Then the young man gathered up his courage.
“I mean,” he said slowly, speaking with an effort which he did not attempt to conceal, “I mean that even if you had been sent for the very moment Colonel Methvyn was taken ill, it would have been no use. He was utterly unconscious from the first he never spoke again—from the very commencement of the attack there was nothing whatever to be done; not all the doctors in Europe could have restored him to consciousness, or prolonged his life, for five minutes. And, I think,” he added, speaking still more slowly and reluctantly, “I think it was better so.”
Cicely had kept her eyes fixed upon him while he spoke; they seemed to drag the unwilling words out of him by the intensity of their gaze, something in their expression made him instinctively conscious that any attempt at softening what he had to tell, any common-place expressions of sympathy and regret would have been utterly futile; the girl could not have taken in their meaning. Now, when he left off speaking, the strain seemed to slacken; the terrible stony stare left her eyes; she threw out her hands like a child in terror—as if for protection and support. “You mean,” she said, “oh! I know what you mean—but you mustn’t say it. Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you come sooner? I can’t, indeed I can’t bear it.”
What could he do—what could he say? The relentless summons had gone forth—Cicely Methvyn was fatherless. It was very hard upon him!
“I would have given ten years of my life to save him for you, if he could have been saved. I would have cut off my right hand rather than have been the one to tell you. I cannot bear to see you suffer,” he broke out passionately. Then he turned away from her, in despair, ashamed of his want of self-control, heart-broken that he could say nothing to comfort her.
The sight of his distress awoke the unselfishness that seldom slumbered long in Cicely’s heart.
“Forgive me,” she exclaimed, “forgive me. I didn’t know what I was saying. I will try to bear it, indeed I will. I know nothing could have been done, if you say so. Tell me about it—tell me how it was—but must I not go to mamma?”
Mr. Guildford shook his head. “No, not yet,” he said, “she was very much excited. I was a little alarmed about her, and gave her something to soothe her. I think she has fallen asleep. I promised to wait here to meet you, and that seemed to satisfy her.”
Then he told her all he knew. He had been sent for about ten o’clock, but, by the time he reached Greystone, even Mrs. Methvyn had seen that his coming would be of no avail; the life had all but flickered out already. “It was as I always feared it would be,” said Mr. Guildford, hesitating again. “I always dreaded the effect of any great shock.”
He looked at Cicely inquiringly. Had she anticipated anything of the kind; was she in the least acquainted with the nature of the shock, which for some time must have been impending?