CICELY.
A STORY OF THREE YEARS.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
ENNIS GRAHAM,
AUTHOR OF “SHE WAS YOUNG AND HE WAS OLD,” “NOT WITHOUT THORNS,” ETC. ETC.
LONDON TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
[All rights reserved.]
PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO., LITTLE QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.
As long as Love continues the most imperious passion, and Death the surest fact of our mingled and marvellous humanity, so long will the sweetest and truest music upon earth be ever in the minor key.
To my Cicely.
December 30th, 1873.
CONTENTS.
Vol.1
[II. MR. GUILDFORD OF SOTHERNBAY]
[V. “COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD”]
[VII. SOME ARE WISE, SOME OTHERWISE]
[VIII. “THE WITCHCRAFT OF A TEAR”]
[IX. OF THE SAME OPINION STILL]
Vol. 2.
Vol. 3.
[III. THE NEWS THAT FLIES FAST]
[V. “HOW LITTLE YOU UNDERSTAND”]
[CHAPTER I.]
WIDOW LAFON’S SOUP.
“Why a stranger—when he sees her
In the street even—smileth.”
E. B. Browning
ONLY early April, but already a very hot day—what we dwellers in the north would consider an almost unendurably hot day! But in the pleasantest part of the sunny south of France, heat, up to a certain point, is endurable enough, thanks to the perfect purity of the air, ever freshened by the near neighbourhood of mountains and sea.
Still it was very nearly too hot to be pleasant. So thought Geneviève Casalis, the little daughter of the senior pasteur of the Reformed Church at Hivèritz, as she sat under the shade of the wooden gallery running round the little square, half garden, half court-yard, on one side of which was her father’s house. It was Sunday afternoon; Geneviève had been twice at church, and since returning from the second service had read the allotted portion of the history of the Reformation in France, on which she and her brothers would be cross-questioned by their father in the evening. So, Sunday being in certain practical respects a day of rest in the Protestant household, Geneviève felt that her duties for the time were over, and that she might indulge in a little idle meditation. Her Bible and her book of Cantiques lay on her knees; the expression of her girlish face was serious and thoughtful,—“devout,” a casual observer might probably have pronounced it; what and where were her thoughts?
“Ah! but it is truly too vexatious,” she was thinking to herself, “that I should again to-day have had no other dress to wear but this. To see that great awkward Stéphanie Rousille and her sisters in their new piqués,—not that they could ever look bien mises in anything, but it was too provoking. I must absolutely beg maman again to arrange our summer dresses. Poor maman! she has had much to consider lately I know well. It is not that I would add to her troubles; ah! no, but I am sure I could myself alter my last year’s dresses for Eudoxie, which would already save some expense, if maman would let me buy one, or, at the most, two new piqués for myself. Or one piqué and one muslin? I saw some quite charming muslins in the window at Laussat’s yesterday.”
Her glance fell discontentedly on the black alpaca, her Sunday dress for many months past. It was scarcely perhaps the dress for a hot summer’s day, but still far from unbecoming; for it fitted Geneviève’s pretty figure to perfection, and was relieved from sombreness by the neat white collar and coquettish little bow of blue ribbon at the throat.
“This dress,” continued the girl, “will be my every-day one next winter. I think too it will be well to take it when we go to the mountains, there are chilly days there sometimes. Ah! if only it were the time for going. Still six weeks at least, and to me Hivèritz is detestable when every one has left it. How different people’s lives are—how I wish my father were rich and noble, like some of those grand English who come here for the winter and amuse themselves so well! How I wish—”
But at this point Geneviève’s wishes were interrupted. “Mademoiselle,” said a voice at her side, “mademoiselle, madame vous fait demander.”
Geneviève looked up with a momentary impatience. “What is there then, Mathurine?” she asked.
“Only that madame wished that mademoiselle and mademoiselle Eudoxie and I should take the soup to the Widow Lafon. ’Tis not so far, mademoiselle, only round by the allée vert to the other side of St. Cyprien—une gentille promenade, à present qu’il ne fait plus si chaud,” added the old servant coaxingly, observing the slight cloud of unwillingness on Geneviève’s pretty face.
The girl rose slowly. “Ah! well, it must be, I suppose,” she said. “But why take Eudoxie, Mathurine? She is so tiresome when we are out, always wanting to run up the banks and pick flowers. I would much rather—”
“Mais c’est madame qui le veut,” interrupted Mathurine hastily, with a slight gesture of warning; and, turning in the direction of the maid-servant’s eyes, Geneviève caught sight of her mother coming out of the doorway just behind them.
Madame Casalis was tall and thin, with still glossy black hair and bright dark eyes. She looked as if she might once have been pretty and graceful. She was still young; young to be the mother of eighteen-years old Geneviève; but much care and many anxieties had done their usual work, leaving her in appearance considerably older than in years. She had had a hard time of it in many ways; for on her, by nature active, vigorous, and capable, rather than on her gentle, less practical husband, had fallen the greater share of the burden and heat of the day. Under such circumstances some amount of chronic “fussiness,” of irritability even, was, if not inevitable, surely, at least, excusable? Be that as it may, it is very certain that it would have fared but ill with the six young Casalis had their mother belonged to the more easy-going order of matrons. Yet it is to be doubted if in every direction Geneviève’s mother was wholly appreciated: the full depth of a tenderness and devotion which manifest themselves rarely save in ceaseless action is seldom justly estimated; the poetry which only finds expression in prose is too often ignored, its very existence little suspected, least of all by those who benefit most thereby.
But Madame Casalis was on the whole content; she left the dreaming to her husband, the prettinesses to pretty Geneviève, too busy to think about herself at all. And in her own domain she reigned supreme.
“What is there then, Geneviève?” she inquired, as she drew near to her daughter and old Mathurine. “Dost thou not like my little commission, my child? The soup will not be good if we keep it till to-morrow, and the old mother Lafon is always so pleased to see thee.”
Her mother’s tone was unusually gentle. Geneviève felt emboldened by it to express her real objection to the arrangement.
“I like very well to go, mamma,” said Geneviève amiably, “if it might be alone with Mathurine. But with Eudoxie it will take us so long. She is so full of life, the poor child; and surtout le Dimanche, one meets tant de monde, and then it would be so distressing if she soiled her best frock with picking flowers and jumping on the banks. But of course it is as thou wishest, chère mamma.”
A slight look of disappointment crossed Madame Casalis’ face. She would have been glad of an hour’s rest from little Eudoxie’s chatter. But somewhat to Genevievè’s surprise, she answered quickly,
“It may be better for la petite to stay with me. Hasten then, my child; thou shalt go alone with Mathurine.”
Geneviève gave all the credit to her judicious suggestion of possible damage to the best frock; she little suspected that today of all days it would have been hard for her mother to oppose any wish she had expressed. She was turning to go into the house to prepare for her walk, when her mother stopped her.
“When thou shalt be returned, my child,” she said, “come at once to thy father and me. He wishes to talk to thee a little. We shall be in his room;” and she re-entered the house as she spoke, giving Geneviève no opportunity to ask any of the questions her curiosity immediately suggested.
“What could mamma mean, thinkest thou, Mathurine?” she said, a few minutes later, when she and her companion had set off on their errand. “What can my father have to speak about to me?”
“Perhaps some great monsieur, some milord, perhaps—songe à demander ma demoiselle?” said the old servant gravely. “Mademoiselle n’est plus enfant, on voit bien.”
“Nonsense, Mathurine,” exclaimed Geneviève impatiently, with a little toss of her head, “dost thou not understand it will not be so with me. I am Protestant and half English! Thinkest thou I would marry any one, even the greatest ‘milord’ in the world, if he did not make himself agreeable to me myself in the first place? And what is as much to the purpose, perhaps, I have no dot. Great milords are not so ready to marry portionless girls as all that, you silly Mathurine.”
“Pardon, mademoiselle. It is true, I forget often that madame has the English ideas, and it is quite to be understood that mademoiselle should have them too. But what mademoiselle says about having no dot I avow I do not understand. For, à ce que l’on me dit, en Angleterre tout cela est bien différent. I have heard that the demoiselles there, the demoiselles sans dot, je veux dire, se marient souvent très bien,—mais très bien,” with an impressive little pause, “above all, a demoiselle so beautiful, so gracieuse, as mademoiselle.”
