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CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

PROBLEM SETS

1. The advantage of the index model, compared to the Markowitz procedure, is the
vastly reduced number of estimates required. In addition, the large number of
estimates required for the Markowitz procedure can result in large aggregate
estimation errors when implementing the procedure. The disadvantage of the index
model arises from the model’s assumption that return residuals are uncorrelated.
This assumption will be incorrect if the index used omits a significant risk factor.

2. The trade-off entailed in departing from pure indexing in favor of an actively

managed portfolio is between the probability (or the possibility) of superior
performance against the certainty of additional management fees.

3. The answer to this question can be seen from the formulas for w 0 (equation 8.20)
and w* (equation 8.21). Other things held equal, w 0 is smaller the greater the
residual variance of a candidate asset for inclusion in the portfolio. Further, we see
that regardless of beta, when w 0 decreases, so does w*. Therefore, other things
equal, the greater the residual variance of an asset, the smaller its position in the
optimal risky portfolio. That is, increased firm-specific risk reduces the extent to
which an active investor will be willing to depart from an indexed portfolio.

4. The total risk premium equals: α + (β × Market risk premium). We call alpha a
nonmarket return premium because it is the portion of the return premium that is
independent of market performance.
The Sharpe ratio indicates that a higher alpha makes a security more desirable.
Alpha, the numerator of the Sharpe ratio, is a fixed number that is not affected by
the standard deviation of returns, the denominator of the Sharpe ratio. Hence, an
increase in alpha increases the Sharpe ratio. Since the portfolio alpha is the
portfolio-weighted average of the securities’ alphas, then, holding all other
parameters fixed, an increase in a security’s alpha results in an increase in the
portfolio Sharpe ratio.

8-1
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

5. a. To optimize this portfolio one would need:

n = 60 estimates of means
n = 60 estimates of variances
n2 − n
= 1,770 estimates of covariances
2
n 2 + 3n
Therefore, in total: = 1,890 estimates
2

b. In a single index model: ri − rf = α i + β i (r M – rf ) + e i

Equivalently, using excess returns: R i = α i + β i R M + e i
The variance of the rate of return can be decomposed into the components:
(l) The variance due to the common market factor: β i2σ M2

(2) The variance due to firm specific unanticipated events: σ 2 (ei )

In this model: Cov(ri , r j ) = β i β j σ

The number of parameter estimates is:
n = 60 estimates of the mean E(ri )
n = 60 estimates of the sensitivity coefficient β i
n = 60 estimates of the firm-specific variance σ2(ei )
1 estimate of the market mean E(rM )
1 estimate of the market variance σ M2
Therefore, in total, 182 estimates.
The single index model reduces the total number of required estimates from
1,890 to 182. In general, the number of parameter estimates is reduced from:
 n 2 + 3n 
  to (3n + 2)
 2 

6. a. The standard deviation of each individual stock is given by:

σ i = [β i2σ M2 + σ 2 (ei )]1 / 2
Since βA = 0.8, βB = 1.2, σ(eA ) = 30%, σ(eB ) = 40%, and σM = 22%, we get:
σA = (0.82 × 222 + 302 )1/2 = 34.78%
σB = (1.22 × 222 + 402 )1/2 = 47.93%

8-2
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

b. The expected rate of return on a portfolio is the weighted average of the

expected returns of the individual securities:
E(rP ) = wA × E(rA ) + wB × E(rB ) + wf × rf
E(rP ) = (0.30 × 13%) + (0.45 × 18%) + (0.25 × 8%) = 14%
The beta of a portfolio is similarly a weighted average of the betas of the
individual securities:
βP = wA × βA + wB × βB + wf × β f
βP = (0.30 × 0.8) + (0.45 × 1.2) + (0.25 × 0.0) = 0.78
The variance of this portfolio is:
σ 2P = β 2Pσ M2 + σ 2 (e P )

where β 2P σ 2M is the systematic component and σ 2 (e P ) is the nonsystematic

component. Since the residuals (ei ) are uncorrelated, the nonsystematic
variance is:
σ 2 (eP ) = wA2 × σ 2 (eA ) + wB2 × σ 2 (eB ) + w2f × σ 2 (e f )
= (0.302 × 302 ) + (0.452 × 402 ) + (0.252 × 0) = 405
where σ2(eA ) and σ2(eB ) are the firm-specific (nonsystematic) variances of
Stocks A and B, and σ2(e f ), the nonsystematic variance of T-bills, is zero. The
residual standard deviation of the portfolio is thus:
σ(eP ) = (405)1/2 = 20.12%
The total variance of the portfolio is then:
σ 2P = (0.78 2 × 22 2 ) + 405 = 699.47
The total standard deviation is 26.45%.

7. a. The two figures depict the stocks’ security characteristic lines (SCL). Stock A
has higher firm-specific risk because the deviations of the observations from
the SCL are larger for Stock A than for Stock B. Deviations are measured by
the vertical distance of each observation from the SCL.

b. Beta is the slope of the SCL, which is the measure of systematic risk. The SCL
for Stock B is steeper; hence Stock B’s systematic risk is greater.

8-3
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

c. The R2 (or squared correlation coefficient) of the SCL is the ratio of the
explained variance of the stock’s return to total variance, and the total
variance is the sum of the explained variance plus the unexplained variance
(the stock’s residual variance):
β i2 σ 2M
R2 =
β i2 σ 2M + σ 2 (ei )
Since the explained variance for Stock B is greater than for Stock A (the
explained variance is β 2B σ 2M , which is greater since its beta is higher), and its
residual variance σ 2 (eB ) is smaller, its R2 is higher than Stock A’s.

d. Alpha is the intercept of the SCL with the expected return axis. Stock A has a
small positive alpha whereas Stock B has a negative alpha; hence, Stock A’s
alpha is larger.

e. The correlation coefficient is simply the square root of R2, so Stock B’s
correlation with the market is higher.

