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
she herself was ‘laide à faire peur.’ She had a good figure
though. There was a gentleman there, a friend of Mr. Fawcett’s, who
knew her in London. He said she danced so well that one forgot how
ugly she was. She was tall—it is nice to be tall for dancing, is it
not?” She gave a little sigh, but hastened on again in a moment.
“Oh! Cicely,” she exclaimed, “do tell me what you think you
will wear at the ball.”

Cicely looked up from her work—she was knitting socks for her
father—with astonish ment.

“The ball!” what do you mean, Geneviève??

Geneviève looked frightened. “Did you not know?” she said
uneasily. “I thought Mr. Fawcett had written to tell you that”
she stopped and seemed to grow more confused, but something in
Cicely’s face made her go on—“I thought you knew,” she began
again, “that there is to be a ball at Lingthurst next month.”

“No,” said Cicely quietly, “I certainly did not know it.”

She said no more, but in a minute or two went on talking as usual on
other subjects, and her mother, understanding her to some extent,
followed her example. But Geneviève’s gaiety had received a check,
and soon afterwards she said she was tired and would like to go to
bed. Mrs. Methvyn kissed her affectionately; Cicely laid down her
work, and, notwithstanding Geneviève’s protestations, went
upstairs with her to see that everything in her room was in its usual
order for her.

The pretty little room looked very comfortable; the bright fire
blazing cheerily was a welcome sight to Geneviève.

“A fire!” she exclaimed, “Oh, how charming! Yet it is only
September! Have you fires so soon, my cousin?”

“Not always,” said Cicely. “But I thought it would be cheerful
for you—you will feel the cold too more than we do—so I ordered
it.  Now, good night, dear.”

“How kind you are!” said Geneviève regretfully. “Cicely,”
she went on hesitatingly, “I hope you will not be vexed at what I
told you about. I thought—”

“Please don’t speak about it,” interrupted Cicely. She spoke
quickly, but not ungently. “I would rather hear about it
afterwards, to-morrow I mean, from Trevor himself. Good night
again.”

Geneviève could not muster up courage to attempt to detain her a
second time. She held up her pretty face to be kissed, and Cicely
then went downstairs again to the library.

“Cicely,” said her mother, as she entered the room, “I don’t
think, dear, you should take up what Geneviève said, so hastily. It
may not be a ball; most likely it is just some little evening party,
and she, poor child, so unaccustomed to anything of the kind as she
is, has taken up an exaggerated idea of it.”

Cicely waited till her mother had finished speaking, though once or
twice she seemed on the point of interrupting her.

“No, mother dear, I don’t think Geneviève has made a mistake,”
she said. “But,” she went on, making an evident effort to control
herself, “I will try not to think about it till I hear what it
means from Trevor himself.”

“Yes, dear, that is wise. But, Cicely, even if it be as Geneviève
says—a regular ball, I mean—you must remember that the Fawcetts
have a perfect right to do as they please in such matters. You must
not take it up personally.”

The speech was not judicious. Cicely raised her head proudly; there
came an unusual light into the soft eyes, the lines about the gentle
mouth grew hard.

“A perfect right,” she repeated. “Yes, of course they have a
perfect right to give a ball whenever they please. But they have no
right to expect me to go to it. I am engaged to their son certainly,
but if they disregard my feelings and consider me no more than a
stranger, it leaves me free to behave like one. How could I wish to
go to a ball? Think of what sorrow we have had so lately—think of
my father’s state oh! mother, it is most inconsiderate.”

“My dear, you are hardly reasonable,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You
are very honest, Cicely,” she went on. “Tell me, dear, is it not
partly that you are hurt at not having been consulted about it at
all, at not having been asked if the idea of such a thing was
pleasant to you?”

Cicely was silent for a little. Then she said slowly, “Yes, I think
it is partly that. But I don’t think it is from any small or mean
feeling of vexation at not being consulted. It is that it seems to me
that Trevor is different.”

“Wait till to-morrow,” said Mrs. Methvyn sagely. What she had
said had done some good. It inclined Cicely to restrain her first
vehemence of feeling, to receive more gently Mr. Fawcett’s
explanation of what had led to this unexpected piece of dissipation.
It sounded simple enough when, as Cicely expected, he came the next
morning to talk it over with her. They had been speaking about balls,
he said, one evening at Eastbourne, and Geneviève, who (though in
some mysterious manner she had learnt to dance) had never been at any
entertainment of so “wholly worldly” a kind, had expressed with
girlish eagerness her intense wish to assister at a real ball. Half
in joke, half in earnest, the idea had been mooted; Sir Thomas, who
Trevor declared had altogether lost his heart to his pretty visitor,
had taken it up and promised to open the ball with her himself,
“and,” said Mr. Fawcett in conclusion, “the day was fixed for
the twentieth of October, my birthday, you know, Cicely.”

“Yes,” said Cicely, “I remember.”

Her tone of voice aroused Trevor’s misgivings.

“Don’t you like the idea of a ball, Cicely?” he asked. “I am
sure you used to like dancing, especially in the country. And I
thought you would have been glad for Geneviève to be pleased.”

