“How can she be so childishly light hearted, and yet so deceitful?” he thought.
Then he wondered if this could be “acting,” but a glance at her pretty flushed face, at her dark eyes raised to Cicely’s in sweet eagerness as they discussed the possibilities of the scheme, altogether put to flight so terrible a suspicion, and the young man was fain to take refuge in the old commonplace axiom of the incomprehensible nature of even the most apparently transparent of women. But, once or twice in the course of the afternoon, a certain something in Geneviève’s manner to him touched his gentler feelings; she seemed to be tacitly appealing to his forbearance and pity. “Don’t judge me till I can explain it all,” she seemed to say, and though he made no effort to reassure her, he grew unconsciously softened by her trust in him. She certainly succeeded in making him think a good deal more about her than would have been the case but for the confidence thus forced upon him, and which he was the last man in the world to welcome.
They all went on talking over Geneviève’s suggestion, but Mr. Guildford hardly noticed what they were saying till he found himself suddenly appealed to.
“Yes, the Lingthurst Copse would be the nicest after all,” Cicely was saying. “If we could get you to the Witch’s Ladder, papa, wouldn’t it be delightful? Think how many times we have had birthday treats there when Amy and Trevor and I were children! Would you not like to see the copse again dreadfully, papa?”
Colonel Methvyn laughed, half sadly. “You want to coax me into fancying myself well again, Cicely,” he said. “But you forget, dear, it is four years since I have been outside the gates except for those weary journeys to town. No, you must go without me.”
“But we won’t; if you can’t come we shall give it up,” persisted Cicely. Then she turned to Mr. Guildford, and unfolded her scheme in full to him. Her father was to be driven in her low pony-carriage to the Copse Farm, and there to be met by Barry and the Bath chair. “It can be sent in a cart to the farm the day before,” she said, “and Barry can go in it if it’s too far to walk, lazy creature that he is! And the paths through the copse are quite wide enough for the chair. It is so pretty there, Geneviève,” she exclaimed to her cousin, “prettier even than in the woods we go to church by. And don’t you think it would do my father good, Mr. Guildford? It is only a three miles’ drive.”
Mr. Guildford was able honestly to agree with her, for he had seen enough of Colonel Methvyn to judge more favourably of his case than at first sight, and to be of opinion that his general health would be improved by less vigorous adherence to invalid rules. So it was settled that Geneviève’s idea should be actually carried out, and that Mr. Guildford’s next visit should be timed so that he should make one of the party.
“Is it not inconvenient for you to promise to come on any particular day?” said Cicely, as she was bidding him good-bye, after her father had been wheeled back to the house again.
“Not now,” he said, “I have not much to do except what I give myself; and before another busy season comes round, I shall probably have left Sothernbay, so I don’t care much about extending my acquaintance—my “business”—there,” he said lightly.
“Are you going to leave Sothernbay? Oh! I am so sorry,” exclaimed Cicely in sudden alarm, “my father will miss you so!”