“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 bustle 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 eastward, and she only lived in the hope of soon following them thither. 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 suspense 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 landlady 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 compensate 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 chilly, 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 addicted 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 dread 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 grumbled 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.