WORK AND PLAY.
“If all the world and love were young
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue”
The Nymph’s Reply.
EARLY summer was the time of all others for seeing Lingthurst Copse to advantage, for the soil thereabouts was dry and gravelly, and a few weeks of hot weather destroyed the freshness of the tints and made all the vegetation look thirsty. It was only a copse, and the trees which composed it were somewhat stunted and meagre, but still it was a very pretty spot in itself, and worth driving more than three miles to, for the sake of the loveliness of the view from the top of the rugged old rock, one side of which was skirted by the miniature forest. The latter part of the ascent of this rock was very steep—in places almost perpendicular, but a series of rough steps greatly facilitated matters in the hardest parts of the climb—these were the steps known as the Witch’s Ladder. Who the witch was and from what uncanny motive she had devoted herself to thus amiably preparing the way for those who were to come after her, had been matter for much grave speculation, but had never been satisfactorily explained, and remained a pleasantly tantalising mystery to the visitors of her ancient haunts. That there had never been a witch at all, and that the steps were but natural irregularities on the rock’s surface, worn, in the lapse of time, to more definite shape by the feet of many climbers, was a theory which had suggested itself to some few irreverent minds. But, as a rule, these scoffers had the grace to keep their scepticism to themselves, and the witch, young or old, fair or hideous, was allowed to retain undisputed possession of Lingthurst Copse and Rock.
Cicely’s—or rather Geneviève’s picnic—had assumed unexpected dimensions. Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica had been invited to join the expedition and had asked leave to bring with them two young ladies, no longer in the very first blush of youth, the daughters of the Haverstock rector, whom Lady Frederica had invited to spend a week with her, from a vague notion that “it would be nice for them to meet Mr. Hayle, poor girls!”—a young and unmarried clergyman being an unprecedented novelty in the neighbourhood. But though the “poor girls” were very ready to come, Lady Frederica found the entertaining of them by no means so easy a matter as she had anticipated. She asked Mr. Hayle to dinner every other day at least, and in her innocent way prepared him to be captivated by one, if not by both, of the Misses Kettering by telling him beforehand what dear good girls they were, how indefatigable in the manufacture of ecclesiastical cushions and altar cloths, how unfailing in their attendance at the daily service instituted since the opening of the new Haverstock church. And Mr. Hayle listened gravely, expressed his satisfaction at finding that the neighbourhood contained such right thinking young women, came to dinner when he was asked, disgusted the elder Miss Kettering the very first evening by remarking that he wondered she had never thought of joining a sisterhood if the secular tone of her home life was not to her mind, and still more desperately offended the younger and better-looking sister by not admiring her rendering of Liszt’s ‘Ave Maria,’ got up by her with considerable labour for the occasion. So Lady Frederica’s benevolent intentions were defeated, and her guests lay heavy on her mind, and the news of the Methvyns’ picnic was welcome indeed, not only to the young ladies themselves but to all their entertainers, including Miss Winter and Mr. Fawcett who were growing very tired indeed of the labours Lady Frederica’s good nature had imposed upon them.
Mr. Hayle, in happy unconsciousness of the offence he had given, accompanied the Lingthurst party to the rendezvous at the Copse Farm, and almost reinstated himself in Miss Kettering senior’s favour by calmly declining to agree with her, when she gushingly demanded of him if he did not think that lovely Miss Casalis the most exquisitely beautiful girl he had ever seen.”
“I don’t care about that sort of beauty,” said Mr. Hayle, and then he walked away to where Cicely and Mr. Guildford were improvising a comfortable couch for Colonel Methvyn with the cushions of the carriages, as the invalid declared himself able to join the lowly luncheon party instead of remaining in the solitary state of his Bath chair.
He really looked and felt better than he had done for years, and Mr. Guildford was not a little elated at the success of his new mode of treatment. Long, long afterwards Cicely looked back with pleasure on that bright morning in the copse, and felt warm gratitude to the man whose care and kindness had enabled her suffering father to enjoy again a breath of the out-door life he had loved so well. And to-day the sight of the invalid’s pleasure seemed to cheer every one else. To all outward appearance they were a very happy little party. Geneviève’s clear soft laugh rang as merrily as if its owner had never known a care or perplexity, and the tender brightness of Cicely’s face was sunshine in itself. Mr. Hayle looked at her and wondered. Edmond Guildford forgot all his cynical theories in the unconscious happiness of the present, forgot even to marvel at his own inconsistency—only Trevor looked moody and dissatisfied, unlike his usual equable contented self.