8. a. Firm-specific risk is measured by the residual standard deviation. Thus, stock

A has more firm-specific risk: 10.3% > 9.1%

b. Market risk is measured by beta, the slope coefficient of the regression. A has
a larger beta coefficient: 1.2 > 0.8

c. R2 measures the fraction of total variance of return explained by the market

return. A’s R2 is larger than B’s: 0.576 > 0.436

d. Rewriting the SCL equation in terms of total return (r) rather than excess
return (R):
rA − rf = α + β × (rM − rf ) ⇒
rA = α + rf × (1 − β ) + β × rM
The intercept is now equal to:
α + rf × (1 − β ) = 1% + rf × (1 − 1.2)
Since rf = 6%, the intercept would be: 1% + 6%(1 − 1.2) = 1% − 1.2% = −0.2%

8-4
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

9. The standard deviation of each stock can be derived from the following
equation for R2:
β i2 σ 2M Explained variance
Ri2 = = Total variance
σ i2
Therefore:
β 2A σ 2M 0.7 2 × 20 2
σ 2A = = = 980
R A2 0.20
σ A = 31.30%
For stock B:
1.2 2 × 20 2
σ 2B = = 4,800
0.12
σ B = 69.28%

10. The systematic risk for A is:

β A2 × σ M2 = 0.702 × 202 = 196
The firm-specific risk of A (the residual variance) is the difference between
A’s total risk and its systematic risk:
980 – 196 = 784
The systematic risk for B is:
β B2 × σ M2 = 1.202 × 202 = 576
B’s firm-specific risk (residual variance) is:
4,800 – 576 = 4,224

11. The covariance between the returns of A and B is (since the residuals are assumed
to be uncorrelated):
Cov(rA ,rB ) = β Aβ B σ 2M = 0.70 × 1.20 × 400 = 336
The correlation coefficient between the returns of A and B is:
Cov(rA , rB ) 336
ρ AB = = = 0.155
σ Aσ B 31.30 × 69.28

8-5
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

12. Note that the correlation is the square root of R2: ρ = R 2

Cov(rA, rM ) = ρσ Aσ M = 0.201/2 × 31.30 × 20 = 280
Cov(rB , rM ) = ρσ Bσ M = 0.121/2 × 69.28 × 20 = 480

13. For portfolio P we can compute:

σP = [(0.62 × 980) + (0.42 × 4800) + (2 × 0.4 × 0.6 × 336)]1/2 = [1282.08]1/2 = 35.81%
βP = (0.6 × 0.7) + (0.4 × 1.2) = 0.90
σ 2 (e P ) = σ 2P − β 2P σ 2M = 1282.08 − (0.90 2 × 400) = 958.08

Cov(rP,rM ) = βP σ 2M =0.90 × 400=360

This same result can also be attained using the covariances of the individual stocks
with the market:
Cov(rP,rM ) = Cov(0.6rA + 0.4rB, rM ) = 0.6 × Cov(rA, rM ) + 0.4 × Cov(rB,rM )
= (0.6 × 280) + (0.4 × 480) = 360

14. Note that the variance of T-bills is zero, and the covariance of T-bills with any asset
is zero. Therefore, for portfolio Q:

[
σ Q = wP2 σ 2P + wM2 σ 2M + 2 × wP × wM × Cov(rP , rM ) ] 1/ 2

[
= (0.5 2 × 1,282.08) + (0.3 2 × 400) + ( 2 × 0.5 × 0.3 × 360) ] 1/ 2
= 21.55%
β Q = wP β P + wM β M = (0.5 × 0.90) + (0.3 × 1) + (0.20 × 0) = 0.75

σ 2 (eQ ) = σ Q2 − β Q2 σ 2M = 464.52 − (0.75 2 × 400) = 239.52

Cov(rQ , rM ) = β Q σ 2M = 0.75 × 400 = 300

15. a. Beta Books adjusts beta by taking the sample estimate of beta and averaging it
with 1.0, using the weights of 2/3 and 1/3, as follows:
adjusted beta = [(2/3) × 1.24] + [(1/3) × 1.0] = 1.16

b. If you use your current estimate of beta to be βt–1 = 1.24, then

βt = 0.3 + (0.7 × 1.24) = 1.168

8-6
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

16. For Stock A:

α A = rA − [rf + β A × (rM − rf )] = .11 − [.06 + 0.8 × (.12 − .06)] = 0.2%
For stock B:
α B = rB − [rf + β B × (rM − rf )] = .14 − [.06 + 1.5 × (.12 − .06)] = −1%
Stock A would be a good addition to a well-diversified portfolio. A short position in
Stock B may be desirable.

17. a.
Alpha (α) Expected excess return
αi = ri – [rf + βi × (rM – rf ) ] E(ri ) – rf
αA = 20% – [8% + 1.3 × (16% – 8%)] = 1.6% 20% – 8% = 12%
αB = 18% – [8% + 1.8 × (16% – 8%)] = – 4.4% 18% – 8% = 10%
αC = 17% – [8% + 0.7 × (16% – 8%)] = 3.4% 17% – 8% = 9%
αD = 12% – [8% + 1.0 × (16% – 8%)] = – 4.0% 12% – 8% = 4%
Stocks A and C have positive alphas, whereas stocks B and D have
negative alphas.
The residual variances are:
σ2(eA ) = 582 = 3,364
σ2(eB) = 712 = 5,041
σ2(eC) = 602 = 3,600
σ2(eD) = 552 = 3,025

8-7
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

b. To construct the optimal risky portfolio, we first determine the optimal active
portfolio. Using the Treynor-Black technique, we construct the active portfolio:
a a / σ2(e)
σ2(e) Sa / σ2(e)
A 0.000476 –0.6142
B –0.000873 1.1265
C 0.000944 –1.2181
D –0.001322 1.7058
Total –0.000775 1.0000
Be unconcerned with the negative weights of the positive α stocks—the entire
active position will be negative, returning everything to good order.

With these weights, the forecast for the active portfolio is:
α = [–0.6142 × 1.6] + [1.1265 × (– 4.4)] – [1.2181 × 3.4] + [1.7058 × (– 4.0)]
= –16.90%
β = [–0.6142 × 1.3] + [1.1265 × 1.8] – [1.2181 × 0.70] + [1.7058 × 1] = 2.08
The high beta (higher than any individual beta) results from the short positions
in the relatively low beta stocks and the long positions in the relatively high
beta stocks.
σ2(e) = [(–0.6142)2×3364] + [1.12652×5041] + [(–1.2181)2×3600] + [1.70582×3025]
= 21,809.6
σ (e) = 147.68%
The levered position in B [with high σ2(e)] overcomes the diversification
effect and results in a high residual standard deviation. The optimal risky
portfolio has a proportion w* in the active portfolio, computed as follows:
α / σ 2 (e ) −.1690 / 21,809.6
w0 = = = −0.05124
[ E (rM ) − rf ] / σ M
2
.08 / 232
The negative position is justified for the reason stated earlier.
The adjustment for beta is:
w0 − 0.05124
w* = = = −0.0486
1 + (1 − β) w0 1 + (1 − 2.08)(−0.05124)
Since w* is negative, the result is a positive position in stocks with positive
alphas and a negative position in stocks with negative alphas. The position in
the index portfolio is:
1 – (–0.0486) = 1.0486

