back.

“Geneviève,” he exclaimed, “dear Geneviève, I entreat you not

to go. Listen to me. You have quite misunderstood me.”

She stopped short at this appeal. She stood still, she looked up in

his face with tearful reproach in her beautiful eyes, but she said

nothing. Trevor drew near her very near.

“Forgive me, Geneviève,” he said, “I did not mean to hurt you.

Are you sorry for me, dear, are you really? Tell me why you are sorry

for me?”

He had laid one hand upon her shoulder as he spoke; his voice was

very gentle and persuasive.

“I was only sorry to see you unhappy. I meant not to blame

Cicely,” replied Geneviève confusedly. “Cicely is very good.”

“Too good, by a long way,” muttered Trevor.

“I only thought that Cicely—that I—” she stopped short.

“That you—? Tell me, do. It can do no harm,” urged Trevor.

“That—that Cicely cared not so much as—I cannot say,”

exclaimed Geneviève.

“Shall I say? You mean that Cicely does not care for poor me as

much as I do for her—is that it?

“I know not. No, not that,” replied the girl with crimson cheeks

and downcast eyes.

“What is it then? Did you mean that she does not care for me as

much as a silly little girl I know, will care, some day, for some

lucky man who will believe she has a heart? Was that what you

meant?”

Geneviève whispered a scarcely audible “Yes.”

“You kind, good little girl,” said Trevor impulsively. But

Geneviève shrunk back.

“You know not,” she said, “that day you speak of, that ‘some

day’ will never come to me.”

Then she threw away the hand that still rested on her shoulder; she

darted one reproachful glance at Mr. Fawcett—“Do you understand

me now?” it seemed to say; “do you see what you have done?” and

rushed out of the room.

Not a moment too soon. As her figure disappeared through the library

door, a slight sound at the window made Trevor look up. There at the

glass door stood Cicely, her empty basket on her arm, a smile of

welcome on her face as she caught sight of Mr. Fawcett.

“Trevor,” she exclaimed, “I am so glad you have come. I wish I

had not stayed out so long.” And her betrothed somehow hardly felt

equal to reproaching her for her absence, angry though it had made

him but ten short minutes before.

At luncheon that day, the cousins again seemed to have changed

characters. Cicely had regained her cheerfulness, Geneviève looked

anxious and depressed. She had dark lines under her eyes, and a

bright crimson spot on each cheek, and in answer to Mrs. Methvyn’s

inquiries she owned to a bad headache.

“You did not walk too far, I hope?” said her aunt. “Was the sun

very powerful, Cicely? I am afraid Geneviève is the worse for her

walk in some way. You looked so well at breakfast,” she observed,

turning to her niece.

“I am not ill, dear aunt. I often have a little headache,” said

Geneviève.

Cicely looked at her anxiously.

“I don’t think it could be the walk,” she said. “Geneviève

did not come very far and the sun was not unusually hot. Nothing to

what it is at Hivèritz, was it, Geneviève?” she remarked

cheerfully to her cousin. “I went to the little door with Trevor

and even then—just at noon—it was not very hot. There was a

pleasant breeze.”

“Why did not Trevor stay to luncheon, by the bye?” said Mrs.

Methvyn.

“I really don’t know. I forget if I asked him,” replied Cicely.

“Oh! yes, I remember,” she went on, `“he had to go home because

his father wanted him. They are going away again—did you know,

mother?”

“How should I know?” said her mother. “I have not seen Trevor

or any of them for two days, and then there was certainly no thought

of it. When are they going, and where to, and which of them?”

“All of them,” answered Cicely. “Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica

are going to the seaside somewhere. They are thinking of the Isle of

Wight. And Trevor is going to town again for two or three weeks, and

then he is going to join them.”

“I can’t think why they are never contented to stay at home,”

said Mrs. Methvyn.

“I am rather glad they are going,” observed Cicely quietly.

Then the attention reverted to Geneviève again. She now looked as

pale as she had a few minutes before appeared flushed.

“I hope you are not going to be really ill, my dear child,” said

Mrs. Methvyn anxiously. “You don’t feel as if you were, do you?”

“Oh! no, dear aunt. I am sure it is nothing that signifies,”

replied Geneviève. “I often have a little headache for a few

hours; but a little rest, and I am all right again.”

“If it were you Cicely,” observed her mother, “I should be more

alarmed, for I never feel sure where you have been. There is no fever

at Notcotts, I hope? You were there to-day?”

“Yes,” replied Cicely, “but I ran no risk. The child I told you

about died of consumption. I am sure there is no infectious illness

about just now. Mother dear,” she added appealingly, “you know

you can trust me. I would not do anything foolish.”

