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 “I never catch cold, thank you,” said. Miss Methvyn. Mr. Guildford
fancied she spoke stiffly, and was annoyed with himself for the
suggestion. “That is not a bit of your business,” he imagined her
manner to imply. But her next words reassured him. “Perhaps it is
not wise to stand still so long,” she said, and she set off walking
round the little garden.
There was an opening at the other side in the shrubs and trees
that surrounded the enclosure of flower-beds. Here Miss Methvyn
paused. “By daylight there is such a pretty view from here,” she said.
“You can see Haverstock village, and the church, and the little river.
Even now you can see it gleaming—over there to the right, over
there where the railway bridge crosses it.”
“Ah! yes, I see. Do you think that the railway spoils the landscape,
Miss Methvyn?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it,” she said. “It has always
been there. Charlie used to be so fond of watching for the white
feathers of steam coming into sight and disappearing again. He liked
the railway, because he had a notion that any day, if he ran to
Haverstock, he could get to his mother at once. The fancy cheered
him when he first came to live here, and she went away. I have
never cared to see the trains go by lately.”
As she spoke a shrill whistle sounded in the distance. Cicely
turned and began to retrace her steps.
“Associations must sometimes be terrible things,” said Mr.
Guildford gently.
Something in his voice encouraged Cicely to say more. “There is
a still more painful feeling that I have never heard described,” she
said. “I have often wondered if other people have felt it. The sound of
that railway whistle put it into my mind, and the speaking of Charlie’s
fancy about it. What I mean is a sort of hatred of everything tangible
—material rather. It came over me dreadfully after he died. It seemed
to me that even the material things he had loved now separated me
from him. Just as he, in his innocence, loved the railway, because he
thought it would take him to his mother, so I could not endure to see
it, because I felt that it—that nothing material could take me to him or
bring him back to me. Everything, except memory, seemed to
separate me further from him. I have had this feeling twice; yes, I
think, twice in my life,” she repeated. “Did you ever feel it, or is it only
a womanish feeling?”
Mr. Guildford had listened to her with some surprise, but still with
attention and a wish to follow her meaning.
“I think I understand you,” he said thoughtfully. “It seems to me
your feeling must somewhere have affinity with what I—like every
student of practical science—realise incessantly; the utter
insurmountability of the barrier between matter and spirit. It sounds
very commonplace, but it is the puzzle. We are so hedged in, in
every direction the old hitting one’s head against the wall. And the
only thing to be done is to turn round and work one’s hardest inside
the limits.”
“Yes,” said Cicely. “Yes. I understand.” Then she was silent for a
minute or two. “I suppose,” she said at last, “I suppose if we could
put our feelings into words, we should always find some one who
shared them.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “Not that I have ever felt your special kind
of revolt against our prison bars, Miss Methvyn. I have never been
separated by death from any one that I cared very much about.”
“You have been very happy then,” she said.
“I don’t know. There are two ways of putting it. Perhaps the truth
is that I have never had any one to care enough for, for separation to
be or seem terrible,” he answered, in a tone not very easy to
interpret.
They were close to the window again. Geneviève’s music had
ceased, and glancing up, Cicely saw her cousin standing inside the
glass door looking out.
“Mr. Guildford,” she said hastily, “will you just come to the end of
the walk again for a moment. I have wanted to ask you something all
this evening, and I thought you might be annoyed at it. I want to
know what you think about my father. I cannot tell you why I ask you
—there—there is something that depends upon it. And I know you
are very clever. You must not think me very strange. I am so at a
loss,” she hurried on with what she had to say, in evident fear of Mr.
Guildford interrupting her with some cold expression of disapproval
or annoyance; for she could see that he looked grave and perplexed.
“What do you mean exactly, Miss Methvyn?” he said formally. “Do
you want to know if I think Colonel Methvyn in a critical state, or
what?”
He thought her inquiry uncalled for and hardly delicate. He felt
surprised, and a little disappointed. She was her father’s heiress;
Colonel Methvyn had told him so. Could it be—surely not—that she
was eager to claim her inheritance, making plans contingent on her
speedy succession?
