“If—if all goes through with you and Cicely,” he began—“I mean if your marriage takes place—I have been thinking, Trevor, the best idea will be for me to buy Greystone. I should be sorry for poor Methvyn’s affairs to become more public than can be avoided; and in this way, managing it privately, things might be kept pretty quiet. It is not a particularly good investment. The house and grounds are far too large for the property, but I can quite afford it. What do you say?”
Mr. Fawcett glanced up quickly. “I should like it extremely,” he said. “The idea had already crossed my mind, but I hardly liked to propose it. But why do you speak so doubtfully, father? Why do you say ‘if?’”
Sir Thomas hesitated. “Because I am not sure of Cicely Methvyn’s state of mind,” he said at last. “I saw her to-day, she was perfectly cordial, thanked me with tears in her eyes for coming to help her mother—she is looking dreadfully ill, poor girl—and all that sort of thing, but still her manner struck me as unsatisfactory. I gave her your message; but she only said she would write to you when she felt able to see you. I told her I thought you would be disappointed; in fact, I said all I could, but she only smiled and repeated that it would be best for her to write to you. I don’t understand it.”
He looked at his son inquiringly.
Trevor got up from his chair, and in his turn began to poke the fire. “I don’t either,” he said at last. “That is to say, I can only explain it by what you said,—that she has got it into her head that her loss of fortune may make a difference.”
“I suppose it’s that,” said Sir Thomas. “Of course it would have been impossible for me, without the grossest indelicacy, to have hinted at such a thing. But she must have seen that I really wanted her to agree to see you at once. However, young people must settle their own affairs. You understand my feelings and intentions, at any rate?”
“Quite, thank you,” replied Trevor; “and, however things turn out, you have been awfully good about it, sir. I shall never forget it, I assure you.”
Sir Thomas fumbled for his handkerchief.
“These things come home to one at my age,” he said after a little pause, “Poor Methvyn was younger than I, Trevor. I am glad you quite understand me, my boy.”