8-8
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

c. To calculate the Sharpe ratio for the optimal risky portfolio, we compute the
information ratio for the active portfolio and Sharpe’s measure for the market
portfolio. The information ratio for the active portfolio is computed as follows:
α
A= = –16.90/147.68 = –0.1144
σ (e )
A2 = 0.0131
Hence, the square of the Sharpe ratio (S) of the optimized risky portfolio is:
2
 8 
S =S
2 2
M + A =   + 0.0131 = 0.1341
2

 23 
S = 0.3662

d. Compare S = 0.3662 to the market’s Sharpe ratio:

SM = 8/23 = 0.3478  A difference of: 0.0184
The only moderate improvement in performance results from only a small
position taken in the active portfolio A because of its large residual variance.

e. To calculate the makeup of the complete portfolio, first compute the beta, the
mean excess return, and the variance of the optimal risky portfolio:
βP = wM + (wA × βA ) = 1.0486 + [(–0.0486) × 2.08] = 0.95
E(RP) = αP + βPE(RM) = [(–0.0486) × (–16.90%)] + (0.95 × 8%) = 8.42%
( )
σ 2P = β 2P σ 2M + σ 2 (e P ) = (0.95 × 23) 2 + (−0.0486 2 ) × 21,809.6 = 528.94
σ P = 23.00%
Since A = 2.8, the optimal position in this portfolio is:
8.42
y= = 0.5685
0.01 × 2.8 × 528.94
In contrast, with a passive strategy:

8
y= = 0.5401 A difference of: 0.0284The final positions are
0.01 × 2.8 × 23 2
(M may include some of stocks A through D):
Bills 1 – 0.5685 = 43.15%
M 0.5685 × l.0486 = 59.61
A 0.5685 × (–0.0486) × (–0.6142) = 1.70
B 0.5685 × (–0.0486) × 1.1265 = – 3.11
C 0.5685 × (–0.0486) × (–1.2181) = 3.37
D 0.5685 × (–0.0486) × 1.7058 = – 4.71
(subject to rounding error) 100.00%
8-9
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

18. a. If a manager is not allowed to sell short, he will not include stocks with negative
alphas in his portfolio, so he will consider only A and C:

a a / σ2(e)
Α σ2(e) σ (e)
2 Sa / σ2(e)
A 1.6 3,364 0.000476 0.3352
C 3.4 3,600 0.000944 0.6648
0.001420 1.0000
The forecast for the active portfolio is:
α = (0.3352 × 1.6) + (0.6648 × 3.4) = 2.80%
β = (0.3352 × 1.3) + (0.6648 × 0.7) = 0.90
σ2(e) = (0.33522 × 3,364) + (0.66482 × 3,600) = 1,969.03
σ(e) = 44.37%
The weight in the active portfolio is:
α / σ 2 ( e) 2.80 / 1,969.03
w0 = = = 0.0940
E ( RM ) / σ M2
8 / 23 2
Adjusting for beta:
w0 0.094
w* = = = 0.0931
1 + (1 − β) w 0 1 + [(1 − 0.90) × 0.094]
The information ratio of the active portfolio is:
α 2.80
A= = = 0.0631
σ (e) 44.37
Hence, the square of the Sharpe ratio is:
2
 8 
S 2 =   + 0.06312 = 0.1250
 23 
Therefore: S = 0.3535
The market’s Sharpe ratio is: SM = 0.3478
When short sales are allowed (Problem 17), the manager’s Sharpe ratio is
higher (0.3662). The reduction in the Sharpe ratio is the cost of the short sale
restriction.
The characteristics of the optimal risky portfolio are:

8-10
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

β P = wM + wA × β A = (1 − 0.0931) + (0.0931 × 0.9) = 0.99

E ( RP ) = α P + β P × E ( RM ) = (0.0931 × 2.8%) + (0.99 × 8%) = 8.18%
σ P2 = β P2 × σ M2 + σ 2 (eP ) = (0.99 × 23) 2 + (0.09312 × 1969.03) = 535.54
σ P = 23.14%
With A = 2.8, the optimal position in this portfolio is:
8.18
y= = 0.5455
0.01 × 2.8 × 535.54
The final positions in each asset are:
Bills 1 – 0.5455 = 45.45%
M 0.5455 × (1 − 0.0931) = 49.47
A 0.5455 × 0.0931 × 0.3352 = 1.70
C 0.5455 × 0.0931 × 0.6648 = 3.38
100.00

b. The mean and variance of the optimized complete portfolios in the

unconstrained and short-sales constrained cases, and for the passive strategy are:
E(RC ) σ C2
Unconstrained 0.5685 × 8.42% = 4.79 0.56852 × 528.94 = 170.95
Constrained 0.5455 × 8.18% = 4.46 0.54552 × 535.54 = 159.36
Passive 0.5401 × 8.00% = 4.32 0.54012 × 529.00 = 154.31

The utility levels below are computed using the formula: E (rC ) − 0.005 Aσ C2
Unconstrained 8% + 4.79% – (0.005 × 2.8 × 170.95) = 10.40%
Constrained 8% + 4.46% – (0.005 × 2.8 × 159.36) = 10.23%
Passive 8% + 4.32% – (0.005 × 2.8 × 154.31) = 10.16%

8-11
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

19. All alphas are reduced to 0.3 times their values in the original case. Therefore, the
relative weights of each security in the active portfolio are unchanged, but the alpha
of the active portfolio is only 0.3 times its previous value: 0.3 × −16.90% = −5.07%
The investor will take a smaller position in the active portfolio. The optimal risky
portfolio has a proportion w* in the active portfolio as follows:
α / σ 2 ( e) −0.0507 / 21,809.6
w0 = = = −0.01537
E (rM − rf ) / σ M
2
0.08 / 232
The negative position is justified for the reason given earlier.
The adjustment for beta is:
w0 − 0.01537
w* = = = −0.0151
1 + (1 − β) w0 1 + [(1 − 2.08) × (−0.01537)]
Since w* is negative, the result is a positive position in stocks with positive alphas
and a negative position in stocks with negative alphas. The position in the index
portfolio is: 1 – (–0.0151) = 1.0151
To calculate the Sharpe ratio for the optimal risky portfolio we compute the information
ratio for the active portfolio and the Sharpe ratio for the market portfolio. The
information ratio of the active portfolio is 0.3 times its previous value:
α −5.07
A= = = –0.0343 and A2 =0.00118
σ (e) 147.68
Hence, the square of the Sharpe ratio of the optimized risky portfolio is:
S2 = S2M + A2 = (8%/23%)2 + 0.00118 = 0.1222
S = 0.3495
8%
Compare this to the market’s Sharpe ratio: SM = = 0.3478
23%
The difference is: 0.0017
Note that the reduction of the forecast alphas by a factor of 0.3 reduced the squared
information ratio and the improvement in the squared Sharpe ratio by a factor of:
0.32 = 0.09

20. If each of the alpha forecasts is doubled, then the alpha of the active portfolio will
also double. Other things equal, the information ratio (IR) of the active portfolio
also doubles. The square of the Sharpe ratio for the optimized portfolio (S-square)
equals the square of the Sharpe ratio for the market index (SM-square) plus the
square of the information ratio. Since the information ratio has doubled, its square
quadruples. Therefore: S-square = SM-square + (4 × IR)
Compared to the previous S-square, the difference is: 3IR
Now you can embark on the calculations to verify this result.

