“THE WITCHCRAFT OF A TEAR.”
“She has
A heart. . . how shall I say? . . . too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed. . .”
Bells and Pomegranates.
THE week that followed this bright Sunday was dull and rainy. Geneviève went about the house shivering, and was not consoled by Cicely’s calm assurance that it was only what was to be expected for the time of year.
“You forget what a different part of the world you are in, Geneviève,” she said, “for when you first came, the weather was exceptionally beautiful for May, and there was nothing to remind you of being so much further north. Our Mays are generally cold and dull and very often rainy. The real summer has not begun yet. Last week was only a foretaste of it.”
“And how long will it last when it does come?” questioned Geneviève pathetically. “One, two, three weeks perhaps, and everybody cries ‘how beautiful!’ ‘what weather’ ‘superb!’ as if they had never seen the sun before, and then it is over, and again the mists and the fogs. Ah! yes, it is true. I love not the English climate, my cousin.”
“But, my dear child, how can you judge of it yet?” remonstrated Cicely. “You have only been here ten or twelve days. Everybody prophesies a beautiful summer this year.”
She was standing by the library window, looking out into the little garden, where the spring flowers were beginning to look passées already, and the heavy rain made little brown pools in the gravel paths. It had poured steadily for three days.
“It is very dull,” she allowed, as she turned away from the window; “but it may clear this evening. I shall go out to-morrow whether it does or not. I can’t stay in the house any longer. You had better come too, Geneviève, if you are not afraid of catching cold. I dare say it is from not having been out that you feel dull. At Hivèritz you live so much in the open air, don’t you?”
“It depends,” said Geneviève indifferently. “When the days begin to get hot, we go not much out except in the evening. Now it is already very hot at Hivèritz—every one will be going away. Soon—next week probably, papa, mamma, my brothers, all the family will go to the mountains.”
She gave a little sigh. Cicely looked at her sympathisingly.
“You have not had a letter from home for some days, have you Geneviève?” she said.
“Not since two—three days after I came,” the girl replied. “There will be one soon, I suppose. I wrote last week—it was the day Mr. Fawcett came first, and the letter of my aunt was not ready. You remember, Cicely? Yes, I could have a letter to-morrow perhaps.”
She had worked herself into a little animation. Feeling dull about things in general, she now began to think she must be home-sick, and was quite ready to accept Cicely’s sympathy.
“You might have a letter this evening,” said Miss Methvyn. “I wonder if any one has been at Haverstock this afternoon. Oh! by the bye,” she went on, “if there is a letter for you, you will get it soon, for Trevor is coming here this evening, and he will be passing through Haverstock, and he always brings our letters when he comes that way.”
“Haverstock,” repeated Geneviève, looking puzzled but interested, “one passes not by there in coming from Lingthurst?”
“No,” said Cicely, “but Mr. Fawcett isn’t coming from Lingthurst. He has been in town since Monday.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Geneviève; but there was a good deal in that “oh” little suspected by Cicely.
Her spirits rose on the spot. “I hope there will be a letter for her,” thought her cousin, half reproaching herself for a suggestion that might end in disappointment.
“I wonder how Cicely knew of Mr. Fawcett’s being away,” thought Geneviève, “I am sure he did not speak of it on Sunday.”
Mr. Fawcett came and stayed an hour, but he brought no letter for Geneviève. It was just possible, however, he said, that it might have been overlooked; his groom had asked for the Lingthurst and Greystone letters on his way to the station, and had got them rather hurriedly.
“So you may have it in the morning after all,” said Cicely kindly, and she was pleased to see how cheerfully Geneviève bore the disappointment.
Trevor was in great spirits. He had enjoyed his few days in town and was full of the newest small talk. He grumbled at his mother’s decision to remain at Lingthurst through the season, and tried to make Cicely discontented with her hard fate in having to spend it at the Abbey, by his descriptions of the pictures he had seen, the music he had heard, and the people he had met. But Cicely was not to be tempted.
“I am very glad we are not going to town this year,” she said quietly, and Geneviève opened wide her dark eyes in astonishment, and marvelled of what she was made.
“Next year I hope,” began Mr. Fawcett, but Cicely interrupted him with a sudden inquiry as to when he intended going to town again, and the sentence was never completed.
