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.