THE NEWS THAT FLIES FAST.
“When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in
battalions.”
Hamlet.
WHO are the social ravens that at all times and places are ready and
eager to perform their self-appointed task as bearers of ill tidings?
Like the mysterious “rats of Paris,” ever watching their
opportunity, they come to the surface, as if by magic, whenever the
tocsin of misfortune sounds; but, unlike that very undesirable
community, these evil newsmongers remain in visible, even when
hardest at work. We know of their existence but by the unfailing
promptitude with which they fulfil their rôle; like
will-o’-the-wisp, they are never to be caught.
Some of these mysterious beings were of course on the spot to carry
to Lingthurst without delay the news of poor Colonel Methvyn’s
death, and full details of its manner and cause. The household was
not astir very early on the morning succeeding the ball, but the
indefatigable ravens were at work betimes. When Mr. Fawcett’s man
knocked at his master’s door with hot water and an armful of
clothes, he was in full possession of the “latest particulars,”
and not a little delighted to find his master awake, so that he might
have the privilege of “breaking” to him the news of the sorrow
which had befallen his friends.
“The colonel dead, Green? Impossible! It must be some absurd
exaggeration,” exclaimed Trevor, greatly shocked, notwithstanding
his expressed incredulity. But Green shook his head mournfully, and
said he was afraid it was only too true; and when his master heard
all the story that the man was brimming over with eagerness to tell,
he too was compelled to admit that there was small probability of
exaggeration or incorrectness in the version of the facts which had
reached them.
Mr. Fawcett dressed hastily. He gave Green no opportunity of
“breaking” to him the special bit of news which, in the opinion
of the authorities of the servants’ hall, could not but affect
their young gentleman more deeply “than all beside,” the news of
the overwhelming loss of fortune, the telegraphic announcement of
which, said gossip, speaking for once correctly, had been the
immediate cause of Colonel Methvyn’s death. But though he knew
nothing of this part of the calamity, Trevor knew enough to send him
down stairs with a very small appetite for breakfast, and far from
hospitable sentiments towards the large party of guests whom it was
his bounden duty to help to entertain.
He had come to a decision the night before; he had slept upon
it,—very little it is true, for his slumbers had been fitful and
broken,—and had not wavered. The words which Cicely had overheard
in the fernery were the key to Trevor’s state of mind. For
Geneviève he had broken his faith to Cicely—for her he had lost
his self-respect and been false to the girl whom still at heart he
loved; but he would deceive her no longer. “I must confess it all
to Cicely and say good-bye to her; I have promised Geneviève—I
must do it,” he repeated to himself over and over again through
that weary night. “Cicely is good and generous; if it is true that
she has never really cared for me, it will be easier for her to
forgive me. She has a home and friends; I cannot think that she will
regret me. Geneviève is poor and dependent, and I must not desert
her. I have to thank my own folly for all this wretchedness.”
At times he almost felt as if he hated Geneviève; then again the
remembrance of her loveliness, her devotion to him, her clinging
belplessness came over him powerfully, and he tried to persuade
himself that Cicely’s coldness and indifference were the real
culprits. But had she looked cold or indifferent last night, when,
with the tears in her eyes, she had whispered, “Dear Trevor, there
cannot really be any change between us; if you are not vexed with me,
it is all right?”
Trevor shuddered as he recalled her look and manner. How could he
ever tell her how little cause she had had for trusting him? How
could he look into those clear blue eyes and confess his
faithlessness? How could he endure Cicely’s contempt and scorn?
He fell asleep soundly at last, Notwithstanding his distress of mind;
when he awoke, he was thankful to see that it was broad daylight.
“I will go to Greystone to-day,” he said to himself, “and have
it over;” for, unspeakably as he shrank from what he had made up
his mind to do, he felt that now there was no drawing back; and he
was in this frame of mind when he was met by the utterly unexpected
news of Colonel Methvyn’s death.
Everybody at the breakfast-table had heard it by the time Mr. Fawcett
made his appearance. He was late, notwithstanding the haste with
which he had dressed, and as he entered the dining-room he became
aware that a hush fell over the guests; evidently he was looked upon
somewhat in the light of a chief mourner on the occasion. Lady
Frederica was in tears,—Sir Thomas’s florid face looked a shade
paler than its wont; such remarks as were exchanged were in low tones
and with subdued glances; the spirit of revelry had been abruptly
forced to quit the scene. Trevor was sincerely distressed by the
death of his kind old friend, and deeply grieved by the thought of
Cicely’s sorrow, yet he was conscious also of a curious sort of
irritation at the event. Why had it taken place just then? Who could
tell what wretched complications might not result from it, in
addition to those already existing?
