SOME SUMMER DAYS.
“. . . there arrives a lull in the hot race
* * * * * *
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.”
Mathew Arnold.
WHAT a pleasant drive it was! They left the high-road, where the heat and brightness of the July sun were untempered by shade, and drove along the pretty lanes abounding in the neighbourhood, in which the trees met overhead, and the brilliant sky was seen only through a leafy network of every tint of green.
“I never remember a more beautiful summer day than this,” observed Colonel Methvyn. “I wonder if it seems so to all of you, or if my enjoyment is increased by my long isolation from out-door pleasures? An invalid has some compensations after all. I dare say I should not have given two thoughts to the beauty of the day, if I had been going about in my old way.”
“But it is a quite unusually exquisite day, papa,” said Cicely. “It is not sultry just deliciously soft and yet fresh. An invalid’s friends have some compensations too, you see, for we all enjoy this lovely day doubly through knowing that you enjoy it too!”
“You are all very good, my dear,” answered her father, smiling.
“Mr. Guildford best of all, is he not?” said Cicely, “for suggesting that you would be able to enjoy driving.”
She turned to Mr. Guildford with a pretty glance of gratitude, as she spoke, but the young man hardly seemed to appreciate her acknowledgment of what she felt to be owing to him.
“I should be a very poor doctor, Miss Methvyn,” he said, with a very slight emphasis on the objectionable word, “if I contented myself with physicking my patients only. The good effects of fresh air and sunshine are more justly estimated than they used to be, I am glad to say.”
Cicely’s face sobered. “Yes,” she said quietly, “it is a very great blessing that people are growing wiser about such things.”
But the playfulness had died out of her manner. Forthwith Mr. Guildford blamed himself for his touchiness. “Surly idiot that I am,” he said to himself, “why should I be offended at her remembering what my position is?” And he set to work to disperse the little cloud his coldness had brought over the bright young face.
His efforts were successful. Notwithstanding his secluded life, he could talk well and interestingly when he chose; and women of even only ordinary intelligence are as quick to appreciate good talking as to see through and despise the superficial chatter in comparison with which silence is golden indeed. Cicely Methvyn’s intelligence was beyond the average, and its vigour and freshness were unchecked by the slightest touch of self-consciousness. And in this perhaps was the secret of her unusual charm. She forgot herself in the interest of discussion, she was eager to understand what she heard, completely frank in confessing her ignorance. But with it all, ever gentle, ever womanly and docile.
Mr. Guildford had never before seen her quite in the light in which this afternoon she appeared to him. She seemed younger and yet older, simpler and more girlish than he had hitherto imagined her, even while unconsciously allowing him glimpses of a mind of unusual grasp and by no means discreditable cultivation.
“When have you found time to read so much, Miss Methvyn?” he inquired at last, in surprise at her evidently thorough acquaintance with the subject they were discussing. It happened to be one of Colonel Methvyn’s pet hobbies, that of engraving.
Cicely blushed slightly; then glancing affectionately at her father. “It is papa who has taught me all I know about it,” she replied. “I have had unusual advantages—ever so many ‘extras’ in my schooling, thanks to him. I should have been very stupid not to have learnt a little. Shouldn’t I, father?”
Colonel Methvyn smiled. “She has had to be both son and daughter, you see. No wonder she is a little spoilt!” he said, with a sort of half apologetic pride that had in it something both pleasing and pathetic.
“Some kinds of spoiling don’t spoil,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“Or some people won’t spoil?” suggested Mr. Guildford with a smile.
“‘Some people’ is being spoilt now, among you all,” answered Mrs. Methvyn.
Cicely laughed and blushed. “Suppose we change the subject,” she said, “I am growing quite hot and nervous. I wonder how Geneviève is getting on, by the bye,” she added suddenly.
“Yes,” said her mother, “we shall be hearing from her to-morrow morning.”
“Has Miss Casalis gone to any distance?” inquired Mr. Guildford. “Is she to be long away?”
“A few weeks, not longer,” said Mrs. Methvyn, she has gone to the sea side—to the Isle of Wight—with the Fawcetts.”
