“I am afraid she was hurt by what I said. I wish she did not look so frightened,” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn uneasily. You know the reason I was anxious about that letter Cicely? It contained a rather large money order, for what Caroline had advanced for Geneviève’s journey and her little outfit, poor child. I did not want her to hear anything about the money, and therefore I think her mother should have sent me a word direct. A mere message through Geneviève was not business-like, and under the circumstances hardly delicate. I sent more money than they advanced—I am sure they want it all, poor people—and I thought they would have been so pleased. But I wish I had not said anything about it to Geneviève.”
“It does not matter, dear mother,” said Cicely consolingly, “you said so very little. When Geneviève gets to know us better, she will not be so easily distressed. She is exceedingly sensitive.”
And through her own mind there passed the reflection that this extreme sensitiveness of her cousin’s had nearly made her do her injustice.
“I have once or twice been inclined to doubt her perfect straightforwardness,” Cicely thought to herself. “That frightened, startled look puzzled me. But this shows I have misjudged her. She had just the same look just now, when there was nothing she could possibly have not been straightforward about. I am glad of it.”
Geneviève went slowly upstairs to her own room. Here was a new complication! She must not let her aunt see the letter she had ready to send, yet there must be no delay in despatching it. How angry she felt with her want of presence of mind! It would have been so easy to have told her aunt that she had already written again that something in her mother’s letter required an immediate answer. Then her reply could have been openly sent in the bag. But for this it was now too late. She must get it posted without any one seeing or knowing of it. How could this be managed? It was nearly two miles to Greybridge, the nearest post-town. How could she possibly get there and back without her absence being observed? Oh, how tiresome it was! She felt ready to cry with annoyance and irritation.
Circumstances favoured her unexpectedly. Her cousin came running upstairs in search of her.
“Geneviève,” she exclaimed, “would you like to go out with mother, or would you mind being alone this afternoon? Mother can only take one of us, for she is going in the pony-carriage to Haverstock. If you go, Dawson will drive and you must sit behind, but if I go I can drive and he can go behind. I really don’t care whether I go or not; so choose, dear, which you would like.”
Quick as lightning a calculation of her chances flashed through the girl’s mind. Was it likely she would have an opportunity of posting her letter unobserved at Haverstock? Hardly. Better trust to the certainty of two hours to herself and Greybridge.
“Thank you, dear Cicely,” she replied; “I think perhaps it would be best for you to go to-day. I can amuse myself quite well alone. I may go out a little perhaps. Yes, truly, Cicely, I think I would rather not go,” she repeated, fancying her cousin looked a little incredulous.
“Very well,” said Cicely. But she stood still for a minute or two, as if not perfectly satisfied. “Geneviève,” she added suddenly, “you are not refusing to go because you are afraid of being with mother, are you?”