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 latitudes1, 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 triumphantly2 as a few weeks previously3, 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 Rue5 des Lauriers. And then her thoughts flew on to a certain familiar figure at that very moment probably enough pacing the grey, dreary6 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 misgivings7.
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 fetters8 he had himself told her of, she did not just now much trouble her head about. Vaguely9, 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, alas10! by what she could not bear to contemplate11, the confession12 of the long deception13 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. Archer14’s recent presence.
“I hope Cissy is not ill,” thought she anxiously, as she hastened to Mrs. Archer’s bedroom.
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 standing16 with their lids open in a row, while every article of furniture in the room, bed, tables, chairs, and floor itself, were literally17 heaped with the whole of the little lady’s wardrobe. Dresses, cloaks, shawls, bonnets18, boots and linen—the whole of Mrs. Archer’s possessions seemed suddenly to have been seized with a frenzy19 of disorder20, while she herself in their midst, her small person almost, hidden by the overwhelming portmanteau, looked utterly21 unable to cope with the chaotic22 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 tangled23 threads, all of which by the expiration24 of the allotted25 time, she was ordered, under pain of some tremendous punishment, to wind with perfect regularity26 in even skeins for the use of her tormentor27.
“What are you about, Cissy?” ejaculated her cousin, “Have you lost anything, have you quarrelled with Madame Poulin and determined28 to leave her house on the spot?”
“Don’t laugh, May, don’t,” said Cissy, beseechingly29, looking up as she spoke30. Though the request was unnecessary, as the sight of her tear-stained face quickly divested31 her cousin of any risible32 inclination33.
“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 sobs34, and for a moment or two could not control herself sufficiently35 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 joint36 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 prospect37 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 adviser38 in England.
Marion stood staring at the letter without speaking. Was it selfish of her, that even at this moment of warm commiseration39 for her cousin, the effect this sudden move might have on her own prospects40, rushed into her mind? She tried to drive it back, but found it difficult to do so.
“Well, Marion,” said Cissy, peevishly41, for, being in no small terror of her cousin’s remonstrance42 as to so sudden and impulsive43 a step as the immediate44 return to England, she was determined, woman-like, to take the bull by the horns by constituting herself the aggrieved45 party.
“Well, Marion, have you nothing to say? You stand there as if you were asleep, instead of helping46 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 harass47 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 brilliance48 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 postscript49.”
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 sobbed50 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 bestowed51 on her pupils, and begging her on no account to distress52 herself at having to leave Altes before the quarter had fully53 expired.
With this came a note for Cissy. It was couched in much heartier54 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 odious55 Miss Freer.”
“Are you?” said Marion; “I can’t say if I am or not. Sometimes I detest56 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 touching57 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 ornament58 from Lotty of the china, pottery59 rather, of’ the district, and from Sybil a gaily-bound and profusely60 illustrated61 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, trying her best to keep back her tears, and bear the parting bravely. “All fairy stories, and Beauty and the Beast is in I looked for the picture, and Jeannette read me the name, ‘La Belle62 et la Bête.’ Won’t you like reading it, Miss Freer?”
“Yes, indeed, my darlings,” said poor Marion, kissing them for the twentieth and last time, with a strange wistful questioning in her heart as to whether she should ever again kiss these sweet, fresh, child faces, and if so, where and when! Then she ran away without looking, back, to hide the fast dropping tears that, do what she would, could not she entirely63 repressed; and carrying with her the presents on which had been expended64 all the available resources of the little girls. Poor little presents! There came a day when he hid them out of sight, far away in a high cupboard. Not that she lived to forget her little pupils, but sad unendurable memories came to associated with them in her mind, and all she could do was to try to forget.
She hurried home to the Rue St. Thomas, treading for the last time the now familiar streets. Hurried home to find Cissy immersed, and but prostrated65, by the terrible business of packing and accounts paying.
“Leave as much as possible to me, Cissy, dear. I have said my goodbyes, and am now free to work. You have to be ready for Lady Severn, you know. The Berwicks, and others, we cannot attempt. You might ask Lady Severn to explain to them and any one else the reason of our sudden flight. One thing, Cissy, will you do to oblige me? Give Lady Severn your address at Cheltenham. It is possible there may be some message to send us through her. I did not like to ask the children to write, but perhaps they may think of it.”
