The hall-door was opened quickly. The light streaming out into the darkness dazzled Cicely’s eyes for the instant; she did not notice who it was that was standing just inside, evidently awaiting her. She was passing on, followed by Geneviève and the maid, when a slight exclamation from the latter startled her, and almost at the same moment the sound of her own name caused her to stop short.
“Miss Methvyn,” said a voice, which at first in her bewilderment she failed to recognise, “Miss Methvyn, will you wait a moment.”
Cicely turned; there before her stood the man from whom but a few hours before she had parted, as he said, for ever. What was he doing here again? What had brought him to Greystone in the middle of the night? Once, only once before had he been there at so unseasonable an hour. Cicely shuddered as she recalled that once before. He saw the shudder, even then, through the great unselfish pity which was softening his voice and shining out of his grave eyes; he caught the involuntary movement and groaned in his heart.
“It is hard, very hard upon me to have to break it to her,” he said to himself. “I, that am already repulsive to her. What can I say to soothe or comfort? Why did they not send for Mr. Fawcett?”
Cicely stood still. Her pale face had little colour to lose; but what there was faded out of it utterly as she gazed, in but half-conscious terror, at Mr. Guildford. Quick as lightning the thought flashed through her mind, “I had forgotten about papa—I had actually forgotten about papa!” Aloud she only said, in a voice that even to herself sounded unnaturally hard and cold, “What is it, Mr. Guildford? What is it you have to tell me. If it is—any thing wrong, why did you not send for me before?”
“I have not been here very long,” began Mr. Guildford with a sort of apology in his manner very new to him. “It was by Mrs. Methvyn’s wish I waited here to see you when you first came in. We should have sent for you at once, an hour ago that is to say, if—if it had been any use.”
“What do you mean?” said Cicely fiercely.
Mr. Guildford glanced round him with a silent appeal. “Will no one help me?” his look seemed to say. Parker had disappeared, but Geneviève was still standing close behind Cicely, and to her his eyes travelled. She understood him, but instead of responding to his unspoken request, she covered her face with her hands, uttered a smothered cry, and rushed away.
“Little fool,” muttered Mr. Guildford, between his teeth.
But Cicely did not seem to have observed her cousin’s defalcation. She stood there, still in the same attitude, before Mr. Guildford, and still there was an approach to fierceness in her tone, as she repeated her inquiry. “What do you mean? Tell me what you mean.”