“Hush,” said Trevor, “there is some one behind us. Come this way.”
He led her close to where Cicely was sitting, then through a small doorway in the wall leading into a passage used by the gardeners; as the two passed her, the skirt of Geneviève’s dress almost brushed against Cicely’s, but thanks to the subdued light and to their own absorption, she remained unperceived.
She had sat perfectly still—motionless, as if suddenly turned into stone. It had required no effort on her part to remain so, for now even that they were gone—out of sight and hearing—she moved not so much as a muscle of her whole body; afterwards, on looking back, it seemed to herself that she had almost for a time ceased to breathe. She was stunned into a species of unconsciousness, and how long she might have remained thus it would be impossible to say, had not Mr. Hayle made his appearance with the ice he had gone in search of.
“Here is the ice. I had to wait some time—” he was beginning, but broke off in alarm. “What is the matter?” he exclaimed, “you look so dreadfully pale, Miss Methvyn.”
“I have got a chill, I think,” said Cicely shivering, and attempting to smile. She was surprised to find that she could speak; for the last few minutes a sort of dreamy, almost pleasant feeling of death, or dying, had been stealing over her. Now she awoke to a faint consciousness of pain; like the unfortunate traveller in the Alps, who beseeches to be allowed to sleep, even though the sleep should be unto death, she shrank from coming to life again. “I have got a little chill, I think,” she repeated. “I should just like to stay here quietly.”
She leant her head back again among the graceful nestling ferns—their delicate fronds caressing her colourless cheeks and brushing the coils of her bright fair hair; she closed her eyes, and for a moment Mr. Hayle thought she had fainted. Perhaps in a sense she had—at least she was conscious of nothing more till he was again beside her, this time with a glass of wine.
“Drink this, Miss Methvyn,” he said.
“No, thank you,” she replied, turning her head away.
“But you really must,” he insisted. “The sort of chill you have had may make you ill if you don’t take this. Think how frightened Mrs. Methvyn will be if you go home looking like a ghost.”
Mr. Hayle was not wanting in discrimination and common sense. He had met Mr. Fawcett and Miss Casalis on his way to fetch the ice; he was not without a shrewd suspicion as to the nature of the “chill” which the girl beside him had received. His mention of her mother roused Cicely a little. She took the glass and drank some of the wine.