“I don’t suppose any one will help them to do so, poor little things, even if they wish it,” replied Mrs. Archer. “However, I can easily give her the address.”
She did so when Lady Severn and Miss Vyse called to as goodbye. Lady Severn took the card on which it was written, and after glancing at it, handed it to Florence, when they reseated themselves in the carriage.
“You keep it, Florence, dear,” she said; “you have all my addresses. Though, indeed, I shall not forget it. I have a capital head for addresses—23, West Parade, Leamington. Yes. 23, West Parade.”
And after a week’s bustle66 crowded into a few hours, the little party set off again on their travels. Just the three, Mrs. Archer, Marion, and Charlie, for poor Thérèse had to be left behind. Mr. Chepstow sent two carriages to convey them to the place from which the diligence started, and was there himself to see them off. He was “really very kind,” they all agreed.
But it was sad, this sudden, hurried departure from the place they had come to know so well. Hardly sad for Cissy, perhaps; her thoughts were far away eastward67, and she only lived in the hope of soon following them thither68. But for her young cousin! Ah, it was very trying. Just a few short, days before “he” would be back again, when all, she had hoped, would have been explained between them. She had no hope of meeting him in London. In all probability he would have left before their arrival, and even if not, the chances of their meeting were of the most remote. She did not know his address, and he!—he neither knew of her coming, nor, should he even hear it from his mother, would he have the slightest notion where to seek her. No, she must trust that he would write, as, she felt satisfied he would be sure to do without delay, if he had anything good to tell. In any case, indeed, she thought, considering the circumstances, he would write. He was so thoughtful and considerate, and must have a fair notion of the suspense69 she was enduring.
She did what she could before Leaving Altes. Besides the address given at her request to Lady Severn, she left with Mme. Poulin several ready-stamped envelopes, similarly directed by herself to Mrs. Archer’s Cheltenham address, and gave their obliging landlady70 most particular injunctions to the forwarding immediately of all letters and notes of any kind that might be sent after their departure. How she wished she could have left some directed to her own name and address! The going in the first place to Cheltenham would add to the delay, but she dared not venture to do more, and could only trust that a happy ending might compensate71 for the present trying suspense.
It was a hurried and uncomfortable journey, and yet poor Marion could hardly wish it over, for it was the last she could hope to see of Cissy for many a long day to come.
They arrived in London very late in the evening of a chilly72, rainy March day. For this one night Marion accompanied her cousin to her hotel, for though she had written from Altes to her father announcing their sudden return to England, she felt more than doubtful of his having received the letter, as he was much addicted73 to eccentric flights from home of two or three days’ duration, and on such occasions did not think it necessary to leave his address.
How strange to be in London again, and oh, how dreary and ugly it looked! How painfully “the national dread4 of colour” is felt by the traveller returning home from the brightness and freshness across the channel!
“Oh,” exclaimed Marion, “how could I ever have grumbled74 at Altes sunshine and heat! I envy you, Cissy. I declare, I wish I were going, to India with you.”
“I wish indeed you were, my darling,” quoth Cissy, whose tears in these days were never far to seek. “But if we are to drop you on our way to the station, May, it is truly time to go.”
For Mrs. Archer’s plans were to go straight on to her mother-in-law’s at Cheltenham, the morning after their arrival in London.
So their goodbye had to be said in the cab!
If walls had tongues as well as their proverbial ears, we should want no other story tellers75; but what of the romances we might hear from those wretchedest of conveyances76, London cabs, were they likewise endued77 with speech!
Oh, the broken hearts that, have been jogged along the dirty London streets since the days when the first “Hackney” saw the light! Oh, the bright hopes doomed78 to disappointment, the vows79 made but to be broken, the agonies of anxiety, the “farewells” of very utmost anguish80, of which these grumbling81, creaking, four-wheelers, or rattling82, springing Hansoms, might tell! For my part I don’t think I should much fancy spending a night alone in one of l hose dilapidated remains83 of a vehicle, “cast,” at last, as no longer possible to use, which we now and then discern in some dingy84 corner of a cab proprietors85 yard. I am quite sure I should not spend the dark hours alone. Strange shadowy visitors would occupy the other seats, and long forgotten scenes would be re-enacted within the small compass of the four wooden walk! No, assuredly, I should not fancy it at all!
