The Miss Barlieus answered me sensibly; it was Miss Annette who wrote. "Put up with it to the close of your year from the time of entrance," she said. "It is never well for a governess to leave her situation before the year is up, if it can be avoided; and were you to do so, some ladies might urge it as an objection to making another engagement with you. You are but young still. Give Mrs. Paler ample notice, three months, we believe, is the English usage—and endeavour to part with her amicably. She must see that her situation is beyond your strength."
I took the advice, and in June gave Mrs. Paler warning to leave, having entered her house in September. She was angry, and affected to believe I would not go. I respectfully asked her to put herself in idea in my place, and candidly say whether or not the work was too hard. She muttered something about "over-conscientiousness;" that I should get along better without it. Nothing more was said; nothing satisfactory decided, and the time went on again to the approach of September. I wondered how I must set about looking out for another asylum; I had no time to look out, no opportunity to go abroad. Mr. Paler was in England.
"Miss Hereford, mamma told me to say that we shall be expected in the drawing-room to-night; you, and I, and Harriet," observed Kate Paler to me one hot summer's day. "The Gordons are coming and the De Mellissies."
"What De Mellissies are those?" I inquired, the name striking upon my ear with a thrill of remembrance.
"What De Mellissies are those? why, the De Mellissies," returned Kate, girl-fashion. "She is young and very pretty; I saw her when I was out with mamma in the carriage the other day."
"Is she English or French?"
"English, I'll vow. No French tongue could speak English as she does."
"When you answer in that free, abrupt manner, Kate, you greatly displease me," I interposed. "It is most unladylike."
Kate laughed; said she was free-spoken by nature, and it was of no use trying to be otherwise. By habit more than by nature, I told her: and I waited with impatience for the evening.
It was Emily. I knew her at once. Gay-mannered, laughing, lovely as ever, she came into the room on her husband's arm, wearing a pink silk dress and wreath of roses. Alfred de Mellissie looked ill; at least he was paler and thinner than in the old days at Nulle. She either did not or would not remember me; as the evening drew on, I felt sure that she did not, for she spoke cordially enough to me, though as to an utter stranger. It happened that we were quite alone once, in the recess of a window, and I interrupted what she was saying about a song.