“I am not sure, my dear. Since that Mr. Hayle has been here you

seem to me to be always running about among sick people. And one

never knows what risk one may run.”

“Mr. Hayle is very careful I assure you, mother,” replied Cicely.

“Indeed,” she went on laughingly, “I think he would be very

sorry to put me in the way of risk, for he has designs upon me. He

thinks that under proper influence and direction I might be trained

into a very useful “sister.”

“Cicely!” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn aghast, “how can you joke

about such things? If I thought Mr. Hayle that sort of a high-church

clergyman, I would be very sorry to admit him to our acquaintance.

One might just as well invite a Jesuit to one’s house.”

Cicely laughed again, but Mrs. Methvyn was really uneasy. There were

points on which she did not thoroughly understand her daughter. She

was in many ways unlike other girls, and Mrs. Methvyn deprecated

eccentricity. She never felt sure of Cicely’s not taking up some

crotchet, and, sweet and gentle though the girl was, a crotchet once

“taken up” by her, would be, her mother felt instinctively, by no

means easy to dislodge. Cicely’s laugh to some extent reassured her.

“You are joking, I know, my dear,” she said philosophically,

“but there are some subjects I do not like joking upon. I have

known too many sad realities. Do you not remember Evelyn Parry? Why

she actually ran away from home to become a nun. It was dreadful!”

“But nuns and sisters are quite different institutions, mother

dear, and Evelyn Parry was not quite ‘right’ in her head; she was

always doing silly things. You don’t think I am like her, do you?

You certainly need not fear my ever running away from you for

anything or anybody; our only trouble is that you want me to run away

and I won’t.”

Geneviève had left the room by this time, and Cicely was in her

favourite posture, kneeling on the ground beside her mother, her fair

head resting on Mrs. Methvyn’s knees.

“Cicely, my darling,” said the mother reproachfully.

In an instant the sweet face turned to her with a smile. “I am

naughty, mother; I am in a teasing humour. I am so much happier since

I have seen Trevor again.”

“Then it is all right?”

“Yes, quite. Trevor was very nice; but I have got my way, we are

not going to be married for six months. He is quite pleased, however;

he understands me about it now. He was quite different this morning,

so gentle, and ready to agree to what I wished. I am glad they are

going away for awhile, however, the change will keep Trevor from

grumbling. Now I think I will go to poor Geneviève, and make her lie

down for an hour or two. But I am sure there is not much the matter

with her, mother, as she says herself.”

“I trust not,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “Cicely,” she said with

sudden anxiety, “I hope I have not done her any harm by what I said

to her about Mr. Guildford; I mean I hope I have not put it into her

head so as to unsettle her and cause these variable spirits.”

“‘By what you said to her about Mr. Guildford!’ What did you

say? I don’t understand,” said Cicely, her brow contracting a

little.

“Oh! yes, you do. It was very little; only what I said to you, you

remember, about Mr. Guildford’s admiring her. Of course, I did not

say it so broadly; I only hinted it as it were, more for the sake of

amusing and gratifying her when she was in such low spirits

yesterday. For, do you know, Cicely, it did strike me afterwards that

all that crying and so on when I told her about you might be partly a

girlish sort of envy of you—a feeling she was, I dare say, only

half conscious of herself.”

“Could she be so silly?” said Cicely. “If so, she certainly may

be silly enough to have attached too serious a meaning to what you

said. I wish you hadn’t said it, mother dear; but I don’t think

Geneviève could be so silly.”

“It is natural she should look forward to being married,” said

Mrs. Methvyn, rather inclined again to defend Geneviève.

“Is it? I suppose it is,” replied Cicely thoughtfully. “It is a

pity when a girl has no future except marriage to look forward to.

There is something lowering and undignified in the position. But

still, mother, you have no actual reason for trying to make

Geneviève fancy that Mr. Guildford is to be the hero of her third

volume.”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Methvyn dubiously.

Cicely said no more. She found Geneviève in her own room, but by no

means in a very biddable humour. She obstinately refused to “lie

down,” declaring that there was nothing the matter with her. Cicely

grew tired of the discussion.

“You don’t look well, Geneviève,” she said, “but I dare say

it is only the hot weather. Mother is uneasy about you, otherwise I

would not tease you.”

“You are not teasing, you are very kind,” Geneviève condescended

to say. “It is only that I become first red, then white, that my

aunt remarks me. But that is my nature. Remember, I come from the

south. I am not quiet and never vexed like you, Cicely.”