“Oh! indeed,” said Mr. Guildford. “You must miss Miss Casalis a good deal,” he added to Cicely; “at least, I should think she would be missed.”
His tone was perfectly unconstrained at the beginning of the speech, but something in the expression of Cicely’s eyes as she turned to him, caused him to utter the last two or three words confusedly and somewhat incoherently. Miss Methvyn regarded him coolly till he left off speaking, and Mr. Guildford became aware that even blue eyes can be unpleasantly critical.
“What is she thinking of?” he said to himself.
Quoth Cicely calmly, “Do you mean because she is so pretty?”
“Not only that,” replied the young man, a dash of half-defined contradiction lending weight to his words. “Miss Casalis is much more than pretty. She is perfectly charming.”
“Yes,” said Cicely, as quietly as before, “she is.”
Then at last she turned away. But not in time to check by her gravity, a very slight, the very slightest of smiles, which Mrs. Methvyn was telegraphing to her daughter from her corner of the carriage, and which unfortunately did not reach its destination unperceived by Mr. Guildford.
He did not like it at all. He began to grow cross again, and would have succeeded in becoming thoroughly so had there been time for the completion of the process. But there was not. Just then the carriage turned in at the lodge on the Greybridge Road, and in two minutes more drew up in front of the ivy-clad porch of the Abbey, and everybody’s attention was given to helping the invalid out, and in the little bustle Mr. Guildford forgot all about his impending crossness and its cause.
He had time to get back into a very happy and amiable state of mind before he left, for he stayed till even the last lights of the long July day had sunk into the soft, mellow darkness of a midsummer night. And as he walked back to Greybridge station—slowly, all but indifferent to whether he lost the last train to Sothernbay or not, enjoying the delicious summer scents of new mown hay and dewy grass and sleeping flowers which came to him in mysterious wafts from unseen fields and hedgerows—it seemed to him as it had seemed on that bright May morning that now looked long ago, that the world was a happy place, and life a blessed thing, and that the future was rich with golden possibilities.
For Midsummer’s day must come once a year even in the coldest lands—and to all of us there must be midsummer once in life—a pause of mingled joy and hope, a living in the blissful present, a foolish dream of its continuance!
And for a while it almost seemed to the young man as if he had succeeded in cheating time into restfulness. He thought himself so different from other men, he thanked God that he was not as they, he stood strong and serene in his self-dominion; he had mastered his life and mapped it out as, it seemed to him, to the best advantage for his fellow-creatures in the special direction in which he felt that he could benefit them. And hitherto his intentions had been fulfilled, and his efforts crowned with success, and the future lay bright before him. He had worked hard, he had allowed nothing to beguile him from his labours, he felt that he had earned a right to some rest and enjoyment when they came in his way. And they offered themselves in so attractive and refined a form at this time; he felt that the society of such a woman as Cicely Methvyn could not but benefit as well as refresh him. He congratulated himself on the perfect knowledge of himself, and on the clear sighted resolution which enabled him to enjoy a pleasure and advantage of the kind with no fear of their leading him too far. For as firmly as ever he believed in his own theories, as determinedly as when he had aroused his sister’s indignation by the expression of his ideas on the subject, was he resolved that when he did marry, his choice should not fall upon a woman of character or intellect likely to lead her beyond the charmed circle of “her own sphere.” The only change in his feelings was an apparently unimportant one. Lately, quite lately, he had begun to doubt if he would marry at all.
“That lovely little cousin of Miss Methvyn’s,” he said to himself, as he was walking to Greybridge that night, “so she has gone away with the Fawcetts! I hope that young Fawcett is not amusing himself with her. He is not likely to be in earnest, for his family would be sure to think her beneath him—poor girl—she is too pretty to be in anything even approaching a dependent position.”
