FAILING MISS WINTER.
. . . this July noon
Shining on all, on bee and butterfly
And golden beetle creeping in the sun
* * * * * *
This July day, with the sun high in heaven,
And the whole earth rejoicing. . ..
A flower of a day.
LADY FREDERICA FAWCETT was in great tribulation. Her faithful shadow, Miss Winter, had received a letter summoning her at once to the bedside of a dying sister. It was a summons that could not in common humanity be disregarded, and, indeed, Lady Frederica was too kind-hearted to dream of doing so. But she could not refrain from some expression of her distress.
“I am exceedingly sorry for you—and of course, for your poor sister,” she said, when Miss Winter had summoned up courage to break the news, “but I cannot help saying it could not have happened at a more inconvenient time. This is Wednesday, and we leave home on Friday! If I had had any idea of it, nothing should have induced me to consent to going away just now. There is nothing I dislike so much as being at strange places alone—nothing.”
Miss Winter murmured some words of which the only audible ones were “Sir Thomas.” Their effect was by no means that of oil upon the waters.
“Sir Thomas,” repeated Lady Frederica contemptuously. “What good is Sir Thomas to me? I am surprised at you, Miss Winter, knowing him as you do. Will Sir Thomas read aloud to me? Will Sir Thomas match my wools, or go out shopping with me, or write my notes? I wonder you don’t propose that he should make my caps, or get up my laces instead of Todd. Besides I am almost always ill the first few days at a strange place. I quite expect to be laid up when we get to the Isle of Wight—particularly if I am left so much alone with no one to take my thoughts off myself. I really don’t know what to do.”
Miss Winter grew very miserable. Two bright scarlet spots established themselves on her faded pink cheeks, and she looked as if she were going to cry.
“If Mr. Fawcett had not gone!” she ejaculated feebly.
“Trevor! What good would he have done?” said Lady Frederica peevishly.
“He would, I daresay, have deferred his visit to town and accompanied yourself and Sir Thomas to the Isle of Wight. He is always so kind and unselfish,” remarked Miss Winter, not without a feeble hope that his mother would propose recalling the young man, who had only the day before left for town.
“And do you think I would have allowed such a thing?” exclaimed Lady Frederica virtuously. “Do you think I would have dreamt of letting Trevor make such a sacrifice? You forget, Miss Winter, it is not the beginning of the season—there is no question of deferring his stay in town. He has had a very dull year, poor boy; of course, if his marriage had been fixed for next month as we once expected, it would all have been different. I wish it had been. We should not have been leaving home so soon, and most likely in that case—things always happen so—your poor sister would not have been ill.”
Truly, Cicely Methvyn had little notion of how much she was responsible for!
The mention of Mr. Fawcett’s marriage sent Miss Winter’s thoughts off to Greystone. Thence they brought back a brilliant suggestion.
“My dear Lady Frederica,” she exclaimed rapturously. “An idea occurs to me. Suppose you were to invite that pretty, sweet Mademoiselle Casalis to accompany you? I feel sure you would find her a charming companion, and it would be such a pleasure to her to be able to talk about her home to you, who have been so much on the Continent.”
Lady Frederica sat straight up on her sofa in excitement.
“Do you think she would like to come?” she said doubtfully. “I wonder if Helen would like it.”
“I am sure Miss Casalis would like to come. It was only the other day she confided to me that she does find life at the Abbey rather dull—triste, she called it, poor girl. She begged me not to repeat it, for fear, she said, of seeming ungrateful to her kind friends. And I feel sure Mrs. Methvyn would feel pleased by the invitation—Miss Casalis being her relation.”
Lady Frederica’s excitement increased.
“Will you write a note to her at once, Miss Winter, and send one of the men with it?” she said. “Or, stay, perhaps the note should be to Helen—or, must I write my self? I do so hate writing notes, and there would be such a great deal to explain—all about your poor sister’s illness, and apologies for the short invitation and all. I really don’t feel equal to it.”