Next morning did bring a letter for Geneviève. The post-bag came just as they were finishing breakfast; there were letters for both Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely, and little mutual discussions of their contents in which their young cousin was not interested, followed, so she carried off hers to her own room to read it in private.
Her home affections were certainly by no means as vivid or vehement as Cicely imagined, yet Geneviève after all was only a girl of eighteen, separated for the first time from her parents and early associations, and there was genuine eagerness in the way she tore open the long, thin envelope and hastened to read the contents. It was a loving and motherly letter. Madame Casalis found it easier to express in written than in spoken words the warm affection of her nature, and Geneviève was touched by what she read. Two or three tears rolled down her cheeks, and blistered the thin foreign paper. “La pauvre chère mère,” she murmured to herself, and her heart smote her for the little consideration she had given to the pain the recent separation must have cost her care-worn, unselfish mother. Then she read on with interest about the family plans and arrangements—how they were leaving for the mountains in a few days; how the boys had done well at the last examination at the college; about Eudoxie’s summer frocks even, and Mathurine’s successful confitures, about Madame Casalis having met Madame Rousille and Stéphanie in the street, and of their affectionate inquiries for Geneviève. “They are going to St. Jean-de-Luz for sea-bathing,” wrote Madame Casalis, “and Madame Rousille has expressed her regret that thou wast no longer here; without that, she had hoped to invite thee to accompany them for one or two weeks.”
“Ah! yes,” thought Geneviève with a little toss of the head, “ah! yes! It is plain to be seen I am no longer only the little Casalis, ma chère Madame Rousille! A day may come when thy awkward Stéphanie will think with yet more respect of her old school companion.”
She smiled at a thought that crossed her mind. “Yes,” she said to herself, “I should like to see what Stéphanie would think of Lingthurst;” and for a minute or two she sat still in a pleasant reverie, the letter lying idly on her lap. Then she took it up again. Had she read it all? No, there were a few lines on the other side of the last page; a postscript bearing the date of a day later than the letter itself.
“I have just received the letter of my cousin Helen,” said the postscript,” thy aunt, as she tells me she makes thee call her. She tells me of thy meeting again with the family Fawcett; that is to say that the relations of Colonel Methvyn are indeed the same as the English family of thy adventure! It is truly very amusing that it should be so. I remember them well. I wish now I had tried to see Lady Frederica at the time when I heard the name from thee; it would have been pleasant to me to see some of my child’s new friends. Give the enclosed to Mrs. Methvyn. I have but a moment in which to write to her, so it is not worth a separate postage; but I shall write soon again to thank her more fully for all her kindness to thee.”
Where was the enclosure? Geneviève looked about her,—yes, there it lay on the carpet at her feet, whither it had fluttered when she first hastily drew out the letter from its envelope. A tiny enclosure it was, evidently but a half sheet of paper, but pretty closely written upon, as Geneviève could see from the blank side. How she wished her mother had forgotten to enclose it, how she wished she could read its contents! The sight of it had destroyed all her pleasure in her own letter, for the postscript suggested an unpleasant probability. In this little note to her aunt, written immediately on the receipt of Mrs. Methvyn’s letter, was it not almost certain that her mother would allude to Geneviève’s recognition by Mr. Fawcett, the result of which would be the betrayal to Cicely and her mother of the indirect falsehood in which Geneviève had taken refuge that evening when asked by her aunt how it was that Madame Casalis had not recognised the familiar name of Fawcett? Geneviève had given Mrs. Methvyn to understand that her mother had not done so, she had even suggested as reasons for this her own pronunciation of the name and Madame Casalis’ preoccupation of mind at the time? And why had she thus misled her aunt? Because she did not wish the Methvyns to know that she was aware of the probable identity of the two families and that her mother had immediately suggested it. She did not want them to know that she had purposely refrained from frankly inquiring about the Fawcetts, because she felt instinctively that they would have thought her reticence strange and ungirl-like. She had no explanation to give that they would have thought adequate, or satisfactory, or even intelligible, and indeed, seen with the eyes of her present discomfort, such reasons as she was conscious of having had for her reserve now appeared to herself foolish in the extreme; and even could she bring herself to confess to the only one she could plainly express in words—the romantic anticipation of bursting upon the hero of her adventure surrounded by the prestige of mystery and unexpectedness she was painfully certain that her cousin Cicely would be the last girl in the world to sympathise with such folly.