There were more reasons than one for his gloom. Good-natured and kindly as he was, Cicely’s extreme devotion to her parents and home interests at times tried his patience, and suggested unpleasing comparisons. And a long conversation he had had the night before with his father was also on his mind. Nor was the day to close without yet further annoyance falling to his share.
Mr. Guildford had not forgotten his intention of coming to some sort of understanding with the little lady whose eyes had so successfully appealed to his forbearance. After luncheon the able-bodied members of the party felt themselves in duty bound to scale the Witch’s Ladder; in the ascent they naturally fell apart into little groups of twos and threes, and Mr. Guildford found himself alone with Miss Casalis. He had not sought the opportunity, and she had not evaded it, but now that it occurred, both were plainly conscious that the sooner what had to be said could be got over, the more comfortable they would feel. Somewhat to Mr. Guildford’s surprise, Geneviève herself hastened to break the ice.
“I fear much you thought me very strange the last day you came to Greystone,” she began, with some timidity, but on the whole less trepidation than he had expected. “I know well you did see me on the road, and it grieved me—indeed it grieved me to seem deceitful. But I was so frightened, oh! oh! so frightened, that my aunt would be very angry. And I would not for all the world make her angry. She is so very good for me. And I thank you so much that you did not insist that it was me that you had seen.”
Mr. Guildford was rather taken aback by the calmness of this confession—the girl did not seem by any means ashamed of herself, even though tacitly owning that her conduct deserved her aunt’s serious displeasure—he walked on (they were just now on a comparatively speaking level piece of ground, a sort of landing between the flights of stairs), for a few moments in silence; then he said abruptly,
“Why do you do what would make Mrs. Methvyn angry, if you dread her anger so much?”.
“I could not help it—indeed I could not,” said Geneviève penitently, without appearing in the least to resent his tone. “I was obliged to go to Greybridge, and at the first I did not think how it might displease my aunt.”
Mr. Guildford grew still more puzzled.
“I didn’t know you had been at Greybridge,” he said. “It was not there I saw you—indeed it was not very far from home. It wasn’t on account of—of the distance from home I thought Mrs. Methvyn would be displeased.”
“How then?” exclaimed Geneviève, looking up at him in perplexity. “What else for could I have feared? I went but to Greybridge to the post-office—” and in a few words she explained to him the reason of her secret expedition—the same reason that she had given to Mr. Fawcett, the wish to post unobserved the letter she feared she might be “thought silly” for having written. It sounded sincere enough, indeed; so far as her explanation went, it actually was so, but still Mr. Guildford felt puzzled. Was she telling him all? Had there been no second motive for her walk? Hitherto Mr. Fawcett had not been named, and it had actually not occurred to Geneviève that he was in any way connected with Mr. Guildford’s disapproval of her behaviour. So she looked up with some anxiety, but without embarrassment, to read in her companion’s grave face the effect of her explanation. And something in her expression made him ashamed of his suspicions, though it was not without an effort that he made up his mind to discard them.
“I have done you injustice, Miss Casalis,” he said at last, and I beg your pardon. Don’t you see that if I had had any idea that the mere fact of your being out on the road would have displeased your aunt, I would not have mentioned it so carelessly and casually as I did?”
“Yes,” said Geneviève, after a little cogitation; “I see, but I understand not. You saw nothing wrong, yet you spoke as if you thought I had done wrong. What then was there?”
“There was nothing,” replied the young man, half annoyed, half inclined to laugh. “I should have thought nothing of seeing you walking along the road, had you not immediately shown me you were afraid of its being known, Then, of course, I began to wonder why, and pitched upon the most natural explanation. Now I know why you were afraid, so there is nothing more for me to say except to repeat that I am sorry for having misunderstood you.”
But Geneviève was not satisfied. Light was beginning to dawn upon her. She stood still, her hands clasped together, the colour coming and going in her face.
“What then was it you thought I feared?” she exclaimed vehemently. “I must know. Mr. Guildford, you shall then tell. You are not kind.”
She seemed on the point of tears, and Mr. Guildford was not fond of tears. Still he was sorry for her, and provoked with himself.
“I wish you would believe me, Miss Casalis,” he said earnestly, “that I saw nothing in your conduct that I even fancied unbecoming—nothing that I would have given a second thought to.”