She sank down again helplessly on the sofa.
“If you could see Mrs. Methvyn—such matters are so much more easily explained by word of mouth,” suggested Miss Winter artfully.
“It would be less trouble,” agreed Lady Frederica.
Miss Winter took care to strike while the iron was hot, by ordering the carriage, and despatching Todd to dress Lady Frederica before she had time to change her mind, and her energy was crowned with success. The Lingthurst carriage drove up to the Abbey door at an hour that rarely saw Lady Frederica out of her room.
Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely were upstairs; Geneviève was alone in the library, writing, when, to her amazement, the door opened, and the visitor was announced.
“Lady Frederica,” she repeated in her surprise, as she went forward to greet her.
“Yes, my dear. I am so pleased to find you at home. My visit is to you, my dear Miss Casalis,” and in her excitement, Trevor’s mother kissed the girl on both cheeks.
Geneviève grew scarlet, then pale again. What could be the meaning of it? Had it not been for what she knew to be the case, what would she not have thought? As it was, all sorts of wild conjectures flashed across her mind. More than a week had passed since the day that Trevor and she had last met in that very room; the day he had so betrayed his dissatisfaction with Cicely. And since that morning, Geneviève had not seen him. She knew he had gone away; she had heard of his calling to say good-bye, one afternoon that she had been out driving with her aunt, but that was all. And Cicely’s manner had perplexed her; Trevor’s fiancée did not seem to regret his absence, she had grown far more cheerful, and looked much brighter since it had been decided upon. Could it be that they had in sober earnest quarrelled? or, rather, agreed to separate, and that she, Geneviève, not Cicely, was the real object of Mr. Fawcett’s devotion? If this were the case, it would satisfy her of the truth of what she had taken upon herself to suspect, that Cicely was not really attached to her cousin, and that she would be glad to break off her engagement. And if such were the actual state of things, what more natural than that Trevor’s mother should be deputed to explain it all to the one it most nearly concerned—what more natural, or more delightful! for would it not be proof positive that the Fawcetts père et mère were satisfied with their son’s new choice?
All these speculations darted with the speed of lightning across Geneviève’s brain—she had time even to persuade herself that they were based upon a strong foundation of probability, before Lady Frederica had disencumbered herself of the wraps which, even in July, she thought a necessary accompaniment of a drive in an open carriage, and established herself comfortably in an easy chair. Her first words threw Geneviève into utter bewilderment.
“We have heard this morning, my dear Miss Casalis,” she began, “that poor Mrs. Morrison is dreadfully ill—dying, in fact—that is why I came over to see you at once, an explanation by word of mouth is so much more satisfactory, than writing.”
She stopped for a moment, and Geneviève seeing she was expected to say something, expressed her agreement with Lady Frederica in preferring verbal communications, and murmured some vague words of condolence on the “bad news” she had received, and appreciation of her (mysterious) kindness in hastening to impart it; though who or what Mrs. Morrison was, she had not the remotest idea. But she managed to steer clear of committing herself to any possibly damaging confession of ignorance.
“Yes,” said Lady Frederica, “it is very sad, though she is over sixty, and has lost the use of her right leg for some time. She is the eldest of the family, and has been quite like a mother to my Miss Winter, she tells me, so, of course, she feels it very much. And we are going on Friday, so if you can be ready at such short notice, my dear, I cannot tell you how pleased I shall be, and so will Sir Thomas when I tell him.”
Even Geneviève’s studied deference of manner was not proof against the bewilderment this speech aroused. She opened her brown eyes and stared at Lady Frederica in dismay.
“Ready, if I can be ready! I am so sorry, but I do not understand,” she said, at last.
“Dear me, how stupid I am! Of course, I haven’t explained,” exclaimed the visitor. “We are going to the Isle of Wight on Friday—there, at least, in the first place we intend to be some weeks away; Trevor is to join us the latter part of the time, and of course Miss Winter was coming with us, but for this unfortunate contretemps about poor Mrs. Morrison, her sister, you know. And so, talking it over, it just came into our heads how very nice it would be if you would come with us instead—not instead exactly, you understand how I mean, my dear.”
