So Bessie was fain to suppose that her discrimination had actually been at fault, and that her brother was uninfluenced by any other motives than those he averred. And for some time to come, there was nothing to disturb her in this opinion. They called on Madame Casalis, and found both her and Miss Methvyn at home, and the half-hour spent in the modest little drawing-room in the Rue de la Croix blanche, was a very pleasant one, and Mr. Guildford returned home well contented with himself, and satisfied that Cicely tacitly appreciated his resolution.
“She has great tact,” he thought; “her manner is so simple and unconstrained that it makes it infinitely easier for me.”
And for her part, Cicely was saying to herself that things were turning out just as she had hoped—Mr. Guildford had evidently quite forgotten all about that passing fancy of his; he wished—by his manner she could see that he wished—to be thoroughly friendly and kind; he was a man whose friendship any woman might be proud of possessing. And as she thought thus, there flitted across her mind a vague recollection of something she had once said to him on this subject of friendship—it was one summer’s day in the garden at Greystone—and Mr. Guildford had been expounding for her benefit some of the wonderful theories which he then believed in so firmly. She remembered all he had said quite well (how little she suspected what bombastic nonsense it now appeared to him!), and she remembered, too, that what she had replied had made him declare he had converted her. It was something about feeling more honoured by the friendship than by the love of a man capable of friendship of the highest kind.
“I did not say it so plainly,” thought Cicely, “but that was the sense of it. I know I was rather proud of the sentiment. I wonder if Mr. Guildford remembers it. I do think him a man whose friendship is an honour; and it is much better that I should henceforth keep clear of anything else. I have had storms and troubles enough. Only—only—sometimes life looks very lonely now.”
But during the remainder of this so-called winter, life passed on the whole pleasantly enough. The acquaintance between the two families progressed to friendliness; then to intimacy, till there were few days when some of their members did not meet. Cicely owned to herself that the society of the brother and sister added much to the interest of her otherwise somewhat monotonous life; and Mr. Guildford, having thoroughly shaken himself free from any possibility of further self-deception, allowed himself to enjoy Miss Methvyn’s friendship without misgiving, and day by day congratulated himself more heartily on the strength of mind with which he had recognised his position and bravely made the best of it. Only Bessie, commonplace, womanly, silly little Bessie, sometimes looked on with vague uneasiness, now and then trembled a little at the thought that perchance this pleasant present might contain the elements of future suffering.
“Edmond doesn’t think he is in love with her,” she said to herself, “and he certainly gives her no reason to think he is. But he has it all his own way just now; how would it be if some rival turned up all of a sudden, would not that open his eyes? And though she has been unlucky once, it is unlikely she will never marry. I could not bear Edmond to be made miserable. If she were less high-principled and thought more of herself, I would fear less for him.”
Once or twice there occurred little incidents which increased the sister’s anxiety, and of one of these she was herself in part the cause. Little Mrs. Crichton, “stupid” as she called herself, had one gift. She possessed an unusually beautiful voice. It was powerful and of wide compass, but above all clear and sweet and true, and with a ring of youth about it which little suggested her eight-and-thirty years. She sang as if she liked to hear herself; there was no shadow of effort or study of effect discernible in the bright, blithe notes, which yet at times could be as exquisitely plaintive. Cicely, who loved music more, probably, than she understood it, soon discovered this gift of her new friend’s, and profited thereby, thanks to Bessie’s unfailing good-nature, greatly. She was never tired of Mrs. Crichton’s singing.
“I am glad you like my sister’s voice,” said Mr. Guildford one day, when Bessie had been singing away for a long time. “I like it better than any I ever heard, but then I am no judge of music.”
“Nor am I. But in singing one knows quickly what one likes,” said Cicely. “I have heard a great many voices—some wonderfully beautiful no doubt, but I never heard one I liked quite as much, or in the same way, as Mrs. Crichton’s.”
Mr. Guildford looked pleased. “Don’t leave off, Bessie,” he said, “not, at least, unless you are tired.”