He had come to a decision the night before; he had slept upon it,—very little it is true, for his slumbers had been fitful and broken,—and had not wavered. The words which Cicely had overheard in the fernery were the key to Trevor’s state of mind. For Geneviève he had broken his faith to Cicely—for her he had lost his self-respect and been false to the girl whom still at heart he loved; but he would deceive her no longer. “I must confess it all to Cicely and say good-bye to her; I have promised Geneviève—I must do it,” he repeated to himself over and over again through that weary night. “Cicely is good and generous; if it is true that she has never really cared for me, it will be easier for her to forgive me. She has a home and friends; I cannot think that she will regret me. Geneviève is poor and dependent, and I must not desert her. I have to thank my own folly for all this wretchedness.”
At times he almost felt as if he hated Geneviève; then again the remembrance of her loveliness, her devotion to him, her clinging belplessness came over him powerfully, and he tried to persuade himself that Cicely’s coldness and indifference were the real culprits. But had she looked cold or indifferent last night, when, with the tears in her eyes, she had whispered, “Dear Trevor, there cannot really be any change between us; if you are not vexed with me, it is all right?”
Trevor shuddered as he recalled her look and manner. How could he ever tell her how little cause she had had for trusting him? How could he look into those clear blue eyes and confess his faithlessness? How could he endure Cicely’s contempt and scorn?
He fell asleep soundly at last, Notwithstanding his distress of mind; when he awoke, he was thankful to see that it was broad daylight.
“I will go to Greystone to-day,” he said to himself, “and have it over;” for, unspeakably as he shrank from what he had made up his mind to do, he felt that now there was no drawing back; and he was in this frame of mind when he was met by the utterly unexpected news of Colonel Methvyn’s death.
Everybody at the breakfast-table had heard it by the time Mr. Fawcett made his appearance. He was late, notwithstanding the haste with which he had dressed, and as he entered the dining-room he became aware that a hush fell over the guests; evidently he was looked upon somewhat in the light of a chief mourner on the occasion. Lady Frederica was in tears,—Sir Thomas’s florid face looked a shade paler than its wont; such remarks as were exchanged were in low tones and with subdued glances; the spirit of revelry had been abruptly forced to quit the scene. Trevor was sincerely distressed by the death of his kind old friend, and deeply grieved by the thought of Cicely’s sorrow, yet he was conscious also of a curious sort of irritation at the event. Why had it taken place just then? Who could tell what wretched complications might not result from it, in addition to those already existing?
“Things were bad enough before,” thought he, “but now they will be worse. I cannot possibly come to an understanding with Cicely at such a time; and yet how can I go on in the old way with the burden upon me of my promise to Geneviève, and this miserable feeling of hypocrisy?”
He looked ill and haggard; he hardly spoke, and yet he was angry with every one else for being silent; he ate no breakfast, and answered with impatience when his mother, across the table, begged him “to try to take something.”
“Poor dear boy! he feels it very much. Yes, indeed, poor dear Philip seemed like a second father to him,” murmured Lady Frederica to the lady next her. “It is a most dreadful shock. I don’t think I ever felt more upset in my life;” and she subsided behind her handkerchief again.
Breakfast over, Sir Thomas tapped his son on the arm, “Come to my room with me for a few minutes,” he whispered. “I want to say something to you.”