“Sometimes perhaps it is so,” said Genevieve with an air of having seriously considered the matter; “still on the whole I would rather take my chance with, than without, a dot. For I am not sure, Mathurine, that I should like to marry an English man, not even a ‘milord.’ Life in England must be often triste, and I imagine also that the husbands there are un peu sévères; expect their wives to amuse themselves enough with the children and the ménage. Bah! that would not suit me. When I marry, it shall not be into that sort of life. I have had enough of it at home. I must have a husband who will let me do as I like; he must adore me, and he must be rich. Oh, so rich!”
“Et beau, mademoiselle,” suggested Mathurine, evidently thinking that as wishing was the order of the day, there was no need to limit the perfections of her young lady’s hero. “Mademoiselle should have un bel homme; mademoiselle who is so pretty.”
“Yes,” agreed Geneviève. “Oh! yes; I should like him to be handsome, though that is not a point of the most important. But every one may not find me pretty, Mathurine? Perhaps, it is only that thou hast taken care of me since I was a baby. Tell me, Mathurine, wast thou pretty in thy youth?” she went on with a sudden change of tone. “Why didst thou never marry? Is it that one has never asked for thee?”
“But no, mademoiselle,” replied the girl, though without the slightest appearance of offence. “One asked for me more than once. But the rich parti was old and ugly, and, one had told me, not too good to his wives—il en avait déjà eu trois—and the young parti was poor, mais très pauvre, and had besides an aged father to support, and I, mademoiselle, had then an aged mother. So what could we do? We waited and waited, but times grew worse instead of better, and other troubles came, and my poor boy and I we lost heart. Then there was a rich widow, a paysanne only, by origin, but her husband had left her his property, who took a fancy to my Etienne, and what prospect had we, that I should keep him? Ah, mademoiselle, dans cette vie, il faut bien souvent marcher sur le caur à deux pieds! The end of it was, Etienne married the widow, and I—enfin, me voilà, mademoiselle, la vieille Mathurine, à votre service.”
“And was Etienne happy with the widow?” asked Geneviève.
“I never heard to the contrary, mademoiselle,” answered Mathurine. “It was many years before I saw him again; then, as it happened one day—it was the neuvaine at the convent close to the village where we lived, and madame, the wife of Etienne, had come with the other fermières of the neighbourhood, and he had driven her over, and as I was saying—”
But Geneviève was not destined to hear the particulars of the meeting of Mathurine and Etienne, for just as the old woman had reached this point her story was interrupted by a sudden cry of warning. It came too late, however. They were crossing the road to enter the allée verte, the ‘Alameda’ of the inhabitants of Hivèritz, when a large open carriage, drawn by two horses, came swiftly round a sharp corner, and in a moment both the young girl and her attendant were thrown to the ground, apparently right under the wheels. There were screams from the carriage, shouts from the by-standers, a general commotion. Mathurine was quickly extricated, still clutching tightly the handle of the little tin soup-can, whose contents lay in a pool on the white dusty road. She declared herself unhurt, and was evidently far more concerned about the fate of her charge than about her own.
“Mais, où est-elle donc, mademoiselle Geneviève, ma petite demoiselle? Ah! qu’est-ce que madame va me dire!” she exclaimed frantically. “Est-elle donc tuée, la chère enfant? La voilà qui ne me ré ponds pas. Dieu, quel horreur!” she continued, as she at last caught sight of Geneviève, pale as death, with eyes closed and apparently quite unconscious, lifted in the arms of a gentleman, who had sprung from the box of the carriage on the first alarm.
“Is she much hurt? Are there any bones broken? Don’t you think you had better not move her till some one can fetch a doctor? Good Heavens, how unfortunate it is! Oh dear! Miss Winter, what will Sir Thomas say?” exclaimed one of the two ladies in the carriage. She was what is euphemistically called “middle-aged,” though to reckon by the old “three score years and ten,” she must a good long time ago have passed the meridian of life. But she was well preserved and well dressed, refined-looking, and on the whole sufficiently pleasing in appearance if not to disarm at least not to suggest criticism. Just now her face was nearly as pale as Geneviève’s own, and as she turned to her companion she seemed on the point of tears.
“Don’t distress yourself so, keep calm, I beseech you, dearest Lady Frederica,” entreated Miss Winter, who, fortunately, had her wits about her; indeed the keeping them well in hand may be said to have been a part of her profession. “Ah! here is some one belonging to the poor girl. What does she say, Mr. Fawcett?”
“I can’t understand her,” replied the gentleman, to whom poor Mathurine had been vainly trying to make herself intelligible. “She talks so confoundedly fast. Can’t you make her out, Miss Winter?”
Miss Winter did her best, but it was no easy matter, for poor Mathurine, in her distress and excitement, unconsciously relapsed at every two or three words, into her native patois. She was begging the young man to lay Geneviève on the ground, for Mr. Fawcett was very tall and Mathurine was very short; in her darling’s present position, therefore, it was almost impossible for the poor woman to obtain a clear view of her face.
“She will soon come to herself, is it not?” Mathurine was saying “She will open her pretty eyes, and will be frightened if she does not see her old Mathurine. If monsieur will but lay her down—see, I can spread my shawl. Ah! but monsieur does not comprehend. What then shall I say?”
She clasped her hands in despair. Miss Winter began a laboured sentence in the most correct French and with the most English of accents. In her turn Mathurine was looking hopelessly puzzled, when, to the amazement of all, a sweet faint voice was suddenly heard in soft tones thanking “monsieur” for his kindness, begging him to deposit its owner beside Mathurine. And to the relief of the English party, the words were in their own tongue, spoken too, without hesitation, and with only the soupçon of a French accent.
“I am not hurt, not wounded at all, I assure monsieur,” said Geneviève, while the bright red rushed to her pale face. “’Twas but the—the shock—is that the word? I can hold myself upright very well at present, and monsieur must be so—géné. Mathurine will take care of me.”
She struggled out of Mr. Fawcett’s arms, as she spoke. He still half held her, however, and but for this she would have fallen. As it was, she grew very pale again and clung to Mathurine’s sturdy figure for support.
“’Tis but a little weakness, my angel,” said the nurse, in her delight at seeing that Geneviève was uninjured, throwing her usual respectful manner to the winds. “She has no pain, mademoiselle chérie, n’est-ce-pas? Only an étourdissement in the head. Naturally, la pauvre enfant! Que le bon dieu soit loué, that it is no worse! If we had only a glass of water; then she could perhaps return to the house!”
Mdlle. Casalis repeated the request in English.
“A glass of water,” said Mr. Fawcett, with a smile. “I think a little brandy would be more to the purpose. Don’t you think so, Miss Winter? Mother,” he continued, turning to the lady in the carriage, “I think our best plan will be to drive mademoiselle—I beg your pardon,” to Geneviève, “I don’t think I heard your name.”
“Casalis,” murmured the girl, but Mr. Fawcett did not catch the word.
“To drive the young lady to our hotel,” he went on; “it is close at hand, and then when you have rested a little,” he turned again to Geneviève, “you must allow us to drive you home.”
“I would like better to go to the house—home, I mean—now, thank you,” said Geneviève. “It is not very far—Rue de la Croix. I think I can walk now.”
“Pray do not attempt it,” said Lady Frederica. “It will be much better to do as my son proposes. Miss Winter, will you help the young lady to get into the carriage? Perhaps,” she added to Geneviève, “your servant (‘maid’ she was going to have said, but poor Mathurine’s appearance puzzled her; her short stout figure, sunburnt face, and fête-day cap by no means suggesting the conventional lady’s-maid) “will follow us if you will direct her to the hotel. What is the name of our hotel, Miss Winter? I never can remember; we have been at so many lately.”
“Hotel d’Espagne,” replied Miss Winter briskly, having by this time settled Geneviève comfortably in the place of honour by Lady Frederica’s side, and seated herself opposite. Then the handsome young ‘milord’ jumped up on to the box again, and the carriage drove off. The little crowd that the accident had collected dropped off one by one, leaving Mathurine standing alone in the middle of the road, shading her eyes with her hand, as she watched the carriage disappear.