And, with a little more repetition and parenthesis, Lady Frederica at last succeeded in making Geneviève understand what it was she did mean and had come about.
It was very far from being the realisation of the wild dreams she had indulged in a few moments before—an invitation to accompany these two old people to the seaside, only! Still it came at a welcome time, for Geneviève’s spirits had been down, a long way below zero, for several days past, and the prospect of any change was acceptable. Besides, was there not a possibility, an enchanting possibility, lurking in the words, “Trevor is going to join us the latter part of the time?”—“It will be the last I shall see of him before he is married. It can do no harm now that I know of his engagement. I know he can be nothing to me; therefore I need not fear to enjoy the little I can ever see of him again,” thought Geneviève. There was no deliberate intention of disloyalty to her cousin; she would not have put into words even to herself the faint suggestion of what—with the experience she had had already—she knew perfectly well might be the result of Mr. Fawcett and herself being thrown together for even a few days; but to the whisper of her good angel, “Decline to go; take the risk of giving offence and avoid at all costs the temptation,” she resolutely turned a deaf ear.
“It is not my doing,” she said to herself. “I did not seek for the invitation. I am not obliged to sacrifice myself to fancies that I may interfere with Cicely. It would be very conceited to suppose that I could do so—and besides, if her fiancé can be shaken in his attachment to her by the first pretty girl he comes across, why—his attachment to her cannot be very profound!”
So with sparkling eyes and a bright flush of pleasure in her cheeks, Geneviève ran upstairs to tell her aunt of Lady Frederica’s visit and its object, and to ask for her consent to the acceptance of the invitation.
Mrs. Methvyn was in her own room.
“Lady Frederica here!” she exclaimed. “You must tell Cicely, dear. I shall be down in a moment, but Cicely has just gone out to get some fresh roses for your uncle’s room. I wonder what can have brought Frederica here so early.”
“It was to ask me something, dear aunt,” began Geneviève. Then going on to explain, she made no secret of her gratification, and her hope that Mrs. Methvyn would like the idea of her visit to the Fawcetts.
It would have been hard to refuse consent to a request made so sweetly. Mrs. Methvyn seemed nearly as pleased as Geneviève herself.
“I shall be delighted for you to go, and I think it will do you a great deal of good,” she said cordially. “Run out and find Cicely, and I will go to Lady Frederica.”
Geneviève found Cicely standing on the terrace near the library window, and talking to Lady Frederica through the open glass door. Cicely’s hands were full of roses, and the face with which she turned to her cousin looked as bright and sweet as the flowers.
“I am so pleased, so very pleased, to hear of Lady Frederica’s plan for you, Geneviève,” she exclaimed. “Nothing could have happened more opportunely, for you have not looked quite well lately. Of course mother says you must go, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Geneviève, “aunt is very kind and so are you, Cicely.”
But her tone was hardly as hearty as her cousin had expected. A wild sort of yearning that Cicely could know all that was in her heart, a foolish wish that she could refuse to go, a painful consciousness of not deserving this kindness rushed over her all together, and for an instant she felt as if she should burst into tears. The voice she had so determinedly stifled made itself heard again once more; her cousin’s unselfish sympathy in her pleasure woke once again the stings of self-reproach—a shadow seemed suddenly to have fallen over her bright anticipations.
“Are you not pleased to go, Geneviève?” asked Cicely with a little disappointment in her tone.
“Oh! yes, very pleased,” said Geneviève. “But I am sorry to go away too.”
“But it is only for a few weeks,” said Cicely kindly. “Is there nothing else troubling you?”
“Oh! no,” replied Geneviève. But Cicely was not satisfied.
“Are you at a loss about your clothes, dear,” she inquired as the idea struck her suddenly. “I thought about them at once. Lady Frederica is rather particular about dressing.”