But to return to our special cab, or rather to its occupants.
“You will be sure to write to me, Cissy dear from Cheltenham, and tell me when you really go,” said Marion.”
“Oh yes, dear, of course, I shall,” replied Mrs. Archer; “and you, May,” she continued, “must let me know how you find Uncle Vere, and Harry86. For he will be with you soon, won’t, he? It is so easy for him to run up to town now he is at Woolwich.”
“Yes, I hope so,” answered Marion somewhat absently; then she added in a lower voice, while a slight shade of colour came over her face, “Will you, Cissy dear, be careful to send me on at, once any letters that may be forwarded to me—to Miss Freer, you know—under cover to Cheltenham?”
“Certainly, I shall. But do you expect?” asked Mrs. Archer with some surprise.
“I don’t know—perhaps,” replied Marion rather confusedly.
Something in her tone made Cissy turn so as to see her better. Then she took the girl’s hand in hers, and said gently, very gently:
“My dearest, is there anything you are anxious about? Once or twice lately I have half suspected something, but you are not like most girls, silly and not to be trusted. Indeed I often fancy you are much wiser than I, and I could not bear to pry87 into your confidence. But now, darling, we shall not see each other for so long—perhaps indeed—but no, I won’t he gloomy. Won’t you tell me if there is anything? Any special letter you are expecting?”
“I can’t tell you just now, Cissy. Indeed I can hardly say there is anything to tell. When, or if, there is I will write to you at once. I promise you this, dear Cissy.”
“Or if I can help you in any way?” suggested Cissy rather timidly. “Yes, if you could, I would as you to do so sooner than any one.”
“Only one word more, May. You wouldn’t go on screening Harry at the expense of your happiness? You know how I mean, dear. You would not allow this idea of your being only a governess to remain in any one’s mind so as to cause injury to your own prospects? Promise me this, for if not I shall never forgive myself for having given in to this scheme of yours at Altes.”
“Don’t be afraid, Cissy. I have no intention of keeping it up. The very first opportunity I have, I mean to tell the whole truth to —— you know whom, for if I ever see him again, he will have a right to hear it.”
“Thank you for telling me this,” said Cissy, “I only wish he knew it already! In any case, Marion, however things turn out, you will write and tell me?”
“Yes, in any case. I promise you I will,” replied the girl. “But here we are at my home! Oh, how unhomelike it looks, Cissy! Papa must be away, but that I don’t mind. Oh, my dear, my darling Cissy, if only you were not going so far! Whatever shall I do without you, my kind sweet sister?”
And all her composure broken down, poor Marion clung to the only near woman friend she had ever known. She had not thought she would feel this parting so acutely; and when at last she had torn herself away, and stood watching the cab drive off slowly, out of sight round the corner of the square, it seemed indeed to her that she had parted for ever with her dear, sweet friend.
It was a small comfort to remember that the faithful Foster, now transformed into Mrs. Robinson, was to meet poor little Charlie and his mother at the station, and not forsake88 them till she saw them off on their long journey eastward; for Cissy was already half worn out with fatigue89 and anxiety, and the parting with Marion had been almost more than she could stand, poor loving little soul that she was.
“How thankful I shall be to hear of her being safe with her husband again! My dear, kind Cissy. But oh, how I shall miss her!” thought Marion as she entered her gloomy home, with no one to welcome her but the startled servants; whose faces however did grow brighter when they saw who it was. Which even, to my thinking, was better than no welcome at all.
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1
latitudes
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| 纬度 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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fetters
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vaguely
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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confession
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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standing
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literally
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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utterly
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chaotic
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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expiration
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allotted
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regularity
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tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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beseechingly
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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risible
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inclination
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sobs
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sufficiently
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joint
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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prospects
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peevishly
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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tellers
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| n.（银行）出纳员( teller的名词复数 )；（投票时的）计票员；讲故事等的人；讲述者 | |
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conveyances
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| n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 )；运送；表达；运输工具 | |
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endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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88
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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