ONE OF MANY.
“‘It is good when it happens,’ say the children,
‘That we die before our time.’”
E. B. Browning.
WHEN Geneviève woke the next morning, the sun—the beautiful morning sun of an English June—was shining into her room. Her first thought was of gladness.
“What a fine day!” she said to herself. “I shall go out as soon as breakfast is over; I am sure Mr. Fawcett will be out early this morning.”
But suddenly the occurrences of the previous day returned to her recollection. Mr. Fawcett, what was he?—her own all but acknowledged lover, the rich, handsome young Englishman, whom long ago she had pictured as her future husband? Ah! no, all that was at an end. What could he ever be to her now? He, the betrothed of her cousin Cicely,—he, who she now knew had never cared for her as she had imagined, had only been amusing himself at her expense.
Yet she found it difficult to believe he did not care for her, she recalled his looks and words and tones, and dwelt on them till she almost persuaded herself that his engagement to Cicely was repugnant to him; that she, and not her cousin, was in possession of his heart. She knew that he admired her beauty, and she hardly understood the difference between a feeling of this kind and a higher, deeper devotion. She recalled the depression of Cicely’s manner the evening before, and her own suspicion as to its cause, and again a slight uncomfortable sensation of self-reproach passed through her, but again she checked it quickly.
“It is not my fault,” she said to herself; “if Mr. Fawcett thinks me prettier than Cicely I cannot help it. I have not interfered with my cousin’s fiancé, I knew not he was engaged to her, they never told me; it is their fault, not mine.”
And though yesterday, when she had learnt the real state of things from her aunt, she had felt, in the first blush of her disappointment and mortification, as if she could never speak to Mr. Fawcett again, as if she would be thankful to go away home to Hivèritz at once, and forget all her English experiences,—she now began to think she would like to meet Trevor, to see how he bore himself to her now that she knew all, perhaps even to hear his own account of things, possibly even—who could say?—his assurance of the depth of his hopeless regard for her, his soft whispers of regret that they had not met till “too late.”
It was too late. Of that she now felt satisfied, not from any scrupulous feeling of honour due to his own vows, or regard to Cicely’s happiness,—such considerations weighed curiously little in the scales of Geneviève’s judgment,—but she felt that in Trevor’s place she herself would have hesitated before the sacrifice involved by the breaking off of his engagement. Cicely was rich, well-connected, and in every sense a partie to be desired; his parents approved of her,—there was no saying what might not be the results of his displeasing them in so grave a matter. “They might disinherit him,” reflected Geneviève, “and in that case—” She did not finish the sentence, but she was none the less clear in her own mind that Mr. Fawcett penniless and obscure would be by no means the same person as the hero of her castles in the air.
So, with a sigh, she made up her mind that she must think no more of Cicely’s fiancé. To do her justice, no feeling of ill will towards her cousin increased the bitterness of her disappointment; she was doubtful of Cicely’s appreciation of her good fortune, but that was all; and then she consoled herself a little by reflecting that, had Trevor been unfettered, old Mathurine’s predictions would certainly have been fulfilled.
“I wish I could see him,” she thought; “I wonder what he will think when he finds that I know of his engagement. I am glad he did not see me yesterday, when my eyes were so red and swollen. I wonder if Mr. Guildford observed them.”
The recollection of Mr. Guildford sent her thoughts off in another direction. She recalled her aunt’s hints when they were driving the day before, and speculated as to what had called them forth. She did not care for Mr. Guildford in the least; she thought him abrupt and “brusque” in manner; painfully “English” in the objectionable sense of the word, and very far removed in position from that which she aspired to. Still he was clever, and likely to rise in his profession; he was not poor,—Mrs. Methvyn had spoken of him as fairly well off; though not exactly good-looking, he was not without an air of distinction; it might be possible, thought Geneviève, to do worse. Stéphanie Rousille’s eldest sister had married a doctor, and seemed to enjoy most of the good things of life very satisfactorily; and some English doctors, Geneviève had heard, rose to high places, to appointments, à la cour even. It was not unpleasant to feel that if she chose she might, in all probability, be married as soon as Cicely; she was glad to remember that, notwithstanding her depression and preoccupation the day before, she had smiled and talked as usual to Mr. Guildford, and had done nothing to chill or repel his evident admiration.
“My eyes cannot have looked very bad, after all,” she thought, “or my aunt would not have stopped when we met him, for I am sure she wishes me to be admired.”
