“TO MY AIN COUNTREE.”
“How should I be glad, Henceforth in all the world at anything?”
Enid.
THE sad days that intervened between Colonel Methvyn’s death and
his funeral went by slowly. But they wore through at last, and Cicely
woke one morning to realise that “all was over,” as runs the
common phrase; the worn-out garment of the father she had loved so
devotedly laid reverently aside, nothing more to be done for him, no
letters to be written, no books to be read, none of the countless
little tender daily services which his long ill-health had called
for, to be remembered and cheerfully performed!
It was a page torn out of the book of her life, and just now it
seemed to her that the wrench had loosened and disfigured all the
others.
“I have mother,” she reflected; “but mother will never be more
than half in this world now. People say she is bearing it
wonderfully. Sir Thomas says he is amazed at her energy and
composure; but I know her better. She is only keeping up for me. I
cannot count upon her, my only one object in life, for long.”
But though Cicely believed her heart to be almost broken, though the
iron had entered deeply into her soul, she yet felt ready for what
was before her. Not for one instant had she wavered in the resolution
which she had come to on the night of the Lingthurst ball.
“When my father’s funeral is over, I will see Trevor and tell him
all I know,” she had determined. And so strong upon her was the
impression of the inevitable result of her discovery, that the
possible effect upon her relations with Mr. Fawcett of her loss of
fortune had never even occurred to her. She was proud, as Sir Thomas
had said, but her pride was of a different nature from that of which
her kind old friend had suspected the existence.
Not that she was now indifferent to the change in her position. It
was beginning to come home to her. Already some faint realisation of
what it would be was making itself felt. For her mother’s sake she
trembled at the thought of possible poverty and privation. The
ignorance and inexperience which at first had rendered her
indifferent to this part of the calamity, now that the reaction had
set in, exaggerated to her imagination the practical results of it.
But to her mother she showed no shadow of misgiving.
“My settlements are secure, you know, my darling,” said poor Mrs.
Methvyn. “There will be certainly enough for me to live upon with
perfect comfort. And Sir Thomas is so kind; he says nobody need know
much about our affairs if, as he wishes, he can arrange to take
Greystone off our hands. It will probably still be your home.”
“My home will be where you are, mother dear—for a long time at
least,” answered Cicely, forcing herself to the little
equivocation, while inwardly shivering at the thought of the bitter
blow yet in store for her unselfish mother. “But it is exceedingly
kind and good of Sir Thomas to try to arrange so that things need not
become public.” She stopped and hesitated. “I wish it could be
so,” she went on. “It would be hard to hear remarks made about
our loss of money, as if—as if dear papa had been rash or
incautious in any way—by people who did not know him, I mean.”
“Yes,” sighed Mrs. Methvyn, “it would be very hard. But since I
have heard Sir Thomas’s plans, I do not feel afraid of anything of
the kind. It will be a great comfort to me to think of your being
settled here again before long, whatever arrangements I make for
myself.”
“But, mother, you could not do without me, you know you
couldn’t,” said Cicely. “Why do you talk as if it were possible
we could ever be separated; we never can be now, mother?”
Mrs. Methvyn smiled, a faint sad little smile, that went to
Cicely’s heart.
“We need not talk about it just yet, any way,” she said
soothingly. And at that moment Geneviève came into the room, so no
more was said.
During these days of darkened rooms and hushed voices and mysterious
anxiety, Geneviève had drooped sadly. Her fit of humility and
grateful affection for Cicely had passed by; perhaps Cicely had not
encouraged its expression, and there had been times when she had been
very cross and unamiable, indeed. The truth was that she was
exceedingly unhappy; and it takes a higher nature than poor
Geneviève’s to bear the strain of a protracted and uncertain
trouble with a calm, if not, smiling face, with no querulous
complaints of the never-failing trivial annoyances which at such
times seem to have a double sting. Even Parker was forced back into
her old position of dislike and suspicion. “If she were that sorry
as she made out for my mistress and Miss Cicely, she would be
thinking too much of their trouble to care about her dress not
fitting; or to be always wishing herself back again where she came
from, and where I wish she had stayed,” grumbled the maid to Mrs.
Moore, who in her heart agreed with Parker, though more cautious in
putting her opinions into words.
But Cicely understood her cousin better, and pitied her exceedingly.
The more trying and unreasonable Geneviève’s moods and tempers,
the more Cicely compassionated the state of mind which gave rise to
them.
“It must be so terrible to feel that one has been false and
deceitful,” thought Cicely with a shudder, crediting, as was
natural for her to do, remorse with a far larger share in
Geneviève’s wretchedness than it really deserved. And she was
marvellously patient with the wayward girl; but yet in her very
patience, in her quiet kindness, there was a something against which
Geneviève instinctively rebelled.