“She is so stiff—so English—she takes everything ‘au pied de la lettre,’” reflected. Geneviève with a curious mixture of respect and contempt. “She would think me so silly!”
Her cheeks burned at the thought. Then her glance fell again on the tiresome little letter. What a complication it, or her own folly, had brought her into! What disagreeable sifting of motives, what uncomfortable suspicions, what generally undesirable stirring of the smooth waters of her present surroundings might not the reading of this stupid note be the introduction to! If only her mother had not been in such a hurry to answer her aunt’s letter, there might have been time for Geneviève to write and beg her not to allude to her recognition of the Fawcett family by name; the girl felt sure she could trust to her mother to comply with such a request, and to wait for an explanation till some future day when Geneviève might give it by word of mouth—(by which time she hoped her mother would have forgotten all about it). Then a new idea struck her, why should she not still do so, why not take advantage of the fortunate circumstance of the note’s being confided to her care? She looked at it, she turned it about, and wished that she could read it; but it was sealed, and was most plainly not intended for other eyes than Mrs. Methvyn’s. And somehow, the idea of destroying it startled Geneviève.
“I know what I shall do,” she thought suddenly. “I shall send it back to mamma! I will write to her to-day and enclose it, and I will beg her to answer my aunt’s letter at once, and not to tell my aunt that she had said to me the Fawcetts might be the same she had known. That will make it all right—my aunt will not have expected an answer so soon—the few days’ delay cannot do harm.”
She set to work immediately, she wrote an affectionate letter to Madame Casalis, explaining her reason for retaining the little note and begging her to write without the allusion she dreaded. “Say only, dear mamma,” she wrote, “that it was curious the English family should be the same, that it was a pity Miladi Fawcett came not to our house; but say no more, and trust to thy Geneviève to explain to thee afterwards her reasons.” Then she begged her mother to forgive her for what she was doing, not to think she was in any way forgetting her good counsels now that she was away from her, and wound up with loving assurances of her affection and pretty little expressions of gratitude for the motherly love and care she had never valued so highly as since she had been separated from this mère chérie.
When the letter with its enclosure was all ready to be posted; sealed, addressed, and stamped, Geneviève breathed more freely. She put it into her pocket to be ready for the post-bag, and went downstairs to look for her aunt and cousin, uneasy lest her long absence should have attracted their attention. They were not in the library, but her cousin’s maid, whom she met in the passage, told her that Miss Cicely was busy writing in the colonel’s room, and that her aunt was out in the garden, giving directions about some new beds.
“It is all right then; they have not missed me,” thought Geneviève, and she went down again to the library, and played and sang in perfect comfort till the gong sounded for luncheon.
It was not till they were seated at the table that anything was said about her letter.
“You heard from home to-day, my dear,” said her aunt. “I hope you had good news. By the bye, was there nothing for me in your letter?”
Geneviève looked startled and confused. “Nothing for you, aunt?” she repeated, as if hardly taking in the sense of Mrs. Methvyn’s words.
“Yes, don’t you understand me, my dear?” said her aunt, with a touch of impatience, “was there no message? I half expected a letter myself, though—no, perhaps there was hardly time—your mother did not say she had got my letter, did she?”
Geneviève looked still more bewildered. “Oh! yes,” she said slowly, “there was a message. I did not understand.”
“Well, don’t look so frightened about it, my dear child,” exclaimed her aunt, half inclined to laugh at her, “tell me the message. No one is vexed with you when you don’t understand.”
Geneviève looked relieved—the little discussion had given her time to collect her wits; she must tell that her mother had received Mrs. Methvyn’s letter, otherwise her aunt would be expecting an immediate direct acknowledgment of it which would not come.
“I will read you what mamma says,” she replied, putting her hand into her pocket. “Ah! no,” she exclaimed, “the letter is upstairs! But I remember the message quite exactly, I think mamma told me to thank you much for your letter.”
“Ah! then she had got it,” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn.