“Her notions of pleasure and mine differ,” said Cicely coldly,
“if she can find it in amusing herself in a way her parents would
disapprove of.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Fawcett. “What can they know about it? They
would not expect Geneviève to behave differently from other people.
She is ‘at Rome’ now, and they must take the consequences of
sending her there.”

“I am not dictating anything to Geneviève,” said Cicely more
gently; “she must judge for herself. As to my own feeling about it,
I confess to you, Trevor, I would have much preferred not taking part
in anything of the kind at present, but—”

“But what?” said Mr. Fawcett.

“If you wish it, I will try to dismiss the feeling I have,” she
answered.

“If I wish it. Cicely, you speak as if I were an unfeeling tyrant.
It is not fair to me, upon my soul it isn’t,” said Trevor,
working himself up into vexation. “No one felt more for you than I
did last spring, but you cannot shut yourself up for ever.”

“It is not only that,” said Cicely. “I have other feelings—my
father’s state of health, my having to leave him so soon—all
these things make me sad. But I dare say it is wrong to feel so. Dear
Trevor, don’t be vexed with me. I will try and enter into it
cheerfully. If I had been with you and could have talked it over with
you and your mother before, it would have been all right.”

“I wish you had been with us when it was first proposed. You
don’t know how I wished for you at Eastbourne, Cicely,” exclaimed
Trevor.

Cicely looked up at him affectionately. For the moment their old,
happy relations seemed to have returned—the vague, painful feeling
“that Trevor was different,” which of late had so often troubled
her, melted away. And for the rest of that day Cicely’s brow looked
clear, and her eyes had a smile in them.

But Geneviève’s brilliant spirits seemed already to have received
a check. She was tired, she told Cicely, she thought one always felt
so the day after a railway journey more than at the time.

“Are you too tired to talk about what you will wear at the
Lingthurst ball?” said Cicely brightly. “Mother wants us to have
very pretty dresses, and I am going to order them from town; so we
must have a grand consultation, Geneviève.”

Geneviève looked up in amazement.

“I thought you were angry about it—I almost thought you would say
you would not go,” she exclaimed.

Cicely was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly,—“It is
true I was surprised, and not pleased at the idea of it last night.
But I think it was unreasonable of me, and I am sorry for having
chilled your pleasure in it.”

“You are very good, Cicely,” said Geneviève. “I wish I were as
good as you.”

She sighed. Cicely looked at her with some surprise.

“You are not to go off into a fit of low spirits, Geneviève,”
she said, in a rallying tone. “I am not good when I am cross—the
least I can do is to say I am sorry, isn’t it? But if you look
miserable it will be like a reproach to me. I was so pleased to see
you so bright and merry last night. Now tell me about your dress.
What would you like it to be?”

“White,” said Geneviève decidedly. “It is as it were my first
ball, you see, my cousin.”

“Yes,” said Cicely drily. “I suppose you did not go to balls at
Hivèritz?”

“No,” replied Geneviève, in the most matter-of-fact tone.
“Papa being a pasteur, you understand, it would hardly have been
convenable that I should go to balls there.”

“And what will your parents say to your going here?” inquired
Cicely.

“Oh! I don’t think I shall say anything about it,” answered
Geneviève carelessly. “Not that I think mamma would object—she
has placed me under the care of my aunt—it is not for me to dictate
to your mother, Cicely.”

Cicely did not contradict her, and Geneviève proceeded to discuss
the important question of her dress. She warmed into enthusiasm on
the subject, quite astonishing her cousin by her display of millinery
lore and perfect acquaintance with the requirements of the occasion.

“I can hardly believe you have never been at balls, and all sorts
of things of the kind, Geneviève,” she exclaimed at last. “Where
did you learn to dance?”

“There was a class at the pension where I went. I used to watch
them and then try by myself afterwards,” said Geneviève. “It is
quite simple. Mr. Fawcett says I dance very well.”

“Trevor!” exclaimed Cicely. “How does he know?”

“Oh! we only tried once—là-bas—at Eastbourne, I mean, when the
band was playing a waltz before our windows,” said Geneviève
hastily. “Tell me, Cicely,” she went on quickly, “who will
there be at the Lingthurst ball that I shall know. Will Mr. Guildford
be there?”

“No, I am sure he will not,” replied Cicely. “He has other
things to do.”

“But he comes here very often. He can not be very busy,” pursued
Geneviève. “My aunt tells me he has been here three—four times
in the week.”

“He doesn’t come here for pleasure—it is perfectly
different,” answered Cicely coldly.

“Is it? Ah! yes, I see. He comes here but as my uncle’s
doctor,” said Geneviève so innocently that Cicely felt ashamed of
the slight feeling of annoyance which her cousin’s remarks aroused
in her.

“I wonder if she has heard Trevor speak of Mr. Guildford in that
foolish way,” she thought to herself. “Trevor should be careful.
Geneviève does not understand—she will be treating Mr. Guildford
as if he were beneath her.”

But her fears were misplaced. When Mr. Guildford came the next day,
Geneviève made herself as charming as ever. She smiled and blushed
more than she talked, it is true; but once or twice Cicely caught Mr.
Guildford’s eyes resting upon her in a way which awoke a new
feeling in her mind. “Does he really care for her?” she said to
herself uneasily. “He, so clever and good. Is she worthy of it?”

