“So, I will lay one kiss Upon thy hand, and looking through the lights
Of thy soft eyes, whisper the old word
That runs before all detail and change, ‘farewell.’”
 
ORESTES.
 
 
 
IT was now about the middle of March. Many of the human swallows at Altes had already taken flight to more northern latitudes, others were preparing for so doing. The season was an unusually early one. The midday sun was already too powerful to face without great precautions in the way of shady hats and parasols, and people no longer congratulated themselves so triumphantly as a few weeks previously, on being out of “that dreadful English climate.”
 
Even a little London rain would be acceptable, thought Marion, as she walked home one glaring morning from the Rue des Lauriers. And then her thoughts flew on to a certain familiar figure at that very moment probably enough pacing the grey, dreary pavement of the great city itself.
 
Hardly a week had a yet elapsed since Ralph left, but already she was “wearying” for his return, her heart alternately dancing with sweetest hopes and trembling with misgivings.
 
But she would leave it all to him. Who so wise, so brave, so true? What lay within human possibility to do, he would, she felt sure, set himself to achieve. The exact, nature of the complications about him, the fetters he had himself told her of, she did not just now much trouble her head about. Vaguely, she imagined them to be connected with Florence Vyse, though what, if this were the case, could be the special object of a journey to London, she was at a loss to think. But he had judged it best not at present to tell her, and she was content to wait for his own explanation—to be followed, alas! by what she could not bear to contemplate, the confession of the long deception she had herself practised.
 
She had left home this morning, as usual, early, before the arrival of the letters, which to-day Cissy was looking for anxiously, the Indian mail being due.
 
When she entered the little drawing-room, she was surprised at not finding her cousin there. Nor were there about, the room the usual traces of Mrs. Archer’s recent presence.
 
“I hope Cissy is not ill,” thought she anxiously, as she hastened to Mrs. Archer’s bedroom.
 
The door was shut, but “come in,” in Cissy’s voice reassured her.
 
On entering the room, however, she stood aghast at the sight before her. There was Cissy on her knees before a huge trunk, two or three others of varying dimensions standing with their lids open in a row, while every article of furniture in the room, bed, tables, chairs, and floor itself, were literally heaped with the whole of the little lady’s wardrobe. Dresses, cloaks, shawls, bonnets, boots and linen—the whole of Mrs. Archer’s possessions seemed suddenly to have been seized with a frenzy of disorder, while she herself in their midst, her small person almost, hidden by the overwhelming portmanteau, looked utterly unable to cope with the chaotic confusion around her. The scene reminded Marion of the old fairy story of the poor little princess, shut up for twenty-four hours in a room of tangled threads, all of which by the expiration of the allotted time, she was ordered, under pain of some tremendous punishment, to wind with perfect regularity in even skeins for the use of her tormentor.
 
“What are you about, Cissy?” ejaculated her cousin, “Have you lost anything, have you quarrelled with Madame Poulin and determined to leave her house on the spot?”
 
“Don’t laugh, May, don’t,” said Cissy, beseechingly, looking up as she spoke. Though the request was unnecessary, as the sight of her tear-stained face quickly divested her cousin of any risible inclination.
 
“I have had a letter from India—from George. At least part of it is from him; the rest from his doctor, he could not write much himself.”
 
Here Cissy was interrupted by sobs, and for a moment or two could not control herself sufficiently to go on with her explanation.
 
“Here is the letter, read it yourself,” she said at last, handing to Marion the precious document, “I am beginning to pack, you see. We must leave this the day after tomorrow. I would have sent to Lady Severn’s to tell you had you been late of returning.”
 
Marion read the letter in silence. It was, as Mrs. Archer had said, a joint production, begun by her husband, and then gone on with and concluded by the medical man attending him. For he had been very ill, this beloved “George” of poor Cissy’s; very ill indeed, Marion could discover, through the assumedly cheerful tone of the letter. But he was better now; so much better that Dr. Finlayson, an old friend or Cissy’s, assured her he wanted nothing more but her nursing and society. He had got sick leave for six months, and by the end of March hoped to be able to be moved to a healthy neighbourhood, not far from Simla, where by the autumn he had every prospect of obtaining the staff appointment he had long been hoping for. So, as far as climate was concerned, there was nothing to prevent Cissy’s at once rejoining him, provided always her own health was sufficiently re-established, which point, said Dr. Finlayson, Mrs. Archer’s anxiety for her husband must not allow her to overlook, nor must she omit to consult as to this both her physician at Altes, and her former medical adviser in England.
 
Marion stood staring at the letter without speaking. Was it selfish of her, that even at this moment of warm commiseration for her cousin, the effect this sudden move might have on her own prospects, rushed into her mind? She tried to drive it back, but found it difficult to do so.
 
