It was too late. Of that she now felt satisfied, not from any scrupulous feeling of honour due to his own vows, or regard to Cicely’s happiness,—such considerations weighed curiously little in the scales of Geneviève’s judgment,—but she felt that in Trevor’s place she herself would have hesitated before the sacrifice involved by the breaking off of his engagement. Cicely was rich, well-connected, and in every sense a partie to be desired; his parents approved of her,—there was no saying what might not be the results of his displeasing them in so grave a matter. “They might disinherit him,” reflected Geneviève, “and in that case—” She did not finish the sentence, but she was none the less clear in her own mind that Mr. Fawcett penniless and obscure would be by no means the same person as the hero of her castles in the air.
So, with a sigh, she made up her mind that she must think no more of Cicely’s fiancé. To do her justice, no feeling of ill will towards her cousin increased the bitterness of her disappointment; she was doubtful of Cicely’s appreciation of her good fortune, but that was all; and then she consoled herself a little by reflecting that, had Trevor been unfettered, old Mathurine’s predictions would certainly have been fulfilled.
“I wish I could see him,” she thought; “I wonder what he will think when he finds that I know of his engagement. I am glad he did not see me yesterday, when my eyes were so red and swollen. I wonder if Mr. Guildford observed them.”
The recollection of Mr. Guildford sent her thoughts off in another direction. She recalled her aunt’s hints when they were driving the day before, and speculated as to what had called them forth. She did not care for Mr. Guildford in the least; she thought him abrupt and “brusque” in manner; painfully “English” in the objectionable sense of the word, and very far removed in position from that which she aspired to. Still he was clever, and likely to rise in his profession; he was not poor,—Mrs. Methvyn had spoken of him as fairly well off; though not exactly good-looking, he was not without an air of distinction; it might be possible, thought Geneviève, to do worse. Stéphanie Rousille’s eldest sister had married a doctor, and seemed to enjoy most of the good things of life very satisfactorily; and some English doctors, Geneviève had heard, rose to high places, to appointments, à la cour even. It was not unpleasant to feel that if she chose she might, in all probability, be married as soon as Cicely; she was glad to remember that, notwithstanding her depression and preoccupation the day before, she had smiled and talked as usual to Mr. Guildford, and had done nothing to chill or repel his evident admiration.
“My eyes cannot have looked very bad, after all,” she thought, “or my aunt would not have stopped when we met him, for I am sure she wishes me to be admired.”
So Geneviève’s spirits rose again considerably; her distress of mind had not prevented her sleeping, and though, perhaps a very little paler and more subdued than her wont, she looked as fresh and sweet as a newly-opened rosebud when she joined her aunt and cousin at the breakfast-table.
Cicely, on the contrary, looked ill and almost careworn; it seemed to cost her an effort to speak or smile. Geneviève observed her with surprise.
“What then would she have, I wonder?” she said to herself; “I understand not the English.”
She strolled to the window when breakfast was over, wishing it were yesterday. How happy she had felt when she came back from her ramble in the woods! how little she had dreamt of what it was that her aunt was going to say to her! The tears rushed into her eyes again at the thought. It was a lovely day, but Geneviève felt no wish to go out; the morning walk had lost its charm for her; she began again to think England, despite its midsummer sunshine, a very different place from what she had pictured it, and almost to wish she had never come. Almost, not quite, she had made up her mind that she must have nothing more to do with Mr. Fawcett, except what little intercourse was unavoidable with him in his position of Cicely’s fiancé, but still she could not help wishing that she could see him again, if but once. If she could meet him by accident; in that there could be no harm—it was too hard to think she would never see him again, except in her cousin’s presence, in the openly recognised character of her lover.
A voice beside her made her start; it was only Cicely.