FORGIVE ME, AND GOOD-BYE.
“Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!”
R. Browning
IT was the day of the Lingthurst ball. Cicely woke early, and tried to believe that she was in good spirits, and that her anxiety of the evening before had been exaggerated and uncalled for. And when her mother met her with the good news that Colonel Methvyn had had a calm and undisturbed night, and seemed wonderfully refreshed by it, the make-believe seemed something very like reality, and Cicely’s face looked bright enough when she met her cousin in the breakfast-room to satisfy Geneviève that her ebullition of the previous day had been forgiven, if not forgotten, or that at least it was to be tacitly ignored.
Geneviève was excited, but not happy. Some closeness of observation is, however, required to discriminate between the two conditions, and this neither of her companions was this morning sufficiently at leisure to bestow upon her. So, “poor Geneviève is full of her ball. I hope she will enjoy it,” thought Mrs. Methvyn; and “Geneviève cannot have meant what she said yesterday. It must just have been one of her childish little fits of temper, not worth noticing,” was the decision Cicely arrived at.
“Your father is very anxious for his letters this morning,” said Mrs. Methvyn, as they were sitting at breakfast. “I hope there will be nothing wrong in them—nothing to upset him, when he seems so much better.”
Just as she spoke the letter-bag was brought in. Mrs. Methvyn opened it.
“Two for you, Cicely,” she said, as she distributed the budget; “one for Geneviève, three for your father, all business letters I fear.” She looked at them anxiously. “I wish we could keep them till Mr. Guildford comes.”
“It would be no use. Papa would be sure to ask for them,” said Cicely decidedly. “Give them to me, mother; I will take them up to him myself.”
“Is Mr. Guildford coming to-day?” said Geneviève in surprise, as her cousin left the room.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Methvyn; “he promised yesterday, when he had to leave in such a hurry, that he would come again to-day.”
“Oh!” said Geneviève. Then, fancying her aunt looked at her curiously, “I thought that he was so very busy,” she added confusedly.
Cicely meanwhile was knocking at her father’s door. Her first tap was unnoticed. She repeated it.
“Come in,” said Colonel Methvyn’s voice. To Cicely it sounded very weak and feeble. “Oh! is it you, my dear?” he exclaimed when he saw her. “I thought it was Barry with the letters.”
“I have brought them, papa,” said Cicely. “But I do so wish you would not read them yet. They look like business letters, and they always tire you so.”
She stooped and kissed him. He had had a good night Mrs. Methvyn had said, but to Cicely’s eyes he looked sadly white and frail this morning; his voice was tremulous, his hand shook as he held it out for the letters.
“Give them to me, my dear child. I shall be more comfortable when I have read them.”
He opened two of them and tossed them aside with indifference. The third was a longer letter. Colonel Methvyn read it through once—twice—then folded it up again and put it back carefully into its envelope with a little sigh. Cicely watched him anxiously.
“Is it all right, papa?” she said. “Nothing to vex you, I mean?”
“Oh! no, it is all right enough,” he answered rather absently. “Cicely,” he went on, after a little pause, “there will probably be a telegram for me some time to-day. Don’t think of keeping it from me, my dear. It would annoy me inexpressibly if you did so. Let it be brought up at once. Tell your mother so.”
“Very well, papa,” replied Cicely. She leant over him and kissed him again, then she went quietly downstairs.
Her mother looked up quickly as she re-entered the room.
“I don’t think there is anything particular in papa’s letters,” said Cicely, in answer to her mother’s unspoken question. “But he says there may be a telegram some time to-day, and he wishes it taken to him at once.”
“I hope it won’t come,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I don’t feel easy about your father. He is doing far too much. How do you think he is looking this morning, Cicely?”
“Pretty well,” replied Cicely. “What time do you think Mr. Guildford will be here, mother?”
“Early—before luncheon, I fancy,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You will not be out today when he comes, my dear?”
“Oh! no,” said Cicely. “I wish I knew what time he will be coming,” she thought to herself, “I would walk part of the way to meet him.”
For since seeing her father her fears had revived. She felt certain that Mr. Guildford must have thought unfavourably of him the day before, otherwise he would not be coming again so soon; she felt restless and unhappy, and longed with intense longing to express her fears to the only person who could soothe or allay them; the thought of the ball at Lingthurst grew hourly more distasteful to her.
“If only Geneviève could go alone,” she thought, “and mother and I stay at home. But, of course, it would give offence—I must go.”