“Yes, I know,” answered Geneviève; “I have remarked that she is always très bien mise. I have thought about my dresses a little. Do you think they will not be pretty enough, Cicely?”
She looked up in her cousin’s face with genuine anxiety, though half afraid that Cicely would not treat the matter with the importance it deserved. But her fears were ill-founded. Her cousin seemed little less interested than herself in the important question.
“Those you have got are very pretty and suit you very well,” she replied. “But I was thinking that you have perhaps hardly enough. Travelling about with the Fawcetts will be very different from living here so quietly as we do. And there is not time to get any. But, Geneviève, you need not wear half mourning any more. I have two or three pretty dresses, almost new, that could very easily be altered for you. The principal alteration would be shortening the skirts. Parker could easily get them ready for you by Friday.
“Oh! Cicely, how very, very kind you are!” exclaimed Geneviève; and Cicely looking at her was surprised to see that there were actually tears in her eyes.
“Geneviève, you silly child,” she said, “you think far too much of a mere trifle! It is a great pleasure to me to see you pleased. Would you like to come up to my room now, and I will show you the dresses I think you would like? There are a pretty grey silk, and a blue and white gauze, and a white dress—a sort of poplin—that I am sure would suit you. The white dress is trimmed with rose colour.”
Geneviève’s eyes sparkled. In five minutes she was feeling and looking perfectly happy, standing amidst her cousin’s pretty wardrobe, which Parker was quite as ready to exhibit as mademoiselle was to admire.
“What beautiful dresses you have, Cicely!” she observed with a little sigh. “I suppose you wear all these a great deal when you are not in mourning.”
“No indeed, Miss Casalis,” interposed Parker, “Miss Cicely doesn’t wear her pretty things half enough. I am always telling her so. And besides, Miss Cicely is so neat and careful, her dresses last twice as long as most young ladies’! The whole of these,” with a regretful glance at the display of finery, “are really as good as new. The only dresses you ever do wear out, Miss Cicely,” she added, turning to her young mistress, “are your brown hollands.”
Cicely laughed. “It shows I was never meant to be a fine lady, Parker,” she said. “Mother and you get me far too many things.”
“And now there will be all new again before we know where we are,” grumbled Parker, whose mind seemed to resemble that of the gallant train-band captain’s wife; “and none of these half wore out, not to speak of several as good as new.”
A slight increase of colour in Cicely’s cheeks explained the allusion to Geneviève.
“Ah! yes, you will have all new for your trousseau without doubt,” she said to her cousin, and a curious expression flitted across her face. But Cicely did not observe it, nor did she take any notice of Geneviève’s remark. She turned to Parker and began giving her directions for the altering of the dresses that had been selected as most suitable for her cousin, Geneviève’s quick eyes and fingers meantime making voyages of discovery among the finery.
“What is this?” she exclaimed, drawing out a dress of a rich crimson colour, which was hanging in a remote corner of the wardrobe, “Velvet! Du velours de soie—et quel teint superbe! Why, it is a dress for a queen! Cicely, what a beautiful dress; it is far the most beautiful of all.”
Cicely had not been paying special attention to her chatter, but now she turned and, somewhat to Geneviève’s surprise, gently drew the folds of the dress out of her hands and replaced it in its corner.
“Parker,” she said to the maid, “you have forgotten what I told you. I wanted that dress folded away by itself—locked away.”
“I am sorry I forgot,” said Parker meekly. Geneviève felt rather offended. “Cicely has secrets I see,” she reflected maliciously. “I wonder if Mr. Fawcett knows about that dress, and why she is so fond of it.”
But she speedily forgot all about the little mystery in the interest of trying on the pretty grey silk, and submitting to Parker’s skilful nippings and pinnings.
And on Friday morning, thanks to Cicely and her handmaid, Geneviève’s little outfit was complete, and she stood with her trunks all ready for the journey, in the hall, waiting for the Lingthurst carriage, which was to call for her on its way to Greybridge. Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely were beside her; comings and goings had grown to be events of some importance in the nowadays quiet, monotonous life at the Abbey.
