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diff --git a/7892-h/7892-h.htm b/7892-h/7892-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41fe2b1 --- /dev/null +++ b/7892-h/7892-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,19260 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Heart and Science, by Wilkie Collins + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Heart and Science, by Wilkie Collins + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Heart and Science + A Story of the Present Time + +Author: Wilkie Collins + +Release Date: July 29, 2009 [EBook #7892] +Last Updated: September 11, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART AND SCIENCE *** + + + + +Produced by James Rusk, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + HEART AND SCIENCE + </h1> + <h2> + A Story of the Present Time + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Wilkie Collins + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> TO SARONY (OF NEW YORK) ARTIST; PHOTOGRAPHER, AND GOOD FRIEND + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I. PREFACE TO READERS IN GENERAL </a><br /><br /> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. TO READERS IN PARTICULAR. </a><br /> <br /> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER LI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER LII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER LIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER LIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER LV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER LVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER LVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER LVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER LIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER LX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER LXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER LXII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER LXIII. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + I. PREFACE TO READERS IN GENERAL + </h2> + <p> + You are the children of Old Mother England, on both sides of the Atlantic; + you form the majority of buyers and borrowers of novels; and you judge of + works of fiction by certain inbred preferences, which but slightly + influence the other great public of readers on the continent of Europe. + </p> + <p> + The two qualities in fiction which hold the highest rank in your + estimation are: Character and Humour. Incident and dramatic situation only + occupy the second place in your favour. A novel that tells no story, or + that blunders perpetually in trying to tell a story—a novel so + entirely devoid of all sense of the dramatic side of human life, that not + even a theatrical thief can find anything in it to steal—will + nevertheless be a work that wins (and keeps) your admiration, if it has + Humour which dwells on your memory, and characters which enlarge the + circle of your friends. + </p> + <p> + I have myself always tried to combine the different merits of a good + novel, in one and the same work; and I have never succeeded in keeping an + equal balance. In the present story you will find the scales inclining, on + the whole, in favour of character and Humour. This has not happened + accidentally. + </p> + <p> + Advancing years, and health that stands sadly in need of improvement, warn + me—if I am to vary my way of work—that I may have little time + to lose. Without waiting for future opportunities, I have kept your + standard of merit more constantly before my mind, in writing this book, + than on some former occasions. + </p> + <p> + Still persisting in telling you a story—still refusing to get up in + the pulpit and preach, or to invade the platform and lecture, or to take + you by the buttonhole in confidence and make fun of my Art—it has + been my chief effort to draw the characters with a vigour and breadth of + treatment, derived from the nearest and truest view that I could get of + the one model, Nature. Whether I shall at once succeed in adding to the + circle of your friends in the world of fiction—or whether you will + hurry through the narrative, and only discover on a later reading that it + is the characters which have interested you in the story—remains to + be seen. Either way, your sympathy will find me grateful; for, either way, + my motive has been to please you. + </p> + <p> + During its periodical publication correspondents, noting certain passages + in “Heart and Science,” inquired how I came to think of writing this book. + The question may be readily answered in better words than mine. My book + has been written in harmony with opinions which have an indisputable claim + to respect. Let them speak for themselves. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHAKESPEARE’S OPINION.—“It was always yet the trick of our +English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.” + <i>(King Henry IV., Part II.)</i> + + WALTER SCOTT’S OPINION—“I am no great believer in the extreme +degree of improvement to be derived from the advancement of Science; for +every study of that nature tends, when pushed to a certain extent, to +harden the heart.” <i>(Letter to Miss Edgeworth.)</i> + + FARADAY’S OPINION.—“The education of the judgment has for its +first and its last step—Humility.” <i>(Lecture on Mental Education, at +the Royal Institution.)</i> +</pre> + <p> + Having given my reasons for writing the book, let me conclude by telling + you what I have kept out of the book. + </p> + <p> + It encourages me to think that we have many sympathies in common; and + among them, that most of us have taken to our hearts domestic pets. + Writing under this conviction, I have not forgotten my responsibility + towards you, and towards my Art, in pleading the cause of the harmless and + affectionate beings of God’s creation. From first to last, you are + purposely left in ignorance of the hideous secrets of Vivisection. The + outside of the laboratory is a necessary object in my landscape—but + I never once open the door and invite you to look in. I trace, in one of + my characters, the result of the habitual practice of cruelty (no matter + under what pretence) in fatally deteriorating the nature of man—and + I leave the picture to speak for itself. My own personal feeling has + throughout been held in check. Thankfully accepting the assistance + rendered to me by Miss Frances Power Cobbe, by Mrs. H. M. Gordon, and by + Surgeon-General Gordon, C.B., I have borne in mind (as they have borne in + mind) the value of temperate advocacy to a good cause. + </p> + <p> + With this, your servant withdraws, and leaves you to the story. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. TO READERS IN PARTICULAR. + </h2> + <p> + If you are numbered among those good friends of ours, who are especially + capable of understanding us and sympathising with us, be pleased to accept + the expression of our gratitude, and to pass over the lines that follow. + </p> + <p> + But if you open our books with a mind soured by distrust; if you + habitually anticipate inexcusable ignorance where the course of the story + happens to turn on matters of fact; it is you, Sir or Madam, whom I now + want. + </p> + <p> + Not to dispute with you—far from it! I own with sorrow that your + severity does occasionally encounter us on assailable ground. But there + are exceptions, even to the stiffest rules. Some of us are not guilty of + wilful carelessness: some of us apply to competent authority, when we + write on subjects beyond the range of our own experience. Having thus far + ventured to speak for my colleagues, you will conclude that I am paving + the way for speaking next of myself. As our cousins in the United States + say—that is so. + </p> + <p> + In the following pages, there are allusions to medical practice at the + bedside; leading in due course to physiological questions which connect + themselves with the main interest of the novel. In traversing this + delicate ground, you have not been forgotten. Before the manuscript went + to the printer, it was submitted for correction to an eminent London + surgeon, whose experience extends over a period of forty years. + </p> + <p> + Again: a supposed discovery in connection with brain disease, which + occupies a place of importance, is not (as you may suspect) the fantastic + product of the author’s imagination. Finding his materials everywhere, he + has even contrived to make use of Professor Ferrier—writing on the + “Localisation of Cerebral Disease,” and closing a confession of the + present result of post-mortem examination of brains in these words: “We + cannot even be sure, whether many of the changes discovered are the cause + or the result of the Disease, or whether the two are the conjoint results + of a common cause.” Plenty of elbow room here for the spirit of discovery. + </p> + <p> + On becoming acquainted with “Mrs. Gallilee,” you will find her talking—and + you will sometimes even find the author talking—of scientific + subjects in general. You will naturally conclude that it is “all gross + caricature.” No; it is all promiscuous reading. Let me spare you a long + list of books consulted, and of newspapers and magazines mutilated for + “cuttings”—and appeal to examples once more, and for the last time. + </p> + <p> + When “Mrs. Gallilee” wonders whether “Carmina has ever heard of the + Diathermancy of Ebonite,” she is thinking of proceedings at a + conversazione in honour of Professor Helmholtz (reported in the <i>Times</i> + of April 12, 1881), at which “radiant energy” was indeed converted into + “sonorous vibrations.” Again: when she contemplates taking part in a + discussion on Matter, she has been slily looking into Chambers’s + Encyclopaedia, and has there discovered the interesting conditions on + which she can “dispense with the idea of atoms.” Briefly, not a word of my + own invention occurs, when Mrs. Gallilee turns the learned side of her + character to your worships’ view. + </p> + <p> + I have now only to add that the story has been subjected to careful + revision, and I hope to consequent improvement, in its present form of + publication. Past experience has shown me that you have a sharp eye for + slips of the pen, and that you thoroughly enjoy convicting a novelist, by + post, of having made a mistake. Whatever pains I may have taken to + disappoint you, it is quite likely that we may be again indebted to each + other on this occasion. So, to our infinite relief on either side, we part + friends after all. + </p> + <p> + W. C. + </p> + <p> + London: April 1883 + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + The weary old nineteenth century had advanced into the last twenty years + of its life. + </p> + <p> + Towards two o’clock in the afternoon, Ovid Vere (of the Royal College of + Surgeons) stood at the window of his consulting-room in London, looking + out at the summer sunshine, and the quiet dusty street. + </p> + <p> + He had received a warning, familiar to the busy men of our time—the + warning from overwrought Nature, which counsels rest after excessive work. + With a prosperous career before him, he had been compelled (at only + thirty-one years of age) to ask a colleague to take charge of his + practice, and to give the brain which he had cruelly wearied a rest of + some months to come. On the next day he had arranged to embark for the + Mediterranean in a friend’s yacht. + </p> + <p> + An active man, devoted heart and soul to his profession, is not a man who + can learn the happy knack of being idle at a moment’s notice. Ovid found + the mere act of looking out of window, and wondering what he should do + next, more than he had patience to endure. + </p> + <p> + He turned to his study table. If he had possessed a wife to look after + him, he would have been reminded that he and his study table had nothing + in common, under present circumstances. Being deprived of conjugal + superintendence, he broke though his own rules. His restless hand unlocked + a drawer, and took out a manuscript work on medicine of his own writing. + “Surely,” he thought, “I may finish a chapter, before I go to sea + to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + His head, steady enough while he was only looking out of window, began to + swim before he had got to the bottom of a page. The last sentences of the + unfinished chapter alluded to a matter of fact which he had not yet + verified. In emergencies of any sort, he was a patient man and a man of + resource. The necessary verification could be accomplished by a visit to + the College of Surgeons, situated in the great square called Lincoln’s Inn + Fields. Here was a motive for a walk—with an occupation at the end + of it, which only involved a question to a Curator, and an examination of + a Specimen. He locked up his manuscript, and set forth for Lincoln’s Inn + Fields. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + When two friends happen to meet in the street, do they ever look back + along the procession of small circumstances which has led them both, from + the starting-point of their own houses, to the same spot, at the same + time? Not one man in ten thousand has probably ever thought of making such + a fantastic inquiry as this. And consequently not one man in ten thousand, + living in the midst of reality, has discovered that he is also living in + the midst of romance. + </p> + <p> + From the moment when the young surgeon closed the door of his house, he + was walking blindfold on his way to a patient in the future who was + personally still a stranger to him. He never reached the College of + Surgeons. He never embarked on his friend’s yacht. + </p> + <p> + What were the obstacles which turned him aside from the course that he had + in view? Nothing but a series of trivial circumstances, occurring in the + experience of a man who goes out for a walk. + </p> + <p> + He had only reached the next street, when the first of the circumstances + presented itself in the shape of a friend’s carriage, which drew up at his + side. A bright benevolent face encircled by bushy white whiskers, looked + out of the window, and a hearty voice asked him if he had completed his + arrangements for a long holiday. Having replied to this, Ovid had a + question to put, on his side. + </p> + <p> + “How is our patient, Sir Richard?” + </p> + <p> + “Out of danger.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do the other doctors say now?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Richard laughed: “They say it’s my luck.” + </p> + <p> + “Not convinced yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. Who has ever succeeded in convincing fools? Let’s try + another subject. Is your mother reconciled to your new plans?” + </p> + <p> + “I can hardly tell you. My mother is in a state of indescribable + agitation. Her brother’s Will has been found in Italy. And his daughter + may arrive in England at a moment’s notice.” + </p> + <p> + “Unmarried?” Sir Richard asked slyly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Any money?” + </p> + <p> + Ovid smiled—not cheerfully. “Do you think my poor mother would be in + a state of indescribable agitation if there was <i>not</i> money?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Richard was one of those obsolete elderly persons who quote + Shakespeare. “Ah, well,” he said, “your mother is like Kent in King Lear—she’s + too old to learn. Is she as fond as ever of lace? and as keen as ever + after a bargain?” He handed a card out of the carriage window. “I have + just seen an old patient of mine,” he resumed, “in whom I feel a friendly + interest. She is retiring from business by my advice; and she asks me, of + all the people in the world, to help her in getting rid of some wonderful + ‘remnants,’ at ‘an alarming sacrifice!’ My kind regards to your mother—and + there’s a chance for her. One last word, Ovid. Don’t be in too great a + hurry to return to work; you have plenty of spare time before you. Look at + my wise dog here, on the front seat, and learn from him to be idle and + happy.” + </p> + <p> + The great physician had another companion, besides his dog. A friend, + bound his way, had accepted a seat in the carriage. “Who is that handsome + young man?” the friend asked as they drove away. + </p> + <p> + “He is the only son of a relative of mine, dead many years since,” Sir + Richard replied. “Don’t forget that you have seen him.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + “He has not yet reached the prime of life; and he is on the way—already + far on the way—to be one of the foremost men of his time. With a + private fortune, he has worked as few surgeons work who have their bread + to get by their profession. The money comes from his late father. His + mother has married again. The second husband is a lazy, harmless old + fellow, named Gallilee; possessed of one small attraction—fifty + thousand pounds, grubbed up in trade. There are two little daughters, by + the second marriage. With such a stepfather as I have described, and, + between ourselves, with a mother who has rather more than her fair share + of the jealous, envious, and money-loving propensities of humanity, my + friend Ovid is not diverted by family influences from the close pursuit of + his profession. You will tell me, he may marry. Well! if he gets a good + wife she will be a circumstance in his favour. But, so far as I know, he + is not that sort of man. Cooler, a deal cooler, with women than I am—though + I am old enough to be his father. Let us get back to his professional + prospects. You heard him ask me about a patient?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. Death was knocking hard at that patient’s door, when I called + Ovid into consultation with myself and with two other doctors who differed + with me. It was one of the very rare cases in which the old practice of + bleeding was, to my mind, the only treatment to pursue. I never told him + that this was the point in dispute between me and the other men—and + they said nothing, on their side, at my express request. He took his time + to examine and think; and he saw the chance of saving the patient by + venturing on the use of the lancet as plainly as I did—with my forty + years’ experience to teach me! A young man with that capacity for + discovering the remote cause of disease, and with that superiority to the + trammels of routine in applying the treatment, has no common medical + career before him. His holiday will set his health right in next to no + time. I see nothing in his way, at present—not even a woman! But,” + said Sir Richard, with the explanatory wink of one eye peculiar (like + quotation from Shakespeare) to persons of the obsolete old time, <i>“we</i> + know better than to forecast the weather if a petticoat influence appears + on the horizon. One prediction, however, I do risk. If his mother buys any + of that lace—I know who will get the best of the bargain!” + </p> + <p> + The conditions under which the old doctor was willing to assume the + character of a prophet never occurred. Ovid remembered that he was going + away on a long voyage—and Ovid was a good son. He bought some of the + lace, as a present to his mother at parting; and, most assuredly, he got + the worst of the bargain. + </p> + <p> + His shortest way back to the straight course, from which he had deviated + in making his purchase, led him into a by-street, near the flower and + fruit market of Covent Garden. Here he met with the second in number of + the circumstances which attended his walk. He found himself encountered by + an intolerably filthy smell. + </p> + <p> + The market was not out of the direct way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He fled + from the smell to the flowery and fruity perfumes of Covent Garden, and + completed the disinfecting process by means of a basket of strawberries. + </p> + <p> + Why did a poor ragged little girl, carrying a big baby, look with such + longing eyes at the delicious fruit, that, as a kind-hearted man, he had + no alternative but to make her a present of the strawberries? Why did two + dirty boyfriends of hers appear immediately afterwards with news of Punch + in a neighbouring street, and lead the little girl away with them? Why did + these two new circumstances inspire him with a fear that the boys might + take the strawberries away from the poor child, burdened as she was with a + baby almost as big as herself? When we suffer from overwrought nerves we + are easily disturbed by small misgivings. The idle man of wearied mind + followed the friends of the street drama to see what happened, forgetful + of the College of Surgeons, and finding a new fund of amusement in + himself. + </p> + <p> + Arrived in the neighbouring street, he discovered that the Punch + performance had come to an end—like some other dramatic performances + of higher pretensions—for want of a paying audience. He waited at a + certain distance, watching the children. His doubts had done them an + injustice. The boys only said, “Give us a taste.” And the liberal little + girl rewarded their good conduct. An equitable and friendly division of + the strawberries was made in a quiet corner. + </p> + <p> + Where—always excepting the case of a miser or a millionaire—is + the man to be found who could have returned to the pursuit of his own + affairs, under these circumstances, without encouraging the practice of + the social virtues by a present of a few pennies? Ovid was not that man. + </p> + <p> + Putting back in his breast-pocket the bag in which he was accustomed to + carry small coins for small charities, his hand touched something which + felt like the envelope of a letter. He took it out—looked at it with + an expression of annoyance and surprise—and once more turned aside + from the direct way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. + </p> + <p> + The envelope contained his last prescription. Having occasion to consult + the “Pharmacopoeia,” he had written it at home, and had promised to send + it to the patient immediately. In the absorbing interest of making his + preparations for leaving England, it had remained forgotten in his pocket + for nearly two days. The one means of setting this unlucky error right, + without further delay, was to deliver his prescription himself, and to + break through his own rules for the second time by attending to a case of + illness—purely as an act of atonement. + </p> + <p> + The patient lived in a house nearly opposite to the British Museum. In + this northward direction he now set his face. + </p> + <p> + He made his apologies, and gave his advice—and, getting out again + into the street, tried once more to shape his course for the College of + Surgeons. Passing the walled garden of the British Museum, he looked + towards it—and paused. What had stopped him, this time? Nothing but + a tree, fluttering its bright leaves in the faint summer air. + </p> + <p> + A marked change showed itself in his face. + </p> + <p> + The moment before he had been passing in review the curious little + interruptions which had attended his walk, and had wondered humorously + what would happen next. Two women, meeting him, and seeing a smile on his + lips, had said to each other, “There goes a happy man.” If they had + encountered him now, they might have reversed their opinion. They would + have seen a man thinking of something once dear to him, in the far and + unforgotten past. + </p> + <p> + He crossed over the road to the side-street which faced the garden. His + head drooped; he moved mechanically. Arrived in the street, he lifted his + eyes, and stood (within nearer view of it) looking at the tree. + </p> + <p> + Hundreds of miles away from London, under another tree of that gentle + family, this man—so cold to women in after life—had made + child-love, in the days of his boyhood, to a sweet little cousin long + since numbered with the dead. The present time, with its interests and + anxieties, passed away like the passing of a dream. Little by little, as + the minutes followed each other, his sore heart felt a calming influence, + breathed mysteriously from the fluttering leaves. Still forgetful of the + outward world, he wandered slowly up the street; living in the old scenes; + thinking, not unhappily now, the old thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Where, in all London, could he have found a solitude more congenial to a + dreamer in daylight? + </p> + <p> + The broad district, stretching northward and eastward from the British + Museum, is like the quiet quarter of a country town set in the midst of + the roaring activities of the largest city in the world. Here, you can + cross the road, without putting limb or life in peril. Here, when you are + idle, you can saunter and look about, safe from collision with merciless + straight-walkers whose time is money, and whose destiny is business. Here, + you may meet undisturbed cats on the pavement, in the full glare of + noontide, and may watch, through the railings of the squares, children at + play on grass that almost glows with the lustre of the Sussex Downs. This + haven of rest is alike out of the way of fashion and business; and is yet + within easy reach of the one and the other. Ovid paused in a vast and + silent square. If his little cousin had lived, he might perhaps have seen + his children at play in some such secluded place as this. + </p> + <p> + The birds were singing blithely in the trees. A tradesman’s boy, + delivering fish to the cook, and two girls watering flowers at a window, + were the only living creatures near him, as he roused himself and looked + around. + </p> + <p> + Where was the College? Where were the Curator and the Specimen? Those + questions brought with them no feeling of anxiety or surprise. He turned, + in a half-awakened way, without a wish or a purpose—turned, and + listlessly looked back. + </p> + <p> + Two foot-passengers, dressed in mourning garments, were rapidly + approaching him. One of them, as they came nearer, proved to be an aged + woman. The other was a girl. + </p> + <p> + He drew aside to let them pass. They looked at him with the lukewarm + curiosity of strangers, as they went by. The girl’s eyes and his met. Only + the glance of an instant—and its influence held him for life. + </p> + <p> + She went swiftly on, as little impressed by the chance meeting as the old + woman at her side. Without stopping to think—without being capable + of thought—Ovid followed them. Never before had he done what he was + doing now; he was, literally, out of himself. He saw them ahead of him, + and he saw nothing else. + </p> + <p> + Towards the middle of the square, they turned aside into a street on the + left. A concert-hall was in the street—with doors open for an + afternoon performance. They entered the hall. Still out of himself, Ovid + followed them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <p> + A room of magnificent size; furnished with every conventional luxury that + money can buy; lavishly provided with newspapers and books of reference; + lighted by tall windows in the day-time, and by gorgeous chandeliers at + night, may be nevertheless one of the dreariest places of rest and shelter + that can be found on the civilised earth. Such places exist, by hundreds, + in those hotels of monstrous proportions and pretensions, which now engulf + the traveller who ends his journey on the pier or the platform. It may be + that we feel ourselves to be strangers among strangers—it may be + that there is something innately repellent in splendid carpets and + curtains, chairs and tables, which have no social associations to + recommend them—it may be that the mind loses its elasticity under + the inevitable restraint on friendly communication, which expresses itself + in lowered tones and instinctive distrust of our next neighbour; but this + alone is certain: life, in the public drawing-room of a great hotel, is + life with all its healthiest emanations perishing in an exhausted + receiver. + </p> + <p> + On the same day, and nearly at the same hour, when Ovid had left his + house, two women sat in a corner of the public room, in one of the largest + of the railway hotels latterly built in London. + </p> + <p> + Without observing it themselves, they were objects of curiosity to their + fellow-travellers. They spoke to each other in a foreign language. They + were dressed in deep mourning—with an absence of fashion and a + simplicity of material which attracted the notice of every other woman in + the room. One of them wore a black veil over her gray hair. Her hands were + brown, and knotty at the joints; her eyes looked unnaturally bright for + her age; innumerable wrinkles crossed and re-crossed her skinny face; and + her aquiline nose (as one of the ladies present took occasion to remark) + was so disastrously like the nose of the great Duke of Wellington as to be + an offensive feature in the face of a woman. + </p> + <p> + The lady’s companion, being a man, took a more merciful view. “She can’t + help being ugly,” he whispered. “But see how she looks at the girl with + her. A good old creature, I say, if ever there was one yet.” The lady eyed + him, as only a jealous woman can eye her husband, and whispered back, “Of + course you’re in love with that slip of a girl!” + </p> + <p> + She <i>was</i> a slip of a girl—and not even a tall slip. At + seventeen years of age, it was doubtful whether she would ever grow to a + better height. + </p> + <p> + But a girl who is too thin, and not even so tall as the Venus de’ Medici, + may still be possessed of personal attractions. It was not altogether a + matter of certainty, in this case, that the attractions were sufficiently + remarkable to excite general admiration. The fine colour and the plump + healthy cheeks, the broad smile, and the regular teeth, the well-developed + mouth, and the promising bosom which form altogether the average type of + beauty found in the purely bred English maiden, were not among the + noticeable charms of the small creature in gloomy black, shrinking into a + corner of the big room. She had very little colour of any sort to boast + of. Her hair was of so light a brown that it just escaped being flaxen; + but it had the negative merit of not being forced down to her eyebrows, + and twisted into the hideous curly-wig which exhibits a liberal equality + of ugliness on the heads of women in the present day. There was a delicacy + of finish in her features—in the nose and the lips especially—a + sensitive changefulness in the expression of her eyes (too dark in + themselves to be quite in harmony with her light hair), and a subtle yet + simple witchery in her rare smile, which atoned, in some degree at least, + for want of complexion in the face and of flesh in the figure. Men might + dispute her claims to beauty—but no one could deny that she was, in + the common phrase, an interesting person. Grace and refinement; a + quickness of apprehension and a vivacity of movement, suggestive of some + foreign origin; a childish readiness of wonder, in the presence of new + objects—and perhaps, under happier circumstances, a childish + playfulness with persons whom she loved—were all characteristic + attractions of the modest stranger who was in the charge of the ugly old + woman, and who was palpably the object of that wrinkled duenna’s devoted + love. + </p> + <p> + A travelling writing-case stood open on a table near them. In an interval + of silence the girl looked at it reluctantly. They had been talking of + family affairs—and had spoken in Italian, so as to keep their + domestic secrets from the ears of the strangers about them. The old woman + was the first to resume the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “My Carmina, you really ought to write that letter,” she said; “the + illustrious Mrs. Gallilee is waiting to hear of our arrival in London.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina took up the pen, and put it down again with a sigh. “We only + arrived last night,” she pleaded. “Dear old Teresa, let us have one day in + London by ourselves!” + </p> + <p> + Teresa received this proposal with undisguised amazement and alarm, + </p> + <p> + “Jesu Maria! a day in London—and your aunt waiting for you all the + time! She is your second mother, my dear, by appointment; and her house is + your new home. And you propose to stop a whole day at an hotel, instead of + going home. Impossible! Write, my Carmina—write. See, here is the + address on a card:—‘Fairfield Gardens.’ What a pretty place it must + be to live in, with such a name as that! And a sweet lady, no doubt. Come! + Come!” + </p> + <p> + But Carmina still resisted. “I have never even seen my aunt,” she said. + “It is dreadful to pass my life with a stranger. Remember, I was only a + child when you came to us after my mother’s death. It is hardly six months + yet since I lost my father. I have no one but you, and, when I go to this + new home, you will leave me. I only ask for one more day to be together, + before we part.” + </p> + <p> + The poor old duenna drew back out of sight, in the shadow of a curtain—and + began to cry. Carmina took her hand, under cover of a tablecloth; Carmina + knew how to console her. “We will go and see sights,” she whispered “and, + when dinner-time comes, you shall have a glass of the Porto-porto-wine.” + </p> + <p> + Teresa looked round out of the shadow, as easily comforted as a child. + “Sights!” she exclaimed—and dried her tears. “Porto-porto-wine!” she + repeated—and smacked her withered lips at the relishing words. “Ah, + my child, you have not forgotten the consolations I told you of, when I + lived in London in my young days. To think of you, with an English father, + and never in London till now! I used to go to museums and concerts + sometimes, when my English mistress was pleased with me. That gracious + lady often gave me a glass of the fine strong purple wine. The Holy Virgin + grant that Aunt Gallilee may be as kind a woman! Such a head of hair as + the other one she cannot hope to have. It was a joy to dress it. Do you + think I wouldn’t stay here in England with you if I could? What is to + become of my old man in Italy, with his cursed asthma, and nobody to nurse + him? Oh, but those were dull years in London! The black endless streets—the + dreadful Sundays—the hundreds of thousands of people, always in a + hurry; always with grim faces set on business, business, business! I was + glad to go back and be married in Italy. And here I am in London again, + after God knows how many years. No matter. We will enjoy ourselves to-day; + and when we go to Madam Gallilee’s to-morrow, we will tell a little lie, + and say we only arrived on the evening that has not yet come.” + </p> + <p> + The duenna’s sense of humour was so tickled by this prospective view of + the little lie, that she leaned back in her chair and laughed. Carmina’s + rare smile showed itself faintly. The terrible first interview with the + unknown aunt still oppressed her. She took up a newspaper in despair. “Oh, + my old dear!” she said, “let us get out of this dreadful room, and be + reminded of Italy!” Teresa lifted her ugly hands in bewilderment. + “Reminded of Italy—in London?” + </p> + <p> + “Is there no Italian music in London?” Carmina asked suggestively. + </p> + <p> + The duenna’s bright eyes answered this in their own language. She snatched + up the nearest newspaper. + </p> + <p> + It was then the height of the London concert season. Morning performances + of music were announced in rows. Reading the advertised programmes, + Carmina found them, in one remarkable respect, all alike. They would have + led an ignorant stranger to wonder whether any such persons as Italian + composers, French composers, and English composers had ever existed. The + music offered to the English public was music of exclusively German (and + for the most part modern German) origin. Carmina held the opinion—in + common with Mozart and Rossini, as well as other people—that music + without melody is not music at all. She laid aside the newspaper. + </p> + <p> + The plan of going to a concert being thus abandoned, the idea occurred to + them of seeing pictures. Teresa, in search of information, tried her luck + at a great table in the middle of the room, on which useful books were + liberally displayed. She returned with a catalogue of the Royal Academy + Exhibition (which someone had left on the table), and with the most + universally well-informed book, on a small scale, that has ever + enlightened humanity—modestly described on the title-page as an + Almanac. + </p> + <p> + Carmina opened the catalogue at the first page, and discovered a list of + Royal Academicians. Were all these gentlemen celebrated painters? Out of + nearly forty names, three only had made themselves generally known beyond + the limits of England. She turned to the last page. The works of art on + show numbered more than fifteen hundred. Teresa, looking over her + shoulder, made the same discovery. “Our heads will ache, and our feet will + ache,” she remarked, “before we get out of that place.” Carmina laid aside + the catalogue. + </p> + <p> + Teresa opened the Almanac at hazard, and hit on the page devoted to + Amusements. Her next discovery led her to the section inscribed “Museums.” + She scored an approving mark at that place with her thumbnail—and + read the list in fluent broken English. + </p> + <p> + The British Museum? Teresa’s memory of that magnificent building recalled + it vividly in one respect. She shook her head. “More headache and + footache, there!” Bethnal Green; Indian Museum; College of Surgeons; + Practical Geology; South Kensington; Patent Museum—all unknown to + Teresa. “The saints preserve us! what headaches and footaches in all + these, if they are as big as that other one!” She went on with the list—and + astonished everybody in the room by suddenly clapping her hands. Sir John + Soane’s Museum, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. “Ah, but I remember that! A nice + little easy museum in a private house, and all sorts of pretty things to + see. My dear love, trust your old Teresa. Come to Soane!” + </p> + <p> + In ten minutes more they were dressed, and on the steps of the hotel. The + bright sunlight, the pleasant air, invited them to walk. On the same + afternoon, when Ovid had set forth on foot for Lincoln’s Inn Fields, + Carmina and Teresa set forth on foot for Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Trivial + obstacles had kept the man away from the College. Would trivial obstacles + keep the women away from the Museum? + </p> + <p> + They crossed the Strand, and entered a street which led out of it towards + the North; Teresa’s pride in her memory forbidding her thus far to ask + their way. + </p> + <p> + Their talk—dwelling at first on Italy, and on the memory of + Carmina’s Italian mother—reverted to the formidable subject of Mrs. + Gallilee. Teresa’s hopeful view of the future turned to the cousins, and + drew the picture of two charming little girls, eagerly waiting to give + their innocent hearts to their young relative from Italy. “Are there only + two?” she said. “Surely you told me there was a boy, besides the girls?” + Carmina set her right. “My cousin Ovid is a great doctor,” she continued + with an air of importance. “Poor papa used to say that our family would + have reason to be proud of him.” “Does he live at home?” asked simple + Teresa. “Oh, dear, no! He has a grand house of his own. Hundreds of sick + people go there to be cured, and give hundreds of golden guineas.” + Hundreds of golden guineas gained by only curing sick people, represented + to Teresa’s mind something in the nature of a miracle: she solemnly raised + her eyes to heaven. “What a cousin to have! Is he young? is he handsome? + is he married?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering these questions, Carmina looked over her shoulder. + “Is this poor creature following us?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + They had now turned to the right, and had entered a busy street leading + directly to Covent Garden. The “creature” (who was undoubtedly following + them) was one of the starved and vagabond dogs of London. Every now and + then, the sympathies of their race lead these inveterate wanderers to + attach themselves, for the time, to some human companion, whom their + mysterious insight chooses from the crowd. Teresa, with the hard feeling + towards animals which is one of the serious defects of the Italian + character, cried, “Ah, the mangy beast!” and lifted her umbrella. The dog + starred back, waited a moment, and followed them again as they went on. + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s gentle heart gave its pity to this lost and hungry + fellow-creature. “I must buy that poor dog something to eat,” she said—and + stopped suddenly as the idea struck her. + </p> + <p> + The dog, accustomed to kicks and curses, was ignorant of kindness. + Following close behind her, when she checked herself, he darted away in + terror into the road. A cab was driven by rapidly at the same moment. The + wheel passed over the dog’s neck. And there was an end, as a man remarked + looking on, of the troubles of a cur. + </p> + <p> + This common accident struck the girl’s sensitive nature with horror. + Helpless and speechless, she trembled piteously. The nearest open door was + the door of a music-seller’s shop. Teresa led her in, and asked for a + chair and a glass of water. The proprietor, feeling the interest in + Carmina which she seldom failed to inspire among strangers, went the + length of offering her a glass of wine. Preferring water, she soon + recovered herself sufficiently to be able to leave her chair. + </p> + <p> + “May I change my mind about going to the museum?” she said to her + companion. “After what has happened, I hardly feel equal to looking at + curiosities.” + </p> + <p> + Teresa’s ready sympathy tried to find some acceptable alternative. “Music + would be better, wouldn’t it?” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + The so-called Italian Opera was open that night, and the printed + announcement of the performance was in the shop. They both looked at it. + Fortune was still against them. A German opera appeared on the bill. + Carmina turned to the music-seller in despair. “Is there no music, sir, + but German music to be heard in London?” she asked. The hospitable + shopkeeper produced a concert programmed for that afternoon—the + modest enterprise of an obscure piano-forte teacher, who could only + venture to address pupils, patrons, and friends. What did he promise? + Among other things, music from “Lucia,” music from “Norma,” music from + “Ernani.” Teresa made another approving mark with her thumb-nail; and + Carmina purchased tickets. + </p> + <p> + The music-seller hurried to the door to stop the first empty cab that + might pass. Carmina showed a deplorable ignorance of the law of chances. + She shrank from the bare idea of getting into a cab. “We may run over some + other poor creature,” she said. “If it isn’t a dog, it may be a child next + time.” Teresa and the music-seller suggested a more reasonable view as + gravely as they could. Carmina humbly submitted to the claims of common + sense—without yielding, for all that. “I know I’m wrong,” she + confessed. “Don’t spoil my pleasure; I can’t do it!” + </p> + <p> + The strange parallel was now complete. Bound for the same destination, + Carmina and Ovid had failed to reach it alike. And Carmina had stopped to + look at the garden of the British Museum, before she overtook Ovid in the + quiet square. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <p> + If, on entering the hall, Ovid had noticed the placards, he would have + found himself confronted by a coincidence. The person who gave the concert + was also the person who taught music to his half-sisters. Not many days + since, he had himself assisted the enterprise, by taking a ticket at his + mother’s request. Seeing nothing, remembering nothing—hurried by the + fear of losing sight of the two strangers if there was a large audience—he + impatiently paid for another ticket, at the doors. + </p> + <p> + The room was little more than half full, and so insufficiently ventilated + that the atmosphere was oppressive even under those circumstances. He + easily discovered the two central chairs, in the midway row of seats, + which she and her companion had chosen. There was a vacant chair (among + many others) at one extremity of the row in front of them. He took that + place. To look at her, without being discovered—there, so far, was + the beginning and the end of his utmost desire. + </p> + <p> + The performances had already begun. So long as her attention was directed + to the singers and players on the platform, he could feast his eyes on her + with impunity. In an unoccupied interval, she looked at the audience—and + discovered him. + </p> + <p> + Had he offended her? + </p> + <p> + If appearances were to be trusted, he had produced no impression of any + sort. She quietly looked away, towards the other side of the room. The + mere turning of her head was misinterpreted by Ovid as an implied rebuke. + He moved to the row of seats behind her. She was now nearer to him than + she had been yet. He was again content, and more than content. The next + performance was a solo on the piano. A round of applause welcomed the + player. Ovid looked at the platform for the first time. In the bowing man, + with a prematurely bald head and a servile smile, he recognized Mrs. + Gallilee’s music-master. The inevitable inference followed. His mother + might be in the room. + </p> + <p> + After careful examination of the scanty audience, he failed to discover + her—thus far. She would certainly arrive, nevertheless. My money’s + worth for my money was a leading principle in Mrs. Gallilee’s life. + </p> + <p> + He sighed as he looked towards the door of entrance. Not for long had he + revelled in the luxury of a new happiness. He had openly avowed his + dislike of concerts, when his mother had made him take a ticket for this + concert. With her quickness of apprehension what might she not suspect, if + she found him among the audience? + </p> + <p> + Come what might of it, he still kept his place; he still feasted his eyes + on the slim figure of the young girl, on the gentle yet spirited carriage + of her head. But the pleasure was no longer pleasure without alloy. His + mother had got between them now. + </p> + <p> + The solo on the piano came to an end. + </p> + <p> + In the interval that followed, he turned once more towards the entrance. + Just as he was looking away again, he heard Mrs. Gallilee’s loud voice. + She was administering a maternal caution to one of the children. “Behave + better here than you behaved in the carriage, or I shall take you away.” + </p> + <p> + If she found him in his present place—if she put her own clever + construction on what she saw—her opinion would assuredly express + itself in some way. She was one of those women who can insult another + woman (and safely disguise it) by an inquiring look. For the girl’s sake, + Ovid instantly moved away from her to the seats at the back of the hall. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee made a striking entrance—dressed to perfection; + powdered and painted to perfection; leading her daughters, and followed by + her governess. The usher courteously indicated places near the platform. + Mrs. Galilee astonished him by a little lecture on acoustics, delivered + with the sweetest condescension. Her Christian humility smiled, and call + the usher, Sir. “Sound, sir, is most perfectly heard towards the centre of + the auditorium.” She led the way towards the centre. Vacant places invited + her to the row of seats occupied by Carmina and Teresa. She, the unknown + aunt, seated herself next to the unknown niece. + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, it was the heat of the room. Perhaps, she had not perfectly + recovered the nervous shock of seeing the dog killed. Carmina’s head sank + on good Teresa’s shoulder. She had fainted. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + “May I ask for a cup of tea, Miss Minerva?” + </h3> + <p> + “Delighted, I’m sure, Mr. Le Frank.” + </p> + <p> + “And was Mrs. Gallilee pleased with the Concert?” + </p> + <p> + “Charmed.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank shook his head. “I am afraid there was a drawback,” he + suggested. “You forget the lady who fainted. So alarming to the audience. + So disagreeable to the artists.” + </p> + <p> + “Take care, Mr. Le Frank! These new houses are flimsily built; they might + hear you upstairs. The fainting lady is upstairs. All the elements of a + romance are upstairs. Is your tea to your liking?” + </p> + <p> + In this playfully provocative manner, Miss Minerva (the governess) trifled + with the curiosity of Mr. Le Frank (the music-master), as the proverbial + cat trifles with the terror of the captive mouse. The man of the bald head + and the servile smile showed a polite interest in the coming disclosure; + he opened his deeply-sunk eyes, and lazily lifted his delicate eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + He had called at Mrs. Gallilee’s house, after the concert, to get a little + tea (with a large infusion of praise) in the schoolroom. A striking + personal contrast confronted him, in the face of the lady who was + dispensing the hospitalities of the table. Mr. Le Frank’s plump cheeks + were, in colour, of the obtrusively florid sort. The relics of yellow + hair, still adhering to the sides of his head, looked as silkily frail as + spun glass. His noble beard made amends for his untimely baldness. The + glossy glory of it exhaled delicious perfumes; the keenest eyes might have + tried in vain to discover a hair that was out of place. Miss Minerva’s + eager sallow face, so lean, and so hard, and so long, looked, by contrast, + as if it wanted some sort of discreet covering thrown over some part of + it. Her coarse black hair projected like a penthouse over her bushy black + eyebrows and her keen black eyes. Oh, dear me (as they said in the + servants’ hall), she would never be married—so yellow and so + learned, so ugly and so poor! And yet, if mystery is interesting, this was + an interesting woman. The people about her felt an uneasy perception of + something secret, ominously secret, in the nature of the governess which + defied detection. If Inquisitive Science, vowed to medical research, could + dissect firmness of will, working at its steadiest repressive action—then, + the mystery of Miss Minerva’s inner nature might possibly have been + revealed. As it was, nothing more remarkable exposed itself to view than + an irritable temper; serving perhaps as safety-valve to an underlying + explosive force, which (with strong enough temptation and sufficient + opportunity) might yet break out. + </p> + <p> + “Gently, Mr. Le Frank! The tea is hot—you may burn your mouth. How + am I to tell you what has happened?” Miss Minerva dropped the playfully + provocative tone, with infinite tact, exactly at the right moment. “Just + imagine,” she resumed, “a scene on the stage, occurring in private life. + The lady who fainted at your concert, turns out to be no less a person + that Mrs. Gallilee’s niece!” + </p> + <p> + The general folly which reads a prospectus and blindly speculates in + shares, is matched by the equally diffused stupidity, which is incapable + of discovering that there can be any possible relation between fiction and + truth. Say it’s in a novel—and you are a fool if you believe it. Say + it’s in a newspaper—and you are a fool if you doubt it. Mr. Le + Frank, following the general example, followed it on this occasion a + little too unreservedly. He avowed his doubts of the circumstance just + related, although it was, on the authority of a lady, a circumstance + occurring in real life! Far from being offended, Miss Minerva cordially + sympathized with him. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> too theatrical to be believed,” she admitted; “but this + fainting young person is positively the interesting stranger we have been + expecting from Italy. You know Mrs. Gallilee. Hers was the first + smelling-bottle produced; hers was the presence of mind which suggested a + horizontal position. ‘Help the heart,’ she said; ‘don’t impede it.’ The + whole theory of fainting fits, in six words! In another moment,” proceeded + the governess making a theatrical point without suspecting it—“in + another moment, Mrs. Gallilee herself stood in need of the + smelling-bottle.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank was not a true believer, even yet. “You don’t mean <i>she</i> + fainted!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva held up the indicative forefinger, with which she emphasized + instruction when her pupils required rousing. “Mrs. Gallilee’s strength of + mind—as I was about to say, if you had listened to me—resisted + the shock. What the effort must have cost her you will presently + understand. Our interesting young lady was accompanied by a hideous old + foreign woman who completely lost her head. She smacked her hands + distractedly; she called on the saints (without producing the slightest + effect)—but she mixed up a name, remarkable even in Italy, with the + rest of the delirium; and <i>that</i> was serious. Put yourself in Mrs. + Gallilee’s place—” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t do it,” said Mr. Le Frank, with humility. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva passed over this reply without notice. Perhaps she was not a + believer in the humility of musicians. + </p> + <p> + “The young lady’s Christian name,” she proceeded, “is Carmina; (put the + accent, if you please, on the <i>first</i> syllable). The moment Mrs. + Gallilee heard the name, it struck her like a blow. She enlightened the + old woman, and asserted herself as Miss Carmina’s aunt in an instant. ‘I + am Mrs. Gallilee:’ that was all she said. The result”—Miss Minerva + paused, and pointed to the ceiling; “the result is up there. Our charming + guest was on the sofa, and the hideous old nurse was fanning her, when I + had the honour of seeing them just now. No, Mr. Le Frank! I haven’t done + yet. There is a last act in this drama of private life still to relate. A + medical gentleman was present at the concert, who offered his services in + reviving Miss Carmina. The same gentleman is now in attendance on the + interesting patient. Can you guess who he is?