Cicely smiled. “Am I never vexed?” she said.

“Not as I am,” said Geneviève. “You are wise and calm. I, when

I am unhappy, I could cry a whole week without ceasing.”

“And are you unhappy now?” asked Cicely.

Geneviève did not reply. She turned from her cousin and began

putting away her hat and gloves, which were lying as she had thrown

them down.

“Tell me, Geneviève,” pursued Cicely boldly—“I am not asking

out of curiosity has your unhappiness anything to do with Mr.

Guildford?”

Geneviève flashed round upon her.

“With Mr. Guildford!” she exclaimed. “Certainly not. What know I

of him? Not as much as you do. I know him but as my uncle’s

doctor—voilà tout.”

Her hastiness rather confirmed Cicely’s suspicion.

“I don’t think we do know him only as a doctor,” she said.

“He comes here much more like a friend. I don’t think you need be

indignant at my question, Geneviève. I see you are unhappy; you have

not been like your self for some time, and it is not—it would not

be unnatural if Mr. Guildford or any gentleman you meet were to—you

know how I mean; you know you are very pretty.”

Geneviève flushed with pleasure.

“Do you really think so, Cicely?” she said shyly. “It gives me

pleasure that you do. You are very kind. But it is not that. I think

not that Mr. Guildford has any thought of whether I am pretty or

ugly. And if he had—oh! no,” with a grave shake of the head, “I

should not wish to marry him.”

But that she had taken the possibility into consideration was

evident. And somehow Cicely did not feel sorry that her mother’s

very mild attempt at match-making promised to fall to the ground.

“No,” said Geneviève to herself, when her cousin had left her,

“no. I don’t want to marry Mr. Guildford. “Si on n’a pas ce

qu’on aime, il faut aimer ce qu’on a, Mathurine used to say when

I was a little girl. But I am not a little girl now.”

She sighed, and then glanced at herself in the looking-glass. What a

strange girl Cicely was! Stéphanie Rousille would never have so

frankly acknowledged another’s beauty! And again Geneviève felt

the slight uncomfortable twinge of self-reproach. “But he is going

away to-morrow,” she remembered. “When he returns, it will be the

time for the marriage without doubt. He will think no more of me. I

wish I had never come here.”

CHAPTER VII.

FAILING MISS WINTER.

. . . this July noon Shining on all, on bee and butterfly And golden

beetle creeping in the sun * * * * * *

This July day, with the sun high in heaven, And the whole earth

rejoicing. . ..

A flower of a day.

LADY FREDERICA FAWCETT was in great tribulation. Her faithful shadow,

Miss Winter, had received a letter summoning her at once to the

bedside of a dying sister. It was a summons that could not in common

humanity be disregarded, and, indeed, Lady Frederica was too

kind-hearted to dream of doing so. But she could not refrain from

some expression of her distress.

“I am exceedingly sorry for you—and of course, for your poor

sister,” she said, when Miss Winter had summoned up courage to

break the news, “but I cannot help saying it could not have

happened at a more inconvenient time. This is Wednesday, and we leave

home on Friday! If I had had any idea of it, nothing should have

induced me to consent to going away just now. There is nothing I

dislike so much as being at strange places alone—nothing.”

Miss Winter murmured some words of which the only audible ones were

“Sir Thomas.” Their effect was by no means that of oil upon the

waters.

“Sir Thomas,” repeated Lady Frederica contemptuously. “What

good is Sir Thomas to me? I am surprised at you, Miss Winter, knowing

him as you do. Will Sir Thomas read aloud to me? Will Sir Thomas

match my wools, or go out shopping with me, or write my notes? I

wonder you don’t propose that he should make my caps, or get up my

laces instead of Todd. Besides I am almost always ill the first few

days at a strange place. I quite expect to be laid up when we get to

the Isle of Wight—particularly if I am left so much alone with no

one to take my thoughts off myself. I really don’t know what to

do.”

Miss Winter grew very miserable. Two bright scarlet spots established

themselves on her faded pink cheeks, and she looked as if she were

going to cry.

“If Mr. Fawcett had not gone!” she ejaculated feebly.

“Trevor! What good would he have done?” said Lady Frederica

peevishly.

“He would, I daresay, have deferred his visit to town and

accompanied yourself and Sir Thomas to the Isle of Wight. He is

always so kind and unselfish,” remarked Miss Winter, not without a

feeble hope that his mother would propose recalling the young man,

who had only the day before left for town.