“Things were bad enough before,” thought he, “but now they will
be worse. I cannot possibly come to an understanding with Cicely at
such a time; and yet how can I go on in the old way with the burden
upon me of my promise to Geneviève, and this miserable feeling of
hypocrisy?”
He looked ill and haggard; he hardly spoke, and yet he was angry with
every one else for being silent; he ate no breakfast, and answered
with impatience when his mother, across the table, begged him “to
try to take something.”
“Poor dear boy! he feels it very much. Yes, indeed, poor dear
Philip seemed like a second father to him,” murmured Lady Frederica
to the lady next her. “It is a most dreadful shock. I don’t think
I ever felt more upset in my life;” and she subsided behind her
handkerchief again.
Breakfast over, Sir Thomas tapped his son on the arm, “Come to my
room with me for a few minutes,” he whispered. “I want to say
something to you.”
Trevor followed him to his so-called “study,” the little room
where, only a few hours before, Cicely, overwhelmed with the shock of
her discovery in the fernery, little thinking of what the night had
still in store, had sat waiting for her cousin Geneviève.
It was a rather shabby, comfortable room, by no means in keeping with
the rest of the house, but a cosy little den nevertheless. Sir
Thomas was standing on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, when
Trevor came in.
“This is a sad shock, my boy,” he said, “a very sad shock. I am
extremely sorry for those poor things—Methvyn’s wife and
daughter,—extremely sorry for them.”
“Yes,” said Trevor, wondering if that were all that his father
had to say.
“Of course,” continued Sir Thomas, “of course, we all knew his
life was a very poor one—must have been so ever since his accident;
still it seems very sad it should have been cut short in this way.”
“It was frightfully sudden I understand,” said Trevor.
“Terribly so, poor fellow! they say he never spoke again.” Sir
Thomas turned his head away for a moment, then stooped down and gave
the fire a supererogatory poke. “If all is true that is said,
however, perhaps it is as well he never recovered consciousness; that
is what I wanted to speak to you about, my boy. Of course, we can’t
tell how much or how little of these reports may be true, but, at the
worst, I want you quite to understand it need not make you uneasy. I
hope and believe it is exaggerated, but, in any case, it need make no
difference.”
Trevor had been listening with a puzzled expression to his father;
now he looked up with some anxiety. “I don’t understand what you
are referring to, my dear father,” he said. “I don’t see why
Colonel Methvyn’s death should make me uneasy. I have heard no
reports except about its being very sudden, which, of course, we all
know must have been the case.”
“You have not heard what is supposed to have killed him?”
“No,” replied Trevor.
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Sir Thomas excitedly. “Why,
everybody’s full of it, though, of course, by the bye, they would
not allude to it to you. Why, they say he’s ruined—poor Methvyn I
mean—at least, it is a fact that he got a telegram last night
containing some very bad news, and that the shock of it brought on
this attack.”
Mr. Fawcett looked incredulous.
“I don’t believe it in the least,” he said. “Of course, he
may have got a telegram with bad news, but I don’t believe it could
possibly be as bad as you have heard. Such things are always
exaggerated.”
“Ye-es,” said Sir Thomas slowly. “I should have said the same
but for one or two other things. I know for a certainty that Methvyn
has lost money the last year or two. He was very persistent about
managing his own affairs, and he meddled with things he did not
understand. Falconer thinks badly of it, I can see, and he generally
has grounds for his opinions. Still, of course, we must hope it is
exaggerated. You will be going over there some time to-day, I
suppose?”
“I suppose so,” said Trevor absently.
“Well, we must wait awhile. No doubt we shall hear more before
long. But in any case, my boy, as I said, it need not make you
uneasy. Cicely Methvyn would be Cicely Methvyn still, though she
hadn’t a penny.”
“Thank you, father,” said Trevor, rousing up a little and seeing
he was expected to say something of the kind, “thank you. Yes, I
hope it will be all right.”
“Then you will go over this morning? And be sure to say I am most
anxious to be of any use I can to poor Helen. I would go myself, but
you see I have all these people on my hands till the afternoon; they
are all leaving to-day. You will take care to say everything that is
kind?”
“Oh! yes. I shall not forget,” said Trevor, as he left the room.
But he still spoke absently.
“He feels it a good deal, poor fellow,” thought Sir Thomas, a
little perplexed by his son’s manner. “No doubt it will be a
great shock and disappointment to us all if things turn out badly. I
should not like to see Greystone sold. And Methvyn, at best, was not
a very rich man, and a far from wise one in money matters. Still,
there’s no saying. I would rather buy the Abbey myself than see it
go to strangers.”