She felt more than ever that she could not understand Geneviève.
There were times at which it seemed to her that a creature more
artless and ingenuous could not exist—that the feeling of
bewilderment about her must arise entirely from her own in ability to
be carelessly, childishly transparent like this sunny little fairy.
Then again a sudden glimpse of something very like calculating
selfishness on Geneviève’s part would startle her into perplexity
again, and then would follow a fit of disgust at her own
suspiciousness.

“Do you understand Geneviève, Trevor?” she asked Mr. Fawcett one
day. It was the very day before the ball. They had been at luncheon
at Lingthurst, discussing and admiring the all but completed
arrangements, and Trevor had walked home with Cicely.  Geneviève had
been invited to come with them, but for some reason that Cicely was
at a loss to explain, had refused to do so, and had driven home with
her aunt.

“Do you understand her?” Miss Methvyn repeated, for Mr. Fawcett
had not seemed to hear her question the first time.

Trevor started. “What are you saying, Cicely?” he exclaimed.
“Do I understand Geneviève? Of course, I do. You are always diving
into unknown depths or soaring into the clouds, my dear child. Please
remember that other people find it fatiguing. You must be at a loss
for a subject of speculation if you are going to make one of poor
Geneviève—she is just a sweet, simple little creature, very
affectionate, and not very wise, and perhaps a little vain; which is
certainly excusable. There is not much to understand about her.”

“Is that it?” said Cicely thoughtfully. She had listened
attentively to what Trevor said, looking up into his face with a
questioning, somewhat anxious expression in her eyes. Somehow it
annoyed Trevor. He began kicking the pebbles on the path impatiently.
But just for the moment, Cicely was too intent on what she was saying
to observe his irritation.

“I wonder if it is so,” she repeated consideringly. “Sometimes
I feel as if she were perfectly artless and sweet and unselfish.  And
then she says and does things that I don’t like, or rather that I
don’t understand. To-day for instance.”

“What did she do to-day?” said Trevor sharply. “I declare
Cicely you are just as bad as other women after all—everlastingly
picking holes in each other—especially if “each other” has the
misfortune to be bewitchingly pretty!”

The sneering tone as well as the unkindness of the speech wounded
Cicely to the quick. She turned her face away, and walked on without
speaking.

“Cicely,” said Mr. Fawcett in a minute or two.

No answer.

“Cicely,” he repeated.

“What, Trevor?” she said gently. Her tone was sad, but nothing
more.

“What are you offended at?” he asked. “I did not in the least
mean to vex you—you might know that—but you take up things so
hastily now. You, who used to be so sweet-tempered.”

His words touched her. Cicely’s conscience was very tender.

“Am I ill-tempered?” she said anxiously. “You never used to
think me so, but perhaps it is true. I don’t understand myself now,
it seems to me, so I should not be hard upon Geneviève.”

“That’s just it,” said Trevor. “You are hard upon her,
Cicely, and I have always thought so. What was it that she did to vex
you to-day?”

“I would much rather not speak about it any more,” said Cicely.
“It only makes you think me unkind, and perhaps I am fanciful.”

“No, I won’t think you unkind. Do tell me. I want to know what it
was.”

“It was when we were talking about to-morrow. Something was said
about your dancing first with me, and you said I must certainly keep
half-a-dozen dances for you, as it was so long since we had had any,
Don’t you remember?”

“Well? Yes, I think I do.”

“Geneviève was beside me at the time. When I turned round to speak
to her, she would not answer me. Then all of a sudden she muttered
something about wishing she had never come here. And when you went
away, and I asked her what was the matter, she began to cry, and
accused me of unkindness and selfishness and all sorts of things. She
was just offended at not being made first in everything. And I have
tried to make her happy, Trevor.”

“She is a spoilt child,” said Trevor carelessly, “but you need
not trouble yourself so much about her. When we are married, Cicely,
and she has it all to herself at Greystone, she will be all right,
you will see.”

“Then you do think she dislikes me, Trevor?” said Cicely quickly.
“That is the feeling I don’t understand. She almost seems—I
don’t like saying so—but she almost seems jealous of me.”

Trevor laughed, but his laugh was not hearty.

“Really, Cicely, you must not take things up so seriously,” he
said. His tone was not unkind this time, however. They were close to
the Abbey grounds, and Trevor stopped as if about to turn back.

“I must go home again now, I think,” he said. “Good-bye,
Cicely. You will give me the first dance to-morrow, and half-a-dozen
others, even if Mademoiselle Geneviève is offended, won’t you?”

Cicely smiled. “I think I can brave her displeasure,” she said.
“Good night, Trevor; you won’t come in?”

“I can’t,” he replied. “My mother begged me to come back
soon. Miss Winter and I will be kept at work all the evening, I
expect, for my mother is never satisfied with anything till it has
been undone and then put back again as it was originally. Good
night.”

