‘Oh! that was not all—I could not help it—enjoyment—no!’ stammered Genevieve. ‘If you would be kind enough to come this way.’
She opened her grandmother’s back gate, the entrance to a slip of garden smothered in laurels, and led the way to a small green arbour, containing a round table, transformed by calico hangings into what the embroidered inscription called ‘Autel a l’Amour filial et maternel,’ bearing a plaster vase full of fresh flowers, but ere Albinia had time to admire this achievement of French sentiment, Genevieve exclaimed, clasping her hands, ‘Oh, madame, pardon me, you who are so good! You will tell no one, you will bring on him no trouble, but you will tell him it is too foolish—you will give him back his billet, and forbid him ever to send another.’
Spite of the confidence about Emily, spite of all unreason, such was the family opinion of Fred’s propensity to fall in love, that Albinia’s first suspicion lighted upon him, but as her eye fell on the pink envelope the handwriting concerned her even more nearly.
‘Gilbert!’ she cried. ‘My dear, what is this? Do you wish me to read it?’
‘Yes, for I cannot.’ Genevieve turned away, as in his best hand, and bad it was, Albinia read the commencement—
“My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!”
In mute astonishment Albinia looked up, and met Genevieve’s eyes. ‘Oh, madame, you are displeased with me!’ she cried in despair, misinterpreting the look, ‘but indeed I could not help it.’
‘My dear child,’ said Albinia, affectionately putting her arm round her waist, and drawing her down on the seat beside her, ‘indeed I am not displeased with you; you are doing the very best thing possible by us all. Think I am your sister, and tell me what is the meaning of all this, and then I will try to help you.’
‘Oh, madame, you are too good,’ said Genevieve, weeping; and kindly holding the trembling hand, Albinia finished the letter, herself. ‘Silly boy! Genevieve, dear girl, you must set my mind at rest; this is too childish—this is not the kind of thing that would touch your affections, I am sure.’
‘Oh! pour cela non,’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! no; I am grateful to Mr. Gilbert Kendal, for, even as a little boy, he was always kind to me, but for the rest—he is so young, madame, even if I could forget—’