She stopped for a moment, and Geneviève seeing she was expected to say something, expressed her agreement with Lady Frederica in preferring verbal communications, and murmured some vague words of condolence on the “bad news” she had received, and appreciation of her (mysterious) kindness in hastening to impart it; though who or what Mrs. Morrison was, she had not the remotest idea. But she managed to steer clear of committing herself to any possibly damaging confession of ignorance.
“Yes,” said Lady Frederica, “it is very sad, though she is over sixty, and has lost the use of her right leg for some time. She is the eldest of the family, and has been quite like a mother to my Miss Winter, she tells me, so, of course, she feels it very much. And we are going on Friday, so if you can be ready at such short notice, my dear, I cannot tell you how pleased I shall be, and so will Sir Thomas when I tell him.”
Even Geneviève’s studied deference of manner was not proof against the bewilderment this speech aroused. She opened her brown eyes and stared at Lady Frederica in dismay.
“Ready, if I can be ready! I am so sorry, but I do not understand,” she said, at last.
“Dear me, how stupid I am! Of course, I haven’t explained,” exclaimed the visitor. “We are going to the Isle of Wight on Friday—there, at least, in the first place we intend to be some weeks away; Trevor is to join us the latter part of the time, and of course Miss Winter was coming with us, but for this unfortunate contretemps about poor Mrs. Morrison, her sister, you know. And so, talking it over, it just came into our heads how very nice it would be if you would come with us instead—not instead exactly, you understand how I mean, my dear.”
And, with a little more repetition and parenthesis, Lady Frederica at last succeeded in making Geneviève understand what it was she did mean and had come about.
It was very far from being the realisation of the wild dreams she had indulged in a few moments before—an invitation to accompany these two old people to the seaside, only! Still it came at a welcome time, for Geneviève’s spirits had been down, a long way below zero, for several days past, and the prospect of any change was acceptable. Besides, was there not a possibility, an enchanting possibility, lurking in the words, “Trevor is going to join us the latter part of the time?”—“It will be the last I shall see of him before he is married. It can do no harm now that I know of his engagement. I know he can be nothing to me; therefore I need not fear to enjoy the little I can ever see of him again,” thought Geneviève. There was no deliberate intention of disloyalty to her cousin; she would not have put into words even to herself the faint suggestion of what—with the experience she had had already—she knew perfectly well might be the result of Mr. Fawcett and herself being thrown together for even a few days; but to the whisper of her good angel, “Decline to go; take the risk of giving offence and avoid at all costs the temptation,” she resolutely turned a deaf ear.
“It is not my doing,” she said to herself. “I did not seek for the invitation. I am not obliged to sacrifice myself to fancies that I may interfere with Cicely. It would be very conceited to suppose that I could do so—and besides, if her fiancé can be shaken in his attachment to her by the first pretty girl he comes across, why—his attachment to her cannot be very profound!”
So with sparkling eyes and a bright flush of pleasure in her cheeks, Geneviève ran upstairs to tell her aunt of Lady Frederica’s visit and its object, and to ask for her consent to the acceptance of the invitation.
Mrs. Methvyn was in her own room.