Parker gazed at her young lady in astonishment. “Not Mr. Trevor!” she exclaimed under her breath.
“No; I wish to seeno one,” repeated Cicely.
“There is never any telling how trouble will change people,” thought the old servant philosophically. “Poor Miss Cicely doesn’t hardly know how she feels yet; we must let her have her own way for awhile.”
She was leaving the room when Cicely called her back. “On second thoughts,” she said, speaking with an effort, “you may tell Miss Casalis that if she likes to come up here in half an hour or so, I will ask her to write some letters for me.”
Parker departed in triumph. Half an hour later Geneviève, pale, worn-looking, with great black circles under her eyes, and dressed in the plain black gown in which she had travelled from Hivèritz, crept into the room; Cicely looked at her and her heart melted.
“Will you write these letters for me, Geneviève?” she said, pointing to a slip of paper on which she had written down some addresses. “I can easily tell you what to say. Mother asked me to see about her mourning—and I think you had better write home to-day to tell your mother what has happened.”
Her lips quivered, she turned her head away. Geneviève threw her arms round her.
“Oh! Cicely, dear Cicely, I do love you. I do. I am so sorry, oh! I am so sorry. Oh, Cicely, I wish I had never come here!”
Cicely disengaged herself gently, very gently, from her cousin’s embrace.
“I am glad you are sorry for our sorrow, Geneviève,” she said quietly, “even though it is impossible you should understand all we—I—am feeling.”