8-12
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

CFA PROBLEMS

1. The regression results provide quantitative measures of return and risk based on
monthly returns over the five-year period.
β for ABC was 0.60, considerably less than the average stock’s β of 1.0. This
indicates that, when the S&P 500 rose or fell by 1 percentage point, ABC’s return
on average rose or fell by only 0.60 percentage point. Therefore, ABC’s systematic
risk (or market risk) was low relative to the typical value for stocks. ABC’s alpha
(the intercept of the regression) was –3.2%, indicating that when the market return
was 0%, the average return on ABC was –3.2%. ABC’s unsystematic risk (or
residual risk), as measured by σ(e), was 13.02%. For ABC, R2 was 0.35, indicating
closeness of fit to the linear regression greater than the value for a typical stock.
β for XYZ was somewhat higher, at 0.97, indicating XYZ’s return pattern was very
similar to the β for the market index. Therefore, XYZ stock had average systematic
risk for the period examined. Alpha for XYZ was positive and quite large,
indicating a return of 7.3%, on average, for XYZ independent of market return.
Residual risk was 21.45%, half again as much as ABC’s, indicating a wider scatter
of observations around the regression line for XYZ. Correspondingly, the fit of the
regression model was considerably less than that of ABC, consistent with an R2 of
only 0.17.
The effects of including one or the other of these stocks in a diversified portfolio
may be quite different. If it can be assumed that both stocks’ betas will remain
stable over time, then there is a large difference in systematic risk level. The betas
obtained from the two brokerage houses may help the analyst draw inferences for
the future. The three estimates of ABC’s β are similar, regardless of the sample
period of the underlying data. The range of these estimates is 0.60 to 0.71, well
below the market average β of 1.0. The three estimates of XYZ’s β vary
significantly among the three sources, ranging as high as 1.45 for the weekly data
over the most recent two years. One could infer that XYZ’s β for the future might
be well above 1.0, meaning it might have somewhat greater systematic risk than
was implied by the monthly regression for the five-year period.
These stocks appear to have significantly different systematic risk characteristics. If
these stocks are added to a diversified portfolio, XYZ will add more to total volatility.

8-13
CHAPTER 8: INDEX MODELS

2. The R2 of the regression is: 0.702 = 0.49

Therefore, 51% of total variance is unexplained by the market; this is
nonsystematic risk.

3. 9 = 3 + β (11 − 3) ⇒ β = 0.75

4. d.

5. b.