“And do you think I would have allowed such a thing?” exclaimed

Lady Frederica virtuously. “Do you think I would have dreamt of

letting Trevor make such a sacrifice? You forget, Miss Winter, it is

not the beginning of the season—there is no question of deferring

his stay in town. He has had a very dull year, poor boy; of course,

if his marriage had been fixed for next month as we once expected, it

would all have been different. I wish it had been. We should not have

been leaving home so soon, and most likely in that case—things

always happen so—your poor sister would not have been ill.”

Truly, Cicely Methvyn had little notion of how much she was

responsible for!

The mention of Mr. Fawcett’s marriage sent Miss Winter’s thoughts

off to Greystone. Thence they brought back a brilliant suggestion.

“My dear Lady Frederica,” she exclaimed rapturously. “An idea

occurs to me. Suppose you were to invite that pretty, sweet

Mademoiselle Casalis to accompany you? I feel sure you would find her

a charming companion, and it would be such a pleasure to her to be

able to talk about her home to you, who have been so much on the

Continent.”

Lady Frederica sat straight up on her sofa in excitement.

“Do you think she would like to come?” she said doubtfully. “I

wonder if Helen would like it.”

“I am sure Miss Casalis would like to come. It was only the other

day she confided to me that she does find life at the Abbey rather

dull—triste, she called it, poor girl. She begged me not to repeat

it, for fear, she said, of seeming ungrateful to her kind friends.

And I feel sure Mrs. Methvyn would feel pleased by the

invitation—Miss Casalis being her relation.”

Lady Frederica’s excitement increased.

“Will you write a note to her at once, Miss Winter, and send one of

the men with it?” she said. “Or, stay, perhaps the note should be

to Helen—or, must I write my self? I do so hate writing notes, and

there would be such a great deal to explain—all about your poor

sister’s illness, and apologies for the short invitation and all. I

really don’t feel equal to it.”

She sank down again helplessly on the sofa.

“If you could see Mrs. Methvyn—such matters are so much more

easily explained by word of mouth,” suggested Miss Winter artfully.

“It would be less trouble,” agreed Lady Frederica.

Miss Winter took care to strike while the iron was hot, by ordering

the carriage, and despatching Todd to dress Lady Frederica before she

had time to change her mind, and her energy was crowned with success.

The Lingthurst carriage drove up to the Abbey door at an hour that

rarely saw Lady Frederica out of her room.

Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely were upstairs; Geneviève was alone in the

library, writing, when, to her amazement, the door opened, and the

visitor was announced.

“Lady Frederica,” she repeated in her surprise, as she went

forward to greet her.

“Yes, my dear. I am so pleased to find you at home. My visit is to

you, my dear Miss Casalis,” and in her excitement, Trevor’s

mother kissed the girl on both cheeks.

Geneviève grew scarlet, then pale again. What could be the meaning

of it? Had it not been for what she knew to be the case, what would

she not have thought? As it was, all sorts of wild conjectures

flashed across her mind. More than a week had passed since the day

that Trevor and she had last met in that very room; the day he had so

betrayed his dissatisfaction with Cicely. And since that morning,

Geneviève had not seen him. She knew he had gone away; she had heard

of his calling to say good-bye, one afternoon that she had been out

driving with her aunt, but that was all. And Cicely’s manner had

perplexed her; Trevor’s fiancée did not seem to regret his

absence, she had grown far more cheerful, and looked much brighter

since it had been decided upon. Could it be that they had in sober

earnest quarrelled? or, rather, agreed to separate, and that she,

Geneviève, not Cicely, was the real object of Mr. Fawcett’s

devotion? If this were the case, it would satisfy her of the truth of

what she had taken upon herself to suspect, that Cicely was not

really attached to her cousin, and that she would be glad to break

off her engagement. And if such were the actual state of things, what

more natural than that Trevor’s mother should be deputed to explain

it all to the one it most nearly concerned—what more natural, or

more delightful! for would it not be proof positive that the Fawcetts

père et mère were satisfied with their son’s new choice?

All these speculations darted with the speed of lightning across

Geneviève’s brain—she had time even to persuade herself that

they were based upon a strong foundation of probability, before Lady

Frederica had disencumbered herself of the wraps which, even in July,

she thought a necessary accompaniment of a drive in an open carriage,

and established herself comfortably in an easy chair. Her first

words threw Geneviève into utter bewilderment.

“We have heard this morning, my dear Miss Casalis,” she began,

“that poor Mrs. Morrison is dreadfully ill—dying, in fact—that

is why I came over to see you at once, an explanation by word of

mouth is so much more satisfactory, than writing.”

