A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER.
Armado. Comfort me, my boy. What great men have been in love?
Moth. Hercules, master.
Armado. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and sweet, my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.
Moth. Samson, master. He was a man of good carriage, great carriage. For he carried the town gates on his back like a porter, and he was in love.
Love’s Labour Lost.
THEY drove to Roodsmere on Thursday. The weather was still beautiful—summer seemed very reluctant to say good-bye. But the very next day—the Friday on which Geneviève was expected to return—Cicely’s prophecy of a change in the weather was fulfilled. The rain fell almost without intermission from early morning till dusk, and many times during the day Mrs. Methvyn pitied the travellers, and predicted grievous colds and coughs as the result of their dreary journey.
“I fear poor Geneviève will wish herself away again if we are going to have weather like this,” she said to Cicely more than once. And Cicely herself felt a little afraid that such a return home would have a depressing effect on her cousin’s variable spirits.
But their fears were ill-founded. Geneviève had never looked brighter or better than when she jumped out of the Lingthurst carriage which only stopped for a moment at the Abbey door, and ran into the hall to meet her cousin’s cordial welcome.
“Mother is in the library. We did not expect you quite so soon,” said Cicely. “How well you are looking, my dear Geneviève! You have enjoyed yourself very much, I hope?”
“Oh, so well!” exclaimed Geneviève ecstatically. “The last fifteen days have been all there could be of charming. We have made so many excursions, picnics, and riding parties, and I know not what.”
“I am so glad,” said Cicely, heartily. “Here is Geneviève, mother,” she exclaimed as they entered the library, “doesn’t she look well?”
And Geneviève laughed and blushed and kissed her aunt on both cheeks, and chattered and danced about like a fairy, and seemed as if all the rain in the world would be powerless to damp her spirits.
We have had lovely weather till today,” said Cicely. “Mother has been saying you would be wishing yourself back at Hivèritz when you saw the rain.”
“Oh, no!” said Geneviève, “the rain does not trouble me now. I am quite—what do you call it?—climated to England now! I have no more the home-sickness; that is past.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Cicely, smiling—“It is a wonder that her head is not turned,” she thought to herself. “I really think she has grown prettier than ever.”—“We have been very happy too, while you have been away, Geneviève,” she said aloud. “Papa has been out several times and enjoyed it so much.”
“Then he is better, I hope?” asked Geneviève.
“He has been very much better,” said Cicely. “But to-day I don’t think he has seemed quite so well. Do you, mother? It is the weather I suppose.”
“He had some letters this morning that worried him a little,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “When you have taken off your things, Geneviève, I would like you to go to your uncle’s room. He will be pleased to see you.”
Colonel Methvyn did not come in to dinner—the two girls and Mrs. Methvyn dined alone. Geneviève went on chattering as merrily as before. She was great on the subject of the fashions, and described the dresses of the ladies at Eastbourne with astonishing minuteness and detail.
“There was one lady,” she proceeded, “who dressed beautifully, but she herself was ‘laide à faire peur.’ She had a good figure though. There was a gentleman there, a friend of Mr. Fawcett’s, who knew her in London. He said she danced so well that one forgot how ugly she was. She was tall—it is nice to be tall for dancing, is it not?” She gave a little sigh, but hastened on again in a moment. “Oh! Cicely,” she exclaimed, “do tell me what you think you will wear at the ball.”
Cicely looked up from her work—she was knitting socks for her father—with astonish ment.
“The ball!” what do you mean, Geneviève??
Geneviève looked frightened. “Did you not know?” she said uneasily. “I thought Mr. Fawcett had written to tell you that” she stopped and seemed to grow more confused, but something in Cicely’s face made her go on—“I thought you knew,” she began again, “that there is to be a ball at Lingthurst next month.”
“No,” said Cicely quietly, “I certainly did not know it.”