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premises at the back of the house. For a minute or two she lost sight
of it. “If she is going to the coach man’s house, she will set the dogs
barking,” thought the watcher, with some anxiety as to the possible
disturbance of her father’s rest. But no dogs began to bark, and in
another moment the little figure reappeared again, out of the deep
shadow of a projecting wall which had hidden it from view; and then,
to Cicely’s amazement, it came on along the front of the house and
turned round a corner, evidently making for the terrace-garden, on to
which opened the low window-doors of the library. Half mechanically,
hardly knowing what she was doing, holding her breath,
nevertheless, in instinctive anxiety, Cicely rose from her seat by the
window and went to the door, still standing slightly ajar. She stood
there, intently listening for any sound from below, for the library was
almost immediately underneath her room. She was not frightened,
she was only vaguely excited and uneasy what she expected or
dreaded she could hardly have put into words.
It came at last—the familiar sound, that till she heard it she hardly
knew her ears had been expecting—the slight click of the latch of the
library glass door opened by some one from the outside. Then the
cautious closing inside, the drawing to of the shutters, the adjusting
of the bar—then a pause, as if the intruder were stopping to rest for
an instant; and then again faint sounds distinguishable in the intense
silence of the house, which told of some one’s moving across the
library and entering the corridor leading to the stairs. Cicely no
longer hesitated; she flew along the passage and reached the head
of the staircase just as the small dark figure began wearily to
ascend. Miss Methvyn stood still in the shadow, but as the person
she was waiting for arrived at the top, she came forward in the
moonlight.
“It is I, Geneviève,” she said at once, speaking clearly, though
softly. “Don’t scream, or you will waken the house. Come here—
come with me into my room and tell me what in the world is the
matter. Where have you been?”
She spoke with a certain authority; she drew her cousin along the
passage to the room she had just left, Geneviève apparently too
startled to dream of resistance, not attempting to say a word. When
they were safely in the room, Cicely closed the door without
speaking. Then turning to her cousin, “Now, Geneviève,” she said,
“tell me what you have been doing. You have startled me very
much.”
Still Geneviève made no reply.
“Geneviève,” repeated Cicely, with a growing impatience in her
tone, “speak to me. What is the matter?”
She was becoming nervous and alarmed. Was her cousin going
out of her mind? Was she walking in her sleep? The last suggestion
really impressed her for a moment. She passed her arm round
Geneviève’s shoulder and turned her face gently towards her.
“Let me see you, Geneviève,” she said softly. The moonlight fell
full on the girl’s face; it looked strangely pale, the lips were quivering,
the eyes were cast down, great tears stood on the long dark
eyelashes. A sudden impulse came over Cicely. She threw her arms
round the poor little trembling figure and kissed her tenderly.
“Geneviève, my dear child!” she exclaimed, “you are in trouble,
you are unhappy about something. Won’t you trust me? Tell me,
whatever it is.”
A vague remembrance of what her mother had observed about
Mr. Guildford, a more distinct recollection of Geneviève’s evident
agitation on the day of the picnic flashed across Cicely’s mind. Could
it really be the case that her cousin had won the heart of the cynical
student, and yielded her own in return? But even if it were so, Cicely
was at a loss to understand why Geneviève should take to running
across the park at midnight instead of going comfortably to sleep.
Still the idea suggested some possible explanation of her tears and
dejection. Perhaps she was of the order of romantic young ladies
who consider outlandish and uncomfortable behaviour a part of the
róle.
But Geneviève’s reply, when at last it came, disappointed Cicely
greatly.
“Please do not be angry, Cicely,” she said. “I did not mean to
startle you. I knew not it was so late. I had only gone a little way.”
“What do you mean, Geneviève?” exclaimed Cicely. “You must
have intended to go out without any one knowing. It is nonsense to
speak as if you had accidentally stayed out later—as if it were the
day-time instead of the middle of the night. I want to know where you
have been, and what you went out for at such an extraordinary hour.”
She had drawn back a little from Geneviève, for her want of
frankness chilled her. Geneviève began to cry again.
“I have been nowhere,” she said, between her sobs. “At least only
a little way over the park.”
“The way by the mill, that we were speaking of to-night?” said
Cicely.
“No, not so far. I went but across the park. The moon shone so
bright. I saw it from my window, and I thought I would go.”
Cicely looked at her in perplexity.
“I wish I could understand you, Geneviève,” she said wistfully. “Do
you mean that it was just a fancy for going out in the moonlight that
made you behave so strangely? I could have sympathised with the
wish, if you had mentioned it to me? I am a girl like yourself, why do
you seem so afraid of me? We might have gone out a little together.
Mamma would not have minded for once in a way. But I thought you
disliked moonlight.”
“I never saw it so bright and beautiful as to-night,” said
Geneviève, evidently beginning to recover her spirits.
 “Nor I,” said Cicely. “It is an unusually lovely night. Well then,
Geneviève, the next time you have a fancy for a moonlight ramble
tell me and we will go together.”
She spoke lightly, for though still a little perplexed her mind was
on the whole relieved.
“Yes, dear Cicely, I will,” said Geneviève. “But I thought you would
think me so silly. And when I turned to come home I felt frightened,
and I ran so fast! I was quite tired when I got back, and then I
thought you would scold me.”
She was chattering away quite as usual by now. Cicely smiled.
“You must go off to bed now, you silly child,” she said, kissing her
cousin as she spoke.
Geneviève turned to go, but as she moved, an end of her cloak
caught in the chair near which she had been standing. She stooped
to disengage it; as she did so something fell from her hand with a
sharp sound on the floor. Before she could pick it up Cicely had
caught sight of it. It was a large key.
“The key of the plantation door!” exclaimed Cicely in amazement.
“Oh! Geneviève, you told me you had only been across the park!
What did you take the key for? Why cannot you be frank and
straightforward?”
She spoke in a tone of wounded and disappointed feeling which
stung Geneviève to the quick.
“I did speak what was true, Cicely,” she exclaimed vehemently. “I
did but go across the park. I took not the key; I went for to seek it.”
“To seek for the key,” replied Cicely coldly. “I don’t know what you
mean.”
Geneviève began to cry again. She had admitted more than she
intended. Now there was no help for it.
“Yes,” she said, “I went to seek—to fetch the key. I had taken it
this morning when I was out, and I had forgotten it and left it in the
door. And to-night when we talked about that way I remembered,
and I feared to-morrow you might want it perhaps and would not find
it and would be angry; or it might be stolen out of the door. I could
not rest till, I had sought it.”
“And that was why you ran out so late, and you let me fancy it
was only for the pleasure of a little walk in the moonlight. Oh!
Geneviève,” exclaimed Cicely reproachfully.
“But I did not mean to tell you what was not true, Cicely,” repeated
Geneviève, “and I tell you all true now, I do—I do. I feared you would
be angry that I had taken the key. That was all. Do you not believe
me, my cousin?” she sobbed.
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I believe you; but I do not understand you,
Geneviève.”
But she kissed her again nevertheless, and Geneviève thanked
her and promised to trust her kindness for the future, and went off to
bed.
CHAPTER III.
 BY THE OLD WATER-MILL.