“Why does she look at me so? I have done no wrong; it is not my
fault that Mr. Fawcett likes me best,” she would say to herself
with a species of childish defiance that was one of her
characteristics when roused to anger. “It was all that she was
rich; but now that she is no longer rich, how will it be now?” and
a gleam of hope would shoot across her for an instant, to be as
quickly succeeded by misgiving and despair. “He said, he promised,
he would tell her he could no longer marry her,” she repeated to
herself a dozen times a day. “Why has he not done so? Two, three
days are past since her father’s funeral, and he has not yet come;
he has never come since the day she would not see him. And Cicely
does not seem surprised. What can it be? Perhaps he has gone away!”
At last one morning, Geneviève in a fit of restless dreariness, set
off for a walk by herself. It was the same morning on which Mrs.
Methvyn and Cicely were talking together in the library, and it was
on her return from her walk that Geneviève, entering the room,
interrupted their conversation.
“So you have been out, my dear?” said Mrs. Methvyn kindly.
“Have you had a nice walk?”
“It is very cold,” replied the girl, shivering a little, and
going nearer to the fire.
She still had her hat and cloak on, and the light in the room was not
very bright. But now, something in her voice struck both Cicely and
her mother as unusual. It sounded faint and toneless.
“You have not caught cold, I hope?” said Mrs. Methvyn anxiously.
She was conscious that she had not given much attention to her
cousin’s daughter of late, and a touch of self-reproach made itself
felt.
“No, thank you; I have not caught cold,” said Geneviève. Then
she came a step or two nearer to where her aunt and cousin were
sitting, and they, looking at her, saw that she was very pale, and
that her eyes were red and swollen with crying.
“Aunt,” she said suddenly, and with a something of dignity in her
manner, new to her. “Aunt, you have been very good for me. I thank
you much, very much, for your kindness. I shall always thank you. But
I want you to let me go home now, home to Hivèritz, to my mother.
Please let me go; I can make the voyage by myself alone, perfectly
well. Please let me go. To-morrow, or in two or three days at the
latest.”
Mrs. Methvyn looked at her in astonishment.
“Geneviève, what is the matter?” she exclaimed. “What has
happened to put such an extraordinary idea into your head? Go home
alone! Nonsense, you know such a thing is impossible. You must be
reasonable, my dear, and tell me what has made you unhappy. I can see
you have been crying.”
“Nothing has happened,” replied Geneviève. “It is only quite
simply that I want to go home.”
“But you cannot go home all of a sudden in that way,” persisted
Mrs. Methvyn. “If there were no other reason against it, the
appearance of it at such a time would be an objection. You should
consider that, my dear. I have a great many troubles just now,
Geneviève. I think you should try not to add to them. And it is
plain that something has put you out this morning.”
Geneviève felt that Cicely’s eyes were fixed upon her with what
she imagined to be reproach, and she hardened her heart.
“Nothing has put me out,” she repeated. “I am not happy, that
is all. I do not love England; I want to go home.”
“But I cannot allow you to go home unless I am shown a good reason
for it,” said Mrs. Methvyn firmly. “When I brought you away from
your mother, Geneviève, it was with the wish and intention of making
you happy with us. If I have not succeeded, I regret it very much;
but still that does not free me from the responsibility I undertook.
I cannot possibly let you go home as you propose. You do not really
mean what you are saying—you are put out about something, and
afterwards you will be sorry.”
Mrs. Methvyn leant back wearily in her chair. Geneviève stood before
her, her eyes fixed on the ground.
“No,” she said, after a little pause, “no; I shall not be sorry
afterwards. I am sorry now,” she glanced up for a moment, “I am
sorry to trouble you. But I shall not be sorry for asking to go home.
I must go home. If I write and ask my mother, and if she consents,
you will let me go then?”
“I cannot prevent your writing home what you choose,” said Mrs.
Methvyn, as if tired of the discussion, “but, of course, it is very
painful to me that my plans for your welfare should end so, and I
know it will disappoint your mother.” She was silent for a moment,
then she suddenly looked at her niece with a new suspicion.
“Geneviève,” she said, speaking with an effort, “can it be
that the reason you want to leave us is, that you have heard any talk
about our not being as rich as we were?”
The blood rushed to Geneviève’s white face.
“No; oh, no!” she cried. “Indeed, it is not that. I am not
so—so—what do you call it?—so mean. No, it is not that.”
“But you might have some mistaken idea about it without being
mean,” replied Mrs. Methvyn, speaking more kindly. “You might
have some notion that it would be difficult now for me to do what
before was quite easy—that you would be an additional burden upon
me. But things are not as bad as all that, my dear. I shall be very
glad to have you with me, and I shall be quite able to manage
comfortably. If I saw you happy, I should be more pleased even than
before to have you with me, when—when I am quite alone—when
Cicely has to leave us.”
Her voice faltered a little as she glanced at her daughter, who all
this time had sat perfectly silent, neither by word nor look taking
part in the discussion. Once or twice during the conversation Cicely
had been tempted to interfere, but on reflection she refrained from
doing so. “It is better that mother should be prepared for
something,” she thought, “even this ill-timed request of
Genevieve’s may pave the way for what I must tell her.”