“You will write and tell us how you get on, my dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“Don’t promise to write too much,” said Cicely, smiling; “I don’t think you will have any great amount of leisure. But here is the carriage.”
The carriage contained Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica, and just behind appeared another, loaded with luggage.
“Your belongings, Miss Casalis? Let me see—two boxes, a bag, etc. etc., four in all, my man will see to them. Good morning, Mrs. Methvyn; good morning, Cicely, my dear. We have no time to spare I fear,” exclaimed Sir Thomas fussily, as he got out of the carriage to superintend Geneviève’s getting in. “Oh! by the bye,” he added, coming back again for a moment, “we heard from Trevor this morning. Had you a letter, Cicely? No? That’s odd. He is an extraordinary fellow. What do you think he is going to do now, after all his grumbling at being so little in town this year? He’s off to Norway for six weeks, in Frederic Halliday’s yacht.”
“Is he really?” exclaimed Cicely. “I am very glad—that is to say, if he enjoys it, which I suppose he is sure to do. But I wonder I haven’t got a letter. It may come this afternoon.
“Sure to, I should say. Good-bye again,” shouted Sir Thomas.
“And good-bye, my dear.” “Adieu chère tante; adieu, Cicely,” came in Lady Frederica’s and Geneviève’s softer tones.
Geneviève smiled and kissed her hand as they drove away, but a cloud had come over her sun again, for all that; she had heard Sir Thomas’s news.
Cicely’s letter, accidentally delayed, came the next morning.
“Yes,” she said to her mother, when she had read it, “yes, Trevor has actually gone to Norway. There is no time even for me to write to him before he leaves England; but he gives the address of some places where they will call for letters. He says he will be away six or seven weeks.”
She gave a little sigh, a very little sigh.
“It seems very sudden,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“He had to decide at once,” answered Cicely. “This friend of his—Captain Halliday, I mean—was just starting. Of course, on the whole, I am very glad he has gone; it will make the summer pass pleasantly to him, and perhaps—”
“Perhaps what, dear?”
“Perhaps he will leave off being vexed with me. Don’t think I am dull on account of his having gone, mother; I am not so, truly. But lately, I cannot say how it is, whenever I think of our marriage, I grow dull.
“It is the thought of leaving home,” said Mrs. Methvyn tenderly.
“Partly,” replied Cicely, “and, mother, it is more than that. It is a sort of vague fear of the future—an apprehensiveness that I cannot put in words. I know I care for Trevor and trust him thoroughly, but sometimes I doubt if he knows me enough. I doubt whether I thoroughly satisfy him, even though I feel there is more in me than he has read. Sometimes I think he wishes I were prettier, and lighter. Do you know what I mean, mother? Do all girls have these feelings, mother?”
“You are not one of the ‘all,’ Cicely.”
“Did you?” said Cicely, dropping her voice a little. “I don’t, of course, mean when you married my father, but before?”
Her mother’s first marriage was a subject but rarely alluded to. Cicely looked at her with some anxiety as she put the question.
“My child, my child, never draw any comparison between your future and what my life was with Amiel’s father. No, Cicely; I had no misgivings—I would not allow myself to have any. I was wilfully, madly blind—” she paused, and a little shiver ran through her. “These feelings of yours do not trouble me, Cicely. Your life promises to me all the more brightly from the thoughtfulness with which you enter upon it, my darling.”
She kissed the girl tenderly. Cicely was soothed, though not satisfied; but she said no more.
An hour or two later, when she was alone in her little sitting-room feeding her birds, and trying to grow cheerful among her usual little interests and occupations, there came a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Cicely, surprised at the unusual ceremony. The intruder was Mr. Guildford.
“Mr. Guildford!” she exclaimed, “I did not hear you come. How have you got here?”