He strode away. Cicely stood watching him for a minute, then taking
the key from her pocket, she unlocked the little door near which she
was standing, and passed through into the park. How many times she
had done so in her life; how far from her thoughts it was just then
that this might be the last time she would pass through that little
old doorway; how seldom any of us think that to even the commonest
and most familiar actions of our daily lives there must come a
“last time!” A last time in many cases not known to be such, till
looked back upon from the other side of some sudden crisis in life,
or sometimes, it must be, from the farther shore of the dark river
itself. And it is well that it should be so. We could make no
progress in our journey were we constantly to realise the infinite
pathos attending every step; we should sink fainting by the way did
we suspect the mines of tragic possibilities over which we are ever
treading.

When Cicely entered the hall she met Geneviève, who was crossing it
on her way to the library.

“Have you come back alone?” she said quickly, when she saw that
there was no one with her cousin.

“Oh! no; Trevor came to the park door with me,” replied Cicely.
“He had to hurry back again. Have you and mother been home long?”

“Yes, a good while. You have missed some one,” said Geneviève,
“Mr. Guildford has been here.”

“Oh! I am so sorry; I wanted to see him!” exclaimed Cicely.
“Why would he not stay?”

“He saw my uncle,” said Geneviève shortly. “That was what he
came for. I told him where you were; he left no message.”

“I didn’t expect any message,” said Cicely, not quite
understanding Geneviève’s curious tone.

“Yes, you did,” answered the girl bitterly, “or you expected
him to wait for the chance of seeing you. You think you are to be
queen of all—if you are there no one must have a word, a glance! I
have said I loved you, that you were good; but I think not so now. I
love you not. You are cold and proud, and know not what love means,
yet you gain all! And I—I am miserable and alone, and who cares?”

“Geneviève, you must be mad! I do not know, and I do not wish to
know, what you mean. You have yielded to-day to temper till you have
completely lost your reason, that is the only excuse I can make for
you.”

Then Cicely walked quietly across the hall and down the passage to
the library, leaving her cousin standing alone. Geneviève did not
follow her. When Cicely had gone, she ran upstairs to her own room
and threw herself down upon the bed, sobbing bitterly.

Miss Methvyn found her mother in the library.

“Mr. Guildford has been here, Cicely,” said Mrs. Methvyn as she
came in.

“Yes, I know; Geneviève has just told me. I wish I had seen him. I
think he might have waited a few minutes.”

“He said he would; he seemed to want to see you,” said Mrs.
Methvyn. “I told him you would not be out long, and he seemed in no
hurry, and went out into the garden with Geneviève. Then, to my
surprise, in about a quarter of an hour he came in again suddenly and
told me he had just remembered an engagement at Sothernbay, and that
he could not possibly wait any longer. But he is coming again
to-morrow.”

“To-morrow,” repeated Cicely. “Why should he come so soon
again!”

“I don’t quite know,” said her mother. “Cicely,” she went
on tremulously, “I am afraid he does not think your father quite so
well.”

“Do you think so, dear mother?” said Cicely. “I hope not. You
get nervous. I wish I had been in.”

“So do I,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I fancied from his manner that
he would have spoken more openly to you.”

“What did he say? Tell me exactly, mother,” said Cicely. Her
voice sounded calm, but inwardly a sort of icy tremor seemed to have
seized her. She would not tell her mother that even to her eyes a
slight change had been visible in her father for the last day or two;
she had tried to persuade herself that it was “only her fancy;”
but she had longed for Mr Guildford’s next visit with intense
though concealed anxiety. “Do tell me all he said,” she repeated.

“He did not say much. It was before he had seen Geneviève,”
replied Mrs. Methvyn. “After he had been with your father, he came
down here and asked when you would be in. Then he said he thought
your father rather “low” to-day, and that he had been trying to
persuade him not do so much—to get a proper man of business to
manage things, and not to worry himself. I think it is true, and I
told Mr. Guildford I agreed with him. I know Phillip has been annoyed
the last few days by some letters he got.”

“What letters? He never told me about them,” said Cicely.

“You would not have understood them. I do not. I only know they
were about money matters,” replied Mrs. Methvyn vaguely.

“Money matters,” said Cicely. “Oh! he really should not trouble
himself about things of that kind.”

She spoke more cheerfully. There was a certain relief in being able
to name a cause for her father’s depression. And to her happy
experience the expression “money matters” bore no terrible
significance. She was only thankful that his anxiety arose from no
more important cause.

“No; I wish he would not,” sighed Mrs. Methvyn.

“Well, Mr. Guildford will be here to-morrow, and then we can talk
it over with him, and make papa do what we tell him,” said Cicely
brightly.

She was leaving the room when her mother recalled her.

“Cicely,” she said mysteriously, “do you know that there was
something very odd in that young man’s manner this afternoon?”

“How? what do you mean, mother?” replied Cicely. “You speak as
if he were going out of his mind.”

“Nonsense, my dear, you know quite well what I mean,” said Mrs.
Methvyn. “I really do believe he has got something in his head
about Geneviève. It was after he had seen her in the garden that he
came in and said he must go home at once.”

“But why should seeing Geneviève in the garden have made him say
so?” inquired Cicely.

“My dear, how can I tell? When people are in love, there is no
accounting for what they will do. Geneviève may have been cold to
him, or—he is a very modest young man—he may think we should not
approve of it, and may have been afraid of being tempted to say
something. Who can say? I only say that I feel sure he has got
something of the kind in his head.”