She said no more, but in a minute or two went on talking as usual on other subjects, and her mother, understanding her to some extent, followed her example. But Geneviève’s gaiety had received a check, and soon afterwards she said she was tired and would like to go to bed. Mrs. Methvyn kissed her affectionately; Cicely laid down her work, and, notwithstanding Geneviève’s protestations, went upstairs with her to see that everything in her room was in its usual order for her.
The pretty little room looked very comfortable; the bright fire blazing cheerily was a welcome sight to Geneviève.
“A fire!” she exclaimed, “Oh, how charming! Yet it is only September! Have you fires so soon, my cousin?”
“Not always,” said Cicely. “But I thought it would be cheerful for you—you will feel the cold too more than we do—so I ordered it. Now, good night, dear.”
“How kind you are!” said Geneviève regretfully. “Cicely,” she went on hesitatingly, “I hope you will not be vexed at what I told you about. I thought—”
“Please don’t speak about it,” interrupted Cicely. She spoke quickly, but not ungently. “I would rather hear about it afterwards, to-morrow I mean, from Trevor himself. Good night again.”
Geneviève could not muster up courage to attempt to detain her a second time. She held up her pretty face to be kissed, and Cicely then went downstairs again to the library.
“Cicely,” said her mother, as she entered the room, “I don’t think, dear, you should take up what Geneviève said, so hastily. It may not be a ball; most likely it is just some little evening party, and she, poor child, so unaccustomed to anything of the kind as she is, has taken up an exaggerated idea of it.”
Cicely waited till her mother had finished speaking, though once or twice she seemed on the point of interrupting her.
“No, mother dear, I don’t think Geneviève has made a mistake,” she said. “But,” she went on, making an evident effort to control herself, “I will try not to think about it till I hear what it means from Trevor himself.”
“Yes, dear, that is wise. But, Cicely, even if it be as Geneviève says—a regular ball, I mean—you must remember that the Fawcetts have a perfect right to do as they please in such matters. You must not take it up personally.”
The speech was not judicious. Cicely raised her head proudly; there came an unusual light into the soft eyes, the lines about the gentle mouth grew hard.
“A perfect right,” she repeated. “Yes, of course they have a perfect right to give a ball whenever they please. But they have no right to expect me to go to it. I am engaged to their son certainly, but if they disregard my feelings and consider me no more than a stranger, it leaves me free to behave like one. How could I wish to go to a ball? Think of what sorrow we have had so lately—think of my father’s state oh! mother, it is most inconsiderate.”
“My dear, you are hardly reasonable,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You are very honest, Cicely,” she went on. “Tell me, dear, is it not partly that you are hurt at not having been consulted about it at all, at not having been asked if the idea of such a thing was pleasant to you?”
Cicely was silent for a little. Then she said slowly, “Yes, I think it is partly that. But I don’t think it is from any small or mean feeling of vexation at not being consulted. It is that it seems to me that Trevor is different.”
“Wait till to-morrow,” said Mrs. Methvyn sagely. What she had said had done some good. It inclined Cicely to restrain her first vehemence of feeling, to receive more gently Mr. Fawcett’s explanation of what had led to this unexpected piece of dissipation. It sounded simple enough when, as Cicely expected, he came the next morning to talk it over with her. They had been speaking about balls, he said, one evening at Eastbourne, and Geneviève, who (though in some mysterious manner she had learnt to dance) had never been at any entertainment of so “wholly worldly” a kind, had expressed with girlish eagerness her intense wish to assister at a real ball. Half in joke, half in earnest, the idea had been mooted; Sir Thomas, who Trevor declared had altogether lost his heart to his pretty visitor, had taken it up and promised to open the ball with her himself, “and,” said Mr. Fawcett in conclusion, “the day was fixed for the twentieth of October, my birthday, you know, Cicely.”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I remember.”
Her tone of voice aroused Trevor’s misgivings.