Then Sir Thomas returned to his guests, apologizing to them for his
son’s absence, by saying he had advised him to ride over to
Greystone at once to inquire how Mrs. Methvyn and her daughter had
borne the shock.
“So sad,” murmured the ladies, “so very sad for poor Miss
Methvyn. It was just after she reached home last night—Was it
not?”
“Before, corrected Sir Thomas; “it must have been all over before
she got home.”
“Poor girl, what a fearful shock! And she was so attached to her
father. Dear me, it is really very sad.”
Then they all talked it over again with Lady Frederica for another
quarter of an hour, after which they dispersed to give directions to
their various maids for the unexpectedly hastened packing.
“And I must see about mourning at once, I suppose, Miss Winter,”
said Lady Frederica with a sigh. “Such a pity, isn’t it, with all
my new autumn things? And I think you had better countermand the
dress I told Madame Fanchon to lay aside for me for the wedding. It
will probably be delayed for some months, and when it does take
place, it is sure to be very quiet.”
Late in the afternoon, when all the visitors had gone, Mr. Fawcett
returned home. He looked tired and dusty; he had ridden a long way,
with no object but to use up the day and to get rid of his uneasy
thoughts. His father and mother saw nothing of him till he came into
the drawing-room dressed for dinner.
“Trevor!” exclaimed Lady Frederica.
“I did not know you had come back,” said Sir Thomas. “I thought
you would probably be there till late.”
“I came in ever so long ago,” said Trevor shortly.
Lady Frederica waited in expectation of hearing more, but Mr. Fawcett
took up a book from the table and sat down as if he were going to
read.
“Well?” said his mother.
He looked up impatiently. “What is it, mother?” he said.
“I am waiting to hear how you found them—poor Helen and
Cicely,—you must know that I am very anxious to hear how they are,
and if they will see me if I go to Greystone to-morrow,” said Lady
Frederica.
Mr. Fawcett played with the leaves of his book, as if impatient to go
on reading it. “I cannot tell you,” he said. “I think your best
plan will be to go to-morrow and inquire for yourself. My going is no
use.”
“Why?” exclaimed his mother in astonishment.
“Simply because they will not see me,” he replied. “Not Mrs.
Methvyn—of course I did not expect to see her—but Cicely, she
will not see me.”
“Cicely would not see you! How extraordinary! Is she ill?”
“No, the servant said she was very well. As well as could be
expected, or some rubbish of that kind. But she most distinctly
refused to see me.”
“Did she know it was you?” said Sir Thomas. “She may have given
a general order about seeing no one, without meaning to exclude
you.”
“So I thought,” said Trevor, “and I waited while they went up
again to tell her who it was; but she only sent down the same message
again—that Mrs. Methvyn was pretty well, but that neither she nor
her mother felt able to see any one. I don’t understand it.”
“Nor do I,” said Lady Frederica. “Then you saw no one—not
even Miss Casalis?”
“Not even Miss Casalis,” repeated Trevor.
Sir Thomas looked very grave. “I am rather afraid I do understand
it,” he said in a low voice. Only Trevor caught the words. He
started.
“How do you mean, sir?” he said hastily. “What reason can there
be for it?”
Sir Thomas lifted his eyebrows with a significant gesture in the
direction of his wife. “Your mother does not know anything about
what we were speaking of this morning,” he whispered. “Wait till
we are alone.”
So all through dinner time Lady Frederica twittered away about how
strange it was; she feared poor dear Cicely must be ill, though she
would not own to it; she wished she had sent a note by Trevor; might
she have the carriage very early to-morrow morning to drive to
Greystone? etc. etc.; till Mr. Fawcett could bear it no longer. He
had eaten next to nothing; he drank two or three glasses of sherry
off at once; but they failed to compose his nerves. “Mother,” he
said at last, “do think of something else to talk about. You might
see it is very painful to me.”
Lady Frederica’s eyes filled with tears. Miss Winter looked
reproachful, Sir Thomas uncomfortable, and Trevor felt ashamed of
himself. Very few remarks of any kind were exchanged till the two
ladies had left the dining-room. Then Sir Thomas began at once, “I
am afraid things don’t look well about poor Methvyn’s affairs,”
he said. “I happened to see Flaxton to-day, and he was full of
it.”
He’s a great gossip—I hate country lawyers,” said Mr. Fawcett
irritably.
“Well, well—I don’t say I think much of his opinion,” allowed
Sir Thomas. “What he told me was quite in confidence of course. But
what you tell me yourself, Trevor, about Cicely’s refusing to see
you, that, I must say, makes me uneasy.”
“Why so?” asked Trevor.
