Zo got on her legs before she spoke, like a member of parliament. “I’ve been thinking about that governess,” she announced. “Didn’t I once tell you I was going to run away? And wasn’t it because of Her? Hush! Here’s the part of it I can’t make out—She’s run away from Me. I don’t bear malice; I’m only glad in myself. No more dirty nails. No more bread and water for tea. That’s all. Good morning.” Zo laid herself down again on the rug; and the dog laid himself down again on Zo.
Carmina returned to her room—to reflect on what she had heard from the parlour-maid.
It was now plain that Mrs. Gallilee had not been allowed the opportunity of dismissing her governess at a moment’s notice: Miss Minerva’s sudden departure was unquestionably due to Miss Minerva herself.
Thus far, Carmina was able to think clearly—and no farther. The confused sense of helpless distress which she had felt, after reading the few farewell words that Frances had addressed to her, still oppressed her mind. There were moments when she vaguely understood, and bitterly lamented, the motives which had animated her unhappy friend. Other moments followed, when she impulsively resented the act which had thrown her on her own resources, at the very time when she had most need of the encouragement that could be afforded by the sympathy of a firmer nature than her own. She began to doubt the steadiness of her resolution—without Frances to take leave of her, on the morning of the escape. For the first time, she was now tortured by distrust of Ovid’s reception of her; by dread of his possible disapproval of her boldness; by morbid suspicion even of his taking his mother’s part. Bewildered and reckless, she threw herself on the sofa—her heart embittered against Frances—indifferent whether she lived or died.
At dinner-time she sent a message, begging to be excused from appearing at the table. Mrs. Gallilee at once presented herself, harder and colder than ever, to inspect the invalid. Perceiving no immediate necessity for summoning Mr. Null, she said, “Ring, if you want anything,” and left the room.
Mr. Gallilee followed, after an interval, with a little surreptitious offering of wine (hidden under his coat); and with a selection of tarts crammed into his pocket.
“Smuggled goods, my dear,” he whispered, “picked up when nobody happened to be looking my way. When we are miserable—has the idea ever occurred to you?—it’s a sign from kind Providence that we are intended to eat and drink. The sherry’s old, and the pastry melts in your mouth. Shall I stay with you? You would rather not? Just my feeling! Remarkable similarity in our opinions—don’t you think so yourself? I’m sorry for poor Miss Minerva. Suppose you go to bed?”
Carmina was in no mood to profit by this excellent advice.
She was still walking restlessly up and down her room, when the time came for shutting up the house. With the sound of closing locks and bolts, there was suddenly mingled a sharp ring at the bell; followed by another unexpected event. Mr. Gallilee paid her a second visit—in a state of transformation. His fat face was flushed: he positively looked as if he was capable of feeling strong emotion, unconnected with champagne and the club! He presented a telegram to Carmina—and, when he spoke, there were thrills of agitation in the tones of his piping voice.
“My dear, something very unpleasant has happened. I met Joseph taking this to my wife. Highly improper, in my opinion,—what do you say yourself?—to take it to Mrs. Gallilee, when it’s addressed to you. It was no mistake; he was so impudent as to say he had his orders. I have reproved Joseph.” Mr. Gallilee looked astonished at himself, when he made this latter statement—then relapsed into his customary sweetness of temper. “No bad news?” he asked anxiously, when Carmina opened the telegram.