“Well, Marion,” said Cissy, peevishly, for, being in no small terror of her cousin’s remonstrance as to so sudden and impulsive a step as the immediate return to England, she was determined, woman-like, to take the bull by the horns by constituting herself the aggrieved party.
 
“Well, Marion, have you nothing to say? You stand there as if you were asleep, instead of helping me, with all that must be done to let us get away by Thursday.”
 
“But are you really determined to go at once, Cissy? Do you think you are fit for the journey even to London, or Cheltenham rather? I much doubt it. Have you seen Dr. Bailey? Dearest Cissy, I am so sorry for you, but I fear you are not well enough to rejoin Colonel Archer just yet.”
 
“I am well enough to go to India to-day, but I am not well enough to bear the anxiety of waiting for another mail’s rows. It would kill me, Marion—kill me, simply,” repeated Cissy, emphatically, “and neither you nor anyone else who wants to keep me alive, will attempt to stop me. As for Bailey, he is an old woman and an old fool to the bargain. All the same, I have sent for him and seen him. He says I am as well able to go now as I am likely to be for the next year or two, if ever. And whether it is so or not, Marion, I must go. What is my health to George’s? What would I care for my life without him? You don’t know what it is to love anyone, child, as I love my husband. Some day you may, and then you will understand. But now, I must ask you, beg of you, to harass me by no remonstrance. I have done all I was told. I have seen Bailey, and will also see Frobisher at Cheltenham.”
 
Marion felt indeed that any interference on her part would be worse than useless, though a sad foreboding was at her heart, and the tears filled her eyes, as she looked at poor Cissy’s rapidly changing colour, the too great brilliance of her eyes, and the nervous working of her thin, white hands.
 
“And Charlie?” was all she asked.
 
“He will go, too. George wishes it, and Simla is so healthy. You have not read the postscript.”
 
Which accordingly Marion did; and then proceeded to give way to a most silly and ill-timed burst of tears!
 
“How silly!” stronger-minded young ladies will exclaim. Just so; but then I am telling all about it, as it happened, and I must not make my heroine any stronger or wiser than she was, poor little girl. Cissy should have scolded her, but she didn’t. Instead thereof, she plumped herself down beside her on the floor, and for a good quarter of an hour, they cried and sobbed in each other’s arms. Then they sat up and wiped their eyes, like sensible young women, as in the main they were, kissed each other, while they ejaculated—“Dearest Cissy,” and “darling May,” and set to work to think what they must do.
 
First of all there was Marion’s engagement with Lady Severn. This, fortunately, was within a fortnight of expiring, and in answer to a note of explanation which Marion dispatched, came a sufficiently cordial reply from her pupils’ grandmother, enclosing a cheque for the fifteen pounds (which had been all the little governess would agree to accept for each quarter) owing to the end of the engagement, expressing thanks for the kindness and attention she had bestowed on her pupils, and begging her on no account to distress herself at having to leave Altes before the quarter had fully expired.
 
With this came a note for Cissy. It was couched in much heartier language, and the anxiety expressed as to Colonel Archer’s state of health was evidently genuine. Lady Severn, in conclusion said she hoped to call to see Mrs. Archer the following afternoon, and that she had forgotten to mention that her grand-daughters would be disappointed not to say goodbye to Miss Freer in person. They would be at home all the next morning, if “Mrs. Archer’s young friend” could spare a few minutes to come to see them.
 
“How thoughtless of her to propose it,” exclaimed Cissy; “really some ladies deserve to be governesses themselves for a while, to see how they would fancy that sort or thing. As if the children could not come to see you! Oh, May, I am so thankful for you to say goodbye for ever to that odious Miss Freer.”
 
“Are you?” said Marion; “I can’t say if I am or not. Sometimes I detest her, and then again I feel very grateful to her. Thanks to her I am now out of debt, any way. This fifteen pounds will come in nicely for the quarter’s rent.”
 
“Very nicely,” said Cissy; “all the same, I’d like to make you eat that of cat’s cheque!”
 
Marion did spare five minutes the following morning, and the parting with Lotty and Sybil was really a most touching affair. There had been a secret expedition the previous evening from the Rue des Lauriers, under the escort of Thérèse’s sister, which resulted in the presentation to Miss Freer or two original, though not strikingly appropriate parting gifts. A mantel-piece ornament from Lotty of the china, pottery rather, of’ the district, and from Sybil a gaily-bound and profusely illustrated story book, more suited to her tender years than to the maturer taste of the young governess.
 
“All fairy stories, dear Miss Freer,” said the child, tryi............