“But, papa—” entreated Frederica.
“Hush, say nothing more. As Mrs Glencairn said nothing to you, you are not supposed to know anything about the matter. Go back to school at once. Or are you going home for the day?”
“I meant to do so, but I don’t wish to trouble mama. I might speak to Mrs Ascot.”
“Much good that would do,” said her father, with his unpleasant laugh. “No, I will speak to her. Go now, there are people coming in.”
As the door opened to admit some one, Frederica passed out, but she did not turn her face towards home, nor towards school.
“I will go to Cousin Cyprien,” said she to herself. “I cannot trouble mama, and I cannot go back to Mrs Glencairn’s without some hope that it will all be set right. Papa so soon forgets.”
And not giving herself time to lose courage by thinking about the difficulties before her, she hastened away. But when she found herself in the dismal hall into which Mr St. Cyr’s office opened, and from which the staircase to his house led, she wished herself well away again. It was late in the morning by this time, but Mr St. Cyr had not come down to his office, the man who opened the door told her, and Frederica went upstairs with a beating heart. She thought she had come at a wrong time, when she opened the door, and found that Mr St. Cyr was not alone. But her friend hastened to welcome her, and though he expressed some surprise at the sight of her, he expressed pleasure also.
“Only I fear you must be in trouble again,” said he, kindly. “Is it something very serious this time? Ah! yes, your face says so. It is not—is it Prickly Polly? But first let me introduce my brother to you, whom you ought to know. Jerome, this is Theresa’s daughter—Mr St. Hubert’s grandchild.”
“It must be Theresa herself, I think,” said the dark man, who rose and held out his hand.
“No, I am Frederica. Theresa is younger than I.”