“But he is distingué, ce jeune milord!” she murmured to herself, “those are the English of the first rank without doubt, and mademoiselle so beautiful, so gracieuse. Quel dommage she had not a pretty new robe d’été to-day, like the demoiselles Rousille! Still it might have been spoilt, for she is covered with dust. And a dress of alpaca one can brush. Without doubt it is all for the best.”
She gave two or three funny little grunts of satisfaction—it seemed to Mathurine she could see a long way into the future that afternoon—and then trotted away down the street in the direction of the Hotel d’Espagne.
Nearly an hour later, just as Madame Casalis was beginning to think that her messengers must be loitering greatly on their way, she was startled by the sound of a carriage driving past the window of the room where she was sitting and then stopping at the door.
The Rue de la Croix was a quiet little street, leading to nowhere in particular, and quite out of the thoroughfare of Hivèritz; rarely entered therefore but by foot-passengers. But Geneviève’s mother had hardly time to make up her mind whether, in Mathurine’s absence, she must open the door herself, or depute little Eudoxie or one of the boys to do so, when she heard familiar voices in the passage, and in another moment Geneviève, closely followed by Mathurine, came in.
“You have been rather a long time,” she said. “Did the mother Lafon like the soup? Tell me then, Geneviève, was there a carriage in the street as you came in? It seemed to me that I heard one, which stopped at our door. But it must be that I was mistaken.”
“Du tout, maman,” replied Geneviève. “There was indeed a carriage, for we came home in it, Mathurine et moi.”
She smiled as she spoke, but her mother looking up in surprise, now observed her crumpled and soiled dress, her flushed, excited face. For a moment she felt vaguely alarmed.
“But, don’t be frightened, mamma; there is nothing wrong. I have had a little adventure, voilà tout,” said Geneviève, and then she told her story, the dramatic effect of which was considerably increased by Mathurine’s interpolations. “Ah, madame, que j’ai eu peur!”—“une si belle voiture.” “Madame la baronne Anglaise si bien mise—une toilette magnifique”—“un si beau monsieur,” etc. etc.
And “Was it not fortunate that Eudoxie was not with us?” observed Geneviève sagely, in conclusion.
“And the soup of the poor mother Lafon!” added Mathurine.
“We must make her some again to-morrow,” said Madame Casalis calmly. She bore the loss of the soup with equanimity. “My child might have been killed,” she thought to herself with a shudder, and the reflection somewhat soothed the bitterness of a new trouble that had been tugging at her heartstrings for several days—a trouble that had come in the shape of a thin, black-edged letter from over the sea, one of the letters from her English relations that at long intervals still found their way to the pasteur’s wife.
For these cousins of hers had never altogether lost sight of her, though since the death of her mother, their relation, Madame Casalis had felt the chain slacken, as must always be the case, however kindly the intentions, once that the links and rivets of mutual interests and common associations begin one by one to drop away. Geneviève had drawn somewhat largely on her imagination in describing herself as “half English.” She was fond of doing so; the thought of these unknown relations had always had a strong fascination for her, and had been the foundation of many a girlish castle in the air. At school she had studied English with twice the amount of attention which she bestowed upon her other lessons, and had eagerly profited by her mother’s instruction at home. And nothing gratified her more when some little jealousy was expressed by her companions on her repeatedly carrying off the “English prize,” than to hear the murmur: “Of course, what can one expect? Geneviève Casalis is of an English family—at least her mother is, which is almost the same thing.”
Not that she was ever communicative to those chattering companions of hers on the subject. By dint of well-timed but persistent cross-questioning she had elicited from her mother sufficient information, respecting the social condition of her cousins, to justify her in occasionally throwing out vague but impressive hints or allusions for the benefit of Stéphanie Rousille or Marguérite Frogé. But, notwithstanding the, comparatively speaking, humble origin and position of the Casalis family, and notwithstanding, too, Geneviève’s excessive sensitiveness on the point, no one could accuse her of consoling herself by boasting of her grand relations. Young as she was, her quick instincts had already taught her the value, in certain positions, of “an unknown quantity,” the expediency of judicious reserve, the folly of limiting by such “stubborn things” as facts the imagination of those she wished to impress. To old Mathurine alone, in all probability, was the girl thoroughly natural and unreserved.
Much to Geneviève’s dissatisfaction her mother sent her to bed very early that Sunday evening. She declared in vain that she was not in the least tired, and that she did not feel the slightest ill effects of the accident. Her varying colour and languid movements told another tale, and, as rarely happened in the Casalis family, her father looked up from his book to enforce his wife’s authority.
“Go to rest thyself, my child,” he said, “as thy good mother counsels thee. To-morrow morning we shall wish to speak to thee on a matter of importance, but not now; and before thou sleepest, Geneviève,” he added with a certain solemnity of manner, suggesting the pastor as well as the father, “remind thyself to thank the good God for having preserved thee from a great danger.”
Geneviève murmured a dutiful “Oui, mon père,” then turning to her mother—“Wilt thou then, dear mamma, come up to see me before I sleep, for a minute?” for she was burning with curiosity to learn something of the nature of the “matter of importance,” which the excitement of the afternoon had made her temporarily forget; anxious also to lead the conversation round again to the English family whose acquaintance she had made so abruptly. “Mamma understands the English,” she said to herself. “I should like to know what sort of people this family Fawcett belongs to. I have heard that in England the sons of the good families may marry to please themselves much more than in France. The young Monsieur Fawcett seems to be an only child. How nicely English gentlemen shake hands! He said ‘au revoir’ too. I wonder if I shall see him again!”
For concerning the seeing him again Geneviève had immediately begun to dream. She was quite satisfied that he was already over head and ears in love with her. For alongside of her precocity and quick-wittedness, a curious credulity, a readiness to be taken in by flattery, and a dangerous amount of so-called “girlish romance,” lay hidden in her character.
Madame Casalis was gratified by her daughter’s unusual request. Geneviève had only just got into bed when her mother appeared. How pretty the child looked, how bright and innocent! Her dark hair in its thick plaits on the pillow making a background for the sweet flushed face, with its deep soft southern eyes! For in appearance at least, Geneviève bore no trace of the northern ancestry she was so proud of.
Some unexpressed feeling made Madame Casalis stoop and kiss her daughter. “Thou hast no uneasiness, no pain of any kind, is it not, my child?” she asked anxiously.
“Not the least in the world, my mother, I assure thee,” answered Geneviève. “Mamma,” she went on, “I forgot to tell thee that the English Lady—Miladi Fawcett, c’est-à-dire—would have wished to accompany me home, to give me safe back to thee and ask thee to forgive them for the fright I had had, but I begged her not to come. I told her it might startle thee to see a stranger. J’ai bien fait, n’est-ce-pas, maman? Mathurine was out too; there was no one to open the door.”
“Oh! yes; it was just as well,” said Madame Casalis somewhat absently.
“And,” continued Geneviève, “Monsieur Fawcett, the son,—monsieur le père is called Sir Fawcett, mamma—what does that mean, is it comte, or baron? The son said he would have had the honour of calling to ask if I was quite recovered, but that they leave Hivèritz early to-morrow. They are going to Switzerland, and then to Paris—ah, how delightful! They travel for the health of madame, miladi, je veux dire.”
“Fawcett, is that their name?” said Madame Casalis consideringly. “It seems indeed to me that I have heard that name formerly. Ah! yes, I remember; it was the name of a family living near to the cousins of my mother. Thou rememberest, Geneviève, I have often told thee of the visit I made to England with thy grand mother when I was jeune fille. La famille Methvyn was very liée with la famille Fawcett. It was soon after the marriage of my cousin Helen to le Colonel Methvyn. It would be curious if they are the same; and if thou shouldst see them again in—”
She stopped abruptly, but it was too late.
“If I should see them again, mamma!” exclaimed Geneviève starting up in bed, her eyes sparkling with eagerness, “what dost thou mean? Oh! mamma, dear mamma, do tell me,” she went on, clasping her hands in entreaty, “is it then, can it be, that our English cousins have invited me to go there? Oh! mamma, how delightful. And may I go?”
The eager words and tone struck coldly on the mother’s heart. “Wouldst thou so well like to go, Geneviève?” she said half reproachfully, “to leave us all—the friends of thy childhood, the house where thou wast born?”
The girl’s eyes sank; but only for a moment.
“It would not be for ever, my mother,” she murmured, though in her heart she thought differently. A return to the old dull life, to the struggles and the privations of home, was not the future she had planned for herself, should she obtain the object of her day-dreams—an introduction to her rich English relations.