She could settle to none of her usual occupations, and at last she determined to set off to meet Mr. Guildford. She looked in at the door of her cousin’s room before going. Geneviève was laying out betimes her costume for the evening, apparently perfectly happy in the occupation; she looked up with a bright smile at the sound of Cicely’s voice.
“Is not the effect of these flowers on the skirt beautiful, my cousin?” she exclaimed, pointing to the mass of snowy clouds of gauze that lay on the bed. “I only wish it were time to dress. I am all impatience to put it on.”
“It is very pretty,” said Cicely kindly. “I am sure it will suit you beautifully, Geneviève. I am going out for a little,” she went on, “please tell mamma so if you hear her asking for me. I cannot disturb her just now. She is in papa’s room. You don’t want to come out this morning?”
“Oh! no, thank you,” said Geneviève, “I have twenty things to do. I don’t like the bows they have put on my boots, they make the foot so broad. I am going to arrange them again.”
“Well, good-bye then,” said Cicely, turning to go. Just then there came a ring at the front-door bell. It sounded sharp and loud through the quiet house.
“Who can that be?” exclaimed Geneviève.
“The telegram,” said Cicely. “I must go and see if it is.”
“Stay a moment. I can tell you,” said Geneviève.
One of the windows of the room looked to the front, but the sill was high and narrow. She drew a chair forward and stepped up on to it. Cicely watched her in astonishment.
“What are you doing, Geneviève?” she exclaimed. “You can’t see anything from there. You forget the porch.”
“Ah! but I can,” replied Geneviève triumphantly. She was by this time mounted on the sill, craning her neck round in a peculiar fashion. “You forget there is a window in the side of the porch. From here, when I put my head so, I can see who stands at the door—voilà! I found this out the first days I was here. Now I see. No, Cicely, it is not the boy from the station. It is a tall figure, a gentleman. Can it be Mr. Fawcett?”
She turned round with eager inquiry.
“No,” replied Cicely, “I don’t expect him to-day. Do come down, Geneviève. It would look so strange if any of them saw you climbing up there.”
She spoke rather coldly. Geneviève’s conduct jarred upon her. She only waited till the little lady had accomplished her descent in safety, and then went downstairs, to satisfy herself of the correctness of her cousin’s information.
She was not long left in doubt. Parker was coming in search of her—Mr. Guildford was in the library and had asked for her.
“How kind of him to come so early,” thought Cicely, trying to believe that no thing but kindness was the motive for such prompt fulfilment of his promise. “If he were really uneasy about papa, he would certainly have waited to see me last night,” she said to herself, as she entered the room; but, nevertheless, she looked strangely pale, and the tremor in her voice was not quite imperceptible when Mr. Guildford came forward to meet her. He shook hands somewhat abruptly. Cicely glanced at his face. He too seemed discomposed; he looked worn and tired, as if he had not slept all night. A terror seized Cicely. “Has he come to break it to me? Does he think the very worst?” were the thoughts that flashed through her mind. She felt herself beginning to tremble so much that she sat down on the nearest chair without attempting to speak.
Mr. Guildford did not seem to notice her agitation; he did not look at her, but kept his eyes fixed upon the table beside which he was standing.
“He is afraid of looking at me—he cannot make up his mind how to tell me what he must,” thought Cicely, with a sort of shiver. But the silent waiting at last grew unendurable; she felt that it must be broken.
“It is very kind of you to have come so early,” she began. “I cannot tell you how kind I think it.”
Mr. Guildford turned suddenly. “I came early on purpose,” he said. “I was so afraid of missing you. But how ill you look, Miss Methvyn,” he went on hastily. “Is there anything wrong? You look so dreadfully pale. I am afraid I should not have asked to see you.”
Cicely’s pale lips quivered. “I am quite well,” she whispered. “There is nothing wrong with me. I shall be all right again directly—but, Mr. Guildford, I—I know why you have come this morning I know what you have to tell me. Please don’t hesitate—it is better not. I shall not be silly—you will see.”
She tried to smile, but hardly succeeded. Mr. Guildford looked at her in amazement. “You know why I wanted to see you this morning, Miss Methvyn?” he repeated. “You cannot. It is impossible that—that you should suspect,” he stopped in confusion.
“I have thought him much less well the last few days,” said Cicely. “Of course I cannot judge as you can, but still I almost expected you to tell me you were beginning to lose hope. I knew you would tell me first.”
“Are you speaking about your father?” said Mr. Guildford. “Did you think it was on his account I wanted to see you?”
“Yes, of course,” replied Cicely wonderingly. “Is it not so? Do you not think him much worse?”