“I walked,” he said quietly. “I have plenty of time to-day, so I thought I would come to take Colonel Methvyn a drive. The day is unexceptionable; I have just seen your father, and he is quite pleased to go, but he wants you to come. It was he that directed me to come here,” he added, glancing round him, “he said I should find you in your own sanctum.”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I have a great many friends to take care of here, you see. Have you never seen my birds? Why, have you never been in this room before?”
“Only once,” replied he softly. And as he spoke there came before him the picture which had never left his memory—of Cicely as he had first seen her, standing in the doorway in the quaint, rich dress.
“Ah! yes, I remember,” she said. Then there fell a little silence.
“My cousin has gone away to-day. Did you know?” said Cicely, rather irrelevantly.
“Your cousin?” repeated Mr. Guildford. Oh! yes, of course. You mean Miss Casalis. Somehow when you spoke I thought you meant Mr. Fawcett.”
“Well he, as it happens, has gone away too,” said Cicely with a smile. “He is going further away than Geneviève; she has only gone to Ventnor, and Mr. Fawcett is bound for Norway.”
“So you are all alone?” remarked Mr. Guildford. “Does that add to the low spirits you were owning to the other day?”
“Not low spirits—crossness, corrected Cicely, laughing. “No, I don’t think it does. I think sometimes I grow nicer when I am alone.”
“At least, there is no one to dispute the soundness of the pleasing belief?” said Mr. Guildford. “But I think I know what you mean. A little solitude soothes and calms one wonderfully sometimes.”
He walked to the window and looked out. “One can hardly imagine the lines falling to one in a pleasanter place than this,” he observed, as his gaze rested on the beautiful old garden basking in the warmth and brightness of the midsummer afternoon.
“It is a home that one can love,” agreed Cicely. She had followed him to the open window. “Did you ever think to yourself when you would best like to die? I mean,” she added, seeing that her companion glanced up in surprise, “did you ever try to think at what hour and season death would seem least dreadful, least physically repulsive and unnatural, that is to say?”
“Did you?” he inquired. “I don’t think I have ever given it a thought. What does it matter?”
“It does not matter in the least,” she answered, “but still one often considers things that do not matter, as if they did. It was the beautiful, quiet afternoon that made me think of it. I have always thought that I should like to die on a summer afternoon—not evening, evening suggests night—just when the world seems a little tired, but not worn out, just gently exhausted. I should like the sun to be shining in the soft, warm way it is shining now, and the air to be clear. At night, in the darkness, one feels so far away from everywhere else.”
She looked up at the sky and watched the few small feathery clouds whose whiteness deepened the intensity of the blue. There surely could not be a lovelier blue than that,” she said. “I have been so little abroad, I cannot tell if it is true that English skies are never like those of the south. Is it so?”
“I am a poor authority,” he replied, “but I fancy if you said seldom, instead of never, you would be near the truth.”
There came another knock at the door. This time it was Parker.
“Miss Cicely,” she said, “Will you please be ready in ten minutes; the carriage is ordered for then.”
“I will come now,” said Cicely.
She stopped for a moment to put fresh water in one of her canary’s glasses, which had been overlooked.
“Why are you always called ‘Miss Cicely’ instead of ‘Miss Methvyn?’” asked Mr. Guildford abruptly.
Cicely laughed. “Have you noticed that?” she said. “I suppose it does seem strange. The reason is that when my sister and I were at home together—she is seven years older than I, but still we were companions—we could not bear being called by different surnames; her name before she was married was Bruce, Amiel Bruce; we thought it seemed as if we were not sisters really. So we always asked to be called Miss Amiel and Miss Cicely. That was how it began. Perhaps I should alter it now, but it is hardly—”
She stopped. Her companion was not looking at her; he did not see the quick rising of the pink flush over her face and neck.
“No, I think it would be a pity to change it. I like ‘Miss Cicely,’” he said. And he smiled as he recalled the mental picture he had first formed of the bearer of the name.