“Yes,” she replied, “that is partly what I want to know. I also want
to know if any vexation—being thwarted about anything on which he
had set his heart, for instance, could do him harm.”
“Most assuredly it would,” he said somewhat sternly, “the very
gravest harm. It is very early for me to give an opinion,” he went on,
feeling anxious to avoid saying much. “I never saw Colonel Methvyn
till to-day, but I have seen similar cases. I should say he may live as
he is for many years, provided his mind is kept at ease, and that he
is not thwarted or exposed to vexation. The effect of any great
shock, of course, I could not predict.”
“Thank you,” she said very gently, almost humbly, “you have told
me what I wanted to know.”
Why did she want to know? he asked himself. She stood still for a
minute or two, as if thinking of what he had said. The moonlight fell
full on her fair face, and as she looked up with her clear honest eyes,
his heart smote him for even his passing misgiving that her motives,
her reasons, could be but of the purest and best.
“She is not a commonplace girl,” he thought, “and she won’t be a
commonplace woman; but she is too self-reliant for one so young.”
It was almost with a feeling of relief, or what he imagined to be
such, that he turned to Geneviève, who had opened the glass door
and stood waiting for them.
“How charming it is!” she said; “but, my cousin, my aunt fears lest
you should take cold.”
“I am coming in now, mother,” Cicely said as they came within
hearing, “do come here for a moment and look at the beautiful
moonlight.”
Mrs. Methvyn rose from her seat by the table, and joined the little
group at the window.
“Yes,” she said, “it is lovely, but it is rather cold.” She shivered as
she spoke, and retired to the fire. The others were following her,
when suddenly a whistle was heard, not a railway whistle this time. It
sounded at some little distance away, down among the shrubberies.
Cicely stopped, and seemed to listen.
“What was that? It surely can’t be” The whistle was repeated. “Go
in, Geneviève,” she said, “I shall be back directly.”
And almost before her cousin and Mr. Guildford saw what she
was doing, she had started off and was lost to sight among the
bushes.
Geneviève and Mr. Guildford looked at each other in surprise.
Then Geneviève came into the library again and spoke to her aunt.
“My cousin has gone out again, aunt,” she said; “shall we leave
the door open till she returns?”
“Cicely gone out again!” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn. “How very
foolish! Do you see her Mr. Guildford?” she asked, for the young
man was still standing by the window.
“No, I don’t,” he replied; “Miss Methvyn ran off so quickly. We had
better shut the door in the meantime, however.”
He came inside and closed it. Mrs. Methvyn looked annoyed and
uneasy.
“I can’t understand what Cicely is thinking of,” she said.
 “There was a—what do you call—siffle, siffle—a fistle—wistle?”
said Geneviève, “down in the garden, and then Cicely ran.”
“What do you mean, my dear?” said Mrs. Methvyn with slight
impatience. “Do you know, Mr. Guildford?”
He was half annoyed and half amused.
“It is just as Miss Casalis says,” he replied. “We heard a whistle at
some little distance, and Miss Methvyn ran off at once.”
“Was it a peculiar whistle, like two short notes and then a long
one?” inquired Mrs. Methvyn more composedly.
“Yes,” said Mr. Guildford; “I heard it twice; it was just that.”
“Then the Fawcetts must have returned,” exclaimed Cicely’s
mother. “How surprised every one will be! They intended to stay
abroad till July.”
“The Fawcetts!” repeated Geneviève impulsively.
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Methvyn, “the Fawcetts—our nearest
neighbours Colonel Methvyn’s cousins. Mr. Fawcett has been in the
habit of coming here at all hours since he was a boy, and there is a
short cut through the fields that saves a couple of miles,” she went
on, in a sort of generally explanatory way; “it comes out at the little
gate in the laurel-walk. By the bye, I wonder if Cicely has the key. We
generally keep it locked, for a good many tramps come round by the
Ash Lane, and Trev—Mr. Fawcett, always whistles, on the chance of
our hearing him, before coming round the other way by the lodge.”
“Cicely had a key to-day,” said Geneviève. “We went through the
little gate when we were out, and my cousin unlocked it.”