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank had sold a ticket for his concert to the medical adviser of + the family—one Mr. Null. A cautious guess in this direction seemed + to offer the likeliest chance of success. + </p> + <p> + “He is a patron of music,” the pianist began. + </p> + <p> + “He hates music,” the governess interposed. + </p> + <p> + “I mean Mr. Null,” Mr. Le Frank persisted. + </p> + <p> + <i>“I</i> mean—” Miss Minerva paused (like the cat with the mouse + again!)—<i>“I</i> mean, Mr. Ovid Vere.” + </p> + <p> + What form the music-master’s astonishment might have assumed may be matter + for speculation, it was never destined to become matter of fact. At the + moment when Miss Minerva overwhelmed him with the climax of her story, a + little, rosy, elderly gentleman, with a round face, a sweet smile, and a + curly gray head, walked into the room, accompanied by two girls. Persons + of small importance—only Mr. Gallilee and his daughters. + </p> + <p> + “How d’ye-do, Mr. Le Frank. I hope you got plenty of money by the concert. + I gave away my own two tickets. You will excuse me, I’m sure. Music, I + can’t think why, always sends me to sleep. Here are your two pupils, Miss + Minerva, safe and sound. It struck me we were rather in the way, when that + sweet young creature was brought home. Sadly in want of quiet, poor thing—not + in want of <i>us.</i> Mrs. Gallilee and Ovid, so clever and attentive, + were just the right people in the right place. So I put on my hat—I’m + always available, Mr. Le Frank; I have the great advantage of never having + anything to do—and I said to the girls, ‘Let’s have a walk.’ We had + no particular place to go to—that’s another advantage of mine—so + we drifted about. I didn’t mean it, but, somehow or other, we stopped at a + pastry-cook’s shop. What was the name of the pastry-cook?” + </p> + <p> + So far Mr. Gallilee proceeded, speaking in the oddest self-contradictory + voice, if such a description is permissible—a voice at once high in + pitch and mild in tone: in short, as Mr. Le Frank once professionally + remarked, a soft falsetto. When the good gentleman paused to make his + little effort of memory, his eldest daughter—aged twelve, and always + ready to distinguish herself—saw her opportunity, and took the rest + of the narrative into her own hands. + </p> + <p> + Miss Maria, named after her mother, was one of the successful new products + of the age we live in—the conventionally-charming child (who has + never been smacked); possessed of the large round eyes that we see in + pictures, and the sweet manners and perfect principles that we read of in + books. She called everybody “dear;” she knew to a nicety how much oxygen + she wanted in the composition of her native air; and—alas, poor + wretch!—she had never wetted her shoes or dirtied her face since the + day when she was born. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Miss Minerva,” said Maria, “the pastry-cook’s name was Timbal. We + have had ices.” + </p> + <p> + His mind being now set at rest on the subject of the pastry-cook, Mr. + Gallilee turned to his youngest daughter—aged ten, and one of the + unsuccessful products of the age we live in. This was a curiously slow, + quaint, self-contained child; the image of her father, with an occasional + reflection of his smile; incurably stupid, or incurably perverse—the + friends of the family were not quite sure which. Whether she might have + been over-crammed with useless knowledge, was not a question in connection + with the subject which occurred to anybody. + </p> + <p> + “Rouse yourself, Zo,” said Mr. Gallilee. “What did we have besides ices?” + </p> + <p> + Zoe (known to her father, by vulgar abbreviation, as “Zo”) took Mr. + Gallilee’s stumpy red hand, and held hard by it as if that was the one way + in which a dull child could rouse herself, with a prospect of success. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had so many of them,” she said; “I don’t know. Ask Maria.” + </p> + <p> + Maria responded with the sweetest readiness. “Dear Zoe, you are so slow! + Cheesecakes.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee patted Zoe’s head as encouragingly as if she had discovered + the right answer by herself. “That’s right—ices and cheese-cakes,” + he said. “We tried cream-ice, and then we tried water-ice. The children, + Miss Minerva, preferred the cream-ice. And, do you know, I’m of their + opinion. There’s something in a cream-ice—what do you think yourself + of cream-ices, Mr. Le Frank?” + </p> + <p> + It was one among the many weaknesses of Mr. Gallilee’s character to be + incapable of opening his lips without, sooner or later, taking somebody + into his confidence. In the merest trifles, he instinctively invited + sympathy and agreement from any person within his reach—from a total + stranger quite as readily as from an intimate friend. Mr. Le Frank, + representing the present Court of Social Appeal, attempted to deliver + judgment on the question of ices, and was interrupted without ceremony by + Miss Minerva. She, too, had been waiting her opportunity to speak, and she + now took it—not amiably. + </p> + <p> + “With all possible respect, Mr. Gallilee, I venture to entreat that you + will be a little more thoughtful, where the children are concerned. I beg + your pardon, Mr. Le Frank, for interrupting you—but it is really a + little too hard on Me. I am held responsible for the health of these + girls; I am blamed over and over again, when it is not my fault, for + irregularities in their diet—and there they are, at this moment, + chilled with ices and cloyed with cakes! What will Mrs. Gallilee say?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell her,” Mr. Gallilee suggested. + </p> + <p> + “The girls will be thirsty for the rest of the evening,” Miss Minerva + persisted; “the girls will have no appetite for the last meal before + bedtime. And their mother will ask Me what it means.” + </p> + <p> + “My good creature,” cried Mr. Gallilee, “don’t be afraid of the girls’ + appetites! Take off their hats, and give them something nice for supper. + They inherit my stomach, Miss Minerva—and they’ll ‘tuck in,’ as we + used to say at school. Did they say so in your time, Mr. Le Frank?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s governess and vulgar expressions were anomalies never to + be reconciled, under any circumstances. Miss Minerva took off the hats in + stern silence. Even “Papa” might have seen the contempt in her face, if + she had not managed to hide it in this way, by means of the girls. + </p> + <p> + In the silence that ensued, Mr. Le Frank had his chance of speaking, and + showed himself to be a gentleman with a happily balanced character—a + musician, with an eye to business. Using gratitude to Mr. Gallilee as a + means of persuasion, he gently pushed the interests of a friend who was + giving a concert next week. “We poor artists have our faults, my dear sir; + but we are all earnest in helping each other. My friend sang for nothing + at my concert. Don’t suppose for a moment that he expects it of me! But I + am going to play for nothing at his concert. May I appeal to your kind + patronage to take two tickets?” The reply ended appropriately in musical + sound—a golden tinkling, in Mr. Le Frank’s pocket. + </p> + <p> + Having paid his tribute to art and artists, Mr. Gallilee looked furtively + at Miss Minerva. On the wise principle of letting well alone, he perceived + that the happy time had arrived for leaving the room. How was he to make + his exit? He prided himself on his readiness of resource, in difficulties + of this sort, and he was equal to the occasion as usual—he said he + would go to his club. + </p> + <p> + “We really have a capital smoking-room at that club,” he said. “I do like + a good cigar; and—what do <i>you</i> think Mr. Le Frank?—isn’t + a pint of champagne nice drinking, this hot weather? Just cooled with ice—I + don’t know whether you feel the weather, Miss Minerva, as I do?—and + poured, fizzing, into a silver mug. Lord, how delicious! Good-bye, girls. + Give me a kiss before I go.” + </p> + <p> + Maria led the way, as became the elder. She not only gave the kiss, but + threw an appropriate sentiment into the bargain. “I do love you, dear + papa!” said this perfect daughter—with a look in Miss Minerva’s + direction, which might have been a malicious look in any eyes but Maria’s. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee turned to his youngest child. “Well, Zo—what do <i>you</i> + say?” + </p> + <p> + Zo took her father’s hand once more, and rubbed her head against it like a + cat. This new method of expressing filial affection seemed to interest Mr. + Gallilee. “Does your head itch, my dear?” he asked. The idea was new to + Zo. She brightened, and looked at her father with a sly smile. “Why do you + do it?” Miss Minerva asked sharply. Zo clouded over again, and answered, + “I don’t know.” Mr. Gallilee rewarded her with a kiss, and went away to + champagne and the club. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank left the schoolroom next. He paid the governess the + compliment of reverting to her narrative of events at the concert. + </p> + <p> + “I am greatly struck,” he said, “by what you told me about Mr. Ovid Vere. + We may, perhaps, have misjudged him in thinking that he doesn’t like + music. His coming to my concert suggests a more cheering view. Do you + think there would be any impropriety in my calling to thank him? Perhaps + it would be better if I wrote, and enclosed two tickets for my friend’s + concert? To tell you the truth, I’ve pledged myself to dispose of a + certain number of tickets. My friend is so much in request—it’s + expecting too much to ask him to sing for nothing. I think I’ll write. + Good-evening!” + </p> + <p> + Left alone with her pupils, Miss Minerva looked at her watch. “Prepare + your lessons for to-morrow,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The girls produced their books. Maria’s library of knowledge was in + perfect order. The pages over which Zo pondered in endless perplexity were + crumpled by weary fingers, and stained by frequent tears. Oh, fatal + knowledge! mercifully forbidden to the first two of our race, who shall + count the crimes and stupidities committed in your name? + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva leaned back in her easy-chair. Her mind was occupied by the + mysterious question of Ovid’s presence at the concert. She raised her + keenly penetrating eyes to the ceiling, and listened for sounds from + above. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” she thought to herself, “what they are doing upstairs?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee was as complete a mistress of the practice of domestic + virtue as of the theory of acoustics and fainting fits. At dressing with + taste, and ordering dinners with invention; at heading her table + gracefully, and making her guests comfortable; at managing refractory + servants and detecting dishonest tradespeople, she was the equal of the + least intellectual woman that ever lived. Her preparations for the + reception of her niece were finished in advance, without an oversight in + the smallest detail. Carmina’s inviting bedroom, in blue, opened into + Carmina’s irresistible sitting-room, in brown. The ventilation was + arranged, the light and shade were disposed, the flowers were attractively + placed, under Mrs. Gallilee’s infallible superintendence. Before Carmina + had recovered her senses she was provided with a second mother, who played + the part to perfection. + </p> + <p> + The four persons, now assembled in the pretty sitting-room upstairs, were + in a position of insupportable embarrassment towards each other. + </p> + <p> + Finding her son at a concert (after he had told her that he hated music) + Mrs. Gallilee, had first discovered him hurrying to the assistance of a + young lady in a swoon, with all the anxiety and alarm which he might have + shown in the case of a near and dear friend. And yet, when this stranger + was revealed as a relation, he had displayed an amazement equal to her + own! What explanation could reconcile such contradictions as these? + </p> + <p> + As for Carmina, her conduct complicated the mystery. + </p> + <p> + What was she doing at a concert, when she ought to have been on her way to + her aunt’s house? Why, if she must faint when the hot room had not + overpowered anyone else, had she failed to recover in the usual way? There + she lay on the sofa, alternately flushing and turning pale when she was + spoken to; ill at ease in the most comfortable house in London; timid and + confused under the care of her best friends. Making all allowance for a + sensitive temperament, could a long journey from Italy, and a childish + fright at seeing a dog run over, account for such a state of things as + this? + </p> + <p> + Annoyed and perplexed—but yet far too prudent to commit herself + ignorantly to inquiries which might lead to future embarrassment—Mrs. + Gallilee tried suggestive small talk as a means of enlightenment. The + wrinkled duenna, sitting miserably on satin supported by frail gilt legs, + seemed to take her tone of feeling from her young mistress, exactly as she + took her orders. Mrs. Gallilee spoke to her in English, and spoke to her + in Italian—and could make nothing of the experiment in either case. + The wild old creature seemed to be afraid to look at her. + </p> + <p> + Ovid himself proved to be just as difficult to fathom, in another way + </p> + <p> + He certainly answered when his mother spoke to him, but always briefly, + and in the same absent tone. He asked no questions, and offered no + explanations. The sense of embarrassment, on his side, had produced + unaccountable changes. He showed the needful attention to Carmina, with a + silent gentleness which presented him in a new character. His customary + manner with ailing persons, women as well as men, was rather abrupt: his + quick perception hurried him into taking the words out of their mouths + (too pleasantly to give offence) when they were describing their symptoms. + There he sat now, contemplating his pale little cousin, with a patient + attention wonderful to see; listening to the commonplace words which + dropped at intervals from her lips, as if—in his state of health, + and with the doubtful prospect which it implied—there were no + serious interests to occupy his mind. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee could endure it no longer. + </p> + <p> + If she had not deliberately starved her imagination, and emptied her heart + of any tenderness of feeling which it might once have possessed, her son’s + odd behaviour would have interested instead of perplexing her. As it was, + her scientific education left her as completely in the dark, where + questions of sentiment were concerned, as if her experience of humanity, + in its relation to love, had been experience in the cannibal islands. She + decided on leaving her niece to repose, and on taking her son away with + her. + </p> + <p> + “In your present state of health, Ovid,” she began, “Carmina must not + accept your professional advice.” + </p> + <p> + Something in those words stung Ovid’s temper. + </p> + <p> + “My professional advice?” he repeated. “You talk as if she was seriously + ill!” + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s sweet smile stopped him there. + </p> + <p> + “We don’t know what may happen,” she said, playfully. + </p> + <p> + “God forbid <i>that</i> should happen!” He spoke so fervently that the + women all looked at him in surprise. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee turned to her niece, and proceeded quietly with what she had + to say. + </p> + <p> + “Ovid is so sadly overworked, my dear, that I actually rejoice in his + giving up practice, and going away from us to-morrow. We will leave you + for the present with your old friend. Pray ring, if you want anything.” + She kissed her hand to Carmina, and, beckoning to her son, advanced + towards the door. + </p> + <p> + Teresa looked at her, and suddenly looked away again. Mrs. Gallilee + stopped on her way out, at a chiffonier, and altered the arrangement of + some of the china on it. The duenna followed on tiptoe—folded her + thumb and two middle fingers into the palm of her hand—and, + stretching out the forefinger and the little finger, touched Mrs. Gallilee + on the back, so softly that she was unaware of it. “The Evil Eye,” Teresa + whispered to herself in Italian, as she stole back to her place. + </p> + <p> + Ovid lingered near his cousin: neither of them had seen what Teresa had + done. He rose reluctantly to go. Feeling his little attentions gratefully, + Carmina checked him with innocent familiarity as he left his chair. “I + must thank you,” she said, simply; “it seems hard indeed that you, who + cure others, should suffer from illness yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Teresa, watching them with interest, came a little nearer. + </p> + <p> + She could now examine Ovid’s face with close and jealous scrutiny. Mrs. + Gallilee reminded her son that she was waiting for him. He had some last + words yet to say. The duenna drew back from the sofa, still looking at + Ovid: she muttered to herself, “Holy Teresa, my patroness, show me that + man’s soul in his face!” At last, Ovid took his leave. “I shall call and + see how you are to-morrow,” he said, “before I go.” He nodded kindly to + Teresa. Instead of being satisfied with that act of courtesy, she wanted + something more. “May I shake hands?” she asked. Mrs. Gallilee was a + Liberal in politics; never had her principles been tried, as they were + tried when she heard those words. Teresa wrung Ovid’s hand with tremulous + energy—still intent on reading his character in his face. He asked + her, smiling, what she saw to interest her. “A good man, I hope,” she + answered, sternly. Carmina and Ovid were amused. Teresa rebuked them, as + if they had been children. “Laugh at some fitter time,” she said, “not + now.” + </p> + <p> + Descending the stairs, Mrs. Gallilee and Ovid met the footman. “Mr. Mool + is in the library, ma’am,” the man said. + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything to do, Ovid, for the next half-hour?” his mother asked. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish me to see Mr. Mool? If it’s law-business, I am afraid I shall + not be of much use.” + </p> + <p> + “The lawyer is here by appointment, with a copy of your late uncle’s + Will,” Mrs. Gallilee answered. “You may have some interest in it. I think + you ought to hear it read.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid showed no inclination to adopt this proposal. He asked an idle + question. “I heard of their finding the Will—are there any romantic + circumstances?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee surveyed her son with an expression of good-humoured + contempt. “What a boy you are, in some things! Have you been reading a + novel lately? My dear, when the people in Italy made up their minds, at + last, to have the furniture in your uncle’s room taken to pieces, they + found the Will. It had slipped behind a drawer, in a rotten old cabinet, + full of useless papers. Nothing romantic (thank God!), and nothing (as Mr. + Mool’s letter tells me) that can lead to misunderstandings or disputes.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid’s indifference was not to be conquered. He left it to his mother to + send him word if he had a legacy “I am not as much interested in it as you + are,” he explained. “Plenty of money left to you, of course?” He was + evidently thinking all the time of something else. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee stopped in the hall, with an air of downright alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Your mind is in a dreadful state,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Have you really forgotten what I told you, only yesterday? The Will + appoints me Carmina’s guardian.” + </p> + <p> + He had plainly forgotten it—he started, when his mother recalled the + circumstance. “Curious,” he said to himself, “that I was not reminded of + it, when I saw Carmina’s rooms prepared for her.” His mother, anxiously + looking at him, observed that his face brightened when he spoke of + Carmina. He suddenly changed his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Make allowances for an overworked man,” he said. “You are quite right. I + ought to hear the Will read—I am at your service.” + </p> + <p> + Even Mrs. Gallilee now drew the right inference at last. She made no + remark. Something seemed to move feebly under her powder and paint. Soft + emotion trying to find its way to the surface? Impossible! + </p> + <p> + As they entered the library together, Miss Minerva returned to the + schoolroom. She had lingered on the upper landing, and had heard the + conversation between mother and son. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <p> + The library at Fairfield Gardens possessed two special attractions, + besides the books. It opened into a large conservatory; and it was adorned + by an admirable portrait of Mrs. Gallilee, painted by her brother. + </p> + <p> + Waiting the appearance of the fair original, Mr. Mool looked at the + portrait, and then mentally reviewed the history of Mrs. Gallilee’s + family. What he did next, no person acquainted with the habits of lawyers + will be weak enough to believe. Mr. Mool blushed. + </p> + <p> + Is this the language of exaggeration, describing a human anomaly on the + roll of attorneys? The fact shall be left to answer the question. Mr. Mool + had made a mistake in his choice of a profession. The result of the + mistake was—a shy lawyer. + </p> + <p> + Attended by such circumstances as these, the history of the family + assumes, for the moment, a certain importance. It is connected with a + blushing attorney. It will explain what happened on the reading of the + Will. And it is sure beforehand of a favourable reception—for it is + all about money. + </p> + <p> + Old Robert Graywell began life as the son of a small farmer. He was + generally considered to be rather an eccentric man; but prospered, + nevertheless, as a merchant in the city of London. When he retired from + business, he possessed a house and estate in the country, and a handsome + fortune safely invested in the Funds. + </p> + <p> + His children were three in number:—his son Robert, and his daughters + Maria and Susan. + </p> + <p> + The death of his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, was the first + serious calamity of his life. He retired to his estate a soured and broken + man. Loving husbands are not always, as a necessary consequence, tender + fathers. Old Robert’s daughters afforded him no consolation on their + mother’s death. Their anxiety about their mourning dresses so disgusted + him that he kept out of their way. No extraordinary interest was connected + with their prospects in life: they would be married—and there would + be an end of them. As for the son, he had long since placed himself beyond + the narrow range of his father’s sympathies. In the first place, his + refusal to qualify himself for a mercantile career had made it necessary + to dispose of the business to strangers. In the second place, young Robert + Graywell proved—without any hereditary influence, and in the face of + the strongest discouragement—to be a born painter! One of the + greatest artists of that day saw the boy’s first efforts, and pronounced + judgment in these plain words: “What a pity he has not got his bread to + earn by his brush!” + </p> + <p> + On the death of old Robert, his daughters found themselves (to use their + own expression) reduced to a trumpery legacy of ten thousand pounds each. + Their brother inherited the estate, and the bulk of the property—not + because his father cared about founding a family, but because the boy had + always been his mother’s favourite. + </p> + <p> + The first of the three children to marry was the eldest sister. + </p> + <p> + Maria considered herself fortunate in captivating Mr. Vere—a man of + old family, with a high sense of what he owed to his name. He had a + sufficient income, and he wanted no more. His wife’s dowry was settled on + herself. When he died, he left her a life-interest in his property + amounting to six hundred a year. This, added to the annual proceeds of her + own little fortune, made an income of one thousand pounds. The remainder + of Mr. Vere’s property was left to his only surviving child, Ovid. + </p> + <p> + With a thousand a year for herself, and with two thousand a year for her + son, on his coming of age, the widowed Maria might possibly have been + satisfied—but for the extraordinary presumption of her younger + sister. + </p> + <p> + Susan, ranking second in age, ranked second also in beauty; and yet, in + the race for a husband, Susan won the prize! + </p> + <p> + Soon after her sister’s marriage, she made a conquest of a Scotch + nobleman, possessed of a palace in London, and a palace in Scotland, and a + rent-roll of forty thousand pounds. Maria, to use her own expression, + never recovered it. From the horrid day when Susan became Lady Northlake, + Maria became a serious woman. All her earthly interests centred now in the + cultivation of her intellect. She started on that glorious career, which + associated her with the march of science. In only a year afterwards—as + an example of the progress which a resolute woman can make—she was + familiar with zoophyte fossils, and had succeeded in dissecting the + nervous system of a bee. + </p> + <p> + Was there no counter-attraction in her married life? + </p> + <p> + Very little. Mr. Vere felt no sympathy with his wife’s scientific + pursuits. + </p> + <p> + On her husband’s death, did she find no consolation in her son? Let her + speak for herself. “My son fills my heart. But the school, the university, + and the hospital have all in turn taken his education out of my hands. My + mind must be filled, as well as my heart.” She seized her exquisite + instruments, and returned to the nervous system of the bee. + </p> + <p> + In course of time, Mr. John Gallilee—“drifting about,” as he said of + himself—drifted across the path of science. + </p> + <p> + The widowed Mrs. Vere (as exhibited in public) was still a fine woman. Mr. + Gallilee admired “that style”; and Mr. Gallilee had fifty thousand pounds. + Only a little more, to my lord and my lady, than one year’s income. But, + invested at four percent, it added an annual two thousand pounds to Mrs. + Vere’s annual one thousand. Result, three thousand a year, encumbered with + Mr. Gallilee. On reflection, Mrs. Vere accepted the encumbrance—and + reaped her reward. Susan was no longer distinguished as the sister who had + her dresses made in Paris; and Mrs. Gallilee was not now subjected to the + indignity of getting a lift in Lady Northlake’s carriage. + </p> + <p> + What was the history of Robert, during this interval of time? In two + words, Robert disgraced himself. + </p> + <p> + Taking possession of his country house, the new squire was invited to + contribute towards the expense of a pack of hounds kept by subscription in + the neighbourhood, and was advised to make acquaintance with his + fellow-sportsmen by giving a hunt-breakfast. He answered very politely; + but the fact was not to be concealed—the new man refused to + encourage hunting: he thought that noble amusement stupid and cruel. For + the same reason, he refused to preserve game. A last mistake was left to + make, and he made it. After returning the rector’s visit, he failed to + appear at church. No person with the smallest knowledge of the English + character, as exhibited in an English county, will fail to foresee that + Robert’s residence on his estate was destined to come, sooner or later, to + an untimely end. When he had finished his sketches of the picturesque + aspects of his landed property, he disappeared. The estate was not + entailed. Old Robert—who had insisted on the minutest formalities + and details in providing for his dearly-loved wife—was impenetrably + careless about the future of his children. “My fortune has no value now in + my eyes,” he said to judicious friends; “let them run through it all, if + they please. It would do them a deal of good if they were obliged to earn + their own living, like better people than themselves.” Left free to take + his own way, Robert sold the estate merely to get rid of it. With no + expensive tastes, except the taste for buying pictures, he became a richer + man than ever. + </p> + <p> + When their brother next communicated with them, Lady Northlake and Mrs. + Gallilee heard of him as a voluntary exile in Italy. He was building a + studio and a gallery; he was contemplating a series of pictures; and he + was a happy man for the first time in his life. + </p> + <p> + Another interval passed—and the sisters heard of Robert again. + </p> + <p> + Having already outraged the sense of propriety among his English + neighbours, he now degraded himself in the estimation of his family, by + marrying a “model.” The letter announcing this event declared, with + perfect truth, that he had chosen a virtuous woman for his wife. She sat + to artists, as any lady might sit to any artist, “for the head only.” Her + parents gained a bare subsistence by farming their own little morsel of + land; they were honest people—and what did brother Robert care for + rank? His own grandfather had been a farmer. + </p> + <p> + Lady Northlake and Mrs. Gallilee felt it due to themselves to hold a + consultation, on the subject of their sister-in-law. Was it desirable, in + their own social interests, to cast Robert off from that moment? + </p> + <p> + Susan (previously advised by her kind-hearted husband) leaned to the side + of mercy. Robert’s letter informed them that he proposed to live, and die, + in Italy. If he held to this resolution, his marriage would surely be an + endurable misfortune to his relatives in London. “Suppose we write to + him,” Susan concluded, “and say we are surprised, but we have no doubt he + knows best. We offer our congratulations to Mrs. Robert, and our sincere + wishes for his happiness.” + </p> + <p> + To Lady Northlake’s astonishment, Mrs. Gallilee adopted this indulgent + point of view, without a word of protest. She had her reasons—but + they were not producible to a relative whose husband had forty thousand a + year. Robert had paid her debts. + </p> + <p> + An income of three thousand pounds, even in these days, represents a + handsome competence—provided you don’t “owe a duty to society.” In + Mrs. Gallilee’s position, an income of three thousand pounds represented + genteel poverty. She was getting into debt again; and she was meditating + future designs on her brother’s purse. A charming letter to Robert was the + result. It ended with, “Do send me a photograph of your lovely wife!” When + the poor “model” died, not many years afterwards, leaving one little + daughter, Mrs. Gallilee implored her brother to return to England. “Come, + dearest Robert, and find consolation and a home, under the roof of your + affectionate Maria.” + </p> + <p> + But Robert remained in Italy, and was buried in Italy. At the date of his + death, he had three times paid his elder sister’s debts. On every occasion + when he helped her in this liberal way, she proved her gratitude by + anticipating a larger, and a larger, and a larger legacy if she outlived + him. + </p> + <p> + Knowing (as the family lawyer) what sums of money Mrs. Gallilee had + extracted from her brother, Mr. Mool also knew that the advances thus made + had been considered as representing the legacy, to which she might + otherwise have had some sisterly claim. It was his duty to have warned her + of this, when she questioned him generally on the subject of the Will; and + he had said nothing about it, acting under a most unbecoming motive—in + plain words, the motive of fear. From the self-reproachful feeling that + now disturbed him, had risen that wonderful blush which made its + appearance on Mr. Mool’s countenance. He was actually ashamed of himself. + After all, is it too much to have suggested that he was a human anomaly on + the roll of attorneys? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee made her appearance in the library—and Mr. Mool’s + pulse accelerated its beat. Mrs. Gallilee’s son followed her into the room—and + Mr. Mool’s pulse steadied itself again. By special arrangement with the + lawyer, Ovid had been always kept in ignorance of his mother’s affairs. No + matter how angry she might be in the course of the next few minutes, she + could hardly express her indignation in the presence of her son. + </p> + <p> + Joyous anticipation has the happiest effect on female beauty. Mrs. + Gallilee looked remarkably well, that day. Having rather a round and full + face, she wore her hair (coloured from youthful nature) in a fringe across + her forehead, balanced on either side by clusters of charming little + curls. Her mourning for Robert was worthy of its Parisian origin; it + showed to perfect advantage the bloom of her complexion and the whiteness + of her neck—also worthy of their Parisian origin. She looked like a + portrait of the period of Charles the Second, endowed with life. + </p> + <p> + “And how do you do, Mr. Mool? Have you been looking at my ferns?” + </p> + <p> + The ferns were grouped at the entrance, leading from the library to the + conservatory. They had certainly not escaped the notice of the lawyer, who + possessed a hot-house of his own, and who was an enthusiast in botany. It + now occurred to him—if he innocently provoked embarrassing results—that + ferns might be turned to useful and harmless account as a means of + introducing a change of subject. “Even when she hasn’t spoken a word,” + thought Mr. Mool, consulting his recollections, “I have felt her eyes go + through me like a knife.” + </p> + <p> + “Spare us the technicalities, please,” Mrs. Gallilee continued, pointing + to the documents on the table. “I want to be exactly acquainted with the + duties I owe to Carmina. And, by the way, I naturally feel some interest + in knowing whether Lady Northlake has any place in the Will.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee never said “my sister,” never spoke in the family circle of + “Susan.” The inexhaustible sense of injury, aroused by that magnificent + marriage, asserted itself in keeping her sister at the full distance + implied by never forgetting her title. + </p> + <p> + “The first legacy mentioned in the Will,” said Mr. Mool, “is a legacy to + Lady Northlake.” Mrs. Gallilee’s face turned as hard as iron. “One hundred + pounds,” Mr. Mool continued, “to buy a mourning ring.”’ Mrs. Gallilee’s + eyes became eloquent in an instant, and said as if in words, “Thank + Heaven!” + </p> + <p> + “So like your uncle’s unpretending good sense,” she remarked to her son. + “Any other legacy to Lady Northlake would have been simply absurd. Yes, + Mr. Mool? Perhaps my name follows?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool cast a side-look at the ferns. He afterwards described his + sensations as reminding him of previous experience in a dentist’s chair, + at the awful moment when the operator says “Let me look,” and has his + devilish instrument hidden in his hand. The “situation,” to use the + language of the stage, was indeed critical enough already. Ovid added to + the horror of it by making a feeble joke. “What will you take for your + chance, mother?” + </p> + <p> + Before bad became worse, Mr. Mool summoned the energy of despair. He + wisely read the exact words of the Will, this time: “‘And I give and + bequeath to my sister, Mrs. Maria Gallilee, one hundred pounds.”’ + </p> + <p> + Ovid’s astonishment could only express itself in action. He started to his + feet. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool went on reading. “‘Free of legacy duty, to buy a mourning ring—“’ + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” Ovid broke out. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool finished the sentence. “‘And my sister will understand the motive + which animates me in making this bequest.”’ He laid the Will on the table, + and ventured to look up. At the same time, Ovid turned to his mother, + struck by the words which had been just read, and eager to inquire what + their meaning might be. + </p> + <p> + Happily for themselves, the two men never knew what the preservation of + their tranquillity owed to that one moment of delay. + </p> + <p> + If they had looked at Mrs. Gallilee, when she was first aware of her + position in the Will, they might have seen the incarnate Devil + self-revealed in a human face. They might have read, in her eyes and on + her lips, a warning hardly less fearful than the unearthly writing on the + wall, which told the Eastern Monarch of his coming death. “See this woman, + and know what I can do with her, when she has repelled her guardian angel, + and her soul is left to ME.” + </p> + <p> + But the revelation showed itself, and vanished. Her face was composed + again, when her son and her lawyer looked at it. Her voice was under + control; her inbred capacity for deceit was ready for action. All those + formidable qualities in her nature, which a gentler and wiser training + than hers had been might have held in check—by development of + preservative influences that lay inert—were now driven back to their + lurking-place; leaving only the faintest traces of their momentary + appearance on the surface. Her breathing seemed to be oppressed; her + eyelids drooped heavily—and that was all. + </p> + <p> + “Is the room too hot for you?” Ovid asked. + </p> + <p> + It was a harmless question, but any question annoyed her at that moment. + “Nonsense!” she exclaimed irritably. + </p> + <p> + “The atmosphere of the conservatory is rich in reviving smells,” Mr. Mool + remarked. “Do I detect, among the delightful perfumes which reach us, the + fragrant root-stock of the American fern? If I am wrong, Mrs. Gallilee, + may I send you some of the sweet-smelling Maidenhair from my own little + hot-house?” He smiled persuasively. The ferns were already justifying his + confidence in their peace-making virtues, turned discreetly to account. + Those terrible eyes rested on him mercifully. Not even a covert allusion + to his silence in the matter of the legacy escaped her. Did the lawyer’s + artlessly abrupt attempt to change the subject warn her to be on her + guard? In any case, she thanked him with the readiest courtesy for his + kind offer. Might she trouble him in the meantime to let her see the Will? + </p> + <p> + She read attentively the concluding words of the clause in which her name + appeared—“My sister will understand the motive which animates me in + making this bequest”—and then handed back the Will to Mr. Mool. + Before Ovid could ask for it, she was ready with a plausible explanation. + “When your uncle became a husband and a father,” she said, “those claims + on him were paramount. He knew that a token of remembrance (the smaller + the better) was all I could accept, if I happened to outlive him. Please + go on, Mr. Mool.” + </p> + <p> + In one respect, Ovid resembled his late uncle. They both belonged to that + high-minded order of men, who are slow to suspect, and therefore easy to + deceive. Ovid tenderly took his mother’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “I ought to have known it,” he said, “without obliging you to tell me.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee did <i>not</i> blush. Mr. Mool did. + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” Mrs. Gallilee repeated. Mr. Mool looked at Ovid. “The next name, + Mr. Vere, is yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Does my uncle remember me as he has remembered my mother?” asked Ovid. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir—and let me tell you, a very pretty compliment is attached + to the bequest. ‘It is needless’ (your late uncle says) ‘to leave any more + important proof of remembrance to my nephew. His father has already + provided for him; and, with his rare abilities, he will make a second + fortune by the exercise of his profession.’ Most gratifying, Mrs. + Gallilee, is it nor? The next clause provides for the good old housekeeper + Teresa, and for her husband if he survives her, in the following terms—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee was becoming impatient to hear more of herself. “We may, I + think, pass over that,” she suggested, “and get to the part of it which + relates to Carmina and me. Don’t think I am impatient; I am only desirous—” + </p> + <p> + The growling of a dog in the conservatory interrupted her. “That tiresome + creature!” she said sharply; “I shall be obliged to get rid of him!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool volunteered to drive the dog out of the conservatory. Mrs. + Gallilee, as irritable as ever, stopped him at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t, Mr. Mool! That dog’s temper is not to be trusted. He shows it with + Miss Minerva, my governess—growls just in that way whenever he sees + her. I dare say he smells you. There! Now he barks! You are only making + him worse. Come back!” + </p> + <p> + Being at the door, gentle Mr. Mool tried the ferns as peace-makers once + more. He gathered a leaf, and returned to his place in a state of meek + admiration. “The flowering fern!” he said softly. + </p> + <p> + “A really fine specimen, Mrs. Gallilee, of the Osmunda Regalis. What a + world of beauty in this bipinnate frond! One hardly knows where the stalk + ends and the leaf begins!” + </p> + <p> + The dog, a bright little terrier, came trotting into the library He + saluted the company briskly with his tail, not excepting Mr. Mool. No + growl, or approach to a growl, now escaped him. The manner in which he + laid himself down at Mrs. Gallilee’s feet completely refuted her aspersion + on his temper. Ovid suggested that he might have been provoked by a cat in + the conservatory. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Mr. Mool turned over a page of the Will, and arrived at the + clauses relating to Carmina and her guardian. + </p> + <p> + “It may not be amiss,” he began, “to mention, in the first place, that the + fortune left to Miss Carmina amounts, in round numbers, to one hundred and + thirty thousand pounds. The Trustees—” + </p> + <p> + “Skip the Trustees,” said Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool skipped. + </p> + <p> + “In the matter of the guardian,” he said, “there is a preliminary clause, + in the event of your death or refusal to act, appointing Lady Northlake—” + </p> + <p> + “Skip Lady Northlake,” said Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool skipped. + </p> + <p> + “You are appointed Miss Carmina’s guardian, until she comes of age,” he + resumed. “If she marries in that interval—” + </p> + <p> + He paused to turn over a page. Not only Mrs. Gallilee, but Ovid also, now + listened with the deepest interest. + </p> + <p> + “If she marries in that interval, with her guardian’s approval—” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I don’t approve of her choice?” Mrs. Gallilee interposed. + </p> + <p> + Ovid looked at his mother—and quickly looked away again. The + restless little terrier caught his eye, and jumped up to be patted. Ovid + was too pre-occupied to notice this modest advance. The dog’s eyes and + ears expressed reproachful surprise. His friend Ovid had treated him + rudely for the first time in his life. + </p> + <p> + “If the young lady contracts a matrimonial engagement of which you + disapprove,” Mr. Mool answered, “you are instructed by the testator to + assert your reasons in the presence of—well, I may describe it, as a + family council; composed of Mr. Gallilee, and of Lord and Lady Northlake.” + </p> + <p> + “Excessively foolish of Robert,” Mrs. Gallilee remarked. “And what, Mr. + Mool, is this meddling council of three to do?” + </p> + <p> + “A majority of the council, Mrs. Gallilee, is to decide the question + absolutely. If the decision confirms your view, and if Miss Carmina still + persists in her resolution notwithstanding—” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to give way?” Mrs. Gallilee asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not until your niece comes of age, ma’am. Then, she decides for herself.” + </p> + <p> + “And inherits the fortune?” + </p> + <p> + “Only an income from part of it—if her marriage is disapproved by + her guardian and her relatives.” + </p> + <p> + “And what becomes of the rest?” + </p> + <p> + “The whole of it,” said Mr. Mool, “will be invested by the Trustees, and + will be divided equally, on her death, among her children.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose she leaves no children?” + </p> + <p> + “That case is provided for, ma’am, by the last clause. I will only say + now, that you are interested in the result.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee turned swiftly and sternly to her son. “When I am dead and + gone,” she said, “I look to you to defend my memory.” + </p> + <p> + “To defend your memory?” Ovid repeated, wondering what she could possibly + mean. + </p> + <p> + “If I do become interested in the disposal of Robert’s fortune—which + God forbid!—can’t you foresee what will happen?” his mother inquired + bitterly. “Lady Northlake will say, ‘Maria intrigued for this!’” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool looked doubtfully at the ferns. No! His vegetable allies were not + strong enough to check any further outpouring of such family feeling as + this. Nothing was to be trusted, in the present emergency, but the + superior authority of the Will. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” he said; “there are some further instructions, Mrs. Gallilee, + which, as I venture to think, exhibit your late brother’s well-known + liberality of feeling in a very interesting light. They relate to the + provision made for his daughter, while she is residing under your roof. + Miss Carmina is to have the services of the best masters, in finishing her + education.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” cried Mrs. Gallilee, with the utmost fervour. + </p> + <p> + “And the use of a carriage to herself, whenever she may require it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mr. Mool! <i>Two</i> carriages—in such a climate as this. One + open, and one closed.” + </p> + <p> + “And to defray these and other expenses, the Trustees are authorized to + place at your disposal one thousand a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Too much! too much!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool might have agreed with her—if he had nor known that Robert + Graywell had thought of his sister’s interests, in making this excessive + provision for expenses incurred on his daughter’s account. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, her dresses and her pocket money are included?” Mrs. Gallilee + resumed. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool smiled, and shook his head. “Mr. Graywell’s generosity has no + limits,” he said, “where his daughter is concerned. Miss Carmina is to + have five hundred a year for pocket-money and dresses.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee appealed to the sympathies of her son. “Isn’t it touching?” + she said. “Dear Carmina! my own people in Paris shall make her dresses. + Well, Mr. Mool?” + </p> + <p> + “Allow me to read the exact language of the Will next,” Mr. Mool answered. + “‘If her sweet disposition leads her into exceeding her allowance, in the + pursuit of her own little charities, my Trustees are hereby authorized, at + their own discretion, to increase the amount, within the limit of another + five hundred pounds annually.’ It sounds presumptuous, perhaps, on my + part,” said Mr. Mool, venturing on a modest confession of enthusiasm, “but + one can’t help thinking, What a good father! what a good child!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee had another appropriate remark ready on her lips, when the + unlucky dog interrupted her once more. He made a sudden rush into the + conservatory, barking with all his might. A crashing noise followed the + dog’s outbreak, which sounded like the fall of a flower-pot. + </p> + <p> + Ovid hurried into the conservatory—with the dog ahead of him, + tearing down the steps which led into the back garden. + </p> + <p> + The pot lay broken on the tiled floor. Struck by the beauty of the flower + that grew in it, he stooped to set it up again. If, instead of doing this, + he had advanced at once to the second door, he would have seen a lady + hastening into the house; and, though her back view only was presented, he + could hardly have failed to recognize Miss Minerva. As it was, when he + reached the door, the garden was empty. + </p> + <p> + He looked up at the house, and saw Carmina at the open window of her + bedroom. + </p> + <p> + The sad expression on that sweet young face grieved him. Was she thinking + of her happy past life? or of the doubtful future, among strangers in a + strange country? She noticed Ovid—and her eyes brightened. His + customary coldness with women melted instantly: he kissed his hand to her. + She returned the salute (so familiar to her in Italy) with her gentle + smile, and looked back into the room. Teresa showed herself at the window. + Always following her impulses without troubling herself to think first, + the duenna followed them now. “We are dull up here,” she called out. “Come + back to us, Mr. Ovid.” The words had hardly been spoken before they both + turned from the window. Teresa pointed significantly into the room. They + disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Ovid went back to the library. + </p> + <p> + “Anybody listening?” Mr. Mool inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I have not discovered anybody, but I doubt if a stray cat could have + upset that heavy flower-pot.” He looked round him as he made the reply. + “Where is my mother?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee had gone upstairs, eager to tell Carmina of the handsome + allowance made to her by her father. Having answered in these terms, Mr. + Mool began to fold up the Will—and suddenly stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Very inconsiderate, on my part,” he said; “I forgot, Mr. Ovid, that you + haven’t heard the end of it. Let me give you a brief abstract. You know, + perhaps, that Miss Carmina is a Catholic? Very natural—her poor + mother’s religion. Well, sir, her good father forgets nothing. All + attempts at proselytizing are strictly forbidden.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid smiled. His mother’s religious convictions began and ended with the + inorganic matter of the earth. + </p> + <p> + “The last clause,” Mr. Mool proceeded, “seemed to agitate Mrs. Gallilee + quite painfully. I reminded her that her brother had no near relations + living, but Lady Northlake and herself. As to leaving money to my lady, in + my lord’s princely position—” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” Ovid interposed, “what is there to agitate my mother in + this?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool made his apologies for not getting sooner to the point, with the + readiest good-will. “Professional habit, Mr. Ovid,” he explained. “We are + apt to be wordy—paid, in fact, at so much a folio, for so many + words!—and we like to clear the ground first. Your late uncle ends + his Will, by providing for the disposal of his fortune, in two possible + events, as follows: Miss Carmina may die unmarried, or Miss Carmina (being + married) may die without offspring.” + </p> + <p> + Seeing the importance of the last clause now, Ovid stopped him again. “Do + I remember the amount of the fortune correctly?” he asked. “Was it a + hundred and thirty thousand pounds?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And what becomes of all that money, if Carmina never marries, or if she + leaves no children?” + </p> + <p> + “In either of those cases, sir, the whole of the money goes to Mrs. + Gallilee and her daughters.”’