“One knows not, my child. Changes bring changes,” said Madame Casalis sadly. Then she kissed Geneviève again, and bade her good-night. “I can tell thee no more at present,” she said. “To-morrow thou shalt hear all. Already thy father will blame me for having told thee anything. Sleep well.”
And Geneviève knew by her mother’s tone that she must obey. It was long before she slept, however, and hours before day break she was awake again; awake, and in a fever of excitement, to hear all the details of this wonderful news.
The invitation was a very cordial one. It came from the only cousin of her own generation still left to Madame Casalis. “Madame Methvyn,” she explained to Geneviève, “is the daughter of the cousin of my mother. Thy grandmother was to her ‘tante à la mode de Bretagne.’ The relationship is not therefore of the nearest, which makes the kindness the greater.” And then she told her some of the particulars contained in the letter. The Methvyns had lately had a great sorrow, a death in the family, and the person most affected by this sorrow had been their youngest and only unmarried daughter.
“She has been very lonely,” wrote the mother, “since her sister went away, and our sad loss has deprived her of her chief pleasure and employment. If you will agree to our proposal, my dear cousin, and let your daughter come to be the friend and companion of our child (they must be about the same age), we shall do our utmost to make her happy. And if she is happy with us, we trust she may learn to look upon this as her home. There are changes, though not immediate, impending in the future, which may not improbably render this a desirable arrangement. I have often wished I could have done more to help you with your large family and many anxieties, but now I feel that in what I am asking all the obligation will be on my side; though, as I have said, we shall all do our utmost to make your child happy and to give her all the advantages in our power. It would at least be a better arrangement for her than the one you spoke of in your last letter.”
“What was that, dear mamma?” said Geneviéve, as her mother left off reading.
“I spoke to my cousin of the possibility of its being necessary that thou shouldst one day be a governess, my child,” said her mother. “I thought she might help to place you well—in some good family. The education of thy brothers is already expensive and will be more so.”
The colour mounted to Geneviève’s face. It had hardly required this to strengthen her decision.
“But we had not thought of a separation so soon,” said Monsieur Casalis with a sigh. “Reflect well, my child. Thou art of an age to judge for thyself. The proposal, as says thy mother, is a kind one and may offer advantages for thy future. But it may probably separate thee for long, perhaps for ever, from thy family. What sayest thou?”
The tears were in the mother’s eyes, but she wiped them away hastily. Geneviève did not see them; she was looking down, apparently in deep consideration. Then she said sweetly,
“It seems to me, dear father, I have hardly the right to refuse, since mamma and you consent. It is not only for myself. I must think also of my brothers and Eudoxie. In accepting the offer of Madame Methvyn, I may be able to help them in the future. It would also be a comfort to my mother and you to reflect that one of your children was no longer dependent only on your care.”
“It is true,” said the pasteur, but his wife said nothing.
The advantages of Mrs. Methvyn’s proposal were obvious, for besides what Madame Casalis had read to her daughter, the letter contained a very distinct promise that should the offer be accepted, Geneviève’s future should be considered. “We are rich,” wrote the English lady, “and we have few relations. I should like to feel that I had done something for you, Caroline. You are the only representative left of my dear mother’s family.”
So Caroline Casalis dared not take upon herself the responsibility of refusing, or advising her child to refuse, so generous a proposal. Neither could she bring herself to urge its acceptance. But what would she not have given had Geneviève thrown herself upon her neck and sobbed out her grief at the thought of separation?
As it was, the consultation ended with the young girl’s kissing her parents prettily and properly, with the slightest possible suspicion of tears in her eyes, and tremble in her voice as she thanked them for their bonté in allowing her to decide for herself, and expressed her hopes that they would find her digne of their parental love and approbation. Already in her tone there was a slight savour of independence, of her old child life being a thing of the past.
And it was quite decided that she should go to England at the time named by her mother’s cousin. So for the next few weeks there was question not of one, but of several new robes d’été. Only somewhat to Geneviève’s annoyance, they had to be all of half-mourning!
[CHAPTER II.]
MR. GUILDFORD OF SOTHERNBAY.
Angelina. Can he speak, sir?
Miramont. Faith, yes, but not to women.
His language is to heaven and heavenly wonders,
To Nature and her dark and secret causes.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
DOWN in the smiling south, spring had come even earlier than its wont this year, but in England things had been very different. Since January, the weather had been unusually severe; severe enough to lay low many even of the healthy and strong, to snap asunder the last thread of fragile lives, that for long had been quivering like withered leaves ready at the first stormy blast to drop from the tree.
Even in usually mild and sheltered spots, winter this year had cruelly asserted his power. Many a poor invalid, who had left a comfortable home in search of warmth and sunshine, wished himself back again, where at least, if he died, it would be among his own people, or resolved if he lived another year, never again to trust to English climate even at its best. There was illness everywhere; doctors were worn out; people began to talk of not facing winter again without artificial defences against the cold, double windows, Russian stoves, and other devices not often suggested by our modern experiences of weather.
At Sothernbay—a favourite little winter watering-place, as a rule exempt from frost and snow, north winds or east, from cold, in short, in any form—it was just as bad as everywhere else; in the opinion of the Sothernbay visitors naturally very much worse. It was no use telling all these unhappy people that their sufferings were no greater than those of their neighbours in every other part of England; they had no present personal experience of the climate of every other part of England, and they had of that of Sothernbay. It was no use assuring everybody that such a winter had not been known since the year of the famous whole-ox roasting on the Thames; former winters were past and gone, this one was unmistakably and most disagreeably a matter of now, not of then.
In all the seven or eight years during which Mr. Guildford, one of the younger surgeons of Sothernbay, had been settled there, he had never felt so tired and dispirited as on one wretched February evening, when the thermometer had sunk to unknown depths, and there was not the very faintest sign of thaw or break in the pitiless black frost which had reigned remorselessly for many weeks. Personally, Mr. Guildford, who had never been ill in his life, had no fault to find with the frost. As a boy he had never been so happy as during a good old fashioned winter; but his boyhood had been spent in a more invigorating atmosphere, mental and physical, than that of consumptive, hypochondrical Sothernbay; and there were many times when he seriously doubted if he had done well in choosing it for his home. His love for his profession was deep and ardent, and his faith in its possibilities almost boundless. He realized with unusual vividness, for one comparatively young and untried, the great, sad facts of human suffering, and longed for increased power of relieving it. But the peculiar phase of suffering to be met with at Sothernbay was of all kinds the most depressing to see. It was usually so hopeless. What could a doctor do in nine cases out of ten, for blighted lives, whose knell in many instances may be almost said to have sounded before they were born? How even could he cheer them, when the only comfort they craved lay in assurances and promises he could not bring himself to utter? Or the still more trying class of patients—the crowd of hypochondriacs, young and old, who season after season followed each other to the little watering-place, vainly hoping to recover there, as if by magic, the vigour of mind and body they would take no rational means to obtain—what could an honest, intelligent man do for such but tell them the truth, and risk instant dismissal for his pains? Where the physical suffering was genuine, however hopeless, there was certainly the occasional satisfaction of mitigating or temporarily alleviating it; but such satisfaction was poor and meagre to a man so energetic and enthusiastic as Edmond Guildford, Then, as will happen where the power is genuine and steady—a deep, calm flowing river, not a fitful mountain torrent at one time overwhelming in its impetuosity, at another dwindled to a thread—his pent up energies found for themselves a new channel. They turned naturally to study—study and research bearing indirectly upon his own profession. As a youth he had worked fairly, displaying an intelligence above the average, and some originality; as a man he threw his whole soul into these voluntary labours. And gradually this pursuit of truth—
“Truth tangible and palpable,”
this
“patient searching after bidden lore,”
developed in him a definite, practical ambition—the ambition of doing something worth the doing to help forward the special branch of science to which he devoted himself.
“Let me feel before I die that I have advanced if only one step in practical knowledge—broken if but an inch or two of fresh ground for others to work in,” he said to himself.