“Ah! that is all right, then; she often carries it in her pocket,”
replied Mrs. Methvyn.
She went to the glass door, and opening it, stood listening as if for
approaching voices. Geneviève sat down by the table and began idly
turning over some photographs. Mr. Guildford stood at a little
distance, wishing the carriage would come round that he might go.
From time to time, however, he could not help glancing at the face
bent over the photograph book. In profile it was hardly so perfect as
when in full view; still it was very lovely—every feature so clear, and
yet rounded, the long black eyelashes sweeping the delicately tinted
cheek, the expression so innocently wistful.
“I doubt if that little southern flower will take kindly to this soil,”
thought Mr. Guildford.
Just then Geneviève happened to look up, and catching sight of
the young man’s eyes fixed upon her, blushed vividly. Pitying her
discomfort, and annoyed with himself for being the cause of it, he
hastily made some remark about the pictures she was looking at,
thinking to himself as he did so of the shallowness of the popular
notion that French girls were more artificial, less unsophisticated and
retiring, than English maidens. Geneviève was on the point of
replying to his observation, when the door opened.
“The carriage for Mr. Guildford,” said the footman.
Mr. Guildford turned to Mrs. Methvyn, and was beginning to say
good-bye, when voices were heard outside—cheerful voices they
sounded as they came nearer—Miss Methvyn’s and another, a
deeper, fuller toned voice, and in a moment their owners appeared at
the glass door.
“Mother,” said Cicely, and to Mr. Guildford her tone sounded bright
and eager, “mother, here is Trevor, are you not astonished? Did you
think me insane when I ran off in such a hurry?” she went on
laughingly.
“We only arrived this afternoon,” said the gentleman, “two months
before we were expected. You can fancy what a comfortable
reception we had at Lingthurst. My mother and Miss Winter ended by
discovering they had lost all their luggage, that is to say, only twenty-
nine boxes turned up, and there was such a to-do that I came off.”
“It was very good of you, dear Trevor,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “It is so
nice to see you again. But why have you come home so soon?
Nothing wrong, I hope?
“Everything wrong,” said the young man laughing. But as he came
into the room he caught sight of Mr. Guildford, and, further off,
Geneviève seated by the table, but with her face turned away from
the others. “You are not alone,” he said hastily, his tone changing a
little. The change of tone, slight as it was, was enough to make Mr.
Guildford wish that his goodbyes had been completed before the
appearance of the new-comers, but almost ere he could realise the
wish Miss Methvyn had come forward.
“It was very rude of me to run away in such a hurry, Mr. Guildford,”
she said gently, “but I did not like to keep my cousin Mr. Fawcett
waiting. I was afraid he would think we had not heard him.”
“I was just about going round by the lodge when I heard your
tardy footsteps, Miss Cicely,” said Mr. Fawcett. “I had whistled till I
was tired and was thinking of trying a verse or two of Come into the
garden, Maud, for I am very tired indeed of being here at the gate
alone.”
“It would not have been at all appropriate,” said Cicely, a very
slight shadow of annoyance creeping over her face. Then there
came a little pause, which Mr. Guildford took advantage of to finish
his good-nights this time without interruption. He carried away with
him no very distinct impression of the new-comer, only that he was
tall and fair and good-looking, and that his voice was soft and
pleasant.
“She said he was her cousin,” Mr. Guildford repeated to himself.
“Ah! well, I am not likely ever to know more of her, but I almost think
she is the sort of woman one might come to make a friend of.”
CHAPTER VI.
 “LE JEUNE MILORD.”

“He is as sober a man as most of the young nobility. His fortune is great. In
sense he neither abounds nor is wanting; and that class of men, take my word for
it, are the best qualified of all others to make good husbands to women of superior
talents. They know just enough to admire in her what they have not in
themselves.”

Sir Charles Grandison.

HE was tall and fair and very good-looking. He had pleasant

somewhat sleepy blue eyes, and a pleasant somewhat sleepy
manner. Take him as a whole he was a favourable specimen of the
upper class young Englishman of a certain type, prosperous,
amiable, well-principled according to his lights, very fairly satisfied
with things as he found them, little disposed by nature or education
to dive below the surface.