“Yes,” said Geneviève, “she had just got it, just as she sent off my letter. She was very busy, she said, preparing to go to the mountains, but she sent many loves to you and my cousin, and she said she would write soon. I think,” she added more slowly, as if endeavouring to recall the exact words, in reality calculating how soon her mother’s letter could arrive, “I think she said she would write to you, my aunt, as soon as they get to the mountains. There mamma is not so occupied, so affairée as at Hivèritz.”
“Still I wish she had sent me a word,” said Mrs. Methvyn, looking hardly satisfied. “It is not like Caroline—she is generally so exact. My letter was a very particular one. But if she got it, I dare say it is all right.”
An uneasy look came over Geneviève’s face. Cicely, observing it, fancied she was pained by the slight reflection on Madame Casalis’ carefulness.
“I am sure it is all right, mother,” she said, “you know Geneviève says they are very busy, and the particular message about the letter having arrived shows it must be all right.”
“Oh! yes, I have no doubt it is,” answered Mrs. Methvyn, and then they talked of other things.
But Geneviève did not recover her cheerfulness or composure thoroughly throughout the meal, and when it was over she seemed eager to run off. Just as she was leaving the room, her aunt called after her,
“I am quite satisfied with the message you gave me, Geneviève. Don’t say anything to your mother about what I said, when you write. It might worry her, and I am sure she is busy. You will not be writing just yet, by the bye; it is only two days since you wrote, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Geneviève timidly.
“Then you won’t be writing again this week?”
“No,” said Geneviève still more timidly.
“I thought not. Tell me when you do, I shall have a few words for you to enclose,” and then Geneviève was allowed to go.
“I am afraid she was hurt by what I said. I wish she did not look so frightened,” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn uneasily. You know the reason I was anxious about that letter Cicely? It contained a rather large money order, for what Caroline had advanced for Geneviève’s journey and her little outfit, poor child. I did not want her to hear anything about the money, and therefore I think her mother should have sent me a word direct. A mere message through Geneviève was not business-like, and under the circumstances hardly delicate. I sent more money than they advanced—I am sure they want it all, poor people—and I thought they would have been so pleased. But I wish I had not said anything about it to Geneviève.”
“It does not matter, dear mother,” said Cicely consolingly, “you said so very little. When Geneviève gets to know us better, she will not be so easily distressed. She is exceedingly sensitive.”
And through her own mind there passed the reflection that this extreme sensitiveness of her cousin’s had nearly made her do her injustice.
“I have once or twice been inclined to doubt her perfect straightforwardness,” Cicely thought to herself. “That frightened, startled look puzzled me. But this shows I have misjudged her. She had just the same look just now, when there was nothing she could possibly have not been straightforward about. I am glad of it.”
Geneviève went slowly upstairs to her own room. Here was a new complication! She must not let her aunt see the letter she had ready to send, yet there must be no delay in despatching it. How angry she felt with her want of presence of mind! It would have been so easy to have told her aunt that she had already written again that something in her mother’s letter required an immediate answer. Then her reply could have been openly sent in the bag. But for this it was now too late. She must get it posted without any one seeing or knowing of it. How could this be managed? It was nearly two miles to Greybridge, the nearest post-town. How could she possibly get there and back without her absence being observed? Oh, how tiresome it was! She felt ready to cry with annoyance and irritation.
Circumstances favoured her unexpectedly. Her cousin came running upstairs in search of her.
“Geneviève,” she exclaimed, “would you like to go out with mother, or would you mind being alone this afternoon? Mother can only take one of us, for she is going in the pony-carriage to Haverstock. If you go, Dawson will drive and you must sit behind, but if I go I can drive and he can go behind. I really don’t care whether I go or not; so choose, dear, which you would like.”
Quick as lightning a calculation of her chances flashed through the girl’s mind. Was it likely she would have an opportunity of posting her letter unobserved at Haverstock? Hardly. Better trust to the certainty of two hours to herself and Greybridge.
“Thank you, dear Cicely,” she replied; “I think perhaps it would be best for you to go to-day. I can amuse myself quite well alone. I may go out a little perhaps. Yes, truly, Cicely, I think I would rather not go,” she repeated, fancying her cousin looked a little incredulous.
“Very well,” said Cicely. But she stood still for a minute or two, as if not perfectly satisfied. “Geneviève,” she added suddenly, “you are not refusing to go because you are afraid of being with mother, are you?”