“Never any more

While I live,
Need I hope to see his face
As before.”
R. Browning

THERE were letters from Hivèritz the next morning, one for Geneviève
and one for Mrs. Methvyn. Both had been looked for with some
anxiety, and their contents were fortunately in both instances
satisfactory.
“It is all right about my letter to your mother, Geneviève,” said Mrs.
Methvyn. “She got it quite safely, and thought I should be satisfied
with hearing from you that it had reached her, till she had time to
write. She seems to have been so busy. I am so glad we did not
write again to tease her.”
“Poor mamma!” said Geneviève softly.
 She was feeling very anxious to read her own letter, but judged it
safer to defer doing so till she should be alone. The first two hours
after breakfast were generally Geneviève’s own to employ as she
chose, for Cicely always spent them in writing to her father’s
dictation in his own room. So Geneviève hastened upstairs and
eagerly opened her letter. It was a very kind one, and, as before, the
girl’s heart smote her more than once as she read. There was no
reproach for Geneviève’s strange behaviour in not delivering the
letter entrusted to her care for Mrs. Methvyn. Madame Casalis
seemed in a sense touched by her daughter’s trust in her leniency.
“I have written to Mrs. Methvyn again,” she wrote, “and I have
avoided the allusion you objected to. I do not of course understand
your reason for fearing it, but I doubt not that when we meet again
you will explain it. Only, my Geneviève, I would beg you to avoid
even the slightest occasion for not acting with perfect frankness. You
are so young and far from me, and in England the customs, I
believe, are somewhat different. Confide then, my child, as in a
mother, in thy good and amiable aunt.”
A slightly disturbed expression came over Geneviève’s face as
she read these last words.
“My mother understands not,” she said to herself. “It would be
impossible that she could understand. Mais enfin—”
The little time-piece over the fireplace struck the hour—ten
o’clock. As she spoke Geneviève started.
“It is late,” she thought, “and I must this morning go round the long
way by the lodge.”
She hastily put on her jacket and hat, though not so hastily as to
omit a moment’s glance into the looking-glass as she did so.
“How pale I look!” she said to herself; “it is with having sat up so
late. I am not pretty when I look so pale. Voyons—ce nœud rose—
ah! oui, c’est mieux,” and with a somewhat better satisfied
contemplation of herself, she turned away from the dressing table
and left the room.
 Half an hour later she was at the entrance to the Lingthurst woods
—a point, which had she been able to leave the Greystone grounds
by the door in the wall, she would have reached in less than half the
time. She hurried along as fast as possible till almost within sight of
the deserted water mill. There, seated on the remains of what had
once been a mill-wheel, long ago, in the days when the little stream,
now diverted from its original course for other purposes, had come
rushing down with incessant chatter and bustle, Geneviève descried
the figure she had been straining her eyes to see. It was Trevor
Fawcett.
He was sitting perfectly still; he seemed to be thinking deeply.
There was considerable suggestion of melancholy in the place itself.
The melancholy of the past, though only the past of a water mill,—
the dried-up desertedness of the empty little river-bed carried even
the least vivid imagination back to a time of brighter days when the
brook and the mill had been in their glory, and forwards—further still
—to the universal, inevitable future of decay, the “sic transit” branded
even on the everlasting hills themselves.
Mr. Fawcett’s imagination was not exceptionally vivid, nor was he
much given to reflections of a depressing nature; it was new to
Geneviève to see him anything but alert and cheerful, and a
momentary sensation of uneasiness made her heart beat quickly.
“Mr. Fawcett,” she said timidly, for she was quite close to him
before he saw her, “Mr. Fawcett.”
He looked round quickly and started to his feet.
“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed. “I did not hear you. I must
have been in a brown study. How late you are this morning! I fancied
you would not be coming out.”
“Oh! yes,” said Geneviève, “I would not like to miss my morning
walk. It is the pleasantest hour of the day.”
“Yes, in summer especially,” said Mr. Fawcett carelessly. “It is a
pity Cicely can never get out in the morning. We might have some
capital walks if she could come too.”
 Geneviève did not answer at once, and when she did so, her tone
sounded constrained.
“My cousin can never leave Colonel Methvyn in the morning,” she
said stiffly. “If you would rather that she should be with us, of course I
can ask her to come in the afternoon, and not come out any more in
the morning. But I thought,” she stopped, and her voice seemed as if
she were going to cry.
“You thought? What did you think?” he asked.
“I thought you were so kind, and I am so strange here,” she began
hesitatingly. “You said you would advise me how to please my
English friends, and that I might confide to you my difficulties.”
She raised her great brown eyes, already dewy with tears, to his.
There had been a slight frown of impatience and annoyance on his
face, but as he looked at her, it melted away.
“You silly child,” he exclaimed with a smile, “What has my wishing
that poor Cicely could have a walk too, to do with it? Have you some
new trouble on your mind? Do you want to trot off to Greybridge with
another letter?”
“Oh! no,” said Geneviève, smiling again. “Oh! no, I have a letter
from home to-day. Maman is very good, very good and kind. She
has done what I asked her.”
“Then you should be quite happy and bright this morning,” said
Trevor. “But I don’t think you are. What makes you look so pale?”
“I had not a good night,” replied Geneviève; “at least I sat up very
late, and I was foolish.”
“What were you about? Writing letters? You must take care or you
will have my aunt down upon you; she doesn’t approve of such
irregular proceedings,” said Mr. Fawcett.
“I was not writing. I had left the key in the door and I did not
remember it, and then when I thought all were asleep I ran out,”
began Geneviève, going on to tell him all the particulars of her
escapade, Cicely’s alarm and annoyance and her own distress. The
frown came back again to Trevor’s good-tempered face.
 “It was very foolish,” he said in a tone of considerable vexation.
“You should not do such silly things, Geneviève. What must a
sensible girl like Cicely think of you? There is no use asking me to
advise you how to please the Methvyns and win their confidence, if
you do such exceedingly foolish things. Did you tell Cicely why you
had had the key?”
“No,” said Geneviève, looking very miserable again; “she knows
not that I had ever had it more than once. I feared you might be
angry if I told her that—that we had walked in the woods.”
“Why should I be angry?” exclaimed Trevor impatiently. “Do you
think I should do anything that I would mind being known to the girl I
am go—” he stopped abruptly, “to a girl I have known all her life, as I
have known Cicely?”—“It is Cicely’s own doing,” he muttered to
himself, “this absurd dilly-dallying and concealment.”
“No, I do not think so, if you tell me not,” replied Geneviève with
tearful meekness. “If you wish, I will tell Cicely now, as soon as I go
in.”
“No, not now. It is too late. Don’t you see if you tell her now, it will
look as if there were something?—I mean it would hurt her more that
you had not told her before. No; you had better say nothing more
about it. But for the future—don’t think me unkind, Geneviève; but for
the future, I almost think you had better not come out walks without
Cicely. You see anything underhand may cause so much trouble.”
“Very well,” said Geneviève. “I will no more come out. I will no
more speak to you, Mr. Fawcett. We will be as strangers.”
She began the speech with an attempt at tragic dignity; but long
before she got to its end her voice had broken again, and all the
dignity had melted into sobs. Mr. Fawcett muttered some impatient
exclamation.
“Really, Miss Casalis, you are unreasonable this morning,” he
began. “I was only doing as you asked me to do—advising you for
the best, and you begin to cry.”
“I will go home. I wish I had never come to this unkind country,
where everybody says things so little amiable, so cruel,” sobbed
Geneviève.
“Who says unkind things? Do you mean me?”
“No, not you. Till to-day you have been kind, very kind. But others
do. That médecin, that Mr. Guildford, told me that it was not
convenable that I should walk with you.”
“He did—did he? Upon my soul that fellow must be taught his
place. Meddling snob! When did he condescend to remonstrate with
you, may I ask?”
“The day at the picnic. He had seen us that afternoon, two, three
weeks ago, on the Greybridge Road. But he was not unkind,” said
Geneviève, a little afraid of the effect of her words. “He only told me
other people might—I know not what to say—might say it was not
convenable.”
“How very considerate of him!” observed Mr. Fawcett. “But
perhaps you do not object to his interest, Miss Casalis—perhaps you
consulted him as to the matter.”
“You know well I did not. I like him not,” said Geneviève, her eyes
flashing. “Mr. Fawcett, you are not kind to-day. You are not as you
have been before.”
“I don’t mean to be unkind, my dear child. I don’t indeed. I have
been bothered about things lately, and I was put out at the idea of
any misunderstanding between you and Cicely. But I dare say it will
be all right. Only perhaps we had better all go walks together in
future; for fear, you see, of it seeming to Cicely as if we left her out.”
“Very well,” said Geneviève meekly, and this time without any
tears. She had sense enough to see that Mr. Fawcett was not in a
mood to care about many more of them this morning. “It is getting
late,” she went on, looking at her watch, “perhaps I had better go
home.”
Her gentleness made Trevor reproach himself for having
wounded her. He set to work forthwith to “reward principle” by
undoing what he had achieved.