“Don’t you like the idea of a ball, Cicely?” he asked. “I am sure you used to like dancing, especially in the country. And I thought you would have been glad for Geneviève to be pleased.”
“Her notions of pleasure and mine differ,” said Cicely coldly, “if she can find it in amusing herself in a way her parents would disapprove of.”
“Rubbish,” said Mr. Fawcett. “What can they know about it? They would not expect Geneviève to behave differently from other people. She is ‘at Rome’ now, and they must take the consequences of sending her there.”
“I am not dictating anything to Geneviève,” said Cicely more gently; “she must judge for herself. As to my own feeling about it, I confess to you, Trevor, I would have much preferred not taking part in anything of the kind at present, but—”
“But what?” said Mr. Fawcett.
“If you wish it, I will try to dismiss the feeling I have,” she answered.
“If I wish it. Cicely, you speak as if I were an unfeeling tyrant. It is not fair to me, upon my soul it isn’t,” said Trevor, working himself up into vexation. “No one felt more for you than I did last spring, but you cannot shut yourself up for ever.”
“It is not only that,” said Cicely. “I have other feelings—my father’s state of health, my having to leave him so soon—all these things make me sad. But I dare say it is wrong to feel so. Dear Trevor, don’t be vexed with me. I will try and enter into it cheerfully. If I had been with you and could have talked it over with you and your mother before, it would have been all right.”
“I wish you had been with us when it was first proposed. You don’t know how I wished for you at Eastbourne, Cicely,” exclaimed Trevor.
Cicely looked up at him affectionately. For the moment their old, happy relations seemed to have returned—the vague, painful feeling “that Trevor was different,” which of late had so often troubled her, melted away. And for the rest of that day Cicely’s brow looked clear, and her eyes had a smile in them.
But Geneviève’s brilliant spirits seemed already to have received a check. She was tired, she told Cicely, she thought one always felt so the day after a railway journey more than at the time.
“Are you too tired to talk about what you will wear at the Lingthurst ball?” said Cicely brightly. “Mother wants us to have very pretty dresses, and I am going to order them from town; so we must have a grand consultation, Geneviève.”
Geneviève looked up in amazement.
“I thought you were angry about it—I almost thought you would say you would not go,” she exclaimed.
Cicely was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly,—“It is true I was surprised, and not pleased at the idea of it last night. But I think it was unreasonable of me, and I am sorry for having chilled your pleasure in it.”
“You are very good, Cicely,” said Geneviève. “I wish I were as good as you.”
She sighed. Cicely looked at her with some surprise.
“You are not to go off into a fit of low spirits, Geneviève,” she said, in a rallying tone. “I am not good when I am cross—the least I can do is to say I am sorry, isn’t it? But if you look miserable it will be like a reproach to me. I was so pleased to see you so bright and merry last night. Now tell me about your dress. What would you like it to be?”
“White,” said Geneviève decidedly. “It is as it were my first ball, you see, my cousin.”
“Yes,” said Cicely drily. “I suppose you did not go to balls at Hivèritz?”
“No,” replied Geneviève, in the most matter-of-fact tone. “Papa being a pasteur, you understand, it would hardly have been convenable that I should go to balls there.”
“And what will your parents say to your going here?” inquired Cicely.
“Oh! I don’t think I shall say anything about it,” answered Geneviève carelessly. “Not that I think mamma would object—she has placed me under the care of my aunt—it is not for me to dictate to your mother, Cicely.”
Cicely did not contradict her, and Geneviève proceeded to discuss the important question of her dress. She warmed into enthusiasm on the subject, quite astonishing her cousin by her display of millinery lore and perfect acquaintance with the requirements of the occasion.
“I can hardly believe you have never been at balls, and all sorts of things of the kind, Geneviève,” she exclaimed at last. “Where did you learn to dance?”
“There was a class at the pension where I went. I used to watch them and then try by myself afterwards,” said Geneviève. “It is quite simple. Mr. Fawcett says I dance very well.”