And this, at eight-and-twenty, he believed in as the passion of his life. And with this he determined no other influence should be allowed sufficient dominion over him to interfere. He knew little of women, enough only to dread and deprecate their intrusion beyond a certain point into a man’s life. That a pure and noble love, of its very essence ennobles, of its very strength strengthens the whole powers—the whole “mingled and marvellous humanity” of him who is capable of it; that a less worthy influence needs not to be despotic to be insidious; that “thus far thou shalt come and no farther,” it is but seldom given to man to say—these were truths which had not entered into the dreams of his philosophy.
He was tired and dispirited this February evening, when at last after a long day’s work he stood upon the door-steps of his own house. He felt too tired even to look forward with his usual eagerness to his quiet evening of study. It was often so with him after a day of the kind—a day filled with visits to the regular Sothernbay invalids—a day in which, as he looked back upon it, he could not feel that he had done any good. And such days and such feelings had of late been on the increase. He even began sometimes to think seriously of throwing to the winds the position he had gained for himself, and trying his fate at a different kind of place. But, being on the whole a reasonable and cautious man, he restricted his dissatisfaction to grumbling to himself, or, when the desire for sympathy was unusually strong upon him, and failing a more responsive audience, to his sister Mrs. Crichton.
This evening, however, an unexpected diversion of his thoughts was in store for him.
“There’s a telegram waiting for you, sir,” said the servant who opened the door.
“A telegram! where? I don’t see it,” he exclaimed, glancing at the table where letters were usually laid for him.
“No, sir; it’s not there. Mrs. Crichton, if you please sir, took it into your room and put it on the chimbley-piece, for fear as I should forget it,” said the boy with a touch of malice in his tone.
Mr. Guildford smiled. “All right,” he said cheerfully, as he went into his room and shut the door. “All the same,” he added to himself; “I do wish Bessie would learn to leave my things alone.”
A telegram was an event. Mr. Guildford’s beat lay within a very small radius, being entirely confined to Sothernbay itself. Now and then, at long intervals, he had been summoned to town to a consultation with one of the great men who wanted his report on some case he had been watching, but this happened rarely, and he knew of nothing of the kind impending at present. So it was with some curiosity he opened the big envelope and glanced at its contents.
“Colonel Methvyn,
“Greystone Abbey.”
To Edmond Guildford, Esq.,
“Sothernbay.
“Pray come by first train. The case is very urgent. A carriage shall be at Haverstock Station. Dr. Farmer has given me your address.”
The summons was a very unusual one. Mr. Guildford had once met Dr. Farmer, but he had never been at Haverstock, except when passing through the station in the railway; he did not remember ever having heard of Colonel Methvyn, or of Greystone Abbey, for in the few years he had been at Sothernbay he had had no leisure for exploring the neighbourhood, and his rare holidays had been spent at a distance. No doubt the message came from some county family near Haverstock, but this did not render it the less surprising, for all the county families had their own country doctors for ordinary cases, and for extraordinary ones—when they were very ill indeed—they either went to town to consult one of the great authorities, or summoned him to come to them. For there was a very orthodox amount of ill feeling towards Sothernbay on the part of the county, which, to do the little watering-place justice, it entirely reciprocated.
Mr. Guildford looked about for a railway guide; there was one on his table, but it was not of recent date. Then he remembered that his sister, who had only arrived the week before, would probably have a newer one. He was just leaving his room in search of it, when the front door bell rang, and Mrs. Crichton came in; she had been at an evening service, and shivered with cold, notwithstanding her wraps.
“It is colder than ever, Edmond, I do believe,” she exclaimed, as she saw her brother.
“Yes, I almost think it is,” he answered absently. “Bessie, have you a Bradshaw for this month?”
Mrs. Crichton was obliged to consider for a minute or two how long it was since “this month” had begun.
“Let me see,” she said. “What day did I come? Yesterday? no; the day before yesterday week. And this is the 14th. February began on a Wednesday, didn’t it? Oh! yes; my Bradshaw must be for this month. But this is leap year, there are generally only twenty-eight days in February—will that make any difference about when the month came in? Oh! no, of course not; it isn’t as if we were in March. What do you want a Bradshaw for, Edmond? You’re not going away; it is far too cold for travelling?”
“Tell me first where the Bradshaw is to be found,” said Mr. Guildford good naturedly; he had served a very fair apprenticeship to his sister’s peculiar arrangement of reasoning powers, and was not easily affected by their eccentricity.
“It’s up in my bedroom. No, it’s in my travelling-bag, and that is in the drawing-room—at least it was there the day after I came. Oh! no, by the bye, it is in the pocket of my largest travelling-cloak. It’s here!” and the Bradshaw was triumphantly produced.
A moment’s consultation of the intricate little volume showed Mr. Guildford’s quick eyes that there was no train for Haverstock for an hour and a half. He glanced at the “sent out” date of the telegram; then looked again at the railway guide. “No,” he said, “I could not have caught an earlier train even if I had got the message at once. I am rather glad of that.”
“Glad of what?” said Mrs. Crichton, as her brother, still looking at the guide, followed her into the drawing-room.
“That I have lost no time. It is so terribly disappointing to find that some stupid, trivial little accident has delayed one in an urgent case—a case, I mean, in which there is anything to be done,” he answered, half forgetting he was speaking to his sister and not to himself.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. An urgent case! What urgent case?” said Mrs. Crichton, pricking up her ears in hopes of a little professional gossip. It was so very rarely she could get “Edmond” to talk about his “cases” at all. “Oh! by the bye, that must be what the telegram was about. I was so afraid you would not get it at once, I put it on the mantelpiece in your study, Edmond; did you see?”
“Yes,” he said mildly. “I saw it; but on the whole, my dear Bessie, I prefer all letters being left on the hall-table, then I catch sight of them at once when I come in, you see.”
“Very well,” said Bessie, looking a little snubbed; but she soon recovered herself. “Are you really going away to-night, Edmond?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said again; “I must start in about an hour. I want to see Brewer on my way to the station.”
“Then you are going by rail?”
“Of course; what else did you think I wanted the guide for?” he replied. “I have time for a cup of tea, Bessie, if you will have one ready for me in half an hour. I have one or two letters to write first,” he added, as he left the room without giving Mrs. Crichton time to ask any more questions.
“How absurdly mysterious Edmond is!” said Bessie to herself. “He seems quite to forget what I went through with poor dear Mr. Crichton.”
Half an hour later, when Mr. Guildford came back for his cup of tea, Mrs. Crichton tried him on another side.
“What shall I say to any one who calls or sends for you to-morrow, Edmond?” she asked meekly.
“Whatever you like,” said her brother boyishly, beginning to laugh as he spoke. “No, Bessie,” he went on, “it’s too bad of me to tease you. I shall be back before to-morrow, before your to-morrow begins any way, and I have left notes and directions with Sims, and I shall see Brewer on my way to the station. If you really care to know where I am going, I can only tell you it’s somewhere near Haverstock, but as to whom I am going to see or why I have been sent for, I know as little as you.”
Bessie was delighted; it sounded quite mysterious and romantic.
“I do hope for once you’ll tell me all about it when you come back to-morrow,” she said gushingly. “I am sure you must know how thoroughly I am to be trusted. Poor dear Mr. Crichton used to say—and you know a lawyer’s nearly as bad as a doctor that way, about family secrets and all that—he used constantly to say that he would quite as soon tell anything at the town cross as tell it to me—no, that’s not it, I mean the other way, that he would quite as soon tell it to me as to—what are you laughing at so, Edmond? Perhaps it wasn’t about secrets he said that. I daresay it was that I was as safe as the Bank of England. He had so many clever expressions that I confuse them, you see.”
“Yes, my dear Bessie, I see,” said Mr. Guildford gravely. “It is quite natural you should.”
“I do hope it’s nothing horrid they’ve sent for you for,” continued Mrs. Crichton, a new idea striking her. “A murder perhaps, or a suicide, and they may want you to help to hush it up! I do hope you will be careful, Edmond; you know I often tell you you are very rash sometimes. You forgot your comforter again this very morning, and you don’t know what you may get mixed up in if you are not careful.”
“I’ll be very careful,” he assured her. “But I wish I were not going, I am tired to-night.”
Mrs. Crichton looked up anxiously,
“You are so much oftener tired than you used to be, Edmond. I don’t think you can be as strong as you were. I am sure you want a change.”
“I am as strong as ever, I assure you, Bessie. “My tiredness is more mental than physical,” he replied.
“But change is good for every sort of complaint,” said Bessie vaguely.