In the little bustle of Mr. Guildford’s leave-taking, the figure of the
girl sitting quietly by the table had almost escaped Mr. Fawcett’s
notice. But Geneviève had risen to say good-bye to the doctor, and
before she sat down again Mrs. Methvyn addressed her.
“Geneviève, my dear, don’t stay over there all alone. By the bye I
must introduce a new cousin to you. Not exactly a cousin certainly,
but as you both call me aunt, it seems something like it. This is Mr.
Fawcett, Geneviève, and this, Trevor, is my little niece—niece ‘à la
mode de Bretagne,’ as your mother says, Geneviève—Geneviève
Casalis who has come to us all the way from Hivèritz. You must have
been near there not long ago, Trevor. I think your mother,” but she
stopped short in her sentence, startled by a sudden expression of
surprise from the young man.
“By Jove,” he exclaimed, but recovering himself almost
immediately, “I beg your pardon, aunt,” he went on, “I was so
astonished at seeing Miss Casalis again. I had no idea—”
Geneviève had come forward when her aunt first spoke to her,
and when Mrs. Methvyn had gone on to introduce the so-called
cousins, Mr. Fawcett had naturally turned towards the young lady,
obtaining thus for the first time a full view of her face, her lovely
blushing face, with timid up-looking eyes; the face that not many
weeks ago had rested white and unconscious on his shoulder, which
he had often vaguely wondered if he should ever see again. This
very evening, as he had stood waiting by the gate, something had
recalled to his mind the accident at Hivèritz, and he had thought to
himself that he would tell Cicely about it and try to describe to her the
girl’s beautiful face.
“If she could see her, she would want to paint her I am sure,” he
thought. “She would make such a stunning gipsy, or Italian peasant
girl, or something like that. I wish Cicely could see her. She is so
ready to admire pretty girls. I never knew any woman like her for
that. Even my mother and Miss Winter began criticising that lovely
girl. My mother said she had no manners—poor little soul! she was
frightened out of her wits—and Miss Winter found fault with her
dress.”
And within ten minutes of his standing at the gate, and thinking
over the adventure of Hivèritz, behold the heroine of it standing
before him in the flesh! It was enough to excuse a pretty forcible
expression of astonishment.
Mrs. Methvyn looked bewildered in the extreme.
“Do you mean that you and Geneviève have met before?” she
inquired. “You never told us so, Geneviève?”
“Perhaps she did not know Trevor’s name,” suggested Cicely,
fancying that Geneviève looked shy and embarrassed.
“I knew it was Fawcett,” said Geneviève, “but I knew not but that
here in England there are many Fawcetts.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Fawcett eagerly. “Of course. I only wonder
you remember the name at all.” He could not have explained why,
but he certainly was rather pleased than the reverse to find that
Mademoiselle Casalis had not talked about their former meeting.
“When was it you met Mr. Fawcett before? On your way through
France?” inquired Mrs. Methvyn of Geneviève.
“Oh! no, dear aunt. It was while I was still at the home. Before I
knew that I should come to England at all,” the girl replied simply
enough. And then she told about the accident, how kind “Miladi
Fawcett” had been, how thankful “maman” had felt that it had done
her no harm—all in her pretty, broken English, stopping here and
there for a word, or glancing up appealingly with a “how do you say
so and so?”—all just as it had happened; Mr. Fawcett now and then
joining in with some observation; reserving only to herself her
mother’s recollection of the English family’s name and speculation as
to whether the Fawcetts of her youth and those of Geneviève’s
adventure could be the same. For the mention of this would
assuredly have led to a repetition of the question, “Why did you not
tell us about it before?” a question that Geneviève was not prepared
to answer, for the simple reason that she could not really exactly say
why she had not done so. It would have been only natural, girlishly
natural, to have inquired of her aunt or cousin if among their
neighbours were any family corresponding to her description, but
though natural to most girls, to Geneviève anything so frank and
straightforward was the reverse. To her the question, “Why should I
not tell?” less frequently presented itself than the reverse, “Why
should I?”