“Trevor!” exclaimed Cicely. “How does he know?”
“Oh! we only tried once—là-bas—at Eastbourne, I mean, when the band was playing a waltz before our windows,” said Geneviève hastily. “Tell me, Cicely,” she went on quickly, “who will there be at the Lingthurst ball that I shall know. Will Mr. Guildford be there?”
“No, I am sure he will not,” replied Cicely. “He has other things to do.”
“But he comes here very often. He can not be very busy,” pursued Geneviève. “My aunt tells me he has been here three—four times in the week.”
“He doesn’t come here for pleasure—it is perfectly different,” answered Cicely coldly.
“Is it? Ah! yes, I see. He comes here but as my uncle’s doctor,” said Geneviève so innocently that Cicely felt ashamed of the slight feeling of annoyance which her cousin’s remarks aroused in her.
“I wonder if she has heard Trevor speak of Mr. Guildford in that foolish way,” she thought to herself. “Trevor should be careful. Geneviève does not understand—she will be treating Mr. Guildford as if he were beneath her.”
But her fears were misplaced. When Mr. Guildford came the next day, Geneviève made herself as charming as ever. She smiled and blushed more than she talked, it is true; but once or twice Cicely caught Mr. Guildford’s eyes resting upon her in a way which awoke a new feeling in her mind. “Does he really care for her?” she said to herself uneasily. “He, so clever and good. Is she worthy of it?”
She felt more than ever that she could not understand Geneviève. There were times at which it seemed to her that a creature more artless and ingenuous could not exist—that the feeling of bewilderment about her must arise entirely from her own in ability to be carelessly, childishly transparent like this sunny little fairy. Then again a sudden glimpse of something very like calculating selfishness on Geneviève’s part would startle her into perplexity again, and then would follow a fit of disgust at her own suspiciousness.
“Do you understand Geneviève, Trevor?” she asked Mr. Fawcett one day. It was the very day before the ball. They had been at luncheon at Lingthurst, discussing and admiring the all but completed arrangements, and Trevor had walked home with Cicely. Geneviève had been invited to come with them, but for some reason that Cicely was at a loss to explain, had refused to do so, and had driven home with her aunt.
“Do you understand her?” Miss Methvyn repeated, for Mr. Fawcett had not seemed to hear her question the first time.
Trevor started. “What are you saying, Cicely?” he exclaimed. “Do I understand Geneviève? Of course, I do. You are always diving into unknown depths or soaring into the clouds, my dear child. Please remember that other people find it fatiguing. You must be at a loss for a subject of speculation if you are going to make one of poor Geneviève—she is just a sweet, simple little creature, very affectionate, and not very wise, and perhaps a little vain; which is certainly excusable. There is not much to understand about her.”
“Is that it?” said Cicely thoughtfully. She had listened attentively to what Trevor said, looking up into his face with a questioning, somewhat anxious expression in her eyes. Somehow it annoyed Trevor. He began kicking the pebbles on the path impatiently. But just for the moment, Cicely was too intent on what she was saying to observe his irritation.
“I wonder if it is so,” she repeated consideringly. “Sometimes I feel as if she were perfectly artless and sweet and unselfish. And then she says and does things that I don’t like, or rather that I don’t understand. To-day for instance.”
“What did she do to-day?” said Trevor sharply. “I declare Cicely you are just as bad as other women after all—everlastingly picking holes in each other—especially if “each other” has the misfortune to be bewitchingly pretty!”
The sneering tone as well as the unkindness of the speech wounded Cicely to the quick. She turned her face away, and walked on without speaking.
“Cicely,” said Mr. Fawcett in a minute or two.
No answer.
“Cicely,” he repeated.
“What, Trevor?” she said gently. Her tone was sad, but nothing more.
“What are you offended at?” he asked. “I did not in the least mean to vex you—you might know that—but you take up things so hastily now. You, who used to be so sweet-tempered.”