“But suppose I can’t have a change, said Mr. Guildford carelessly.
“You can if you like. You make me very unhappy, Edmond, when you talk in that indifferent way,” said Mrs. Crichton plaintively. “I don’t believe you take a bit of care of yourself when I’m away, and I can’t be here always, you know. I do wish you were married. You have over and over again said to me you did intend to marry some time or other, and then it has all come to nothing, and everybody knows it’s the proper thing for a doctor to be married. It would double your practice.”
“I have quite as much practice as I want, thank you,” answered her brother; “and if I hadn’t, it wouldn’t at all suit my ideas to marry for the sake of increasing it; but I do still intend to marry some time or other, Bessie, whenever I come across the right person.”
“What do you call the right person?” inquired Mrs. Crichton, looking far from satisfied. “I dare say you expect all sorts of things you are sure never to find in any girl.”
“No, indeed I don’t,” replied Mr. Guildford. “I am most reasonable. I don’t expect much in my wife. She must be pretty—very pretty, I don’t care how pretty; she may be a little conceited if it amuses her, she must have some notion of house-keeping, and a perfectly good temper, that’s about all. Oh! no, by the bye, she must be fond of work—sewing, stitching, I mean—and I think, yes I think, she must not be able to play or sing. I’m not quite sure about singing.”
Bessie looked aghast. “Why, Edmond,” she exclaimed, “you mean to say you don’t want your wife to be clever, not even accomplished? I thought you admired clever women so, Miss Bertram and her sister for instance, though they are so plain-looking, and just think how you enjoy Mrs. Wendover’s playing.”
“So I do, but I never said I should like to marry either of the Bertrams, did I? For a friend, I think I would prefer Frances Bertram to any—man I was going to say—to any one I know. But a wife and a friend are different. A very wise person once said, ‘Descend a step in choosing a wife, mount a step in choosing a friend,’ and I quite agree with him,” replied Mr. Guildford.
“It’s a very nasty, mean, spiteful saying, whoever said it,” said Bessie wrathfully. “It’s just that men are so jealous that they can’t bear their wives to be thought more of than themselves. Who said it, Edmond?” she went on looking rather frightened as an idea struck her. “It wasn’t Solomon, it isn’t in the Bible, is it?”
Her brother looked mischievous. “Not quite, but very nearly,” he said. “It is not in our Bible, but in some other people’s bible. It’s in the Talmud, I believe. Solomon may have said it originally; and, as he had fifty wives, he should surely be an authority on the subject.”
“You shouldn’t joke about such things, Edmond,” said his sister reproachfully, looking nevertheless relieved at hearing where the proverb was to be found. “I don’t know anything about the Talmud; it’s the book those silly hair-dressers in the Arabian Nights’ were always saying verses out of, isn’t it? I remember that story when I was a child. But I wonder at you taking up those Turkish ideas about wives, Edmond.”
“About a wife you mean, I suppose?” he answered. “I don’t intend to have more than one. But you don’t understand me quite, Bessie. I should never be jealous of my wife in the way you mean, whatever she was, only—”
“What?” inquired the sister.
“Only,” he went on, “those grand women would come in the way of other things in a man’s life. A smaller sort of person would be more comfortable and less intrusive. The noblest woman that ever was made would be at best a frail bark to risk a man’s all in,” he added reflectively.
He almost forgot to whom he was speaking, till Mrs. Crichton’s next observation reminded him of her presence.
“You are very funny, Edmond,” she said, “I suppose it’s with being so clever and studying so much and all that. But I don’t believe you have it in you to care much for any woman.”
She gave a gentle sigh as she recalled to herself the days of poor dear Mr. Crichton’s devotion to pretty little Bessie Guildford, twenty years younger than himself. She remembered how some of her friends had laughed at her for choosing to be an “old man’s darling.” “But we were very happy,” she murmured to herself.
“Perhaps not,” said her brother, as he rose to go. “And if so, all the better, I dare say. Good night, Bessie.”
“Good night, and don’t forget your comforter. And remember you are to tell me all your adventures when you come back,” she called after him.
“We’ll see,” he put his head in again at the door to say, and then he was gone.
It was dull sitting there alone, duller somehow than if Edmond had been busy at work in his own room on the other side of the wall. Bessie soon got tired of it and went to bed early. She got up rather before her usual hour the next morning in hopes of her brother’s returning to breakfast with her. But ten, eleven o’clock passed, he did not come. Mrs. Crichton succeeded in remembering a little piece of shopping to be done—a skein of silk was wanting for her fancy work; it would give her an object for a walk. So she went out for an hour, and when she came in was met by little Sims with the information that “Master had come in as soon as she had gone out. He had asked wasn’t Mrs. Crichton in, and he had left word he wouldn’t be back till late.”
Bessie was very much disappointed. She had been so anxious to hear the history of the mysterious journey. “And now,” she thought, “when Edmond comes in, he’ll be tired and thinking about other things, and I shall not hear about his adventures at all.”
It was not very late after all when Mr. Guildford came in, but as his sister had expected would be the case, he looked tired and preoccupied. They dined together, but during dinner he said little. Afterwards, contrary to his general custom, he followed Bessie into the little drawing-room and settled himself in a comfortable easy-chair near the fire.
“I am too sleepy to work to-night,” he said. “It is no use attempting it. But it is a pity, as I did nothing last night either, and I was in the middle of something rather particular.”
“You do look very tired,” said Mrs. Crichton sympathisingly.
“I was up all night,” he said shortly. And then they were silent for a few minutes—Bessie all the while burning with curiosity.
“What poor creatures even the strongest of us are, after all!” said Mr. Guildford suddenly.
“Do you mean about feeling tired?” said Bessie. “Being up all night is enough to knock up any one.”
“It was not that only I was thinking of,” he replied. “I did not think I was still so impressionable. I wish Dr. Farmer had not suggested my being sent for.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Crichton with surprise and curiosity.
“There was nothing to be done. I was called in too late—but, indeed, I strongly suspect nothing could have been done from the beginning. I see so many hopeless cases in my regular round, that it is depressing to be summoned to another outside it. No, I am sure nothing could have been done.”
“Perhaps it is that you are so much cleverer than other doctors that you see sooner when there is nothing to be done,” suggested his sister.
But Mr. Guildford hardly seemed to hear what she said. “He must always have been exceedingly fragile,” he went on as if thinking aloud.
“Was the person dead before you got there?” asked Bessie.
“No, not till early this morning,” said her brother. “It was very painful—no, not exactly painful, sad and pitiful rather.”
“Was he a young man?”
“Not a man at all—only a child, a little boy,” answered Mr. Guildford, but the “only” seemed to reproach him as he uttered it. “Just at the very first I had faint hopes, but they soon died away. He had often been ill before, had had frightful attacks of croup every now and then. But this was bronchitis. There wasn’t a chance for him. Poor little chap!”
“How old was he?” asked Bessie, her bright blue eyes filling with tears.
“Above five, I think, barely as much. Dr. Farmer sent for me when they got very much alarmed, late yesterday. There wasn’t time to send to town, and they wanted a second opinion. Dr. Farmer is getting old now and easily upset—he was glad to have some one else for his own sake too. He could not have watched it to the end; he had quite broken down before I got there.”
“Was he an only child? How will his mother bear it, poor thing!” said Mrs. Crichton.
“She is not there. She is abroad somewhere—in India, I think,” answered Mr. Guildford.
He was silent for a moment or two and sat gazing into the fire. “What strange creatures women are!” he exclaimed suddenly. “What mixtures of strength and weakness! I wonder if it is at moments of intense feeling that one sees the true nature of women—or is it that feeling ennobles them temporarily, makes shallow ones seem deep, and selfish ones heroic, and cold-hearted ones devoted?”
Bessie felt curious to know what had called forth these remarks. It was not often that her brother troubled himself with speculations concerning her sex.
“What has put that into your head, Edmond?” she asked. “Are you thinking of any one in particular?”
“Oh! no—it was just a reflection on women in general,” he said carelessly.
Then he took up a book and began to read, and Bessie heard no more particulars of his visit to Greystone. Her curiosity was, however, satisfied that there was nothing very exciting to hear; it was only a sad little every-day story. She was very sorry for the little boy’s friends, and she said to herself she was glad that she had no children.
[CHAPTER III.]