Geneviève’s eyes followed her aunt’s, but again something in
Cicely’s expression roused her latent obstinacy and defiance.
“I am sorry,” she said slowly. “I am sorry, but it must be. I
cannot stay here. Give me leave then, my aunt, to write to my mother
about my return home.”
“I told you before, you must write what you choose,” said Mrs.
Methvyn coldly.
And Geneviève left the room without saying more.
“Do you understand her, Cicely?” said Mrs. Methvyn when she was
again alone with her daughter. “Do you in the least understand what
has put this into her head? She is evidently very unhappy. Surely,”
she went on as a new idea struck her, “surely it cannot have
anything to do with Mr. Guildford?”
“No,” replied Cicely, almost, in spite of herself, amused at her
mother’s recurrence to her favourite scheme; “no. I am perfectly
certain it has nothing whatever to do with him.”
“Then, what can it have to do with?”
“She is certainly not happy,” answered Cicely, evasively. “I am
sorry for her.”
“Do you think you could find out more, if you saw her alone?”
said Mrs. Methvyn uneasily.
“I will go up and speak to her if you like,” said Cicely.
She rose from her chair as she spoke. As she passed her mother, she
stooped and kissed Mrs. Methvyn’s soft pale face—the lines had
grown much deeper and more numerous on it of late—the roundness and
comeliness were fast disappearing.
“Don’t worry yourself about Geneviève, dear mother,” she said.
“Even if she leaves you, you have me, haven’t you?”
“Yes, dear,” answered her mother. “I should not want her if I
could always have you! But, of course, it is not a question of
wanting her. It is so vexing to think of poor Caroline’s
disappointment; it is so utterly unexpected. I do not understand the
child at all; she is not the least like her mother.”
Cicely made her way up to her cousin’s room. Geneviève was already
seated at her little writing-table—pens, paper, and ink, spread out
before her.
“Geneviève,” said Cicely. “You have made my mother very
uneasy. She is most sorry on your mother’s account. The letter you
are going to write will distress Madame Casalis very much. I want you
not to send it—at least not to-day.”
“But I will send it,” said Geneviève angrily. “Why should you
prevent it? It is best for me to go, I tell you,” her voice
softened a little. “You don’t know—” she went on, “and if you
did, you, so cold, so réglée, how could you understand?”
Cicely looked at her with a strange mixture of pity and contempt.
“No,” she said, “perhaps I could not. But still Geneviève, for
my mother’s sake—I am determined to spare her all the annoyance I
can—I ask you not to write that hasty letter about going home, to
your mother to-day.”
“Why should I not?” said Geneviève.
“Because I tell you it is better not,” replied Cicely. “And you
know I always have spoken the truth to you, Geneviève.”
Geneviève looked cowed and frightened.
“Very well,” she said, “I will not write it. Not to-day.”
Cicely saw that she had gained her point. She left the room without
saying any more. And no letter was written by Geneviève that
afternoon. She sat in her room crying till it grew dark, and by
dinner-time had succeeded in making herself as miserable looking a
little object as could well be imagined, so that poor Mrs. Methvyn
said in her heart, that if it were not for the disappointment to
Caroline, her daughter’s absence would hardly be a matter of regret.
Cicely had no time to spare for crying; and tears, she was beginning
to find, are, for the less “med’cinable griefs,” a balm by no
means so easy of attainment as for slighter wounds.
“I think my tears are all frozen,” she said to herself with a
sigh, as she folded and sealed the last of her letters. She sat for a
moment or two gazing at the address before she closed the envelope,
as if the familiar words had a sort of fascination for her.
“I wonder if it is the last time I shall ever write to him,” she
said to herself. “When—when he is Geneviève’s husband, there
can surely never be any necessity for our coming in contact with each
other. Yet people grow accustomed to such things I have heard, and my
suffering cannot be unprecedented. Ah, what a sad thing life becomes
when one’s trust is broken! Far, far sadder than death!” And
after all, two or three large tears rolled slowly down her cheeks and
dropped upon the white paper.
This was the letter.
“Greystone,
“October 25th.
“My dear Trevor,—I should like to see you alone to-morrow. Will
you call here between two and three in the afternoon? I have deferred
asking you to come till now, because I thought it best that you
should thoroughly understand that I, in what I have determined to do,
am not acting hastily or impulsively.
“Your affectionate cousin,
“CICELY MAUD METHVYN.”
“It will prepare him to some extent,” she said to herself. The
note, simple as it was, had a certain formality about it, very
different from the girlishly off-hand letters she had been accustomed
to send him. “Will he feel it all relief?” she said to herself,
as she thought how best and most clearly she must put into words the
resolution she had come to. “Or will it be pain too? However he
loves her, he did love me, and he cannot have changed so entirely as
to give no thought to me.”
And again some tears blistered the smooth surface of the
black-bordered envelope in her hand.