His words touched her. Cicely’s conscience was very tender.
“Am I ill-tempered?” she said anxiously. “You never used to think me so, but perhaps it is true. I don’t understand myself now, it seems to me, so I should not be hard upon Geneviève.”
“That’s just it,” said Trevor. “You are hard upon her, Cicely, and I have always thought so. What was it that she did to vex you to-day?”
“I would much rather not speak about it any more,” said Cicely. “It only makes you think me unkind, and perhaps I am fanciful.”
“No, I won’t think you unkind. Do tell me. I want to know what it was.”
“It was when we were talking about to-morrow. Something was said about your dancing first with me, and you said I must certainly keep half-a-dozen dances for you, as it was so long since we had had any, Don’t you remember?”
“Well? Yes, I think I do.”
“Geneviève was beside me at the time. When I turned round to speak to her, she would not answer me. Then all of a sudden she muttered something about wishing she had never come here. And when you went away, and I asked her what was the matter, she began to cry, and accused me of unkindness and selfishness and all sorts of things. She was just offended at not being made first in everything. And I have tried to make her happy, Trevor.”
“She is a spoilt child,” said Trevor carelessly, “but you need not trouble yourself so much about her. When we are married, Cicely, and she has it all to herself at Greystone, she will be all right, you will see.”
“Then you do think she dislikes me, Trevor?” said Cicely quickly. “That is the feeling I don’t understand. She almost seems—I don’t like saying so—but she almost seems jealous of me.”
Trevor laughed, but his laugh was not hearty.
“Really, Cicely, you must not take things up so seriously,” he said. His tone was not unkind this time, however. They were close to the Abbey grounds, and Trevor stopped as if about to turn back.
“I must go home again now, I think,” he said. “Good-bye, Cicely. You will give me the first dance to-morrow, and half-a-dozen others, even if Mademoiselle Geneviève is offended, won’t you?”
Cicely smiled. “I think I can brave her displeasure,” she said. “Good night, Trevor; you won’t come in?”
“I can’t,” he replied. “My mother begged me to come back soon. Miss Winter and I will be kept at work all the evening, I expect, for my mother is never satisfied with anything till it has been undone and then put back again as it was originally. Good night.”
He strode away. Cicely stood watching him for a minute, then taking the key from her pocket, she unlocked the little door near which she was standing, and passed through into the park. How many times she had done so in her life; how far from her thoughts it was just then that this might be the last time she would pass through that little old doorway; how seldom any of us think that to even the commonest and most familiar actions of our daily lives there must come a “last time!” A last time in many cases not known to be such, till looked back upon from the other side of some sudden crisis in life, or sometimes, it must be, from the farther shore of the dark river itself. And it is well that it should be so. We could make no progress in our journey were we constantly to realise the infinite pathos attending every step; we should sink fainting by the way did we suspect the mines of tragic possibilities over which we are ever treading.
When Cicely entered the hall she met Geneviève, who was crossing it on her way to the library.
“Have you come back alone?” she said quickly, when she saw that there was no one with her cousin.
“Oh! no; Trevor came to the park door with me,” replied Cicely. “He had to hurry back again. Have you and mother been home long?”
“Yes, a good while. You have missed some one,” said Geneviève, “Mr. Guildford has been here.”
“Oh! I am so sorry; I wanted to see him!” exclaimed Cicely. “Why would he not stay?”
“He saw my uncle,” said Geneviève shortly. “That was what he came for. I told him where you were; he left no message.”
“I didn’t expect any message,” said Cicely, not quite understanding Geneviève’s curious tone.
“Yes, you did,” answered the girl bitterly, “or you expected him to wait for the chance of seeing you. You think you are to be queen of all—if you are there no one must have a word, a glance! I have said I loved you, that you were good; but I think not so now. I love you not. You are cold and proud, and know not what love means, yet you gain all! And I—I am miserable and alone, and who cares?”
