“Oh!” exclaimed Geneviève; but there was a good deal in that “oh” little suspected by Cicely.
Her spirits rose on the spot. “I hope there will be a letter for her,” thought her cousin, half reproaching herself for a suggestion that might end in disappointment.
“I wonder how Cicely knew of Mr. Fawcett’s being away,” thought Geneviève, “I am sure he did not speak of it on Sunday.”
Mr. Fawcett came and stayed an hour, but he brought no letter for Geneviève. It was just possible, however, he said, that it might have been overlooked; his groom had asked for the Lingthurst and Greystone letters on his way to the station, and had got them rather hurriedly.
“So you may have it in the morning after all,” said Cicely kindly, and she was pleased to see how cheerfully Geneviève bore the disappointment.
Trevor was in great spirits. He had enjoyed his few days in town and was full of the newest small talk. He grumbled at his mother’s decision to remain at Lingthurst through the season, and tried to make Cicely discontented with her hard fate in having to spend it at the Abbey, by his descriptions of the pictures he had seen, the music he had heard, and the people he had met. But Cicely was not to be tempted.
“I am very glad we are not going to town this year,” she said quietly, and Geneviève opened wide her dark eyes in astonishment, and marvelled of what she was made.
“Next year I hope,” began Mr. Fawcett, but Cicely interrupted him with a sudden inquiry as to when he intended going to town again, and the sentence was never completed.
Next morning did bring a letter for Geneviève. The post-bag came just as they were finishing breakfast; there were letters for both Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely, and little mutual discussions of their contents in which their young cousin was not interested, followed, so she carried off hers to her own room to read it in private.
Her home affections were certainly by no means as vivid or vehement as Cicely imagined, yet Geneviève after all was only a girl of eighteen, separated for the first time from her parents and early associations, and there was genuine eagerness in the way she tore open the long, thin envelope and hastened to read the contents. It was a loving and motherly letter. Madame Casalis found it easier to express in written than in spoken words the warm affection of her nature, and Geneviève was touched by what she read. Two or three tears rolled down her cheeks, and blistered the thin foreign paper. “La pauvre chère mère,” she murmured to herself, and her heart smote her for the little consideration she had given to the pain the recent separation must have cost her care-worn, unselfish mother. Then she read on with interest about the family plans and arrangements—how they were leaving for the mountains in a few days; how the boys had done well at the last examination at the college; about Eudoxie’s summer frocks even, and Mathurine’s successful confitures, about Madame Casalis having met Madame Rousille and Stéphanie in the street, and of their affectionate inquiries for Geneviève. “They are going to St. Jean-de-Luz for sea-bathing,” wrote Madame Casalis, “and Madame Rousille has expressed her regret that thou wast no longer here; without that, she had hoped to invite thee to accompany them for one or two weeks.”