A few minutes more and they drew up at the front entrance. A wide porch, with deep stone seats at each side, lighted by a heavy iron-bound lamp hanging from the roof, was all Mr. Guildford could distinguish of the outside of Greystone Abbey, It looked more like the entrance to an ancient church than to a modern dwelling house; it was in keeping, however, with the associations of the name, and Mr. Guildford’s perceptions were acute enough for him to infer from what he saw that by daylight the old house must be picturesque and quaintly beautiful.
The door was opened, almost before the servant had time to ring,—anxious ears evidently were on the alert for the first sound of carriage-wheels,—and two or three servants hurried forward. The hall into which Mr. Guildford was ushered was a picture of comfort; a great log fire blazed in the wide open grate, antlered heads threw grotesque shadows on the wainscoted walls, there were furry fleecy rugs under foot, armchairs and sofas, and little tables in every corner; everything looked homelike and inviting, and seemed to tell of happy gatherings and merry voices. And the pet and pride of the house—the “little master”—upstairs dying! Little as the young doctor knew of the Methvyns, a sort of chill seemed to strike through him at the thought.
His arrival had been quickly announced, for almost immediately a door at the opposite side of the hall opened, and a stout elderly person in black silk, and with a general indescribable look of responsibility and trustworthiness, came forward. She made a sort of curtsey as she drew near the stranger, a salutation which said as plainly as any words, “I am the housekeeper, if you please,” and destroyed instantaneously a passing suspicion of Mr. Guildford’s that “the managing spirit” of Greystone Abbey stood before him.
“I am so very glad you have come, sir,” said the housekeeper respectfully; “it will be a great satisfaction. There are refreshments, sir, in the library, but—if you are not very tired and cold, perhaps—Miss Cicely is so very anxious to see you. Would you take a glass of wine now, sir, and something else later?”
But Mr. Guildford declined everything of the kind for the present. “I should much prefer seeing my patient at once,” he said decidedly; “will you show me the way?”
“Certainly, sir,” she replied, looking relieved. “Miss Cicely wished me to take you upstairs as soon as possible.”
Always “Miss Cicely.” She was becoming a sort of “Marquis de Carabbas” to Mr. Guildford. No mention of the heads of the household; to judge by appearances, Miss Cicely might be the owner as well as the ruler of the whole place. So thought the new-comer, as he followed the worthy Mrs. Moore out of the hall, down a long dimly lighted passage, looking like enclosed cloisters from the vaulted ceiling and succession of narrow sharp-pointed windows along one side, widening at the end into a small square hall, round two sides of which curved a broad shallow-stepped spiral stair case. Upstairs, a long passage again, somewhat wider than the one below, with doors at both sides; at one of these the housekeeper stopped, tapped softly, but, receiving no answer, went in, beckoning to Mr. Guildford to follow her. The room which he entered was small and plainly furnished; it looked almost as if it had once been a schoolroom, but its present contents were somewhat heterogeneous; the carpet was nearly threadbare, the windows had no curtains, but there were two or three good pictures on the walls, a beautiful stand of ferns, several cages, whose little occupants had all retired for the night, each carefully shaded by a curtain drawn round the wires; a glass, filled with lovely flowers, on the table, a Skye terrier asleep on the hearth rug, a bookcase full of books, of which some of the titles would have surprised Mr. Guildford had he read them.
He had time for a certain amount of observation, for the housekeeper, whispering to him a request to wait where he was for a minute, left the room quickly by another door. It was still cold, notwithstanding the thaw. Mr. Guildford instinctively turned towards the fire; the Skye terrier, disturbed by his intrusion, peered up at him for a moment through its shaggy hair with its bright beady eyes, growled lazily, and went off to sleep again. So the stranger took up his position on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, and looked about him with some curiosity. There was a history in this little room—the history not so much of a life, as of a character. But it was not for many a long day that the man who entered it to-night for the first time learnt to read it. There are many such histories that are never read at all.
Still he was conscious vaguely of a certain impress of individuality in the room—some body lived in it and loved all these things thus much was visible at a glance. Perhaps “the marquise” was of the genial order of old maids after all, neither managing nor domineering! Mr. Guildford was smiling at his fancy when the door—the second again. It was not Mrs. Moore returning. Who was it? Could this be “Miss Cicely?”
A tall, fair girl in a crimson dress, with coils of hair that must be sunny by daylight; with a pale, quiet face, and soft, grave eyes. She stood for a moment in the doorway, the lamp-light falling full upon her. Some pictures—a few in a lifetime only—take far less time than our clumsy words can express to imprint themselves for ever on the brain. This was one of them. Through all the chequered future, through happy days and “days of cloudy weather,” in her presence or absent from her, Edmond Guildford never forgot this first vision of Cicely Methvyn, pale, grave Cicely, standing there for a fairy’s moment, in her brilliant crimson dress.