She stopped for a moment, and Geneviève seeing she was expected to

say something, expressed her agreement with Lady Frederica in

preferring verbal communications, and murmured some vague words of

condolence on the “bad news” she had received, and appreciation

of her (mysterious) kindness in hastening to impart it; though who or

what Mrs. Morrison was, she had not the remotest idea. But she

managed to steer clear of committing herself to any possibly damaging

confession of ignorance.

“Yes,” said Lady Frederica, “it is very sad, though she is over

sixty, and has lost the use of her right leg for some time. She is

the eldest of the family, and has been quite like a mother to my Miss

Winter, she tells me, so, of course, she feels it very much. And we

are going on Friday, so if you can be ready at such short notice, my

dear, I cannot tell you how pleased I shall be, and so will Sir

Thomas when I tell him.”

Even Geneviève’s studied deference of manner was not proof against

the bewilderment this speech aroused. She opened her brown eyes and

stared at Lady Frederica in dismay.

“Ready, if I can be ready! I am so sorry, but I do not

understand,” she said, at last.

“Dear me, how stupid I am! Of course, I haven’t explained,”

exclaimed the visitor. “We are going to the Isle of Wight on

Friday—there, at least, in the first place we intend to be some

weeks away; Trevor is to join us the latter part of the time, and of

course Miss Winter was coming with us, but for this unfortunate

contretemps about poor Mrs. Morrison, her sister, you know. And so,

talking it over, it just came into our heads how very nice it would

be if you would come with us instead—not instead exactly, you

understand how I mean, my dear.”

And, with a little more repetition and parenthesis, Lady Frederica at

last succeeded in making Geneviève understand what it was she did

mean and had come about.

It was very far from being the realisation of the wild dreams she had

indulged in a few moments before—an invitation to accompany these

two old people to the seaside, only! Still it came at a welcome time,

for Geneviève’s spirits had been down, a long way below zero, for

several days past, and the prospect of any change was acceptable.

Besides, was there not a possibility, an enchanting possibility,

lurking in the words, “Trevor is going to join us the latter part

of the time?”—“It will be the last I shall see of him before he

is married. It can do no harm now that I know of his engagement. I

know he can be nothing to me; therefore I need not fear to enjoy the

little I can ever see of him again,” thought Geneviève. There was

no deliberate intention of disloyalty to her cousin; she would not

have put into words even to herself the faint suggestion of

what—with the experience she had had already—she knew perfectly

well might be the result of Mr. Fawcett and herself being thrown

together for even a few days; but to the whisper of her good angel,

“Decline to go; take the risk of giving offence and avoid at all

costs the temptation,” she resolutely turned a deaf ear.

“It is not my doing,” she said to herself. “I did not seek for

the invitation. I am not obliged to sacrifice myself to fancies that

I may interfere with Cicely. It would be very conceited to suppose

that I could do so—and besides, if her fiancé can be shaken in his

attachment to her by the first pretty girl he comes across, why—his

attachment to her cannot be very profound!”

So with sparkling eyes and a bright flush of pleasure in her cheeks,

Geneviève ran upstairs to tell her aunt of Lady Frederica’s visit

and its object, and to ask for her consent to the acceptance of the

invitation.

Mrs. Methvyn was in her own room.

“Lady Frederica here!” she exclaimed. “You must tell Cicely,

dear. I shall be down in a moment, but Cicely has just gone out to

get some fresh roses for your uncle’s room. I wonder what can have

brought Frederica here so early.”

“It was to ask me something, dear aunt,” began Geneviève. Then

going on to explain, she made no secret of her gratification, and her

hope that Mrs. Methvyn would like the idea of her visit to the

Fawcetts.

It would have been hard to refuse consent to a request made so

sweetly. Mrs. Methvyn seemed nearly as pleased as Geneviève herself.

“I shall be delighted for you to go, and I think it will do you a

great deal of good,” she said cordially. “Run out and find

Cicely, and I will go to Lady Frederica.”

Geneviève found Cicely standing on the terrace near the library

window, and talking to Lady Frederica through the open glass door.

Cicely’s hands were full of roses, and the face with which she

turned to her cousin looked as bright and sweet as the flowers.

“I am so pleased, so very pleased, to hear of Lady Frederica’s

plan for you, Geneviève,” she exclaimed. “Nothing could have

happened more opportunely, for you have not looked quite well lately.

Of course mother says you must go, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Geneviève, “aunt is very kind and so are you,

Cicely.”

