“I don’t know. There are two ways of putting it. Perhaps the truth is that I have never had any one to care enough for, for separation to be or seem terrible,” he answered, in a tone not very easy to interpret.
They were close to the window again. Geneviève’s music had ceased, and glancing up, Cicely saw her cousin standing inside the glass door looking out.
“Mr. Guildford,” she said hastily, “will you just come to the end of the walk again for a moment. I have wanted to ask you something all this evening, and I thought you might be annoyed at it. I want to know what you think about my father. I cannot tell you why I ask you—there—there is something that depends upon it. And I know you are very clever. You must not think me very strange. I am so at a loss,” she hurried on with what she had to say, in evident fear of Mr. Guildford interrupting her with some cold expression of disapproval or annoyance; for she could see that he looked grave and perplexed.
“What do you mean exactly, Miss Methvyn?” he said formally. “Do you want to know if I think Colonel Methvyn in a critical state, or what?”
He thought her inquiry uncalled for and hardly delicate. He felt surprised, and a little disappointed. She was her father’s heiress; Colonel Methvyn had told him so. Could it be—surely not—that she was eager to claim her inheritance, making plans contingent on her speedy succession?
“Yes,” she replied, “that is partly what I want to know. I also want to know if any vexation—being thwarted about anything on which he had set his heart, for instance, could do him harm.”
“Most assuredly it would,” he said somewhat sternly, “the very gravest harm. It is very early for me to give an opinion,” he went on, feeling anxious to avoid saying much. “I never saw Colonel Methvyn till to-day, but I have seen similar cases. I should say he may live as he is for many years, provided his mind is kept at ease, and that he is not thwarted or exposed to vexation. The effect of any great shock, of course, I could not predict.”
“Thank you,” she said very gently, almost humbly, “you have told me what I wanted to know.”
Why did she want to know? he asked himself. She stood still for a minute or two, as if thinking of what he had said. The moonlight fell full on her fair face, and as she looked up with her clear honest eyes, his heart smote him for even his passing misgiving that her motives, her reasons, could be but of the purest and best.
“She is not a commonplace girl,” he thought, “and she won’t be a commonplace woman; but she is too self-reliant for one so young.”