“Shall I come to see your mother to-morrow, Trevor?” said Mrs. Methvyn as she was bidding Mr. Fawcett good night. “Or will she be busy?”
“She will probably be rather in a state of mind if the missing boxes haven’t turned up,” said the young man. “I’ll look in some time to-morrow and tell you. I have to drive to the village to call on the new clergyman, and I may as well come round this way.”
“Oh! then the new clergyman has come,” said Cicely. “I am very glad. I don’t like driving to Haverstock Church half as well as going to Lingthurst. The walk through the woods is so pretty, Geneviève,” she added; “I almost think it is what I like best about our Sundays here.”
“Cicely, my dear!” said her mother in a somewhat similar tone to that in which Mrs. Crichton had reproved her brother for the avowed reason of his predilection for church.
Cicely smiled. “Well, mother dear,” she said coaxingly, “the walk to church was really more edifying than what we heard when we got there, in the old days. I am so glad Sir Thomas is getting a new organ,” she went on. “We hear Mr.—I don’t think I have heard h is name—is a zealous reformer.”
“Tremendous,” said Mr. Fawcett. “I don’t think my father had any idea what he was bringing upon us when he gave the living to Mr. Hayle.”
“Mr. Hayle, oh! that’s his name, is it? But I thought he was not coming for two months,” said Miss Methvyn.
“So thought everybody except Mr. Hayle,” replied Mr. Fawcett. “There was some mistake about it, and it turned out he had made all his plans for coming at once; that was one of the things that made us come home sooner. But I must be going. Good night, aunt. I shall be sure to look in to-morrow.”
That night when the two girls went upstairs to their rooms, Cicely accompanied Geneviève into hers. She stood for a moment by the dressing-table idly playing with some pretty little toilet ornaments that stood upon it. They were unusually pretty little trifles, and belonged to a set which had been given to her by an old lady who was a connoisseur in such things, and Cicely had placed them in her cousin’s room to please her eye on first arriving. The sight of the little ornament seemed to remind her of what she had to say, or perhaps to encourage her to say it.
“Geneviève,” she began, and her blue eyes looked earnest and thoughtful, “I want to say something to you. I am afraid I seem cold to you, and it would grieve me if you thought I felt so. I am not naturally very demonstrative, and since my father has been so ill, I have had to learn to be even more quiet and calm in manner. And being the only one at home, I have had to do what I could to help my parents, and I fear it has given me a sort of decided, managing manner that may strike you disagreeably. I want to ask you not to be afraid to tell me if I ever seem either cold or hard. You don’t know me yet; you can’t trust me all of a sudden; I should not wish it. But when you know me better, I hope you will believe that I don’t feel cold and indifferent, and that I am very anxious, dear, to make you happy.”