But her tone was hardly as hearty as her cousin had expected. A wild

sort of yearning that Cicely could know all that was in her heart, a

foolish wish that she could refuse to go, a painful consciousness of

not deserving this kindness rushed over her all together, and for an

instant she felt as if she should burst into tears. The voice she had

so determinedly stifled made itself heard again once more; her

cousin’s unselfish sympathy in her pleasure woke once again the

stings of self-reproach—a shadow seemed suddenly to have fallen

over her bright anticipations.

“Are you not pleased to go, Geneviève?” asked Cicely with a

little disappointment in her tone.

“Oh! yes, very pleased,” said Geneviève. “But I am sorry to go

away too.”

“But it is only for a few weeks,” said Cicely kindly. “Is there

nothing else troubling you?”

“Oh! no,” replied Geneviève. But Cicely was not satisfied.

“Are you at a loss about your clothes, dear,” she inquired as the

idea struck her suddenly. “I thought about them at once. Lady

Frederica is rather particular about dressing.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Geneviève; “I have remarked that she

is always très bien mise. I have thought about my dresses a little.

Do you think they will not be pretty enough, Cicely?”

She looked up in her cousin’s face with genuine anxiety, though

half afraid that Cicely would not treat the matter with the

importance it deserved. But her fears were ill-founded. Her cousin

seemed little less interested than herself in the important question.

“Those you have got are very pretty and suit you very well,” she

replied. “But I was thinking that you have perhaps hardly enough.

Travelling about with the Fawcetts will be very different from living

here so quietly as we do. And there is not time to get any. But,

Geneviève, you need not wear half mourning any more. I have two or

three pretty dresses, almost new, that could very easily be altered

for you. The principal alteration would be shortening the skirts.

Parker could easily get them ready for you by Friday.

“Oh! Cicely, how very, very kind you are!” exclaimed Geneviève;

and Cicely looking at her was surprised to see that there were

actually tears in her eyes.

“Geneviève, you silly child,” she said, “you think far too

much of a mere trifle! It is a great pleasure to me to see you

pleased. Would you like to come up to my room now, and I will show

you the dresses I think you would like? There are a pretty grey silk,

and a blue and white gauze, and a white dress—a sort of

poplin—that I am sure would suit you. The white dress is trimmed

with rose colour.”

Geneviève’s eyes sparkled. In five minutes she was feeling and

looking perfectly happy, standing amidst her cousin’s pretty

wardrobe, which Parker was quite as ready to exhibit as mademoiselle

was to admire.

“What beautiful dresses you have, Cicely!” she observed with a

little sigh. “I suppose you wear all these a great deal when you

are not in mourning.”

“No indeed, Miss Casalis,” interposed Parker, “Miss Cicely

doesn’t wear her pretty things half enough. I am always telling her

so. And besides, Miss Cicely is so neat and careful, her dresses

last twice as long as most young ladies’! The whole of these,”

with a regretful glance at the display of finery, “are really as

good as new. The only dresses you ever do wear out, Miss Cicely,”

she added, turning to her young mistress, “are your brown

hollands.”

Cicely laughed. “It shows I was never meant to be a fine lady,

Parker,” she said. “Mother and you get me far too many things.”

“And now there will be all new again before we know where we

are,” grumbled Parker, whose mind seemed to resemble that of the

gallant train-band captain’s wife; “and none of these half wore

out, not to speak of several as good as new.”

A slight increase of colour in Cicely’s cheeks explained the

allusion to Geneviève.

“Ah! yes, you will have all new for your trousseau without

doubt,” she said to her cousin, and a curious expression flitted

across her face. But Cicely did not observe it, nor did she take any

notice of Geneviève’s remark. She turned to Parker and began

giving her directions for the altering of the dresses that had been

selected as most suitable for her cousin, Geneviève’s quick eyes

and fingers meantime making voyages of discovery among the finery.

“What is this?” she exclaimed, drawing out a dress of a rich

crimson colour, which was hanging in a remote corner of the wardrobe,

“Velvet! Du velours de soie—et quel teint superbe! Why, it is a

dress for a queen! Cicely, what a beautiful dress; it is far the most

beautiful of all.”

Cicely had not been paying special attention to her chatter, but now

she turned and, somewhat to Geneviève’s surprise, gently drew the

folds of the dress out of her hands and replaced it in its corner.

“Parker,” she said to the maid, “you have forgotten what I told

you. I wanted that dress folded away by itself—locked away.”

“I am sorry I forgot,” said Parker meekly. Geneviève felt rather

offended. “Cicely has secrets I see,” she reflected maliciously.

“I wonder if Mr. Fawcett knows about that dress, and why she is so

fond of it.”

But she speedily forgot all about the little mystery in the interest

of trying on the pretty grey silk, and submitting to Parker’s

skilful nippings and pinnings.