“Afraid of being with your mother!” exclaimed Geneviève, the blood rushing to her face, “how do you mean, Cicely? Why need I be afraid?”
“I don’t think you need be afraid,” replied her cousin, “I only mean that you may misunderstand mother till you know her better. She says little things sharply sometimes, but she never has any sharp feelings, Geneviève; she has the kindest, gentlest heart in the world. You need never be afraid of her, dear.”
“I know,” said Geneviève gently. “I know she is good, very good, and so are you, Cicely. But I cannot help sometimes being afraid. I am not so good. I am silly and foolish, yet I wish not that you should think me so,” she added naïvely.
She looked up in her cousin’s face as she spoke, and Cicely smiled kindly. Oh, how Geneviève wished she could tell her all about the complication she had got herself into! But, no; it was not to be thought of. After this, however, once clear of the present entanglement, Geneviève resolved she would take care never to involve herself in another; she really felt inclined for the future to make a friend of her cousin, and to appeal to her for advice and counsel.
So Cicely drove off with her mother to Haverstock, and as soon as she was sure that the coast was clear, Geneviève equipped herself for her walk to Greybridge.
She knew the way, as she had been there once with her cousin, and the road was direct. She walked quickly, and reached the little post-office without misadventure of any kind, and having safely posted her letter, she turned with a considerably lightened heart to retrace her steps.
Greybridge was a funny little town. There was a main street, with half-a-dozen tiny short ones leading to nowhere, running out of it on one side. And the great thoroughfare was, of course, called the High Street. There were about a dozen shops in the place, a church in no way remarkable, a melancholy and antiquated inn, which like so many of its kin had been brisk and cheery in the old, old days, when his Majesty’s mail clattered over the stones; and there were two or three genteel little terraces, in which dwelt the doctor, the lawyer, the curate, whoever he might be for the time, and several “genteel ladies, always genteel,” though the patent of their gentility bore date long ago. These ladies, spinsters for the most part, were, as a matter of course, perfectly au fait of the doings and sayings, and thoughts even, of their wealthier neighbours. They knew all about the Methvyn household, the nearest of the adjacent families. They were thoroughly posted up in all the details of little Charlie Forrester’s illness and death, which latter event they had predicted with surprising prevision; they knew far more than either old Dr. Farmer or “the young man from Sothernbay” of the concealed progress made by Colonel Methvyn’s somewhat mysterious disease; they could have related all that took place in the family conclave (which had never assembled) in which it was decided that “Miss Cicely and young Mr. Fawcett were to make a match of it,” and they quite understood Mrs. Methvyn’s reasons for sending for “the little French girl” from unknown parts. So, as all their windows looked out directly upon the High Street, and as the post-office lay at the opposite end of the town from that by which Geneviève entered it from the Abbey Road, it was not to be supposed that Mdlle. Casalis’s progress to and from her destination would be unobserved by the several pairs of eyes ever on the look out for a little harmless excitement.
But Genevieve was as yet happily ignorant of the manners and customs common to little out-of-the-way English country towns, so she made her way to the post office, there deposited her letter, and turned to go home again without misgiving, when suddenly she heard the clattering of a horse’s hoofs upon the cobble-stones with which Greybridge High Street was paved, and looking up, to her surprise, recognised Mr. Fawcett riding slowly down the street in her direction.
Her first sensation was one of pleasure, her second of dismay—he would tell of having seen her—her third, which she arrived at just as the gentleman came within speaking distance, a mixture of the two former; she was pleased, yet frightened to see him; she would take him into her confidence to the extent of begging him not to betray her. So it was an eager yet blushing face which looked up at Mr. Fawcett from under the broad-brimmed straw hat which Geneviève had chosen for her walk in the sun. And as the young man recognised the sweet face, notwithstanding his amazement, its loveliness struck him yet more vividly than heretofore.
“What in the world is she doing here? Is that the way they take care of her? Why, my aunt would as soon think of Cicely’s cooking the dinner as of letting her walk to Greybridge alone!” were his first thoughts. And “I do believe she grows prettier every time I see her,” came next.
