“Don’t you think it is rather too hot here,” said Mr. Hayle, “would you not like to find a seat where there is a little more air?”
“It is hot,” said Cicely, rising as she spoke; “yes, I think I should like to go into one of the other rooms. I want to find Geneviève—it must be getting late. Will you take me, Mr. Hayle?” she added with a smile.
They made a little tour of the rooms; dancing in the ball-room was still going on vigorously, but no Geneviève, no Trevor, were to be seen.
“I dare say they are in the supper-room,” said Mr. Hayle. “I saw several people there still, a few minutes ago. Suppose we look for a nice cool place in the conservatory, Miss Methvyn; this way—ah! yes, over there among the ferns there is a charming corner. Now, if you will stay here, I will get you an ice and look for Miss Casalis on the way.”
The poor little man seemed quite pleased to find himself of use. Cicely thanked him and established herself comfortably in the nook he had discovered. It was at the further end of the fernery, into which opened the great dining-room, to-night metamorphosed into a ball-room. Cicely looked round her admiringly. She had always coveted the Lingthurst fernery; in the hottest summer day it seemed cool and fresh—there were greens of every shade to rest the eye, an incessant, soothing murmur of trickling water to please the ear; and to-night the soft lights of the many-coloured lamps, hung here and there among the climbing plants which hid the walls, made the whole into a veritable fairy-land.
Cicely leant her head back and shut her eyes. “The music sounds far nicer here than in the ball-room,” she said to herself; “it is almost too loud in there. I shall go to sleep if Mr. Hayle doesn’t come soon. I don’t want an ice in the least, but it would have been a shame to refuse it; he was so pleased with the idea. Ah, there he is!”
Steps were approaching her, but they were not Mr. Hayle’s. Where she sat, some great stands of tall tropical ferns concealed her from the view of any one coming to wards her; but not realising this, it never occurred to her to move when first the sound of voices fell upon her ear. Well known, familiar voices they proved to be, but the words they uttered deprived the girl for the moment of all power or vitality.
“I tell you I will do anything—anything to make you believe me—anything to free myself from this horrible hypocrisy. I can stand it no longer. The words were spoken low, but with a sort of suppressed fierceness; the voice was Trevor’s. Then came a sound of half-smothered weeping, some broken reply of which Cicely could not catch the meaning—then Trevor’s voice again.
“Not care for you? Good God! what will you say next? I wish I did not care for you. I wish we had never seen each other. Not care for you, you say, when I am breaking my word for you, trampling my honour under foot! I only hope that is the worst of what I am doing, Geneviève. I only hope what you tell me is true, that in her heart of hearts Cicely does not care for me except as a brother. If I thought otherwise! No, even for you, Geneviève, I could not do it.”
“But it is true—it is, it is,” broke in the girl’s voice. “I know it is, I have always known it. She does not care as I do—oh, no! Trevor, I shall die if I have to lose you.”