Cicely could have shrieked at her: “Not for the world!” Grimshaw’s presence in the house, the fact that he was within forty feet of her, that he was ill, that his fine work in France had been cut short, probably ended . . . these accumulative surprises simply ravaged her. She wanted to bolt out of the house, to hide herself in the bracken, to think, think, think, till order evolved itself out of chaos.
Instead, she said faintly:
“Of course I will see Mr. Grimshaw. Please tell him that I am here.”
“Very good, miss.”
Ellen swept out. She had a nose—what servant has not?—for a situation. Something in Cicely’s face had stimulated curiosity. As she hurried to the dispensary, detached from the house, she wondered vaguely whether there had been “carryings-on” between Miss Chandos and Mr. Grimshaw. Quite likely, she decided.
Cicely rose from her chair and stared at herself in a sun-burst mirror above the mantelpiece. She bit her lips and slapped her cheeks, miserably conscious that such actions were humiliating and condemnatory. Why was she pale and trembling?
Fortunately for her—or perhaps the gods took pity—Grimshaw was preparing a tincture that exacted time and attention. Several minutes elapsed before he entered the room. Cicely, meanwhile, had recovered her self-possession.
“I am so glad to see you,” she said.
Sapphira might have envied her!
Nevertheless, the first glance at Grimshaw’s face was devastating. He was thin and haggard; he had lost weight; he had lost entirely the bloom of youth. Contrasting him with Wilverley, he seemed to be all angles and irregularities. The bones of his face had become sharply prominent.