And a vague notion, born half of a sort of chivalry towards Geneviève, half of his admiration of her beauty, floated across his mind, of this innocent little creature as a possible wife. Did she not possess every qualification he had pronounced desirable? She was more than pretty, sweet-tempered certainly—who so gentle and clinging could be otherwise?—unselfish, he felt assured, transparent to a degree; the last sort of woman to trouble herself with understanding matters “too great for her,” or to dream of discontent with her own domain. Yet it had annoyed him to imagine that Cicely had had any deeper meaning than her words had expressed in her remarks about Geneviève that afternoon; the grave inquiry in her eyes had irritated him as much as the smile he had detected on her mother’s face.
“It is so like women to be always jumping to conclusions; their heads are always running on lovers and marriage, but I had fancied Miss Methvyn quite above such folly,” he said to himself by way of explanation of his annoyance.
Then he forgot all about Geneviève, and began considering how to arrange his work for the next day so as to be free to be at the Abbey again on that following, as he had promised to be if the weather should be fine enough for Colonel Methvyn to go out again.
It did prove fine enough, and so did a great many other days in the course of the next few weeks. And even when there came rainy days, such as there must be some of in the brightest summer, and there could be no question of out-of-doors for the invalid, there was yet sure to arise some unavoidable reason why Mr. Guildford’s visit to Greystone—should not be postponed. Either he would fancy it was going to clear, and in this expectation start on his little journey, or, if it were an unmistakable case of “cats and dogs,” his conscience would reproach him for inattention to poor Colonel Methvyn, and carelessness of his probable dreariness in such depressing circumstances, and he would remember some old book he had picked up which might amuse the invalid, or the announcement of some forthcoming sale of rare engravings would catch his eye in the morning paper and furnish the “way” which his “will” was alert to take advantage of.
And so, like many who pride themselves on the perfection of their self-knowledge, who imagine that under no conceivable circumstances could they be so deluded as to call a spade by any other name, “regardless of his doom” the young man marched calmly along the old, old road, seeing but the flowers by the wayside, all heedless and ignorant of what awaited him at the end.
But the close of that pleasant midsummer time was at hand.
Six or seven weeks passed. There came frequent letters from Geneviève, and an occasional one from Lady Frederica. Geneviève wrote cheerfully on the whole, though often expressing a wish that she were again with her kind friends at Greystone—pretty words which pleased Mrs. Methvyn, which Cicely smiled at with a sort of kindly indulgence, though less inclined than her mother to estimate them at more than their value. But Cicely had grown softer of late; it seemed to herself that her character was maturing and mellowing in the peace and congeniality of her present life.
“I have been very happy this summer,” she said to herself, “I shall always be so thankful to have the remembrance of it. My last summer at home!”
She could not even regret Mr. Fawcett’s absence, for she was satisfied by his cheerful letters that he was enjoying his visit to the north; and for the short time now left to her of home life, it was a relief to feel that no other duties clashed with the devotion she loved to lavish on her parents.
About the end of August, by which time allusions had been made more than once in Geneviève’s letters to coming home before long, Cicely one day received a somewhat lengthy epistle from Lady Frederica. The first part contained nothing of importance, only chit-chat about the weather and the fashions, the drives they had taken and the people they had met. Geneviève was evidently in high favour: “She is the sweetest girl in the world,” wrote her hostess; “I cannot tell you, my dear Cicely, how amiable and unselfish she has shown herself, and really, to me personally, quite devoted. I cannot say that I have missed poor old Winter in the least. I hope she won’t be jealous when she comes back! Of course, Geneviève is admired wherever we go; but we have been moving about too much to make many acquaintances, and I fear it must have been rather dull for her, though she is too unselfish to allow it,”—and so on. But the gist of the feminine letter lay in the postscript. It was quite as long as the rest of the letter.
“What do you think, my dear Cicely,” it began, “Trevor has just returned. He walked into the room all of a sudden when we were at luncheon, and thinking of him as hundreds of miles away; he had not time to write to tell us he was coming, and he says I am to tell you of his arrival, and he will write himself to-morrow. He is looking well, so brown, but he does not seem in his usual spirits. He was so cold and stiff to poor dear Geneviève when he came in, that I felt quite provoked with him; and when she had left the room, he actually said that if he had known we were not alone, he would not have come to us. I fear that Captain Halliday and his friends are a very bachelor set of men; it is quite time you took Trevor in hand, you see, my dear. In writing to him, I wish you would give him a hint that you would feel pleased by his showing kindness to your cousin, for really she deserves it, and, as I told you, she has had very little amusement with us. I really feel quite provoked with him.”