Perhaps the only definite reason she could have given for her
reserve, was one she might certainly be excused for keeping to
herself—a foolish, vague, half-romantic, half calculating anticipation
of the effect and possible result of her sudden appearance before old
Mathurine’s ‘jeune milord,’ the hero of the girl’s latest day-dream.
So she told her little adventure simply and prettily, with here and
there a timid blush, and a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she
recalled her mother’s thankfulness, the anxiety and terror of ‘cette
bonne Mathurine.’
“It is quite a curious coincidence,” said Mrs. Methvyn with interest.
“I must take you to see Lady Frederica some day soon Geneviève.
She will be pleased to meet you again. In any case she would be
glad to see you, for she remembers your mother. In one of her letters
to me she said so, and was sorry I had not given her Madame
Casalis’s address in case of your passing through Hivèritz, Trevor. It
was too late then, for you had already been there.”
“Yes, what a pity,” exclaimed Mr. Fawcett. “I remember my mother
saying something about it when we were in Switzerland. She could
not remember where Madame Casalis lived. We little thought we had
already made her daughter’s acquaintance.”
“Did you not hear Geneviève’s name?” inquired Cicely.
Trevor looked a little bit annoyed—he hardly liked to own that
while the young lady had remembered his, hers had completely
escaped his memory.
“We did hear it, we must have heard it,” he said. “I think Miss
Casalis mentioned it when I was telling our courier where the
coachman was to drive to. But, I suppose it was the stupidity of my
English ears—I did not catch it clearly.”
Geneviève smiled sweetly, as if in condonation of the offence, but
in her heart she was wishing, oh! so earnestly, that she had not
prevented “Miladi Fawcett” from accompanying her home to the Rue
de la Croix blanche, that Sunday evening, to see her safely in her
mother’s care. What would it have mattered that the house was
small and shabby, and that Madame Casalis herself had to open the
door, if, as would almost surely have been the case, the familiar
name of Fawcett had caught her mother’s ears, and led to a mutual
recognition! What pleasant results might not have followed!
Geneviève felt exceedingly provoked with herself, and Mrs. Methvyn,
unconsciously, added to her vexation.
What a pity,” she too exclaimed. “If Caroline and Lady Frederica
had met, it would probably have been arranged for Geneviève to
have travelled some part of the way here with your party, Trevor, for I
know Madame Casalis was very anxious at that time to hear of a
suitable escort. And you would have seen something of Paris, my
dear, as you wished so much,” she added, turning to Geneviève,
“instead of having to hurry through with Monsieur
Rouet.”—“Geneviève came under the care of a pasteur who had to
attend some meeting in London,” she went on to explain to Mr.
Fawcett.
“And had to travel second-class all the way, and saw nothing of
Paris,” added Geneviève in her own mind (though not for worlds
would she have said it aloud), feeling too disgusted with herself even
to smile. Her one day in Paris had been a Sunday, which the
Reverend Joseph Rouet, faithful to his charge, had caused her to
spend among the Protestant brethren at Passy, attending two
services in a stuffy meeting-house,—Geneviève, whose soul had
long ago soared far beyond the homeliness of the Casalis’ narrow
little circle at Hivèritz, whose imagination had pictured drives in the
Bois de Boulogne, shopping in the Boulevards, nay (‘comble de
bonheur,’ hardly to be thought of but with bated breath), even a visit
to the theatre itself, as blissful possibilities of a few days in Paris!
“It was really a chapter of cross-purposes,” continued Mrs.
Methvyn. “I wonder your mother did not remember the name
Fawcett, when you told her of your accident, Geneviève?”
“Perhaps I did not rightly pronounce it,” said the girl. “And mamma
was much occupied in her thoughts just then, I remember.”
 She happened to catch Cicely’s eye as she spoke, and blushed
vividly. A slight look of perplexity crossed Miss Methvyn’s face.
“I hope Geneviève is not afraid of me,” she thought to herself.