“No,” said Mr. Guildford. “I have not thought so. I do not think Colonel Methvyn quite as well as he was some time ago—he is more nervous, more easily upset than he used to be; but I see no important change in him. There is no reason why he should not remain as well as he is—or even gain ground a little—for years to come, provided always his mind is kept tranquil. I could not take upon myself to say how he would stand any severe shock.”
Cicely gazed at him as if she could hardly believe him.
“That is just what you said some months ago,” she exclaimed. “And you really don’t think him much worse?
“Certainly not. What made you think so?”
“I don’t know. I have not thought him quite well. I fear he has been worried and troubled, and I have let my fears get the better of me, I suppose. I felt quite certain that you had come this morning to prepare me for something dreadful.”
She smiled, but faintly still—the revulsion from terror to renewed hope was almost too much for her. Mr. Guildford smiled too, but in his smile there was even less sunshine than in Cicely’s, and in his voice there was even a touch of bitterness as he replied,
“Something dreadful! Far from it. You will believe me when you hear what it really is that I want to say to you this morning—” he paused and took a step or two away from where he had been standing. Then he came back again to the table, and, lifting a book that was lying upon it, turned the leaves over idly with his fingers. “I want you to release me from a promise, Miss Methvyn,” he said at last.
Cicely looked up in surprise. “What promise? I don’t understand,” she replied.
“Don’t you remember,” he went on, speaking slowly, but without looking at her, “don’t you remember that some time ago I promised you—tacitly or directly I am not sure which, and it does not matter, the promise was given—that I would not leave this neighbourhood as long as Colonel Methvyn required me—as long as I felt that I could be of use to him?”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I have always depended upon your not doing so. I don’t remember the exact words, but I felt satisfied that you had perfectly re-assured me about it, at the time I was afraid of your going.”
“Yes. I did promise as I said. There is no doubt I did,” said Mr. Guildford, and it is from this promise I want you to release me.”
“You want to go away! You have got some better position in prospect!” exclaimed Cicely. “Oh! how unfortunate—can you not defer going, even for a few months? Papa may be stronger, or Dr. Farmer may be back; of course, we cannot expect you to sacrifice your future to us, but I cannot help telling you I am dreadfully sorry. I was so thankful to hear you say that you do not think papa much worse, and now, I shall just feel more anxious about him than ever.”
She turned her head away, but Mr. Guildford felt that there were tears in her eyes.
“You need not—you must not think I would act without regard to Colonel Methvyn,” said Mr. Guildford hurriedly. “I have heard from Dr. Farmer—he is not likely to be away very much longer—and in the meantime I can assure you that the medical man I should recommend to your father is thoroughly deserving of your confidence.
“I dare say he is,” said Cicely impatiently. “It is not that that I am thinking of. I don’t believe any doctor can do much for my father. It is not doctoring he needs as much as cheering and interesting. That is what you have done for him—far better than poor old Dr. Farmer could do. And he will miss you after a while even more than now; there are reasons—” she hesitated. “Oh! I am dreadfully sorry,” she repeated, “but of course we cannot expect you to sacrifice your future. We are only too grateful for what you have done. Forgive me for seeming so selfish.”
Mr. Guildford did not appear to notice her last words. “You mistake me a little,” he said. “My reasons for wishing—for thinking it best I should go away, have nothing to do with my prospects—nothing whatever. At this moment I have not the faintest notion where I shall go, or what I shall do when I leave Sothernbay. I have only one distinct idea.”
“What is that?”
“Merely to go away—the further the better,” he replied, with a sort of reckless despondency that startled Cicely; “to be forgotten, doubtless; to forget if I can.”
Once or twice during the interview a thought had occurred to Cicely which explained Mr. Guildford’s unexpected behaviour. Now it gathered strength; his last words especially seeming to confirm it. A sudden impulse seized her to test its correctness.
“Mr. Guildford,” she exclaimed. “You are not at all like yourself this morning. You are generally far too sensible to talk so. You know very well we are not the least likely to forget you—we are not so ungrateful; and if I believed that you mean what you said, I should be very angry with you for saying you would forget us if you could. But you don’t mean it. Something is wrong with you, and I believe,” she went on slowly, “I believe I know what it is.”
“You cannot. It is impossible,” he said hastily.
“Has it not something to do with my cousin Geneviève?” asked Cicely quietly.
“Certainly not,” he replied promptly. “Not directly, that is to say. She certainly helped me to find it out—for which I suppose I should be very much obliged to her—” he gave a bitter little laugh; “but in no other way has she anything to do with my wish to go away.”
“I thought you admired her so much,” said Cicely.
