But neither surprise nor admiration startled away his presence of mind. He knew by woeful experience the preternatural sharpness of the Greybridge eyes; he knew, too, that pretty Geneviève, the French girl from over the sea, who had suddenly appeared on the scene as the distant cousin of Mrs. Methvyn, was just the sort of person, and just in the position, to attract all the gossip of the neighbourhood. He could not understand what his aunt and cousin were thinking of to let her wander about the country in this fashion by herself; but, he at least, was determined to be on the safe side. As he came up to Geneviève, he caught sight of two heads in suspicious proximity to the window panes of the house he was passing, and one of them he recognized as that of the greatest gossip of the little town. So without drawing rein he lifted his hat to the young lady with respectful deference, and rode on.
Geneviève had almost stopped, the smile of welcome was on her face, the first words of greeting all but uttered. And when Mr. Fawcett, after thus giving unmistakable sign of having observed her, proceeded calmly on his way, her dismay was great—for half a second she stood still in consternation. Then pride came to her aid. As if she thought the young man had eyes in the back of his head, she walked steadily and swiftly up the street, glancing neither to the right nor left, hurried along the high-road till all signs of the town were left far behind, then sat down on a low bank at the side and burst into tears.
And Miss Hinton withdrew her head from the window in disgust. “I really thought young Fawcett and that French girl had met by appointment,” she observed to the friend who was visiting her. “It is just the sort of way French girls go on. You remember my telling you she had come to be companion, or something to Mrs. Methvyn when Miss Methvyn is married—not that that marriage will ever take place—you mark my words, my dear. Young Fawcett is the most bare-faced flirt, and Miss Cicely, for all her quietness, has a temper of her own.”
Geneviève felt that she really had something to cry for. It was not only wounded vanity that prompted her tears, she was seriously afraid of the consequences of Mr. Fawcett’s having seen her in Greybridge. Not that she was conscious of having done anything that could gravely displease Mrs. Methvyn, but she dreaded the inquiries that might result from the mention of her expedition. At home, certainly she would never have thought of walking so far alone, but here in England, in the country, she fancied it was different. Cicely and she had walked to church by themselves on Sunday; it never occurred to her that had she openly spoken of her intention, her aunt would have expressed any objection. So of the real reason of Mr. Fawcett’s strange behaviour, she had not any idea. She only fancied he was tired of her, disliked her, perhaps, or found her uninteresting, and, like the mere girl that she was found relief for her mingled feelings in tears.
Suddenly there fell again on her ears the same sound that had startled her in the High Street—horse’s hoofs coming behind her. She did not hear them till they were nearer, this time, for the road was less communicative than the Greybridge cobble-stones, and her ears were dulled by her preoccupation. She had only just time to start to her feet, to wish that she had a veil, or that her parasol were an umbrella, when the steps slackened abruptly, and a well-known voice addressed her by name.
“Miss Casalis,” exclaimed the new-comer, “I could hardly believe it was you I saw just now. Have you run away from Greystone?”
But the jesting tone failed to restore Geneviève’s composure. She felt as if she would burst into tears if she tried to speak. Despite the parasol and the broad-brimmed hat, something in her manner startled Mr. Fawcett. He jumped off his horse, and passing his arm through the reins walked on slowly beside her.
“Is there anything the matter, Geneviève?” he asked gravely, though at a loss to picture to himself what could be the matter to cause Mrs. Methvyn’s niece to be sitting crying by the wayside.
“No, thank you,” she replied, controlling herself to the best of her ability, “there is nothing the matter. If you thought there was something, what for then did you not ask me when you saw me just now—in the street down there?” and she made a little gesture in the direction of Greybridge.
“You were not crying then?” said Mr. Fawcett, somewhat at a loss what to say, and choosing perhaps the unwisest words he could have uttered.