She sank down again helplessly on the sofa.
“If you could see Mrs. Methvyn—such matters are so much more easily explained by word of mouth,” suggested Miss Winter artfully.
“It would be less trouble,” agreed Lady Frederica.
Miss Winter took care to strike while the iron was hot, by ordering the carriage, and despatching Todd to dress Lady Frederica before she had time to change her mind, and her energy was crowned with success. The Lingthurst carriage drove up to the Abbey door at an hour that rarely saw Lady Frederica out of her room.
Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely were upstairs; Geneviève was alone in the library, writing, when, to her amazement, the door opened, and the visitor was announced.
“Lady Frederica,” she repeated in her surprise, as she went forward to greet her.
“Yes, my dear. I am so pleased to find you at home. My visit is to you, my dear Miss Casalis,” and in her excitement, Trevor’s mother kissed the girl on both cheeks.
Geneviève grew scarlet, then pale again. What could be the meaning of it? Had it not been for what she knew to be the case, what would she not have thought? As it was, all sorts of wild conjectures flashed across her mind. More than a week had passed since the day that Trevor and she had last met in that very room; the day he had so betrayed his dissatisfaction with Cicely. And since that morning, Geneviève had not seen him. She knew he had gone away; she had heard of his calling to say good-bye, one afternoon that she had been out driving with her aunt, but that was all. And Cicely’s manner had perplexed her; Trevor’s fiancée did not seem to regret his absence, she had grown far more cheerful, and looked much brighter since it had been decided upon. Could it be that they had in sober earnest quarrelled? or, rather, agreed to separate, and that she, Geneviève, not Cicely, was the real object of Mr. Fawcett’s devotion? If this were the case, it would satisfy her of the truth of what she had taken upon herself to suspect, that Cicely was not really attached to her cousin, and that she would be glad to break off her engagement. And if such were the actual state of things, what more natural than that Trevor’s mother should be deputed to explain it all to the one it most nearly concerned—what more natural, or more delightful! for would it not be proof positive that the Fawcetts père et mère were satisfied with their son’s new choice?
All these speculations darted with the speed of lightning across Geneviève’s brain—she had time even to persuade herself that they were based upon a strong foundation of probability, before Lady Frederica had disencumbered herself of the wraps which, even in July, she thought a necessary accompaniment of a drive in an open carriage, and established herself comfortably in an easy chair. Her first words threw Geneviève into utter bewilderment.
“We have heard this morning, my dear Miss Casalis,” she began, “that poor Mrs. Morrison is dreadfully ill—dying, in fact—that is why I came over to see you at once, an explanation by word of mouth is so much more satisfactory, than writing.”