“Geneviève, you must be mad! I do not know, and I do not wish to know, what you mean. You have yielded to-day to temper till you have completely lost your reason, that is the only excuse I can make for you.”
Then Cicely walked quietly across the hall and down the passage to the library, leaving her cousin standing alone. Geneviève did not follow her. When Cicely had gone, she ran upstairs to her own room and threw herself down upon the bed, sobbing bitterly.
Miss Methvyn found her mother in the library.
“Mr. Guildford has been here, Cicely,” said Mrs. Methvyn as she came in.
“Yes, I know; Geneviève has just told me. I wish I had seen him. I think he might have waited a few minutes.”
“He said he would; he seemed to want to see you,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I told him you would not be out long, and he seemed in no hurry, and went out into the garden with Geneviève. Then, to my surprise, in about a quarter of an hour he came in again suddenly and told me he had just remembered an engagement at Sothernbay, and that he could not possibly wait any longer. But he is coming again to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” repeated Cicely. “Why should he come so soon again!”
“I don’t quite know,” said her mother. “Cicely,” she went on tremulously, “I am afraid he does not think your father quite so well.”
“Do you think so, dear mother?” said Cicely. “I hope not. You get nervous. I wish I had been in.”
“So do I,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I fancied from his manner that he would have spoken more openly to you.”
“What did he say? Tell me exactly, mother,” said Cicely. Her voice sounded calm, but inwardly a sort of icy tremor seemed to have seized her. She would not tell her mother that even to her eyes a slight change had been visible in her father for the last day or two; she had tried to persuade herself that it was “only her fancy;” but she had longed for Mr Guildford’s next visit with intense though concealed anxiety. “Do tell me all he said,” she repeated.
“He did not say much. It was before he had seen Geneviève,” replied Mrs. Methvyn. “After he had been with your father, he came down here and asked when you would be in. Then he said he thought your father rather “low” to-day, and that he had been trying to persuade him not do so much—to get a proper man of business to manage things, and not to worry himself. I think it is true, and I told Mr. Guildford I agreed with him. I know Phillip has been annoyed the last few days by some letters he got.”
“What letters? He never told me about them,” said Cicely.
“You would not have understood them. I do not. I only know they were about money matters,” replied Mrs. Methvyn vaguely.
“Money matters,” said Cicely. “Oh! he really should not trouble himself about things of that kind.”
She spoke more cheerfully. There was a certain relief in being able to name a cause for her father’s depression. And to her happy experience the expression “money matters” bore no terrible significance. She was only thankful that his anxiety arose from no more important cause.
“No; I wish he would not,” sighed Mrs. Methvyn.
“Well, Mr. Guildford will be here to-morrow, and then we can talk it over with him, and make papa do what we tell him,” said Cicely brightly.
She was leaving the room when her mother recalled her.
“Cicely,” she said mysteriously, “do you know that there was something very odd in that young man’s manner this afternoon?”
“How? what do you mean, mother?” replied Cicely. “You speak as if he were going out of his mind.”
“Nonsense, my dear, you know quite well what I mean,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I really do believe he has got something in his head about Geneviève. It was after he had seen her in the garden that he came in and said he must go home at once.”
“But why should seeing Geneviève in the garden have made him say so?” inquired Cicely.
“My dear, how can I tell? When people are in love, there is no accounting for what they will do. Geneviève may have been cold to him, or—he is a very modest young man—he may think we should not approve of it, and may have been afraid of being tempted to say something. Who can say? I only say that I feel sure he has got something of the kind in his head.”
Cicely looked grave. “Perhaps he has,” she replied. To herself she said, “I wonder why, if it is so, it should have made Geneviève so desperately cross.”—“Mamma,” she added, after a little silence, “I wish you would do something to oblige me.”
“What, my dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn in surprise.
“Please don’t call Mr. Guildford ‘a very modest young man.’”