“LITTLE MASTER.”
“For when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early showers,
His quiet eyelids closed—he had
Another morn than ours.”
Thomas Hood.
HAD Mr. Guildford been a native of Sothernshire, he could not but have been familiar with the name of the Methvyns of Carling, one of the oldest and wealthiest families of the county. Had he been in the least addicted to local gossip, or less preoccupied, he could hardly have failed, even at Sothern, to hear casual mention of them and of their younger branch, the Methvyns of Greystone. But if he had ever heard of either Carling or Greystone, he had forgotten all about it; and as he was whirled along to Haverstock that cold February evening, his mind was a perfect blank as regarded Methvyns of anywhere. Nor did he feel much interest or curiosity respecting the summons he had received.
He had brought a book with him, but the lamp gave so feeble and uncertain a light that reading was out of the question. So for the half-hour of his railway journey, Mr. Guildford set himself to think instead; to work out in his head the results of a certain shadowy theory or suggestion bearing upon an obscure and hitherto but slightly considered department of medical science, which had lately come under his notice for the first time. It had interested and even fascinated him, but he had so often fancied himself on the brink of a great discovery, so often imagined that he saw the flashing of “some bright truth in its prism,” only to be disappointed, that he was already learning to be sceptical and cautious, keen to criticise and slow to pronounce. Outward circumstances too, helped to check his impetuosity, to moderate without damping his ardour—the apparent disadvantage of his leisure consisting mostly of odd snatches of time, liable at any moment to interruption; the being constantly recalled to matters of present fact, obliged suddenly to concentrate his powers on subjects seldom presenting anything in common with his chosen studies; all this was excellent training for an excitable, enthusiastic temperament naturally impatient of discipline or restriction. Gradually he acquired great inward self-control—mental independence of, or rather superiority to, his external surroundings for the time being. He learnt to choose and limit his subjects of thought; a habit as valuable to a man of his profession, as was in another direction the great soldier’s far-famed capability of “sleeping to order.”
So Mr. Guildford was really thinking—not merely dreaming, or passively receiving the impressions of the objects around him when the train stopped, and the railway officials’ equivalent for “Haverstock,” was shouted along the little platform. It was only a roadside station, badly lighted and dreary looking. Though not yet ten o’clock, there was a sort of middle-of-the-night air about the place, and the two or three men to be seen looked as if they had been wakened out of their first sleep. For a moment or two Mr. Guildford, as he stood alone mechanically watching the green light of the train that had brought him, as it disappeared in the darkness, felt bewildered and confused. But a voice at his side recalled him to what was before him.
“Are you the doctor, sir, if you please—the doctor from Sothernbay?” and turning at the question, Mr. Guildford saw that the speaker was a pleasant-looking man-servant, buttoned up to the chin in a thick driving coat; his tone was eager and anxious.
“Yes. I have come from Sothernbay in answer to a telegram I received this evening,” he replied. “Are you Colonel Methvyn’s man,—have you come to meet me?”
“I have been here since five o’clock, sir. ’Twas I sent off the message. The dog cart is waiting at the gate, and if you please, sir, I was to say as Miss Cicely—my master, I should say,—hoped you’d excuse the dog-cart instead of a close carriage; the road from here to the Abbey is terrible bad just now, and a heavy carriage would have taken twice as long,” said the man, as he led the way through the station-gate to where a two-wheeled vehicle and an impatient-looking horse stood ready for them.
“I prefer it, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford good-naturedly. Like many self-contained people, he had a liking for a frank manner on the part of others, especially perhaps when they were his inferiors.
“You see, sir,” continued the man, “I was hurried both ways, first to get the telegram off, and then to get you to the Abbey when you came.”
His remarks were interrupted by the zeal with which he set to work to tuck Mr. Guildford up in the rugs, of which there appeared a profusion.
“Miss Cicely—leastways my master, I should say, though for that matter it were Miss Cicely, she never forgets nothing,—she told me as I were to be sure to bring plenty of wraps,” he observed, his language becoming comfortably ungrammatical as he felt himself growing at ease with the “strange doctor.”
“Thank you, that will do capitally,” said Mr. Guildford, as they started off at a brisk pace. “But it doesn’t seem to me as cold here as at Sothernbay, or is there a change in the weather?” he added, glancing up at the sky, in which but few stars were visible.
“Bless you, sir! yes to be sure, there’s a thaw,” said the servant eagerly; “it began this afternoon. We was all so glad, thinking it might be better for little master. Shouldn’t you think so, sir?” he asked with an anxiety in his voice that Mr. Guildford could not understand.
“I have not heard who it is that is ill, my good fellow,” he said kindly; “is ‘little master’ the patient? I am all in the dark, you see; I know nothing except what was in the telegram you sent off.”
“Of course not, sir, of course not,” exclaimed the man. “You see, sir, we’ve been thinking of little else all these days, and it seemed like as if every one must be the same. Yes, sir, it’s little master, bless him! as is ill; it begun with the croup, he’s had that many a time; many a night Miss Cicely has called me up to fetch the old doctor—there’s a bell rings into my room on purpose,—but this time it’s turned to worse. I can’t exactly say what it is. Miss Cicely’s never closed a eye these three nights, Mrs. Moore told me; I’m afraid he’s very bad. But now you’ve come, and the break in the weather, he’ll pull through; don’t you think so, sir?” he inquired wistfully, as if the question of life or death hung upon the opinion it was utterly impossible for Mr. Guildford to express.
“You forget, my good fellow,” said the doctor again, “you forget I have not yet seen the poor little boy; but of one thing you may be sure, I shall do my very best.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the groom fervently.
“Is Dr. Farmer still at the Abbey—was he there when you left?” asked Mr. Guildford.
“Yes, sir, but I don’t think you’ll see him tonight; he was quite wore out, poor old gentleman, and I heard Miss Cicely telling him as I came away he must go to bed. He’s gettin’ on in years is the old doctor.”
“Miss Cicely” again. A passing feeling of curiosity crossed Mr. Guildford’s mind as to whom she could be. A maiden sister or aunt perhaps of Colonel Methvyn’s, who managed his household and looked after his children. The name suggested a quaint old-fashioned maiden lady, and, so far, there had been no mention of a Mrs. Methvyn. “Miss Cicely” was evidently the ruling spirit of Greystone Abbey. But it was not Mr. Guildford’s habit to obtain in formation about either people or things save from head-quarters, so he put no more questions to his communicative companion. The road was now becoming so bad that it took all the driver’s skill to avoid catastrophes.
“Do you never have any repairs done hereabouts?” inquired the stranger; “this road is really sadly in want of looking after.”
“It isn’t no road at all, sir, by rights,” replied the servant, when he had time to draw breath after the “joltiest bit” they had yet passed, “it’s only a short cut to Haverstock. Haverstock isn’t our station—not the Abbey station; by the highway, Haverstock is good six mile from us. Our station is Greybridge, but the fast trains don’t stop there, unless notice is given special; and there’s no telegraphy at Greybridge. That’s how I had to bring you such a rough way, sir; it saves four mile and more.”
“Ah! yes, I see,” said Mr. Guildford.
“We’re near home now, sir,” said the man, and the remaining few minutes were passed in silence.
It was far too dark to distinguish anything plainly. Mr. Guildford felt, rather than saw, when they turned off the road or lane into enclosed grounds; the change from the jolting and jogging they had been enduring for the last quarter of an hour to the smooth roll of a well-kept gravel drive was very pleasant.
“We’re going in by the side way, sir,” said the groom, “I left the gate open as I came out; it’s not often this way is used now.”
A few minutes more and they drew up at the front entrance. A wide porch, with deep stone seats at each side, lighted by a heavy iron-bound lamp hanging from the roof, was all Mr. Guildford could distinguish of the outside of Greystone Abbey, It looked more like the entrance to an ancient church than to a modern dwelling house; it was in keeping, however, with the associations of the name, and Mr. Guildford’s perceptions were acute enough for him to infer from what he saw that by daylight the old house must be picturesque and quaintly beautiful.