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <p> + Time had advanced to midnight, after the reading of the Will—and + Ovid was at home. + </p> + <p> + The silence of the quiet street in which he lived was only disturbed by + the occasional rolling of carriage wheels, and by dance-music from the + house of one of his neighbours who was giving a ball. He sat at his + writing-table, thinking. Honest self-examination had laid out the state of + his mind before him like a map, and had shown him, in its true + proportions, the new interest that filled his life. + </p> + <p> + Of that interest he was now the willing slave. If he had not known his + mother to be with her, he would have gone back to Carmina when the lawyer + left the house. As it was, he had sent a message upstairs, inviting + himself to dinner, solely for the purpose of seeing Carmina again—and + he had been bitterly disappointed when he heard that Mr. and Mrs. Gallilee + were engaged, and that his cousin would take tea in her room. He had eaten + something at this club, without caring what it was. He had gone to the + Opera afterwards, merely because his recollections of a favourite + singing-lady of that season vaguely reminded him of Carmina. And there he + was, at midnight, on his return from the music, eager for the next + opportunity of seeing his cousin, a few hours hence—when he had + arranged to say good-bye at the family breakfast-table. + </p> + <p> + To feel this change in him as vividly as he felt it, could lead to but one + conclusion in the mind of a man who was incapable of purposely deceiving + himself. He was as certain as ever of the importance of rest and change, + in the broken state of his health. And yet, in the face of that + conviction, his contemplated sea-voyage had already become one of the + vanished illusions of his life! + </p> + <p> + His friend had arranged to travel with him, that morning, from London to + the port at which the yacht was waiting for them. They were hardly + intimate enough to trust each other unreservedly with secrets. The + customary apology for breaking an engagement was the alternative that + remained. With the paper on his desk and with the words on his mind, he + was yet in such a strange state of indecision that he hesitated to write + the letter! + </p> + <p> + His morbidly-sensitive nerves were sadly shaken. Even the familiar record + of the half-hour by the hall clock startled him. The stroke of the bell + was succeeded by a mild and mournful sound outside the door—the + mewing of a cat. + </p> + <p> + He rose, without any appearance of surprise, and opened the door. + </p> + <p> + With grace and dignity entered a small black female cat; exhibiting, by + way of variety of colour, a melancholy triangular patch of white over the + lower part of her face, and four brilliantly clean white paws. Ovid went + back to his desk. As soon as he was in his chair again, the cat jumped on + his shoulder, and sat there purring in his ear. This was the place she + occupied, whenever her master was writing alone. Passing one day through a + suburban neighbourhood, on his round of visits, the young surgeon had been + attracted by a crowd in a by-street. He had rescued his present companion + from starvation in a locked-up house, the barbarous inhabitants of which + had gone away for a holiday, and had forgotten the cat. When Ovid took the + poor creature home with him in his carriage, popular feeling decided that + the unknown gentleman was “a rum ‘un.” From that moment, this fortunate + little member of a brutally-slandered race attached herself to her new + friend, and to that friend only. If Ovid had owned the truth, he must have + acknowledged that her company was a relief to him, in the present state of + his mind. + </p> + <p> + When a man’s flagging purpose is in want of a stimulant, the most trifling + change in the circumstances of the moment often applies the animating + influence. Even such a small interruption as the appearance of his cat + rendered this service to Ovid. To use the common and expressive phrase, it + had “shaken him up.” He wrote the letter—and his patient companion + killed the time by washing her face. + </p> + <p> + His mind being so far relieved, he went to bed—the cat following him + upstairs to her bed in a corner of the room. Clothes are unwholesome + superfluities not contemplated in the system of Nature. When we are + exhausted, there is no such thing as true repose for us until we are freed + from our dress. Men subjected to any excessive exertion—fighting, + rowing, walking, working—must strip their bodies as completely as + possible, or they are nor equal to the call on them. Ovid’s knowledge of + his own temperament told him that sleep was not to be hoped for, that + night. But the way to bed was the way to rest notwithstanding, by getting + rid of his clothes. + </p> + <p> + With the sunrise he rose and went out. + </p> + <p> + He took his letter with him, and dropped it into the box in his friend’s + door. The sooner he committed himself to the new course that he had taken, + the more certain he might feel of not renewing the miserable and useless + indecision of the past night. “Thank God, that’s done!” he said to + himself, as he heard the letter fall into the box, and left the house. + </p> + <p> + After walking in the Park until he was weary, he sat down by the + ornamental lake, and watched the waterfowl enjoying their happy lives. + </p> + <p> + Wherever he went, whatever he did, Carmina was always with him. He had + seen thousands of girls, whose personal attractions were far more + remarkable—and some few among them whose manner was perhaps equally + winning. What was the charm in the little half-foreign cousin that had + seized on him in an instant, and that seemed to fasten its subtle hold + more and more irresistibly with every minute of his life? He was content + to feel the charm without caring to fathom it. The lovely morning light + took him in imagination to her bedside; he saw here sleeping peacefully in + her new room. Would the time come when she might dream of him? He looked + at his watch. It was seven o’clock. The breakfast-hour at Fairfield + Gardens had been fixed for eight, to give him time to catch the morning + train. Half an hour might be occupied in walking back to his own house. + Add ten minutes to make some change in his dress—and he might set + forth for his next meeting with Carmina. No uneasy anticipation of what + the family circle might think of his sudden change of plan troubled his + mind. A very different question occupied him. For the first time in his + life, he wondered what dress a woman would wear at breakfast time. + </p> + <p> + He opened his house door with his own key. An elderly person, in a coarse + black gown, was seated on the bench in the hall. She rose, and advanced + towards him. In speechless astonishment, he confronted Carmina’s faithful + companion—Teresa. + </p> + <p> + “If you please, I want to speak to you,” she said, in her best English. + Ovid took her into his consulting-room. She wasted no time in apologies or + explanations. “Don’t speak!” she broke out. “Carmina has had a bad night.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be at the house in half an hour!” Ovid eagerly assured her. + </p> + <p> + The duenna shook her forefinger impatiently. “She doesn’t want a doctor. + She wants a friend, when I am gone. What is her life here? A new life, + among new people. Don’t speak! She’s frightened and miserable. So young, + so shy, so easily startled. And I must leave her—I must! I must! My + old man is failing fast; he may die, without a creature to comfort him, if + I don’t go back. I could tear my hair when I think of it. Don’t speak! + It’s <i>my</i> business to speak. Ha! I know, what I know. Young doctor, + you’re in love with Carmina! I’ve read you like a book. You’re quick to + see, sudden to feel—like one of my people. <i>Be</i> one of my + people. Help me.” + </p> + <p> + She dragged a chair close to Ovid, and laid her hand suddenly and heavily + on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not my fault, mind; <i>I</i> have said nothing to disturb her. No! + I’ve made the best of it. I’ve lied to her. What do I care? I would lie + like Judas Iscariot himself to spare Carmina a moment’s pain. It’s such a + new life for her—try to see it for yourself—such a new life. + You and I shook hands yesterday. Do it again. Are you surprised to see me? + I asked your mother’s servants where you lived; and here I am—with + the cruel teeth of anxiety gnawing me alive when I think of the time to + come. Oh, my lamb! my angel! she’s alone. Oh, my God, only seventeen years + old, and alone in the world! No father, no mother; and soon—oh, too + soon, too soon—not even Teresa! What are you looking at? What is + there so wonderful in the tears of a stupid old fool? Drops of hot water. + Ha! ha! if they fall on your fine carpet here, they won’t hurt it. You’re + a good fellow; you’re a dear fellow. Hush! I know the Evil Eye when I see + it. No more of that! A secret in your ear—I’ve said a word for you + to Carmina already. Give her time; she’s not cold; young and innocent, + that’s all. Love will come—I know, what I know—love will + come.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed—and, in the very act of laughing, changed again. Fright + looked wildly at Ovid out of her staring eyes. Some terrifying remembrance + had suddenly occurred to her. She sprang to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “You said you were going away,” she cried. “You said it, when you left us + yesterday. It can’t be! it shan’t be! You’re not going to leave Carmina, + too?” + </p> + <p> + Ovid’s first impulse was to tell the whole truth. He resisted the impulse. + To own that Carmina was the cause of his abandonment of the sea-voyage, + before she was even sure of the impression she had produced on him, would + be to place himself in a position from which his self-respect recoiled. + “My plans are changed,” was all he said to Teresa. “Make your mind easy; + I’m not going away.” + </p> + <p> + The strange old creature snapped her fingers joyously. “Good-bye! I want + no more of you.” With those cool and candid words of farewell, she + advanced to the door—stopped suddenly to think—and came back. + Only a moment had passed, and she was as sternly in earnest again as ever. + </p> + <p> + “May I call you by your name?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Ovid! I may not see you again before I go back to my husband. + This is my last word—never forget it. Even Carmina may have + enemies!” + </p> + <p> + What could she be thinking of? “Enemies—in my mother’s house!” Ovid + exclaimed. “What can you possibly mean?” + </p> + <p> + Teresa returned to the door, and only answered him when she had opened it + to go. + </p> + <p> + “The Evil Eye never lies,” she said. “Wait—and you will see.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee was on her way to the breakfast-room, when her son entered + the house. They met in the hall. “Is your packing done?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He was in no humour to wait, and make his confession at that moment. “Not + yet,” was his only reply. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee led the way into the room. “Ovid’s luggage is not ready + yet,” she announced; “I believe he will lose his train.” + </p> + <p> + They were all at the breakfast table, the children and the governess + included. Carmina’s worn face, telling its tale of a wakeful night, + brightened again, as it had brightened at the bedroom window, when she saw + Ovid. She took his hand frankly, and made light of her weary looks. “No, + my cousin,” she said, playfully; “I mean to be worthier of my pretty bed + to-night; I am not going to be your patient yet.” Mr. Gallilee (with this + mouth full at the moment) offered good advice. “Eat and drink as I do, my + dear,” he said to Carmina; “and you will sleep as I do. Off I go when the + light’s out—flat on my back, as Mrs. Gallilee will tell you—and + wake me if you can, till it’s time to get up. Have some buttered eggs, + Ovid. They’re good, ain’t they, Zo?” Zo looked up from her plate, and + agreed with her father, in one emphatic word, “Jolly!” Miss Minerva, queen + of governesses, instantly did her duty. “Zoe! how often must I tell you + not to talk slang? Do you ever hear your sister say ‘Jolly?’” That + highly-cultivated child, Maria, strong in conscious virtue, added her + authority in support of the protest. “No young lady who respects herself, + Zoe, will ever talk slang.” Mr. Gallilee was unworthy of such a daughter. + He muttered under his breath, “Oh, bother!” Zo held out her plate for + more. Mr. Gallilee was delighted. “My child all over!” he exclaimed. “We + are both of us good feeders. Zo will grow up a fine woman.” He appealed to + his stepson to agree with him. “That’s your medical opinion, Ovid, isn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s pretty smile passed like rippling light over her eyes and her + lips. In her brief experience of England, Mr. Gallilee was the one + exhilarating element in family life. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s mind still dwelt on her son’s luggage, and on the rigorous + punctuality of railway arrangements. + </p> + <p> + “What is your servant about?” she said to Ovid. “It’s his business to see + that you are ready in time.” + </p> + <p> + It was useless to allow the false impression that prevailed to continue + any longer. Ovid set them all right, in the plainest and fewest words. + </p> + <p> + “My servant is not to blame,” he said. “I have written an apology to my + friend—I am not going away.” + </p> + <p> + For the moment, this astounding announcement was received in silent dismay—excepting + the youngest member of the company. After her father, Ovid was the one + other person in the world who held a place in Zo’s odd little heart. Her + sentiments were now expressed without hesitation and without reserve. She + put down her spoon, and she cried, “Hooray!” Another exhibition of + vulgarity. But even Miss Minerva was too completely preoccupied by the + revelation which had burst on the family to administer the necessary + reproof. Her eager eyes were riveted on Ovid. As for Mr. Gallilee, he held + his bread and butter suspended in mid-air, and stared open-mouthed at his + stepson, in helpless consternation. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee always set the right example. Mrs. Gallilee was the first to + demand an explanation. + </p> + <p> + “What does this extraordinary proceeding mean?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Ovid was impenetrable to the tone in which that question was put. He had + looked at his cousin, when he declared his change of plan—and he was + looking at her still. Whatever the feeling of the moment might be, + Carmina’s sensitive face expressed it vividly. Who could mistake the + faintly-rising colour in her cheeks, the sweet quickening of light in her + eyes, when she met Ovid’s look? Still hardly capable of estimating the + influence that she exercised over him, her sense of the interest taken in + her by Ovid was the proud sense that makes girls innocently bold. Whatever + the others might think of his broken engagement, her artless eyes said + plainly, “My feeling is happy surprise.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee summoned her son to attend her, in no friendly voice. She, + too, had looked at Carmina—and had registered the result of her + observation privately. + </p> + <p> + “Are we to hear your reasons?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + Ovid had made the one discovery in the world, on which his whole heart was + set. He was so happy, that he kept his mother out of his secret, with a + masterly composure worthy of herself. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think a sea-voyage is the right thing for me,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Rather a sudden change of opinion,” Mrs. Gallilee remarked. + </p> + <p> + Ovid coolly agreed with her. It <i>was</i> rather sudden, he said. + </p> + <p> + The governess still looked at him, wondering whether he would provoke an + outbreak. + </p> + <p> + After a little pause, Mrs. Gallilee accepted her son’s short answer—with + a sudden submission which had a meaning of its own. She offered Ovid + another cup of tea; and, more remarkable yet, she turned to her eldest + daughter, and deliberately changed the subject. “What are your lessons, my + dear, to-day?” she asked, with bland maternal interest. + </p> + <p> + By this time, bewildered Mr. Gallilee had finished his bread and butter. + “Ovid knows best, my dear,” he said cheerfully to his wife. Mrs. + Gallilee’s sudden recovery of her temper did not include her husband. If a + look could have annihilated that worthy man, his corporal presence must + have vanished into air, when he had delivered himself of his opinion. As + it was, he only helped Zo to another spoonful of jam. “When Ovid first + thought of that voyage,” he went on, “I said, Suppose he’s sick? A + dreadful sensation isn’t it, Miss Minerva? First you seem to sink into + your shoes, and then it all comes up—eh? You’re <i>not</i> sick at + sea? I congratulate you! I most sincerely congratulate you! My dear Ovid, + come and dine with me to-night at the club.” He looked doubtfully at his + wife, as he made that proposal. “Got the headache, my dear? I’ll take you + out with pleasure for a walk. What’s the matter with her, Miss Minerva? + Oh, I see! Hush! Maria’s going to say grace.—Amen! Amen!” + </p> + <p> + They all rose from the table. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee was the first to open the door. The smoking-room at Fairfield + Gardens was over the kitchen; he preferred enjoying his cigar in the + garden of the Square. He looked at Carmina and Ovid, as if he wanted one + of them to accompany him. They were both at the aviary, admiring the + birds, and absorbed in their own talk. Mr. Gallilee resigned himself to + his fate; appealing, on his way out, to somebody to agree with him as + usual. “Well!” he said with a little sigh, “a cigar keeps one company.” + Miss Minerva (absorbed in her own thoughts) passed near him, on her way to + the school-room with her pupils. “You would find it so yourself, Miss + Minerva—that is to say, if you smoked, which of course you don’t. Be + a good girl, Zo; attend to your lessons.” + </p> + <p> + Zo’s perversity in the matter of lessons put its own crooked construction + on this excellent advice. She answered in a whisper, “Give us a holiday.” + </p> + <p> + The passing aspirations of idle minds, being subject to the law of + chances, are sometimes fulfilled, and so exhibit poor human wishes in a + consolatory light. Thanks to the conversation between Carmina and Ovid, Zo + got her holiday after all. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee, still as amiable as ever, had joined her son and her niece + at the aviary. Ovid said to his mother, “Carmina is fond of birds. I have + been telling her she may see all the races of birds assembled in the + Zoological Gardens. It’s a perfect day. Why shouldn’t we go!” + </p> + <p> + The stupidest woman living would have understood what this proposal really + meant. Mrs. Gallilee sanctioned it as composedly as if Ovid and Carmina + had been brother and sister. “I wish I could go with you,” she said, “but + my household affairs fill my morning. And there is a lecture this + afternoon, which I cannot possibly lose. I don’t know, Carmina, whether + you are interested in these things. We are to have the apparatus, which + illustrates the conversion of radiant energy into sonorous vibrations. + Have you ever heard, my dear, of the Diathermancy of Ebonite? Not in your + way, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina looked as unintelligent as Zo herself. Mrs. Gallilee’s science + seemed to frighten her. The Diathermancy of Ebonite, by some + incomprehensible process, drove her bewildered mind back on her old + companion. “I want to give Teresa a little pleasure before we part,” she + said timidly; “may she go with us?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course!” cried Mrs. Gallilee. “And, now I think of it, why shouldn’t + the children have a little pleasure too? I will give them a holiday. Don’t + be alarmed, Ovid; Miss Minerva will look after them. In the meantime, + Carmina, tell your good old friend to get ready.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina hastened away, and so helped Mrs. Gallilee to the immediate object + which she had in view—a private interview with her son. + </p> + <p> + Ovid anticipated a searching inquiry into the motives which had led him to + give up the sea voyage. His mother was far too clever a woman to waste her + time in that way. Her first words told him that his motive was as plainly + revealed to her as the sunlight shining in at the window. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a charming girl,” she said, when Carmina closed the door behind + her. “Modest and natural—quite the sort of girl, Ovid, to attract a + clever man like you.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid was completely taken by surprise, and owned it by his silence. Mrs. + Gallilee went on in a tone of innocent maternal pleasantry. + </p> + <p> + “You know you began young,” she said; “your first love was that poor + little wizen girl of Lady Northlake’s who died. Child’s play, you will + tell me, and nothing more. But, my dear, I am afraid I shall require some + persuasion, before I quite sympathize with this new—what shall I + call it?—infatuation is too hard a word, and ‘fancy’ means nothing. + We will leave it a blank. Marriages of cousins are debatable marriages, to + say the least of them; and Protestant fathers and Papist mothers do + occasionally involve difficulties with children. Not that I say, No. Far + from it. But if this is to go on, I do hesitate.” + </p> + <p> + Something in his mother’s tone grated on Ovid’s sensibilities. “I don’t at + all follow you,” he said, rather sharply; “you are looking a little too + far into the future.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we will return to the present,” Mrs. Gallilee replied—still + with the readiest submission to the humour of her son. + </p> + <p> + On recent occasions, she had expressed the opinion that Ovid would do + wisely—at his age, and with his professional prospects—to wait + a few years before he thought of marrying. Having said enough in praise of + her niece to satisfy him for the time being (without appearing to be + meanly influenced, in modifying her opinion, by the question of money), + her next object was to induce him to leave England immediately, for the + recovery of his health. With Ovid absent, and with Carmina under her sole + superintendence, Mrs. Gallilee could see her way to her own private ends. + </p> + <p> + “Really,” she resumed, “you ought to think seriously of change of air and + scene. You know you would not allow a patient, in your present state of + health, to trifle with himself as your are trifling now. If you don’t like + the sea, try the Continent. Get away somewhere, my dear, for your own + sake.” + </p> + <p> + It was only possible to answer this, in one way. Ovid owned that his + mother was right and asked for time to think. To his infinite relief, he + was interrupted by a knock at the door. Miss Minerva entered the room—not + in a very amiable temper, judging by appearances. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I disturb you,” she began. + </p> + <p> + Ovid seized the opportunity of retreat. He had some letters to write—he + hurried away to the library. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any mistake?” the governess asked, when she and Mrs. Gallilee + were alone. + </p> + <p> + “In what respect, Miss Minerva?” + </p> + <p> + “I met your niece, ma’am, on the stairs. She says you wish the children to + have a holiday.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to go with my son and Miss Carmina to the Zoological Gardens.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Carmina said I was to go too.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Carmina was perfectly right.” + </p> + <p> + The governess fixed her searching eyes on Mrs. Gallilee. “You really wish + me to go with them?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “I know why.” + </p> + <p> + In the course of their experience, Mrs. Gallilee and Miss Minerva had once + quarrelled fiercely—and Mrs. Gallilee had got the worst of it. She + learnt her lesson. For the future she knew how to deal with her governess. + When one said, “I know why,” the other only answered, “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s have it out plainly, ma’am,” Miss Minerva proceeded. “I am not to + let Mr. Ovid” (she laid a bitterly strong emphasis on the name, and + flushed angrily)—“I am not to let Mr. Ovid and Miss Carmina be alone + together.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a good guesser,” Mrs. Gallilee remarked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Minerva more quietly still; “I have only seen what you + have seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I tell you what I have seen?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite needless, ma’am. Your son is in love with his cousin. When am I to + be ready?” + </p> + <p> + The bland mistress mentioned the hour. The rude governess left the room. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee looked at the closing door with a curious smile. She had + already suspected Miss Minerva of being crossed in love. The suspicion was + now confirmed, and the man was discovered. + </p> + <p> + “Soured by a hopeless passion,” she said to herself. “And the object is—my + son.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <p> + On entering the Zoological Gardens, Ovid turned at once to the right, + leading Carmina to the aviaries, so that she might begin by seeing the + birds. Miss Minerva, with Maria in dutiful attendance, followed them. + Teresa kept at a little distance behind; and Zo took her own erratic + course, now attaching herself to one member of the little party, and now + to another. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the aviaries the order of march became confused; + differences in the birds made their appeal to differences in the taste of + the visitors. Insatiably eager for useful information, that prize-pupil + Maria held her governess captive at one cage; while Zo darted away towards + another, out of reach of discipline, and good Teresa volunteered to bring + her back. For a minute, Ovid and his cousin were left alone. He might have + taken a lover’s advantage even of that small opportunity. But Carmina had + something to say to him—and Carmina spoke first. + </p> + <p> + “Has Miss Minerva been your mother’s governess for a long time?” she + inquired. + </p> + <p> + “For some years,” Ovid replied. “Will you let me put a question on my + side? Why do you ask?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina hesitated—and answered in a whisper, “She looks + ill-tempered.” + </p> + <p> + “She <i>is</i> ill-tempered,” Ovid confessed. “I suspect,” he added with a + smile, “you don’t like Miss Minerva.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina attempted no denial; her excuse was a woman’s excuse all over: + “She doesn’t like <i>me.”</i> + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been looking at her. Does she beat the children?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Carmina! do you think she would be my mother’s governess if she + treated the children in that way? Besides, Miss Minerva is too well-bred a + woman to degrade herself by acts of violence. Family misfortunes have very + materially lowered her position in the world.” + </p> + <p> + He was reminded, as he said those words, of the time when Miss Minerva had + entered on her present employment, and when she had been the object of + some little curiosity on his own part. Mrs. Gallilee’s answer, when he + once asked why she kept such an irritable woman in the house, had been + entirely satisfactory, so far as she herself was concerned: “Miss Minerva + is remarkably well informed, and I get her cheap.” Exactly like his + mother! But it left Miss Minerva’s motives involved in utter obscurity. + Why had this highly cultivated woman accepted an inadequate reward for her + services, for years together? Why—to take the event of that morning + as another example—after plainly showing her temper to her employer, + had she been so ready to submit to a suddenly decreed holiday, which + disarranged her whole course of lessons for the week? Little did Ovid + think that the one reconciling influence which adjusted these + contradictions, and set at rest every doubt that grew out of them, was to + be found in himself. Even the humiliation of watching him in his mother’s + interest, and of witnessing his devotion to another woman, was a sacrifice + which Miss Minerva could endure for the one inestimable privilege of being + in Ovid’s company. + </p> + <p> + Before Carmina could ask any more questions a shrill voice, at its highest + pitch of excitement, called her away. Zo had just discovered the most + amusing bird in the Gardens—the low comedian of the feathered race—otherwise + known as the Piping Crow. + </p> + <p> + Carmina hurried to the cage as if she had been a child herself. Seeing + Ovid left alone, the governess seized <i>her</i> chance of speaking to + him. The first words that passed her lips told their own story. While + Carmina had been studying Miss Minerva, Miss Minerva had been studying + Carmina. Already, the same instinctive sense of rivalry had associated, on + a common ground of feeling, the two most dissimilar women that ever + breathed the breath of life. + </p> + <p> + “Does your cousin know much about birds?” Miss Minerva began. + </p> + <p> + The opinion which declares that vanity is a failing peculiar to the sex is + a slander on women. All the world over, there are more vain men in it than + vain women. If Ovid had not been one of the exceptions to a general rule + among men, or even if his experience of the natures of women had been a + little less limited, he too might have discovered Miss Minerva’s secret. + Even her capacity for self-control failed, at the moment when she took + Carmina’s place. Those keen black eyes, so hard and cold when they looked + at anyone else—flamed with an all-devouring sense of possession when + they first rested on Ovid. “He’s mine. For one golden moment he’s mine!” + They spoke—and, suddenly, the every-day blind was drawn down again; + there was nobody present but a well-bred woman, talking with delicately + implied deference to a distinguished man. + </p> + <p> + “So far, we have not spoken of the birds,” Ovid innocently answered. + </p> + <p> + “And yet you seemed to be both looking at them!” She at once covered this + unwary outbreak of jealousy under an impervious surface of compliment. + “Miss Carmina is not perhaps exactly pretty, but she is a singularly + interesting girl.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid cordially (too cordially) agreed. Miss Minerva had presented her + better self to him under a most agreeable aspect. She tried—struggled—fought + with herself—to preserve appearances. The demon in her got + possession again of her tongue. “Do you find the young lady intelligent?” + she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + Only one word—spoken perhaps a little sharply. The miserable woman + shrank under it. “An idle question on my part,” she said, with the + pathetic humility that tries to be cheerful. “And another warning, Mr. + Vere, never to judge by appearances.” She looked at him, and returned to + the children. + </p> + <p> + Ovid’s eyes followed her compassionately. “Poor wretch!” he thought. “What + an infernal temper, and how hard she tries to control it!” He joined + Carmina, with a new delight in being near her again. Zo was still in + ecstasies over the Piping Crow. “Oh, the jolly little chap! Look how he + cocks his head! He mocks me when I whistle. Buy him,” cried Zo, tugging at + Ovid’s coat tails in the excitement that possessed her; “buy him, and let + me take him home with me!” + </p> + <p> + Some visitors within hearing began to laugh. Miss Minerva opened her lips; + Maria opened her lips. To the astonishment of both of them the coming + rebuke proved to be needless. + </p> + <p> + A sudden transformation to silence and docility had made a new creature of + Zo, before they could speak—and Ovid had unconsciously worked the + miracle. For the first time in the child’s experience, he had suffered his + coat tails to be pulled without immediately attending to her. Who was he + looking at? It was only too easy to see that Carmina had got him all to + herself. The jealous little heart swelled in Zo’s bosom. In silent + perplexity she kept watch on the friend who had never disappointed her + before. Little by little, her slow intelligence began to realise the + discovery of something in his face which made him look handsomer than + ever, and which she had never seen in it yet. They all left the aviaries, + and turned to the railed paddocks in which the larger birds were + assembled. And still Zo followed so quietly, so silently, that her elder + sister—threatened with a rival in good behaviour—looked at her + in undisguised alarm. + </p> + <p> + Incited by Maria (who felt the necessity of vindicating her character) + Miss Minerva began a dissertation on cranes, suggested by the birds with + the brittle-looking legs hopping up to her in expectation of something to + eat. Ovid was absorbed in attending to his cousin; he had provided himself + with some bread, and was helping Carmina to feed the birds. But one person + noticed Zo, now that her strange lapse into good behaviour had lost the + charm of novelty. Old Teresa watched her. There was something plainly + troubling the child in secret; she had a mind to know what it might be. + </p> + <p> + Zo approached Ovid again, determined to understand the change in him if + perseverance could do it. He was talking so confidentially to Carmina, + that he almost whispered in her ear. Zo eyed him, without daring to touch + his coat tails again. Miss Minerva tried hard to go on composedly with the + dissertation on cranes. “Flocks of these birds, Maria, pass periodically + over the southern and central countries of Europe”—Her breath failed + her, as she looked at Ovid: she could say no more. Zo stopped those + maddening confidences; Zo, in desperate want of information, tugged boldly + at Carmina’s skirts this time. + </p> + <p> + The young girl turned round directly. “What is it, dear?” + </p> + <p> + With big tears of indignation rising in her eyes, Zo pointed to Ovid. “I + say!” she whispered, “is he going to buy the Piping Crow for you?” + </p> + <p> + To Zo’s discomfiture they both smiled. She dried her eyes with her fists, + and waited doggedly for an answer. Carmina set the child’s mind at ease + very prettily and kindly; and Ovid added the pacifying influence of a + familiar pat on her cheek. Noticed at last, and satisfied that the bird + was not to be bought for anybody, Zo’s sense of injury was appeased; her + jealousy melted away as the next result. After a pause—produced, as + her next words implied, by an effort of memory—she suddenly took + Carmina into her confidence. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell!” she began. “I saw another man look like Ovid.” + </p> + <p> + “When, dear?” Carmina asked—meaning, at what past date. + </p> + <p> + “When his face was close to yours,” Zo answered—meaning, under what + recent circumstances. + </p> + <p> + Ovid, hearing this reply, knew his small sister well enough to foresee + embarrassing results if he allowed the conversation to proceed. He took + Carmina’s arm, and led her a little farther on. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva obstinately followed them, with Maria in attendance, still + imperfectly enlightened on the migration of cranes. Zo looked round, in + search of another audience. Teresa had been listening; she was present, + waiting for events. Being herself what stupid people call “an oddity,” her + sympathies were attracted by this quaint child. In Teresa’s opinion, + seeing the animals was very inferior, as an amusement, to exploring Zo’s + mind. She produced a cake of chocolate, from a travelling bag which she + carried with her everywhere. The cake was sweet, it was flavoured with + vanilla, and it was offered to Zo, unembittered by advice not to be greedy + and make herself ill. Staring hard at Teresa, she took an experimental + bite. The wily duenna chose that propitious moment to present herself in + the capacity of a new audience. + </p> + <p> + “Who was that other man you saw, who looked like Mr. Ovid?” she asked; + speaking in the tone of serious equality which is always flattering to the + self-esteem of children in intercourse with elders. Zo was so proud of + having her own talk reported by a grown-up stranger, that she even forgot + the chocolate. “I wanted to say more than that,” she announced. “Would you + like to hear the end of it?” And this admirable foreign person answered, + “I should very much like.” + </p> + <p> + Zo hesitated. To follow out its own little train of thought, in words, was + no easy task to the immature mind which Miss Minerva had so mercilessly + overworked. Led by old Dame Nature (first of governesses!) Zo found her + way out of the labyrinth by means of questions. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Joseph?” she began. + </p> + <p> + Teresa had heard the footman called by his name: she knew who Joseph was. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Matilda?” Zo proceeded. + </p> + <p> + Teresa had heard the housemaid called by her name: she knew who Matilda + was. And better still, she helped her little friend by a timely guess at + what was coming, presented under the form of a reminder. “You saw Mr. + Ovid’s face close to Carmina’s face,” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + Zo nodded furiously—the end of it was coming already. + </p> + <p> + “And before that,” Teresa went on, “you saw Joseph’s face close to + Matilda’s face.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw Joseph kiss Matilda!” Zo burst out, with a scream of triumph. “Why + doesn’t Ovid kiss Carmina?” + </p> + <p> + A deep bass voice, behind them, answered gravely: “Because the governess + is in the way.” And a big bamboo walking-stick pointed over their heads at + Miss Minerva. Zo instantly recognised the stick, and took it into her own + hands. + </p> + <p> + Teresa turned—and found herself in the presence of a remarkable man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <p> + In the first place, the stranger was almost tall enough to be shown as a + giant; he towered to a stature of six feet six inches, English measure. If + his immense bones had been properly covered with flesh, he might have + presented the rare combination of fine proportions with great height. He + was so miserably—it might almost be said, so hideously—thin + that his enemies spoke of him as “the living skeleton.” His massive + forehead, his great gloomy gray eyes, his protuberant cheek-bones, + overhung a fleshless lower face naked of beard, whiskers, and moustache. + His complexion added to the startling effect which his personal appearance + produced on strangers. It was of the true gipsy-brown, and, being darker + in tone than his eyes, added remarkably to the weird look, the dismal + thoughtful scrutiny, which it was his habit to fix on persons talking with + him, no matter whether they were worthy of attention or not. His straight + black hair hung as gracelessly on either side of his hollow face as the + hair of an American Indian. His great dusky hands, never covered by gloves + in the summer time, showed amber-coloured nails on bluntly-pointed + fingers, turned up at the tips. Those tips felt like satin when they + touched you. When he wished to be careful, he could handle the frailest + objects with the most exquisite delicacy. His dress was of the recklessly + loose and easy kind. His long frock-coat descended below his knees; his + flowing trousers were veritable bags; his lean and wrinkled throat turned + about in a widely-opened shirt-collar, unconfined by any sort of neck-tie. + He had a theory that a head-dress should be solid enough to resist a + chance blow—a fall from a horse, or the dropping of a loose brick + from a house under repair. His hard black hat, broad and curly at the + brim, might have graced the head of a bishop, if it had not been + secularised by a queer resemblance to the bell-shaped hat worn by dandies + in the early years of the present century. In one word he was, both in + himself and in his dress, the sort of man whom no stranger is careless + enough to pass without turning round for a second look. Teresa, eyeing him + with reluctant curiosity, drew back a step, and privately reviled him (in + the secrecy of her own language) as an ugly beast! Even his name startled + people by the outlandish sound of it. Those enemies who called him “the + living skeleton” said it revealed his gipsy origin. In medical and + scientific circles he was well and widely known as—Doctor Benjulia. + </p> + <p> + Zo ran away with his bamboo stick. After a passing look of gloomy + indifference at the duenna, he called to the child to come back. + </p> + <p> + She obeyed him in an oddly indirect way, as if she had been returning + against her will. At the same time she looked up in his face, with an + absence of shyness which showed, like the snatching away of his stick, + that she was familiarly acquainted with him, and accustomed to take + liberties. And yet there was an expression of uneasy expectation in her + round attentive eyes. “Do you want it back again?” she asked, offering the + stick. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. What would your mother say to me, if you tumbled over my + big bamboo, and dashed out your brains on this hard gravel walk?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been to see Mama?” Zo asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have <i>not</i> been to see Mama—but I know what she would say to + me if you dashed out your brains, for all that.” + </p> + <p> + “What would she say?” + </p> + <p> + “She would say—Doctor Benjulia, your name ought to be Herod.”’ + </p> + <p> + “Who was Herod?” + </p> + <p> + “Herod was a Royal Jew, who killed little girls when they took away his + walking-stick. Come here, child. Shall I tickle you?” + </p> + <p> + “I knew you’d say that,” Zo answered. + </p> + <p> + When men in general thoroughly enjoy the pleasure of talking nonsense to + children, they can no more help smiling than they can help breathing. The + doctor was an extraordinary exception to this rule; his grim face never + relaxed—not even when Zo reminded him that one of his favourite + recreations was tickling her. She obeyed, however, with the curious + appearance of reluctant submission showing itself once more. He put two of + his soft big finger-tips on her spine, just below the back of her neck, + and pressed on the place. Zo started and wriggled under his touch. He + observed her with as serious an interest as if he had been conducting a + medical experiment. “That’s how you make our dog kick with his leg,” said + Zo, recalling her experience of the doctor in the society of the dog. “How + do you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “I touch the Cervical Plexus,” Doctor Benjulia answered as gravely as + ever. + </p> + <p> + This attempt at mystifying the child failed completely. Zo considered the + unknown tongue in which he had answered her as being equivalent to + lessons. She declined to notice the Cervical Plexus, and returned to the + little terrier at home. “Do you think the dog likes it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the dog. Do <i>you</i> like it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Benjulia turned to Teresa. His gloomy gray eyes rested on her, as + they might have rested on any inanimate object near him—on the + railing that imprisoned the birds, or on the pipes that kept the + monkey-house warm. “I have been playing the fool, ma’am, with this child,” + he said; “and I fear I have detained you. I beg your pardon.” He pulled + off his episcopal hat, and walked grimly on, without taking any further + notice of Zo. + </p> + <p> + Teresa made her best courtesy in return. The magnificent civility of the + ugly giant daunted, while it flattered her. “The manners of a prince,” she + said, “and the complexion of a gipsy. Is he a nobleman?” + </p> + <p> + Zo answered, “He’s a doctor,”—as if that was something much better. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like him?” Teresa inquired next. + </p> + <p> + Zo answered the duenna as she had answered the doctor: “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, Ovid and his cousin had not been unobservant of what was + passing at a little distance from them. Benjulia’s great height, and his + evident familiarity with the child, stirred Carmina’s curiosity. + </p> + <p> + Ovid seemed to be disinclined to talk of him. Miss Minerva made herself + useful, with the readiest politeness. She mentioned his odd name, and + described him as one of Mrs. Gallilee’s old friends. “Of late years,” she + proceeded, “he is said to have discontinued medical practice, and devoted + himself to chemical experiments. Nobody seems to know much about him. He + has built a house in a desolate field—in some lost suburban + neighbourhood that nobody can discover. In plain English, Dr. Benjulia is + a mystery.” + </p> + <p> + Hearing this, Carmina appealed again to Ovid. + </p> + <p> + “When I am asked riddles,” she said, “I am never easy till the answer is + guessed for me. And when I hear of mysteries, I am dying to have them + revealed. You are a doctor yourself. Do tell me something more!” + </p> + <p> + Ovid might have evaded her entreaties by means of an excuse. But her eyes + were irresistible: they looked him into submission in an instant. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Benjulia is what we call a Specialist,” he said. “I mean that he + only professes to treat certain diseases. Brains and nerves are Benjulia’s + diseases. Without quite discontinuing his medical practice, he limits + himself to serious cases—when other doctors are puzzled, you know, + and want him to help them. With this exception, he has certainly + sacrificed his professional interests to his mania for experiments in + chemistry. What those experiments are, nobody knows but himself. He keeps + the key of his laboratory about him by day and by night. When the place + wants cleaning, he does the cleaning with his own hands.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina listened with great interest: “Has nobody peeped in at the + windows?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “There are no windows—only a skylight in the roof.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t somebody get up on the roof, and look in through the skylight?” + </p> + <p> + Ovid laughed. “One of his men-servants is said to have tried that + experiment,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “And what did the servant see?” + </p> + <p> + “A large white blind, drawn under the skylight, and hiding the whole room + from view. Somehow, the doctor discovered him—and the man was + instantly dismissed. Of course there are reports which explain the mystery + of the doctor and his laboratory. One report says that he is trying to + find a way of turning common metals into gold. Another declares that he is + inventing some explosive compound, so horribly destructive that it will + put an end to war. All I can tell you is, that his mind (when I happen to + meet him) seems to be as completely absorbed as ever in brains and nerves. + But, what they can have to do with chemical experiments, secretly pursued + in a lonely field, is a riddle to which I have thus far found no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Is he married?” Carmina inquired. + </p> + <p> + The question seemed to amuse Ovid. “If Doctor Benjulia had a wife, you + think we might get at his secrets? There is no such chance for us—he + manages his domestic affairs for himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t he even got a housekeeper?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even a housekeeper!” + </p> + <p> + While he was making that reply, he saw the doctor slowly advancing towards + them. “Excuse me for one minute,” he resumed; “I will just speak to him, + and come back to you.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina turned to Miss Minerva in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Ovid seems to have some reason for keeping the tall man away from us,” + she said. “Does he dislike Doctor Benjulia?” + </p> + <p> + But for restraining motives, the governess might have gratified her hatred + of Carmina by a sharp reply. She had her reasons—not only after what + she had overheard in the conservatory, but after what she had seen in the + Gardens—for winning Carmina’s confidence, and exercising over her + the influence of a trusted friend. Miss Minerva made instant use of her + first opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you what I have noticed myself,” she said confidentially. + “When Mrs. Gallilee gives parties, I am allowed to be present—to see + the famous professors of science. On one of these occasions they were + talking of instinct and reason. Your cousin, Mr. Ovid Vere, said it was no + easy matter to decide where instinct ended and reason began. In his own + experience, he had sometimes found people of feeble minds, who judged by + instinct, arrive at sounder conclusions than their superiors in + intelligence, who judged by reason. The talk took another turn—and, + soon after, Doctor Benjulia joined the guests. I don’t know whether you + have observed that Mr. Gallilee is very fond of his stepson?” + </p> + <p> + Oh, yes! Carmina had noticed that. “I like Mr. Gallilee,” she said warmly; + “he is such a nice, kind-hearted, natural old man.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva concealed a sneer under a smile. Fond of Mr. Gallilee? what + simplicity! “Well,” she resumed, “the doctor paid his respects to the + master of the house, and then he shook hands with Mr. Ovid; and then the + scientific gentlemen all got round him, and had learned talk. Mr. Gallilee + came up to his stepson, looking a little discomposed. He spoke in a + whisper—you know his way?—‘Ovid, do you like Doctor Benjulia? + Don’t mention it; I hate him.’ Strong language for Mr. Gallilee, wasn’t + it? Mr. Ovid said, ‘Why do you hate him?’ And poor Mr. Gallilee answered + like a child, ‘Because I do.’ Some ladies came in, and the old gentleman + left us to speak to them. I ventured to say to Mr. Ovid, ‘Is that instinct + or reason?’ He took it quite seriously. ‘Instinct,’ he said—‘and it + troubles me.’ I leave you, Miss Carmina, to draw your own conclusion.” + </p> + <p> + They both looked up. Ovid and the doctor were walking slowly away from + them, and were just passing Teresa and the child. At the same moment, one + of the keepers of the animals approached Benjulia. After they had talked + together for a while, the man withdrew. Zo (who had heard it all, and had + understood a part of it) ran up to Carmina, charged with news. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a sick monkey in the gardens, in a room all by himself!” the + child cried. “And, I say, look there!” She pointed excitedly to Benjulia + and Ovid, walking on again slowly in the direction of the aviaries. + “There’s the big doctor who tickles me! He says he’ll see the poor monkey, + as soon as he’s done with Ovid. And what do you think he said besides? He + said perhaps he’d take the monkey home with him.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what’s the matter with the poor creature?” Carmina asked. + </p> + <p> + “After what Mr. Ovid has told us, I think I know,” Miss Minerva answered. + “Doctor Benjulia wouldn’t be interested in the monkey unless it had a + disease of the brain.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> + <p> + Ovid had promised to return to Carmina in a minute. The minutes passed, + and still Doctor Benjulia held him in talk. + </p> + <p> + Now that he was no longer seeking amusement, in his own dreary way, by + mystifying Zo, the lines seemed to harden in the doctor’s fleshless face. + A scrupulously polite man, he was always cold in his politeness. He waited + to have his hand shaken, and waited to be spoken to. And yet, on this + occasion, he had something to say. When Ovid opened the conversation, he + changed the subject directly. + </p> + <p> + “Benjulia! what brings You to the Zoological Gardens?” + </p> + <p> + “One of the monkeys has got brain disease; and they fancy I might like to + see the beast before they kill him. Have you been thinking lately of that + patient we lost?” + </p> + <p> + Not at the moment remembering the patient, Ovid made no immediate reply. + The doctor seemed to distrust his silence. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say you have forgotten the case?” he resumed. “We + called it hysteria, not knowing what else it was. I don’t forgive the girl + for slipping through our fingers; I hate to be beaten by Death, in that + way. Have you made up your mind what to do, on the next occasion? Perhaps + you think you could have saved her life if you had been sent for, now?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed, I am just as ignorant—” + </p> + <p> + “Give ignorance time,” Benjulia interposed, “and ignorance will become + knowledge—if a man is in earnest. The proper treatment might occur + to you to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + He held to his idea with such obstinacy that Ovid set him right, rather + impatiently. “The proper treatment has as much chance of occurring to the + greatest ass in the profession,” he answered, “as it has of occurring to + me. I can put my mind to no good medical use; my work has been too much + for me. I am obliged to give up practice, and rest—for a time.” + </p> + <p> + Not even a formal expression of sympathy escaped Doctor Benjulia. Having + been a distrustful friend so far, he became an inquisitive friend now. + “You’re going away, of course,” he said. “Where to? On the Continent? Not + to Italy—if you really want to recover your health!” + </p> + <p> + “What is the objection to Italy?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor put his great hand solemnly on his young friend’s shoulder. + “The medical schools in that country are recovering their past + reputation,” he said. “They are becoming active centres of physiological + inquiry. You will be dragged into it, to a dead certainty. They’re sure to + try what they can strike out by collision with a man like you. What will + become of that overworked mind of yours, when a lot of professors are + searching it without mercy? Have you ever been to Canada?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been everywhere. Canada is just the place for you, in this summer + season. Bracing air; and steady-going doctors who leave the fools in + Europe to pry into the secrets of Nature. Thousands of miles of land, if + you like riding. Thousands of miles of water, if you like sailing. Pack + up, and go to Canada.” + </p> + <p> + What did all this mean? Was he afraid that his colleague might stumble on + some discovery which he was in search of himself? And did the discovery + relate to his own special subject of brains and nerves? Ovid made an + attempt to understand him. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me something about yourself, Benjulia,” he said. “Are you returning + to your regular professional work?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia struck his bamboo stick emphatically on the gravel-walk. “Never! + Unless I know more than I know now.” + </p> + <p> + This surely meant that he was as much devoted to his chemical experiments + as ever? In that case, how could Ovid (who knew nothing of chemical + experiments) be an obstacle in the doctor’s way? Baffled thus far, he made + another attempt at inducing Benjulia to explain himself. + </p> + <p> + “When is the world to hear of your discoveries?