“But what thought you then when you saw that I feared?” she persisted, beginning to lose command both of her temper and her English. “Was it that you have seen me walk with Mr. Fawcett? I thought not that one was so little amiable, so little kind in England! What then was there of wrong in what I have done? I meet the nephew of my aunt, he speaks to me, I answer him—voilà tout! Would you that I should run away—would you—?”
But by this time the tears have come in earnest—the rest of the sentence is lost in sobs.
“My dear Miss Casalis,” exclaimed Mr. Guildford in desperation, “I really entreat you to be reasonable. Have I not told you half-a-dozen times that your behaviour so far as I know was irreproachable? Nor, whatever I had thought of it, would I have presumed to express an opinion but for this unfortunate misunderstanding, brought about—you must do me the justice to allow—by yourself. You appealed to me, silently it is true, but still you did appeal to me, to refrain from drawing attention to what I had seen, and to-day you honoured me with an explanation of the whole. I understand it all now, and for the third time I beg your pardon.”
“Then you do not think I—I was to blame for—for speaking to Mr. Fawcett?” said Geneviève, calming down, but still sobbing.
“Of course not,” said Mr. Guildford, kindly. “I am not much accustomed to young ladies, as I dare say you have found out before now, but if you will forgive plain speaking, what I would think wrong would be your meeting any gentleman and going walks with him without Mrs. Methvyn’s knowledge or approval.”
“But Mr. Fawcett is the relation of my aunt,” said Geneviève, not feeling perfectly comfortable. “I see not that I may not walk with him when I meet him.”
“Of course that is for Mrs. Methvyn to decide,” said Mr. Guildford. “But—”.
“But what then?”
“I would much rather not say anything more about it,” said Mr. Guildford. “I was going to say, ‘but if you were my sister’ but you are not my sister, Miss Casalis.”
“But let it be—let me suppose myself your sister, what then? Say then,” she persisted, looking up in his face with a half tearful anxiety, the rosy lips still quivering with agitation.
More to humour her and give her time to recover herself than with any real intention of advising or warning her, Mr. Guildford went on, smiling as he did so,
“If you were my sister then, Miss Casalis (and if I had a young sister like you, you don’t know what care I should take of her), I should try to make you understand that a girl like you cannot be too careful—that you are very beautiful, and that a young man like Mr. Fawcett would naturally find your society charming, but that in the world in which he lives there are many beautiful and charming girls who must be far more worldly wise, whose hearts cannot possibly be as fresh and tender as yours.”
Geneviève understood him. She grew scarlet, and again the tears welled up into her lovely, troubled eyes.
“Of course,” pursued Mr. Guildford, “I am speaking in the dark. There may be circumstances which I am ignorant of—very probably there are—which make your position towards Mr. Fawcett a perfectly unconstrained one. To you he may actually seem what we have been imagining I might have been to you, a brother—a sort of a brother, I should say?”
“How?” asked Geneviève sharply.
“Well, a brother in the sense in which Miss Methvyn must seem a sister to you. I only say this because if it is so, all I have said must have seemed ludicrously inappropriate—I have no wish to pry impertinently into your relations’ family affairs.”
His last few words were haughty enough; they ill accorded with the anxiety, quite unowned to himself, with which he waited for her reply. She did not notice his disclaimer of curiosity, she was too selfishly startled by the suggestion which her quick wits had at once seized the full meaning of.
“You would say that my cousin Cicely is perhaps the fiançée of Mr. Fawcett?” she exclaimed, and though Mr. Guildford smiled in assent, he recoiled a little from her distinct expression of his meaning. “But, oh! no,” she went on. “It is not so, I assure you. They are brother and sister, voilà tout!”
She spoke lightly, but a slight cloud had nevertheless risen on her horizon; a cloud whose presence she resolutely ignored, but which to her took the brightness out of the sunshine for the rest of the day. But she had spoken confidently, and her inward misgiving was unsuspected by her companion. And to him the sunshine suddenly increased tenfold in brilliance and beauty, the birds’ songs trilled more joyously than before, the whole world seemed
“to lift its glad heart to the skies.”
Geneviève came in for her share in this generally happy state of things. She was somewhat pale and pensive, but had quite recovered her equilibrium, and before they rejoined the others she said something in her pretty, gentle way, of thanks to Mr. Guildford for his kindness and appreciation of his advice.