And on Friday morning, thanks to Cicely and her handmaid,

Geneviève’s little outfit was complete, and she stood with her

trunks all ready for the journey, in the hall, waiting for the

Lingthurst carriage, which was to call for her on its way to

Greybridge. Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely were beside her; comings and

goings had grown to be events of some importance in the nowadays

quiet, monotonous life at the Abbey.

“You will write and tell us how you get on, my dear,” said Mrs.

Methvyn.

“Don’t promise to write too much,” said Cicely, smiling; “I

don’t think you will have any great amount of leisure. But here is

the carriage.”

The carriage contained Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica, and just behind

appeared another, loaded with luggage.

“Your belongings, Miss Casalis? Let me see—two boxes, a bag, etc.

etc., four in all, my man will see to them. Good morning, Mrs.

Methvyn; good morning, Cicely, my dear. We have no time to spare I

fear,” exclaimed Sir Thomas fussily, as he got out of the carriage

to superintend Geneviève’s getting in. “Oh! by the bye,” he

added, coming back again for a moment, “we heard from Trevor this

morning. Had you a letter, Cicely? No? That’s odd. He is an

extraordinary fellow. What do you think he is going to do now, after

all his grumbling at being so little in town this year? He’s off to

Norway for six weeks, in Frederic Halliday’s yacht.”

“Is he really?” exclaimed Cicely. “I am very glad—that is to

say, if he enjoys it, which I suppose he is sure to do. But I wonder

I haven’t got a letter. It may come this afternoon.

“Sure to, I should say. Good-bye again,” shouted Sir Thomas.

“And good-bye, my dear.” “Adieu chère tante; adieu, Cicely,”

came in Lady Frederica’s and Geneviève’s softer tones.

Geneviève smiled and kissed her hand as they drove away, but a cloud

had come over her sun again, for all that; she had heard Sir

Thomas’s news.

Cicely’s letter, accidentally delayed, came the next morning.

“Yes,” she said to her mother, when she had read it, “yes, Trevor

has actually gone to Norway. There is no time even for me to write to

him before he leaves England; but he gives the address of some places

where they will call for letters. He says he will be away six or

seven weeks.”

She gave a little sigh, a very little sigh.

“It seems very sudden,” said Mrs. Methvyn.

“He had to decide at once,” answered Cicely. “This friend of

his—Captain Halliday, I mean—was just starting. Of course, on the

whole, I am very glad he has gone; it will make the summer pass

pleasantly to him, and perhaps—”

“Perhaps what, dear?”

“Perhaps he will leave off being vexed with me. Don’t think I am

dull on account of his having gone, mother; I am not so, truly. But

lately, I cannot say how it is, whenever I think of our marriage, I

grow dull.

“It is the thought of leaving home,” said Mrs. Methvyn tenderly.

“Partly,” replied Cicely, “and, mother, it is more than that.

It is a sort of vague fear of the future—an apprehensiveness that I

cannot put in words. I know I care for Trevor and trust him

thoroughly, but sometimes I doubt if he knows me enough. I doubt

whether I thoroughly satisfy him, even though I feel there is more in

me than he has read. Sometimes I think he wishes I were prettier, and

lighter. Do you know what I mean, mother? Do all girls have these

feelings, mother?”

“You are not one of the ‘all,’ Cicely.”

“Did you?” said Cicely, dropping her voice a little. “I

don’t, of course, mean when you married my father, but before?”

Her mother’s first marriage was a subject but rarely alluded to.

Cicely looked at her with some anxiety as she put the question.

“My child, my child, never draw any comparison between your future

and what my life was with Amiel’s father. No, Cicely; I had no

misgivings—I would not allow myself to have any. I was wilfully,

madly blind—” she paused, and a little shiver ran through her.

“These feelings of yours do not trouble me, Cicely. Your life

promises to me all the more brightly from the thoughtfulness with

which you enter upon it, my darling.”

She kissed the girl tenderly. Cicely was soothed, though not

satisfied; but she said no more.

An hour or two later, when she was alone in her little sitting-room

feeding her birds, and trying to grow cheerful among her usual little

interests and occupations, there came a knock at the door.

“Come in!” said Cicely, surprised at the unusual ceremony. The

intruder was Mr. Guildford.

“Mr. Guildford!” she exclaimed, “I did not hear you come. How

have you got here?”

“I walked,” he said quietly. “I have plenty of time to-day, so

I thought I would come to take Colonel Methvyn a drive. The day is

unexceptionable; I have just seen your father, and he is quite

pleased to go, but he wants you to come. It was he that directed me

to come here,” he added, glancing round him, “he said I should

find you in your own sanctum.”

