The ordinary aspect of the schoolroom was seen no more.
Installed in a position of temporary authority, the parlour-maid sat
silently at her needlework. Maria stood by the window, in the new
character of an idle girl--with her handkerchief in her hand, and her
everlasting book dropped unnoticed on the floor. Zo lay flat on her
back, on the hearth-rug, hugging the dog in her arms. At intervals, she
rolled herself over slowly from side to side, and stared at the
ceiling with wondering eyes. Miss Minerva’s departure had struck the
parlour-maid dumb, and had demoralized the pupils.
Maria broke the silence at last. “I wonder where Carmina is?” she said.
“In her room, most likely,” the parlour-maid suggested.
“Had I better go and see after her?”
The cautious parlour-maid declined to offer advice. Maria’s
well-balanced mind was so completely unhinged, that she looked with
languid curiosity at her sister. Zo still stared at the ceiling, and
still rolled slowly from one side to the other. The dog on her breast,
lulled by the regular motion, slept profoundly--not even troubled by a
dream of fleas!
While Maria was still considering what it might be best to do, Carmina
entered the room. She looked, as the servant afterwards described it,
“like a person who had lost her way.” Maria exhibited the feeling of the
schoolroom, by raising her handkerchief in solemn silence to her eyes.
Without taking notice of this demonstration, Carmina approached the
parlour-maid, and said, “Did you see Miss Minerva before she went away?”
“I took her message, Miss.”
“What message?”
“The message, saying she wished to see my mistress for a few minutes.”
“Well?”
“Well, Miss, I was told to show the governess into the library. She went
down with her bonnet on, ready dressed to go out. Before she had
been five minutes with my mistress she came out again, and rang the
hall-bell, and spoke to Joseph. ‘My boxes are packed and directed,’ she
says; ‘I will send for them in an hour’s time. Good day, Joseph.’ And
she stepped into the street, as quietly as if she was going out shopping
round the corner.”
“Have the boxes been sent for?”
“Yes, Miss.”
Carmina lifted her head, and spoke in steadier tones.
“Where have they been taken to?”
“To the flower-shop at the back--to be kept till called for.”
“No other address?”
“None.”
The last faint hope of tracing Frances was at an end. Carmina turned
wearily to leave the room. Zo called to her from the hearth-rug. Always
kind to the child, she retraced her steps. “What is it?” she asked.
Zo got on her legs before she spoke, like a member of parliament. “I’ve
been thinking about that governess,” she announced. “Didn’t I once tell
you I was going to run away? And wasn’t it because of Her? Hush! Here’s
the part of it I can’t make out--She’s run away from Me. I don’t bear
malice; I’m only glad in myself. No more dirty nails. No more bread and
water for tea. That’s all. Good morning.” Zo laid herself down again on
the rug; and the dog laid himself down again on Zo.
Carmina returned to her room--to reflect on what she had heard from the
parlour-maid.
It was now plain that Mrs. Gallilee had not been allowed the opportunity
of dismissing her governess at a moment’s notice: Miss Minerva’s sudden
departure was unquestionably due to Miss Minerva herself.
Thus far, Carmina was able to think clearly--and no farther. The
confused sense of helpless distress which she had felt, after reading
the few farewell words that Frances had addressed to her, still
oppressed her mind. There were moments when she vaguely understood, and
bitterly lamented, the motives which had animated her unhappy friend.
Other moments followed, when she impulsively resented the act which had
thrown her on her own resources, at the very time when she had most need
of the encouragement that could be afforded by the sympathy of a
firmer nature than her own. She began to doubt the steadiness of her
resolution--without Frances to take leave of her, on the morning of the
escape. For the first time, she was now tortured by distrust of Ovid’s
reception of her; by dread of his possible disapproval of her boldness;
by morbid suspicion even of his taking his mother’s part. Bewildered and
reckless, she threw herself on the sofa--her heart embittered against
Frances--indifferent whether she lived or died.
At dinner-time she sent a message, begging to be excused from appearing
at the table. Mrs. Gallilee at once presented herself, harder and colder
than ever, to inspect the invalid. Perceiving no immediate necessity for
summoning Mr. Null, she said, “Ring, if you want anything,” and left the
room.
Mr. Gallilee followed, after an interval, with a little surreptitious
offering of wine (hidden under his coat); and with a selection of tarts
crammed into his pocket.
“Smuggled goods, my dear,” he whispered, “picked up when nobody happened
to be looking my way. When we are miserable--has the idea ever occurred
to you?--it’s a sign from kind Providence that we are intended to eat
and drink. The sherry’s old, and the pastry melts in your mouth. Shall
I stay with you? You would rather not? Just my feeling! Remarkable
similarity in our opinions--don’t you think so yourself? I’m sorry for
poor Miss Minerva. Suppose you go to bed?”
Carmina was in no mood to profit by this excellent advice.
She was still walking restlessly up and down her room, when the time
came for shutting up the house. With the sound of closing locks and
bolts, there was suddenly mingled a sharp ring at the bell; followed
by another unexpected event. Mr. Gallilee paid her a second visit--in a
state of transformation. His fat face was flushed: he positively
looked as if he was capable of feeling strong emotion, unconnected with
champagne and the club! He presented a telegram to Carmina--and, when he
spoke, there were thrills of agitation in the tones of his piping voice.
“My dear, something very unpleasant has happened. I met Joseph taking
this to my wife. Highly improper, in my opinion,--what do you say
yourself?--to take it to Mrs. Gallilee, when it’s addressed to you. It
was no mistake; he was so impudent as to say he had his orders. I have
reproved Joseph.” Mr. Gallilee looked astonished at himself, when he
made this latter statement--then relapsed into his customary sweetness
of temper. “No bad news?” he asked anxiously, when Carmina opened the
telegram.
“Good news! the best of good news!” she answered impetuously.
Mr. Gallilee looked as happy as if the welcome telegram had been
addressed to himself. On his way out of the room, he underwent another
relapse. The footman’s audacious breach of trust began to trouble him
once more: this time in its relation to Mrs. Gallilee. The serious
part of it was, that the man had acted under his mistress’s orders. Mr.
Gallilee said--he actually said, without appealing to anybody--“If this
happens again, I shall be obliged to speak to my wife.”
The telegram was from Teresa. It had been despatched from Paris that
evening; and the message was thus expressed:
“Too tired to get on to England by to-night’s mail. Shall leave by the
early train to-morrow morning, and be with you by six o’clock.”
Carmina’s mind was exactly in the state to feel unmingled relief, at the
prospect of seeing the dear old friend of her happiest days. She laid
her head on the pillow that night, without a thought of what might
follow the event of Teresa’s return.
VOLUME THREE