“So I do. I think she is marvellously pretty and charming, and I dare say she is very amiable and sweet-tempered.”
“Yes, that is what you said of her before. Indeed you almost spoke as if she were—as if she realised your ideal woman,” said Cicely with an attempt at playfulness.
But Mr. Guildford did not smile.
“You have a good memory, Miss Methvyn,” he said rather coldly. “If you remember so much, don’t you remember a little more? By what you call my ideal woman, you mean the sort of woman I should choose for a wife; don’t you? But I have had a higher ideal woman—a woman whom I would choose for a friend—don’t you remember my telling you that?”
“Yes,” said Cicely with interest. “I remember. But what about it?”
“I have made a mistake—that’s all.” said the young man drearily. “I have thought I was wiser than other men, and I find I am a greater fool than any man I ever knew. My theories are all smashed. In plain words, Miss Methvyn, I have come across such a woman as in my wildest dreams I never dreamt of—a woman, whom any man would be honoured by having as a friend, but whose friendship only will not satisfy me. The sort of affection I used to picture myself as giving to a wife—to my ‘ideal wife’ remember—seems to me now like the light of a farthing candle beside that of the midday sun. Good God, what a presumptuous fool I have been! I thought I was so strong, so perfectly able to take care of myself—and see where I am now. At this moment I care for nothing—all my studies, all my hopes seem to have turned to ashes between my teeth—I have only one instinct left—that of flight. Now, Miss Methvyn, will you forgive me?”
Cicely had sat in perfect silence, listening to his impetuous words. When he stopped, she said softly, “I am very, very sorry for you.”
“You should not be sorry for me,” he said with a sort of reluctant gentleness. “I have myself to thank for it. I think now,” he went on slowly, “I think that my grand theories about women must have arisen from an instinct in me that if ever I did come under an overwhelming influence of the kind, it would go hard with me—very hard indeed.”
“But,” said Cicely, speaking with an effort, yet earnestly, “I don’t understand you. Do you mean that you are tearing yourself away from the influence you tell me of?—a good and noble influence as far as I can judge—simply because you have resolved that no woman ever shall influence you strongly and entirely? How can you take upon yourself so to thwart your best self? How do you know that this woman, whoever she is, might not be all the truer a friend for being your wife? If you are sacrificing yourself all for the sake of consistency, I should respect you more if you were inconsistent.”
“I am not doing so,” replied Mr. Guildford sadly. “I cannot say whether I think I should have acted as you suppose. I tell you all my theories are put to confusion; I shall have hard work to gather them together again. I have no choice; the longer I remain in this neighbourhood, the worse it will be for me. It is a mere selfish instinct of self-preservation that urges me to flight—a shadowy hope of retaining some of the shreds of what used to be my interests in life. Some day, I suppose—I have read of such things, though I never understood them before—some day, I suppose, I shall find I have outlived this after all, and then I may set to work again in the old way. I can’t say, I don’t think I care. I only want you to give me back my promise, Miss Methvyn, and to forgive me, and let me go.”
There was a despairing tone in the last few words which, coming as they did from a man usually so self-contained, so resolutely cheerful, so strong and manly, seemed, to Cicely, full of a strange pathos. But she did not again say that she wa “very, very sorry” for Mr. Guildford, nor did she at once answer his request. She looked up timidly, and a faint colour rose in her cheeks. “Do you mean—do you mean,” she said, “that you have no choice because you know certainly that—she—does not care for you? Are you sure that you are not letting false pride influence you, that you are not taking for granted what may not be certain after all? Forgive me for saying it—I am so reluctant for you to be unnecessarily unhappy—and in such cases, lives are often ruined by some misapprehension.”
She spoke very gently. Mr. Guildford looked at her for a moment. Then he rose from the chair where he had sat down, and walked a few steps away.
“There is no misapprehension,” he said at last. “In no circumstances could I have imagined it possible that—that I could have been cared for in the only way that would have satisfied me. But, as it happens—fortunately for me, I suppose—circumstances, outward circumstances I mean, are dead against me. Socially even, there could never have been a question of—of such a thing, and besides that—”
He stopped abruptly. He had been standing near the window, at some little distance from Cicely, not looking at her as he spoke. Suddenly he turned, and came back again, close to the table by which she was sitting. “Miss Methvyn,” he said, and his voice sounded so strange that Cicely looked up quickly in affright, “Miss Methvyn,” he repeated, “there is no use in beating about the bush. Even if you despise me, and refuse ever to speak to me again, I think it will be a relief to tell you the truth, if you have not already guessed it. Don’t you know what has opened my eyes? Don’t you know what Miss Casalis told me yesterday—about you—what I never suspected before, blind fool that I was!—don’t you know what I mean?”