Cicely looked grave. “Perhaps he has,” she replied. To herself
she said, “I wonder why, if it is so, it should have made
Geneviève so desperately cross.”—“Mamma,” she added, after a
little silence, “I wish you would do something to oblige me.”

“What, my dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn in surprise.

“Please don’t call Mr. Guildford ‘a very modest young man.’”

CHAPTER X.

FORGIVE ME, AND GOOD-BYE.

“Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought
stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very
little longer!”

R. Browning

IT was the day of the Lingthurst ball. Cicely woke early, and tried
to believe that she was in good spirits, and that her anxiety of the
evening before had been exaggerated and uncalled for. And when her
mother met her with the good news that Colonel Methvyn had had a calm
and undisturbed night, and seemed wonderfully refreshed by it, the
make-believe seemed something very like reality, and Cicely’s face
looked bright enough when she met her cousin in the breakfast-room to
satisfy Geneviève that her ebullition of the previous day had been
forgiven, if not forgotten, or that at least it was to be tacitly
ignored.

Geneviève was excited, but not happy. Some closeness of observation
is, however, required to discriminate between the two conditions, and
this neither of her companions was this morning sufficiently at
leisure to bestow upon her. So, “poor Geneviève is full of her
ball. I hope she will enjoy it,” thought Mrs. Methvyn; and
“Geneviève cannot have meant what she said yesterday. It must just
have been one of her childish little fits of temper, not worth
noticing,” was the decision Cicely arrived at.

“Your father is very anxious for his letters this morning,” said
Mrs. Methvyn, as they were sitting at breakfast. “I hope there will
be nothing wrong in them—nothing to upset him, when he seems so
much better.”

Just as she spoke the letter-bag was brought in. Mrs. Methvyn opened
it.

“Two for you, Cicely,” she said, as she distributed the budget;
“one for Geneviève, three for your father, all business letters I
fear.” She looked at them anxiously. “I wish we could keep them
till Mr. Guildford comes.”

“It would be no use. Papa would be sure to ask for them,” said
Cicely decidedly. “Give them to me, mother; I will take them up to
him myself.”

“Is Mr. Guildford coming to-day?” said Geneviève in surprise, as
her cousin left the room.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Methvyn; “he promised yesterday, when he had
to leave in such a hurry, that he would come again to-day.”

“Oh!” said Geneviève. Then, fancying her aunt looked at her
curiously, “I thought that he was so very busy,” she added
confusedly.

Cicely meanwhile was knocking at her father’s door. Her first tap
was unnoticed. She repeated it.

“Come in,” said Colonel Methvyn’s voice. To Cicely it sounded
very weak and feeble. “Oh! is it you, my dear?” he exclaimed when
he saw her. “I thought it was Barry with the letters.”

“I have brought them, papa,” said Cicely. “But I do so wish you
would not read them yet. They look like business letters, and they
always tire you so.”

She stooped and kissed him. He had had a good night Mrs. Methvyn had
said, but to Cicely’s eyes he looked sadly white and frail this
morning; his voice was tremulous, his hand shook as he held it out
for the letters.

“Give them to me, my dear child. I shall be more comfortable when I
have read them.”

He opened two of them and tossed them aside with indifference. The
third was a longer letter. Colonel Methvyn read it through
once—twice—then folded it up again and put it back carefully into
its envelope with a little sigh. Cicely watched him anxiously.

“Is it all right, papa?” she said. “Nothing to vex you, I
mean?”

“Oh! no, it is all right enough,” he answered rather absently.
“Cicely,” he went on, after a little pause, “there will
probably be a telegram for me some time to-day. Don’t think of
keeping it from me, my dear. It would annoy me inexpressibly if you
did so. Let it be brought up at once. Tell your mother so.”

“Very well, papa,” replied Cicely. She leant over him and kissed
him again, then she went quietly downstairs.

Her mother looked up quickly as she re-entered the room.

“I don’t think there is anything particular in papa’s
letters,” said Cicely, in answer to her mother’s unspoken
question. “But he says there may be a telegram some time to-day,
and he wishes it taken to him at once.”

“I hope it won’t come,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I don’t feel
easy about your father. He is doing far too much. How do you think he
is looking this morning, Cicely?”

“Pretty well,” replied Cicely. “What time do you think Mr.
Guildford will be here, mother?”

“Early—before luncheon, I fancy,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You
will not be out today when he comes, my dear?”

“Oh! no,” said Cicely. “I wish I knew what time he will be
coming,” she thought to herself, “I would walk part of the way to
meet him.”

For since seeing her father her fears had revived. She felt certain
that Mr. Guildford must have thought unfavourably of him the day
before, otherwise he would not be coming again so soon; she felt
restless and unhappy, and longed with intense longing to express her
fears to the only person who could soothe or allay them; the thought
of the ball at Lingthurst grew hourly more distasteful to her.

“If only Geneviève could go alone,” she thought, “and mother
and I stay at home. But, of course, it would give offence—I must
go.”

She could settle to none of her usual occupations, and at last she
determined to set off to meet Mr. Guildford. She looked in at the
door of her cousin’s room before going. Geneviève was laying out
betimes her costume for the evening, apparently perfectly happy in
the occupation; she looked up with a bright smile at the sound of
Cicely’s voice.

