Geneviève felt that Cicely’s eyes were fixed upon her with what she imagined to be reproach, and she hardened her heart.
“Nothing has put me out,” she repeated. “I am not happy, that is all. I do not love England; I want to go home.”
“But I cannot allow you to go home unless I am shown a good reason for it,” said Mrs. Methvyn firmly. “When I brought you away from your mother, Geneviève, it was with the wish and intention of making you happy with us. If I have not succeeded, I regret it very much; but still that does not free me from the responsibility I undertook. I cannot possibly let you go home as you propose. You do not really mean what you are saying—you are put out about something, and afterwards you will be sorry.”
Mrs. Methvyn leant back wearily in her chair. Geneviève stood before her, her eyes fixed on the ground.
“No,” she said, after a little pause, “no; I shall not be sorry afterwards. I am sorry now,” she glanced up for a moment, “I am sorry to trouble you. But I shall not be sorry for asking to go home. I must go home. If I write and ask my mother, and if she consents, you will let me go then?”
“I cannot prevent your writing home what you choose,” said Mrs. Methvyn, as if tired of the discussion, “but, of course, it is very painful to me that my plans for your welfare should end so, and I know it will disappoint your mother.” She was silent for a moment, then she suddenly looked at her niece with a new suspicion. “Geneviève,” she said, speaking with an effort, “can it be that the reason you want to leave us is, that you have heard any talk about our not being as rich as we were?”
The blood rushed to Geneviève’s white face.
“No; oh, no!” she cried. “Indeed, it is not that. I am not so—so—what do you call it?—so mean. No, it is not that.”
“But you might have some mistaken idea about it without being mean,” replied Mrs. Methvyn, speaking more kindly. “You might have some notion that it would be difficult now for me to do what before was quite easy—that you would be an additional burden upon me. But things are not as bad as all that, my dear. I shall be very glad to have you with me, and I shall be quite able to manage comfortably. If I saw you happy, I should be more pleased even than before to have you with me, when—when I am quite alone—when Cicely has to leave us.”
Her voice faltered a little as she glanced at her daughter, who all this time had sat perfectly silent, neither by word nor look taking part in the discussion. Once or twice during the conversation Cicely had been tempted to interfere, but on reflection she refrained from doing so. “It is better that mother should be prepared for something,” she thought, “even this ill-timed request of Genevieve’s may pave the way for what I must tell her.”