So Geneviève’s spirits rose again considerably; her distress of mind had not prevented her sleeping, and though, perhaps a very little paler and more subdued than her wont, she looked as fresh and sweet as a newly-opened rosebud when she joined her aunt and cousin at the breakfast-table.
Cicely, on the contrary, looked ill and almost careworn; it seemed to cost her an effort to speak or smile. Geneviève observed her with surprise.
“What then would she have, I wonder?” she said to herself; “I understand not the English.”
She strolled to the window when breakfast was over, wishing it were yesterday. How happy she had felt when she came back from her ramble in the woods! how little she had dreamt of what it was that her aunt was going to say to her! The tears rushed into her eyes again at the thought. It was a lovely day, but Geneviève felt no wish to go out; the morning walk had lost its charm for her; she began again to think England, despite its midsummer sunshine, a very different place from what she had pictured it, and almost to wish she had never come. Almost, not quite, she had made up her mind that she must have nothing more to do with Mr. Fawcett, except what little intercourse was unavoidable with him in his position of Cicely’s fiancé, but still she could not help wishing that she could see him again, if but once. If she could meet him by accident; in that there could be no harm—it was too hard to think she would never see him again, except in her cousin’s presence, in the openly recognised character of her lover.
A voice beside her made her start; it was only Cicely.
“Geneviève,” she said, “I have just got a note from Mr. Hayle asking me to send some things to those poor people at Notcotts, whose child is so ill. I think I shall go myself; my father does not want me particularly this morning, and I have got a headache, I should like the walk. Will you come part of the way with me? I don’t want you to come all the way, because mother wants one of us to help her in copying out that French catalogue for papa, and you could do it better than I, but you might come a little way with me if you would like.”
“Yes,” said Geneviéve. “I will come. I have nothing to do.”
There was a dull listlessness in her tone which attracted Cicely’s attention.
“Geneviève,” she said, looking at her with some anxiety as she spoke, “you don’t look happy. And at breakfast-time you seemed so bright, I hoped you had quite got over your low spirits. And now you look so dull again! What is it, dear?”
The ever-ready tears filled Geneviève’s eyes. She half turned away, as if to hide them.
“It is nothing,” she said, but with no abruptness in her tone. “I was thinking of many things, standing here alone—voilà tout, I assure you.”
“And is there nothing the matter, truly?” asked Cicely, seemingly but half satisfied.
“Nothing, truly nothing, except that I was feeling a little sad,” repeated Geneviève. But after a moment’s pause, she added, considerably to her cousin’s surprise, “Cicely, do you know I think it would be better for me to go home?”
“To go home!” exclaimed Cicely. “Why, Geneviève, you have not been here many weeks, and you have told me several times lately that you were getting to like being here and to feel happy with us! What has changed you so suddenly?”
“It is not that I am changed,” said Geneviève, the colour deepening in her face, “but—but things are changed. I fear now that I shall be in the way—you will have much to do—all the preparation of—of marriage to make, by what my aunt told me. It is all changed. I had thought to be a friend, a companion to you Cicely, but now you will have your own interests and occupations. I see not that I am wanted. I would rather go home.”
Cicely hardly knew whether to be vexed or sorry. She looked distressed and disappointed.
“I wish you would not talk so, Geneviève,” she said at last “you are quite—quite mistaken. The changes that are coming will only make you more wanted. Indeed,” she went on, hesitating a little, “it was partly the looking forward to my leaving home that made us all anxious for you to come to us—to take my place as it were. It was my doing that you were not told of my engagement at the first—before you came even. Now, I almost wish you had known it at the first.”
“Ah! yes, I wish much—I cannot say how much that I had known! Why did you not tell me? It was not kind,” Geneviève exclaimed.
There was a sort of vehement though subdued regret in her tone, which seemed to Cicely exaggerated and uncalled for.
“I don’t think you have any reason to think it unkind,” she said rather coldly. “I thought you would more readily feel at ease with me if you did not know that I was going to be married. I seem older than I am, and I fancied anything of that kind would have made you feel as if I were very much older than you. That was my only reason for not telling you. And besides, there seemed no particular reason for speaking of it immediately—at that time I had no idea that I should be married for a year or two years to come.”
“Had you not?” said Geneviève, quickly. “Oh, I thought not so! I thought you always knew it—your marriage—was to be soon.”