“Then you are not offended with me you are quite sure you are not?” he inquired.
“Offended!” Geneviève repeated. “Oh! no, no. I was afraid I had done more wrong than I knew. It is all strange here. I fear to do wrong. I thank you very much, Mr. Guildford.”
So the interview which had threatened to be stormy ended most amicably, and Edmond owned to himself that it would not be to be wondered at if Mr. Fawcett did fall in love with the pretty little creature.
They found the rest of the climbers established on the little plateau at the top of the rock, admiring, or fancying they admired, the really beautiful view. The absence of Mr. Guildford and Miss Casalis had not been unobserved, and more than one pair of eyes were sharp enough to detect in Geneviève’s face and manner the traces of recent agitation. She looked so pale and subdued that Cicely felt anxious about her, but, with the quick instinct of shielding her from disagreeable observation, did her utmost to divert the Misses Ketterings’ attention. Mr. Guildford, whose spirits appeared to have risen as incomprehensibly as Geneviève’s had sunk, seemed instinctively to understand Miss Methvyn’s wishes and did his best to help her; and so, in his own way, did Mr. Hayle, but Trevor stalked about gloomy and dissatisfied, was barely civil to Mr. Guildford and ignored poor Miss Fanny Kettering altogether.
It was so unusual for him to be out of temper that it distressed Cicely, though she attached no great importance to the passing cloud. She watched for an opportunity of dispelling it.
“Trevor,” she said gently, as, on their way down again she found herself for a moment alone beside him, out of earshot of the others, “Are you unhappy about anything? I wanted everybody to be in good spirits to-day.”
“You haven’t succeeded very well I’m afraid,” he replied moodily; “Miss Casalis looks as if she had been crying all the morning.”
“It does not take much to make Geneviève cry,” said Cicely. “She will be as merry as ever again in a little while, you will see.”
There was no intention of unkindness in her words, but Mr. Fawcett chose to misunderstand her.
“I think you are rather hard upon your cousin, Cicely,” he said coldly. “It is all very well to be strong nerved and self controlled and all the rest of it, but in my opinion that sort of thing may be carried too far.”
“Trevor, you hurt me,” exclaimed Cicely. “More than once lately you have said something like that to me and it pains me. I thought you knew me better. And to-day is my birthday!”
No one could accuse her of want of feeling now. There were tears in her eyes. Mr. Fawcett felt ashamed of himself.
“Dear Cicely, forgive me,” he exclaimed. “I am cross and unreasonable. But it does seem to me sometimes that you think of everybody else more than of me. But I am sorry to have been ill-tempered, especially on your birthday. Next year if all’s well, I hope it will be celebrated differently—I shall have a hand in the arrangements.”
“I shall be twenty-one next year,” said Cicely. “If I were a son there would be a fuss about it, I suppose.”
“Coming of age doesn’t matter to a married woman,” said Trevor pointedly.
Still Cicely seemed determinedly blind to the meaning of his remarks.
“I do hope papa will not be very tired,” she said. “Mr. Guildford thinks it would do him good to come out oftener, Trevor.”
“I dare say it would,” replied Mr. Fawcett rather indifferently. “I always thought Farmer an old woman. Still I very much prefer him to your new authority, Cicely.”
“Mr. Guildford is considered exceedingly clever,” said Cicely.
“I dare say he is. It is the man himself I object to; he is so uncommonly free and easy, and makes himself so much at home,” replied Mr. Fawcett, kicking away some loose pebbles on the rough path before him.
Miss Methvyn was silent. Trevor persisted.
“Don’t you agree with me?” he said. “I don’t care about his manner to Geneviève for one thing—he seems to think himself so completely on a par with all of us.”
“I don’t want to vex you, Trevor,” replied Cicely, “but I cannot say I agree with you in the least. I don’t think Mr. Guildford’s manner could be kinder and nicer than it is. He is a little abrupt perhaps, but that is often the case with men who spend their time in work instead of in play.”
Mr. Fawcett laughed, but his laugh was not genial or hearty.
“I had better not say anything more about him, I think,” he remarked carelessly. Then, as if he were quite above feeling annoyed by what Cicely had said, he changed the subject. “I want to see your father very much, Cicely,” he said. “What is his best time? I can come at any time you like to-morrow.”