“What was there to make her look so uncomfortable just now! I am
so anxious to be kind to her and win her confidence, but I fear I
seem cold and distant to her, poor girl!”
But no more was said on the subject of Geneviève’s former
meeting with the Fawcetts.
“Shall I come to see your mother to-morrow, Trevor?” said Mrs.
Methvyn as she was bidding Mr. Fawcett good night. “Or will she be
busy?”
“She will probably be rather in a state of mind if the missing boxes
haven’t turned up,” said the young man. “I’ll look in some time to-
morrow and tell you. I have to drive to the village to call on the new
clergyman, and I may as well come round this way.”
“Oh! then the new clergyman has come,” said Cicely. “I am very
glad. I don’t like driving to Haverstock Church half as well as going to
Lingthurst. The walk through the woods is so pretty, Geneviève,” she
added; “I almost think it is what I like best about our Sundays here.”
“Cicely, my dear!” said her mother in a somewhat similar tone to
that in which Mrs. Crichton had reproved her brother for the avowed
reason of his predilection for church.
Cicely smiled. “Well, mother dear,” she said coaxingly, “the walk to
church was really more edifying than what we heard when we got
there, in the old days. I am so glad Sir Thomas is getting a new
organ,” she went on. “We hear Mr.—I don’t think I have heard h is
name—is a zealous reformer.”
“Tremendous,” said Mr. Fawcett. “I don’t think my father had any
idea what he was bringing upon us when he gave the living to Mr.
Hayle.”
“Mr. Hayle, oh! that’s his name, is it? But I thought he was not
coming for two months,” said Miss Methvyn.
 “So thought everybody except Mr. Hayle,” replied Mr. Fawcett.
“There was some mistake about it, and it turned out he had made all
his plans for coming at once; that was one of the things that made us
come home sooner. But I must be going. Good night, aunt. I shall be
sure to look in to-morrow.”
That night when the two girls went upstairs to their rooms, Cicely
accompanied Geneviève into hers. She stood for a moment by the
dressing-table idly playing with some pretty little toilet ornaments that
stood upon it. They were unusually pretty little trifles, and belonged
to a set which had been given to her by an old lady who was a
connoisseur in such things, and Cicely had placed them in her
cousin’s room to please her eye on first arriving. The sight of the little
ornament seemed to remind her of what she had to say, or perhaps
to encourage her to say it.
“Geneviève,” she began, and her blue eyes looked earnest and
thoughtful, “I want to say something to you. I am afraid I seem cold
to you, and it would grieve me if you thought I felt so. I am not
naturally very demonstrative, and since my father has been so ill, I
have had to learn to be even more quiet and calm in manner. And
being the only one at home, I have had to do what I could to help my
parents, and I fear it has given me a sort of decided, managing
manner that may strike you disagreeably. I want to ask you not to be
afraid to tell me if I ever seem either cold or hard. You don’t know me
yet; you can’t trust me all of a sudden; I should not wish it. But when
you know me better, I hope you will believe that I don’t feel cold and
indifferent, and that I am very anxious, dear, to make you happy.”
Considering that the burden of the speech was herself and her
own feelings, it was an unusually long one for Cicely. But the simple
words betrayed no egotism; the kind, true eyes expressed their
owner’s real feelings. Impressionable Geneviève threw her arms
round her cousin’s neck.
“I do trust you, dear Cécile,” she exclaimed impetuously. “I love
you and trust you, and I think you so good and so wise. I wish I were
good like you, but I am not. I am foolish and discontent, and at home
I did not help the mother and think for her, as you do for my aunt.
Teach me to be like you, dear Cécile; let me trust you and give you
all my confidence.”
Cicely smiled. It was no sudden friend ship she was asking of her
cousin, no romantic compact of girlish devotion which she was
proposing—such things were little in her way. But she would not for
worlds have chilled Geneviève’s affectionate impulse, so she
submitted with apparent satisfaction to a kiss on each cheek, and
kissed her again in return, saying as she did so, “Good night, dear
Geneviève, and thank you. Now you must ring for Parker and go to
bed. It is rather late and you look tired.”
