“But you must,” repeat I urgently, and apparently resolved that he shall never reach the end of his sentence; “if you are not—­I warn you—­ you may not like it—­I dare say you will not—­but—­I shall come to look for you!”

“In a sailing-vessel, like the governor-general’s wife?” asks he with a smile.

* * * * *

And now he is gone! gone in the first freshness of the morning!  This year, I seem fated to witness the childhood of many summer days.  The carriage that bears him away is lost to sight—­dwindled away to nothing among the park-trees.  Five minutes ago, my arms were clinging with a tightness of a clasp that a bear might have admired round his neck.  I was too choked with tears to say much, and kept repeating with the persistence of a guinea-fowl, but without the distinctness, “Come back! come back!”

“Good-by, my Nancy!” he says, holding me a little from him, that he may the better consider my face, “be quite—­quite happy, while I am away—­ indeed, that will be the way to please me best, and be a little glad to see me when I come back!”

And now he is gone; and I am left standing at the hall-door with level hand shading my eyes from the red sun—­with a smeared face—­with the butler and two footmen respectfully regarding my affliction—­(they do not like to disappear, till they have shut the door—­I do not like to ask them to retire, and I do not like to lose the last glimpse) so there I remain—­nineteen—­a grass widow, and—­ALONE!  I shall not, however, be alone for long; for this evening Barbara is coming.  Algy is to bring her, and to stay a few days on his way to Aldershott.  All day long, I wander with restless aimlessness about the house, my big house—­so empty, so orderly in its stateliness—­so frightfully silent!  Ah! the doll’s house whose whole front came out at once was a better companion—­ much more friendly, and not half so oppressive.  In almost every room, I cry profusely—­disagreeable tears of shame and remorse and grief—­only, O friends!  I will tell you now, what I would not tell myself then, that the grief, though true, was not so great as either of the other feelings.  I lunch in the great dining-room, with tall full-length Tempests eying me with constant placidity from the walls; with the butler and footman still trying respectfully to ignore my swelled nose and bunged-up eyes.

As evening draws on—­evening that is to bring some voices, some sound of steps to me and my great dumb house—­I revive a little.  If it were Bobby that were coming, my mind would be weighted by the thought of the repression his spirits would need, but Algy’s mirth is several shades less violent, and Barbara is never jarringly joyful.  So I change my dress, bathe my face, make my maid retwist my hair, and prepare to be chastenedly and moderately glad to see them.

At least there will be some one to occupy two more of these numberless chairs; two more for the stolid family portraits to eye; two voices, nay three, for I shall speak then, to drown the sounding silence.