“She only offered out of kindness. She had heard about your eyes, and I—I told her how stupid I was,” admitted Mrs. Crichton. “You had much better come and see for yourself, Edmond.”
“Very well—perhaps it would be better. Of course, I should be very glad to get it well done, if this lady would not be above letting me pay her,” he said. “But I won’t say anything about that if she looks like a person that would be offended by such a proposal. I’ll come in directly; and if I can arrange about it with her, I will show her how I want it done. But I wish,” he added to himself when his sister had left him, “I wish Bessie were less communicative to strangers.”
Five minutes later he followed her into the drawing-room. He came in, expecting to find Mrs. Crichton’s new acquaintance some insignificant-looking person of the poor lady order, for, notwithstanding Bessie’s assertion that the pasteur’s niece “did not look like that,” his mind was prepossessed by its own idea; nor did he attach sufficient importance to his sister’s judgment to think much of her description. The light in the room struck upon his eyes somewhat dazzlingly, for, out of deference to the stranger, he had taken off the shade he usually wore. The first object he noticed was Eudoxie seated on a low chair, consuming her cakes with great equanimity. For a moment he glanced at her in bewilderment. Could this be his would-be amanuensis? He looked on beyond her to his sister for explanation, when suddenly from another corner of the room a third person approached. Had the figure before him been that of one risen from the dead he could hardly have been more astonished. Instinctively he lifted his hand to his eyes, as if suspecting them of playing him false. Was not the light deceiving him, exaggerating some slight and superficial resemblance into the likeness of a face whose features he believed would never to him grow misty or confused—a face he had seen once, long, long ago it seemed to him now, pale and wistful, with sweet sad eyes, and lips parted to entreat his help,—the face of Cicely Methvyn as she stood in the doorway on the night that little Charlie died. He looked again—the illusion, if such it were, grew more perfect. He felt as if in a dream—he was turning to seek Mrs. Crichton’s assistance, when suddenly the spell was broken. The lady came forward quietly and held out her hand.
“Mr. Guildford,” she said gently, and the slight colour which rose to her cheeks helped him to realise the fact of her presence, “you did not expect to see me here, and certainly I did not expect to see you. How strange it is!”
But he made no movement towards her, he showed no readiness to take her offered hand.
“Mr. Guildford,” she repeated, in her turn bewildered by a momentary doubt as to the identity of the man before her with the owner of the name by which she addressed him, “don’t you know me?”
Then he started. “I could not believe it,” he exclaimed abruptly. “You must forgive me, Miss Meth—no, you are not Miss Methvyn now.”
Cicely’s colour deepened, but she smiled. A pleasant sincere smile it was, though not without a certain sadness about it too. “Yes,” she said, “I am. My name is the same any way, though it seems as if otherwise I must be very much changed.”
He had not yet shaken hands, and as she spoke, Cicely’s arm dropped quietly by her side. There was a slight inference of reproach in her tone, and Mr. Guildford was not slow to perceive it.
“I don’t think you are changed,” he said; “I knew you instantly. That was what startled me so, I was so utterly taken by surprise.”