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The doctor’s massive forehead gathered ominously into a frown, “Damn the + world!” That was his only reply. + </p> + <p> + Ovid was not disposed to allow himself to be kept in the dark in this way. + “I suppose you are going on with your experiments?” he said. + </p> + <p> + The gloom of Benjulia’s grave eyes deepened: they stared with a stern + fixedness into vacancy. His great head bent slowly over his broad breast. + The whole man seemed to be shut up in himself. “I go on a way of my own,” + he growled. “Let nobody cross it.” + </p> + <p> + After that reply, to persist in making inquiries would only have ended in + needlessly provoking an irritable man. Ovid looked back towards Carmina. + “I must return to my friends,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The doctor lifted his head, like a man awakened. “Have I been rude?” he + asked. “Don’t talk to me about my experiments. That’s my raw place, and + you hit me on it. What did you say just now? Friends? who are your + friends?” He rubbed his hand savagely over his forehead—it was a way + he had of clearing his mind. “I know,” he went on. “I saw your friends + just now. Who’s the young lady?” His most intimate companions had never + heard him laugh: they had sometimes seen his thin-lipped mouth widen + drearily into a smile. It widened now. “Whoever she is,” he proceeded, “Zo + wonders why you don’t kiss her.” + </p> + <p> + This specimen of Benjulia’s attempts at pleasantry was not exactly to + Ovid’s taste. He shifted the topic to his little sister. “You were always + fond of Zo,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia looked thoroughly puzzled. Fondness for anybody was, to all + appearance, one of the few subjects on which he had not qualified himself + to offer an opinion. He gave his head another savage rub, and returned to + the subject of the young lady. “Who is she?” he asked again. + </p> + <p> + “My cousin,” Ovid replied as shortly as possible. + </p> + <p> + “Your cousin? A girl of Lady Northlake’s?” + </p> + <p> + “No: my late uncle’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia suddenly came to a standstill. “What!” he cried, “has that + misbegotten child grown up to be a woman?”’ + </p> + <p> + Ovid started. Words of angry protest were on his lips, when he perceived + Teresa and Zo on one side of him, and the keeper of the monkeys on the + other. Benjulia dismissed the man, with the favourable answer which Zo had + already reported. They walked on again. Ovid was at liberty to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what you said of my cousin, just now?” he began. + </p> + <p> + His tone seemed to surprise the doctor. “What did I say?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You used a very offensive word. You called Carmina a ‘misbegotten child.’ + Are you repeating some vile slander on the memory of her mother?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia came to another standstill. “Slander?” he repeated—and said + no more. + </p> + <p> + Ovid’s anger broke out. “Yes!” he replied. “Or a lie, if you like, told of + a woman as high above reproach as your mother or mine!” + </p> + <p> + “You are hot,” the doctor remarked, and walked on again. “When I was in + Italy—” he paused to calculate, “when I was at Rome, fifteen years + ago, your cousin was a wretched little rickety child. I said to Robert + Graywell, ‘Don’t get too fond of that girl; she’ll never live to grow up.’ + He said something about taking her away to the mountain air. I didn’t + think, myself, the mountain air would be of any use. It seems I was wrong. + Well! it’s a surprise to me to find her—” he waited, and calculated + again, “to find her grown up to be seventeen years old.” To Ovid’s ears, + there was an inhuman indifference in his tone as he said this, which it + was impossible not to resent, by looks, if not in words. Benjulia noticed + the impression that he had produced, without in the least understanding + it. “Your nervous system’s in a nasty state,” he remarked; “you had better + take care of yourself. I’ll go and look at the monkey.” + </p> + <p> + His face was like the face of the impenetrable sphinx; his deep bass voice + droned placidly. Ovid’s anger had passed by him like the passing of the + summer air. “Good-bye!” he said; “and take care of those nasty nerves. I + tell you again—they mean mischief.” + </p> + <p> + Not altogether willingly, Ovid made his apologies. “If I have + misunderstood you, I beg your pardon. At the same time, I don’t think I am + to blame. Why did you mislead me by using that detestable word?” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t it the right word?” + </p> + <p> + “The right word—when you only wanted to speak of a poor sickly + child! Considering that you took your degree at Oxford—” + </p> + <p> + “You could expect nothing better from the disadvantages of my education,” + said the doctor, finishing the sentence with the grave composure that + distinguished him. “When I said ‘misbegotten,’ perhaps I ought to have + said ‘half-begotten’? Thank you for reminding me. I’ll look at the + dictionary when I get home.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid’s mind was not set at ease yet. “There’s one other thing,” he + persisted, “that seems unaccountable.” He started, and seized Benjulia by + the arm. “Stop!” he cried, with a sudden outburst of alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” asked the doctor, stopping directly. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” said Ovid, recoiling from a stain on the gravel walk, caused by + the remains of an unlucky beetle, crushed under his friend’s heavy foot. + “You trod on the beetle before I could stop you.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia’s astonishment at finding an adult male human being (not in a + lunatic asylum) anxious to spare the life of a beetle, literally struck + him speechless. His medical instincts came to his assistance. “You had + better leave London at once,” he suggested. “Get into pure air, and be out + of doors all day long.” He turned over the remains of the beetle with the + end of his stick. “The common beetle,” he said; “I haven’t damaged a + Specimen.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid returned to the subject, which had suffered interruption through his + abortive little act of mercy. “You knew my uncle in Italy. It seems + strange, Benjulia, that I should never have heard of it before.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I knew your uncle; and,” he added with especial emphasis, “I knew + his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can’t say I felt any particular interest in either of them. + Nothing happened afterwards to put me in mind of the acquaintance till you + told me who the young lady was, just now. + </p> + <p> + “Surely my mother must have reminded you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I can remember. Women in her position don’t much fancy talking + of a relative who has married”—he stopped to choose his next words. + “I don’t want to be rude; suppose we say married beneath him?” + </p> + <p> + Reflection told Ovid that this was true. Even in conversation with himself + (before the arrival in England of Robert’s Will), his mother rarely + mentioned her brother—and still more rarely his family. There was + another reason for Mrs. Gallilee’s silence, known only to herself. Robert + was in the secret of her debts, and Robert had laid her under heavy + pecuniary obligations. The very sound of his name was revolting to his + amiable sister: it reminded her of that humiliating sense, known in + society as a sense of gratitude. + </p> + <p> + Carmina was still waiting—and there was nothing further to be gained + by returning to the subject of her mother with such a man as Benjulia. + Ovid held out his hand to say good-bye. + </p> + <p> + Taking the offered hand readily enough, the doctor repeated his odd + question—“I haven’t been rude, have I?”—with an unpleasant + appearance of going through a form purely for form’s sake. Ovid’s natural + generosity of feeling urged him to meet the advance, strangely as it had + been made, with a friendly reception. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid it is I who have been rude,” he said. “Will you go back with + me, and be introduced to Carmina?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia made his acknowledgments in his own remarkable way. “No, thank + you,” he said, quietly, “I’d rather see the monkey.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> + <p> + In the meantime, Zo had become the innocent cause of a difference of + opinion between two no less dissimilar personages than Maria and the + duenna. + </p> + <p> + Having her mind full of the sick monkey, the child felt a natural + curiosity to see the other monkeys who were well. Amiable Miss Minerva + consulted her young friend from Italy before she complied with Zo’s + wishes. Would Miss Carmina like to visit the monkey-house? Ovid’s cousin, + remembering Ovid’s promise, looked towards the end of the walk. He was not + returning to her—he was not even in sight. Carmina resigned herself + to circumstances, with a little air of pique which was duly registered in + Miss Minerva’s memory. + </p> + <p> + Arriving at the monkey-house, Teresa appeared in a new character. She + surprised her companions by showing an interest in natural history. + </p> + <p> + “Are they all monkeys in that big place?” she asked. “I don’t know much + about foreign beasts. How do they like it, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + This comprehensive inquiry was addressed to the governess, as the most + learned person present. Miss Minerva referred to her elder pupil with an + encouraging smile. “Maria will inform you,” she said. “Her studies in + natural history have made her well acquainted with the habits of monkeys.” + </p> + <p> + Thus authorised to exhibit her learning, even the discreet Maria actually + blushed with pleasure. It was that young lady’s most highly-prized reward + to display her knowledge (in imitation of her governess’s method of + instruction) for the benefit of unfortunate persons of the lower rank, + whose education had been imperfectly carried out. The tone of amiable + patronage with which she now imparted useful information to a woman old + enough to be her grandmother, would have made the hands of the bygone + generation burn to box her ears. + </p> + <p> + “The monkeys are kept in large and airy cages,” Maria began; “and the + temperature is regulated with the utmost care. I shall be happy to point + out to you the difference between the monkey and the ape. You are not + perhaps aware that the members of the latter family are called ‘Simiadae,’ + and are without tails and cheek-pouches?” + </p> + <p> + Listening so far in dumb amazement, Teresa checked the flow of information + at tails and cheek-pouches. + </p> + <p> + “What gibberish is this child talking to me?” she asked. “I want to know + how the monkeys amuse themselves in that large house?” + </p> + <p> + Maria’s perfect training condescended to enlighten even this state of + mind. + </p> + <p> + “They have ropes to swing on,” she answered sweetly; “and visitors feed + them through the wires of the cage. Branches of trees are also placed for + their diversion; reminding many of them no doubt of the vast tropical + forests in which, as we learn from travellers, they pass in flocks from + tree to tree.” + </p> + <p> + Teresa held up her hand as a signal to stop. “A little of You, my young + lady, goes a long way,” she said. “Consider how much I can hold, before + you cram me at this rate.” + </p> + <p> + Maria was bewildered, but nor daunted yet. “Pardon me,” she pleaded; “I + fear I don’t quite understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there are two of us puzzled,” the duenna remarked. <i>“I</i> don’t + understand <i>you.</i> I shan’t go into that house. A Christian can’t be + expected to care about beasts—but right is right all the world over. + Because a monkey is a nasty creature (as I have heard, not even good to + eat when he’s dead), that’s no reason for taking him out of his own + country and putting him into a cage. If we are to see creatures in prison, + let’s see creatures who have deserved it—men and women, rogues and + sluts. The monkeys haven’t deserved it. Go in—I’ll wait for you at + the door.” + </p> + <p> + Setting her bitterest emphasis on this protest, which expressed inveterate + hostility to Maria (using compassion for caged animals as the readiest + means at hand), Teresa seated herself in triumph on the nearest bench. + </p> + <p> + A young person, possessed of no more than ordinary knowledge, might have + left the old woman to enjoy the privilege of saying the last word. Miss + Minerva’s pupil, exuding information as it were at every pore in her skin, + had been rudely dried up at a moment’s notice. Even earthly perfection has + its weak places within reach. Maria lost her temper. + </p> + <p> + “You will allow me to remind you,” she said, “that intelligent curiosity + leads us to study the habits of animals that are new to us. We place them + in a cage—” + </p> + <p> + Teresa lost <i>her</i> temper. + </p> + <p> + “You’re an animal that’s new to me,” cried the irate duenna. “I never in + all my life met with such a child before. If you please, madam governess, + put this girl into a cage. My intelligent curiosity wants to study a + monkey that’s new to me.” + </p> + <p> + It was fortunate for Teresa that she was Carmina’s favourite and friend, + and, as such, a person to be carefully handled. Miss Minerva stopped the + growing quarrel with the readiest discretion and good-feeling. She patted + Teresa on the shoulder, and looked at Carmina with a pleasant smile. + “Worthy old creature! how full of humour she is! The energy of the people, + Miss Carmina. I often remark the quaint force with which they express + their ideas. No—not a word of apology, I beg and pray. Maria, my + dear, take your sister’s hand, and we will follow.” She put her arm in + Carmina’s arm with the happiest mixture of familiarity and respect, and + she nodded to Carmina’s old companion with the cordiality of a + good-humoured friend. + </p> + <p> + Teresa was not further irritated by being kept waiting for any length of + time. In a few minutes Carmina joined her on the bench. + </p> + <p> + “Tired of the beasts already, my pretty one?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse than tired—driven away by the smell! Dear old Teresa, why did + you speak so roughly to Miss Minerva and Maria?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I hate them! because I hate the family! Was your poor father + demented in his last moments, when he trusted you among these detestable + people?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina listened in astonishment. “You said just the contrary of the + family,” she exclaimed, “only yesterday!” + </p> + <p> + Teresa hung her head in confusion. Her well-meant attempt to reconcile + Carmina to the new life on which she had entered was now revealed as a + sham, thanks to her own outbreak of temper. The one honest alternative + left was to own the truth, and put Carmina on her guard without alarming + her, if possible. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll never tell a lie again, as long as I live,” Teresa declared. “You + see I didn’t like to discourage you. After all, I dare say I’m more wrong + than right in my opinion. But it <i>is</i> my opinion, for all that. I + hate those women, mistress and governess, both alike. There! now it’s out. + Are you angry with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I am never angry with you, my old friend; I am only a little vexed. Don’t + say you hate people, after only knowing them for a day or two! I am sure + Miss Minerva has been very kind—to me, as well as to you. I feel + ashamed of myself already for having begun by disliking her.” + </p> + <p> + Teresa took her young mistress’s hand, and patted it compassionately. + “Poor innocent, if you only had my experience to help you! There are good + ones and bad ones among all creatures. I say to you the Gallilees are bad + ones! Even their music-master (I saw him this morning) looks like a rogue. + You will tell me the poor old gentleman is harmless, surely. I shall not + contradict that—I shall only ask, what is the use of a man who is as + weak as water? Oh, I like him, but I distinguish! I also like Zo. But what + is a child—especially when that beastly governess has muddled her + unfortunate little head with learning? No, my angel, there’s but one + person among these people who comforts me, when I think of the day that + will part us. Ha! do I see a little colour coming into your cheeks? You + sly girl! you know who it is. <i>There</i> is what I call a Man! If I was + as young as you are, and as pretty as you are—” + </p> + <p> + A warning gesture from Carmina closed Teresa’s lips. Ovid was rapidly + approaching them. + </p> + <p> + He looked a little annoyed, and he made his apologies without mentioning + the doctor’s name. His cousin was interested enough in him already to ask + herself what this meant. Did he really dislike Benjulia, and had there + been some disagreement between them? + </p> + <p> + “Was the tall doctor so very interesting?” she ventured to inquire. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least!” He answered as if the subject was disagreeable to him—and + yet he returned to it. “By-the-by, did you ever hear Benjulia’s name + mentioned, at home in Italy?” + </p> + <p> + “Never! Did he know my father and mother?” + </p> + <p> + “He says so.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do introduce me to him!” + </p> + <p> + “We must wait a little. He prefers being introduced to the monkey to-day. + Where are Miss Minerva and the children?” + </p> + <p> + Teresa replied. She pointed to the monkey-house, and then drew Ovid aside. + “Take her to see some more birds, and trust me to keep the governess out + of your way,” whispered the good creature. “Make love—hot love to + her, doctor!” + </p> + <p> + In a minute more the cousins were out of sight. How are you to make love + to a young girl, after an acquaintance of a day or two? The question would + have been easily answered by some men. It thoroughly puzzled Ovid. + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad to get back to you!” he said, honestly opening his mind to + her. “Were you half as glad when you saw me return?” + </p> + <p> + He knew nothing of the devious and serpentine paths by which love finds + the way to its ends. It had not occurred to him to approach her with those + secret tones and stolen looks which speak for themselves. She answered + with the straightforward directness of which he had set the example. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you don’t think me insensible to your kindness,” she said. “I am + more pleased and more proud than I can tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Proud!” Ovid repeated, not immediately understanding her. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” she asked. “My poor father used to say you would be an honour + to the family. Ought I not to be proud, when I find such a man taking so + much notice of me?” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him shyly. At that moment, he would have resigned all his + prospects of celebrity for the privilege of kissing her. He made another + attempt to bring her—in spirit—a little nearer to him. + </p> + <p> + “Carmina, do you remember where you first saw me?” + </p> + <p> + “How can you ask?—it was in the concert-room. When I saw you there, + I remembered passing you in the large Square. It seems a strange + coincidence that you should have gone to the very concert that Teresa and + I went to by accident.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid ran the risk, and made his confession. “It was no coincidence,” he + said. “After our meeting in the Square I followed you to the concert.” + </p> + <p> + This bold avowal would have confused a less innocent girl. It only took + Carmina by surprise. + </p> + <p> + “What made you follow us?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Us? Did she suppose he had followed the old woman? Ovid lost no time in + setting her right. “I didn’t even see Teresa,” he said. “I followed You.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent. What did her silence mean? Was she confused, or was she + still at a loss to understand him? That morbid sensitiveness, which was + one of the most serious signs of his failing health, was by this time + sufficiently irritated to hurry him into extremities. “Did you ever hear,” + he asked, “of such a thing as love at first sight?” + </p> + <p> + She started. Surprise, confusion, doubt, succeeded each other in rapid + changes on her mobile and delicate face. Still silent, she roused her + courage, and looked at him. + </p> + <p> + If he had returned the look, he would have told the story of his first + love without another word to help him. But his shattered nerves unmanned + him, at the moment of all others when it was his interest to be bold. The + fear that he might have allowed himself to speak too freely—a + weakness which would never have misled him in his days of health and + strength—kept his eyes on the ground. She looked away again with a + quick flush of shame. When such a man as Ovid spoke of love at first + sight, what an instance of her own vanity it was to have thought that his + mind was dwelling on <i>her!</i> He had kindly lowered himself to the + level of a girl’s intelligence, and had been trying to interest her by + talking the language of romance. She was so dissatisfied with herself that + she made a movement to turn back. + </p> + <p> + He was too bitterly disappointed, on his side, to attempt to prolong the + interview. A deadly sense of weakness was beginning to overpower him. It + was the inevitable result of his utter want of care for himself. After a + sleepless night, he had taken a long walk before breakfast; and to these + demands on his failing reserves of strength, he had now added the fatigue + of dawdling about a garden. Physically and mentally he had no energy left. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean it,” he said to Carmina sadly; “I am afraid I have offended + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how little you know me,” she cried, “if you think that!” + </p> + <p> + This time their eyes met. The truth dawned on her—and he saw it. + </p> + <p> + He took her hand. The clammy coldness of his grasp startled her. “Do you + still wonder why I followed you?” he asked. The words were so faintly + uttered that she could barely hear them. Heavy drops of perspiration stood + on his forehead; his face faded to a gray and ghastly whiteness—he + staggered, and tried desperately to catch at the branch of a tree near + them. She threw her arms round him. With all her little strength she tried + to hold him up. Her utmost effort only availed to drag him to the grass + plot by their side, and to soften his fall. Even as the cry for help + passed her lips, she saw help coming. A tall man was approaching her—not + running, even when he saw what had happened; only stalking with long + strides. He was followed by one of the keepers of the gardens. Doctor + Benjulia had his sick monkey to take care of. He kept the creature + sheltered under his long frock-coat. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t do that, if you please,” was all the doctor said, as Carmina tried + to lift Ovid’s head from the grass. He spoke with his customary composure, + and laid his hand on the heart of the fainting man, as coolly as if it had + been the heart of a stranger. “Which of you two can run the fastest?” he + asked, looking backwards and forwards between Carmina and the keeper. “I + want some brandy.” + </p> + <p> + The refreshment room was within sight. Before the keeper quite understood + what was required of him, Carmina was speeding over the grass like + Atalanta herself. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia looked after her, with his usual grave attention. “That wench can + run,” he said to himself, and turned once more to Ovid. “In his state of + health, he’s been fool enough to over-exert himself.” So he disposed of + the case in his own mind. Having done that, he remembered the monkey, + deposited for the time being on the grass. “Too cold for him,” he + remarked, with more appearance of interest than he had shown yet. “Here, + keeper! Pick up the monkey till I’m ready to take him again.” The man + hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “He might bite me, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Pick him up!” the doctor reiterated; “he can’t bite anybody, after what + I’ve done to him.” The monkey was indeed in a state of stupor. The keeper + obeyed his instructions, looking half stupefied himself: he seemed to be + even more afraid of the doctor than of the monkey. “Do you think I’m the + Devil?” Benjulia asked with dismal irony. The man looked as if he would + say “Yes,” if he dared. + </p> + <p> + Carmina came running back with the brandy. The doctor smelt it first, and + then took notice of her. “Out of breath?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you give him the brandy?” she answered impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Strong lungs,” Benjulia proceeded, sitting down cross-legged by Ovid, and + administering the stimulant without hurrying himself. “Some girls would + not have been able to speak, after such a run as you have had. I didn’t + think much of you or your lungs when you were a baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he coming to himself?” Carmina asked. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what a pump is?” Benjulia rejoined. “Very well; a pump + sometimes gets out of order. Give the carpenter time, and he’ll put it + right again.” He let his mighty hand drop on Ovid’s breast. <i>“This</i> + pump is out of order; and I’m the carpenter. Give me time, and I’ll set it + right again. You’re not a bit like your mother.” + </p> + <p> + Watching eagerly for the slightest signs of recovery in Ovid’s face, + Carmina detected a faint return of colour. She was so relieved that she + was able to listen to the doctor’s oddly discursive talk, and even to join + in it. “Some of our friends used to think I was like my father,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + “Did they?” said Benjulia—and shut his thin-lipped mouth as if he + was determined to drop the subject for ever. + </p> + <p> + Ovid stirred feebly, and half opened his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia got up. “You don’t want me any longer,” he said. “Now, Mr. + Keeper, give me back the monkey.” He dismissed the man, and tucked the + monkey under one arm as if it had been a bundle. “There are your friends,” + he resumed, pointing to the end of the walk. “Good-day!” + </p> + <p> + Carmina stopped him. Too anxious to stand on ceremony, she laid her hand + on his arm. He shook it off—not angrily: just brushing it away, as + he might have brushed away the ash of his cigar or a splash of mud in the + street. + </p> + <p> + “What does this fainting fit mean?” she asked timidly. “Is Ovid going to + be ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Seriously ill—unless you do the right thing with him, and do it at + once.” He walked away. She followed him, humbly and yet resolutely. “Tell + me, if you please,” she said, “what we are to do.” + </p> + <p> + He looked back over his shoulder. “Send him away.” + </p> + <p> + She returned, and knelt down by Ovid—still slowly reviving. With a + fond and gentle hand, she wiped the moisture from his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Just as we were beginning to understand each other!” she said to herself, + with a sad little sigh. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> + <p> + Two days passed. In spite of the warnings that he had received, Ovid + remained in London. + </p> + <p> + The indisputable authority of Benjulia had no more effect on him than the + unanswerable arguments of Mrs. Gallilee. “Recent circumstances” (as his + mother expressed it) “had strengthened his infatuated resistance to + reason.” The dreaded necessity for Teresa’s departure had been hastened by + a telegram from Italy: Ovid felt for Carmina’s distress with sympathies + which made her dearer to him than ever. On the second morning after the + visit to the Zoological Gardens, her fortitude had been severely tried. + She had found the telegram under her pillow, enclosed in a farewell + letter. Teresa had gone. + </p> + <p> + “My Carmina,—I have kissed you, and cried over you, and I am writing + good-bye as well as my poor eyes will let me. Oh, my heart’s darling, I + cannot be cruel enough to wake you, and see you suffer! Forgive me for + going away, with only this dumb farewell. I am so fond of you—that + is my only excuse. While he still lives, my helpless old man has his claim + on me. Write by every post, and trust me to write back—and remember + what I said when I spoke of Ovid. Love the good man who loves <i>you;</i> + and try to make the best of the others. They cannot surely be cruel to the + poor angel who depends on their kindness. Oh, how hard life is—” + </p> + <p> + The paper was blotted, and the rest was illegible. + </p> + <p> + The miserable day of Teresa’s departure was passed by Carmina in the + solitude of her room: gently and firmly, she refused to see anyone. This + strange conduct added to Mrs. Gallilee’s anxieties. Already absorbed in + considering Ovid’s obstinacy, and the means of overcoming it, she was now + confronted by a resolute side in the character of her niece, which took + her by surprise. There might be difficulties to come, in managing Carmina, + which she had not foreseen. Meanwhile, she was left to act on her own + unaided discretion in the serious matter of her son’s failing health. + Benjulia had refused to help her; he was too closely occupied in his + laboratory to pay or receive visits. “I have already given my advice” (the + doctor wrote). “Send him away. When he has had a month’s change, let me + see his letters; and then, if I have anything more to say, I will tell you + what I think of your son.” + </p> + <p> + Left in this position, Mrs. Gallilee’s hard self-denial yielded to the one + sound conclusion that lay before her. The only influence that could be now + used over Ovid, with the smallest chance of success, was the influence of + Carmina. Three days after Teresa’s departure, she invited her niece to + take tea in her own boudoir. Carmina found her reading. “A charming book,” + she said, as she laid it down, “on a most interesting subject, + Geographical Botany. The author divides the earth into twenty-five + botanical regions—but, I forget; you are not like Maria; you don’t + care about these things.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so ignorant,” Carmina pleaded. “Perhaps, I may know better when I + get older.” A book on the table attracted her by its beautiful binding. + She took it up. Mrs. Gallilee looked at her with compassionate good + humour. + </p> + <p> + “Science again, my dear,” she said facetiously, “inviting you in a pretty + dress! You have taken up the ‘Curiosities of Coprolites.’ That book is one + of my distinctions—a presentation copy from the author.” + </p> + <p> + “What are Coprolites?” Carmina asked, trying to inform herself on the + subject of her aunt’s distinctions. + </p> + <p> + Still good-humoured, but with an effort that began to appear, Mrs. + Gallilee lowered herself to the level of her niece. + </p> + <p> + “Coprolites,” she explained, “are the fossilised indigestions of extinct + reptiles. The great philosopher who has written that book has discovered + scales, bones, teeth, and shells—the undigested food of those + interesting Saurians. What a man! what a field for investigation! Tell me + about your own reading. What have you found in the library?” + </p> + <p> + “Very interesting books—at least to me,” Carmina answered. “I have + found many volumes of poetry. Do you ever read poetry?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee laid herself back in her chair, and submitted patiently to + her niece’s simplicity. “Poetry?” she repeated, in accents of resignation. + “Oh, good heavens!” + </p> + <p> + Unlucky Carmina tried a more promising topic. “What beautiful flowers you + have in the drawing-room!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing remarkable, my dear. Everybody has flowers in their drawing-rooms—they + are part of the furniture.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you arrange them yourself, aunt?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee still endured it. “The florist’s man,” she said, “does all + that. I sometimes dissect flowers, but I never trouble myself to arrange + them. What would be the use of the man if I did?” This view of the + question struck Carmina dumb. Mrs. Gallilee went on. “By-the-by, talking + of flowers reminds one of other superfluities. Have you tried the piano in + your room? Will it do?” + </p> + <p> + “The tone is quite perfect!” Carmina answered with enthusiasm. “Did you + choose it?” Mrs. Gallilee looked as if she was going to say “Good + Heavens!” again, and perhaps to endure it no longer. Carmina was too + simple to interpret these signs in the right way. Why should her aunt not + choose a piano? “Don’t you like music?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee made a last effort. “When you see a little more of society, + my child, you will know that one <i>must</i> like music. So again with + pictures—one <i>must</i> go to the Royal Academy Exhibition. So + again—” + </p> + <p> + Before she could mention any more social sacrifices, the servant came in + with a letter, and stopped her. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee looked at the address. The weary indifference of her manner + changed to vivid interest, the moment she saw the handwriting. “From the + Professor!” she exclaimed. “Excuse me, for one minute.” She read the + letter, and closed it again with a sigh of relief. “I knew it!” she said + to herself. “I have always maintained that the albuminoid substance of + frog’s eggs is insufficient (viewed as nourishment) to transform a tadpole + into a frog—and, at last, the Professor owns that I am right. I beg + your pardon, Carmina; I am carried away by a subject that I have been + working at in my stolen intervals for weeks past. Let me give you some + tea. I have asked Miss Minerva to join us. What is keeping her, I wonder? + She is usually so punctual. I suppose Zoe has been behaving badly again.” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes more, the governess herself confirmed this maternal + forewarning of the truth. Zo had declined to commit to memory “the + political consequences of the granting of Magna Charta”—and now + stood reserved for punishment, when her mother “had time to attend to it.” + Mrs. Gallilee at once disposed of this little responsibility. “Bread and + water for tea,” she said, and proceeded to the business of the evening. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to speak to you both,” she began, “on the subject of my son.” + </p> + <p> + The two persons addressed waited in silence to hear more. Carmina’s head + drooped: she looked down. Miss Minerva attentively observed Mrs. Gallilee. + “Why am I invited to hear what she has to say about her son?” was the + question which occurred to the governess. “Is she afraid that Carmina + might tell me about it, if I was not let into the family secrets?” + </p> + <p> + Admirably reasoned, and correctly guessed! + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee had latterly observed that the governess was insinuating + herself into the confidence of her niece—that is to say, into the + confidence of a young lady, whose father was generally reported to have + died in possession of a handsome fortune. Personal influence, once + obtained over an heiress, is not infrequently misused. To check the + further growth of a friendship of this sort (without openly offending Miss + Minerva) was an imperative duty. Mrs. Gallilee saw her way to the discreet + accomplishment of that object. Her niece and her governess were interested—diversely + interested—in Ovid. If she invited them both together, to consult + with her on the delicate subject of her son, there would be every chance + of exciting some difference of opinion, sufficiently irritating to begin + the process of estrangement, by keeping them apart when they had left the + tea-table. + </p> + <p> + “It is most important that there should be no misunderstanding among us,” + Mrs. Gallilee proceeded. “Let me set the example of speaking without + reserve. We all three know that Ovid persists in remaining in London—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, on the point of finishing the sentence. Although she <i>had</i> + converted a Professor, Mrs. Gallilee was still only a woman. There did + enter into her other calculations, the possibility of exciting some + accidental betrayal of her governess’s passion for her son. On alluding to + Ovid, she turned suddenly to Miss Minerva. “I am sure you will excuse my + troubling you with family anxieties,” she said—“especially when they + are connected with the health of my son.” + </p> + <p> + It was cleverly done, but it laboured under one disadvantage. Miss Minerva + had no idea of what the needless apology meant, having no suspicion of the + discovery of her secret by her employer. But to feel herself baffled in + trying to penetrate Mrs. Gallilee’s motives was enough, of itself, to put + Mrs. Gallilee’s governess on her guard for the rest of the evening. + </p> + <p> + “You honour me, madam, by admitting me to your confidence”—was what + she said. “Trip me up, you cat, if you can!”—was what she thought. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee resumed. + </p> + <p> + “We know that Ovid persists in remaining in London, when change of air and + scene are absolutely necessary to the recovery of his health. And we know + why. Carmina, my child, don’t think for a moment that I blame you! don’t + even suppose that I blame my son. You are too charming a person not to + excuse, nay even to justify, any man’s admiration. But let us (as we hard + old people say) look the facts in the face. If Ovid had not seen you, he + would be now on the health-giving sea, on his way to Spain and Italy. You + are the innocent cause of his obstinate indifference, his most deplorable + and dangerous disregard of the duty which he owes to himself. He refuses + to listen to his mother, he sets the opinion of his skilled medical + colleague at defiance. But one person has any influence over him now.” She + paused again, and tried to trip up the governess once more. “Miss Minerva, + let me appeal to You. I regard you as a member of our family; I have the + sincerest admiration of your tact and good sense. Am I exceeding the + limits of delicacy, if I say plainly to my niece, Persuade Ovid to go?” + </p> + <p> + If Carmina had possessed an elder sister, with a plain personal appearance + and an easy conscience, not even that sister could have matched the + perfect composure with which Miss Minerva replied. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t possess your happy faculty of expressing yourself, Mrs. Gallilee. + But, if I had been in your place, I should have said to the best of my + poor ability exactly what you have said now.” She bent her head with a + graceful gesture of respect, and looked at Carmina with a gentle sisterly + interest while she stirred her tea. + </p> + <p> + At the very opening of the skirmish, Mrs. Gallilee was defeated. She had + failed to provoke the slightest sign of jealousy, or even of ill-temper. + Unquestionably the most crafty and most cruel woman of the two—possessing + the most dangerously deceitful manner, and the most mischievous readiness + of language—she was, nevertheless, Miss Minerva’s inferior in the + one supreme capacity of which they both stood in need, the capacity for + self-restraint. + </p> + <p> + She showed this inferiority on expressing her thanks. The underlying + malice broke through the smooth surface that was intended to hide it. “I + am apt to doubt myself,” she said; “and such sound encouragement as yours + always relieves me. Of course I don’t ask you for more than a word of + advice. Of course I don’t expect <i>you</i> to persuade Ovid.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not!” Miss Minerva agreed. “May I ask for a little more sugar + in my tea?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee turned to Carmina. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear? I have spoken to you, as I might have spoken to one of my + own daughters, if she had been of your age. Tell me frankly, in return, + whether I may count on your help.” + </p> + <p> + Still pale and downcast, Carmina obeyed. “I will do my best, if you wish + it. But—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? Go on.” + </p> + <p> + She still hesitated. Mrs. Gallilee tried gentle remonstrance. “My child, + surely you are not afraid of me?” + </p> + <p> + She was certainly afraid. But she controlled herself. + </p> + <p> + “You are Ovid’s mother, and I am only his cousin,” she resumed. “I don’t + like to hear you say that my influence over him is greater than yours.” + </p> + <p> + It was far from the poor girl’s intention; but there was an implied rebuke + in this. In her present state of irritation, Mrs. Gallilee felt it. + </p> + <p> + “Come! come!” she said. “Don’t affect to be ignorant, my dear, of what you + know perfectly well.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina lifted her head. For the first time in the experience of the two + elder women, this gentle creature showed that she could resent an insult. + The fine spirit that was in her fired her eyes, and fixed them firmly on + her aunt. + </p> + <p> + “Do you accuse me of deceit?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Let us call it false modesty,” Mrs. Gallilee retorted. + </p> + <p> + Carmina rose without another word—and walked out of the room. + </p> + <p> + In the extremity of her surprise, Mrs. Gallilee appealed to Miss Minerva. + “Is she in a passion?” + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t bang the door,” the governess quietly remarked. + </p> + <p> + “I am not joking, Miss Minerva.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not joking either, madam.” + </p> + <p> + The tone of that answer implied an uncompromising assertion of equality. + You are not to suppose (it said) that a lady drops below your level, + because she receives a salary and teaches your children. Mrs. Gallilee was + so angry, by this time, that she forgot the importance of preventing a + conference between Miss Minerva and her niece. For once, she was the + creature of impulse—the overpowering impulse to dismiss her insolent + governess from her hospitable table. + </p> + <p> + “May I offer you another cup of tea?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you—no more. May I return to my pupils?” + </p> + <p> + “By all means!” + </p> + <p> + Carmina had not been five minutes in her own room before she heard a knock + at the door. Had Mrs. Gallilee followed her? “Who is there?” she asked. + And a voice outside answered, + </p> + <p> + “Only Miss Minerva!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. + </h2> + <p> + “I am afraid I have startled you?” said the governess, carefully closing + the door. + </p> + <p> + “I thought it was my aunt,” Carmina answered, as simply as a child. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been crying?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t help it, Miss Minerva.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee spoke cruelly to you—I don’t wonder at your feeling + angry.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina gently shook her head. “I have been crying,” she explained, + “because I am sorry and ashamed. How can I make it up with my aunt? Shall + I go back at once and beg her pardon? I think you are my friend, Miss + Minerva. Will you advise me?” + </p> + <p> + It was so prettily and innocently said that even the governess was touched—for + a moment. “Shall I prove to you that I am your friend?” she proposed. “I + advise you not to go back yet to your aunt—and I will tell you why. + Mrs. Gallilee bears malice; she is a thoroughly unforgiving woman. And I + should be the first to feel it, if she knew what I have just said to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Miss Minerva! you don’t think that I would betray your confidence?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear, I don’t. I felt attracted towards you, when we first met. + You didn’t return the feeling—you (very naturally) disliked me. I am + ugly and ill-tempered: and, if there is anything good in me, it doesn’t + show itself on the surface. Yes! yes! I believe you are beginning to + understand me. If I can make your life here a little happier, as time goes + on, I shall be only too glad to do it.” She put her long yellow hands on + either side of Carmina’s head, and kissed her forehead. + </p> + <p> + The poor child threw her arms round Miss Minerva’s neck, and cried her + heart out on the bosom of the woman who was deceiving her. “I have nobody + left, now Teresa has gone,” she said. “Oh, do try to be kind to me—I + feel so friendless and so lonely!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva neither moved nor spoke. She waited, and let the girl cry. + </p> + <p> + Her heavy black eyebrows gathered into a frown; her sallow face deepened + in colour. She was in a state of rebellion against herself. Through all + the hardening influences of the woman’s life—through the + fortifications against good which watchful evil builds in human hearts—that + innocent outburst of trust and grief had broken its way; and had purified + for a while the fetid inner darkness with divine light. She had entered + the room, with her own base interests to serve. In her small sordid way + she, like her employer, was persecuted by debts—miserable debts to + sellers of expensive washes, which might render her ugly complexion more + passable in Ovid’s eyes; to makers of costly gloves, which might show Ovid + the shape of her hands, and hide their colour; to skilled workmen in fine + leather, who could tempt Ovid to look at her high instep, and her fine + ankle—the only beauties that she could reveal to the only man whom + she cared to please. For the time, those importunate creditors ceased to + threaten her. For the time, what she had heard in the conservatory, while + they were reading the Will, lost its tempting influence. She remained in + the room for half an hour more—and she left it without having + borrowed a farthing. + </p> + <p> + “Are you easier now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina dried her eyes, and looked shyly at Miss Minerva. “I have been + treating you as if I had a sister,” she said; “you don’t think me too + familiar, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I was your sister, God knows!” + </p> + <p> + The words were hardly out of her mouth before she was startled by her own + fervour. “Shall I tell you what to do with Mrs. Gallilee?” she said + abruptly. “Write her a little note.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes! and you will take it for me?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s eyes brightened through her tears, the suggestion was such a + relief! In a minute the note was written: “My dear Aunt, I have behaved + very badly, and I am very much ashamed of it. May I trust to your kind + indulgence to forgive me? I will try to be worthier of your kindness for + the future; and I sincerely beg your pardon.” She signed her name in + breathless haste. “Please take it at once!” she said eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva smiled. “If I take it,” she said, “I shall do harm instead of + good—I shall be accused of interfering. Give it to one of the + servants. Not yet! When Mrs. Gallilee is angry, she doesn’t get over it so + soon as you seem to think. Leave her to dabble in science first,” said the + governess in tones of immeasurable contempt. “When she has half stifled + herself with some filthy smell, or dissected some wretched insect or + flower, she may be in a better humour. Wait.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina thought of the happy days at home in Italy, when her father used + to laugh at her little outbreaks of temper, and good Teresa only shrugged + her shoulders. What a change—oh, me, what a change for the worse! + She drew from her bosom a locket, hung round her neck by a thin gold chain—and + opened it, and kissed the glass over the miniature portraits inside. + “Would you like to see them?” she said to Miss Minerva. “My mother’s + likeness was painted for me by my father; and then he had his photograph + taken to match it. I open my portraits and look at them, while I say my + prayers. It’s almost like having them alive again, sometimes. Oh, if I + only had my father to advise me now—!” Her heart swelled—but + she kept back the tears: she was learning that self-restraint, poor soul, + already! “Perhaps,” she went on, “I ought not to want advice. After that + fainting-fit in the Gardens, if I can persuade Ovid to leave us, I ought + to do it—and I will do it!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva crossed the room, and looked out of window. Carmina had + roused the dormant jealousy; Carmina had fatally weakened the good + influences which she had herself produced. The sudden silence of her new + friend perplexed her. She too went to the window. “Do you think it would + be taking a liberty?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + A short answer—and still looking out of window! Carmina tried again. + “Besides, there are my aunt’s wishes to consider. After my bad behaviour—” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva turned round from the window sharply. “Of course! There can’t + be a doubt of it.” Her tone softened a little. “You are young, Carmina—I + suppose I may call you by your name—you are young and simple. Do + those innocent eyes of yours ever see below the surface?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t quite understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think your aunt’s only motive in wishing Mr. Ovid Vere to leave + London is anxiety about his health? Do you feel no suspicion that she + wants to keep him away from You?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina toyed with her locket, in an embarrassment which she was quite + unable to disguise. “Are you afraid to trust me?” Miss Minerva asked. That + reproach opened the girl’s lips instantly. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid to tell you how foolish I am,” she answered. “Perhaps, I + still feel a little strangeness between us? It seems to be so formal to + call you Miss Minerva. I don’t know what your Christian name is. Will you + tell me?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva replied rather unwillingly. “My name is Frances. Don’t call + me Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s too absurd to be endured! What does the mere sound of Fanny + suggest? A flirting, dancing creature—plump and fair, and playful + and pretty!” She went to the looking-glass, and pointed disdainfully to + the reflection of herself. “Sickening to think of,” she said, “when you + look at that. Call me Frances—a man’s name, with only the difference + between an i and an e. No sentiment in it; hard, like me. Well, what was + it you didn’t like to say of yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s no use asking me what I do + see, or don’t see, in my aunt,” she answered. “I am afraid we shall never + be—what we ought to be to each other. When she came to that concert, + and sat by me and looked at me—” She stopped, and shuddered over the + recollection of it. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva urged her to go on—first, by a gesture; then by a + suggestion: “They said you fainted under the heat.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t feel the heat. I felt a horrid creeping all over me. Before I + looked at her, mind!—when I only knew that somebody was sitting next + to me. And then, I did look round. Her eyes and my eyes flashed into each + other. In that one moment, I lost all sense of myself as if I was dead. I + can only tell you of it in that way. It was a dreadful surprise to me to + remember it—and a dreadful pain—when they brought me to myself + again. Though I do look so little and so weak, I am stronger than people + think; I never fainted before. My aunt is—how can I say it properly?—hard + to get on with since that time. Is there something wicked in my nature? I + do believe she feels in the same way towards me. Yes; I dare say it’s + imagination, but it’s as bad as reality for all that. Oh, I am sure you + are right—she does want to keep Ovid out of my way!” + </p> + <p> + “Because she doesn’t like you?” said Miss Minerva. “Is that the only + reason you can think of?” + </p> + <p> + “What other reason can there be?” + </p> + <p> + The governess summoned her utmost power of self-restraint. She needed it, + even to speak of the bare possibility of Carmina’s marriage to Ovid, as if + it was only a matter of speculative interest to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Some people object to marriages between cousins,” she said. “You are + cousins. Some people object to marriages between Catholics and + Protestants. You are a Catholic—” No! She could not trust herself to + refer to him directly; she went on to the next sentence. “And there might + be some other reason,” she resumed. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what that is?” Carmina asked. + </p> + <p> + “No more than you do—thus far.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke the plain truth. Thanks to the dog’s interruption, and to the + necessity of saving herself from discovery, the last clauses of the Will + had been read in her absence. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you even guess what it is?” Carmina persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee is very ambitious,” the governess replied: “and her son has + a fortune of his own. She may wish him to marry a lady of high rank. But—no—she + is always in need of money. In some way, money may be concerned in it.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” Carmina asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have already told you,” Miss Minerva answered, “that I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + Before the conversation could proceed, they were interrupted by the + appearance of Mrs. Gallilee’s maid, with a message from the schoolroom. + Miss Maria wanted a little help in her Latin lesson. Noticing Carmina’s + letter, as she advanced to the door, it struck Miss Minerva that the woman + might deliver it. “Is Mrs. Gallilee at home?” she asked. Mrs. Gallilee had + just gone out. “One of her scientific lectures, I suppose,” said Miss + Minerva to Carmina. “Your note must wait till she comes back.