“The afternoon would be best, I think,” said Cicely with a little surprise and anxiety in her tone. “It isn’t about anything that will worry him, Trevor?” she added.
There was no time for Mr. Fawcett to reply, for just at this moment a turn in the path brought them up to Geneviève and Miss Fanny Kettering, who, having arrived at the foot of the Witch’s Ladder, were now staring about them in bewilderment as to which was the right way to go. Geneviève was laughing as the new-comers drew near, but when she saw that they were Cicely and Mr. Fawcett she grew suddenly silent. Cicely noticed it, but imagined her cousin’s change able humour to be simply the result of the little excitement of the day. Trevor noticed it, and set it down to some meddling fool or other who had been frightening the poor little soul again, and resolved to find out the reason of the tears and agitation of which her pretty face still bore traces.
“I wonder if we shall ever come here again,” said Cicely, suddenly, as they were all preparing to leave the copse, for the afternoon was well advanced by now, and Colonel Methvyn had already been wheeled away in his Bath chair. No one heard her but Geneviève and Mr. Guildford, who happened to be standing near.
Geneviève opened her eyes and stared at Cicely in surprise.
“Why should we not come here again?” she exclaimed.
“I don’t know,” said Cicely; “it was a stupid thing to say. It was just a feeling that came over me. Birthdays and anniversaries make one look backwards and forwards in a silly, childish way.”
“In a more advanced state of society, perhaps, we shall have got rid of them,” observed Mr. Guildford.
“Got rid of what?” inquired Mr. Fawcett, coming up to them laden with an armful of his mother’s shawls. His tone was friendly and good-natured, he evidently meant to please Cicely by behaving with more cordiality to the Sothernbay surgeon; and his cousin rewarded him with a smile as she answered,
“Of birthdays and festivals of all kinds. Mr. Guildford thinks that when the world gets wiser holidays will be discarded. We shall be too big for them,” she said.
“Nay, Miss Methvyn,” exclaimed Mr. Guildford, “you have twisted my meaning a little. I should be sorry to look forward to the world’s ever growing beyond holidays. What a dreadful place it would be!”
“But too much work would be infinitely better than too much play,” said Cicely. “Life to me would be utterly insupportable without plenty of things one must do.”
“I hate must,” said Trevor.
“I love it,” said Cicely.
“We are like Jack Sprat and his wife,” observed Trevor, laughing.
Cicely grew crimson. “I wish you would not turn everything into ridicule, Trevor,” she said, with an impatience very unlike her usual manner.
As she spoke she became aware that Mr. Guildford was observing her with a curious mixture of expressions in his face. Something in what she saw helped her to recover her composure.
“Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Guildford?” she said. “You must know something of hard work—don’t you prefer it to having nothing to do but to amuse yourself?”
“I can hardly say I have ever known what it is to feel free to amuse myself. I have had to work hard all my life, but I have not got tired of it yet,” the young man replied simply. “But the truth of it is that too much play becomes very hard work, I suspect.”
“It depends on the person,” said Trevor. “You, for instance, Cicely, set to work even at croquet with such earnestness and consideration that it is quite fatiguing to watch you, and Miss Casalis, on the other hand, flutters over her most laborious duties as if—as if—”
“As if she were a butterfly, and I a drone,” said Cicely lightly. She felt touched by Trevor’s good humour, and conscious that she had hardly deserved it. Geneviève looked up and laughed, for the first time since the beginning of the little conversation.
“I think not that I have done even as much work as a butterfly since I have been in England,” she said.
“What would you be doing if you were at home now—at Hivèritz?” asked Cicely.
“At home? Home is not Hivèritz just now. They are all in the mountains. Ah, there we occupy ourselves so well! We make the confitures, we help the old farm wife with the butter, the cheese, we seek the eggs. Ah, the life in the mountains is charming!” she replied.
“How nice!” said Cicely contemplatively. “I should like not to be rich—I mean,” she added hastily, fearful of hurting Geneviève by the inference of her words—“I mean I should like to manage everything for ourselves, without servants; to feel that one really worked for one’s living would be so satisfactory.”
“Oh, you silly girl!” said Mr. Fawcett with a smile.
Mr. Guildford smiled too.
“You would find it very different from what you fancy, in practice, I fear, Miss Methvyn,” he said; “still, the instinct is a sound and healthy one.”
“Sound and healthy!” repeated Trevor to himself. “Can’t he forget for five minutes that he’s a doctor?”