“Yes,” said Cicely, “I have a great many friends to take care

of here, you see. Have you never seen my birds? Why, have you never

been in this room before?”

“Only once,” replied he softly. And as he spoke there came before

him the picture which had never left his memory—of Cicely as he had

first seen her, standing in the doorway in the quaint, rich dress.

“Ah! yes, I remember,” she said. Then there fell a little silence.

“My cousin has gone away to-day. Did you know?” said Cicely,

rather irrelevantly.

“Your cousin?” repeated Mr. Guildford. Oh! yes, of course. You

mean Miss Casalis. Somehow when you spoke I thought you meant Mr.

Fawcett.”

“Well he, as it happens, has gone away too,” said Cicely with a

smile. “He is going further away than Geneviève; she has only gone

to Ventnor, and Mr. Fawcett is bound for Norway.”

“So you are all alone?” remarked Mr. Guildford. “Does that add

to the low spirits you were owning to the other day?”

“Not low spirits—crossness, corrected Cicely, laughing. “No, I

don’t think it does. I think sometimes I grow nicer when I am

alone.”

“At least, there is no one to dispute the soundness of the pleasing

belief?” said Mr. Guildford. “But I think I know what you mean. A

little solitude soothes and calms one wonderfully sometimes.”

He walked to the window and looked out. “One can hardly imagine the

lines falling to one in a pleasanter place than this,” he observed,

as his gaze rested on the beautiful old garden basking in the warmth

and brightness of the midsummer afternoon.

“It is a home that one can love,” agreed Cicely. She had followed

him to the open window. “Did you ever think to yourself when you

would best like to die? I mean,” she added, seeing that her

companion glanced up in surprise, “did you ever try to think at

what hour and season death would seem least dreadful, least

physically repulsive and unnatural, that is to say?”

“Did you?” he inquired. “I don’t think I have ever given it a

thought. What does it matter?”

“It does not matter in the least,” she answered, “but still one

often considers things that do not matter, as if they did. It was the

beautiful, quiet afternoon that made me think of it. I have always

thought that I should like to die on a summer afternoon—not

evening, evening suggests night—just when the world seems a little

tired, but not worn out, just gently exhausted. I should like the sun

to be shining in the soft, warm way it is shining now, and the air to

be clear. At night, in the darkness, one feels so far away from

everywhere else.”

She looked up at the sky and watched the few small feathery clouds

whose whiteness deepened the intensity of the blue. There surely

could not be a lovelier blue than that,” she said. “I have been

so little abroad, I cannot tell if it is true that English skies are

never like those of the south. Is it so?”

“I am a poor authority,” he replied, “but I fancy if you said

seldom, instead of never, you would be near the truth.”

There came another knock at the door. This time it was Parker.

“Miss Cicely,” she said, “Will you please be ready in ten

minutes; the carriage is ordered for then.”

“I will come now,” said Cicely.

She stopped for a moment to put fresh water in one of her canary’s

glasses, which had been overlooked.

“Why are you always called ‘Miss Cicely’ instead of ‘Miss

Methvyn?’” asked Mr. Guildford abruptly.

Cicely laughed. “Have you noticed that?” she said. “I suppose

it does seem strange. The reason is that when my sister and I were at

home together—she is seven years older than I, but still we were

companions—we could not bear being called by different surnames;

her name before she was married was Bruce, Amiel Bruce; we thought it

seemed as if we were not sisters really. So we always asked to be

called Miss Amiel and Miss Cicely. That was how it began. Perhaps I

should alter it now, but it is hardly—”

She stopped. Her companion was not looking at her; he did not see the

quick rising of the pink flush over her face and neck.

“No, I think it would be a pity to change it. I like ‘Miss

Cicely,’” he said. And he smiled as he recalled the mental

picture he had first formed of the bearer of the name.

CHAPTER VIII.

SOME SUMMER DAYS.

“. . . there arrives a lull in the hot race * * * * * * And an

unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows The

hills where his life rose, And the sea where it goes.”

Mathew Arnold.

WHAT a 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 appreciate good talking 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 been very stupid 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 people won’t spoil?” 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, quite

devoted. 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 very

bachelor set 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 would not be 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 not you, 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 see you. 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 his

fiancée beyond the words, “I was surprised to find your cousin

with my mother, I thought she had gone home some time ago; I wish you

were 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.

CHAPTER IX.

A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER.

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.

THEY drove 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 seemed quite so 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