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed on the governess—and the lady’s-maid took a liberty. + She remained in the room; and produced a morsel of folded paper, hitherto + concealed from view. Smirking and smiling, she handed the paper to + Carmina. + </p> + <p> + “From Mr. Ovid, Miss.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. + </h2> + <h3> + “Pray come to me; I am waiting for you in the garden of the Square.” + </h3> + <p> + In those two lines, Ovid’s note began and ended. Mrs. Gallilee’s maid—deeply + interested in an appointment which was not without precedent in her own + experience—ventured on an expression of sympathy, before she + returned to the servants’ hall. “Please to excuse me, Miss; I hope Mr. + Ovid isn’t ill? He looked sadly pale, I thought. Allow me to give you your + hat.” Carmina thanked her, and hurried downstairs. + </p> + <p> + Ovid was waiting at the gate of the Square—and he did indeed look + wretchedly ill. + </p> + <p> + It was useless to make inquiries; they only seemed to irritate him. “I am + better already, now you have come to me.” He said that, and led the way to + a sheltered seat among the trees. In the later evening-time the Square was + almost empty. Two middle-aged ladies, walking up and down (who + considerately remembered their own youth, and kept out of the way), and a + boy rigging a model yacht (who was too closely occupied to notice them), + were the only persons in the enclosure besides themselves. + </p> + <p> + “Does my mother know that you have come here?” Ovid asked. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee has gone out. I didn’t stop to think of it, when I got your + letter. Am I doing wrong?” + </p> + <p> + Ovid took her hand. “Is it doing wrong to relieve me of anxieties that I + have no courage to endure? When we meet in the house either my mother or + her obedient servant, Miss Minerva, is sure to interrupt us. At last, my + darling, I have got you to myself! You know that I love you. Why can’t I + look into your heart, and see what secrets it is keeping from me? I try to + hope; but I want some little encouragement. Carmina! shall I ever hear you + say that you love me?” + </p> + <p> + She trembled, and turned away her head. Her own words to the governess + were in her mind; her own conviction of the want of all sympathy between + his mother and herself made her shrink from answering him. + </p> + <p> + “I understand your silence.” With those words he dropped her hand, and + looked at her no more. + </p> + <p> + It was sadly, not bitterly spoken. She attempted to find excuses; she + showed but too plainly how she pitied him. “If I only had myself to think + of—” Her voice failed her. A new life came into his eyes, the colour + rose in his haggard face: even those few faltering words had encouraged + him! + </p> + <p> + She tried again to make him understand her. “I am so afraid of distressing + you, Ovid; and I am so anxious not to make mischief between you and your + mother—” + </p> + <p> + “What has my mother to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + She went on, without noticing the interruption. “You won’t think me + ungrateful? We had better speak of something else. Only this evening, your + mother sent for me, and—don’t be angry!—I am afraid she might + be vexed if she knew what you have been saying to me. Perhaps I am wrong? + Perhaps she only thinks I am too young. Oh, Ovid, how you look at me! Your + mother hasn’t said in so many words—” + </p> + <p> + “What has she said?” + </p> + <p> + In that question she saw the chance of speaking to him of other interests + than the interests of love. + </p> + <p> + “You must go away to another climate,” she said; “and your mother tells me + I must persuade you to do it. I obey her with a heavy heart. Dear Ovid, + you know how I shall miss you; you know what a loss it will be to me, when + you say good-bye—but there is only one way to get well again. I + entreat you to take that way! Your mother thinks I have some influence + over you. Have I any influence?” + </p> + <p> + “Judge for yourself,” he answered. “You wish me to leave you?” + </p> + <p> + “For your own sake. Only for your own sake.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish me to come back again?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s cruel to ask the question!” + </p> + <p> + “It rests with you, Carmina. Send me away when you like, and where you + like. But, before I go, give me my one reason for making the sacrifice. No + change will do anything for me, no climate will restore my health—unless + you give me your love. I am old enough to know myself; I have thought of + it by day and by night. Am I cruel to press you in this way? I will only + say one word more. It doesn’t matter what becomes of me—if you + refuse to be my wife.” + </p> + <p> + Without experience, without advice—with her own heart protesting + against her silence—the restraint that she had laid on herself grew + harder and harder to endure. The tears rose in her eyes. He saw them; they + embittered his mind against his mother. With a darkening face he rose, and + walked up and down before her, struggling with himself. + </p> + <p> + “This is my mother’s doing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + His tone terrified her. The dread, present to her mind all through the + interview, of making herself a cause of estrangement between mother and + son, so completely overcame her that she even made an attempt to defend + Mrs. Gallilee! At the first words, he sat down by her again. For a moment, + he scrutinised her face without mercy—and then repented of his own + severity. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” he said, “you are afraid to tell me what has happened. I + won’t press you to speak against your own inclinations. It would be cruel + and needless—I have got at the truth at last. In the one hope of my + life, my mother is my enemy. She is bent on separating us; she shall not + succeed. I won’t leave you.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina looked at him. His eyes dropped before her, in confusion and + shame. + </p> + <p> + “Are you angry with me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + No reproaches could have touched his heart as that question touched it. + “Angry with you? Oh, my darling, if you only knew how angry I am with + myself! It cuts me to the heart to see how I have distressed you. I am a + miserable selfish wretch; I don’t deserve your love. Forgive me, and + forget me. I will make the best atonement I can, Carmina. I will go away + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Under hard trial, she had preserved her self-control. She had resisted + him; she had resisted herself. His sudden submission disarmed her in an + instant. With a low cry of love and fear she threw her arms round his + neck, and laid her burning cheek against his face. “I can’t help it,” she + whispered; “oh, Ovid, don’t despise me!” His arms closed round her; his + lips were pressed to hers. “Kiss me,” he said. She kissed him, trembling + in his embrace. That innocent self-abandonment did not plead with him in + vain. He released her—and only held her hand. There was silence + between them; long, happy silence. + </p> + <p> + He was the first to speak again. “How can I go away now?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She only smiled at that reckless forgetfulness of the promise, by which he + had bound himself a few minutes since. “What did you tell me,” she asked + playfully, “when you called yourself by hard names, and said you didn’t + deserve my love?” Her smile vanished softly, and left only a look of + tender entreaty in its place. “Set me an example of firmness, Ovid—don’t + leave it all to me! Remember what you have made me say. Remember”—she + only hesitated for a moment—“remember what an interest I have in you + now. I love you, Ovid. Say you will go.” + </p> + <p> + He said it gratefully. “My life is yours; my will is yours. Decide for me, + and I will begin my journey.” + </p> + <p> + She was so impressed by her sense of this new responsibility, that she + answered him as gravely as if she had been his wife. “I must give you time + to pack up,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Say time to be with You!” + </p> + <p> + She fell into thought. He asked if she was still considering when to send + him away. “No,” she said; “it isn’t that. I was wondering at myself. What + is it that makes a great man like you so fond of me?” + </p> + <p> + His arm stole round her waist. He could just see her in the darkening + twilight under the trees; the murmuring of the leaves was the only sound + near them—his kisses lingered on her face. She sighed softly. “Don’t + make it too hard for me to send you away!” she whispered. He raised her, + and put her arm in his. “Come,” he said, “we will walk a little in the + cool air.” + </p> + <p> + They returned to the subject of his departure. It was still early in the + week. She inquired if Saturday would be too soon to begin his journey. No: + he felt it, too—the longer they delayed, the harder the parting + would be. + </p> + <p> + “Have you thought yet where you will go?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I must begin with a sea-voyage,” he replied. “Long railway journeys, in + my present state, will only do me harm. The difficulty is where to go to. + I have been to America; India is too hot; Australia is too far. Benjulia + has suggested Canada.” + </p> + <p> + As he mentioned the doctor’s name, her hand mechanically pressed his arm. + </p> + <p> + “That strange man!” she said. “Even his name startles one; I hardly know + what to think of him. He seemed to have more feeling for the monkey than + for you or me. It was certainly kind of him to take the poor creature + home, and try what he could do with it. Are you sure he is a great + chemist?” + </p> + <p> + Ovid stopped. Such a question, from Carmina, sounded strange to him. “What + makes you doubt it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t laugh at me, Ovid?” + </p> + <p> + “You know I won’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Now you shall hear. We knew a famous Italian chemist at Rome—such a + nice old man! He and my father used to play piquet; and I looked at them, + and tried to learn—and I was too stupid. But I had plenty of + opportunities of noticing our old friend’s hands. They were covered with + stains; and he caught me looking at them. He was not in the least + offended; he told me his experiments had spotted his skin in that way, and + nothing would clean off the stains. I saw Doctor Benjulia’s great big + hands, while he was giving you the brandy—and I remembered + afterwards that there were no stains on them. I seem to surprise you.” + </p> + <p> + “You do indeed surprise me. After knowing Benjulia for years, I have never + noticed, what you have discovered on first seeing him.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he has some way of cleaning the stains off his hands.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid agreed to this, as the readiest means of dismissing the subject. + Carmina had really startled him. Some irrational connection between the + great chemist’s attention to the monkey, and the perplexing purity of his + hands, persisted in vaguely asserting itself in Ovid’s mind. His + unacknowledged doubts of Benjulia troubled him as they had never troubled + him yet. He turned to Carmina for relief. + </p> + <p> + “Still thinking, my love?” + </p> + <p> + “Thinking of you,” she answered. “I want you to promise me something—and + I am afraid to ask it.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid? You don’t love me, after all!” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will say it at once! How long do you expect to be away?” + </p> + <p> + “For two or three months, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Promise to wait till you return, before you tell your mother—” + </p> + <p> + “That we are engaged?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You have my promise, Carmina; but you make me uneasy.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “In my absence, you will be under my mother’s care. And you don’t like my + mother.” + </p> + <p> + Few words and plain words—and they sorely troubled her. + </p> + <p> + If she owned that he was right, what would the consequence be? He might + refuse to leave her. Even assuming that he controlled himself, he would + take his departure harassed by anxieties, which might exercise the worst + possible influence over the good effect of the journey. To prevaricate + with herself or with him was out of the question. That very evening she + had quarrelled with his mother; and she had yet to discover whether Mrs. + Gallilee had forgiven her. In her heart of hearts she hated deceit—and + in her heart of hearts she longed to set his mind at ease. In that + embarrassing position, which was the right way out? Satan persuaded Eve; + and Love persuaded Carmina. Love asked if she was cruel enough to make her + heart’s darling miserable when he was so fond of her? Before she could + realise it, she had begun to deceive him. Poor humanity! poor Carmina! + </p> + <p> + “You are almost as hard on me as if you were Doctor Benjulia himself!” she + said. “I feel your mother’s superiority—and you tell me I don’t like + her. Haven’t you seen how good she has been to me?” + </p> + <p> + She thought this way of putting it irresistible. Ovid resisted, + nevertheless. Carmina plunged into lower depths of deceit immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you seen my pretty rooms—my piano—my pictures—my + china—my flowers? I should be the most insensible creature living if + I didn’t feel grateful to your mother.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet, you are afraid of her.” + </p> + <p> + She shook his arm impatiently. “I say, No!” + </p> + <p> + He was as obstinate as ever. “I say, Yes! If you’re not afraid, why do you + wish to keep our engagement from my mother’s knowledge?” + </p> + <p> + His reasoning was unanswerable. But where is the woman to be found who is + not supple enough to slip through the stiff fingers of Reason? She + sheltered herself from his logic behind his language. + </p> + <p> + “Must I remind you again of the time when you were angry?” she rejoined. + “You said your mother was bent on separating us. If I don’t want her to + know of our engagement just yet—isn’t that a good reason?” She + rested her head caressingly on his shoulder. “Tell me,” she went on, + thinking of one of Miss Minerva’s suggestions, “doesn’t my aunt look to a + higher marriage for you than a marriage with me?” + </p> + <p> + It was impossible to deny that Mrs. Gallilee’s views might justify that + inquiry. Had she not more than once advised him to wait a few years—in + other words, to wait until he had won the highest honours of his + profession—before he thought of marrying at all? But Carmina was too + precious to him to be humiliated by comparisons with other women, no + matter what their rank might be. He paid her a compliment, instead of + giving her an answer. + </p> + <p> + “My mother can’t look higher than you,” he said. “I wish I could feel + sure, Carmina—in leaving you with her—that I am leaving you + with a friend whom you trust and love.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sadness in his tone that grieved her. “Wait till you come + back,” she replied, speaking as gaily as she could. “You will be ashamed + to remember your own misgivings. And don’t forget, dear, that I have + another friend besides your mother—the best and kindest of friends—to + take care of me.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid heard this with some surprise. “A friend in my mother’s house?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” His tone expressed such immeasurable amazement, that Carmina’s + sense of justice was roused in defence of her new friend. + </p> + <p> + “If I began by wronging Miss Minerva, I had the excuse of being a + stranger,” she said, warmly. “You have known her for years, and you ought + to have found out her good qualities long since! Are all men alike, I + wonder? Even my kind dear father used to call ugly women the inexcusable + mistakes of Nature. Poor Miss Minerva says herself she is ugly, and + expects everybody to misjudge her accordingly. I don’t misjudge her, for + one. Teresa has left me; and you are going away next. A miserable + prospect, Ovid, but not quite without hope. Frances—yes, I call her + by her Christian name, and she calls me by mine!—Frances will + console me, and make my life as happy as it can be till you come back.” + </p> + <p> + Excepting bad temper, and merciless cultivation of the minds of children, + Ovid knew of nothing that justified his prejudice against the governess. + Still, Carmina’s sudden conversion inspired him with something like alarm. + “I suppose you have good reasons for what you tell me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The best reasons,” she replied, in the most positive manner. + </p> + <p> + He considered for a moment how he could most delicately inquire what those + reasons might be. But valuable opportunities may be lost, even in a + moment. “Will you help me to do justice to Miss Minerva?” he cautiously + began. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” Carmina interposed. “Surely, I heard somebody calling to me?” + </p> + <p> + They paused, and listened. A voice hailed them from the outer side of the + garden. They started guiltily. It was the voice of Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. + </h2> + <h3> + “Carmina! are you in the Square?” + </h3> + <p> + “Leave it to me,” Ovid whispered. “We will come to you directly,” he + called back. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee was waiting for them at the gate. Ovid spoke, the moment + they were within sight of each other. “You will have no more cause to + complain of me,” he said cheerfully; “I am going away at the end of the + week.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s answer was addressed to Carmina instead of to her son. + “Thank you, my dear,” she said, and pressed her niece’s hand. + </p> + <p> + It was too dark to see more of faces than their shadowy outline. The + learned lady’s tone was the perfection of amiability. She sent Ovid across + the road to knock at the house-door, and took Carmina’s arm + confidentially. “You little goose!” she whispered, “how could you suppose + I was angry with you? I can’t even regret your mistake, you have written + such a charming note.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid was waiting for them in the hall. They went into the library. Mrs. + Gallilee enfolded her son in a fervent motherly embrace. + </p> + <p> + “This completes the enjoyment of a most delightful evening,” she said. + “First a perfect lecture—and then the relief of overpowering anxiety + about my son. I suppose your professional studies, Ovid, have never taken + you as high as the Interspacial Regions? We were an immense audience + to-night, to hear the Professor on that subject, and I really haven’t + recovered it yet. Fifty miles above us—only fifty miles—there + is an atmosphere of cold that would freeze the whole human family to death + in a second of time. Moist matter, in that terrific emptiness, would + explode, and become stone; and—listen to this, Carmina—the + explosion itself would be frozen, and produce no sound. Think of serious + people looking up in that dreadful direction, and talking of going to + Heaven. Oh, the insignificance of man, except—I am going to make a + joke, Ovid—except when he pleases his old mother by going away for + the benefit of his health! And where are you going? Has sensible Carmina + advised you? I agree with her beforehand, whatever she has said.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid informed his mother of Benjulia’s suggestion, and asked her what she + thought of it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s overflowing geniality instantly flooded the absent doctor. + He was rude, he was ugly; but what an inestimable friend! what admirable + advice! In Ovid’s state of health he must not write letters; his mother + would write and thank the doctor, and ask for introductions to local + grandees who occupied a position in colonial society. She seized the + newspaper: a steamer for Canada sailed from Liverpool on Saturday. Ovid + could secure his cabin the next morning (“amidships, my dear, if you can + possibly get it”), and could leave London by Friday’s train. In her + eagerness to facilitate his departure, she proposed to superintend the + shutting up of his house, in his absence, and to arrange the disposal of + the servants, if he considered it worth while to keep them. She even + thought of the cat. The easiest way to provide for the creature would be + of course to have her poisoned; but Ovid was so eccentric in some things, + that practical suggestions were thrown away on him. “Sixpence a week for + cat’s meat isn’t much,” cried Mrs. Gallilee in an outburst of generosity. + “We will receive the cat!” + </p> + <p> + Ovid made his acknowledgments resignedly. Carmina could see that Mrs. + Gallilee’s overpowering vitality was beginning to oppress her son. + </p> + <p> + “I needn’t trouble you, mother,” he said. “My domestic affairs were all + settled when I first felt the necessity of getting rest. My manservant + travels with me. My housemaid and kitchenmaid will go to their friends in + the country; the cook will look after the house; and her nephew, the + little page, is almost as fond of the cat as I am. If you will send for a + cab, I think I will go home. Like other people in my wretched state, I + feel fatigued towards night-time.” + </p> + <p> + His lips just touched Carmina’s delicate little ear, while his mother + turned away to ring the bell. “Expect me to-morrow,” he whispered. “I love + you!—love you!—love you!” He seemed to find the perfection of + luxury in the reiteration of those words. + </p> + <p> + When Ovid had left them, Carmina expected to hear something of her aunt’s + discovery in the Square. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s innocence was impenetrable. Not finding her niece in the + house, she had thought of the Square. What could be more natural than that + the cousins should take an evening walk, in one of the prettiest + enclosures in London? Her anticipation of Ovid’s recovery, and her + admiration of Carmina’s powers of persuasion appeared, for the time, to be + the only active ideas in that comprehensive mind. When the servant brought + in the tray, with the claret and soda-water, she sent for Miss Minerva to + join them, and hear the good news; completely ignoring the interruption of + their friendly relations, earlier in the evening. She became festive and + facetious at the sight of the soda-water. “Let us imitate the men, Miss + Minerva, and drink a toast before we go to bed. Be cheerful, Carmina, and + share half a bottle of soda-water with me. A pleasant journey to Ovid, and + a safe return!” Cheered by the influences of conviviality, the friend of + Professors, the tender nurse of half-developed tadpoles, lapsed into + learning again. Mrs. Gallilee improvised an appropriate little lecture on + Canada—on the botany of the Dominion; on the geology of the + Dominion; on the number of gallons of water wasted every hour by the falls + of Niagara. “Science will set it all right, my dears; we shall make that + idle water work for us, one of these days. Good-night, Miss Minerva! Dear + Carmina, pleasant dreams!” + </p> + <p> + Safe in the solitude of her bedroom, the governess ominously knitted her + heavy eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “In all my experience,” she thought, “I never saw Mrs. Gallilee in such + spirits before. What mischief is she meditating, when she has got rid of + her son?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. + </h2> + <p> + The lapse of a few hours exercised no deteriorating influence on Mrs. + Gallilee’s amiability. + </p> + <p> + On the next day, thanks to his mother’s interference, Ovid was left in the + undisturbed enjoyment of Carmina’s society. Not only Miss Minerva, but + even Mr. Gallilee and the children, were kept out of the way with a + delicately-exercised dexterity, which defied the readiest suspicion to + take offence. In one word, all that sympathy and indulgence could do to + invite Ovid’s confidence, was unobtrusively and modestly done. Never had + the mistress of domestic diplomacy reached her ends with finer art. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon, a messenger delivered Benjulia’s reply to Mrs. + Gallilee’s announcement of her son’s contemplated journey—despatched + by the morning’s post. The doctor was confined to the house by an attack + of gout. If Ovid wanted information on the subject of Canada, Ovid must go + to him, and get it. That was all. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever been to Doctor Benjulia’s house?” Carmina asked. + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “Then all you have told me about him is mere report? Now you will find out + the truth! Of course you will go?” + </p> + <p> + Ovid felt no desire to make a voyage of exploration to Benjulia’s house—and + said so plainly. Carmina used all her powers of persuasion to induce him + to change his mind. Mrs. Gallilee (superior to the influence of girlish + curiosity) felt the importance of obtaining introductions to Canadian + society, and agreed with her niece. “I shall order the carriage,” she + said, assuming a playfully despotic tone; “and, if you don’t go to the + doctor—Carmina and I will pay him a visit in your place.” + </p> + <p> + Threatened, if he remained obstinate, with such a result as this, Ovid had + no alternative but to submit. + </p> + <p> + The one order that could be given to the coachman was to drive to the + village of Hendon, on the north-western side of London, and to trust to + inquiries for the rest of the way. Between Hendon and Willesden, there are + pastoral solitudes within an hour’s drive of Oxford Street—wooded + lanes and wild-flowers, farms and cornfields, still unprofaned by the + devastating brickwork of the builder of modern times. Following winding + ways, under shadowing trees, the coachman made his last inquiry at a + roadside public-house. Hearing that Benjulia’s place of abode was now + within half a mile of him, Ovid set forth on foot; leaving the driver and + the horses to take their ease at their inn. + </p> + <p> + He arrived at an iron gate, opening out of a lonely lane. + </p> + <p> + There, in the middle of a barren little field, he saw Benjulia’s house—a + hideous square building of yellow brick, with a slate roof. A low wall + surrounded the place, having another iron gate at the entrance. The + enclosure within was as barren as the field without: not even an attempt + at flower-garden or kitchen-garden was visible. At a distance of some two + hundred yards from the house stood a second and smaller building, with a + skylight in the roof, which Ovid recognised (from description) as the + famous laboratory. Behind it was the hedge which parted Benjulia’s morsel + of land from the land of his neighbour. Here, the trees rose again, and + the fields beyond were cultivated. No dwellings, and no living creatures + appeared. So near to London—and yet, in its loneliness, so far away—there + was something unnatural in the solitude of the place. + </p> + <p> + Led by a feeling of curiosity, which was fast degenerating into suspicion, + Ovid approached the laboratory, without showing himself in front of the + house. No watch-dog barked; no servant appeared on the look-out for a + visitor. He was ashamed of himself as he did it, but (so strongly had he + been impressed by Carmina’s observation of the doctor) he even tried the + locked door of the laboratory, and waited and listened! It was a breezy + summer-day; the leaves of the trees near him rustled cheerfully. Was there + another sound audible? Yes—low and faint, there rose through the + sweet woodland melody a moaning cry. It paused; it was repeated; it + stopped. He looked round him, not quite sure whether the sound proceeded + from the outside or the inside of the building. He shook the door. Nothing + happened. The suffering creature (if it was a suffering creature) was + silent or dead. Had chemical experiment accidentally injured some living + thing? Or—? + </p> + <p> + He recoiled from pursuing that second inquiry. The laboratory had, by this + time, become an object of horror to him. He returned to the + dwelling-house. + </p> + <p> + He put his hand on the latch of the gate, and looked back at the + laboratory. He hesitated. + </p> + <p> + That moaning cry, so piteous and so short-lived, haunted his ears. The + idea of approaching Benjulia became repellent to him. What he might + afterwards think of himself—what his mother and Carmina might think + of him—if he returned without having entered the doctors’ house, + were considerations which had no influence over his mind, in its present + mood. The impulse of the moment was the one power that swayed him. He put + the latch back in the socket. “I won’t go in,” he said to himself. + </p> + <p> + It was too late. As he turned from the house a manservant appeared at the + door—crossed the enclosure—and threw the gate open for Ovid, + without uttering a word. + </p> + <p> + They entered the passage. The speechless manservant opened a door on the + right, and made a bow, inviting the visitor to enter. Ovid found himself + in a room as barren as the field outside. There were the plastered walls, + there was the bare floor, left exactly as the builders had left them when + the house was finished. After a short absence, the man appeared again. He + might be depressed in spirits, or crabbed in temper: the fact remained + that, even now, he had nothing to say. He opened a door on the opposite + side of the passage—made another bow—and vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t come near me!” cried Benjulia, the moment Ovid showed himself. + </p> + <p> + The doctor was seated in an inner corner of the room; robed in a long + black dressing-gown, buttoned round his throat, which hid every part of + him below his fleshless face, except his big hands, and his tortured gouty + foot. Rage and pain glared in his gloomy gray eyes, and shook his clenched + fists, resting on the arms of an easy chair. “Ten thousand red-hot devils + are boring ten thousand holes through my foot,” he said. “If you touch the + pillow on my stool, I shall fly at your throat.” He poured some cooling + lotion from a bottle into a small watering-pot, and irrigated his foot as + if it had been a bed of flowers. By way of further relief to the pain, he + swore ferociously; addressing his oaths to himself, in thunderous + undertones which made the glasses ring on the sideboard. + </p> + <p> + Relieved, in his present frame of mind, to have escaped the necessity of + shaking hands, Ovid took a chair, and looked about him. Even here he + discovered but little furniture, and that little of the heavy + old-fashioned sort. Besides the sideboard, he perceived a dining-table, + six chairs, and a dingy brown carpet. There were no curtains on the + window, and no pictures or prints on the drab-coloured walls. The empty + grate showed its bleak black cavity undisguised; and the mantelpiece had + nothing on it but the doctor’s dirty and strong-smelling pipe. Benjulia + set down his watering-pot, as a sign that the paroxysm of pain had passed + away. “A dull place to live in, isn’t it?” In those words he welcomed the + visitor to his house. + </p> + <p> + Irritated by the accident which had forced him into the repellent presence + of Benjulia, Ovid answered in a tone which matched the doctor on his own + hard ground. + </p> + <p> + “It’s your own fault if the place is dull. Why haven’t you planted trees, + and laid out a garden?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say I shall surprise you,” Benjulia quietly rejoined; “but I have + a habit of speaking my mind. I don’t object to a dull place; and I don’t + care about trees and gardens.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t seem to care about furniture either,” said Ovid. + </p> + <p> + Now that he was out of pain for awhile, the doctor’s innate insensibility + to what other people might think of him, or might say to him, resumed its + customary torpor in its own strangely unconscious way. He seemed only to + understand that Ovid’s curiosity was in search of information about + trifles. Well, there would be less trouble in giving him his information, + than in investigating his motives. So Benjulia talked of his furniture. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you’re right,” he said. “My sister-in-law—did you know I + had a relation of that sort?—my sister-in-law got the tables and + chairs, and beds and basins. Buying things at shops doesn’t interest me. I + gave her a cheque; and I told her to furnish a room for me to eat in, and + a room for me to sleep in—and not to forget the kitchen and the + garrets for the servants. What more do I want?” + </p> + <p> + His intolerable composure only added to his guest’s irritability. + </p> + <p> + “A selfish way of putting it,” Ovid broke out. “Have you nobody to think + of but yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody—I am happy to say.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s downright cynicism, Benjulia!” + </p> + <p> + The doctor reflected. “Is it?” he said. “Perhaps you may be right again. I + think it’s only indifference, myself. Curiously enough my brother looks at + it from your point of view—he even used the same word that you used + just now. I suppose he found my cynicism beyond the reach of reform. At + any rate, he left off coming here. I got rid of <i>him</i> on easy terms. + What do you say? That inhuman way of talking is unworthy of me? Really I + don’t think so. I’m not a downright savage. It’s only indifference.” + </p> + <p> + “Does your brother return your indifference? You must be a nice pair, if + he does!” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia seemed to find a certain dreary amusement in considering the + question that Ovid had proposed. He decided on doing justice to his absent + relative. + </p> + <p> + “My brother’s intelligence is perhaps equal to such a small effort as you + suggest,” he said. “He has just brains enough to keep himself out of an + asylum for idiots. Shall I tell you what he is in two words? A stupid + sensualist—that’s what he is. I let his wife come here sometimes, + and cry. It doesn’t trouble <i>me;</i> and it seems to relieve <i>her.</i> + More of my indifference—eh? Well, I don’t know. I gave her the + change out of the furniture-cheque, to buy a new bonnet with. You might + call that indifference, and you might be right once more. I don’t care + about money. Will you have a drink? You see I can’t move. Please ring for + the man.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid refused the drink, and changed the subject. “Your servant is a + remarkably silent person,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “That’s his merit,” Benjulia answered; “the women-servants have quarrelled + with every other man I’ve had. They can’t quarrel with this man. I have + raised his wages in grateful acknowledgment of his usefulness to me. I + hate noise.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that the reason why you don’t keep a watch-dog?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like dogs. They bark.” + </p> + <p> + He had apparently some other disagreeable association with dogs, which he + was not disposed to communicate. His hollow eyes stared gloomily into + vacancy. Ovid’s presence in the room seemed to have become, for the time + being, an impression erased from his mind. He recovered himself, with the + customary vehement rubbing of his head, and turned the talk to the object + of Ovid’s visit. + </p> + <p> + “So you have taken my advice,” he said. “You’re going to Canada, and you + want to get at what I can tell you before you start. Here’s my journal. It + will jog my memory, and help us both.” + </p> + <p> + His writing materials were placed on a movable table, screwed to his + chair. Near them lay a shabby-looking book, guarded by a lock. Ten minutes + after he had opened his journal, and had looked here and there through the + pages, his hard intellect had grasped all that it required. Steadily and + copiously his mind emptied its information into Ovid’s mind; without a + single digression from beginning to end, and with the most mercilessly + direct reference to the traveller’s practical wants. Not a word escaped + him, relating to national character or to the beauties of Nature. Mrs. + Gallilee had criticized the Falls of Niagara as a reservoir of wasted + power. Doctor Benjulia’s scientific superiority over the woman asserted + itself with magnificent ease. Niagara being nothing but useless water, he + never mentioned Niagara at all. + </p> + <p> + “Have I served your purpose as a guide?” he asked. “Never mind thanking + me. Yes or no will do. Very good. I have got a line of writing to give you + next.” He mended his quill pen, and made an observation. “Have you ever + noticed that women have one pleasure which lasts to the end of their + lives?” he said. “Young and old, they have the same inexhaustible + enjoyment of society; and, young and old, they are all alike incapable of + understanding a man, when he says he doesn’t care to go to a party. Even + your clever mother thinks you want to go to parties in Canada.” He tried + his pen, and found it would do—and began his letter. + </p> + <p> + Seeing his hands at work, Ovid was again reminded of Carmina’s discovery. + His eyes wandered a little aside, towards the corner formed by the pillar + of the chimney-piece and the wall of the room. The big bamboo-stick rested + there. A handle was attached to it, made of light-coloured horn, and on + that handle there were some stains. Ovid looked at them with a surgeon’s + practised eye. They were dry stains of blood. (Had he washed his hands on + the last occasion when he used his stick? And had he forgotten that the + handle wanted washing too?) + </p> + <p> + Benjulia finished his letter, and wrote the address. He took up the + envelope, to give it to Ovid—and stopped, as if some doubt tempted + him to change his mind. The hesitation was only momentary. He persisted in + his first intention, and gave Ovid the letter. It was addressed to a + doctor at Montreal. + </p> + <p> + “That man won’t introduce you to society,” Benjulia announced, “and won’t + worry your brains with medical talk. Keep off one subject on your side. A + mad bull is nothing to my friend if you speak of Vivisection.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid looked at him steadily, when he uttered the last word. Benjulia + looked back, just as steadily at Ovid. + </p> + <p> + At the moment of that reciprocal scrutiny, did the two men suspect each + other? Ovid, on his side, determined not to leave the house without + putting his suspicions to the test. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you for the letter,” he began; “and I will not forget the + warning.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor’s capacity for the exercise of the social virtues had its + limits. His reserves of hospitality were by this time near their end. + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything more I can do for you?” he interposed. + </p> + <p> + “You can answer a simple question,” Ovid replied. “My cousin Carmina—” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia interrupted him again: “Don’t you think we said enough about your + cousin in the Gardens?” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + Ovid acknowledged the hint with a neatness of retort almost worthy of his + mother. “You have your own merciful disposition to blame, if I return to + the subject,” he replied. “My cousin cannot forget your kindness to the + monkey.” + </p> + <p> + “The sooner she forgets my kindness the better. The monkey is dead.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought the creature was living in pain.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that I heard a moaning—” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “In the building behind your house.” + </p> + <p> + “You heard the wind in the trees.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort. Are your chemical experiments ever made on animals?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor parried that direct attack, without giving ground by so much as + a hair’s breadth. + </p> + <p> + “What did I say when I gave you your letter of introduction?” he asked. “I + said, A mad bull is nothing to my friend, if you speak to him of + Vivisection. Now I have something more to tell you. I am like my friend.” + He waited a little. “Will that do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Ovid; “that will do.” + </p> + <p> + They were as near to an open quarrel as two men could be: Ovid took up his + hat to go. Even at that critical moment, Benjulia’s strange jealousy of + his young colleague—as a possible rival in some field of discovery + which he claimed as his own—showed itself once more. There was no + change in his tone; he still spoke like a judicious friend. + </p> + <p> + “A last word of advice,” he said. “You are travelling for your health; + don’t let inquisitive strangers lead you into talk. Some of them might be + physiologists.” + </p> + <p> + “And might suggest new ideas,” Ovid rejoined, determined to make him speak + out this time. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia nodded, in perfect agreement with his guest’s view. + </p> + <p> + “Are you afraid of new ideas?” Ovid went on. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I am—in <i>your</i> head.” He made that admission, without + hesitation or embarrassment. “Good-bye!” he resumed. “My sensitive foot + feels noises: don’t bang the door.” + </p> + <p> + Getting out into the lane again, Ovid looked at his letter to the doctor + at Montreal. His first impulse was to destroy it. + </p> + <p> + As Benjulia had hesitated before giving him the letter, so he now + hesitated before tearing it up. + </p> + <p> + Contrary to the usual practice in such cases, the envelope was closed. + Under those circumstances, Ovid’s pride decided him on using the + introduction. Time was still to pass, before events opened his eyes to the + importance of his decision. To the end of his life he remembered that + Benjulia had been near to keeping back the letter, and that he had been + near to tearing it up. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. + </h2> + <p> + The wise ancient who asserted that “Time flies,” must have made that + remarkable discovery while he was in a state of preparation for a journey. + When are we most acutely sensible of the shortness of life? When do we + consult our watches in perpetual dread of the result? When does the night + steal on us unawares, and the morning take us by surprise? When we are + going on a journey. + </p> + <p> + The remaining days of the week went by with a rush. Ovid had hardly time + to ask himself if Friday had really come, before the hours of his life at + home were already numbered. + </p> + <p> + He had still a little time to spare when he presented himself at Fairfield + Gardens late in the afternoon. Finding no one in the library, he went up + to the drawing-room. His mother was alone, reading. + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything to say to me, before I tell Carmina that you are here?” + Mrs. Gallilee put that question quietly, so far as her voice was + concerned. But she still kept her eyes on her book. Ovid knew that she was + offering him his first and last chance of speaking plainly, before he went + away. In Carmina’s interests he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” he said, “I am leaving the one person in the world who is most + precious to me, under your care.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean,” Mrs. Gallilee asked, “that you and Carmina are engaged to + be married?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that; and I am not sure that you approve of the engagement. Will + you be plainer with me than you were on the last occasion when we spoke on + this subject?” + </p> + <p> + “When was that?” Mrs. Gallilee inquired. + </p> + <p> + “When you and I were alone for a few minutes, on the morning when I + breakfasted here. You said it was quite natural that Carmina should have + attracted me; but you were careful not to encourage the idea of a marriage + between us. I understood that you disapproved of it—but you didn’t + plainly tell me why.” + </p> + <p> + “Can women always give their reason?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—when they are women like you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, my dear, for a pretty compliment. I can trust my memory. I + think I hinted at the obvious objections to an engagement. You and Carmina + are cousins; and you belong to different religious communities. I may add + that a man with your brilliant prospects has, in my opinion, no reason to + marry unless his wife is in a position to increase his influence and + celebrity. I had looked forward to seeing my clever son rise more nearly + to a level with persons of rank, who are members of our family. There is + my confession, Ovid. If I did hesitate on the occasion to which you have + referred, I have now, I think, told you why.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to understand that you hesitate still?” Ovid asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” With that brief reply she rose to put away her book. + </p> + <p> + Ovid followed her to the bookcase. “Has Carmina conquered you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She put her book back in its place. “Carmina has conquered me,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + “You say it coldly.” + </p> + <p> + “What does that matter, if I say it truly?” + </p> + <p> + The struggle in him between hope and fear burst its way out. “Oh, mother, + no words can tell you how fond I am of Carmina! For God’s sake take care + of her, and be kind to her!” + </p> + <p> + “For <i>your</i> sake,” said Mrs. Gallilee, gently correcting the language + of her excitable son, from her own protoplastic point of view. “You do me + an injustice if you feel anxious about Carmina, when you leave her here. + My dead brother’s child, is <i>my</i> child. You may be sure of that.” She + took his hand, and drew him to her, and kissed his forehead with dignity + and deliberation. If Mr. Mool had been present, during the registration of + that solemn pledge, he would have been irresistibly reminded of the other + ceremony, which is called signing a deed. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any instructions to give me?” Mrs. Gallilee proceeded. “For + instance, do you object to my taking Carmina to parties? I mean, of + course, parties which will improve her mind.” + </p> + <p> + He fell sadly below his mother’s level in replying to this. “Do everything + you can to make her life happy while I am away.” Those were his only + instructions. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Gallilee had not done with him yet. “With regard to visitors,” + she went on, “I presume you wish me to be careful, if I find young men + calling here oftener than usual?” + </p> + <p> + Ovid actually laughed at this. “Do you think I doubt her?” he asked. “The + earth doesn’t hold a truer girl than my little Carmina!” A thought struck + him while he said it. The brightness faded out of his face; his voice lost + its gaiety. “There is one person who may call on you,” he said, “whom I + don’t wish her to see.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately, he is a man who has excited her curiosity. I mean + Benjulia.” + </p> + <p> + It was now Mrs. Gallilee’s turn to be amused. Her laugh was not one of her + foremost fascinations. It was hard in tone, and limited in range—it + opened her mouth, but it failed to kindle any light in her eyes. “Jealous + of the ugly doctor!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Ovid, what next?” + </p> + <p> + “You never made a greater mistake in your life,” her son answered sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Then what is the objection to him?” Mrs. Gallilee rejoined. + </p> + <p> + It was not easy to meet that question with a plain reply. If Ovid asserted + that Benjulia’s chemical experiments were assumed—for some reason + known only to himself—as a cloak to cover the atrocities of the + Savage Science, he would only raise the doctor in his mother’s estimation. + If, on the other hand, he described what had passed between them when they + met in the Zoological Gardens, Mrs. Gallilee might summon Benjulia to + explain the slur which he had indirectly cast on the memory of Carmina’s + mother—and might find, in the reply, some plausible reason for + objecting to her son’s marriage. Having rashly placed himself in this + dilemma, Ovid unwisely escaped from it by the easiest way. “I don’t think + Benjulia a fit person,” he said, “to be in the company of a young girl.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee accepted this expression of opinion with a readiness, which + would have told a more suspicious man that he had made a mistake. Ovid had + roused the curiosity—perhaps awakened the distrust—of his + clever mother. + </p> + <p> + “You know best,” Mrs. Gallilee replied; “I will bear in mind what you + say.” She rang the bell for Carmina, and left the room. Ovid found the + minutes passing slowly, for the first time since the day had been fixed + for his departure. He attributed this impression to his natural impatience + for the appearance of his cousin—until the plain evidence of the + clock pointed to a delay of five endless minutes, and more. As he + approached the door to make inquiries, it opened at last. Hurrying to meet + Carmina, he found himself face to face with Miss Minerva! + </p> + <p> + She came in hastily, and held out her hand without looking at him. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me for intruding on you,” she said, with a rapidity of utterance + and a timidity of manner strangely unlike herself. “I’m obliged to prepare + the children’s lessons for to-morrow; and this is my only opportunity of + bidding you good-bye. You have my best wishes—my heartfelt wishes—for + your safety and your health, and—and your enjoyment of the journey. + Good-bye! good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + After holding his hand for a moment, she hastened back to the door. There + she stopped, turned towards him again, and looked at him for the first + time. “I have one thing more to say,” she broke out. “I will do all I can + to make Carmina’s life pleasant in your absence.” Before he could thank + her, she was gone. + </p> + <p> + In another minute Carmina came in, and found Ovid looking perplexed and + annoyed. She had passed Frances on the stairs—had there been any + misunderstanding between Ovid and the governess? + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Miss Minerva?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He put his arm round her, and seated her by him on the sofa. “I don’t + understand Miss Minerva,” he said. “How is it that she came here, when I + was expecting You?” + </p> + <p> + “She asked me, as a favour, to let her see you first; and she seemed to be + so anxious about it that I gave way. I didn’t do wrong, Ovid—did I?” + </p> + <p> + “My darling, you are always kind, and always right! But why couldn’t she + say good-bye (with the others) downstairs? Do <i>you</i> understand this + curious woman?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I do.” She paused, and toyed with the hair over Ovid’s forehead. + “Miss Minerva is fond of you, poor thing,” she said innocently. + </p> + <p> + “Fond of me?” + </p> + <p> + The surprise which his tone expressed, failed to attract her attention. + She quietly varied the phrase that she had just used. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva has a true regard for you—and knows that you don’t + return it,” she explained, still playing with Ovid’s hair. “I want to see + how it looks,” she went on, “when it’s parted in the middle. No! it looks + better as you always wear it. How handsome you are, Ovid! Don’t you wish I + was beautiful, too? Everybody in the house loves you; and everybody is + sorry you are going away. I like Miss Minerva, I like everybody, for being + so fond of my dear, dear hero. Oh, what shall I do when day after day + passes, and only takes you farther and farther away from me? No! I won’t + cry. You shan’t go away with a heavy heart, my dear one, if I can help it. + Where is your photograph? You promised me your photograph. Let me look at + it. Yes! it’s like you, and yet not like you. It will do to think over, + when I am alone. My love, it has copied your eyes, but it has not copied + the divine kindness and goodness that I see in them!” She paused, and laid + her head on his bosom. “I shall cry, in spite of my resolution, if I look + at you any longer. We won’t look—we won’t talk—I can feel your + arm round me—I can hear your heart. Silence is best. I have been + told of people dying happily; and I never understood it before. I think I + could die happily now.” She put her hand over his lips before he could + reprove her, and nestled closer to him. “Hush!” she said softly; “hush!” + </p> + <p> + They neither moved nor spoke: that silent happiness was the best + happiness, while it lasted. Mrs. Gallilee broke the charm. She suddenly + opened the door, pointed to the clock, and went away again. + </p> + <p> + The cruel time had come. They made their last promises; shared their last + kisses; held each other in the last embrace. She threw herself on the + sofa, as he left her—with a gesture which entreated him to go, while + she could still control herself. Once, he looked round, when he reached + the door—and then it was over. + </p> + <p> + Alone on the landing, he dashed the tears away from his eyes. Suffering + and sorrow tried hard to get the better of his manhood: they had shaken, + but had not conquered him. He was calm, when he joined the members of the + family, waiting in the library. + </p> + <p> + Perpetually setting an example, Mrs. Gallilee ascended her domestic + pedestal as usual. She favoured her son with one more kiss, and reminded + him of the railway. “We understand each other, Ovid—you have only + five minutes to spare. Write, when you get to Quebec. Now, Maria! say + good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Maria presented herself to her brother with a grace which did honour to + the family dancing-master. Her short farewell speech was a model of its + kind. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Ovid, I am only a child; but I feel truly anxious for the recovery + of your health. At this favourable season you may look forward to a + pleasant voyage. Please accept my best wishes.” She offered her cheek to + be kissed—and looked like a young person who had done her duty, and + knew it. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee—modestly secluded behind the window curtains—appeared, + at a sign from his wife. One of his plump red hands held a bundle of + cigars. The other clutched an enormous new travelling-flask—the + giant of its tribe. + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, it’s possible there may be good brandy and cigars on board; + but that’s not my experience of steamers—is it yours?” He stopped to + consult his wife. “My dear, is it yours?” Mrs. Gallilee held up the + “Railway Guide,” and shook it significantly. Mr. Gallilee went on in a + hurry. “There’s some of the right stuff in this flask, Ovid, if you will + accept it. Five-and-forty years old—would you like to taste it? + Would you like to taste it, my dear?” Mrs. Gallilee seized the “Railway + Guide” again, with a terrible look. Her husband crammed the big flask into + one of Ovid’s pockets, and the cigars into the other. “You’ll find them a + comfort when you’re away from us. God bless you, my son! You don’t mind my + calling you my son? I couldn’t be fonder of you, if I really was your + father. Let’s part as cheerfully as we can,” said poor Mr. Gallilee, with + the tears rolling undisguisedly over his fat cheeks. “We can write to each + other—can’t we? Oh dear! dear! I wish I could take it as easy as + Maria does. Zo! come and give him a kiss, poor fellow. Where’s Zo?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee made the discovery—she dragged Zo into view, from + under the table. Ovid took his little sister on his knee, and asked why + she had hidden herself. + </p> + <p> + “Because I don’t want to say good-bye!” cried the child, giving her reason + with a passionate outbreak of sorrow that shook her from head to foot. + “Take me with you, Ovid, take me with you!” He did his best to console + her, under adverse circumstances. Mrs. Gallilee’s warning voice sounded + like a knell—“Time! time!” Zo’s shrill treble rang out louder still. + Zo was determined to write to Ovid, if she was not allowed to go with him. + “Pa’s going to write to you—why shouldn’t I?” she screamed through + her tears. “Dear Zoe, you are too young,” Maria remarked. “Damned + nonsense!” sobbed Mr. Gallilee; “she <i>shall</i> write!” “Time, time!” + Mrs. Gallilee reiterated. Taking no part in the dispute, Ovid directed two + envelopes for Zo, and quieted her in that way. He hurried into the hall; + he glanced at the stairs that led to the drawing-room. Carmina was on the + landing, waiting for a farewell look at him. On the higher flight of + stairs, invisible from the hall, Miss Minerva was watching the scene of + departure. Reckless of railways and steamers, Ovid ran up to Carmina. + Another and another kiss; and then away to the house-door, with Zo at his + heels, trying to get into the cab with him. A last kind word to the child, + as they carried her back to the house; a last look at the familiar faces + in the doorway; a last effort to resist that foretaste of death which + embitters all human partings—and Ovid was gone! + </p> + <p> + VOLUME TWO <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. + </h2> + <p> + On the afternoon of the day that followed Ovid’s departure, the three + ladies of the household were in a state of retirement—each in her + own room. + </p> + <p> + The writing-table in Mrs. Gallilee’s boudoir was covered with letters. Her + banker’s pass-book and her cheque-book were on the desk; Mr. Gallilee’s + affairs having been long since left as completely in the hands of his + wife, as if Mr. Gallilee had been dead. A sheet of paper lay near the + cheque-book, covered with calculations divided into two columns. The + figures in the right-hand column were contained in one line at the top of + the page. The figures in the left-hand column filled the page from top to + bottom. With her fan in her hand, and her pen in the ink-bottle, Mrs. + Gallilee waited, steadily thinking. + </p> + <p> + It was the hottest day of the season. All the fat women in London fanned + themselves on that sultry afternoon; and Mrs. Gallilee followed the + general example. When she looked to the right, her calculations showed the + balance at the bank. When she looked to the left, her calculations showed + her debts: some partially paid, some not paid at all. If she wearied of + the prospect thus presented, and turned for relief to her letters, she was + confronted by polite requests for money; from tradespeople in the first + place, and from secretaries of fashionable Charities in the second. Here + and there, by way of variety, were invitations to parties, representing + more pecuniary liabilities, incurred for new dresses, and for + hospitalities acknowledged by dinners and conversaziones at her own house. + Money that she owed, money that she must spend; nothing but outlay of + money—and where was it to come from? + </p> + <p> + So far as her pecuniary resources were concerned, she was equally removed + from hope and fear. Twice a year the same income flowed in regularly from + the same investments. What she could pay at any future time was far more + plainly revealed to her than what she might owe. With tact and management + it would be possible to partially satisfy creditors, and keep up + appearances for six months more. To that conclusion her reflections led + her, and left her to write cheques. + </p> + <p> + And after the six months—what then? + </p> + <p> + Having first completed her correspondence with the tradespeople, and + having next decided on her contributions to the Charities, this iron + matron took up her fan again, cooled herself, and met the question of the + future face to face. + </p> + <p> + Ovid was the central figure in the prospect. + </p> + <p> + If he lived devoted to his profession, and lived unmarried, there was a + last resource always left to Mrs. Gallilee. For years past, his + professional gains had added largely to the income which he had inherited + from his father. Unembarrassed by expensive tastes, he had some thousands + of pounds put by—for the simple reason that he was at a loss what + else to do with them. Thus far, her brother’s generosity had spared Mrs. + Gallilee the hard necessity of making a confession to her son. As things + were now, she must submit to tell the humiliating truth; and Ovid (with no + wife to check <i>his</i> liberal instincts) would do what Ovid’s uncle + (with no wife living to check his liberal instincts) had done already. + </p> + <p> + There was the prospect, if her son remained a bachelor. But her son had + resolved to marry Carmina. What would be the result if she was weak enough + to allow it? + </p> + <p> + There would be, not one result, but three results. Natural; Legal; + Pecuniary. + </p> + <p> + The natural result would be—children. + </p> + <p> + The legal result (if only one of those children lived) would be the loss + to Mrs. Gallilee and her daughters of the splendid fortune reserved for + them in the Will, if Carmina died without leaving offspring. + </p> + <p> + The pecuniary result would be (adding the husband’s income to the wife’s) + about eight thousand a year for the young married people. + </p> + <p> + And how much for a loan, applicable to the mother-in-law’s creditors? + Judging Carmina by the standard of herself—by what other standard do + we really judge our fellow-creatures, no matter how clever we may be?—Mrs. + Gallilee decided that not one farthing would be left to help her to pay + debts, which were steadily increasing with every new concession that she + made to the claims of society. Young Mrs. Ovid Vere, at the head of a + household, would have the grand example of her other aunt before her eyes. + Although her place of residence might not be a palace, she would be a poor + creature indeed, if she failed to spend eight thousand a year, in the + effort to be worthy of the social position of Lady Northlake. Add to these + results of Ovid’s contemplated marriage the loss of a thousand a year, + secured to the guardian by the Will, while the ward remained under her + care—and the statement of disaster would be complete. “We must leave + this house, and submit to be Lady Northlake’s poor relations—there + is the price I pay for it, if Ovid and Carmina become man and wife.” + </p> + <p> + She quietly laid aside her fan, as the thought in her completed itself in + this form. + </p> + <p> + The trivial action, and the look which accompanied it, had a sinister + meaning of their own, beyond the reach of words. And Ovid was already on + the sea. And Teresa was far away in Italy. + </p> + <p> + The clock on the mantelpiece struck five; the punctual parlour-maid + appeared with her mistress’s customary cup of tea. Mrs. Gallilee asked for + the governess. The servant answered that Miss Minerva was in her room. + </p> + <p> + “Where are the young ladies?” + </p> + <p> + “My master has taken them out for a walk.” + </p> + <p> + “Have they had their music lesson?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, ma’am. Mr. Le Frank left word yesterday that he would come at + six this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Mr. Gallilee know that?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard Miss Minerva tell my master, while I was helping the young ladies + to get ready.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Ask Miss Minerva to come here, and speak to me.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva sat at the open window of her bedroom, looking out vacantly + at the backs of houses, in the street behind Fairfield Gardens. + </p> + <p> + The evil spirit was the dominant spirit in her again. She, too, was + thinking of Ovid and Carmina. Her memory was busy with the parting scene + on the previous day. + </p> + <p> + The more she thought of all that had happened in that short space of time, + the more bitterly she reproached herself. Her one besetting weakness had + openly degraded her, without so much as an attempt at resistance on her + part. The fear of betraying herself if she took leave of the man she + secretly loved, in the presence of his family, had forced her to ask a + favour of Carmina, and to ask it under circumstances which might have led + her rival to suspect the truth. Admitted to a private interview with Ovid, + she had failed to control her agitation; and, worse still, in her + ungovernable eagerness to produce a favourable impression on him at + parting, she had promised—honestly promised, in that moment of + impulse—to make Carmina’s happiness her own peculiar care! Carmina, + who had destroyed in a day the hope of years! Carmina, who had taken him + away from her; who had clung round him when he ran upstairs, and had + kissed him—fervently, shamelessly kissed him—before the + servants in the hall! + </p> + <p> + She started to her feet, roused to a frenzy of rage by her own + recollections. Standing at the window, she looked down at the pavement of + the courtyard—it was far enough below to kill her instantly if she + fell on it. Through the heat of her anger there crept the chill and + stealthy prompting of despair. She leaned over the window-sill—she + was not afraid—she might have done it, but for a trifling + interruption. Somebody spoke outside. + </p> + <p> + It was the parlour-maid. Instead of entering the room, she spoke through + the open door. The woman was one of Miss Minerva’s many enemies in the + house. “Mrs. Gallilee wishes to see you,” she said—and shut the door + again, the instant the words were out of her mouth. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee! + </p> + <p> + The very name was full of promise at that moment. It suggested hope—merciless + hope. + </p> + <p> + She left the window, and consulted her looking-glass. Even to herself, her + haggard face was terrible to see. She poured eau-de-cologne and water into + her basin, and bathed her burning head and eyes. Her shaggy black hair + stood in need of attention next. She took almost as much pains with it as + if she had been going into the presence of Ovid himself. “I must make a + calm appearance,” she thought, still as far as ever from suspecting that + her employer had guessed her secret, “or his mother may find me out.” Her + knees trembled under her. She sat down for a minute to rest. + </p> + <p> + Was she merely wanted for some ordinary domestic consultation? or was + there really a chance of hearing the question of Ovid and Carmina brought + forward at the coming interview? + </p> + <p> + She believed what she hoped: she believed that the time had come when Mrs. + Gallilee had need of an ally—perhaps of an accomplice. Only let her + object be the separation of the two cousins—and Miss Minerva was + eager to help her, in either capacity. Suppose she was too cautious to + mention her object? Miss Minerva was equally ready for her employer, in + that case. The doubt which had prompted her fruitless suggestions to + Carmina, when they were alone in the young girl’s room—the doubt + whether a clue to the discovery of Mrs. Gallilee’s motives might not be + found, in that latter part of the Will which she had failed to overhear—was + as present as ever in the governess’s mind. “The learned lady is not + infallible,” she thought as she entered Mrs. Gallilee’s room. “If one + unwary word trips over her tongue, I shall pick it up!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s manner was encouraging at the outset. She had left her + writing-table; and she now presented herself, reclining in an easy chair, + weary and discouraged—the picture of a woman in want of a helpful + friend. + </p> + <p> + “My head aches with adding up figures, and writing letters,” she said. “I + wish you would finish my correspondence for me.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva took her place at the desk. She at once discovered the + unfinished correspondence to be a false pretence. Three cheques for + charitable subscriptions, due at that date, were waiting to be sent to + three secretaries, with the customary letters. In five minutes, the + letters were ready for the post. “Anything more?” Miss Minerva asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not that I remember. Do you mind giving me my fan? I feel perfectly + helpless—I am wretchedly depressed to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “The heat, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “No. The expenses. Every year, the demands on our resources seem to + increase. On principle, I dislike living up to our income—and I am + obliged to do it.” + </p> + <p> + Here, plainly revealed to the governess’s experienced eyes, was another + false pretence—used to introduce the true object of the interview, + as something which might accidentally suggest itself in the course of + conversation. Miss Minerva expressed the necessary regret with innocent + readiness. “Might I suggest economy?” she asked with impenetrable gravity. + </p> + <p> + “Admirably advised,” Mrs. Gallilee admitted; “but how is it to be done? + Those subscriptions, for instance, are more than I ought to give. And what + happens if I lower the amount? I expose myself to unfavourable comparison + with other people of our rank in society.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva still patiently played the part expected of her. “You might + perhaps do with only one carriage-horse,” she remarked. + </p> + <p> + “My good creature, look at the people who have only one carriage-horse! + Situated as I am, can I descend to that level? Don’t suppose I care two + straws about such things, myself. My one pride and pleasure in life is the + pride and pleasure of improving my mind. But I have Lady Northlake for a + sister; and I must not be entirely unworthy of my family connections. I + have two daughters; and I must think of their interests. In a few years, + Maria will be presented at Court. Thanks to you, she will be one of the + most accomplished girls in England. Think of Maria’s mother in a one-horse + chaise. Dear child! tell me all about her lessons. Is she getting on as + well as ever?” + </p> + <p> + “Examine her yourself, Mrs. Gallilee. I can answer for the result.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Miss Minerva! I have too much confidence in you to do anything of the + kind. Besides, in one of the most important of Maria’s accomplishments, I + am entirely dependent on yourself. I know nothing of music. You are not + responsible for her progress in that direction. Still, I should like to + know if you are satisfied with Maria’s music?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think she is getting—how can I express it?—shall I + say beyond the reach of Mr. Le Frank’s teaching?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you would consider Mr. Le Frank equal to the instruction of an + older and more advanced pupil than Maria?” + </p> + <p> + Thus far, Miss Minerva had answered the questions submitted to her with + well-concealed indifference. This last inquiry roused her attention. Why + did Mrs. Gallilee show an interest, for the first time, in Mr. Le Frank’s + capacity as a teacher? Who was this “older and more advanced pupil,” for + whose appearance in the conversation the previous questions had so + smoothly prepared the way? Feeling delicate ground under her, the + governess advanced cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “I have always thought Mr. Le Frank an excellent teacher,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Can you give me no more definite answer than that?” Mrs. Gallilee asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite unacquainted, madam, with the musical proficiency of the pupil + to whom you refer. I don’t even know (which adds to my perplexity) whether + you are speaking of a lady or a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “I am speaking,” said Mrs. Gallilee quietly, “of my niece, Carmina.” + </p> + <p> + Those words set all further doubt at rest in Miss Minerva’s mind. + Introduced by such elaborate preparation, the allusion to Carmina’s name + could only lead, in due course, to the subject of Carmina’s marriage. By + indirect methods of approach, Mrs. Gallilee had at last reached the object + that she had in view. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. + </h2> + <h3> + There was an interval of silence between the two ladies. + </h3> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee waited for Miss Minerva to speak next. Miss Minerva waited + to be taken into Mrs. Gallilee’s confidence. The sparrows twittered in the + garden; and, far away in the schoolroom, the notes of the piano announced + that the music lesson had begun. + </p> + <p> + “The birds are noisy,” said Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + “And the piano sounds out of tune,” Miss Minerva remarked. + </p> + <p> + There was no help for it. Either Mrs. Gallilee must return to the matter + in hand—-or the matter in hand must drop. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I have not made myself understood,” she resumed. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I have been very stupid,” Miss Minerva confessed. + </p> + <p> + Resigning herself to circumstances, Mrs. Gallilee put the adjourned + question under a new form. “We were speaking of Mr. Le Frank as a teacher, + and of my niece as a pupil,” she said. “Have you been able to form any + opinion of Carmina’s musical abilities?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva remained as prudent as ever. She answered, “I have had no + opportunity of forming an opinion.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee met this cautious reply by playing her trump card. She + handed a letter to Miss Minerva. “I have received a proposal from Mr. Le + Frank,” she said. “Will you tell me what you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + The letter was short and servile. Mr. Le Frank presented his best + respects. If Mrs. Gallilee’s charming niece stood in need of musical + instruction, he ventured to hope that he might have the honour and + happiness of superintending her studies. Looking back to the top of the + letter, the governess discovered that this modest request bore a date of + eight days since. “Have you written to Mr. Le Frank?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Only to say that I will take his request into consideration,” Mrs. + Gallilee replied. + </p> + <p> + Had she waited for her son’s departure, before she committed herself to a + decision? On the chance that this might be the case, Miss Minerva + consulted her memory. When Mrs. Gallilee first decided on engaging a + music-master to teach the children, her son had disapproved of employing + Mr. Le Frank. This circumstance might possibly be worth bearing in mind. + “Do you see any objection to accepting Mr. Le Frank’s proposal?” Mrs. + Gallilee asked. Miss Minerva saw an objection forthwith, and, thanks to + her effort of memory, discovered an especially mischievous way of stating + it. “I feel a certain delicacy in offering an opinion,” she said modestly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee was surprised. “Do you allude to Mr. Le Frank?” she + inquired. + </p> + <p> + “No. I don’t doubt that his instructions would be of service to any young + lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you thinking of my niece?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mrs. Gallilee. I am thinking of your son.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + “In this way. I believe your son would object to employing Mr. Le Frank as + Miss Carmina’s teacher.” + </p> + <p> + “On musical grounds?” + </p> + <p> + “No; on personal grounds.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva explained her meaning. “I think you have forgotten what + happened, when you first employed Mr. Le Frank to teach Maria and Zoe. His + personal appearance produced an unfavourable impression on your son; and + Mr. Ovid made certain inquiries which you had not thought necessary. + Pardon me if I persist in mentioning the circumstances. I owe it to myself + to justify my opinion—an opinion, you will please to remember, that + I did not volunteer. Mr. Ovid’s investigations brought to light a very + unpleasant report, relating to Mr. Le Frank and a young lady who had been + one of his pupils.” + </p> + <p> + “An abominable slander, Miss Minerva! I am surprised that you should refer + to it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am referring, madam, to the view of the matter taken by Mr. Ovid. If + Mr. Le Frank had failed to defend himself successfully, he would of course + not have been received into this house. But your son had his own opinion + of the defence. I was present at the time, and I heard him say that, if + Maria and Zoe had been older, he should have advised employing a + music-master who had no false reports against him to contradict. As they + were only children, he would say nothing more. That is what I had in my + mind, when I gave my opinion. I think Mr. Ovid will be annoyed when he + hears that Mr. Le Frank is his cousin’s music-master. And, if any foolish + gossip reaches him in his absence, I fear it might lead to mischievous + results—I mean, to misunderstandings not easily set right by + correspondence, and quite likely therefore to lead, in the end, to + distrust and jealousy.” + </p> + <p> + There she paused, and crossed her hands on her lap, and waited for what + was to come next. + </p> + <p> + If Mrs. Gallilee could have looked into her mind at that moment as well as + into her face, she would have read Miss Minerva’s thoughts in these plain + terms: “All this time, madam, you have been keeping up appearances in the + face of detection. You are going to use Mr. Le Frank as a means of making + mischief between Ovid and Carmina. If you had taken me into your + confidence, I might have been willing to help you. As it is, please + observe that I am not caught in the trap you have set for me. If Mr. Ovid + discovers your little plot, you can’t lay the blame on your governess’s + advice.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee felt that she had again measured herself with Miss Minerva, + and had again been beaten. She had confidently reckoned on the governess’s + secret feeling towards her son to encourage, without hesitation or + distrust, any project for promoting the estrangement of Ovid and Carmina. + There was no alternative now but to put her first obstacle in the way of + the marriage, on her own sole responsibility. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t doubt that you have spoken sincerely,” she said; “but you have + failed to do justice to my son’s good sense; and you are—naturally + enough, in your position—incapable of estimating his devoted + attachment to Carmina.” Having planted that sting, she paused to observe + the effect. Not the slightest visible result rewarded her. She went on. + “Almost the last words he said to me expressed his confidence—his + affectionate confidence—in my niece. The bare idea of his being + jealous of anybody, and especially of such a person as Mr. Le Frank, is + simply ridiculous. I am astonished that you don’t see it in that light.” + </p> + <p> + “I should see it in that light as plainly as you do,” Miss Minerva quietly + replied, “if Mr. Ovid was at home.” + </p> + <p> + “What difference does that make?” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me—it makes a great difference, as I think. He has gone away + on a long journey, and gone away in bad health. He will have his hours of + depression. At such times, trifles are serious things; and even well-meant + words—in letters—are sometimes misunderstood. I can offer no + better apology for what I have said; and I can only regret that I have + made so unsatisfactory a return for your flattering confidence in me.” + </p> + <p> + Having planted <i>her</i> sting, she rose to retire. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any further commands for me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to be quite sure that I have not misunderstood you,” said + Mrs. Gallilee. “You consider Mr. Le Frank to be competent, as director of + any young lady’s musical studies? Thank you. On the one point on which I + wished to consult you, my mind is at ease. Do you know where Carmina is?” + </p> + <p> + “In her room, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you have the goodness to send her here?” + </p> + <p> + “With the greatest pleasure. Good-evening!” + </p> + <p> + So ended Mrs. Gallilee’s first attempt to make use of Miss Minerva, + without trusting her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. + </h2> + <p> + The mistress of the house, and the governess of the house, had their own + special reasons for retiring to their own rooms. Carmina was in solitude + as a matter of necessity. The only friends that the poor girl could gather + round her now, were the absent and the dead. + </p> + <p> + She had written to Ovid—merely for the pleasure of thinking that her + letter would accompany him, in the mail-steamer which took him to Quebec. + She had written to Teresa. She had opened her piano, and had played the + divinely beautiful music of Mozart, until its tenderness saddened her, and + she closed the instrument with an aching heart. For a while she sat by the + window, thinking of Ovid. The decline of day has its melancholy affinities + with the decline of life. As the evening wore on, her loneliness had + become harder and harder to endure. She rang for the maid, and asked if + Miss Minerva was at leisure. Miss Minerva had been sent for by Mrs. + Gallilee. Where was Zo? In the schoolroom, waiting until Mr. Le Frank had + done with Maria, to take her turn at the piano. Left alone again, Carmina + opened her locket, and put Ovid’s portrait by it on the table. Her sad + fancy revived her dead parents—imagined her lover being presented to + them—saw him winning their hearts by his genial voice, his sweet + smile, his wise and kindly words. Miss Minerva, entering the room, found + her still absorbed in her own little melancholy daydream; recalling the + absent, reviving the dead—as if she had been nearing the close of + life. And only seventeen years old. Alas for Carmina, only seventeen! + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee wishes to see you.” + </p> + <p> + She started. “Is there anything wrong?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. What makes you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “You speak in such a strange way. Oh, Frances, I have been longing for you + to keep me company! And now you are here, you look at me as coldly as if I + had offended you. Perhaps you are not well?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it. I am not well.” + </p> + <p> + “Have some of my lavender water! Let me bathe your forehead, and then blow + on it to cool you this hot weather. No? Sit down, dear, at any rate. What + does my aunt want with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I had better not tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Your aunt is sure to ask you what I have said. I have tried her temper; + you know what her temper is! She has sent me here instead of sending a + maid, on the chance that I may commit some imprudence. I give you her + message exactly as the servant might have given it—and you can tell + her so with a safe conscience. No more questions!” + </p> + <p> + “One more, please. Is it anything about Ovid?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then my aunt can wait a little. Do sit down! I want to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “About what?” + </p> + <p> + “About Ovid, of course!” + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s look and tone at once set Miss Minerva’s mind at ease. Her + conduct, on the day of Ovid’s departure, had aroused no jealous suspicion + in her innocent rival. She refused to take the offered chair. + </p> + <p> + “I have already told you your aunt is out of temper,” she said. “Go to her + at once.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina rose unwillingly. “There were so many things I wanted to say to + you,” she began—and was interrupted by a rapid little series of + knocks at the door. Was the person in a hurry? The person proved to be the + discreet and accomplished Maria. She made her excuses to Carmina with + sweetness, and turned to Miss Minerva with sorrow. + </p> + <p> + “I regret to say that you are wanted in the schoolroom. Mr. Le Frank can + do nothing with Zoe. Oh, dear!” She sighed over her sister’s wickedness, + and waited for instructions. + </p> + <p> + To be called away, under any circumstances, was a relief to Miss Minerva. + Carmina’s affectionate welcome had irritated her in the most + incomprehensible manner. She was angry with herself for being irritated; + she felt inclined to abuse the girl for believing her. “You fool, why + don’t you see through me? Why don’t you write to that other fool who is in + love with you, and tell him how I hate you both?” But for her + self-command, she might have burst out with such mad words as those. + Maria’s appearance was inexpressibly welcome. “Say I will follow you + directly,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Maria, in the language of the stage, made a capital exit. With a few + hurried words of apology, Miss Minerva prepared to follow. Carmina stopped + her at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be hard on Zo!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I must do my duty,” Miss Minerva answered sternly. + </p> + <p> + “We were sometimes naughty ourselves when we were children,” Carmina + pleaded. “And only the other day she had bread and water for tea. I am so + fond of Zo! And besides—” she looked doubtfully at Miss Minerva—“I + don’t think Mr. Le Frank is the sort of man to get on with children.” + </p> + <p> + After what had just passed between Mrs. Gallilee and herself, this + expression of opinion excited the governess’s curiosity. “What makes you + say that?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, for one thing Mr. Le Frank is so ugly. Don’t you agree + with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I think you had better keep your opinion to yourself. If he heard of it—” + </p> + <p> + “Is he vain? My poor father used to say that all bad musicians were vain.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t call Mr. Le Frank a bad musician?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I do! I heard him at his concert. Mere execution of the most + mechanical kind. A musical box is as good as that man’s playing. This is + how he does it!” + </p> + <p> + Her girlish good spirits had revived in her friend’s company. She turned + gaily to the piano, and amused herself by imitating Mr. Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + Another knock at the door—a single peremptory knock this time—stopped + the performance. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva had left the door ajar, when Carmina had prevented her from + quitting the room. She looked through the open space, and discovered—Mr. + Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + His bald head trembled, his florid complexion was livid with suppressed + rage. “That little devil has run away!” he said—and hurried down the + stairs again, as if he dare not trust himself to utter a word more. + </p> + <p> + “Has he heard me?” Carmina asked in dismay. + </p> + <p> + “He may only have heard you playing.” + </p> + <p> + Offering this hopeful suggestion, Miss Minerva felt no doubt, in her own + mind, that Mr. Le Frank was perfectly well acquainted with Carmina’s + opinion of him. It was easy enough to understand that he should himself + inform the governess of an incident, so entirely beyond the reach of his + own interference as the flight of Zo. But it was impossible to assume that + the furious anger which his face betrayed, could have been excited by a + child who had run away from a lesson. No: the vainest of men and musicians + had heard that he was ugly, and that his pianoforte-playing resembled the + performance of a musical box. + </p> + <p> + They left the room together—Carmina, ill at ease, to attend on her + aunt; Miss Minerva, pondering on what had happened, to find the fugitive + Zo. + </p> + <p> + The footman had already spared her the trouble of searching the house. He + had seen Zo running out bare-headed into the Square, and had immediately + followed her. The young rebel was locked up. “I don’t care,” said Zo; “I + hate Mr. Le Frank!” Miss Minerva’s mind was too seriously preoccupied to + notice this aggravation of her pupil’s offence. One subject absorbed her + attention—the interview then in progress between Carmina and her + aunt. + </p> + <p> + How would Mrs. Gallilee’s scheme prosper now? Mr. Le Frank might, or might + not, consent to be Carmina’s teacher. Another result, however, was + certain. Miss Minerva thoroughly well knew the vindictive nature of the + man. He neither forgave nor forgot—he was Carmina’s enemy for life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. + </h2> + <h3> + The month of July was near its end. + </h3> + <p> + On the morning of the twenty-eighth, Carmina was engaged in replying to a + letter received from Teresa. Her answer contained a record of domestic + events, during an interval of serious importance in her life under Mrs. + Gallilee’s roof. Translated from the Italian, the letter was expressed in + these terms: + </p> + <p> + “Are you vexed with me, dearest, for this late reply to your sad news from + Italy? I have but one excuse to offer. + </p> + <p> + “Can I hear of your anxiety about your husband, and not feel the wish to + help you to bear your burden by writing cheerfully of myself? Over and + over again, I have thought of you and have opened my desk. My spirits have + failed me, and I have shut it up again. Am I now in a happier frame of + mind? Yes, my good old nurse, I am happier. I have had a letter from Ovid. + </p> + <p> + “He has arrived safely at Quebec, and he is beginning to feel better + already, after the voyage. You cannot imagine how beautifully, how + tenderly he writes! I am almost reconciled to his absence, when I read his + letter. Will that give you some idea of the happiness and the consolation + that I owe to this best and dearest of men? + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my old granny, I see you start, and make that favourite mark with + your thumb-nail under the word ‘consolation’! I hear you say to yourself, + ‘Is she unhappy in her English home? And is Aunt Gallilee to blame for + it?’ Yes! it is even so. What I would not for the whole world write to + Ovid, I may confess to you. Aunt Gallilee is indeed a hard, hard woman. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember telling me, in your dear downright way, that Mr. Le Frank + looked like a rogue? I don’t know whether he is a rogue—but I do + know that it is through his conduct that my aunt is offended with me. + </p> + <p> + “It happened three weeks ago. + </p> + <p> + “She sent for me, and said that my education must be completed, and that + my music in particular must be attended to. I was quite willing to obey + her, and I said so with all needful readiness and respect. She answered + that she had already chosen a music-master for me—and then, to my + astonishment, she mentioned his name. Mr. Le Frank, who taught her + children, was also to teach me! I have plenty of faults, but I really + think vanity is not one of them. It is only due to my excellent master in + Italy to say, that I am a better pianoforte player than Mr. Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + “I never breathed a word of this, mind, to my aunt. It would have been + ungrateful and useless. She knows and cares nothing about music. + </p> + <p> + “So we parted good friends, and she wrote the same evening to engage my + master. The next day she got his reply. Mr. Le Frank refused to be my + professor of music—and this, after he had himself proposed to teach + me, in a letter addressed to my aunt! Being asked for his reasons, he made + an excuse. The spare time at his disposal, when he had written, had been + since occupied by another pupil. The true reason for his conduct is, that + he heard me speak of him—rashly enough, I don’t deny it—as an + ugly man and a bad player. Miss Minerva sounded him on the subject, at my + request, for the purpose of course of making my apologies. He affected not + to understand what she meant—with what motive I am sure I don’t + know. False and revengeful, you may say, and perhaps you may be right. But + the serious part of it, so far as I am concerned, is my aunt’s behaviour + to me. If I had thwarted her in the dearest wish of her life, she could + hardly treat me with greater coldness and severity. She has not stirred + again, in the matter of my education. We only meet at meal-times; and she + receives me, when I sit down at table, as she might receive a perfect + stranger. Her icy civility is unendurable. And this woman is my darling + Ovid’s mother! + </p> + <p> + “Have I done with my troubles now? No, Teresa; not even yet. Oh, how I + wish I was with you in Italy! + </p> + <p> + “Your letters persist in telling me that I am deluded in believing Miss + Minerva to be truly my friend. Do pray remember—even if I am wrong—what + a solitary position mine is, in Mrs. Gallilee’s house! I can play with + dear little Zo; but whom can I talk to, whom can I confide in, if it turns + out that Miss Minerva has been deceiving me? + </p> + <p> + “When I wrote to you, I refused to acknowledge that any such dreadful + discovery as this could be possible; I resented the bare idea of it as a + cruel insult to my friend. Since that time—my face burns with shame + while I write it—I am a little, just a little, shaken in my own + opinion. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell you how it began? Yes; I will. + </p> + <p> + “My good old friend, you have your prejudices. But you speak your mind + truly—and whom else can I consult? Not Ovid! The one effort of my + life is to prevent him from feeling anxious about me. And, besides, I have + contended against his opinion of Miss Minerva, and have brought him to + think of her more kindly. Has he been right, notwithstanding? and are you + right? And am I alone wrong? You shall judge for yourself. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva began to change towards me, after I had done the thing of + all others which ought to have brought us closer together than ever. She + is very poorly paid by my aunt, and she has been worried by little debts. + When she owned this, I most willingly lent her the money to pay her bills—a + mere trifle, only thirty pounds. What do you think she did? She crushed up + the bank-notes in her hand, and left the room in the strangest headlong + manner—as if I had insulted her instead of helping her! All the next + day, she avoided me. The day after, I myself went to her room, and asked + what was the matter. She gave me a most extraordinary answer. She said, ‘I + don’t know which of us two I most detest—myself or you. Myself for + borrowing your money, or you for lending it.’ I left her; not feeling + offended, only bewildered and distressed. More than an hour passed before + she made her excuses. ‘I am ill and miserable’—that was all she + said. She did indeed look so wretched that I forgave her directly. Would + you not have done so too, in my place? + </p> + <p> + “This happened a fortnight since. Only yesterday, she broke out again, and + put my affection for her to a far more severe trial. I have not got over + it yet. + </p> + <p> + “There was a message for her in Ovid’s letter—expressed in the + friendliest terms. He remembered with gratitude her kind promise, on + saying good-bye; he believed she would do all that lay in her power to + make my life happy in his absence; and he only regretted her leaving him + in such haste that he had no time to thank her personally. Such was the + substance of the message. I was proud and pleased to go to her room + myself, and read it to her. + </p> + <p> + “Can you guess how she received me? Nobody—I say it positively—nobody + could guess. + </p> + <p> + “She actually flew into a rage! Not only with me (which I might have + pardoned), but with Ovid (which is perfectly inexcusable). ‘How dare he + write to <i>you,’</i> she burst out, ‘of what I said to him when we took + leave of each other? And how dare you come here, and read it to me? What + do I care about your life, in his absence? Of what earthly consequence are + his remembrance and his gratitude to Me!’ She spoke of him, with such fury + and such contempt, that she roused me at last. I said to her, ‘You + abominable woman, there is but one excuse for you—you’re mad!’ I + left the room—and didn’t I bang the door! We have not met since. Let + me hear your opinion, Teresa. I was in a passion when I told her she was + mad; but was I altogether wrong? Do you really think the poor creature is + in her right senses? + </p> + <p> + “Looking back at your letter, I see that you ask if I have made any new + acquaintances. + </p> + <p> + “I have been introduced to one of the sweetest women I ever met with. And + who do you think she is? My other aunt—Mrs. Gallilee’s younger + sister, Lady Northlake! They say she was not so handsome as Mrs. Gallilee, + when they were both young. For my part, I can only declare that no such + comparison is possible between them now. In look, in voice, in manner + there is something so charming in Lady Northlake that I quite despair of + describing it. My father used to say that she was amiable and weak; led by + her husband, and easily imposed upon. I am not clever enough to have his + eye for character: and perhaps I am weak and easily imposed upon too. + Before I had been ten minutes in Lady Northlake’s company, I would have + given everything I possess in the world to have had <i>her</i> for my + guardian. + </p> + <p> + “She had called to say good-bye, on leaving London; and my aunt was not at + home. We had a long delightful talk together. She asked me so kindly to + visit her in Scotland, and be introduced to Lord Northlake, that I + accepted the invitation with a glad heart. + </p> + <p> + “When my aunt returned, I quite forgot that we were on bad terms. I gave + her an enthusiastic account of all that had passed between her sister and + myself. How do you think she met this little advance on my part? She + positively refused to let me go to Scotland. + </p> + <p> + “As soon as I had in some degree got over my disappointment, I asked for + her reasons. ‘I am your guardian,’ she said; ‘and I am acting in the + exercise of my own discretion. I think it better you should stay with me.’ + I made no further remark. My aunt’s cruelty made me think of my dead + father’s kindness. It was as much as I could do to keep from crying. + </p> + <p> + “Thinking over it afterwards, I supposed (as this is the season when + everybody leaves town) that she had arranged to take me into the country + with her. Mr. Gallilee, who is always good to me, thought so too, and + promised me some sailing at the sea-side. To the astonishment of + everybody, she has not shown any intention of going away from London! Even + the servants ask what it means. + </p> + <p> + “This is a letter of complaints. Am I adding to your anxieties instead of + relieving them? My kind old nurse, there is no need to be anxious. At the + worst of my little troubles, I have only to think of Ovid—and his + mother’s ice melts away from me directly; I feel brave enough to endure + anything. + </p> + <p> + “Take my heart’s best love, dear—no, next best love, after Ovid!—and + give some of it to your poor suffering husband. May I ask one little + favour? The English gentleman who has taken our old house at Rome, will + not object to give you a few flowers out of what was once my garden. Send + them to me in your next letter.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. + </h2> + <p> + On the twelfth of August, Carmina heard from Ovid again. He wrote from + Montreal; describing the presentation of that letter of introduction which + he had once been tempted to destroy. In the consequences that followed the + presentation—apparently harmless consequences at the time—the + destinies of Ovid, of Carmina, and of Benjulia proved to be seriously + involved. + </p> + <p> + Ovid’s letter was thus expressed: + </p> + <p> + “I want to know, my love, if there is any other man in the world who is as + fond of his darling as I am of you? If such a person exists, and if + adverse circumstances compel him to travel, I should like to ask a + question. Is he perpetually calling to mind forgotten things, which he + ought to have said to his sweetheart before he left her? + </p> + <p> + “This is my case. Let me give you an instance. + </p> + <p> + “I have made a new friend here—one Mr. Morphew. Last night, he was + so kind as to invite me to a musical entertainment at his house. He is a + medical man; and he amuses himself in his leisure hours by playing on that + big and dreary member of the family of fiddles, whose name is Violoncello. + Assisted by friends, he hospitably cools his guests, in the hot season, by + the amateur performance of quartets. My dear, I passed a delightful + evening. Listening to the music? Not listening to a single note of it. + Thinking of You. + </p> + <p> + “Have I roused your curiosity? I fancy I can see your eyes brighten; I + fancy I can hear you telling me to go on! + </p> + <p> + “My thoughts reminded me that music is one of the enjoyments of your life. + Before I went away, I ought to have remembered this, and to have told you + that the manager of the autumn concerts at the opera-house is an old + friend of mine. He will be only too glad to place a box at your disposal, + on any night when his programme attracts your notice; I have already made + amends for my forgetfulness, by writing to him by this mail. Miss Minerva + will be your companion at the theatre. If Mr. Le Frank (who is sure to be + on the free list) pays you a visit in your box, tell him from me to put a + wig on his bald head, and to try if <i>that</i> will make him look like an + honest man! + </p> + <p> + “Did I forget anything else before my departure? Did I tell you how + precious you are to me? how beautiful you are to me? how entirely + worthless my life is without you? I dare say I did; but I tell it all over + again—and, when you are tired of the repetition, you have only to + let me know. + </p> + <p> + “In the meanwhile, have I nothing else to say? have I no travelling + adventures to relate? You insist on hearing of everything that happens to + me; and you are to have your own way before we are married, as well as + after. My sweet Carmina, your willing slave has something more serious + than common travelling adventures to relate—he has a confession to + make. In plain words, I have been practising my profession again, in the + city of Montreal! + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether you will forgive me, when you are informed of the + circumstances? It is a sad little story; but I am vain enough to think + that my part in it will interest you. I have been a vain man, since that + brightest and best of all possible days when you first made <i>your</i> + confession—when you said that you loved me. + </p> + <p> + “Look back in my letter, and you will see Mr. Morphew mentioned as a new + friend of mine, in Canada. I became acquainted with him through a letter + of introduction, given to me by Benjulia. + </p> + <p> + “Say nothing to anybody of what I am now going to tell you—and be + especially careful, if you happen to see him, to keep Benjulia in the + dark. I sincerely hope you will not see him. He is a hard-hearted man—and + he might say something which would distress you, if he knew of the result + which has followed his opening to me the door of his friend’s house. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Morphew is a worthy busy old gentleman, who follows his professional + routine, and whose medical practice consists principally in bringing + infant Canadians into the world. His services happened to be specially in + request, at the time when I made his acquaintance. He was called away from + his table, on the day after the musical party, when I dined with him. I + was the only guest—and his wife was left to entertain me. + </p> + <p> + “The good lady began by speaking of Benjulia. She roundly declared him to + be a brute—and she produced my letter of introduction (closed by the + doctor’s own hand, before he gave it to me) as a proof. Would you like to + read the letter, too? Here is a copy:—‘The man who brings this is an + overworked surgeon, named Ovid Vere. He wants rest and good air. Don’t + encourage him to use his brains; and give him information enough to take + him, by the shortest way, to the biggest desert in Canada.’ You will now + understand that I am indebted to myself for the hospitable reception which + has detained me at Montreal. + </p> + <p> + “To return to my story. Mr. Morphew’s services were again in request, ten + minutes after he had left the house. This time the patient was a man—and + the messenger declared that he was at the point of death. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Morphew seemed to be at a loss what to do. ‘In this dreadful case,’ + she said, ‘death is a mercy. What I cannot bear to think of is the poor + man’s lonely position. In his last moments, there will not be a living + creature at his bedside.’ + </p> + <p> + “Hearing this, I ventured to make some inquiries. The answers painted such + a melancholy picture of poverty and suffering, and so vividly reminded me + of a similar case in my own experience, that I forgot I was an invalid + myself, and volunteered to visit the dying man in Mr. Morphew’s place. + </p> + <p> + “The messenger led me to the poorest quarter of the city and to a garret + in one of the wretchedest houses in the street. There he lay, without + anyone to nurse him, on a mattress on the floor. What his malady was, you + will not ask to know. I will only say that any man but a doctor would have + run out of the room, the moment he entered it. To save the poor creature + was impossible. For a few days longer, I could keep pain in subjection, + and could make death easy when it came. + </p> + <p> + “At my next visit he was able to speak. + </p> + <p> + “I discovered that he was a member of my own profession—a mulatto + from the Southern States of America, by birth. The one fatal event of his + life had been his marriage. Every worst offence of which a bad woman can + be guilty, his vile wife had committed—and his infatuated love clung + to her through it all. She had disgraced and ruined him. Not once, but + again and again he had forgiven her, under circumstances which degraded + him in his own estimation, and in the estimation of his best friends. On + the last occasion when she left him, he had followed her to Montreal. In a + fit of drunken frenzy, she had freed him from her at last by + self-destruction. Her death affected his reason. When he was discharged + from the asylum, he spent his last miserable savings in placing a monument + over her grave. As long as his strength held out, he made daily + pilgrimages to the cemetery. And now, when the shadow of death was + darkening over him, his one motive for clinging to life, his one reason + for vainly entreating me to cure him, still centred in devotion to the + memory of his wife. ‘Nobody will take care of her grave,’ he said, ‘when I + am gone.’ + </p> + <p> + “My love, I have always thought fondly of you. After hearing this + miserable story, my heart overflowed with gratitude to God for giving me + Carmina. + </p> + <p> + “He died yesterday. His last words implored me to have him buried in the + same grave with the woman who had dishonoured him. Who am I that I should + judge him? Besides, I shall fulfil his last wishes as a thank-offering for + You. + </p> + <p> + “There is still something more to tell. + </p> + <p> + “On the day before his death he asked me to open an old portmanteau—literally, + the one thing that he possessed. He had no money left, and no clothes. In + a corner of the portmanteau there was a roll of papers, tied with a piece + of string—and that was all. + </p> + <p> + “I can make you but one return,’ he said; ‘I give you my book.’ + </p> + <p> + “He was too weak to tell me what the book was about, or to express any + wish relative to its publication. I am ashamed to say I set no sort of + value on the manuscript presented to me—except as a memorial of a + sad incident in my life. Waking earlier than usual this morning, I opened + and examined my gift for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “To my amazement, I found myself rewarded a hundredfold for the little + that I had been able to do. This unhappy man must have been possessed of + abilities which (under favouring circumstances) would, I don’t hesitate to + say, have ranked him among the greatest physicians of our time. The + language in which he writes is obscure, and sometimes grammatically + incorrect. But he, and he alone, has solved a problem in the treatment of + disease, which has thus far been the despair of medical men throughout the + whole civilised world. + </p> + <p> + “If a stranger was looking over my shoulder, he would be inclined to say, + This curious lover writes to his young lady as if she was a medical + colleague! We understand each other, Carmina, don’t we? My future career + is an object of interest to my future wife. This poor fellow’s gratitude + has opened new prospects to me; and who will be so glad to hear of it as + you? + </p> + <p> + “Before I close my letter, you will expect me to say a word more about my + health. Sometimes I feel well enough to take my cabin in the next vessel + that sails for Liverpool. But there are other occasions, particularly when + I happen to over-exert myself in walking or riding, which warn me to be + careful and patient. My next journey will take me inland, to the mighty + plains and forest of this grand country. When I have breathed the + health-giving air of those regions, I shall be able to write definitely of + the blessed future day which is to unite us once more. + </p> + <p> + “My mother has, I suppose, given her usual conversazione at the end of the + season. Let me hear how you like the scientific people at close quarters, + and let me give you a useful hint. When you meet in society with a + particularly positive man, who looks as if he was sitting for his + photograph, you may safely set that man down as a Professor. + </p> + <p> + “Seriously, I do hope that you and my mother get on well together. You say + too little of each other in your letters to me, and I am sometimes + troubled by misgivings. There is another odd circumstance, connected with + our correspondence, which sets me wondering. I always send messages to + Miss Minerva; and Miss Minerva never sends any messages back to me. Do you + forget? or am I an object of perfect indifference to your friend? + </p> + <p> + “My latest news of you all is from Zo. She has sent me a letter, in one of + the envelopes that I directed for her when I went away. Miss Minerva’s + hair would stand on end if she could see the blots and the spelling. Zo’s + account of the family circle (turned into intelligible English), will I + think personally interest you. Here it is, in its own Roman brevity—with + your pretty name shortened to two syllables: ‘Except Pa and Car, we are a + bad lot at home.’ After that, I can add nothing that is worth reading. + </p> + <p> + “Take the kisses, my angel, that I leave for you on the blank morsel of + paper below, and love me as I love you. There is a world of meaning, + Carmina, even in those commonplace words. Oh, if I could only go to you by + the mail steamer, in the place of my letter!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. + </h2> + <p> + The answers to Ovid’s questions were not to be found in Carmina’s reply. + She had reasons for not mentioning the conversazione; and she shrank from + writing to him of his mother. Her true position in Mrs. Gallilee’s house—growing, + day by day, harder and harder to endure; threatening, more and more + plainly, complications and perils to come—was revealed in her next + letter to her old friend in Italy. She wrote to Teresa in these words: + </p> + <p> + “If you love me, forget the inhuman manner in which I have spoken of Miss + Minerva! + </p> + <p> + “After I had written to you, I would have recalled my letter, if it could + have been done. I began, that evening, to feel ashamed of what I had said + in my anger. As the hours went on, and bedtime approached, I became so + wretched that I ran the risk of another harsh reception, by intruding on + her once more. It was a circumstance in my favour that she was, to all + appearance, in bad spirits too. There was something in her voice, when she + asked what I wanted, which made me think—though she looks like the + last person in the world to be guilty of such weakness—that she had + been crying. + </p> + <p> + “I gave the best expression I could to my feelings of repentance and + regret. What I actually said to her, has slipped out of my memory; I was + frightened and upset—and I am always stupid in that condition. My + attempt at reconciliation may have been clumsy enough; but she might + surely have seen that I had no intention to mystify and distress her. And + yet, what else could she have imagined?—to judge by her own actions + and words. + </p> + <p> + “Her bedroom candle was on the table behind me. She snatched it up and + held it before my face, and looked at me as if I was some extraordinary + object that she had never seen or heard of before! ‘You are little better + than a child,’ she said; ‘I have ten times your strength of will—what + is there in you that I can’t resist? Go away from me! Be on your guard + against me! I am false; I am suspicious; I am cruel. You simpleton, have + you no instincts to protect you? Is there nothing in you that shrinks from + me?’ + </p> + <p> + “She put down the candle, and burst into a wretched mocking laugh. ‘There + she stands,’ cried this strange creature, ‘and looks at me with the eyes + of a baby that sees something new! I can’t frighten her. I can’t disgust + her. What does it mean?’ She dropped into a chair; her voice sank almost + to a whisper—I should have thought she was afraid of me, if such a + thing had been possible. ‘What do you know of me, that I don’t know of + myself?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + “It was quite beyond me to understand what she meant. I took a chair, and + sat down by her. ‘I only know what you said to me yesterday,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + “‘What did I say?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘You told me you were miserable.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I told you a lie! Believe what I have said to you to-day. In your own + interests, believe it to be the truth!’ + </p> + <p> + “Nothing would induce me to believe it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You were miserable + yesterday, and you are miserable to-day. <i>That</i> is the truth!’ + </p> + <p> + “What put my next bold words into my head, I don’t know. It doesn’t + matter; the thought was in me—and out it came. + </p> + <p> + “‘I think you have some burden on your mind,’ I went on. ‘If I can’t + relieve you of it, perhaps I can help you bear it. Come! tell me what it + is.’ I waited; but it was of no use—she never even looked at me. + Because I am in love myself, do I think everybody else is like me? I + thought she blushed. I don’t know what else I thought. ‘Are you in love?’ + I asked. + </p> + <p> + “She jumped up from her chair, so suddenly and so violently that she threw + it on the floor. Still, not a word passed her lips. I found courage enough + to go on—but not courage enough to look at her. + </p> + <p> + “‘I love Ovid, and Ovid loves me,’ I said. ‘There is my consolation, + whatever my troubles may be. Are you not so fortunate?’ A dreadful + expression of pain passed over her face. How could I see it, and not feel + the wish to sympathise with her? I ran the risk, and said, ‘Do you love + somebody, who doesn’t love you?’ + </p> + <p> + “She turned her back on me, and went to the toilet-table. I think she + looked at herself in the glass. ‘Well,’ she said, speaking to me at last, + ‘what else?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nothing else,’ I answered—‘except that I hope I have not offended + you.’ + </p> + <p> + “She left the glass as suddenly as she had approached it, and took up the + candle again. Once more she held it so that it lit my face. + </p> + <p> + “‘Guess who he is,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + “‘How can I do that?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “She quietly put down the candle again. In some way, quite + incomprehensible to myself, I seemed to have relieved her. She spoke to me + in a changed voice, gently and sadly. + </p> + <p> + “You are the best of good girls, and you mean kindly. It’s of no use—you + can do nothing. Forgive my insolence yesterday; I was mad with envy of + your happy marriage engagement. You don’t understand such a nature as + mine. So much the better! ah, so much the better! Good-night!’ + </p> + <p> + “There was such hopeless submission, such patient suffering, in those + words, that I could not find it in my heart to leave her. I thought of how + I might have behaved, of the wild things I might have said, if Ovid had + cared nothing for me. Had some cruel man forsaken her? That was <i>her</i> + secret. I asked myself what I could do to encourage her. Your last letter, + with our old priest’s enclosure, was in my pocket. I took it out. + </p> + <p> + “‘Would you mind reading a short letter,’ I said, ‘before we wish each + other goodnight?’ I held out the priest’s letter. + </p> + <p> + “She drew back with a dark look; she appeared to have some suspicion of + it. ‘Who is the writer?’ she inquired sharply. + </p> + <p> + “‘A person who is a stranger to you.’ + </p> + <p> + “Her face cleared directly. She took the letter from me, and waited to + hear what I had to say next. ‘The person,’ I told her, ‘is a wise and good + old man—the priest who married my father and mother, and baptised + me. We all of us used to consult Father Patrizio, when we wanted advice. + My nurse Teresa felt anxious about me in Ovid’s absence; she spoke to him + about my marriage engagement, and of my exile—forgive me for using + the word!—in this house. He said he would consider, before he gave + her his opinion. The next day, he sent her the letter which you have got + in your hand.’ + </p> + <p> + “There, I came to a full stop; having something yet to say, but not + knowing how to express myself with the necessary delicacy. + </p> + <p> + “‘Why do you wish me to read the letter?’ she asked, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I think there is something in it which might—.’ + </p> + <p> + “There, like a fool, I came to another full stop. She was as patient as + ever; she only made a little sign to me to go on. + </p> + <p> + “‘I think Father Patrizio’s letter might put you in a better frame of + mind,’ I said; ‘it might keep you from despising yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + “She went back to her chair, and read the letter. You have permitted me to + keep the comforting words of the good Father, among my other treasures. I + copy his letter for you in this place—so that you may read it again, + and see what I had in my mind, and understand how it affected poor Miss + Minerva. + </p> + <p> + “‘Teresa, my well-beloved friend,—I have considered the anxieties + that trouble you, with this result: that I can do my best, + conscientiously, to quiet your mind. I have had the experience of forty + years in the duties of the priesthood. In that long time, the innermost + secrets of thousands of men and women have been confided to me. From such + means of observation, I have drawn many useful conclusions; and some of + them may be also useful to you. I will put what I have to say, in the + plainest and fewest words: consider them carefully, on your side. The + growth of the better nature, in women, is perfected by one influence—and + that influence is Love. Are you surprised that a priest should write in + this way? Did you expect me to say, Religion? Love, my sister, <i>is</i> + Religion, in women. It opens their hearts to all that is good for them; + and it acts independently of the conditions of human happiness. A + miserable woman, tormented by hopeless love, is still the better and the + nobler for that love; and a time will surely come when she will show it. + You have fears for Carmina—cast away, poor soul, among strangers + with hard hearts! I tell you to have no fears. She may suffer under + trials; she may sink under trials. But the strength to rise again is in + her—and that strength is Love.’ + </p> + <p> + “Having read our old friend’s letter, Miss Minerva turned back, and read + it again—and waited a little, repeating some part of it to herself. + </p> + <p> + “‘Does it encourage you?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “She handed the letter back to me. ‘I have got one sentence in it by + heart,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + “You will know what that sentence is, without my telling you. I felt so + relieved, when I saw the change in her for the better—I was so + inexpressibly happy in the conviction that we were as good friends again + as ever—that I bent down to kiss her, on saying goodnight. + </p> + <p> + “She put up her hand and stopped me. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not till I have done + something to deserve it. You are more in need of help than you think. Stay + here a little longer; I have a word to say to you about your aunt.’ + </p> + <p> + “I returned to my chair, feeling a little startled. Her eyes rested on me + absently—she was, as I imagined, considering with herself, before + she spoke. I refrained from interrupting her thoughts. The night was still + and dark. Not a sound reached our ears from without. In the house, the + silence was softly broken by a rustling movement on the stairs. It came + nearer. The door was opened suddenly. Mrs. Gallilee entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “What folly possessed me? Why was I frightened? I really could not help it—I + screamed. My aunt walked straight up to me, without taking the smallest + notice of Miss Minerva. ‘What are you doing here, when you ought to be in + your bed?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + “She spoke in such an imperative manner—with such authority and such + contempt—that I looked at her in astonishment. Some suspicion seemed + to be roused in her by finding me and Miss Minerva together. + </p> + <p> + “No more gossip!’ she called out sternly. ‘Do you hear me? Go to bed!’ + </p> + <p> + “Was it not enough to rouse anybody? I felt my pride burning in my face. + ‘Am I a child, or a servant?’ I said. ‘I shall go to bed early or late as + I please.’ + </p> + <p> + “She took one step forward; she seized me by the arm, and forced me to my + feet. Think of it, Teresa! In all my life I have never had a hand laid on + me except in kindness. Who knows it better than you! I tried vainly to + speak—I saw Miss Minerva rise to interfere—I heard her say, + ‘Mrs. Gallilee, you forget yourself!’ Somehow, I got out of the room. On + the landing, a dreadful fit of trembling shook me from head to foot. I + sank down on the stairs. At first, I thought I was going to faint. No; I + shook and shivered, but I kept my senses. I could hear their voices in the + room. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee began. ‘Did you tell me just now that I had forgotten + myself?’ + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva answered, ‘Certainly, madam. You <i>did</i> forget + yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + “The next words escaped me. After that, they grew louder; and I heard them + again—my aunt first. + </p> + <p> + “‘I am dissatisfied with your manner to me, Miss Minerva. It has latterly + altered very much for the worse.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘In what respect, Mrs. Gallilee?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘In this respect. Your way of speaking to me implies an assertion of + equality—’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Stop a minute, madam! I am not so rich as you are. But I am at a loss to + know in what other way I am not your equal. Did you assert your + superiority—may I ask—when you came into my room without first + knocking at the door?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Miss Minerva! Do you wish to remain in my service?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Say employment, Mrs. Gallilee—if you please. I am quite + indifferent in the matter. I am equally ready, at your entire convenience, + to stay or to go.’ + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee’s voice sounded nearer, as if she was approaching the door. + ‘I think we arranged,’ she said, ‘that there was to be a month’s notice on + either side, when I first engaged you?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes—at my suggestion.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Take your month’s notice, if you please.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Dating from to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Of course!’ + </p> + <p> + “My aunt came out, and found me on the stairs. I tried to rise. It was not + to be done. My head turned giddy. She must have seen that I was quite + prostrate—and yet she took no notice of the state I was in. Cruel, + cruel creature! she accused me of listening. + </p> + <p> + “‘Can’t you see that the poor girl is ill?’ + </p> + <p> + “It was Miss Minerva’s voice. I looked round at her, feeling fainter and + fainter. She stooped; I felt her strong sinewy arms round me; she lifted + me gently. ‘I’ll take care of you,’ she whispered—and carried me + downstairs to my room, as easily as if I had been a child. + </p> + <p> + “I must rest, Teresa. The remembrance of that dreadful night brings it all + back again. Don’t be anxious about me, my old dear! You shall hear more + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. + </h2> + <p> + On the next day events happened, the influence of which upon Carmina’s + excitable nature urged her to complete her unfinished letter, without + taking the rest that she needed. Once more—and, as the result + proved, for the last time—she wrote to her faithful old friend in + these words: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me to tell you how the night passed! Miss Minerva was the first + person who came to me in the morning. + </p> + <p> + “She had barely said a few kind words, when Maria interrupted us, + reminding her governess of the morning’s lessons. ‘Mrs. Gallilee has sent + her,’ Miss Minerva whispered; ‘I will return to you in the hour before the + children’s dinner.’ + </p> + <p> + “The next person who appeared was, as we had both anticipated, Mrs. + Gallilee herself. + </p> + <p> + “She brought me a cup of tea; and the first words she spoke were words of + apology for her conduct on the previous night. Her excuse was that she had + been ‘harassed by anxieties which completely upset her.’ And—can you + believe it?—she implored me not to mention ‘the little + misunderstanding between us when I next wrote to her son!’ Is this woman + made of iron and stone, instead of flesh and blood? Does she really think + me such a wretch as to cause Ovid, under any provocation, a moment’s + anxiety while he is away? The fewest words that would satisfy her, and so + send her out of my room, were the only words I said. + </p> + <p> + “After this, an agreeable surprise was in store for me. The familiar voice + of good Mr. Gallilee applied for admission—through the keyhole! + </p> + <p> + “‘Are you asleep, my dear? May I come in?’ His kind, fat old face peeped + round the door when I said Yes—and reminded me of Zo, at dinner, + when she asks for more pudding, and doesn’t think she will get it. Mr. + Gallilee had something to ask for, and some doubt of getting it, which + accounted for the resemblance. ‘I’ve taken the liberty, Carmina, of + sending for our doctor. You’re a delicate plant, my dear—’ (Here, + his face disappeared and he spoke to somebody outside)—‘You think so + yourself, don’t you, Mr. Null? And you have a family of daughters, haven’t + you?’ (His face appeared again; more like Zo than ever.) ‘Do please see + him, my child; I’m not easy about you. I was on the stairs last night—nobody + ever notices me, do they, Mr. Null?—and I saw Miss Minerva—good + creature, and, Lord, how strong!—carrying you to your bed. Mr. + Null’s waiting outside. Don’t distress me by saying No!’ + </p> + <p> + “Is there anybody cruel enough to distress Mr. Gallilee? The doctor came + in—looking like a clergyman; dressed all in black, with a beautiful + frill to his shirt, and a spotless white cravat. He stared hard at me; he + produced a little glass-tube; he gave it a shake, and put it under my arm; + he took it away again, and consulted it; he said, ‘Aha!’ he approved of my + tongue; he disliked my pulse; he gave his opinion at last. ‘Perfect quiet. + I must see Mrs. Gallilee.’ And there was an end of it. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gallilee observed the medical proceedings with awe. ‘Mr. Null is a + wonderful man,’ he whispered, before he followed the doctor out. Ill and + wretched as I was, this little interruption amused me. I wonder why I + write about it here? There are serious things waiting to be told—am + I weakly putting them off? + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva came back to me as she had promised. ‘It is well,’ she said + gravely, ‘that the doctor has been to see you.’ + </p> + <p> + “I asked if the doctor thought me very ill. + </p> + <p> + “He thinks you have narrowly escaped a nervous fever; and he has given + some positive orders. One of them is that your slightest wishes are to be + humoured. If he had not said that, Mrs. Gallilee would have prevented me + from seeing you. She has been obliged to give way; and she hates me—almost + as bitterly, Carmina, as she hates you.’ + </p> + <p> + “This called to my mind the interruption of the previous night, when Miss + Minerva had something important to tell me. When I asked what it was, she + shook her head, and said painful subjects of conversation were not fit + subjects in my present state. + </p> + <p> + “Need I add that I insisted on hearing what she had to say? Oh, how + completely my poor father must have been deceived, when he made his + horrible sister my guardian! If I had not fortunately offended the + music-master, she would have used Mr. Le Frank as a means of making Ovid + jealous, and of sowing the seeds of dissension between us. Having failed + so far, she is (as Miss Minerva thinks) at a loss to discover any other + means of gaining her wicked ends. Her rage at finding herself baffled + seems to account for her furious conduct, when she discovered me in Miss + Minerva’s room. + </p> + <p> + “You will ask, as I did, what has she to gain by this wicked plotting and + contriving, with its shocking accompaniments of malice and anger? + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva answered, ‘I still believe that money is the motive. Her son + is mistaken about her; her friends are mistaken; they think she is fond of + money—the truer conclusion is, she is short of money. There is the + secret of the hard bargains she drives, and the mercenary opinions she + holds. I don’t doubt that her income would be enough for most other women + in her position. It is not enough for a woman who is jealous of her rich + sister’s place in the world. Wait a little, and you will see that I am not + talking at random. You were present at the grand party she gave some + week’s since?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I wish I had stayed in my own room,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Gallilee was offended + with me for not admiring her scientific friends. With one or two + exceptions, they talked of nothing but themselves and their discoveries—and, + oh, dear, how ugly they were!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Never mind that now, Carmina. Did you notice the profusion of splendid + flowers, in the hall and on the staircase, as well as in the + reception-rooms?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Did you observe—no, you are a young girl—did you hear any of + the gentlemen, in the supper-room, expressing their admiration of the + luxuries provided for the guests, the exquisite French cookery and the + delicious wine? Why was all the money which these things cost spent in one + evening? Because Lady Northlake’s parties must be matched by Mrs. + Gallilee’s parties. Lady Northlake lives in a fashionable neighbourhood in + London, and has splendid carriages and horses. This is a fashionable + neighbourhood. Judge what this house costs, and the carriages and horses, + when I tell you that the rent of the stables alone is over a hundred + pounds a year. Lady Northlake has a superb place in Scotland. Mrs. + Gallilee is not able to rival her sister in that respect—but she has + her marine villa in the Isle of Wight. When Mr. Gallilee said you should + have some sailing this autumn, did you think he meant that he would hire a + boat? He referred to the yacht, which is part of the establishment at the + sea-side. Lady Northlake goes yachting with her husband; and Mrs. Gallilee + goes yachting with her husband. Do you know what it costs, when the first + milliner in Paris supplies English ladies with dresses? That milliner’s + lowest charge for a dress which Mrs. Gallilee would despise—ordinary + material, my dear, and imitation lace—is forty pounds. Think a + little—and even your inexperience will see that the mistress of this + house is spending more than she can afford, and is likely (unless she has + resources that we know nothing about) to be, sooner or later, in serious + need of money.’ + </p> + <p> + “This was a new revelation to me, and it altered my opinion of course. But + I still failed to see what Mrs. Gallilee’s extravagances had to do with + her wicked resolution to prevent Ovid from marrying me. Miss Minerva’s + only answer to this was to tell me to write to Mr. Mool, while I had the + chance, and ask for a copy of my father’s Will. ‘I will take the letter to + him,’ she said, ‘and bring the reply myself. It will save time, if it does + nothing else.’ The letter was written in a minute. Just as she took it + from me, the parlour-maid announced that the early dinner was ready. + </p> + <p> + “Two hours later, the reply was in my hands. The old father had taken + Maria and Zo for their walk; and Miss Minerva had left the house by + herself—sending word to Mrs. Gallilee that she was obliged to go out + on business of her own. + </p> + <p> + “‘Did Mrs. Gallilee see you come in?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes. She was watching for me, no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + “Did she see you go upstairs to my room?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘And said nothing?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + “We looked at each other; both of us feeling the same doubt of how the day + would end. Miss Minerva pointed impatiently to the lawyer’s reply. I + opened it. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Mool’s letter was very kind, but quite incomprehensible in the latter + part of it. After referring me to his private residence, in case I wished + to consult him personally later in the day, he mentioned some proceeding, + called ‘proving the Will,’ and some strange place called ‘Doctors’ + Commons.’ However, there was the copy of the Will, and that was all we + wanted. + </p> + <p> + “I began reading it. How I pitied the unfortunate men who have to learn + the law! My dear Teresa, I might as well have tried to read an unknown + tongue. The strange words, the perpetual repetitions, the absence of + stops, utterly bewildered me. I handed the copy to Miss Minerva. Instead + of beginning on the first page, as I had done, she turned to the last. + With what breathless interest I watched her face! First, I saw that she + understood what she was reading. Then, after a while, she turned pale. And + then, she lifted her eyes to me. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + “But I was frightened. My ignorant imagination pictured some dreadful + unknown power given to Mrs. Gallilee by the Will. ‘What can my aunt do to + me?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva composed me—without concealing the truth. ‘In her + position, Carmina, and with her intensely cold and selfish nature, there + is no fear of her attempting to reach her ends by violent means. Your + happiness may be in danger—and that prospect, God knows, is bad + enough.’ + </p> + <p> + “When she talked of my happiness, I naturally thought of Ovid. I asked if + there was anything about him in the Will. + </p> + <p> + “It was no doubt a stupid thing to say at such a time; and it seemed to + annoy her. ‘You are the only person concerned,’ she answered sharply. ‘It + is Mrs. Gallilee’s interest that you shall never be her son’s wife, or any + man’s wife. If she can have her way, you will live and die an unmarried + woman.’ + </p> + <p> + “This did me good: it made me angry. I began to feel like myself again. I + said, ‘Please let me hear the rest of it.’ + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva first patiently explained to me what she had read in the + Will. She then returned to the subject of my aunt’s extravagance; speaking + from experience of what had happened in her own family. ‘If Mrs. Gallilee + borrows money,’ she said, ‘her husband will, in all probability, have to + repay the loan. And, if borrowings go on in that way, Maria and Zoe will + be left wretchedly provided for, in comparison with Lady Northlake’s + daughters. A fine large fortune would wonderfully improve these doubtful + prospects—can you guess, Carmina, where it is to come from?’ I could + easily guess, now I understood the Will. My good Teresa, if I die without + leaving children, the fine large fortune comes from Me. + </p> + <p> + “You see it all now—don’t you? After I had thanked Miss Minerva, + turned away my head on the pillow overpowered by disgust. + </p> + <p> + “The clock in the hall struck the hour of the children’s tea. Miss Minerva + would be wanted immediately. At parting, she kissed me. ‘There is the kiss + that you meant to give me last night,’ she said. ‘Don’t despair of + yourself. I am to be in the house for a month longer; and I am a match for + Mrs. Gallilee. We will say no more now. Compose yourself, and try to + sleep.’ + </p> + <p> + “She went away to her duties. Sleep was out of the question. My attention + wandered when I tried to read. Doing nothing meant, in other words, + thinking of what had happened. If you had come into my room, I should have + told you all about it. The next best thing was to talk to you in this way. + You don’t know what a relief it has been to me to write these lines.” + </p> + <p> + “The night has come, and Mrs. Gallilee’s cruelty has at last proved too + much even for my endurance. + </p> + <p> + “Try not to be surprised; try not to be alarmed. If my mind to-morrow is + the same as my mind to-night, I shall attempt to make my escape. I shall + take refuge with Lady Northlake. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if I could go to Ovid! But he is travelling in the deserts of Canada. + Until his return to the coast, I can only write to him to the care of his + bankers at Quebec. I should not know where to find him, when I arrived; + and what a dreadful meeting—if I did find him—to be obliged to + acknowledge that it is his mother who has driven me away! There will be + nothing to alarm him, if I go to his mother’s sister. If you could see + Lady Northlake, you would feel as sure as I do that she will take my part. + </p> + <p> + “After writing to you, I must have fallen asleep. It was quite dark, when + I was awakened by the striking of a match in my room. I looked round, + expecting to see Miss Minerva. The person lighting my candle was Mrs. + Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + “She poured out the composing medicine which Mr. Null had ordered for me. + I took it in silence. She sat down by the bedside. + </p> + <p> + “‘My child,’ she began, ‘we are friends again now. You bear no malice, I + am sure.’ + </p> + <p> + “Distrust still kept me silent. I remembered that she had watched for Miss + Minerva’s return, and that she had seen Miss Minerva go up to my room. The + idea that she meant to be revenged on us both for having our secrets, and + keeping them from her knowledge, took complete possession of my mind. + </p> + <p> + “‘Are you feeling better?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Is there anything I can get for you?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Not now—thank you.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Would you like to see Mr. Null again, before to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, no!’ + </p> + <p> + “These were ungraciously short replies—but it cost me an effort to + speak to her at all. She showed no signs of taking offence; she proceeded + as smoothly as ever. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Carmina, I have my faults of temper; and, with such pursuits as + mine, I am not perhaps a sympathetic companion for a young girl. But I + hope you believe that it is my duty and my pleasure to be a second mother + to you?’ + </p> + <p> + “Yes; she did really say that! Whether I was only angry, or whether I was + getting hysterical, I don’t know. I began to feel an oppression in my + breathing that almost choked me. There are two windows in my room, and one + of them only was open. I was obliged to ask her to open the other. + </p> + <p> + “She did it; she came back, and fanned me. I submitted as long as I could—and + then I begged her not to trouble herself any longer. She put down the fan, + and went on with what she had to say. + </p> + <p> + “‘I wish to speak to you about Miss Minerva. You are aware that I gave her + notice, last night, to leave her situation. For your sake, I regret that I + did not take this step before you came to England.’ + </p> + <p> + “My confidence in myself returned when I heard Miss Minerva spoken of in + this way. I said at once that I considered her to be one of my best and + truest friends. + </p> + <p> + “‘My dear child, that is exactly what I lament! This person has insinuated + herself into your confidence—and she is utterly unworthy of it.’ + </p> + <p> + “Could I let those abominable words pass in silence? ‘Mrs. Gallilee!’ I + said, ‘you are cruelly wronging a woman whom I love and respect!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Mrs. Gallilee?’ she repeated. ‘Do I owe it to Miss Minerva that you have + left off calling me Aunt? Your obstinacy, Carmina, leaves me no + alternative but to speak out. If I had done my duty, I ought to have said + long since, what I am going to say now. You are putting your trust in the + bitterest enemy you have; an enemy who secretly hates you with the + unforgiving hatred of a rival!’ + </p> + <p> + “Look back at my letter, describing what passed between Miss Minerva and + me, when I went to her room; and you will know what I felt on hearing her + spoken of as ‘a rival.’ My sense of justice refused to believe it. But, + oh, my dear old nurse, there was some deeper sense in me that said, as if + in words, It is true! + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee went on, without mercy. + </p> + <p> + “‘I know her thoroughly; I have looked into her false heart. Nobody has + discovered her but me. Charge her with it, if you like; and let her deny + it if she dare. Miss Minerva is secretly in love with my son.’ + </p> + <p> + “She got up. Her object was gained: she was even with me, and with the + woman who had befriended me, at last. + </p> + <p> + “‘Lie down in your bed again,’ she said, ‘and think over what I have told + you. In your own interests, think over it well.’ + </p> + <p> + “I was left alone. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell you what saved me from sinking under the shock? Ovid—thousands + and thousands of miles away—Ovid saved me. + </p> + <p> + “I love him with all my heart and soul; and I do firmly believe that I + know him better than I know myself. If his mother had betrayed Miss + Minerva to him, as she has betrayed her to me, that unhappy woman would + have had his truest pity. I am as certain of this, as I am that I see the + moon, while I write, shining on my bed. Ovid would have pitied her. And I + pitied her. + </p> + <p> + “I wrote the lines that follow, and sent them to her by the maid. In the + fear that she might mistake my motives, and think me angry and jealous, I + addressed her with my former familiarity by her christian name:—“‘Last + night, Frances, I ventured to ask if you loved some one who did not love + you. And you answered by saying to me, Guess who he is. My aunt has just + told me that he is her son. Has she spoken the truth?’ + </p> + <p> + “I am now waiting to receive Miss Minerva’s reply. + </p> + <p> + “For the first time since I have been in the house, my door is locked. I + cannot, and will not, see Mrs. Gallilee again. All her former cruelties + are, as I feel it, nothing to the cruelty of her coming here when I am + ill, and saying to me what she has said. + </p> + <p> + “The weary time passes, and still there is no reply. Is Frances angry? or + is she hesitating how to answer me—personally or by writing? No! she + has too much delicacy of feeling to answer in her own person. + </p> + <p> + “I have only done her justice. The maid has just asked me to open the + door. I have got my answer. Read it.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Mrs. Gallilee has spoken the truth. + </p> + <p> + “‘How I can have betrayed myself so that she has discovered my miserable + secret is more than I can tell I will not own it to her or to any living + creature but yourself. Undeserving as I am, I know that I can trust you. + </p> + <p> + “It is needless to dwell at any length on this confession. Many things in + my conduct, which must have perplexed you, will explain themselves flow. + There has been, however, one concealment on my part, which it is due to + you that I should acknowledge. + </p> + <p> + “‘If Mrs. Gallilee had taken me into her confidence, I confess that my + jealousy would have degraded me into becoming her accomplice. As things + were, I was too angry and too cunning to let her make use of me without + trusting me. + </p> + <p> + “‘There are other acts of deceit which I ought to acknowledge—if I + could summon composure enough to write about them. Better to say at once—I + am not worthy of your pardon, not worthy even of your pity. + </p> + <p> + “‘With the same sincerity, I warn you that the wickedness in me, on which + Mrs. Gallilee calculated, may be in me still. The influence of your higher + and better nature—helped perhaps by that other influence of which + the old priest spoke in his letter—has opened my heart to tenderness + and penitence of which I never believed myself capable: has brought the + burning tears into my eyes which make it a hard task to write to you. All + this I know, and yet I dare not believe in myself. It is useless to deny + it, Carmina—I love him. Even now, when you have found me out, I love + him. Don’t trust me. Oh, God, what torture it is to write it—but I + do write it, I <i>will</i> write it—don’t trust me! + </p> + <p> + “‘One thing I may say for myself. I know the utter hopelessness of that + love which I have acknowledged. I know that he returns your love, and will + never return mine. So let it be. + </p> + <p> + “‘I am not young; I have no right to comfort myself with hopes that I know + to be vain. If one of us is to suffer, let it be that one who is used to + suffering. I have never been the darling of my parents, like you; I have + not been used at home to the kindness and the love that you remember. A + life without sweetness and joy has well fitted me for a loveless future. + And, besides, you are worthy of him, and I am not. Mrs. Gallilee is wrong, + Carmina, if she thinks I am your rival. I am not your rival; I never can + be your rival. Believe nothing else, but, for God’s sake, believe that! + </p> + <p> + “‘I have no more to say—at least no more that I can remember now. + Perhaps, you shrink from remaining in the same house with me? Let me know + it, and I shall be ready—I might almost say, glad—to go.’” + </p> + <p> + “Have you read her letter, Teresa? Am I wrong in feeling that this poor + wounded heart has surely some claim on me? If I <i>am</i> wrong, oh, what + am I to do? what am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. + </h2> + <p> + The last lines addressed by Carmina to her old nurse were completed on the + seventeenth of August, and were posted that night. + </p> + <p> + The day that followed was memorable to Carmina, and memorable to Mrs. + Gallilee. Doctor Benjulia had his reasons also for remembering the + eighteenth of August. + </p> + <p> + Still in search of a means to undermine the confidence which united Ovid + and Carmina, and still calling on her invention in vain, Mrs. Gallilee had + passed a sleepless night. Her maid, entering the room at the usual hour, + was ordered to leave her in bed, and not to return until the bell rang. On + ordinary occasions, Mrs. Gallilee was up in time to receive the letters + arriving by the first delivery; the correspondence of the other members of + the household being sorted by her own hands, before it was distributed by + the servant. On this particular morning (after sleeping a little through + sheer exhaustion), she entered the empty breakfast-room two hours later + than usual. The letters waiting for her were addressed only to herself. + She rang for the maid. + </p> + <p> + “Any other letters this morning?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Two, for my master.” + </p> + <p> + “No more than that!” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more, ma’am—except a telegram for Miss Carmina.” + </p> + <p> + “When did it come?” + </p> + <p> + “Soon after the letters.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you given it to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Being a telegram, ma’am, I thought I ought to take it to Miss Carmina at + once.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right. You can go.” + </p> + <p> + A telegram for Carmina? Was there some private correspondence going on? + And were the interests involved too important to wait for the ordinary + means of communication by post? Considering these questions, Mrs. Gallilee + poured out a cup of tea and looked over her letters. + </p> + <p> + Only one of them especially attracted her notice in her present frame of + mind. The writer was Benjulia. He dispensed as usual with the customary + forms of address. + </p> + <p> + “I have had a letter about Ovid, from a friend of mine in Canada. There is + an allusion to him of the complimentary sort, which I don’t altogether + understand. I want to ask you about it—but I can’t spare the time to + go a-visiting. So much the better for me—I hate conversation, and I + like work. You have got your carriage—and your fine friends are out + of town. If you want a drive, come to me, and bring your last letters from + Ovid with you.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee decided on considering this characteristic proposal later in + the day. Her first and foremost interest took her upstairs to her niece’s + room. + </p> + <p> + Carmina had left her bed. Robed in her white dressing-gown, she lay on the + sofa in the sitting-room. When her aunt came in, she started and shuddered + Those signs of nervous aversion escaped the notice of Mrs. Gallilee. Her + attention had been at once attracted by a travelling bag, opened as if in + preparation for packing. The telegram lay on Carmina’s lap. The + significant connection between those two objects asserted itself plainly. + But it was exactly the opposite of the connection suspected by Mrs. + Gallilee. The telegram had prevented Carmina from leaving the house. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee paved the way for the necessary investigation, by making a + few common-place inquiries. How had Carmina passed the night? Had the maid + taken care of her at breakfast-time? Was there anything that her aunt + could do for her? Carmina replied with a reluctance which she was unable + to conceal. Mrs. Gallilee passed over the cold reception accorded to her + without remark, and pointed with a bland smile to the telegram. + </p> + <p> + “No bad news, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina handed the telegram silently to her aunt. The change of + circumstances which the arrival of the message had produced, made + concealment superfluous. Mrs. Gallilee opened the telegram, keeping her + suspicions in reserve. It had been sent from Rome by the old foreign + woman, named “Teresa,” and it contained these words: + </p> + <p> + “My husband died this morning. Expect me in London from day to day.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is this person coming to London?” Mrs. Gallilee inquired. + </p> + <p> + Stung by the insolent composure of that question, Carmina answered + sharply, “Her name is on the telegram; you ought to know!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed?” said Mrs. Gallilee. “Perhaps, she likes London?” + </p> + <p> + “She hates London! You have had her in the house; you have seen us + together. Now she has lost her husband, do you think she can live apart + from the one person in the world whom she loves best?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, these matters of mere sentiment escape my notice,” Mrs. Gallilee + rejoined. “It’s an expensive journey from Italy to England. What was her + husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Her husband was foreman in a manufactory till his health failed him.” + </p> + <p> + “And then,” Mrs. Gallilee concluded, “the money failed him, of course. + What did he manufacture?” + </p> + <p> + “Artists’ colours.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! an artists’ colourman? Not a very lucrative business, I should think. + Has his widow any resources of her own?” + </p> + <p> + “My purse is hers!” + </p> + <p> + “Very generous, I am sure! Even the humblest lodgings are dear in this + neighbourhood. However—with your assistance—your old servant + may be able to live somewhere near you.” + </p> + <p> + Having settled the question of Teresa’s life in London in this way, Mrs. + Gallilee returned to the prime object of her suspicion—she took + possession of the travelling bag. + </p> + <p> + Carmina looked at her with the submission of utter bewilderment. Teresa + had been the companion of her life; Teresa had been received as her + attendant, when she was first established under her aunt’s roof. She had + assumed that her nurse would become a member of the household again, as a + matter of course. With Teresa to encourage her, she had summoned the + resolution to live with Ovid’s mother, until Ovid came back. And now she + had been informed, in words too plain to be mistaken, that Teresa must + find a home for herself when she returned to London! Surprise, + disappointment, indignation held Carmina speechless. + </p> + <p> + “This thing,” Mrs. Gallilee proceeded, holding up the bag, “will only be + in your way here. I will have it put with our own bags and boxes, in the + lumber-room. And, by-the-bye, I fancy you don’t quite understand + (naturally enough, at your age) our relative positions in this house. My + child, the authority of your late father is the authority which your + guardian holds over you. I hope never to be obliged to exercise it—especially, + if you will be good enough to remember two things. I expect you to consult + me in your choice of companions; and to wait for my approval before you + make arrangements which—well! let us say, which require the bag to + be removed from the lumber-room.” + </p> + <p> + Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the door. After opening it, she + paused—and looked back into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Have you thought of what I told you, last night?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Sorely as they had been tried, Carmina’s energies rallied at this. “I have + done my best to forget it!” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “At Miss Minerva’s request?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina took no notice of the question. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee persisted. “Have you had any communication with that + person?” + </p> + <p> + There was still no reply. Preserving her temper, Mrs. Gallilee stepped out + on the landing, and called to Miss Minerva. The governess answered from + the upper floor. + </p> + <p> + “Please come down here,” said Mrs. Galilee. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva obeyed. Her face was paler than usual; her eyes had lost + something of their piercing brightness. She stopped outside Carmina’s + door. Mrs. Gallilee requested her to enter the room. + </p> + <p> + After an instant—only an instant—of hesitation, Miss Minerva + crossed the threshold. She cast one quick glance at Carmina, and lowered + her eyes before the look could be returned. Mrs. Gallilee discovered no + mute signs of an understanding between them. She turned to the governess. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been here already this morning?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there some coolness between you and my niece?” + </p> + <p> + “None, madam, that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, why don’t you speak to her when you come into the room?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Carmina has been ill. I see her resting on the sofa—and I am + unwilling to disturb her.” + </p> + <p> + “Not even by saying good-morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even that!” + </p> + <p> + “You are exceedingly careful, Miss Minerva.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had some experience of sick people, and I have learnt to be + careful. May I ask if you have any particular reason for calling me + downstairs?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee prepared to put her niece and her governess to the final + test. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you to suspend the children’s lesson for an hour or two,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Shall I tell them?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I will tell them myself.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish me to do?” said Miss Minerva. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you to remain here with my niece.” + </p> + <p> + If Mrs. Gallilee, after answering in those terms, had looked at her niece, + instead of looking at her governess, she would have seen Carmina—distrustful + of her own self-control—move on the sofa so as to turn her face to + the wall. As it was, Miss Minerva’s attitude and look silently claimed + some explanation. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee addressed her in a whisper. “Let me say a word to you at the + door.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva followed her to the landing outside. Carmina turned again, + listening anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I am not at all satisfied with her looks, this morning,” Mrs. Gallilee + proceeded; “and I don’t think it right she should be left alone. My + household duties must be attended to. Will you take my place at the sofa, + until Mr. Null comes?” (<i>“Now,”</i> she thought, “if there is jealousy + between them, I shall see it!”) + </p> + <p> + She saw nothing: the governess quietly bowed to her, and went back to + Carmina. She heard nothing: although the half-closed door gave her + opportunities for listening. Ignorant, she had entered the room. Ignorant, + she left it. + </p> + <p> + Carmina lay still and silent. With noiseless step, Miss Minerva approached + the sofa, and stood by it, waiting. Neither of them lifted her eyes, the + one to the other. The woman suffered her torture in secret. The girl’s + sweet eyes filled slowly with tears. One by one the minutes of the morning + passed—not many in number, before there was a change. In silence, + Carmina held out her hand. In silence, Miss Minerva took it and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee saw her housekeeper as usual, and gave her orders for the + day. “If there is anything forgotten,” she said, “I must leave it to you. + For the next hour or two, don’t let me be disturbed.” + </p> + <p> + Some of her letters of the morning were still unread, others required + immediate acknowledgment. She was not as ready for her duties as usual. + For once, the most unendurably industrious of women was idle, and sat + thinking. + </p> + <p> + Even her unimaginative nature began to tremble on the verge of + superstition. Twice, had the subtle force of circumstances defeated her, + in the attempt to meddle with the contemplated marriage of her son. By + means of the music-master, she had planned to give Ovid jealous reasons + for doubting Carmina—and she had failed. By means of the governess, + she had planned to give Carmina jealous reasons for doubting Ovid—and + she had failed. When some people talked of Fatality, were they quite such + fools as she had hitherto supposed them to be? It would be a waste of time + to inquire. What next step could she take? + </p> + <p> + Urged by the intolerable sense of defeat to find reasons for still looking + hopefully to the future, the learned Mrs. Gallilee lowered herself to the + intellectual level of the most ignorant servant in the house. The modern + Muse of Science unconsciously opened her mind to the vulgar belief in + luck. She said to herself, as her kitchen-maid might have said, We will + see what comes of it, the third time! + </p> + <p> + Benjulia’s letter was among the other letters waiting on the table. She + took it up, and read it again. + </p> + <p> + In her present frame of mind, to find her thoughts occupied by the doctor, + was to be reminded of Ovid’s strange allusion to his professional + colleague, on the day of his departure. Speaking of Carmina, he had + referred to one person whom he did not wish her to see in his absence; and + that person, he had himself admitted to be Benjulia. He had been asked to + state his objection to the doctor—and how had he replied? He had + said, “I don’t think Benjulia a fit person to be in the company of a young + girl.” + </p> + <p> + Why? + </p> + <p> + There are many men of mature age, who are not fit persons to be in the + company of young girls—but they are either men who despise, or men + who admire, young girls. Benjulia belonged neither to the one nor to the + other of these two classes. Girls were objects of absolute indifference to + him—with the one exception of Zo, aged ten. Never yet, after meeting + him in society hundreds of times, had Mrs. Gallilee seen him talk to young + ladies or even notice young ladies. Ovid’s alleged reason for objecting to + Benjulia stood palpably revealed as a clumsy excuse. + </p> + <p> + In the present posture of events, to arrive at that conclusion was enough + for Mrs. Gallilee. Without stopping to pursue the idea, she rang the bell, + and ordered her carriage to be ready that afternoon, at three o’clock. + </p> + <p> + Doubtful, and more than doubtful, though it might be, the bare prospect of + finding herself possessed, before the day was out, of a means of action + capable of being used against Carmina, raised Mrs. Gallilee’s spirits. She + was ready at last to attend to her correspondence. + </p> + <p> + One of the letters was from her sister in Scotland. Among other subjects, + it referred to Carmina. + </p> + <p> + “Why won’t you let that sweet girl come and stay with us?” Lady Northlake + asked. “My daughters are longing for such a companion; and both my sons + are ready to envy Ovid the moment they see her. Tell my nephew, when you + next write, that I thoroughly understand his falling in love with that + gentle pretty creature at first sight.