But neither surprise nor admiration startled away his presence of mind. He knew by woeful experience the preternatural sharpness of the Greybridge eyes; he knew, too, that pretty Geneviève, the French girl from over the sea, who had suddenly appeared on the scene as the distant cousin of Mrs. Methvyn, was just the sort of person, and just in the position, to attract all the gossip of the neighbourhood. He could not understand what his aunt and cousin were thinking of to let her wander about the country in this fashion by herself; but, he at least, was determined to be on the safe side. As he came up to Geneviève, he caught sight of two heads in suspicious proximity to the window panes of the house he was passing, and one of them he recognized as that of the greatest gossip of the little town. So without drawing rein he lifted his hat to the young lady with respectful deference, and rode on.
Geneviève had almost stopped, the smile of welcome was on her face, the first words of greeting all but uttered. And when Mr. Fawcett, after thus giving unmistakable sign of having observed her, proceeded calmly on his way, her dismay was great—for half a second she stood still in consternation. Then pride came to her aid. As if she thought the young man had eyes in the back of his head, she walked steadily and swiftly up the street, glancing neither to the right nor left, hurried along the high-road till all signs of the town were left far behind, then sat down on a low bank at the side and burst into tears.
And Miss Hinton withdrew her head from the window in disgust. “I really thought young Fawcett and that French girl had met by appointment,” she observed to the friend who was visiting her. “It is just the sort of way French girls go on. You remember my telling you she had come to be companion, or something to Mrs. Methvyn when Miss Methvyn is married—not that that marriage will ever take place—you mark my words, my dear. Young Fawcett is the most bare-faced flirt, and Miss Cicely, for all her quietness, has a temper of her own.”
Geneviève felt that she really had something to cry for. It was not only wounded vanity that prompted her tears, she was seriously afraid of the consequences of Mr. Fawcett’s having seen her in Greybridge. Not that she was conscious of having done anything that could gravely displease Mrs. Methvyn, but she dreaded the inquiries that might result from the mention of her expedition. At home, certainly she would never have thought of walking so far alone, but here in England, in the country, she fancied it was different. Cicely and she had walked to church by themselves on Sunday; it never occurred to her that had she openly spoken of her intention, her aunt would have expressed any objection. So of the real reason of Mr. Fawcett’s strange behaviour, she had not any idea. She only fancied he was tired of her, disliked her, perhaps, or found her uninteresting, and, like the mere girl that she was found relief for her mingled feelings in tears.
Suddenly there fell again on her ears the same sound that had startled her in the High Street—horse’s hoofs coming behind her. She did not hear them till they were nearer, this time, for the road was less communicative than the Greybridge cobble-stones, and her ears were dulled by her preoccupation. She had only just time to start to her feet, to wish that she had a veil, or that her parasol were an umbrella, when the steps slackened abruptly, and a well-known voice addressed her by name.
“Miss Casalis,” exclaimed the new-comer, “I could hardly believe it was you I saw just now. Have you run away from Greystone?”
But the jesting tone failed to restore Geneviève’s composure. She felt as if she would burst into tears if she tried to speak. Despite the parasol and the broad-brimmed hat, something in her manner startled Mr. Fawcett. He jumped off his horse, and passing his arm through the reins walked on slowly beside her.
“Is there anything the matter, Geneviève?” he asked gravely, though at a loss to picture to himself what could be the matter to cause Mrs. Methvyn’s niece to be sitting crying by the wayside.
“No, thank you,” she replied, controlling herself to the best of her ability, “there is nothing the matter. If you thought there was something, what for then did you not ask me when you saw me just now—in the street down there?” and she made a little gesture in the direction of Greybridge.
“You were not crying then?” said Mr. Fawcett, somewhat at a loss what to say, and choosing perhaps the unwisest words he could have uttered.
“And because you think I cry now, you follow me and—and—” Geneviève’s inconsequent accusation was lost in a fresh flood of tears.
Mr. Fawcett was considerably embarrassed. It was very evident to him, even though he was not gifted with peculiarly acute perception, that the girl was offended with him. It was annoying, but somehow he could not feel annoyed. He could only feel sorry and concerned and vexed with himself for his own clumsiness.
“I beg you to forgive me,” he said earnestly. “I did not know—how could I—that you were really in distress. I would not have followed you if I had known it would vex you. At least—”
The gentleness and deference of his tone disarmed Geneviève’s very passing indignation.
