“A mother?” repeated Colonel Methvyn. “Ah! I see. I forgot you did not understand the relationship. No, the little fellow’s mother is not my daughter. Lady Forrester is Mrs. Methvyn’s daughter by a former marriage. By the by,” he went on rather hastily, “what arrangements have you made for this evening? You will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner, of course, but will it suit you best to return to Sothernbay to-night, or to-morrow morning.”
“To-night, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford. “I made no definite arrangements. It is such a lovely evening I should enjoy the walk to the station.”
But he did not decline the invitation to dinner, recalling one of Dr. Farmer’s injunctions. “Don’t be in a hurry when you come over to Greystone,” the old family doctor had said; “half the good you can do the colonel will be lost if you fidget him by running away when he wants you to stay. Come over when you feel you have an evening to spare.”
And though this was the sort of thing that Mr. Guildford had often protested he would have nothing to do with—an objectionable mixing up of the professional and social relations, “dancing attendance on people who looked upon you as belonging to another world,” etc. etc.,—somehow when it came in his way he found it nowise disagreeable. He excused his inconsistency by saying to himself that the circumstances were exceptional, the Methvyn family really to be felt for, and so on, and ended before long in forgetting that he was inconsistent, or that any excuses were necessary.
So he stayed to dinner. Colonel Methvyn felt well enough to be wheeled into the dining-room, and to eat his dinner on a little table drawn to the side of his couch, and to take his share in the conversation that went on, which Cicely did her utmost to make cheerful and interesting. Geneviève did not talk much, but what she did say always sounded soft and pretty from the charm of her grace and beauty and winning, appealing manner. And altogether it was very pleasant. Colonel Methvyn had plenty to say, and could talk well too when he was in sufficiently good spirits to make the effort, and his wife looked happy because he seemed to be so.
After dinner they all went into the library, and Cicely played to her father till it was quite dark.
It was evidently her custom to do so, and it was easy to see that the invalid enjoyed it. Mr. Guildford knew too little of music to judge of or criticise her performance, nor was it of a nature to invite criticism. She played quietly and simply, with no thought, it was plain to see, besides that of her father’s gratification, but the music and all seemed in harmony with the peacefulness and refinement, the gentleness and homelike feeling of the evening. Then Colonel Methvyn rang for his servant to wheel him back to his own quarters and Mr. Guildford began to speak of setting off on his walk to the station,
“The carriage is ordered,” said Miss Methvyn, looking up quickly, “you need not leave this till half-past nine, and it is only eight now. You forget how early we dine here.”
“But I think I should like the walk, thank you,” said Mr. Guildford.
“I could not consent to your walking, my dear sir,” said Colonel Methvyn. “I could not, really. I feel already sorry that you should have to come so far out of your way for me, and I assure you I appreciate your kindness. But your walking to the station is not to be thought of for an instant.”