“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.”