Coming along the passage after leaving Geneviève, Miss
Methvyn met her mother.
“I was looking for you, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “It is late, but
your father is very comfortable to-night. He is still reading the
papers.”
They were close to the door of Cicely’s little sitting-room. They
went in and stood in silence for a minute by the mantelpiece. All
looked the same as on the night little Charlie died; the birds were all
asleep, the flowers looked fresh and cared for, the Skye terrier lay on
the hearthrug. Cicely sighed as she looked round, for her glance fell
on an object she had not yet had the heart to dislodge from its
accustomed place—a toy horse, Charlie’s favourite steed, stalled in
one corner, which he had called his stable.
But the sigh was quickly stifled. “What did you want me for,
mother?” she said.
“I was thinking, Cicely,” began Mrs. Methvyn, “that it would now be
well to tell Geneviève of your engagement—don’t you think so? It is
different now that Trevor is here again. It may seem strange to her
afterwards not to have been told of it.”
Cicely hesitated. “I would much rather she were not told of it just
yet,” she said. “She is so young, and I want so much to make her
feel quite at ease with me. Besides,” she went on, “you know,
mother, what we were saying this afternoon—my engagement is
rather an indefinite one; it is not as if I were going to be married
soon.”
“But if your father sets his heart upon it—the Fawcetts have
always wished to hasten the marriage, you know, Cicely dear—it
may not be a very long engagement after all,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“I hope papa won’t set his heart upon it,” said Cicely with a faint
smile. But she did not oppose the suggestion as vehemently as a
few hours before.
“Then, you don’t object to my telling Geneviève?” asked her
mother.
“Of course not, if you think it best,” said Cicely. “I wish, however,
you would not tell her quite yet. Wait a few days. I think she is
beginning to feel more at home with me. She will not be surprised at
seeing Trevor often here; she knows they are our cousins.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
Geneviève’s last thought that night before she went to sleep was
of Mr. Fawcett. To her girlish fancy the coincidence of their meeting
again was suggestive of all manner of speculations.
“How I wish Mathurine knew of it,” she said to herself; “how
delighted she would be! She thought him so handsome and
distinguished. So he certainly is, and his manners are so agreeable,
not at all like those of most Englishmen, cold and gloomy” (forgetting
her extremely limited experience of Mr. Fawcett’s countrymen). “And
then how rich they must be! Ah, how I should have enjoyed travelling
with them! No doubt they had a courier, an appartement au premier
—everything of the best.”
And another idea entered her silly little head. How delightful would
be a wedding journey to Paris with such a hero—rich, amiable, living
but to gratify her wishes! Such things had come to pass, thought
Geneviève; such good fortune had been the lot of portionless girls
far inferior to herself in personal attractions. She did not fear her
cousin Cicely as a rival; the idea never even occurred to her. She
liked Cicely, and was very well pleased to make a friend of her, but in
some respects she could hardly help looking down upon her a little.
“She is so good and wise,” thought Geneviève, “but so slow and
quiet. English girls never seem half awake. And her dress; bah! if I
had all the money she has to spend upon it, would I be content to
wear such plain things? She might make herself look twice as well if
she liked.”
Such was the maiden meditation, such the “fancy free” of the
pasteur’s daughter, who had been brought up in the seclusion and
simplicity of a French Protestant household, sheltered, as her
parents fondly thought, from every breath of worldliness or ambition.
Mr. Fawcett made his appearance again about luncheon-time the
next day. Cicely was alone in the morning room when he came in.
“I’ve been to see the new man,” he said, establishing himself on a
comfortable low chair and looking ready for a cousinly chat. “I’m
hardly fit to come in here, Cicely; I’m covered with dust.”
He looked dubiously at his boots as he spoke, and began
switching them lightly with his riding-whip.”
“Never mind,” said Miss Methvyn; “only please don’t send the dust
on to me.” She spoke laughingly; but her tone sobered into gravity as
she went on, “Black dresses catch dust so easily.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. Then he looked up from his boots
and fixed his pleasant, good-tempered blue eyes on his cousin. She
was sitting at a little table near him,—writing, in point of fact making
up accounts. She had stopped when Mr. Fawcett first came in, but
had not altogether withdrawn her attention from the papers. before
her; and now in the intervals of his remarks, she ran her eye up and
down the neat little columns of figures, and jotted down the results of
her calculations.
