“Don’t you?” said Mr. Guildford, “are you sure you don’t?”
He was looking at her now, so earnestly that Cicely, who had grown very pale, felt her cheeks burn with the consciousness of his gaze. She could bear it no longer. She got up from her seat, and, leaning one hand upon the table, spoke out bravely.
“Mr. Guildford,” she exclaimed, “you are trying me painfully. I am very, very sorry for you, but—I think you may regret if you say any more. I don’t know what my cousin told you yesterday—it is true that I do not altogether understand what you mean, and I would rather not understand. Let me tell you again how very sorry I am that you should be troubled or pained; but—you are a man, Mr. Guildford; you have life before you and great aims to live for. Whatever it is that is troubling you now will pass away and leave no lasting traces. I won’t insult you by supposing it could be otherwise. You are a man—some things are harder to be borne by women than by men.”
She stifled a little sigh, and was moving away, but Mr. Guildford stopped her.
“Miss Methvyn, you must listen to me. I want you to understand me, if not you may think worse of me than I deserve. I had no intention of troubling you, but I cannot bear you to think of me as I see you do—as a foolish boy who has forgotten himself and his place—” he hesitated a moment, then went on again, without bitterness this time, but with a depth of restrained suffering in his voice which touched Cicely to the quick. “I told you that I had to thank Miss Casalis for bringing me to my senses,” he said. “It was she who told me yesterday that you are shortly to be married to Mr. Fawcett. She told it very abruptly. I had had no idea of it—not, of course, that it could have made any difference to me—but it came upon me very suddenly. People who have been blind, you know, are startled when they first gain the use of their eyes. I am in that condition. As I have told you, I am shaken to the very foundations. I am a man, as you reminded me, not a boy; but, kind and good as you are, you don’t know how a man can suffer. Miss Methvyn, I cannot remain here. I am not really required. I entreat you to absolve me from my promise, and let me go.”
Cicely had turned her face away while he was speaking. She could not bear him to see the tears that were gathering in her eyes. Now she only said gently, and it seemed to him coldly, “I would not dream of preventing your going. It is very good of you to have asked me to release you. Many people would have forgotten all about such a promise.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Will you say good-bye to me, Miss Methvyn?” he added. “I should like to think you have forgiven me.”
Then she turned towards him, and he saw that she was crying. “That I have forgiven you,” she repeated. “What is there I could possibly have to forgive? I cannot tell you how bitterly I regret that your kindness to us should have brought suffering upon you. I thought you so wise and clever, so above such things. I can hardly even now believe that—that I can be the cause of your trouble. It is not only that I have always thought of myself almost as if I were already married, but I never associated you with such possibilities. I never really believed you cared for Geneviève. I thought you were wholly occupied with other thoughts—so above such things,” she repeated. “Have I been to blame in any way?” she added ingenuously.
“Only for believing my own account of myself—for taking me at my own valuation,” he replied with a smile—a curious, bitter smile. “‘Above such things!’ Yes, indeed, I deserve it all. Miss Methvyn, good-bye, and thank you for your gentleness and goodness.”
He was turning away, when Cicely held out her hand. “Good-bye,” she said, simply.