 “You are a very good child,” he said warmly. “You are very good
not to be angry with me for my roughness. You are not angry with
me, are you?”
She had turned her head away, but on his repeating the question,
she looked up again in his face; with infinite sweetness in the tender
dark eyes and pathos in the droop of the tremulous lips. She looked
like a rose after a storm, like a child unjustly chidden, like everything
sweet and plaintive and piteous.
“Angry with you?” she said reproachfully.
Trevor’s face softened into tenderness as he looked at her.
“You are an angel,” he said impetuously, but checking himself with
a strong effort; “you are a very kind, sensible girl,” he went on, with a
little laugh, “which is better than being an angel, isn’t it?”
Geneviève smiled. Trevor saw the smile, but he had not seen the
quick flash of gratification and triumph which had lighted up the dark
eyes the instant before.
“I think I must go home now,” she said.
“Very well,” said Mr. Fawcett. I will go as far as the gate with you.”
“It is no use going that way,” said Geneviève, “you forget I have
not the key.”
“What a bother!” exclaimed Trevor. “Then you must go round by
the lodge. Suppose we cut across the wood for a change, and come
out on the Haverstock Road? It’s hardly any further, and it’s a much
pleasanter way.”
Geneviève seemed to care little where he led her. It was enough
for her to be in his company. So they made their way across the
wood, trampling down the tall bracken and foxgloves as they went,
for there was no path in this direction, startling the pretty wild
creatures whose haunts they approached too unceremoniously.
“Isn’t it a pretty place,” said Trevor, standing still for a moment.
“Hark, there’s the cuckoo!”
 “Where?” said Geneviève, staring about her in all directions, but
seeing nothing but the bright eyes of a little rabbit, as he looked
about him for a moment, before running out of the way of these
strange visitors, the like of whom had never come within his
experience before.
Mr. Fawcett began to laugh.
“Where?” he repeated. “Where he always is. Listen, don’t look.
You have not such sharp ears as Cicely, Miss Casalis! Are there no
cuckoos at Hivèritz?”
“I don’t know,” replied Geneviève. Then she relapsed into silence.
Mr. Fawcett looked at her uneasily, and seemed once or twice on
the point of speaking, but ended by walking on in silence too.
A few minutes brought them to the edge of the wood, then a
quarter of a mile down a pretty shady lane, and they would be on the
high-road. Trevor made one or two trifling observations, but
Geneviève scarcely replied to them. Then he began to lose patience.
“Are you vexed with me again, Miss Casalis?” he said. “I am very
unlucky to-day. I seem to do nothing but vex you, and you don’t
seem in as good spirits as usual.”
“No; it is not I, it is you, all you,” exclaimed Geneviève. “You are
not kind, you do no longer like me. It is all Cicely you want to-day,
not Geneviève. There is no Geneviève; she has gone. It is Miss
Casalis.”
Mr. Fawcett’s fair face deepened in colour as he listened to her
childish words. At first he seemed on the point of answering hastily,
but on second thoughts he checked himself. When he did speak, it
was very quietly.
“You have mistaken me, Geneviève,” he said. “Why should my
mention of Cicely make you think I don’t care for you? Can’t one
care for more than one person in the world? Suppose you and Cicely
had been my sisters, couldn’t I have cared for you both?”
“I could never be like your sister,” said. Geneviève inconsequently.
“Cicely is different; she has been with you always.”
 “Yes, of course,” replied Trevor hastily, “but you can be my little
friend, can’t you? I have wished you to be my little friend, Geneviève,
ever since the first day I saw you; the day I lifted you up from the
dusty road at Hivèritz, where those beasts of horses had knocked
you down. How pitiful you looked, you poor little soul! Yes,
Geneviève, I have always felt a special interest in you since then.”
Unconsciously to himself, his voice grew soft and tender, as the
remembrance of the lovely pale face with the closed eyelids and
flood of wavy dark hair that had rested on his shoulder, came back to
his mind. He looked at her as he spoke. Was the face beside him
now less lovely; was it not rather ten times more so, as a smile,
called forth by his words, dimpled the flushed cheeks and lighted up
the expressive eyes?
“Have you really? Have you never forgotten that day?” whispered
Geneviève.
Mr. Fawcett’s answer was less sentimental than she expected.
Something just at this moment seemed to spring from the ground at
their feet, and leap away again so quickly that the girl could hardly
distinguish what it was.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Trevor, “what a splendid hare. Did you see
it, Geneviève?”
“I thought it was a rabbit,” she replied, but this time she did not
resent his laughing at her.
Soon they reached the high-road, and here their paths separated.
Trevor hesitated a moment after saying good-bye.
“Will you come out another walk some day, soon?” he said. “I
should like to tell you something that I have not been free to tell you
yet, and I should like to tell it you myself. I could explain to you why I
have been bothered and irritable lately; and—and when you know it,
everything will be all right—at least, I think so, and hope so. You
have promised to be my friend always, haven’t you, Geneviève?”
“Yes, always,” she replied, blushing up shyly into his face.
 “That’s right. Then good-bye again,” and in another moment he
was out of sight.
He hurried on quickly at first, then gradually his pace slackened.
“What a charming little goose it is,” he said, smiling to himself. “I
wonder how many moods and humours she has been in, in the last
half-hour! The happy man who wins you for his ‘hope’ and ‘joy,’ my
dear Geneviève, will find his hands full. And yet how awfully pretty
and sweet she is!” An uneasy expression came over his face. “It isn’t
fair,” he muttered, “it is too hard upon one; it is, by George! I must
come to an understanding with Cicely. I must and shall.”
Geneviève meanwhile went on her way rejoicing. To her self-
absorbed imagination Mr. Fawcett’s last words could bear but one
interpretation, and her fancy, vivid enough in all that concerned
herself, set to work forthwith to build gorgeous castles upon what
she now firmly believed to be a substantial foundation.
The chosen of Trevor Fawcett! What a blissful position would be
hers! How glad she was that she had agreed to carry the soup to the
Widow Lafon that Sunday ever so long ago it seemed now!—how
much more inclined she felt to call Monsieur Béret’s horses “angels”
than “beasts”! What would Mathurine say? How triumphant she
would be at the fulfilment of her prophecy! “Riche, beau, jeune.” Did
not Geneviève’s hero well answer the description? Yes, it would be
all that could be desired; even the living in England, which had
certainly proved a more triste affair than the pastor’s daughter had
imagined, would not be so bad as the wife of a man able and willing
to gratify her every wish.
“We shall travel often,” thought Geneviève, “we shall go to Paris
two—three times a year. All my dresses shall come from there of
course. When Eudoxie grows older and is more reasonable, she
shall come to visit me. I shall send many presents à la maison. All
my old dresses Eudoxie shall have—that in itself will help much my
mother. Poor Maman, but she will be pleased to announce the news
to Madame Rousille! And Stéphanie shall visit me—I shall enjoy, oh!
how I shall enjoy to see her face when she enters Lingthurst! ‘La
petite Casalis,’ indeed! Ah! it will no longer be ‘la petite Casalis’ by
then.”
The delightful companionship of her thoughts had lent wings to
her feet. She found herself at the Abbey Lodge before she knew
where she was. She hurried up the drive, then hastened round to the
side of the house by the same path in which Cicely had lost sight of
her the night before. Just as she reached the glass door, she heard
herself called by name, and in another minute Cicely came running
across the lawn.
“Where have you been, Geneviève? I have been looking for you
everywhere,” she exclaimed. Then without waiting for an answer,
“Mother wants you,” she went on, “she is upstairs in her dressing
room.”
“I will go at once,” replied Geneviève readily. Something in her
bright manner and tone caught Cicely’s attention.
“How happy you look this morning, Geneviève!” she observed
with a touch of kindly envy. “You look so fresh and rosy, and yet you
were up so late, you naughty girl. Is it your letter from home that has
pleased you so? At breakfast time I thought you looked pale.”
“I had good news from home,” replied Geneviève. “I am glad I
look well.” She turned to her cousin affectionately; Cicely’s remark
had gratified her, and a half impulse came over her to confide to her
the cause of her bright looks. But Cicely’s face seemed pale and sad
—unusually pale and sad, and the inclination to appeal to her for
sympathy died away.
“You don’t look well, Cicely,” said Geneviève, “is anything the
matter? It is nothing wrong my aunt wants to see me about?”
Cicely smiled—“a smile beneath a cloud”—afterwards Geneviève
wondered to herself how it could be that she of all women in the
world could look sad—and the faint light of the smile seemed to
make her face still paler.
“Oh! no,” she said, “it is nothing wrong, but mother wants to have
a little talk with you.” She was silent for a moment, hesitating
seemingly as if she should say more. “Geneviève,” she went on,
 “you must not think I have treated you like a stranger. It was only that
I wanted you to feel quite easy and unconstrained with me that—that
I did not tell you what mother is going to tell you. Don’t let it make
any difference in your feelings to me. Kiss me, dear.”
A little surprised but nothing loth, Geneviève held up her bright
face for Cicely’s kiss. She was pleased that her cousin should feel so
kindly to her this morning of all mornings, and her pleasure, in turn,
gratified Cicely. She stood watching Geneviève as she ran off,
carolling in her clear high voice a little patois ballad she had been
teaching Cicely.