Then came postscript number two:—“Of course you will not tell Trevor that I have written to you about his being so cross.”
Cicely folded up the letter with a somewhat troubled expression of face. “I don’t understand why Trevor should be put out at finding Geneviève with his mother,” she thought. “From what Lady Frederica says, he evidently is so; he always seemed to like Geneviève, and he certainly admired her. He is not like what he used to be; I never remember him cross and unreasonable till lately, never in all his life.” She glanced again at the postscript. “I hate hints,” she said; “besides, what can I say, unless I tell him all his mother has written? Why should I suppose he would not be kind to Geneviève?”
She was still standing by the window, where she had been reading her letter, the perplexed expression had not left her face, when her mother came into the room.
“I have a letter from Geneviève, Cicely,” she exclaimed; “I don’t at all understand it. She writes begging to come home at once. Is it not silly and unreasonable? They are at Eastbourne now; she could not travel all the way here alone, and I have no one to send for her; and the Fawcetts are coming home themselves in a fortnight; they would certainly be offended if Geneviève left them so suddenly—after all their kindness to her, too. I don’t understand her in the least.”
“Trevor has come back,” said Cicely laconically.
“Trevor come back!” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn, her thoughts diverted for the moment by the unexpected news. “Dear me! he has returned very suddenly, surely. Have you a letter from him?”
“No,” replied Cicely; “he had not time to write himself, he had just arrived; my letter is from Lady Frederica. Does Geneviève not mention Trevor?”
“Oh! no; she is quite full of this absurd idea of returning here at once,” said Mrs. Methvyn in a tone of annoyance. “What can have put it into her head?”
“It may have to do with Trevor’s return,” said Cicely; “Geneviève is exceedingly quick and impressionable, she would discover at once if she were unwelcome.”
“Unwelcome!” repeated her mother, “what do you mean, my dear?”
Cicely hesitated a moment, then she took her letter out of its envelope again, and held it towards her mother. “You had better read what Lady Frederica says, mother; evidently Geneviève has been hurt by Trevor’s coldness.”
Mrs. Methvyn took the letter and read it. When she came to the postscript a smile stole over her face. “How stupid Frederica is sometimes,” she said complacently; “of course, poor Trevor was disappointed at finding Geneviève there, and not you, Cicely—quite enough to put him out, poor fellow!”
“But he had not the slightest reason to expect to find me there,” said Cicely, “and he must have known Geneviève was with his mother; I have mentioned it several times in my letters to him, I am sure, and of course his mother will have done so too.”
“You don’t know that he has got all your letters, and of course he might not remember every little thing in them,” persisted Mrs. Methvyn. “Very likely when he got to the hotel, and asked for his father and mother, the people would mention there being a young lady with them, and he would hasten in, quite expecting to see you. I can thoroughly understand how it has been.”
Cicely smiled, but said no more about it.
“I must write to Geneviève at once,” said Mrs. Methvyn, seating herself at her writing-table.
“Won’t you wait till to-morrow, mother?” said Cicely persuasively. “If Geneviève has written off hastily in a fit of fancying she was not wanted, she will very probably have changed her mind again by this time, and Trevor and she will be quite good friends. I dare say you will have another letter saying something of the kind, to-morrow morning.”
“Do you think so?” said Mrs. Methvyn irresolutely;—“well, then, perhaps I may as well wait. If I wrote at once, I should certainly tell Geneviève how exceedingly absurd I think her.”
Cicely proved a true prophet. There did come another letter from Geneviève the next day, begging her aunt to forgive her hasty request, and saying that she would be quite happy to stay with her friends till they too came home.
