“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.”