“No,” said Cicely. But her voice was low and tremulous. She hesitated a moment, “at least,” she added, “I don’t understand altogether.”
She would rather not have said as much, but it seemed to her as if the words were drawn from her against her will.
“Don’t you?” said Mr. Guildford, “are you sure you don’t?”
He was looking at her now, so earnestly that Cicely, who had grown very pale, felt her cheeks burn with the consciousness of his gaze. She could bear it no longer. She got up from her seat, and, leaning one hand upon the table, spoke out bravely.
“Mr. Guildford,” she exclaimed, “you are trying me painfully. I am very, very sorry for you, but—I think you may regret if you say any more. I don’t know what my cousin told you yesterday—it is true that I do not altogether understand what you mean, and I would rather not understand. Let me tell you again how very sorry I am that you should be troubled or pained; but—you are a man, Mr. Guildford; you have life before you and great aims to live for. Whatever it is that is troubling you now will pass away and leave no lasting traces. I won’t insult you by supposing it could be otherwise. You are a man—some things are harder to be borne by women than by men.”
She stifled a little sigh, and was moving away, but Mr. Guildford stopped her.
“Miss Methvyn, you must listen to me. I want you to understand me, if not you may think worse of me than I deserve. I had no intention of troubling you, but I cannot bear you to think of me as I see you do—as a foolish boy who has forgotten himself and his place—” he hesitated a moment, then went on again, without bitterness this time, but with a depth of restrained suffering in his voice which touched Cicely to the quick. “I told you that I had to thank Miss Casalis for bringing me to my senses,” he said. “It was she who told me yesterday that you are shortly to be married to Mr. Fawcett. She told it very abruptly. I had had no idea of it—not, of course, that it could have made any difference to me—but it came upon me very suddenly. People who have been blind, you know, are startled when they first gain the use of their eyes. I am in that condition. As I have told you, I am shaken to the very foundations. I am a man, as you reminded me, not a boy; but, kind and good as you are, you don’t know how a man can suffer. Miss Methvyn, I cannot remain here. I am not really required. I entreat you to absolve me from my promise, and let me go.”
Cicely had turned her face away while he was speaking. She could not bear him to see the tears that were gathering in her eyes. Now she only said gently, and it seemed to him coldly, “I would not dream of preventing your going. It is very good of you to have asked me to release you. Many people would have forgotten all about such a promise.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Will you say good-bye to me, Miss Methvyn?” he added. “I should like to think you have forgiven me.”
Then she turned towards him, and he saw that she was crying. “That I have forgiven you,” she repeated. “What is there I could possibly have to forgive? I cannot tell you how bitterly I regret that your kindness to us should have brought suffering upon you. I thought you so wise and clever, so above such things. I can hardly even now believe that—that I can be the cause of your trouble. It is not only that I have always thought of myself almost as if I were already married, but I never associated you with such possibilities. I never really believed you cared for Geneviève. I thought you were wholly occupied with other thoughts—so above such things,” she repeated. “Have I been to blame in any way?” she added ingenuously.
“Only for believing my own account of myself—for taking me at my own valuation,” he replied with a smile—a curious, bitter smile. “‘Above such things!’ Yes, indeed, I deserve it all. Miss Methvyn, good-bye, and thank you for your gentleness and goodness.”
He was turning away, when Cicely held out her hand. “Good-bye,” she said, simply.
He took her hand, held it for an instant “I don’t think you will ever see me again,” he said in a low voice. “Thank you for being sorry for me;” then he was gone.
Cicely sat down by the table. She buried her face in her hands and cried bitterly. “I am so sorry for him,” she said to herself over and over again. “Why do things go wrong in this world always? I wish I could think that Trevor cared for me as that man does.”
Mr. Guildford went upstairs to see Colonel Methvyn. He sat with him for half an hour, talking as cheerfully as usual, intending, at least once in every five minutes of that half-hour, to break to Cicely’s father the news of his intended departure; but in the end he failed to do so. Colonel Methvyn seemed nervous and depressed, and Mr. Guildford’s courage played him false. He compromised matters at last by promising to call again the next day. “To-morrow,” he said to himself, as he walked slowly down the drive, “to-morrow I shall be better able to talk of my leaving, quietly, so that no one can suspect anything. But I must manage to avoid seeing her again. Oh, Cicely! When I would give ten years of my life for a moment’s glimpse of you! But she said goodbye, and she meant it.”
END OF VOL. II.
VOLUME III.