Colonel Methvyn half lay, half sat on a sort of couch so constructed as to afford him the greatest possible ease and variety of posture. On a low chair beside him sat his wife, a fair, somewhat careworn, but still handsome woman, who must, once upon a time, have been beautiful. More beautiful, strictly speaking than her daughter, thought Mr. Guildford, as he glanced at them for a moment as they stood together, Mrs. Methvyn having risen as Cicely and the stranger entered. For the resemblance was strong enough to admit of, if not to provoke, comparison. There was more colour and contrast about the mother; her hair and eyes were some shades darker, her complexion had evidently been more brilliant, her expression was more changeful. She looked many years younger than her husband, though in reality he was only ten years her senior; her manner to him was full of anxious devotion, he was evidently her first thought.
Colonel Methvyn greeted Mr. Guildford cordially but nervously; Mrs. Methvyn made some commonplace remark about the weather with the evident object of setting the stranger at his ease, her kindly intention being, however, to some extent defeated by the scarcely veiled anxiety with which she watched to see if the impression made by the stranger upon her husband was to be a favourable one. It was altogether a little stiff and uncomfortable. Miss Methvyn came to the rescue.
“Mother,” she said gently, “Geneviève is just finishing her letter, and you said you had a little bit to put in. There is not much time.”
Mrs. Methvyn looked at her husband irresolutely; a quick glance passed between her daughter and Mr. Guildford. “You don’t mind mother leaving you, do you, papa?” said Cicely.
“Not for a few minutes. You will come back in a few minutes, Helen?” said the invalid.
Cicely was on the alert to take advantage of the permission, and passing her arm through her mother’s, they left the room together.
“He seems a sensible sort of young man,” said Mrs. Methvyn to her daughter, when they were out of hearing. “I do hope your father will take to him.”
“The only way is to leave them alone,” said Cicely. “I do hope papa will like him for more reasons than one. It will be a relief to you, poor mother, if he takes a fancy to Mr. Guildford—even two or three hours change will do you good.”
“Don’t say that, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn hastily. “I am not happy away from him. I always fancy he must be wanting me. And the most I can do seems nothing, as I have often told you, when I look back upon the past and think of all his goodness. And he is so patient! But do you know, Cicely, I don’t think your father’s spirits are as good as they were, though I can’t see that his health is worse.”
“Do you mean since Charlie’s death?” said Cicely quietly.