“I was not happy when I wrote before, dear aunt,” she said, “because it appeared to me that Mr. Fawcett when he arrived was not well pleased to see me; but now he tells me that he was only surprised, for, though he knew I had been with his mother, he thought I had returned, there is a long time. Now, however, I understand how it was, and I shall not any more be ill at ease.”
“What a little goose Geneviève is,” said Cicely laughing; “she will make Trevor quite conceited if she studies his manner so.”
There was no mention of Geneviève in Mr. Fawcett’s letter to his fiancée beyond the words, “I was surprised to find your cousin with my mother, I thought she had gone home some time ago; I wish you were here.” And Cicely read the passage to her mother, who was much gratified by the testimony it bore to her sagacity.
Early September was so fine this year that, but for the shortening days, it was difficult to realise that summer had fled. There were not many afternoons which did not see the little party at Greystone in the garden enjoying the loveliness of the balmy autumn weather, very few on which they were not joined by Edmond Guildford.
“This fine season is wonderfully lucky for me,” observed Colonel Methvyn one day. He had just returned from a drive, and the afternoon was so sunny and mild that Cicely had begged for tea on the lawn, and had persuaded her father to stay out.
“Yes,” said Cicely, “it will make the winter seem so much shorter; and then next spring, papa, you are going to be so strong and well! I expect to see you walking about quite briskly.”
“Next spring!” repeated Colonel Methvyn. There was a slight undertone of sadness in his voice. Cicely interpreted it in her own way; a slight colour rose in her cheeks, and Mr. Guildford, who was looking at her, almost fancied that there were tears in her eyes. But if it were so, she was quick to conceal all traces of emotion.
“Next spring is a good way off,” she said brightly, “and therefore we must make the most of this beautiful autumn while we have it. Mr. Guildford, can you come again this week? If you can, I do so want to drive to Roodsmere; we have not been there this year.“
“I think I can come,” said Mr. Guildford; “indeed, I am pretty sure I can. I want to make the most of the fine weather too,—it is thanks to it that I have not more to do at Sothernbay yet.”
“How so?” asked Colonel Methvyn.
“Because it delays the influx of visitors. Some years the place has been full of them by this time; it’s weary work for them, poor people!”
“And for you,” said Mrs. Methvyn sympathisingly.
“Sometimes,” he replied with a smile; “but this summer has been such a very pleasant one for me, I don’t feel inclined to quarrel with my fate at present.”
“Then what day shall we go?” said Cicely; “Geneviève will be coming home on Friday, so that day would not do—we must not be out when she arrives.”
“Is Miss Casalis sure to come on Friday?” said Mr. Guildford. “Would it do to wait till next week, and then she could go too?”
“No,” said Cicely decidedly; “there will probably be a change of weather by next week, and then we could not go at all. Will not Thursday do, mother? Will that suit you, Mr. Guildford?”
“Oh! yes, quite well,” he replied. So Thursday was decided upon.
“Cicely,” said her mother, when they were alone, “why did you answer so sharply when Mr. Guildford proposed to put off going to Roodsmere till Geneviève’s return? It sounded as if you did not want her to come.”
“I am not sure that I did want her, mother,” said Cicely, “but I did not mean to speak unkindly. I don’t think Trevor likes Mr. Guildford, and he will be back when Geneviève is; that was another reason for not putting it off. I had just a sort of wish to have this last drive all by ourselves, mother,—you and father and I.”
“But there will be Mr. Guildford,” said her mother.
“I don’t mind him. I think he understands,” said the girl vaguely.
“Why do you say ‘this last drive’?” said Mrs. Methvyn. “If the weather keeps fine, your father may be out a good many times yet.”
“I don’t think the weather will keep fine; I have a feeling that we have got to the last of the summer,” replied Cicely sadly.
“But summer will come again, my child,” said her mother, smiling.
“Not to find us all three the same as now,” said Cicely sadly; “I shall be away. There are always changes, last summer we had little Charlie here.”
She sighed as she spoke. Mrs. Methvyn said no more. “Cicely will be less fanciful when she is fairly settled in her new life,” she thought to herself.