“No,” said Cicely, hardly remembering to whom she was speaking, “No, I had no idea of it—nobody had.”
She sighed as she spoke. She was not looking at her cousin, and did not see the curiously eager expression on her face.
“Then why—if you do not wish it, I mean—” said Geneviève, “should it be sooner than a year, or two years, as you said?”
Cicely was too preoccupied to notice Geneviève’s inquisitiveness. “Trevor wishes it, and so does my father. Everybody wishes it,” she replied.
“But you do not,” said Geneviève.
Something in the tone roused Cicely.
“I never said I did not wish it,” she answered with a touch of haughtiness. “Geneviève, you should be careful what you say.”
“Forgive me, Cicely. I meant not to vex you. It was only that—I do not understand, I suppose—but it seemed to me strange that Mr. Fawcett should wish to hasten it, if it is your wish to wait a year.”
“No,” answered Cicely gently again,“no, it is different for him. Our marriage involves for him no breaking of old ties as it does for me. It is quite different.”
But in her heart of hearts, Geneviève’s remark had left a little sting. It was strange that her wishes had no longer their old weight with Trevor. She had already owned to herself that it was so, but the putting into words of the thought by another—an outside disinterested spectator—brought it home to her with increased pain and acuteness.
And Geneviève, for her part, had got some new lights on the subject of her cousin’s affairs.
They went out together—through the pleasant shady lanes which led to Notcotts, Cicely carrying a small basket packed with delicacies for the little invalid. She had always loved children, but of late she had seemed to look upon them with an increased tenderness. She loved to see them happy, but it was the sight of childish suffering that called forth her deepest sympathy.
“How sad it must be for a little child to be ill in the summer-time,” she remarked. They had stopped to rest for a moment or too by a stile, for the basket was rather heavy. Cicely set it down on the ground beside her, and gazed up into the mid summer sky with a wistfulness in her eyes.
“Is the little child that you are going to see very ill?” asked Geneviève, more for the sake of saying something than because she felt much interest in the matter.
“Yes,” said Cicely laconically; “he is dying.”
Geneviève gave a little start. “How dreadful!” she exclaimed, feeling very glad that her cousin had not proposed her accompanying her all the way.
“It is very sad, but not dreadful,” replied Cicely gently. “And the worst of it is that in one sense it is hardly to be called sad. Life, so far as we can see, seems sadder than death to most of the poor little children at Notcotts, the people are so very poor and so very ignorant. Nobody ever took any interest in the place till Mr. Hayle came. He does his best, but a dozen Mr. Hayles could not do enough.”
“Does it belong to Sir Thomas?” asked Geneviève.
“No, I wish it did,” answered her cousin. “It belongs to two or three different owners, none of whom live near here, or take any interest in it. But, Geneviève, I think you must turn now; we have walked slowly, and mother may be wanting you. Good-bye, dear; thank you for coming so far.”
Geneviève left her. Cicely sat on the stile watching her for a minute or two. At a turn in the lane Geneviève looked round for an instant, kissing her hand in farewell.
“She seems quite happy again,” thought Cicely, “poor little Geneviève!”
She was lifting her basket and preparing to set off again, when happening to look round, she saw a figure coming quickly across a field at the side of the lane. It was Mr. Hayle. He hurried up to her.
“How good of you to come yourself, Miss Methvyn,” he exclaimed, quite out of breath with his haste. “I take for granted you are going to see that poor child at Notcotts. I hardly hoped you would be able to come yourself, but he will be delighted to see you again. And there is very little that can be done to please him now.”
“Is he worse?” asked Cicely.
“Yes; I hardly think he will live over today. That was why I ventured to send to you for the fruit.”
“I am very glad you did,” said Cicely. “I have brought some other little things for him,” she added, glancing at her basket, “but if he is too ill to care for them, I can give them to his brothers and sisters. Poor little creatures, they are more to be pitied than he, if he is dying!”
Mr. Hayle looked at her rather suspiciously. His two or three conversations with Miss Methvyn had rendered him somewhat chary of subscribing to her sentiments till he had examined them on all sides.
“How do you mean?” he asked warily.
“I mean that life—living rather—in such circumstances as those of these poor people, is much more pitiable than death.”
“But there must be poor people. We know for a fact that there always must be,” replied Mr. Hayle. “And knowing this, we have no right to say that the world would be better without them, or to wish them out of it.”