“Is not the effect of these flowers on the skirt beautiful, my
cousin?” she exclaimed, pointing to the mass of snowy clouds of
gauze that lay on the bed. “I only wish it were time to dress. I am
all impatience to put it on.”

“It is very pretty,” said Cicely kindly. “I am sure it will
suit you beautifully, Geneviève. I am going out for a little,” she
went on, “please tell mamma so if you hear her asking for me. I
cannot disturb her just now. She is in papa’s room. You don’t
want to come out this morning?”

“Oh! no, thank you,” said Geneviève, “I have twenty things to
do. I don’t like the bows they have put on my boots, they make the
foot so broad. I am going to arrange them again.”

“Well, good-bye then,” said Cicely, turning to go. Just then
there came a ring at the front-door bell. It sounded sharp and loud
through the quiet house.

“Who can that be?” exclaimed Geneviève.

“The telegram,” said Cicely. “I must go and see if it is.”

“Stay a moment. I can tell you,” said Geneviève.

One of the windows of the room looked to the front, but the sill was
high and narrow. She drew a chair forward and stepped up on to it.
Cicely watched her in astonishment.

“What are you doing, Geneviève?” she exclaimed. “You can’t
see anything from there. You forget the porch.”

“Ah! but I can,” replied Geneviève triumphantly. She was by this
time mounted on the sill, craning her neck round in a peculiar
fashion. “You forget there is a window in the side of the porch.
From here, when I put my head so, I can see who stands at the
door—voilà! I found this out the first days I was here. Now I see.
No, Cicely, it is not the boy from the station. It is a tall figure,
a gentleman. Can it be Mr. Fawcett?”

She turned round with eager inquiry.

“No,” replied Cicely, “I don’t expect him to-day. Do come
down, Geneviève. It would look so strange if any of them saw you
climbing up there.”

She spoke rather coldly. Geneviève’s conduct jarred upon her. She
only waited till the little lady had accomplished her descent in
safety, and then went downstairs, to satisfy herself of the
correctness of her cousin’s information.

She was not long left in doubt. Parker was coming in search of
her—Mr. Guildford was in the library and had asked for her.

“How kind of him to come so early,” thought Cicely, trying to
believe that no thing but kindness was the motive for such prompt
fulfilment of his promise. “If he were really uneasy about papa, he
would certainly have waited to see me last night,” she said to
herself, as she entered the room; but, nevertheless, she looked
strangely pale, and the tremor in her voice was not quite
imperceptible when Mr. Guildford came forward to meet her. He shook
hands somewhat abruptly. Cicely glanced at his face. He too seemed
discomposed; he looked worn and tired, as if he had not slept all
night. A terror seized Cicely. “Has he come to break it to me? Does
he think the very worst?” were the thoughts that flashed through
her mind. She felt herself beginning to tremble so much that she sat
down on the nearest chair without attempting to speak.

Mr. Guildford did not seem to notice her agitation; he did not look
at her, but kept his eyes fixed upon the table beside which he was
standing.

“He is afraid of looking at me—he cannot make up his mind how to
tell me what he must,” thought Cicely, with a sort of shiver. But
the silent waiting at last grew unendurable; she felt that it must be
broken.

“It is very kind of you to have come so early,” she began. “I
cannot tell you how kind I think it.”

Mr. Guildford turned suddenly. “I came early on purpose,” he
said. “I was so afraid of missing you. But how ill you look, Miss
Methvyn,” he went on hastily. “Is there anything wrong? You look
so dreadfully pale. I am afraid I should not have asked to see you.”

Cicely’s pale lips quivered. “I am quite well,” she whispered.
“There is nothing wrong with me. I shall be all right again
directly—but, Mr. Guildford, I—I know why you have come this
morning I know what you have to tell me. Please don’t hesitate—it
is better not. I shall not be silly—you will see.”

She tried to smile, but hardly succeeded. Mr. Guildford looked at her
in amazement. “You know why I wanted to see you this morning, Miss
Methvyn?” he repeated. “You cannot. It is impossible that—that
you should suspect,” he stopped in confusion.

“I have thought him much less well the last few days,” said
Cicely. “Of course I cannot judge as you can, but still I almost
expected you to tell me you were beginning to lose hope. I knew you
would tell me first.”

“Are you speaking about your father?” said Mr. Guildford. “Did
you think it was on his account I wanted to see you?”

“Yes, of course,” replied Cicely wonderingly. “Is it not so? Do
you not think him much worse?”

“No,” said Mr. Guildford. “I have not thought so. I do not
think Colonel Methvyn quite as well as he was some time ago—he is
more nervous, more easily upset than he used to be; but I see no
important change in him. There is no reason why he should not remain
as well as he is—or even gain ground a little—for years to come,
provided always his mind is kept tranquil. I could not take upon
myself to say how he would stand any severe shock.”

Cicely gazed at him as if she could hardly believe him.

“That is just what you said some months ago,” she exclaimed.
“And you really don’t think him much worse?

“Certainly not. What made you think so?”

“I don’t know. I have not thought him quite well. I fear he has
been worried and troubled, and I have let my fears get the better of
me, I suppose. I felt quite certain that you had come this morning to
prepare me for something dreadful.”

