Carmina went on. "It's about writing to Ovid," she explained.
"Write, of course!"
The reply was suddenly and sharply given. "Surely, I have not offended you?" Carmina said.
"Nonsense! Let me hear your mother's letter."
"Yes--but I want you to hear the circumstances first."
"You have mentioned them already."
"No! no! I mean the circumstances, in my case." She drew her chair closer to Miss Minerva. "I want to whisper--for fear of somebody passing on the stairs. The more I think of it, the more I feel that I ought to prepare Ovid for seeing me, before I make my escape. You said when we talked of it--"
"Never mind what I said."
"Oh, but I do mind! You said I could go to Ovid's bankers at Quebec, and then write when I knew where he was. I have been thinking over it since--and I see a serious risk. He might return from his inland journey, on the very day that I get there; he might even meet me in the street. In his delicate health--I daren't think of what the consequences of such a surprise might be! And then there is the dreadful necessity of telling him, that his mother has driven me into taking this desperate step. In my place, wouldn't you feel that you could do it more delicately in writing?"
"I dare say!"
"I might write to-morrow, for instance. To-morrow is one of the American mail days. My letter would get to Canada (remembering the roundabout way by which Teresa and I are to travel, for fear of discovery), days and days before we could arrive. I should shut myself up in an hotel at Quebec; and Teresa could go every day to the bank, to hear if Ovid was likely to send for his letters, or likely to call soon and ask for them. Then he would be prepared. Then, when we meet--!"
The governess left her chair, and pointed to the clock.
Carmina looked at her--and rose in alarm. "Are you in pain?" she asked.
"Yes--neuralgia, I think. I have the remedy in my room. Don't keep me, my dear. Mrs. Gallilee mustn't find me here again."
The paroxysm of pain which Carmina had noticed, passed over her face once more. She subdued it, and left the room. The pain mastered her again; a low cry broke from her when she closed the door. Carmina ran out: "Frances! what is it?" Frances looked over her shoulder, while she slowly ascended the stairs. "Never mind!" she said gently. "I have got my remedy."
Carmina advanced a step to follow her, and drew back.
Was that expression of suffering really caused by pain of the body? or was it attributable to anything that she had rashly said? She tried to recall what had passed between Frances and herself. The effort wearied her. Her thoughts turned self-reproachfully to Ovid. If he had been speaking to a friend whose secret sorrow was known to him, would he have mentioned the name of the woman whom they both loved? She looked at his portrait, and reviled herself as a selfish insensible wretch. "Will Ovid improve me?" she wondered. "Shall I be a little worthier of him, when I am his wife?"
Luncheon time came; and Mrs. Gallilee sent word that they were not to wait for her.
"She's studying," said Mr. Gallilee, with awe-struck looks. "She's going to make a speech at the Discussion to-morrow. The man who gives the lecture is the man she's going to pitch into. I don't know him; but how do you feel about it yourself, Carmina?--I wouldn't stand in his shoes for any sum of money you could offer me. Poor devil! I beg your pardon, my dear; let me give you a wing of the fowl. Boiled fowl--eh? and tongue--ha? Do you know the story of the foreigner? He dined out fifteen times with his English friends. And there was boiled fowl and tongue at every dinner. The fifteenth time, the foreigner couldn't stand it any longer. He slapped his forehead, and he said, 'Ah, merciful Heaven, cock and bacon again!' You won't mention it, will you?--and perhaps you think as I do?--I'm sick of cock and bacon, myself."
Mr. Null's medical orders still prescribed fresh air. The carriage came to the door at the regular hour; and Mr. Gallilee, with equal regularity, withdrew to his club.
Carmina was too uneasy to leave the house, without seeing Miss Minerva first. She went up to the schoolroom.
There was no sound of voices, when she opened the door. Miss Minerva was writing, and silence had been proclaimed. The girls were ready dressed for their walk. Industrious Maria had her book. Idle Zo, perched on a high chair, sat kicking her legs. "If you say a word," she whispered, as Carmina passed her, "you'll be called an Imp, and stuck up on a chair. I shall go to the boy."
"Are you better, Frances?"
"Much better, my dear."
Her face denied it; the look of suffering was there still. She tore up the letter which she had been writing, and threw the fragments into the waste-paper basket.
"That's the second letter you've torn up," Zo remarked.
"Say a word more--and you shall have bread and water for tea!" Miss Minerva was not free from irritation, although she might be free from pain. Even Zo noticed how angry the governess was.
"I wish you could drive with me in the carriage," said Carmina. "The air would do you so much good."
"Impossible! But you may soothe my irritable nerves in another way, if you like."
"How?"
"Relieve me of these girls. Take them out with you. Do you mind?"
Zo instantly jumped off her chair; and even Maria looked up from her book.
"I will take them with pleasure. Must we ask my aunt's permission?"
"We will dispense with your aunt's permission. She is shut up in her study--and we are all forbidden to disturb her. I will take it on myself." She turned to the girls with another outbreak of irritability. "Be off!"
Maria rose with dignity, and made one of her successful exits. "I am sorry, dear Miss Minerva, if I have done anything to make you angry." She pointed the emphasis on "I," by a side-look at her sister. Zo bounced out of the room, and performed the Italian boy's dance on the landing. "For shame!" said Maria. Zo burst into singing. "Yah yah-yah-bellah-vitah-yah! Jolly! jolly! jolly!--we are going out for a drive!"
Carmina waited, to say a friendly word, before she followed the girls.
"You didn't think me neglectful, Frances, when I let you go upstairs by yourself!" Miss Minerva answered sadly and kindly. "The best thing you could do was to leave me by myself."
Carmina's mind was still not quite at ease. "Yes--but you were in pain," she said.
"You curious child! I am not in pain now."
"Will you make me comfortable, Frances? Give me a kiss."
"Two, my dear--if you like."
She kissed Carmina on one cheek and on the other. "Now leave me to write," she said.
Carmina left her.
The drive ought to have been a pleasant one, with Zo in the carriage. To Marceline, it was a time of the heartiest enjoyment. Maria herself condescended to smile, now and then. There was only one dull person among them. "Miss Carmina was but poor company," the maid remarked when they got back.
Mrs. Gallilee herself received them in the hall.
"You will never take the children out again without my leave," she said to Carmina.