The last words of the song returned to Cicely’s mind.
“Sachez que d’ Jeannetto,
Quand ell’ aimo bien,
Sachez que d’ Jeannetto
Donno ça per rien.”
“I wonder if Geneviève is capable of deep feeling,” thought Cicely. “Will there ever come a time “quand ell’ aimo bien?” She seems like a bird.’ But am I capable of it? I thought I cared for Trevor. I think it still; but, oh! the thought of leaving home is terrible!”
Then with slower steps she followed her cousin into the house.
Geneviève meanwhile had flown upstairs to her aunt’s room.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Methvyn in answer to her tap at the door. “Oh! it is you, my dear Geneviève. I am writing to your mother again; I always like to answer letters at once when I can, and besides, I have something I want to tell her now; and I want to tell it to you too; but I hardly think you will be surprised.”
“What is it, dear aunt?” inquired Geneviève with some curiosity,
“It is—I fancy you may have noticed Trevor has been here so much,” began Mrs. Methvyn rather confusedly. Geneviève’s heart beat faster, the blood rushed to her cheeks. Could he already have spoken to her aunt?—it was possible that out of respect to her French prejudices he might have done so. “He comes here so much,” her aunt went on, “that even though you know he is our cousin, I can’t help thinking you may have suspected there was some particular attraction; but till now Cicely did not want you to be told of it” (“Cicely, what had she to do with it?” darted through Geneviève’s mind), “because she fancied you would not so soon have felt at ease and friendly with her if you had known she was engaged.”
The room seemed to go round with Geneviève. She caught hold of the arm of the low chair on which she was sitting to prevent herself falling. But still she managed to say quietly, “Yes, dear aunt.”
“And so,” Mrs. Methvyn went on, “I agreed to say nothing about it till you had been a little while with us and felt quite at home. Besides, hitherto the engagement has been so indefinite—I mean to say no time has been fixed—but now I think we must begin to make up our minds to losing Cicely before very long. Not that it will really be like losing her, of course; she will be so near, we can see her almost every day.” She spoke with a forced cheerfulness which would have touched a disinterested listener, but Geneviève was conscious just now but of one sensation, an agonising inclination to burst into hysterical weeping—she had no feeling to spare for any one but herself; she exerted all her strength in forcing herself to remain to outward appearance calm.