“Do I dislike it?” said Cicely. “I don’t know. Is it true, I wonder? I am not clever enough to prove that it is not; but still a strong instinct tells me it should not be true.”
An earnest questioning stole into her blue eyes, and, as she spoke she looked up into her companion’s face without a shadow of embarrassment. They had reached the front of the house by now, and were standing just within the old grey porch. The dark leaves of the thick-growing ivy creeping round its entrance seemed to make a frame for the girl’s fair quiet face, and to throw out in relief the delicate features and pure complexion. For a moment Mr. Guildford forgot, in looking at her, what they had been talking about. But recovering his wits he repeated quietly, “I am afraid it is true. Sometimes I have wished it were not, but then again I see that it is better as it is. But I am sorry to destroy your faith in beautiful impossibilities.”
She turned upon him with a merry laugh.
“Don’t distress yourself about that,” she exclaimed. “I am much more obstinate than you think. I am by no means an optimist in the sense of not thinking that what is might not be made a good deal better. And even your giants may have been short-sighted, and one-sided in some directions, may they not? Are you shocked at my irreverence? As for disliking your theory, I am by no means sure that I do dislike it. If I were an ideal woman—that sounds silly, but you know what I mean—hif I were worthy of such a thing, I mean, I should feel infinitely more honoured by being the chosen friend of a clever man than of being—” she stopped abruptly and blushed a little. Then seemingly ashamed of her confusion, she went on bravely, “than by his just falling in love with me,” she added, with a slight tinge of contempt in her tone.
“Then you do agree with me,” said Mr. Guildford triumphantly.
And judging it wise to retire while master of the field, he went into the house and ran upstairs to Colonel Methvyn’s room.
Cicely stood in the porch, thinking. Then she went away to see if the cushions of her father’s Bath chair were properly aired, and was standing ready beside it at the door when the invalid was brought down for his little airing.
Poor Colonel Methvyn enjoyed the sun shine and the flowers and the soft fresh air very much. His expressions of pleasure and Cicely’s satisfaction in his enjoyment touched Mr. Guildford infinitely more than the weary complaints, but too often well founded, which so many of his Sothernbay patients seemed to think necessary to enlist his sympathy.
“It is a nice old place of its kind; is it not, Guildford?” said Cicely’s father, when the chair was brought to anchor in a sheltered corner, whence the principal beauties of the garden—the rose fence enclosing “the lady’s walk,” the yew “peacocks,” the ancient sun-dial—were all visible. “It is a home a man may be forgiven for feeling reluctant to leave, surely? It has always been my home; it would break my heart to think of its ever going away to strangers.”
“I can understand the feeling,” said the young doctor quietly. Thanks to Colonel Methvyn’s gentleness, his egotism did not go the length of repelling sympathy; but yet the sympathy Mr. Guildford felt for him was tinged with fully as much pity as respect. “It must be very natural where one’s associations have been so concentrated. But,” he hesitated a little, “I see no reason why it should not be your home for many years to come.”