“Escoutto d’ Jeannetto
Veux-tu d’biaux habits, laridetto
Escoutto d’ Jeannetto
Pour aller à Paris?”
“Laridetto, laridetto,
Baille me unbaiser, laridetto.”
rang Geneviève’s voice, then died away in the distance.
The last words of the song returned to Cicely’s mind.

“Sachez que d’ Jeannetto,

Quand ell’ aimo bien,
Sachez que d’ Jeannetto
Donno ça per rien.”
“I wonder if Geneviève is capable of deep feeling,” thought Cicely.
“Will there ever come a time “quand ell’ aimo bien?” She seems like
a bird.’ But am I capable of it? I thought I cared for Trevor. I think it
still; but, oh! the thought of leaving home is terrible!”
Then with slower steps she followed her cousin into the house.
Geneviève meanwhile had flown upstairs to her aunt’s room.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Methvyn in answer to her tap at the door.
“Oh! it is you, my dear Geneviève. I am writing to your mother again;
I always like to answer letters at once when I can, and besides, I
have something I want to tell her now; and I want to tell it to you too;
but I hardly think you will be surprised.”
“What is it, dear aunt?” inquired Geneviève with some curiosity,
“It is—I fancy you may have noticed Trevor has been here so
much,” began Mrs. Methvyn rather confusedly. Geneviève’s heart
beat faster, the blood rushed to her cheeks. Could he already have
spoken to her aunt?—it was possible that out of respect to her
French prejudices he might have done so. “He comes here so
much,” her aunt went on, “that even though you know he is our
cousin, I can’t help thinking you may have suspected there was
some particular attraction; but till now Cicely did not want you to be
told of it” (“Cicely, what had she to do with it?” darted through
Geneviève’s mind), “because she fancied you would not so soon
have felt at ease and friendly with her if you had known she was
engaged.”
The room seemed to go round with Geneviève. She caught hold
of the arm of the low chair on which she was sitting to prevent
herself falling. But still she managed to say quietly, “Yes, dear aunt.”
“And so,” Mrs. Methvyn went on, “I agreed to say nothing about it
till you had been a little while with us and felt quite at home. Besides,
hitherto the engagement has been so indefinite—I mean to say no
time has been fixed—but now I think we must begin to make up our
minds to losing Cicely before very long. Not that it will really be like
losing her, of course; she will be so near, we can see her almost
every day.” She spoke with a forced cheerfulness which would have
touched a disinterested listener, but Geneviève was conscious just
now but of one sensation, an agonising inclination to burst into
hysterical weeping—she had no feeling to spare for any one but
herself; she exerted all her strength in forcing herself to remain to
outward appearance calm.
When her aunt stopped speaking, and waited in expectation of
Geneviève’s reply, none came. Mrs. Methvyn looked up in surprise.
“Are you very much astonished, my dear?” she said. “Had you no
idea of it? You are not taking it to heart, dear Geneviève, I hope? If
so, I shall blame myself very much for not having prepared you for it
before, though I can well understand your regret at losing Cicely just
when you have begun to know her.”
Geneviève seized the suggestion. She turned to her aunt, no
longer repressing her tears.
“I had no idea of it,” she whispered.
“My poor child,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
Then she drew the girl towards her and kissed her tenderly, and,
mistaken as was the motive of the tenderness, in Geneviève’s state
of overstrained feeling she had no desire to repel it. She threw her
arms round her aunt and sobbed convulsively till Mrs. Methvyn cried
in sympathy.
“Is it to be very soon?” asked Geneviève at last.
“Oh! no; nothing is fixed yet as to the exact time. It will not be for
six months at least. We shall have Cicely all to ourselves for some
time yet, you see, dear,” replied Mrs. Methvyn soothingly. But
Geneviève felt that she could not bear her present position much
longer. The sound of a door opening gave her an excuse; she
started up.
“There is Cicely coming,” she exclaimed. “I would not like her to
see me crying so. Let me go, dear aunt, and forgive my want of self-
control. I should like to go to my own room for a little.”
“Go then, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn, kissing her again, and
Geneviève hastened away.
“How I have mistaken her, the poor, dear child!” thought Cicely’s
mother. “I had no idea she was capable of such an amount of
feeling. What a loving little creature she is!”
And Cicely was told of her cousin’s unexpected display of
affection for her, and felt vexed with herself that she could not help
thinking it a little ill-timed and uncalled for.
It is a mistake to suppose that suffering must be noble to be
genuine and severe. Geneviève’s distress sprang from no high