GENEVIÈVE meanwhile had made her way home again—through the pretty lanes, across the daisy-besprinkled fields she passed, heeding but little the summer loveliness surrounding her on all sides, though not insensible to the direct pleasantness of the sunshine, of the soft sweet air and universal warmth and brightness.
Daisies were only daisies to her, the birds’ songs no more than a pretty twitter in a language of which it had never occurred to her that there could be any interpretation; to her “the witchery of the soft blue sky” was almost as little known as to the immortal potter; yet careless and ignorant as she was of Nature’s subtler influences, of the beauty buried everywhere, of the tender secrets of “water, earth, and air,” revealed not to the senses “without a soul behind,” Geneviève was keenly alive to everything affecting, agreeably or the reverse, her material existence. She was miserable on a rainy day, she crept together like a sensitive plant at the approach of cold; she would have drooped and pined far more speedily than her cousin Cicely, had fate suddenly cast her life in some ugly, grimy manufacturing town, she loved brightness and warmth and colour almost as much as admiration.
So this morning her spirits, which had already experienced several chamelion-like variations since she had wakened, rose again when she found herself alone in the sunny, green meadows, out of sight of Cicely’s pale, grave face, which for the last day or two she had been unable to see without an uncomfortable, indefinite sensation of self reproach.
“How strange Cicely is!” she reflected; “they say English girls marry for love—love indeed, they know not what it means. She looks miserable at the thought of leaving her home and her parents—her father surtout, who assuredly cannot live long; her mother, who has all she can wish for, a fine house, carriages, horses, plenty of money, and yet she imagines herself that she cares for Mr. Fawcett! It is not in her cold nature to care. Sensibilité, she can have none; how, if she had any, could she go among those misérables at Notcotts? To see a child who is dying—what a taste! What good can she do? She is not a doctor. However, chacun a son goút, as Mathurine says.”
The recollection of Mathurine brought the cloud back to her face. “I had meant to send her a so beautiful dress of black silk the day I was married,” she thought regretfully.
When she reached the Abbey, she found her aunt in the middle of a housewifely consultation with Mrs. Moore in the store-room.
“Is that you—back again already,—my dear Geneviève?” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn. “I am so sorry that you have hurried home. I find that your uncle has not got his notes arranged yet for the catalogue of French engravings, so it will have to wait till to-morrow. I am so sorry.”
“It matters not the least in the world, dear aunt,” said Geneviève sweetly. I walked quite far enough, and Cicely, I think, preferred to pay her little visit of charity alone. Is there then nothing else that I can do for you? If not, I will study the piano-practice, I mean, in the library.”
“Yes, dear, do so. Mrs. Moore and I have quite a morning’s work before us, and Cicely will be back by the time her father wants her; so go and practice, by all means.”
Geneviève went slowly to the library. She opened the piano and looked out a piece of music she had half learnt. It was a brilliant waltz, calling for considerable execution, and Geneviève had been working at it very zealously, for Mr. Fawcett had said that he admired it, and had mentioned having heard it beautifully played by some lady of his acquaintance. But to-day it sounded flat and commonplace, her fingers seemed to have lost their cunning; all the verve and spirit had deserted her! Geneviève left off playing, and leant her head wearily on the piano. What was the use of it now? Why should she care any more to please Mr. Fawcett? He had Cicely to play to him—her soft, unobtrusive “songs without words,” and nocturnes, and so on; it was Cicely’s business to play to him, not hers. Mr. Fawcett did not care about her; he had only been amusing himself while all the time he had belonged to Cicely. He had called her butterfly once, had he not? “Yes,” thought Geneviève, “that is just it. He thinks me a pretty silly little butterfly. He liked to play with me, that was all!”