She smiled, but faintly still—the revulsion from terror to renewed
hope was almost too much for her. Mr. Guildford smiled too, but in
his smile there was even less sunshine than in Cicely’s, and in his
voice there was even a touch of bitterness as he replied,

“Something dreadful! Far from it. You will believe me when you hear
what it really is that I want to say to you this morning—” he
paused and took a step or two away from where he had been standing.
Then he came back again to the table, and, lifting a book that was
lying upon it, turned the leaves over idly with his fingers. “I
want you to release me from a promise, Miss Methvyn,” he said at
last.

Cicely looked up in surprise. “What promise? I don’t
understand,” she replied.

“Don’t you remember,” he went on, speaking slowly, but without
looking at her, “don’t you remember that some time ago I promised
you—tacitly or directly I am not sure which, and it does not
matter, the promise was given—that I would not leave this
neighbourhood as long as Colonel Methvyn required me—as long as I
felt that I could be of use to him?”

“Yes,” said Cicely, “I have always depended upon your not doing
so. I don’t remember the exact words, but I felt satisfied that you
had perfectly re-assured me about it, at the time I was afraid of
your going.”

“Yes. I did promise as I said. There is no doubt I did,” said Mr.
Guildford, and it is from this promise I want you to release me.”

“You want to go away! You have got some better position in
prospect!” exclaimed Cicely. “Oh! how unfortunate—can you not
defer going, even for a few months? Papa may be stronger, or Dr.
Farmer may be back; of course, we cannot expect you to sacrifice your
future to us, but I cannot help telling you I am dreadfully sorry. I
was so thankful to hear you say that you do not think papa much
worse, and now, I shall just feel more anxious about him than ever.”

She turned her head away, but Mr. Guildford felt that there were
tears in her eyes.

“You need not—you must not think I would act without regard to
Colonel Methvyn,” said Mr. Guildford hurriedly. “I have heard
from Dr. Farmer—he is not likely to be away very much longer—and
in the meantime I can assure you that the medical man I should
recommend to your father is thoroughly deserving of your confidence.

“I dare say he is,” said Cicely impatiently. “It is not that
that I am thinking of. I don’t believe any doctor can do much for
my father. It is not doctoring he needs as much as cheering and
interesting. That is what you have done for him—far better than
poor old Dr. Farmer could do. And he will miss you after a while even
more than now; there are reasons—” she hesitated. “Oh! I am
dreadfully sorry,” she repeated, “but of course we cannot expect
you to sacrifice your future. We are only too grateful for what you
have done. Forgive me for seeming so selfish.”

Mr. Guildford did not appear to notice her last words. “You mistake
me a little,” he said. “My reasons for wishing—for thinking it
best I should go away, have nothing to do with my prospects—nothing
whatever. At this moment I have not the faintest notion where I shall
go, or what I shall do when I leave Sothernbay. I have only one
distinct idea.”

“What is that?”

“Merely to go away—the further the better,” he replied, with a
sort of reckless despondency that startled Cicely; “to be
forgotten, doubtless; to forget if I can.”

Once or twice during the interview a thought had occurred to Cicely
which explained Mr. Guildford’s unexpected behaviour. Now it
gathered strength; his last words especially seeming to confirm it. A
sudden impulse seized her to test its correctness.

“Mr. Guildford,” she exclaimed. “You are not at all like
yourself this morning. You are generally far too sensible to talk so.
You know very well we are not the least likely to forget you—we are
not so ungrateful; and if I believed that you mean what you said, I
should be very angry with you for saying you would forget us if you
could. But you don’t mean it. Something is wrong with you, and I
believe,” she went on slowly, “I believe I know what it is.”

“You cannot. It is impossible,” he said hastily.

“Has it not something to do with my cousin Geneviève?” asked
Cicely quietly.

“Certainly not,” he replied promptly. “Not directly, that is to
say. She certainly helped me to find it out—for which I suppose I
should be very much obliged to her—” he gave a bitter little
laugh; “but in no other way has she anything to do with my wish to
go away.”

“I thought you admired her so much,” said Cicely.

“So I do. I think she is marvellously pretty and charming, and I
dare say she is very amiable and sweet-tempered.”

“Yes, that is what you said of her before. Indeed you almost spoke
as if she were—as if she realised your ideal woman,” said Cicely
with an attempt at playfulness.

But Mr. Guildford did not smile.

“You have a good memory, Miss Methvyn,” he said rather coldly.
“If you remember so much, don’t you remember a little more? By
what you call my ideal woman, you mean the sort of woman I should
choose for a wife; don’t you? But I have had a higher ideal
woman—a woman whom I would choose for a friend—don’t you
remember my telling you that?”

“Yes,” said Cicely with interest. “I remember. But what about
it?”

