"Yes, I remember that," she said faintly, a sense of fear coming over her.
"Well, the opportunity has arrived, strangely enough, this very night." He turned away his eyes, and spoke very quickly. "I went back with Martin to his chambers. He found there a letter from—a man whose name you would not know if I were to mention it to you, but who is of some fame in the literary world, and is indeed commonly regarded as the representative of an important daily newspaper. Well, it seems a confidential person is required in the interests of the newspaper to proceed forthwith to Paris, as correspondent there. The gentleman who has hitherto filled that office has been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill—the news has only just come to-night by the telegraph. Somebody must go at once, or they will be without their usual Paris letter—an extraordinary loss in these times—must start at once to act on behalf of the paper for a few days, until their present correspondent recovers, or until some one is permanently appointed in his stead. Martin has been offered the post, but he has refused it; in fact, he is at present so tied to London by his engagements, that he could hardly be expected to accept it, but he has strongly urged me to go in his stead."
"And you will?"
"Yes; after some hesitation I accepted the offer. The work will not be severe. The change will be of service to me, and the chance of establishing a connection with an influential newspaper like that is one I ought not to slight. Has not all this happened fortunately?"
"And you are going—when, Wilford?"
"At once, dearest."
"I may go with you? Why do you shake your head? Why may I not?"
She was rather scared by the thought of this unexpected journey, and there were evidences almost of terror in her voice.
"No, Vi, it is not possible."
"But why not?"
"Dearest!" he said, rather troubled, "I should wish for nothing better than to be able to take you with me; but consider the haste of the thing, the discomfort, the uncertainty! I may not be gone more than three or four days. Why should you be subjected to all this inconvenience?"
"Wilford, you know I should not heed that—only let me be by your side. I am frightened by this hurry and suddenness. I cannot bear that we should be parted thus. You are not well now. You are not strong enough for all this turmoil. Oh, why did you consent to go? How could you think of leaving me? Write, and say that upon reflection you cannot: tell them—anything! Only do not leave me, Wilford. You may fall ill on the road. You may die, Wilford, and I shall never see you more."
The tears started to her eyes at the thought, and she circled him with her soft arms, and kissed him.
"Dearest Vi, is this reasonable?" he said, gently. "I have accepted the offer made to me. Am I not bound in honour—"
"Enough, Wilford. You must go, I see. But may I not go with you?"
"You forget, Vi, the baby. You cannot leave baby; and we cannot expose the little one to all the fatigues of this journey."
"True," she said, rather sorrowfully. "I was not thinking of what I said. Forgive me, husband dear; but at the mention of our first separation—" Her voice failed her.
Fondly he drew her to his heart, and she hid her face and her tears on his breast.
"A few days only, Vi, and I shall come back again, well and strong,—think of that!"
"It will not be more than that?"
"Oh, no. I only accept it on those conditions. I wouldn't have the permanent appointment on any terms. But the opportunity of the change—of obliging Martin—of making friends with an influential organ—"
"Yes, I see; you must go. What time to-morrow shall you start?"
"To-morrow?—I go to-night—at once. I have come home simply for a carpet-bag, and, what is more important, for a kiss from my wife and child before I start."
"But there is no train to-night?"
"No, but there is an early one in the morning. The intervening hours I spend with the editor in the city—closely closeted—receiving my instructions."
"Oh, Wil, this is dreadful—I cannot let you go."
"Come, Vi, dearest, take courage—the thing is not really dreadful. Pack a few things for me, there's my darling wife. I shall be back with you again before you've had time to miss me."
She shook her head with a sad smile as she quitted the room to fulfil his request.
He seemed to breathe more freely in her absence. But he was very restless: he strode about ceaselessly with shaking hands.
"God forgive me!" he said at length, deeply pained, "it is the first time I have lied to her. My own dear Violet!"
She came back presently. She had made all necessary preparations for his departure, but the tears were still in her eyes.
"I did not think myself so weak," she said. "Forgive me, Wilford! I ought to have more sense, ought I not, than to be crying because you are leaving me for only a day or so? I don't know how it is—of course it's very foolish—but I have a sort of dread about this journey. Perhaps because the news of it came to me so suddenly. I have all sorts of foolish thoughts and doubts about it. I do wish you were not going. Still it's all simple and natural enough, is it not? Say that it is. And you'll write immediately on your arrival, and you'll come back very, very soon to me and baby, won't you, Wilford? I do wish it were all over, and you safe again home. Good-bye, dearest Wilford!"
"Good-bye, my own wife!" and he strained her to his heart. He was greatly troubled, and trembled very much; he was nearly giving way under the pain of that parting. "For you are mine, are you not, Violet? And you will love me always, whatever happens? We are husband and wife, for better and for worse, and our love shall last through weal and woe, through