“I did not say that,” said Cicely. “I only say that when they die, they must surely have a better chance than many of them have here. It was only from their side of the question that I was speaking. It would be very dreadful to think that, as you say, there must always be poor—by poor, of course, I mean very poor and wretched people. I know nothing of Political Economy, but I don’t quite see why there always must be such terrible blots on the race. Indeed, I don’t think I do see it at all. Don’t you think that on the whole, things are improving, Mr. Hayle, and if so, will not the world be a better place a few thousands of years hence than it is now?”
She spoke half laughingly, but Mr. Hayle’s face and tone were very grave as he replied to her.
“I was not speaking as a political economist, Miss Methvyn. You misunderstood me. I was speaking as a Christian.”
Cicely looked at him in some perplexity, but gradually her brow cleared.
“I see,” she said, “but I don’t agree with you.”
“I dare say not,” he answered regretfully. “I fear there are many points on which you would not agree with me.”
The words sounded presumptuous and conceited, but Cicely understood that they were neither.
“It is the rock so many split upon in the present day,” pursued Mr. Hayle, his voice sounding as if he was thinking aloud.
“What?” said Cicely, somewhat mischievously.
“The setting up of reason against revelation, of private judgment against authority,” replied the young clergyman mournfully.
Cicely was not the least vexed. It was impossible for her to take offence at whatever Mr. Hayle could say—boyish as he appeared, he was so honestly in earnest, so single-minded in his conviction—but she felt inclined to smile. And this she knew would wound the young man far more keenly than the most indignant contradiction. In the present instance, however, she found no difficulty in evading the argument she dreaded, for before there was time for her to answer, they came within sight of their destination, and their attention was diverted by what they saw.
The cottage where lay the poor sick child was one of a row of hovels, undrained, unventilated, low-roofed, and dilapidated, so altogether wretched as to make one inclined to doubt whether, after all, the poor of great cities, where some amount of attention to sanitary rules is compulsory, have not the advantage over their country neighbours. Even on this bright June morning Notcotts looked abjectly miserable; no amount of sunshine could gild over its squalid wretchedness. At the gate of little Joe’s home stood a group of half-a-dozen men and women; they fell back without speaking as Mr. Hayle and Cicely came up. Cicely was going in, but her companion stopped her. “Let me ask how he is, first,” he said somewhat abruptly, gently putting her aside as he hastened in. There was no one in the kitchen; the clergyman passed through it to an inner room, and Cicely stood at the door, waiting.
It was some minutes before Mr. Hayle appeared. When he did so, his face was very grave. “It is as I feared,” he said gently, “the poor little boy is dead, Miss Methvyn.”
Cicely made a step or two forward into the kitchen, out of the sight of the curious group at the gate; then two or three large tears trickled down her face.
“Poor little Joe,” she said; “I am so sorry I was not in time.”
Mr. Hayle did not speak.
“I will go in and see the mother,” Cicely added in a minute. Mr. Hayle looked at her doubtfully.
“He—it—the poor little dead body is in there,” he said. “Do you not mind?”
“Oh! no,” she replied. “I should like to see him.”
She went into the inner room, and the young clergyman stood watching her.
“What a woman she might be if she were but better influenced!” he said to himself.
Cicely did not stay very long, and when she came out again, Mr. Hayle saw that she had been crying. He walked a little way along the road with her, then their ways separated.
“I must take a short cut home across the fields,” he said. “Good-bye, Miss Methvyn, and thank you very much.”
“Thank me,” she repeated “I have done nothing; I wish I could. I wish I had more in my power.”
“You don’t know how much you might have in your power,” he said impressively. “I wonder,” he added, after a little pause, “I wonder if you would read some books I would like to lend you, Miss Methvyn.”
Cicely smiled. “I would read them,” she said, “but I think it would be better not.”
“Why so?”
“Because it would vex and disappoint you if I could not honestly say I liked them,” she replied. “I have no doubt I should like parts, and probably admire a great deal. But I fear it would not be the sort of liking and admiration you want. And I dislike seeming presumptuous.”
Then Mr. Hayle went his way. “I wonder if it is true that she is going to marry Fawcett,” he said to himself. “If it is so, in my opinion she will be thrown away upon him. A wife like that might strengthen one’s hands.”
But as he had long ago decided that with marrying and giving in marriage he and such as he had nothing to do, his spirit was not perturbed by the reflection.