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?”