The door was opened, almost before the servant had time to ring,—anxious ears evidently were on the alert for the first sound of carriage-wheels,—and two or three servants hurried forward. The hall into which Mr. Guildford was ushered was a picture of comfort; a great log fire blazed in the wide open grate, antlered heads threw grotesque shadows on the wainscoted walls, there were furry fleecy rugs under foot, armchairs and sofas, and little tables in every corner; everything looked homelike and inviting, and seemed to tell of happy gatherings and merry voices. And the pet and pride of the house—the “little master”—upstairs dying! Little as the young doctor knew of the Methvyns, a sort of chill seemed to strike through him at the thought.
His arrival had been quickly announced, for almost immediately a door at the opposite side of the hall opened, and a stout elderly person in black silk, and with a general indescribable look of responsibility and trustworthiness, came forward. She made a sort of curtsey as she drew near the stranger, a salutation which said as plainly as any words, “I am the housekeeper, if you please,” and destroyed instantaneously a passing suspicion of Mr. Guildford’s that “the managing spirit” of Greystone Abbey stood before him.
“I am so very glad you have come, sir,” said the housekeeper respectfully; “it will be a great satisfaction. There are refreshments, sir, in the library, but—if you are not very tired and cold, perhaps—Miss Cicely is so very anxious to see you. Would you take a glass of wine now, sir, and something else later?”
But Mr. Guildford declined everything of the kind for the present. “I should much prefer seeing my patient at once,” he said decidedly; “will you show me the way?”
“Certainly, sir,” she replied, looking relieved. “Miss Cicely wished me to take you upstairs as soon as possible.”
Always “Miss Cicely.” She was becoming a sort of “Marquis de Carabbas” to Mr. Guildford. No mention of the heads of the household; to judge by appearances, Miss Cicely might be the owner as well as the ruler of the whole place. So thought the new-comer, as he followed the worthy Mrs. Moore out of the hall, down a long dimly lighted passage, looking like enclosed cloisters from the vaulted ceiling and succession of narrow sharp-pointed windows along one side, widening at the end into a small square hall, round two sides of which curved a broad shallow-stepped spiral stair case. Upstairs, a long passage again, somewhat wider than the one below, with doors at both sides; at one of these the housekeeper stopped, tapped softly, but, receiving no answer, went in, beckoning to Mr. Guildford to follow her. The room which he entered was small and plainly furnished; it looked almost as if it had once been a schoolroom, but its present contents were somewhat heterogeneous; the carpet was nearly threadbare, the windows had no curtains, but there were two or three good pictures on the walls, a beautiful stand of ferns, several cages, whose little occupants had all retired for the night, each carefully shaded by a curtain drawn round the wires; a glass, filled with lovely flowers, on the table, a Skye terrier asleep on the hearth rug, a bookcase full of books, of which some of the titles would have surprised Mr. Guildford had he read them.
He had time for a certain amount of observation, for the housekeeper, whispering to him a request to wait where he was for a minute, left the room quickly by another door. It was still cold, notwithstanding the thaw. Mr. Guildford instinctively turned towards the fire; the Skye terrier, disturbed by his intrusion, peered up at him for a moment through its shaggy hair with its bright beady eyes, growled lazily, and went off to sleep again. So the stranger took up his position on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, and looked about him with some curiosity. There was a history in this little room—the history not so much of a life, as of a character. But it was not for many a long day that the man who entered it to-night for the first time learnt to read it. There are many such histories that are never read at all.
Still he was conscious vaguely of a certain impress of individuality in the room—some body lived in it and loved all these things thus much was visible at a glance. Perhaps “the marquise” was of the genial order of old maids after all, neither managing nor domineering! Mr. Guildford was smiling at his fancy when the door—the second again. It was not Mrs. Moore returning. Who was it? Could this be “Miss Cicely?”
A tall, fair girl in a crimson dress, with coils of hair that must be sunny by daylight; with a pale, quiet face, and soft, grave eyes. She stood for a moment in the doorway, the lamp-light falling full upon her. Some pictures—a few in a lifetime only—take far less time than our clumsy words can express to imprint themselves for ever on the brain. This was one of them. Through all the chequered future, through happy days and “days of cloudy weather,” in her presence or absent from her, Edmond Guildford never forgot this first vision of Cicely Methvyn, pale, grave Cicely, standing there for a fairy’s moment, in her brilliant crimson dress.
The dress, not improbably, had something to do with the vividness of the impression. Little as he was given to observing such matters, it could not fail to strike him, both from its beauty and extreme unsuitability to the girl’s present occupation. It was of velvet of the richest and loveliest shade of damask red; there was exquisite lace round the throat and wrists, and there was something quaint and peculiar in the shape of the bodice. And to add to the effect, Miss Methvyn wore a thick gold chain round her neck, from which hung a very beautiful, very large, and evidently antique gold cross, which shone out with a rich, dull lustre from its crimson background.
Mr. Guildford stood with his eyes fixed upon her for a moment in absolute amazement. Afterwards he tried to define to himself his exact impression of the young girl. Was she “pretty?” The word seemed utterly unsuited to her. Was she beautiful? Hardly. He could describe her by no words that satisfied his sense of correctness.
She was tall and fair—and then he stopped. She was neither graceful nor dignified, or rather perhaps she was, strictly speaking, both. Only the words did not seem to suit her, for they implied a suspicion of self-consciousness, from which her bearing, her expression—everything about her, was utterly and unmistakably free.
But just now he had hardly time to realise anything but surprise before she came forward and spoke. She spoke rather slowly; it was evidently her habit to do so, her voice was low but clear, and perfectly calm.
“I am so very, very glad you have come,” she said. “It is exceedingly kind of you to have come so quickly. Charlie—it is Charlie that is so ill, did you know?” Mr. Guildford made a slight gesture of assent. “He is in the next room. Will you come in and see him? He is asleep.”
Mr. Guildford hesitated for a moment.
“Shall I not see Dr. Farmer first?” he said. “Is he here?”
“Oh! I was forgetting to tell you,” she said. “No, Dr. Farmer has gone home. I made him go, and promised to send for him if you did not come. He lives only a mile away. He was so knocked up, I really begged him to go. He left this note for you, and he said he was sure I could tell you everything.”
She drew a letter out of her pocket as she spoke and gave it to Mr. Guildford. As he read it, his face grew graver. She, watching him, observed this.
“I think Charlie is better than when Dr. Farmer left,” she said. “He is less restless. I asked him how he was just before he went go to sleep, and he answered me quite distinctly, and his voice sounded much more like itself.”
“How did he say he felt?” asked Mr. Guildford, stopping for a moment as he was going to follow Miss Methvyn.
“He said he was sleepy,” she replied. “I asked him if he felt very ‘sore,’ that is his word for ‘ill,’” she explained with a faint little smile, “and he said, ‘Not so wenny bad, Cissy,’ He calls me ‘Cissy.’ ”
“Ah!” said Mr. Guildford. Then they went into the room, and Cicely led the stranger to the child’s bedside.
He lay there, propped up with pillows to ease his laboured breathing. He was sleeping, the girl had said, but, ah! what a different sleep from the rosy, easy rest of healthy infancy! It was very pitiful—terribly pitiful. Mr. Guildford looked at the child steadily for some moments. Then he turned to the young lady.
“Dr. Farmer has told me all that has been done,” he said. “Everything has been tried, I see. I should like to watch the little fellow for the next hour or two. I hear you have been up for two or three nights. Will you not go to bed now and let me, who am quite fresh, take my turn?”
For the first time there was a slight quiver in the pale young face as she looked up at Mr. Guildford.
“Won’t you tell me first what you think of him?” she said. “I have been so anxious to hear your opinion.”
Mr. Guildford turned away with a very, very slight gesture of impatience. He was beginning to be very sorry for Miss Methvyn, but he felt the position an uncomfortable one. He was by no means sure that it would be right to express his real opinion to this girl, so young and apparently so lonely. He wished Dr. Farmer had stayed; or at least that he could see the heads of the house, the child’s parents.
“I don’t think you should ask me for my opinion just yet,” he said somewhat brusquely. “If you will leave me here to watch him, I shall soon be able to judge better. Shall I not see your parents? Your father, perhaps I should say? I should like to speak to him about your little brother.”
“He is not my brother,” she answered quietly. “He is my nephew, my only sister’s child. My father is a chronic invalid and suffers a great deal, and my mother is constantly with him. That is why it is impossible for her to nurse Charlie. He is my especial charge; my sister left him in my care when she went to India some months ago. I fancied you understood or I would have explained this before.”