“What are you so busy about, Cicely?” said Mr. Fawcett after a
little pause.
Miss Methvyn stopped to put down a figure before she spoke. “It’s
Saturday,” she replied laconically, glancing up for a moment, and
then putting down another.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” replied her cousin. “What about it?”
 His tone was perfectly good-natured. Something in it struck
Cicely’s sense of the ludicrous. She threw down her pen and began
to laugh.
“You’re very long suffering, Trevor,” she said, “and I’m very rude.
On Saturdays I have always to go over all the accounts; the bailiff’s,
the gardener’s, and all—and make a sort of summary of them for
papa. I generally do them upstairs in my own room, but Geneviève
was working at something up there this morning, so I brought them
down here.”
“It isn’t proper work for you. Your father should get a regular
agent,” said Mr. Fawcett.
“No he shouldn’t,” said Cicely; but the tone and manner disarmed
the abruptness of her speech. She glanced at her cousin with an
expression of half-playful defiance. He smiled.
There was a likeness of feature and complexion between these
two—a material resemblance, which seemed, in a sense, to render
more visible the underlying dissimilarity. Both pairs of blue eyes were
calm and gentle; but those of the young man told of repose from the
absence of conflicting elements; those of the girl, of the quiet of
restrained power. There was decision in both faces; in Trevor’s it
was that of a straightforward, healthy, uncultivated, not acutely
sensitive nature; in Cicely’s it was the firmness of an organisation
strong to resist where the necessity of resistance should be the
result of conviction, but at the same time exquisitely keen to suffer. A
glance at the man told you pretty correctly the extent of his mental
capacity. He was no fool, but there was small promise of further
intellectual development; such as he was, he was likely to remain;
but it took more than many glances to estimate justly the reserve of
power and depths of feeling hidden below the stillness of Cicely
Methvyn’s young face.
Something in the girl’s manner told Mr. Fawcett that the occasion
would not be an auspicious one for entering upon a subject he had
come half prepared to discuss. So he said nothing for a minute or
two, and Cicely went on with her accounts. As Mr. Fawcett watched
her, a slight expression of dissatisfaction crept over his face.
 “Cicely,” he said.
“Well,” said Cicely, without looking up this time.
“You’re not going to wear that deep mourning much longer, are
you?”
Cicely’s face lost its brightness. There was a slight constraint in
her tone as she answered.
“It is not very deep mourning,” she said, glancing at her gown.
“There is no crape on my dress. I dislike very deep, elaborate
mourning.”
“If it was handsomer of its kind, perhaps it would be more
becoming,” said Mr. Fawcett agreeably. “As it is, Cicely, I can’t say I
think it so. You are too colourless for that sort of dull-looking dress. It
might suit some people—your cousin, for instance; I dare say if we
saw her in a plain black dress like yours, we should think she
couldn’t wear anything that would suit her as well. She is so brilliant,”
he added reflectively.
“Yes,” said Cicely. “I dare say we should. But then, Trevor, I
strongly suspect we should think so whatever Geneviève wore. She
is so very lovely. But as for me, Trevor, you know I wasn’t thinking of
whether it would suit me or not when I got this dress.”
Her coloured deepened a little as she spoke, and the words
sounded almost reproachful.
“Of course not. I know that,” said Mr. Fawcett hastily. “Of course,
Cicely, you know I didn’t mean to speak unfeelingly. How curious it is
about your cousin by the bye,” he went on, as if anxious to change
the subject, “about our having knocked her down at Hivèritz, I mean.”
“Yes, it was very curious,” said Cicely. “But you knew a cousin
was coming to stay with us, Trevor; I mentioned it in several of my
letters.”
“Oh! yes. I knew a Miss Casalis was coming,” said Trevor, “but
somehow I didn’t fancy she would be that sort of a cousin.”
“What sort did you expect?” asked Miss Methvyn.