“Yes,” thought Cicely, “I can be thankful for that.”
Then suddenly she recollected what Mr. Guildford had told her of the news contained in the fatal telegram. Her mother had not alluded to it. “We will talk about everything afterwards. Not yet,” she had said to Cicely. What could “everything” mean? Could it be that the loss of property, the tidings of which had, she reflected with a shudder, actually killed her father; could it be that this loss was something very great? For herself she did not care; but when she thought of her delicate mother, a vague apprehension for the first time made itself felt. She wished that she had asked Mr. Guildford to tell her more; from his manner she fancied he was in possession of fuller details than he had mentioned to her; but for this it was now too late. Mr. Guildford had gone back to Sothernbay; the chances were that she would not see him again, as in all probability he would now hasten his departure from the neighbourhood.
“He need not have asked me to release him from his promise,” she said to herself with a sort of sorrowful bitterness.
There came a knock at the door. It was Parker.
“If you please, Miss Cicely,” she began timidly, “Miss Casalis has been asking how you are. She would be so pleased if you would let her come and sit with you, or do anythink; anythink she says she would be so pleased to do.”
“Tell her there is nothing whatever she can do to help me, or my mother. And for to-day, at least, Parker, I wish to be left quite alone.”
The cold tone was discouraging, but the pale wan face and poor swollen eyes, moved Parker to another effort.
“Miss Casalis do seem very miserable,” she said insinuatingly. “I should not have thought she was a young lady as would have taken it to heart so. I don’t think she closed a eye last night. I do wish, Miss Cicely, my dear, you would let her come and sit with you. She’s wandering about like a ghost. She seems as if she could settle to nothing.”
Parker’s conscience was pricked by the sight of Geneviève’s distress. She felt that she had done her injustice. Only the evening before, she had been far from amiably disposed to the girl, whose fresh loveliness had won the universal admiration which, according to the old servant’s way of thinking, belonged of right to “her own young lady,” and any appearance of indifference or carelessness would have confirmed her prejudice. But that Geneviève was in real distress, no one could doubt. “She must have a tender heart, for all her flighty, foreign ways,” thought Parker, and she waited with some anxiety for the result of her second appeal.
“I am sorry for her,” said Cicely slowly. The thought of the miserable little figure wandering about alone in the desolate rooms downstairs, the remembrance of Geneviève’s great brown, velvety eyes with the tears in them, moved her in spite of herself. “I am very sorry for her,” she repeated with a quiver in her voice. “I dare say she is very unhappy, but, Parker, I really cannot see her. I don’t want to see any one—not even, remember, Parker, not even Mr. Fawcett if he calls to-day.”