Considering that the burden of the speech was herself and her own feelings, it was an unusually long one for Cicely. But the simple words betrayed no egotism; the kind, true eyes expressed their owner’s real feelings. Impressionable Geneviève threw her arms round her cousin’s neck.
“I do trust you, dear Cécile,” she exclaimed impetuously. “I love you and trust you, and I think you so good and so wise. I wish I were good like you, but I am not. I am foolish and discontent, and at home I did not help the mother and think for her, as you do for my aunt. Teach me to be like you, dear Cécile; let me trust you and give you all my confidence.”
Cicely smiled. It was no sudden friend ship she was asking of her cousin, no romantic compact of girlish devotion which she was proposing—such things were little in her way. But she would not for worlds have chilled Geneviève’s affectionate impulse, so she submitted with apparent satisfaction to a kiss on each cheek, and kissed her again in return, saying as she did so, “Good night, dear Geneviève, and thank you. Now you must ring for Parker and go to bed. It is rather late and you look tired.”
Coming along the passage after leaving Geneviève, Miss Methvyn met her mother.
“I was looking for you, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “It is late, but your father is very comfortable to-night. He is still reading the papers.”
They were close to the door of Cicely’s little sitting-room. They went in and stood in silence for a minute by the mantelpiece. All looked the same as on the night little Charlie died; the birds were all asleep, the flowers looked fresh and cared for, the Skye terrier lay on the hearthrug. Cicely sighed as she looked round, for her glance fell on an object she had not yet had the heart to dislodge from its accustomed place—a toy horse, Charlie’s favourite steed, stalled in one corner, which he had called his stable.
But the sigh was quickly stifled. “What did you want me for, mother?” she said.
“I was thinking, Cicely,” began Mrs. Methvyn, “that it would now be well to tell Geneviève of your engagement—don’t you think so? It is different now that Trevor is here again. It may seem strange to her afterwards not to have been told of it.”
Cicely hesitated. “I would much rather she were not told of it just yet,” she said. “She is so young, and I want so much to make her feel quite at ease with me. Besides,” she went on, “you know, mother, what we were saying this afternoon—my engagement is rather an indefinite one; it is not as if I were going to be married soon.”
“But if your father sets his heart upon it—the Fawcetts have always wished to hasten the marriage, you know, Cicely dear—it may not be a very long engagement after all,” said Mrs. Methvyn.