XVII.
PAUL’S arrangements, as regarded Cicely, had been excellent. But an hour arrived when the excellence suddenly became of no avail; for Cicely’s mood changed. When the change had taken place, nothing that any of these persons, who were devoting themselves to her, could do or say, weighed with her for one instant. She came from her tent one morning, and said, “Grandpa, please come down to the shore for a moment.” She led the way, and the judge followed her. When they reached the beach the moon was rising, its narrow golden path crossed the lake to their feet. “I can’t stay here any longer, grandpa.”
“We will go back to Port aux Pins, then, dearie; though it seems a pity, you have been so well here.”
“I don’t mean Port aux Pins; I am going to Romney.”
“But I thought Ferdie had written to you not to come? Tennant certainly said so, he assured me that Ferdie had written, urging you to stay here; he has no right to deceive me in that way—Paul Tennant; it’s outrageous!”
“Ferdie did write. And he didn’t urge me to stay, he commanded me.”
“Then you must obey him,” said the judge.
“No; I must disobey him.” She stood looking absently at the water. “He has some reason.”
“Of course he has—an excellent one; he wants to keep you out of the mess of a long illness—you and Jack.”
“I wish you would never mention Jack to me again.”