“Why? Don’t you see that she evidently thinks things are wrong,
and she wants you to hold yourself free? The Methvyns are all proud,
and I suspect Cicely has her full share of their pride,
notwithstanding her quiet ways, poor child. I know what her father
was when he was young. You may take my word for it, Trevor, if things
are as bad as I fear, Cicely will be proposing to break off with
you.”
Mr. Fawcett had risen from his seat, and was tramping up and down the
room. He did not wish his father to see how exceedingly he was
startled by this fresh view of matters. Cicely to give him up! And
why? Because she was no longer rich, could no longer bring Greystone
as her dowry—Cicely, his dear old friend and playmate, his promised
wife—could he accept such a release? Cicely rich, he had come to
think, or, to fancy he thought, that she did not care for him, that
she was cold and indifferent, that she would be glad to break with
him—he had excused his own weakness and folly by such specious
arguments, and had tried to think he believed them. But Cicely poor!
“No,” he said to himself, “if this is true, not all the
Genevièves on earth should persuade me to give her up. Was there
ever in this world such a fool as I have been? But still, if this is
true, my course is clear.”
A momentary relief seemed to come with this reflection, but it was
only momentary. A vision of Geneviève, miserable and reproachful, of
lovely, silly little Geneviève, came before him, and he groaned in
his spirit.
“Father,” he said abruptly, stopping short in his walk, just
beside Sir Thomas’s chair, “what you say makes me very uneasy
indeed. I have no doubt it is as you say—it quite explains
Cicely’s conduct. But it makes it the more necessary that I should
see her—at least, that any morbid feeling of the kind she may have
should be done away with. What shall we do? Will you go to the Abbey
to-morrow? I don’t think they would refuse to see you.”
Sir Thomas considered a little. “Yes,” he said, “I will go if
you like. However things are, I don’t think Mrs. Methvyn would
refuse to see me. Indeed, till two years ago, I was one of their
trustees. Of course, it would not do to seem as if we were prying
into things; but if anything is wrong, I dare say Helen will be glad
to tell me, and then I can, at least, find out what fancy it is that
Cicely has got into her head.”
“Thank you, father. Thank you very much,” said Trevor, with no
lack of cordiality in his tone this time.
“I must see Geneviève,” he said to himself. “I must explain to
her how I am placed. I must see her before I see Cicely now.”
But on further reflection, he decided that it would be better to do
nothing till Sir Thomas had paid his visit.
Sir Thomas was as good as his word. He drove over to Greystone the
next morning, and as he had not returned home by luncheon time, it
was evident that he had been admitted. Mr. Fawcett fidgeted about all
day, sometimes wishing he had gone with his father, sometimes almost
hoping the worst of the rumours that had reached them might be true,
sometimes earnestly trusting they might be proved to be altogether
unfounded.
At last Sir Thomas returned. Trevor heard the sound of the
carriage-wheels, and came out to meet him. It seemed to him that his
father looked grave and distressed.
“Well, father?” he said with a faint at tempt at speaking
lightly, to cover his anxiety, “well, father, how have you got on?
You were not turned back at the door it appears.”
“Come into my room,” said Sir Thomas. “Your mother is out? So
much the better. Remind me, by the bye, to tell her that those poor
things would like to see her to-morrow.”
His son followed him into the study. Sir Thomas took off his gloves,
unbuttoned his top-coat, and rubbed his hands together with a sort of
affected cheerfulness.
“I have not brought you very good news, I’m afraid, my boy,” he
began.
Trevor, who had sat down in one of the old-fashioned leathern
arm-chairs beside the fire, looked up anxiously.
“About their affairs, you mean?” he said. “Then the report was
true after all. But how can it be certain so soon? It takes a long
time to get to the state of a man’s affairs, and Colonel Methvyn
has only been dead two days.”
“Wait a minute,” said Sir Thomas. “I’ll tell you all if you
won’t interrupt me. The report was true, or something very like it,
I fear. I am glad I went over to-day. Methvyn’s lawyer had just
arrived; it was absolutely necessary for him to see poor Helen, and
she begged me to remain with her on that account. She told me all she
knew at once. She is excited and fussy—you might almost call
it—not the least like herself, or like what I expected to find her.
I fancied she would have been utterly prostrated. On the contrary,
she is more energetic than I ever saw her.”
“Perhaps she does not realise it yet,” suggested Trevor.