“There is nothing wrong,” she said, anxious to take him into her confidence to the extent she felt necessary. “I wanted to tell you when I saw you in the street; it was only that I had a letter to post, and I thought I would walk with it to Greybridge. And now I fear my aunt and my cousin might be angry if they knew. It was foolish of me.”
“Then did they not know of your going so far alone?” inquired Trevor, rather mystified.
“Oh! no, they are gone to the other town—to Haverstock, in the little carriage, the pony-carriage that my cousin conducts herself. There is not place for three,” and half unconsciously Geneviève’s voice took a plaintive inflection.
“I don’t think it is very—” began Mr. Fawcett more vehemently than usual, but he stopped suddenly. “And so you came all the way to Greybridge to pass the time, I suppose? There are far prettier walks than along the high-road.”
“It was not that only,” said Geneviève, her tone growing lower, the scarlet rushing back to her cheeks, “It was that I wished to post my letter myself.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the young man, somewhat unreasonably disgusted at having, as he fancied, lighted upon some silly love affair. “I fancied French girls were so well looked after,” he thought to himself.
“It was a letter to my mother,” pursued Geneviève calmly, and an instant revulsion of feeling for the injustice he had done her took place in Trevor’s mind, “and I wished not that they should see it, because I wrote there are but two days, and I feared—” she stopped and hesitated, “I wish not that Cicely should think me silly,” she added.
“Think you silly for writing home often! Cicely, who is so over head and ears devoted to her own home! How could she?” said Mr. Fawcett. There was a slight undertone of bitterness in his words which Geneviève did not understand. She feared that he was firing up in her cousin’s defence.
“Perhaps she would not think so,” she replied meekly. “But—but—will you not tell that I walked alone to Greybridge? I am so strange here, I fear to do wrong,” she added pleadingly, the tears rushing to her eyes again.
“Of course I will say nothing about it if you ask me not,” said Mr. Fawcett. “But I assure you, my dear child, you mistake Cicely. I know her so well, you see—I understand her—and she is the best and kindest girl in the world.”
But in his heart he felt a certain irritation against “the best and kindest girl in the world.” “She has chilled this poor little soul by that cold manner of hers,” he said to himself.
“I am foolish,” said Geneviève humbly. “I always am afraid.”
“But you are not afraid of me?” said Trevor rashly. The dewy, dark eyes which had been raised to his, drooped, and again the soft colour flooded over her face.
“No,” she whispered, “because you are so kind, so very kind.”
“Then the next time you are in any trouble about letters or anything, you will tell me first, won’t you?” he said encouragingly, “and not set off to Greybridge alone. And if you want to know some of the pretty walks nearer home, I shall be delighted to show you them. Any day, for instance, that Cicely is busy with her father or mother—I know she is often so. There are some awfully pretty walks between the Abbey and Lingthurst Woods.”
“Thank you,” said Geneviève, her face lighting up with pleasure, “oh! thank you, and thank you too so much that you will not say how far I went to-day,” she added, more timidly.
They had come to a point where the roads to Lingthurst and Greystone separated. Just then there came the sound of rapidly approaching wheels behind.
“I think I must leave you now,” said Mr. Fawcett. “You can’t miss your way. I must hurry home, I fear.”
He shook hands with even more than his ordinary gentle empressement. “The English way of shaking hands,” as Geneviève called it, and which she so admired. Nevertheless, a slight uneasiness was visible in his manner which puzzled her a little.
He mounted and rode off quickly, managing, however, to obtain a glimpse of the dog cart, now at no great distance. He recognized the driver as one of the Abbey grooms, but could not identify the person beside him.
“Whoever it is, he can hardly have seen me,” he thought, as he galloped off, and the reflection reassured him, for he still dreaded any gossip about Geneviève’s escapade. “I hope she will be more careful in future,” he said to himself. “I wish I could give Cicely a hint to be more tender with her. I am glad she has confided her little troubles to me, for in my position of course I am like a sort of brother to her. There would be no risk of gossip in her walking about as much as she likes if she would keep to the Abbey grounds. I must try to make her understand. I wonder, by the bye, if she quite knows how things are between Cicely and me. Surely she does—”.
But a slight cloud overspread his bright face.