And on Friday morning, thanks to Cicely and her handmaid, Geneviève’s little outfit was complete, and she stood with her trunks all ready for the journey, in the hall, waiting for the Lingthurst carriage, which was to call for her on its way to Greybridge. Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely were beside her; comings and goings had grown to be events of some importance in the nowadays quiet, monotonous life at the Abbey.
“You will write and tell us how you get on, my dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“Don’t promise to write too much,” said Cicely, smiling; “I don’t think you will have any great amount of leisure. But here is the carriage.”
The carriage contained Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica, and just behind appeared another, loaded with luggage.
“Your belongings, Miss Casalis? Let me see—two boxes, a bag, etc. etc., four in all, my man will see to them. Good morning, Mrs. Methvyn; good morning, Cicely, my dear. We have no time to spare I fear,” exclaimed Sir Thomas fussily, as he got out of the carriage to superintend Geneviève’s getting in. “Oh! by the bye,” he added, coming back again for a moment, “we heard from Trevor this morning. Had you a letter, Cicely? No? That’s odd. He is an extraordinary fellow. What do you think he is going to do now, after all his grumbling at being so little in town this year? He’s off to Norway for six weeks, in Frederic Halliday’s yacht.”
“Is he really?” exclaimed Cicely. “I am very glad—that is to say, if he enjoys it, which I suppose he is sure to do. But I wonder I haven’t got a letter. It may come this afternoon.
“Sure to, I should say. Good-bye again,” shouted Sir Thomas.
“And good-bye, my dear.” “Adieu chère tante; adieu, Cicely,” came in Lady Frederica’s and Geneviève’s softer tones.
Geneviève smiled and kissed her hand as they drove away, but a cloud had come over her sun again, for all that; she had heard Sir Thomas’s news.
Cicely’s letter, accidentally delayed, came the next morning.