Sir Thomas shook his head. “I suspect that’s it,” he said. “I
don’t think she does. Well, as I was saying, she told me all she
knew. The actual facts did not look so bad, but she made me
uncomfortable by owning that she had known for long that Methvyn was
far from easy in his mind about his affairs. The telegram which
brought on the attack was telling of the smash of that great mining
company—the Brecknock Mining Company. I saw something about it in
yesterday’s paper, but I paid very little attention to it. I always
thought it a rotten affair. I had not the faintest notion that
Methvyn had anything to do with it, and I told her I did not think it
possible that he could be in it to any tremendous extent. Nor was he,
if that had been all! But when I saw this man from town and heard
what he had to say—! My dear boy, it is something frightful. You
would hardly believe that any sane man could have made such a mess of
his affairs as Methvyn has been doing. No wonder the news of this
last smash killed him. It was his very last cast.”
Mr. Fawcett sat up in his chair and stared at his father in
amazement. “He must have lost his head!” he exclaimed.
“It looks like it,” said Sir Thomas. “I quite think that
terrible fall must have weakened his brain as well as his spine. I
can account for it in no other way—in no other way,” he repeated
slowly, pausing a little between each word.
“And this man of business of his; what has he been about to let
things go so far?” exclaimed Trevor. “Why did he not advise
Colonel Methvyn better?”
“He did his best, I think,” said Sir Thomas; “but if a man will
ruin himself—? And even he, this Mr. Knox, has not known all, by
any means, till quite recently. Methvyn was most persistent in
managing for himself, and he has had no one thoroughly in his
confidence. And you see he was quite free. Greystone and everything
he had was absolutely his own to do what he liked with. If he had had
a son it might have been different—but no, I hardly think so. I am
certain he meant to act for the best. He was quite as anxious for
Cicely as if she had been a boy. Upon my soul, there’s a good deal
to be said for tying up property—even a little place like
Greystone! Why if it had been entailed on to the Carling Methvyns,
Cicely would at least have been sure of her daughter’s portion,
whereas now she has nothing.”
“Then Greystone must be sold?” asked Trevor sadly.
“Sold, of course—it is not theirs—at least, very little of the
price of it will come to them. I can show you some of the details I
got from Knox. It is right you should know.”
Mr. Fawcett hardly felt as if he wished to hear more. He was a poor
man of business—an unworthy descendant of his self-made grandsire.
But to please his father he listened, wearily enough, to the dreary
recital of how poor Philip Methvyn had made ducks and drakes of his
patrimony—a commonplace story enough, after all.
“Yes, I see,” he said, when Sir Thomas had come to an end of his
history. “I see, at least, that it’s as bad as can be. Excepting
Mrs. Methvyn’s settlements, and they are not large, she and Cicely
have nothing.”
“Nothing, or next to nothing,” answered Sir Thomas gloomily. And
for a few minutes both men remained silent. Then the father spoke
again.
“If—if all goes through with you and Cicely,” he began—“I
mean if your marriage takes place—I have been thinking, Trevor, the
best idea will be for me to buy Greystone. I should be sorry for poor
Methvyn’s affairs to become more public than can be avoided; and in
this way, managing it privately, things might be kept pretty quiet.
It is not a particularly good investment. The house and grounds are
far too large for the property, but I can quite afford it. What do
you say?”
Mr. Fawcett glanced up quickly. “I should like it extremely,” he
said. “The idea had already crossed my mind, but I hardly liked to
propose it. But why do you speak so doubtfully, father? Why do you
say ‘if?’”
Sir Thomas hesitated. “Because I am not sure of Cicely Methvyn’s
state of mind,” he said at last. “I saw her to-day, she was
perfectly cordial, thanked me with tears in her eyes for coming to
help her mother—she is looking dreadfully ill, poor girl—and all
that sort of thing, but still her manner struck me as unsatisfactory.
I gave her your message; but she only said she would write to you
when she felt able to see you. I told her I thought you would be
disappointed; in fact, I said all I could, but she only smiled and
repeated that it would be best for her to write to you. I don’t
understand it.”
He looked at his son inquiringly.
Trevor got up from his chair, and in his turn began to poke the fire.
“I don’t either,” he said at last. “That is to say, I can
only explain it by what you said,—that she has got it into her head
that her loss of fortune may make a difference.”
“I suppose it’s that,” said Sir Thomas. “Of course it would
have been impossible for me, without the grossest indelicacy, to have
hinted at such a thing. But she must have seen that I really wanted
her to agree to see you at once. However, young people must settle
their own affairs. You understand my feelings and intentions, at any
rate?”
“Quite, thank you,” replied Trevor; “and, however things turn
out, you have been awfully good about it, sir. I shall never forget
it, I assure you.”
Sir Thomas fumbled for his handkerchief.
“These things come home to one at my age,” he said after a little
pause, “Poor Methvyn was younger than I, Trevor. I am glad you
quite understand me, my boy.”