“I have made a mistake—that’s all.” said the young man
drearily. “I have thought I was wiser than other men, and I find I
am a greater fool than any man I ever knew. My theories are all
smashed. In plain words, Miss Methvyn, I have come across such a
woman as in my wildest dreams I never dreamt of—a woman, whom any
man would be honoured by having as a friend, but whose friendship
only will not satisfy me. The sort of affection I used to picture
myself as giving to a wife—to my ‘ideal wife’ remember—seems
to me now like the light of a farthing candle beside that of the
midday sun. Good God, what a presumptuous fool I have been! I thought
I was so strong, so perfectly able to take care of myself—and see
where I am now. At this moment I care for nothing—all my studies,
all my hopes seem to have turned to ashes between my teeth—I have
only one instinct left—that of flight. Now, Miss Methvyn, will you
forgive me?”

Cicely had sat in perfect silence, listening to his impetuous words.
When he stopped, she said softly, “I am very, very sorry for you.”

“You should not be sorry for me,” he said with a sort of
reluctant gentleness. “I have myself to thank for it. I think
now,” he went on slowly, “I think that my grand theories about
women must have arisen from an instinct in me that if ever I did come
under an overwhelming influence of the kind, it would go hard with
me—very hard indeed.”

“But,” said Cicely, speaking with an effort, yet earnestly, “I
don’t understand you. Do you mean that you are tearing yourself
away from the influence you tell me of?—a good and noble influence
as far as I can judge—simply because you have resolved that no
woman ever shall influence you strongly and entirely? How can you
take upon yourself so to thwart your best self? How do you know that
this woman, whoever she is, might not be all the truer a friend for
being your wife? If you are sacrificing yourself all for the sake of
consistency, I should respect you more if you were inconsistent.”

“I am not doing so,” replied Mr. Guildford sadly. “I cannot say
whether I think I should have acted as you suppose. I tell you all my
theories are put to confusion; I shall have hard work to gather them
together again. I have no choice; the longer I remain in this
neighbourhood, the worse it will be for me. It is a mere selfish
instinct of self-preservation that urges me to flight—a shadowy
hope of retaining some of the shreds of what used to be my interests
in life. Some day, I suppose—I have read of such things, though I
never understood them before—some day, I suppose, I shall find I
have outlived this after all, and then I may set to work again in the
old way. I can’t say, I don’t think I care. I only want you to
give me back my promise, Miss Methvyn, and to forgive me, and let me
go.”

There was a despairing tone in the last few words which, coming as
they did from a man usually so self-contained, so resolutely
cheerful, so strong and manly, seemed, to Cicely, full of a strange
pathos. But she did not again say that she wa “very, very sorry”
for Mr. Guildford, nor did she at once answer his request. She looked
up timidly, and a faint colour rose in her cheeks.  “Do you
mean—do you mean,” she said, “that you have no choice because
you know certainly that—she—does not care for you? Are you sure
that you are not letting false pride influence you, that you are not
taking for granted what may not be certain after all?  Forgive me for
saying it—I am so reluctant for you to be unnecessarily
unhappy—and in such cases, lives are often ruined by some
misapprehension.”

She spoke very gently. Mr. Guildford looked at her for a moment. Then
he rose from the chair where he had sat down, and walked a few steps
away.

“There is no misapprehension,” he said at last. “In no
circumstances could I have imagined it possible that—that I could
have been cared for in the only way that would have satisfied me.
But, as it happens—fortunately for me, I suppose—circumstances,
outward circumstances I mean, are dead against me. Socially even,
there could never have been a question of—of such a thing, and
besides that—”

He stopped abruptly. He had been standing near the window, at some
little distance from Cicely, not looking at her as he spoke.
Suddenly he turned, and came back again, close to the table by which
she was sitting. “Miss Methvyn,” he said, and his voice sounded
so strange that Cicely looked up quickly in affright, “Miss
Methvyn,” he repeated, “there is no use in beating about the
bush. Even if you despise me, and refuse ever to speak to me again, I
think it will be a relief to tell you the truth, if you have not
already guessed it. Don’t you know what has opened my eyes? Don’t
you know what Miss Casalis told me yesterday—about you—what I
never suspected before, blind fool that I was!—don’t you know
what I mean?”

“No,” said Cicely. But her voice was low and tremulous. She
hesitated a moment, “at least,” she added, “I don’t
understand altogether.”

She would rather not have said as much, but it seemed to her as if
the words were drawn from her against her will.

“Don’t you?” said Mr. Guildford, “are you sure you don’t?”

He was looking at her now, so earnestly that Cicely, who had grown
very pale, felt her cheeks burn with the consciousness of his gaze.
She could bear it no longer. She got up from her seat, and, leaning
one hand upon the table, spoke out bravely.

“Mr. Guildford,” she exclaimed, “you are trying me painfully. I
am very, very sorry for you, but—I think you may regret if you say
any more. I don’t know what my cousin told you yesterday—it is
true that I do not altogether understand what you mean, and I would
rather not understand. Let me tell you again how very sorry I am that
you should be troubled or pained; but—you are a man, Mr. Guildford;
you have life before you and great aims to live for. Whatever it is
that is troubling you now will pass away and leave no lasting traces.
I won’t insult you by supposing it could be otherwise. You are a
man—some things are harder to be borne by women than by men.”

She stifled a little sigh, and was moving away, but Mr. Guildford
stopped her.

“Miss Methvyn, you must listen to me. I want you to understand me,
if not you may think worse of me than I deserve. I had no intention
of troubling you, but I cannot bear you to think of me as I see you