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s illness was the ready excuse which presented itself in Mrs. + Gallilee’s reply. With or without an excuse, Lady Northlake was to be + resolutely prevented from taking a foremost place in her niece’s heart, + and encouraging the idea of her niece’s marriage. Mrs. Gallilee felt + almost pious enough to thank Heaven that her sister’s palace in the + Highlands was at one end of Great Britain, and her own marine villa at the + other! + </p> + <p> + The marine villa reminded her of the family migration to the sea-side. + </p> + <p> + When would it be desirable to leave London? Not until her mind was + relieved of the heavier anxieties that now weighed on it. Not while events + might happen—in connection with the threatening creditors or the + contemplated marriage—which would baffle her latest calculations, + and make her presence in London a matter of serious importance to her own + interests. Miss Minerva, again, was a new obstacle in the way. To take her + to the Isle of Wight was not to be thought of for a moment. To dismiss her + at once, by paying the month’s salary, might be the preferable course to + pursue—but for two objections. In the first place (if the friendly + understanding between them really continued) Carmina might communicate + with the discarded governess in secret. In the second place, to pay Miss + Minerva’s salary before she had earned it, was a concession from which + Mrs. Gallilee’s spite, and Mrs. Gallilee’s principles of paltry economy, + recoiled in disgust. No! the waiting policy in London, under whatever + aspect it might be viewed, was, for the present, the one policy to pursue. + </p> + <p> + She returned to the demands of her correspondence. Just as she had taken + up her pen, the sanctuary of the boudoir was violated by the appearance of + a servant. + </p> + <p> + “What is it now? Didn’t the housekeeper tell you that I am not to be + disturbed?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, ma’am. My master—” + </p> + <p> + “What does your master want?” + </p> + <p> + “He wishes to see you, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + This was a circumstance entirely without parallel in the domestic history + of the house. In sheer astonishment, Mrs. Gallilee pushed away her + letters, and said “Show him in.” + </p> + <p> + When the boys of fifty years since were naughty, the schoolmaster of the + period was not accustomed to punish them by appealing to their sense of + honour. If a boy wanted a flogging, in those days, the educational system + seized a cane, or a birch-rod, and gave it to him. Mr. Gallilee entered + his wife’s room, with the feelings which had once animated him, on + entering the schoolmaster’s study to be caned. When he said “Good-morning, + my dear!” his face presented the expression of fifty years since, when he + had said, “Please, sir, let me off this time!” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Mrs. Gallilee, “what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Only a little word. How well you’re looking, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + After a sleepless night, followed by her defeat in Carmina’s room, Mrs. + Gallilee looked, and knew that she looked, ugly and old. And her wretched + husband had reminded her of it. “Go on!” she answered sternly. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee moistened his dry lips. “I think I’ll take a chair, if you + will allow me,” he said. Having taken his chair (at a respectful distance + from his wife), he looked all round the room with the air of a visitor who + had never seen it before. “How very pretty!” he remarked softly. “Such + taste in colour. I think the carpet was your own design, wasn’t it? How + chaste!” + </p> + <p> + <i>“Will</i> you come to the point, Mr. Gallilee?” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure, my dear—with pleasure. I’m afraid I smell of + tobacco?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care if you do!” + </p> + <p> + This was such an agreeable surprise to Mr. Gallilee, that he got on his + legs again to enjoy it standing up. “How kind! Really now, how kind!” He + approached Mrs. Gallilee confidentially. “And do you know, my dear, it was + one of the most remarkable cigars I ever smoked.” Mrs. Gallilee laid down + her pen, and eyed him with an annihilating frown. In the extremity of his + confusion Mr. Gallilee ventured nearer. He felt the sinister fascination + of the serpent in the expression of those awful eyebrows. “How well you + are looking! How amazingly well you are looking this morning!” He leered + at his learned wife, and patted her shoulder! + </p> + <p> + For the moment, Mrs. Gallilee was petrified. At his time of life, was this + fat and feeble creature approaching her with conjugal endearments? At that + early hour of the day, had his guilty lips tasted his favourite champagne, + foaming in his well-beloved silver mug, over his much-admired lump of ice? + And was <i>this</i> the result? + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gallilee!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been to the club?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee got up again. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee sat down. “I was about to say, my dear, that I’ll show you + over the club with the greatest pleasure—if that’s what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “If you are not a downright idiot,” said Mrs. Gallilee, “understand this! + Either say what you have to say, or—” she lifted her hand, and let + it down on the writing-table with a slap that made the pens ring in the + inkstand—“or, leave the room!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee lifted his hand, and searched in the breast-pocket of his + coat. He pulled out his cigar-case, and put it back in a hurry. He tried + again, and produced a letter. He looked piteously round the room, in sore + need of somebody whom he might appeal to, and ended in appealing to + himself. “What sort of temper will she be in?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “What have you got there?” Mrs. Gallilee asked sharply. “One of the + letters you had this morning?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee looked at her with admiration. “Wonderful woman!” he said. + “Nothing escapes her! Allow me, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + He rose and presented the letter, as if he was presenting a petition. Mrs. + Gallilee snatched it out of his hand. Mr. Gallilee went softly back to his + chair, and breathed a devout ejaculation. “Oh, Lord!” + </p> + <p> + It was a letter from one of the tradespeople, whom Mrs. Gallilee had + attempted to pacify with a payment “on account.” The tradesman felt + compelled, in justice to himself, to appeal to Mr. Gallilee, as master of + the house (!). It was impossible for him (he submitted with the greatest + respect) to accept a payment, which did not amount to one-third of the sum + owing to him for more than a twelvemonth. “Wretch!” cried Mrs. Gallilee. + “I’ll settle his bill, and never employ him again!” She opened her + cheque-book, and dipped her pen in the ink. A faint voice meekly + protested. Mr. Gallilee was on his legs again. Mr. Gallilee said. “Please + don’t!” + </p> + <p> + His incredible rashness silenced his wife. There he stood; his round eyes + staring at the cheque-book, his fat cheeks quivering with excitement. “You + mustn’t do it,” he said, with a first and last outburst of courage. “Give + me a minute, my dear—oh, good gracious, give me a minute!” + </p> + <p> + He searched in his pocket again, and produced another letter. His eyes + wandered towards the door; drops of perspiration oozed out on his + forehead. He laid the second letter on the table; he looked at his wife, + and—ran out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee opened the second letter. Another dissatisfied tradesman? + No: creditors far more formidable than the grocer and the butcher. An + official letter from the bankers, informing Mr. Gallilee that “the account + was overdrawn.” + </p> + <p> + She seized her pass-book, and her paper of calculations. Never yet had her + rigid arithmetic committed an error. Column by column she revised her + figures—and made the humiliating discovery of her first mistake. She + had drawn out all, and more than all, the money deposited in the bank; and + the next half-yearly payment of income was not due until Christmas. + </p> + <p> + There was but one thing to be done—to go at once to the bank. If + Ovid had not been in the wilds of Canada, Mrs. Gallilee would have made + her confession to him without hesitation. As it was, the servant called a + cab, and she made her confession to the bankers. + </p> + <p> + The matter was soon settled to her satisfaction. It rested (exactly as + Miss Minerva had anticipated) with Mr. Gallilee. In the house, he might + abdicate his authority to his heart’s content. Out of the house, in + matters of business, he was master still. His “investments” represented + excellent “security;” he had only to say how much he wanted to borrow, and + to sign certain papers—and the thing was done. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee went home again, with her pecuniary anxieties at rest for + the time. The carriage was waiting for her at the door. + </p> + <p> + Should she fulfil her intention of visiting Benjulia? She was not a person + who readily changed her mind—and, besides, after the troubles of the + morning, the drive into the country would be a welcome relief. Hearing + that Mr. Gallilee was still at home, she looked in at the smoking-room. + Unerring instinct told her where to find her husband, under present + circumstances. There he was, enjoying his cigar in comfort, with his coat + off and his feet on a chair. She opened the door. “I want you, this + evening,” she said—and shut the door again; leaving Mr. Gallilee + suffocated by a mouthful of his own smoke. + </p> + <p> + Before getting into the carriage, she only waited to restore her face with + a flush of health (from Paris), modified by a sprinkling of pallor (from + London). Benjulia’s humour was essentially an uncertain humour. It might + be necessary to fascinate the doctor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. + </h2> + <p> + The complimentary allusion to Ovid, which Benjulia had not been able to + understand, was contained in a letter from Mr. Morphew, and was expressed + in these words:—“Let me sincerely thank you for making us acquainted + with Mr. Ovid Vere. Now that he has left us, we really feel as if we had + said good-bye to an old friend. I don’t know when I have met with such a + perfectly unselfish man—and I say this, speaking from experience of + him. In my unavoidable absence, he volunteered to attend a serious case of + illness, accompanied by shocking circumstances—and this at a time + when, as you know, his own broken health forbids him to undertake any + professional duty. While he could preserve the patient’s life—and he + did wonders, in this way—he was every day at the bedside, taxing his + strength in the service of a perfect stranger. I fancy I see you (with + your impatience of letter-writing at any length) looking to the end. Don’t + be alarmed. I am writing to your brother Lemuel by this mail, and I have + little time to spare.” + </p> + <p> + Was this “serious case of illness”—described as being “accompanied + by shocking circumstances”—a case of disease of the brain? + </p> + <p> + There was the question, proposed by Benjulia’s inveterate suspicion of + Ovid! The bare doubt cost him the loss of a day’s work. He reviled poor + Mr. Morphew as “a born idiot” for not having plainly stated what the + patient’s malady was, instead of wasting paper on smooth sentences, + encumbered by long words. If Ovid had alluded to his Canadian patient in + his letters to his mother, his customary preciseness of language might be + trusted to relieve Benjulia’s suspense. With that purpose in view, the + doctor had written to Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + Before he laid down his pen, he looked once more at Mr. Morphew’s letter, + and paused thoughtfully over one line: “I am writing to your brother + Lemuel by this mail.” + </p> + <p> + The information of which he was in search might be in <i>that</i> letter. + If Mrs. Gallilee’s correspondence with her son failed to enlighten him, + here was another chance of making the desired discovery. Surely the wise + course to take would be to write to Lemuel as well. + </p> + <p> + His one motive for hesitating was dislike of his younger brother—dislike + so inveterate that he even recoiled from communicating with Lemuel through + the post. + </p> + <p> + There had never been any sympathy between them; but indifference had only + matured into downright enmity, on the doctor’s part, a year since. + Accident (the result of his own absence of mind, while he was perplexed by + an unsuccessful experiment) had placed Lemuel in possession of his hideous + secret. The one person in the world who knew how he was really occupied in + the laboratory, was his brother. + </p> + <p> + Here was the true motive of the bitterly contemptuous tone in which + Benjulia had spoken to Ovid of his nearest relation. Lemuel’s character + was certainly deserving of severe judgment, in some of its aspects. In his + hours of employment (as clerk in the office of a London publisher) he + steadily and punctually performed the duties entrusted to him. In his + hours of freedom, his sensual instincts got the better of him; and his + jealous wife had her reasons for complaint. Among his friends, he was the + subject of a wide diversity of opinion. Some of them agreed with his + brother in thinking him little better than a fool. Others suspected him of + possessing natural abilities, but of being too lazy, perhaps too cunning, + to exert them. In the office he allowed himself to be called “a mere + machine”—and escaped the overwork which fell to the share of quicker + men. When his wife and her relations declared him to be a mere animal, he + never contradicted them—and so gained the reputation of a person on + whom reprimand was thrown away. Under the protection of this unenviable + character, he sometimes said severe things with an air of perfect + simplicity. When the furious doctor discovered him in the laboratory, and + said, “I’ll be the death of you, if you tell any living creature what I am + doing!”—Lemuel answered, with a stare of stupid astonishment, “Make + your mind easy; I should be ashamed to mention it.” + </p> + <p> + Further reflection decided Benjulia on writing. Even when he had a favour + to ask, he was unable to address Lemuel with common politeness. + </p> + <p> + “I hear that Morphew has written to you by the last mail. I want to see + the letter.” So much he wrote, and no more. What was barely enough for the + purpose, was enough for the doctor, when he addressed his brother. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. + </h2> + <p> + Between one and two o’clock, the next afternoon, Benjulia (at work in his + laboratory) heard the bell which announced the arrival of a visitor at the + house. No matter what the circumstances might be, the servants were + forbidden to disturb him at his studies in any other way. + </p> + <p> + Very unwillingly he obeyed the call, locking the door behind him. At that + hour it was luncheon-time in well-regulated households, and it was in the + last degree unlikely that Mrs. Gallilee could be the visitor. Getting + within view of the front of the house, he saw a man standing on the + doorstep. Advancing a little nearer, he recognised Lemuel. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” cried the elder brother. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” answered the younger, like an echo. + </p> + <p> + They stood looking at each other with the suspicious curiosity of two + strange cats. Between Nathan Benjulia, the famous doctor, and Lemuel + Benjulia, the publisher’s clerk, there was just family resemblance enough + to suggest that they were relations. The younger brother was only a little + over the ordinary height; he was rather fat than thin; he wore a moustache + and whiskers; he dressed smartly—and his prevailing expression + announced that he was thoroughly well satisfied with himself. But he + inherited Benjulia’s gipsy complexion; and, in form and colour, he had + Benjulia’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “How-d’ye-do, Nathan?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What the devil brings you here?” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + Lemuel passed over his brother’s rudeness without notice. His mouth curled + up at the corners with a mischievous smile. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you wished to see my letter,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why couldn’t you send it by post?” + </p> + <p> + “My wife wished me to take the opportunity of calling on you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a lie,” said Benjulia quietly. “Try another excuse. Or do a new + thing. For once, speak the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Without waiting to hear the truth, he led the way into the room in which + he had received Ovid. Lemuel followed, still showing no outward appearance + of resentment. + </p> + <p> + “How did you get away from your office?” Benjulia inquired. + </p> + <p> + “It’s easy to get a holiday at this time of year. Business is slack, old + boy—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop! I don’t allow you to speak to me in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “No offence, brother Nathan!” + </p> + <p> + “Brother Lemuel, I never allow a fool to offend me. I put him in his place—that’s + all.” + </p> + <p> + The distant barking of a dog became audible from the lane by which the + house was approached. The sound seemed to annoy Benjulia. “What’s that?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + Lemuel saw his way to making some return for his brother’s reception of + him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my dog,” he said; “and it’s lucky for you that I have left him in + the cab.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he’s as sweet-tempered a dog as ever lived. But he has one fault. + He doesn’t take kindly to scientific gentlemen in your line of business.” + Lemuel paused, and pointed to his brother’s hands. “If he smelt that, he + might try his teeth at vivisecting You.” + </p> + <p> + The spots of blood which Ovid had once seen on Benjulia’s stick, were on + his hands now. With unruffled composure he looked at the horrid stains, + silently telling their tale of torture. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use of washing my hands,” he answered, “when I am going back + to my work?” + </p> + <p> + He wiped his finger and thumb on the tail of his coat. “Now,” he resumed, + “if you have got your letter with you, let me look at it.” + </p> + <p> + Lemuel produced the letter. “There are some bits in it,” he explained, + “which you had better not see. If you want the truth—that’s the + reason I brought it myself. Read the first page-and then I’ll tell you + where to skip.” + </p> + <p> + So far, there was no allusion to Ovid. Benjulia turned to the second page—and + Lemuel pointed to the middle of it. “Read as far as that,” he went on, + “and then skip till you come to the last bit at the end.” + </p> + <p> + On the last page, Ovid’s name appeared. He was mentioned, as a “delightful + person, introduced by your brother,”—and with that the letter ended. + In the first bitterness of his disappointment, Benjulia conceived an angry + suspicion of those portions of the letter which he had been requested to + pass over unread. + </p> + <p> + “What has Morphew got to say to you that I mustn’t read?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you tell me first, what you want to find in the letter,” Lemuel + rejoined. “Morphew is a doctor like you. Is it anything medical?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia answered this in the easiest way—he nodded his head. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Vivisection?” Lemuel inquired slyly. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia at once handed the letter back, and pointed to the door. His + momentary interest in the suppressed passages was at an end. “That will + do,” he answered. “Take yourself and your letter away.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Lemuel, “I’m glad you don’t want to look at it again!” He put + the letter away, and buttoned his coat, and tapped his pocket + significantly. “You have got a nasty temper, Nathan—and there are + things here that might try it.” + </p> + <p> + In the case of any other man, Benjulia would have seen that the one object + of these prudent remarks was to irritate him. Misled by his profound + conviction of his brother’s stupidity, he now thought it possible that the + concealed portions of the letter might be worth notice. He stopped Lemuel + at the door. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said; “I want to look at the + letter again.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better not,” Lemuel persisted. “Morphew’s going to write a book + against you—and he asks me to get it published at our place. I’m on + his side, you know; I shall do my best to help him; I can lay my hand on + literary fellows who will lick his style into shape—it will be an + awful exposure!” Benjulia still held out his hand. With over-acted + reluctance, Lemuel unbuttoned his coat. The distant dog barked again as he + gave the letter back. “Please excuse my dear old dog,” he said with + maudlin tenderness; “the poor dumb animal seems to know that I’m taking + his side in the controversy. <i>Bow-wow</i> means, in his language, Fie + upon the cruel hands that bore holes in our head and use saws on our + backs. Ah, Nathan, if you have got any dogs in that horrid place of yours, + pat them and give them their dinner! You never heard me talk like this + before—did you? I’m a new man since I joined the Society for + suppressing you. Oh, if I only had the gift of writing!” + </p> + <p> + The effect of this experiment on his brother’s temper, failed to fulfil + Lemuel’s expectations. The doctor’s curiosity was roused on the doctor’s + own subject of inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “You’re quite right about one thing,” said Benjulia gravely; “I never + heard you talk in this way before. You suggest some interesting + considerations, of the medical sort. Come to the light.” He led Lemuel to + the window—looked at him with the closest attention—and + carefully consulted his pulse. Lemuel smiled. “I’m not joking,” said + Benjulia sternly. “Tell me this. Have you had headaches lately? Do you + find your memory failing you?” + </p> + <p> + As he put those questions, he thought to himself—seriously thought—“Is + this fellow’s brain softening? I wish I had him on my table!” + </p> + <p> + Lemuel persisted in presenting himself under a sentimental aspect. He had + not forgiven his elder brother’s rudeness yet—and he knew, by + experience, the one weakness in Benjulia’s character which, with his small + resources, it was possible to attack. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for your kind inquiries,” he replied. “Never mind my head, so + long as my heart’s in the right place. I don’t pretend to be clever—but + I’ve got my feelings; and I could put some awkward questions on what you + call Medical Research, if I had Morphew to help me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll help you,” said Benjulia—interested in developing the state of + his brother’s brain. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you,” said Lemuel—interested in developing the + state of his brother’s temper. + </p> + <p> + “Try me, Lemuel.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Nathan.” + </p> + <p> + The two brothers returned to their chairs; reduced for once to the same + moral level. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. + </h2> + <p> + “Now,” said Benjulia, “what is it to be? The favourite public bugbear? + Vivisection?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. What can I do for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me first,” said Lemuel, “what is Law?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, what <i>ought</i> it to be?” + </p> + <p> + “Justice, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me wait a bit, Nathan, and get that into my mind.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia waited with exemplary patience. + </p> + <p> + “Now about yourself,” Lemuel continued. “You won’t be offended—will + you? Should I be right, if I called you a dissector of living creatures?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia was reminded of the day when he had discovered his brother in the + laboratory. His dark complexion deepened in hue. His cold gray eyes seemed + to promise a coming outbreak. Lemuel went on. + </p> + <p> + “Does the Law forbid you to make your experiments on a man?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it does!” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn’t the Law forbid you to make your experiments on a dog?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia’s face cleared again. The one penetrable point in his ironclad + nature had not been reached yet. That apparently childish question about + the dog appeared, not only to have interested him, but to have taken him + by surprise. His attention wandered away from his brother. His clear + intellect put Lemuel’s objection in closer logical form, and asked if + there was any answer to it, thus: + </p> + <p> + The Law which forbids you to dissect a living man, allows you to dissect a + living dog. Why? + </p> + <p> + There was positively no answer to this. + </p> + <p> + Suppose he said, Because a dog is an animal? Could he, as a physiologist, + deny that a man is an animal too? + </p> + <p> + Suppose he said, Because a dog is the inferior creature in intellect? The + obvious answer to this would be, But the lower order of savage, or the + lower order of lunatic, compared with the dog, is the inferior creature in + intellect; and, in these cases, the dog has, on your own showing, the + better right to protection of the two. + </p> + <p> + Suppose he said, Because a man is a creature with a soul, and a dog is a + creature without a soul? This would be simply inviting another + unanswerable question: How do you know? + </p> + <p> + Honestly accepting the dilemma which thus presented itself, the conclusion + that followed seemed to be beyond dispute. + </p> + <p> + If the Law, in the matter of Vivisection, asserts the principle of + interference, the Law has barred its right to place arbitrary limits on + its own action. If it protects any living creatures, it is bound, in + reason and in justice, to protect all. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Lemuel, “am I to have an answer?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a lawyer.” + </p> + <p> + With this convenient reply, Benjulia opened Mr. Morphew’s letter, and read + the forbidden part of it which began on the second page. There he found + the very questions with which his brother had puzzled him—followed + by the conclusion at which he had himself arrived! + </p> + <p> + “You interpreted the language of your dog just now,” he said quietly to + Lemuel; “and I naturally supposed your brain might be softening. Such as + it is, I perceive that your memory is in working order. Accept my excuses + for feeling your pulse. You have ceased to be an object of interest to + me.” + </p> + <p> + He returned to his reading. Lemuel watched him—still confidently + waiting for results. + </p> + <p> + The letter proceeded in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “Your employer may perhaps be inclined to publish my work, if I can + satisfy him that it will address itself to the general reader. + </p> + <p> + “We all know what are the false pretences, under which English + physiologists practice their cruelties. I want to expose those false + pretences in the simplest and plainest way, by appealing to my own + experience as an ordinary working member of the medical profession. + </p> + <p> + “Take the pretence of increasing our knowledge of the curative action of + poisons, by trying them on animals. The very poisons, the action of which + dogs and cats have been needlessly tortured to demonstrate, I have + successfully used on my human patients in the practice of a lifetime. + </p> + <p> + “I should also like to ask what proof there is that the effect of a poison + on an animal may be trusted to inform us, with certainty, of the effect of + the same poison on a man. To quote two instances only which justify doubt—and + to take birds this time, by way of a change—a pigeon will swallow + opium enough to kill a man, and will not be in the least affected by it; + and parsley, which is an innocent herb in the stomach of a human being, is + deadly poison to a parrot. + </p> + <p> + “I should deal in the same way, with the other pretence, of improving our + practice of surgery by experiment on living animals. + </p> + <p> + “Not long since, I saw the diseased leg of a dog cut off at the hip joint. + When the limb was removed, not a single vessel bled. Try the same + operation on a man—and twelve or fifteen vessels must be tied as a + matter of absolute necessity. + </p> + <p> + “Again. We are told by a great authority that the baking of dogs in ovens + has led to new discoveries in treating fever. I have always supposed that + the heat, in fever, is not a cause of disease, but a consequence. However, + let that be, and let us still stick to experience. Has this infernal + cruelty produced results which help us to cure scarlet fever? Our bedside + practice tells us that scarlet fever runs it course as it always did. I + can multiply such examples as these by hundreds when I write my book. + </p> + <p> + “Briefly stated, you now have the method by which I propose to drag the + scientific English Savage from his shelter behind the medical interests of + humanity, and to show him in his true character,—as plainly as the + scientific Foreign Savage shows himself of his own accord. <i>He</i> + doesn’t shrink behind false pretences. <i>He</i> doesn’t add cant to + cruelty. <i>He</i> boldly proclaims the truth:—I do it, because I + like it!” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia rose, and threw the letter on the floor. + </p> + <p> + <i>“I</i> proclaim the truth,” he said; <i>“I</i> do it because I like it. + There are some few Englishmen who treat ignorant public opinion with the + contempt that it deserves—and I am one of them.” He pointed + scornfully to the letter. “That wordy old fool is right about the false + pretences. Publish his book, and I’ll buy a copy of it.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s odd,” said Lemuel. + </p> + <p> + “What’s odd?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Nathan, I’m only a fool—but if you talk in that way of false + pretences and public opinion, why do you tell everybody that your horrid + cutting and carving is harmless chemistry? And why were you in such a rage + when I got into your workshop, and found you out? Answer me that!” + </p> + <p> + “Let me congratulate you first,” said Benjulia. “It isn’t every fool who + knows that he <i>is</i> a fool. Now you shall have your answer. Before the + end of the year, all the world will be welcome to come into my workshop, + and see me at the employment of my life. Brother Lemuel, when you stole + your way through my unlocked door, you found me travelling on the road to + the grandest medical discovery of this century. You stupid ass, do you + think I cared about what <i>you</i> could find out? I am in such perpetual + terror of being forestalled by my colleagues, that I am not master of + myself, even when such eyes as yours look at my work. In a month or two + more—perhaps in a week or two—I shall have solved the grand + problem. I labour at it all day. I think of it, I dream of it, all night. + It will kill me. Strong as I am, it will kill me. What do you say? Am I + working myself into my grave, in the medical interests of humanity? <i>That</i> + for humanity! I am working for my own satisfaction—for my own pride—for + my own unutterable pleasure in beating other men—for the fame that + will keep my name living hundreds of years hence. Humanity! I say with my + foreign brethren—Knowledge for its own sake, is the one god I + worship. Knowledge is its own justification and its own reward. The + roaring mob follows us with its cry of Cruelty. We pity their ignorance. + Knowledge sanctifies cruelty. The old anatomist stole dead bodies for + Knowledge. In that sacred cause, if I could steal a living man without + being found out, I would tie him on my table, and grasp my grand discovery + in days, instead of months. Where are you going? What? You’re afraid to be + in the same room with me? A man who can talk as I do, is a man who would + stick at nothing? Is that the light in which you lower order of creatures + look at us? Look a little higher—and you will see that a man who + talks as I do is a man set above you by Knowledge. Exert yourself, and try + to understand me. Have I no virtues, even from your point of view? Am I + not a good citizen? Don’t I pay my debts? Don’t I serve my friends? You + miserable creature, you have had my money when you wanted it! Look at that + letter on the floor. The man mentioned in it is one of those colleagues + whom I distrust. I did my duty by him for all that. I gave him the + information he wanted; I introduced him to a friend in a land of + strangers. Have I no feeling, as you call it? My last experiments on a + monkey horrified me. His cries of suffering, his gestures of entreaty, + were like the cries and gestures of a child. I would have given the world + to put him out of his misery. But I went on. In the glorious cause I went + on. My hands turned cold—my heart ached—I thought of a child I + sometimes play with—I suffered—I resisted—I went on. All + for Knowledge! all for Knowledge!” + </p> + <p> + His brother’s presence was forgotten. His dark face turned livid; his + gigantic frame shuddered; his breath came and went in deep sobbing gasps—it + was terrible to see him and hear him. + </p> + <p> + Lemuel slunk out of the room. The jackal had roused the lion; the mean + spirit of mischief in him had not bargained for this. “I begin to believe + in the devil,” he said to himself when he got to the house door. + </p> + <p> + As he descended the steps, a carriage appeared in the lane. A footman + opened the gate of the enclosure. The carriage approached the house, with + a lady in it. + </p> + <p> + Lemuel ran back to his brother. “Here’s a lady coming!” he said. “You’re + in a nice state to see her! Pull yourself together, Nathan—and, damn + it, wash your hands!” + </p> + <p> + He took Benjulia’s arm, and led him upstairs. + </p> + <p> + When Lemuel returned to the hall, Mrs. Gallilee was ascending the + house-steps. He bowed profoundly, in homage to the well-preserved remains + of a fine woman. “My brother will be with you directly, ma’am. Pray allow + me to give you a chair.” + </p> + <p> + His hat was in his hand. Mrs. Gallilee’s knowledge of the world easily set + him down at his true value. She got rid of him with her best grace. “Pray + don’t let me detain you, sir; I will wait with pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + If she had been twenty years younger the hint might have been thrown away. + As it was, Lemuel retired. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. + </h2> + <p> + An unusually long day’s work at the office had fatigued good Mr. Mool. He + pushed aside his papers, and let his weary eyes rest on a glass vase full + of flowers on the table—a present from a grateful client. As a man, + he enjoyed the lovely colours of the nosegay. As a botanist, he lamented + the act which had cut the flowers from their parent stems, and doomed them + to a premature death. “I should not have had the heart to do it myself,” + he thought; “but tastes differ.” + </p> + <p> + The office boy came into the room, with a visiting card in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going home to dinner,” said Mr. Mool. “The person must call + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + The boy laid the card on the table. The person was Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee, at seven o’clock in the evening! Mrs. Gallilee, without a + previous appointment by letter! Mr. Mool trembled under the apprehension + of some serious family emergency, in imminent need of legal interference. + He submitted as a matter of course. “Show the lady in.” + </p> + <p> + Before a word had passed between them, the lawyer’s mind was relieved. + Mrs. Gallilee shone on him with her sweetest smiles; pressed his hand with + her friendliest warmth; admired the nosegay with her readiest enthusiasm. + “Quite perfect,” she said—“especially the Pansy. The round flat + edge, Mr. Mool; the upper petals perfectly uniform—there is a flower + that defies criticism! I long to dissect it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool politely resigned the Pansy to dissection (murderous mutilation, + he would have called it, in the case of one of his own flowers), and + waited to hear what his learned client might have to say to him. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to surprise you,” Mrs. Gallilee announced. “No—to shock + you. No—even that is not strong enough. Let me say, to horrify you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool’s anxieties returned, complicated by confusion. The behaviour of + Mrs. Gallilee exhibited the most unaccountable contrast to her language. + She showed no sign of those strong emotions to which she had alluded. “How + am I to put it?” she went on, with a transparent affectation of + embarrassment. “Shall I call it a disgrace to our family?” Mr. Mool + started. Mrs. Gallilee entreated him to compose himself; she approached + the inevitable disclosure by degrees. “I think,” she said, “you have met + Doctor Benjulia at my house?” + </p> + <p> + “I have had that honour, Mrs. Gallilee. Not a very sociable person—if + I may venture to say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Downright rude, Mr. Mool, on some occasions. But that doesn’t matter now. + I have just been visiting the doctor.” + </p> + <p> + Was this visit connected with the “disgrace to the family?” Mr. Mool + ventured to put a question. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Benjulia is not related to you, ma’am—is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the least in the world. Please don’t interrupt me again. I am, so to + speak, laying a train of circumstances before you; and I might leave one + of them out. When Doctor Benjulia was a young man—I am returning to + my train of circumstances, Mr. Mool—he was at Rome, pursuing his + professional studies. I have all this, mind, straight from the doctor + himself. At Rome, he became acquainted with my late brother, after the + period of his unfortunate marriage. Stop! I have failed to put it strongly + enough again. I ought to have said, his disgraceful marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Mrs. Gallilee—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Mool!” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t mention it. The next circumstance is ready in my mind. One of the + doctor’s fellow-students (described as being personally an irresistible + man) was possessed of abilities which even attracted our unsociable + Benjulia. They became friends. At the time of which I am now speaking, my + brother’s disgusting wife—oh, but I repeat it, Mr. Mool! I say + again, his disgusting wife—was the mother of a female child.” + </p> + <p> + “Your niece, Mrs. Gallilee.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Not Miss Carmina?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Carmina is no more my niece than she is your niece. Carry your mind + back to what I have just said. I mentioned a medical student who was an + irresistible man. Miss Carmina’s father was that man.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool’s astonishment and indignation would have instantly expressed + themselves, if he had not been a lawyer. As it was, his professional + experience warned him of the imprudence of speaking too soon. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Galilee’s exultation forced its way outwards. Her eyes glittered; her + voice rose. “The law, Mr. Mool! what does the law say?” she broke out. “Is + my brother’s Will no better than waste-paper? Is the money divided among + his only near relations? Tell me! tell me!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool suddenly plunged his face into his vase of flowers. Did he feel + that the air of the office wanted purifying? or was he conscious that his + face might betray him unless he hid it? Mrs. Galilee was at no loss to set + her own clever interpretation on her lawyer’s extraordinary proceeding. + </p> + <p> + “Take your time,” she said with the most patronising kindness. “I know + your sensitive nature; I know what I felt myself when this dreadful + discovery burst upon me. If you remember, I said I should horrify you. + Take your time, my dear sir—pray take your time.” + </p> + <p> + To be encouraged in this way—as if he was the emotional client, and + Mrs. Gallilee the impassive lawyer—was more than even Mr. Mool could + endure. Shy men are, in the innermost depths of their nature, proud men: + the lawyer had his professional pride. He came out of his flowery retreat, + with a steady countenance. For the first time in his life, he was not + afraid of Mrs. Galilee. + </p> + <p> + “Before we enter on the legal aspect of the case—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “The shocking case,” Mrs. Gallilee interposed, in the interests of Virtue. + </p> + <p> + Under any other circumstances Mr. Mool would have accepted the correction. + He actually took no notice of it now! “There is one point,” he proceeded, + “on which I must beg you to enlighten me.” + </p> + <p> + “By all means! I am ready to go into any details, no matter how disgusting + they may be.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool thought of certain “ladies” (objects of perfectly needless + respect among men) who, being requested to leave the Court, at + unmentionable Trials, persist in keeping their places. It was a relief to + him to feel—if his next questions did nothing else—that they + would disappoint Mrs. Galilee. + </p> + <p> + “Am I right in supposing that you believe what you have told me?” he + resumed. + </p> + <p> + “Most assuredly!” + </p> + <p> + “Is Doctor Benjulia the only person who has spoken to you on the subject?” + </p> + <p> + “The only person.” + </p> + <p> + “His information being derived from his friend—the fellow-student + whom you mentioned just now?” + </p> + <p> + “In other words,” Mrs. Gallilee answered viciously, “the father of the + wretched girl who has been foisted on my care.” + </p> + <p> + If Mr. Mool’s courage had been in danger of failing him, he would have + found it again now His regard for Carmina, his respect for the memory of + her mother, had been wounded to the quick. Strong on his own legal ground, + he proceeded as if he was examining a witness in a police court. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the doctor had some reason for believing what his friend told + him?” + </p> + <p> + “Ample reason! Vice and poverty generally go together—<i>this</i> + man was poor. He showed Doctor Benjulia money received from his mistress—her + husband’s money, it is needless to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Her motive might be innocent, Mrs. Gallilee. Had the man any letters of + hers to show?” + </p> + <p> + “Letters? From a woman in her position? It’s notorious, Mr. Mool, that + Italian models don’t know how to read or write.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask if there are any further proofs?” + </p> + <p> + “You have had proofs enough.” + </p> + <p> + “With all possible respect, ma’am, I deny that.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee had not been asked to enter into disgusting details. Mrs. + Gallilee had been contradicted by her obedient humble servant of other + days. She thought it high time to bring the examination to an end. + </p> + <p> + “If you are determined to believe in the woman’s innocence,” she said, + “without knowing any of the circumstances—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool went on from bad to worse: he interrupted her now. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Mrs. Gallilee, I think you have forgotten that one of my + autumn holidays, many years since, was spent in Italy. I was in Rome, like + Doctor Benjulia, after your brother’s marriage. His wife was, to my + certain knowledge, received in society. Her reputation was unblemished; + and her husband was devoted to her.” + </p> + <p> + “In plain English,” said Mrs. Gallilee, “my brother was a poor weak + creature—and his wife, when you knew her, had not been found out.” + </p> + <p> + “That is just the difficulty I feel,” Mr. Mool rejoined. “How is it that + she is only found out now? Years have passed since she died. More years + have passed since this attack on her character reached Doctor Benjulia’s + knowledge. He is an old friend of yours. Why has he only told you of it + to-day? I hope I don’t offend you by asking these questions?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, no! your questions are so easily answered. I never encouraged + the doctor to speak of my brother and his wife. The subject was too + distasteful to me—and I don’t doubt that Doctor Benjulia felt about + it as I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Until to-day,” the lawyer remarked; “Doctor Benjulia appears to have been + quite ready to mention the subject to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Under special circumstances, Mr. Mool. Perhaps, you will not allow that + special circumstances make any difference?” + </p> + <p> + On the contrary, Mr. Mool made every allowance. At the same time, he + waited to hear what the circumstances might be. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Galilee had her reasons for keeping silence. It was impossible to + mention Benjulia’s reception of her without inflicting a wound on her + self-esteem. To begin with, he had kept the door of the room open, and had + remained standing. “Have you got Ovid’s letters? Leave them here; I’m not + fit to look at them now.” Those were his first words. There was nothing in + the letters which a friend might not read: she accordingly consented to + leave them. The doctor had expressed his sense of obligation by bidding + her get into her carriage again, and go. “I have been put in a passion; I + have made a fool of myself; I haven’t a nerve in my body that isn’t + quivering with rage. Go! go! go!” There was his explanation. Impenetrably + obstinate, Mrs. Galilee faced him—standing between the doctor and + the door—without shrinking. She had not driven all the way to + Benjulia’s house to be sent back again without gaining her object: she had + her questions to put to him, and she persisted in pressing them as only a + woman can. He was left—with the education of a gentleman against him—between + the two vulgar alternatives of turning her out by main force, or of + yielding, and getting rid of her decently in that way. At any other time, + he would have flatly refused to lower himself to the level of a + scandal-mongering woman, by entering on the subject. In his present mood, + if pacifying Mrs. Galilee, and ridding himself of Mrs. Gallilee, meant one + and the same thing, he was ready, recklessly ready, to let her have her + own way. She heard the infamous story, which she had repeated to her + lawyer; and she had Lemuel Benjulia’s visit, and Mr. Morphew’s + contemplated attack on Vivisection, to thank for getting her information. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool waited, and waited in vain. He reminded his client of what she + had just said. + </p> + <p> + “You mentioned certain circumstances. May I know what they are?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee rose, before she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Your time is valuable, and my time is valuable,” she said. “We shall not + convince each other by prolonging our conversation. I came here, Mr. Mool, + to ask you a question about the law. Permit me to remind you that I have + not had my answer yet. My own impression is that the girl now in my house, + not being my brother’s child, has no claim on my brother’s property? Tell + me in two words, if you please—am I right or wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “I can do it in one word, Mrs. Gallilee. Wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool entered on the necessary explanation, triumphing in the reply + that he had just made. “It’s the smartest thing,” he thought, “I ever said + in my life.” + </p> + <p> + “While husbands and wives live together,” he continued, “the Law holds + that all children, born in wedlock, are the husband’s children. Even if + Miss Carmina’s mother had not been as good and innocent a woman as ever + drew the breath of life—” + </p> + <p> + “That will do, Mr. Mool. You really mean to say that this girl’s interest + in my brother’s Will—” + </p> + <p> + “Remains quite unaffected, ma’am, by all that you have told me.” + </p> + <p> + “And I am still obliged to keep her under my care?” + </p> + <p> + “Or,” Mr. Mool answered, “to resign the office of guardian, in favour of + Lady Northlake—appointed to act, in your place.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t trouble you any further, sir. Good-evening!” + </p> + <p> + She turned to leave the office. Mr. Mool actually tried to stop her. + </p> + <p> + “One word more, Mrs. Galilee.” + </p> + <p> + “No; we have said enough already.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool’s audacity arrived at its climax. He put his hand on the lock of + the office door, and held it shut. + </p> + <p> + “The young lady, Mrs. Gallilee! I am sure you will never breathe a word of + this to the pretty gentle, young lady? Even if it was true; and, as God is + my witness, I am sure it’s false—” + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Mr. Mool!” + </p> + <p> + He opened the door, and let her go; her looks and tones told him that + remonstrance was worse than useless. From year’s end to year’s end, this + modest and amiable man had never been heard to swear. He swore now. “Damn + Doctor Benjulia!” he burst out, in the solitude of his office. His dinner + was waiting for him at home. Instead of putting on his hat, he went back + to his writing-table. His thoughts projected themselves into the future—and + discovered possibilities from which they recoiled. He took up his pen, and + began a letter. “To John Gallilee, Esquire: Dear Sir,—Circumstances + have occurred, which I am not at liberty to mention, but which make it + necessary for me, in justice to my own views and feelings, to withdraw + from the position of legal adviser to yourself and family.” He paused and + considered with himself. “No,” he decided; “I may be of some use to that + poor child, while I am the family lawyer.” He tore up his unfinished + letter. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Mool got home that night, it was noticed that he had a poor + appetite for his dinner. On the other hand, he drank more wine than usual. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. + </h2> + <p> + “I don’t know what is the matter with me. Sometimes I think I am going to + be really ill.” + </p> + <p> + It was the day after Mrs. Gallilee’s interview with her lawyer—and + this was Carmina’s answer, when the governess entered her room, after the + lessons of the morning, and asked if she felt better. + </p> + <p> + “Are you still taking medicine?” Miss Minerva inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Mr. Null says it’s a tonic, and it’s sure to do me good. It doesn’t + seem to have begun yet. I feel so dreadfully weak, Frances. The least + thing makes me cry; and I put off doing what I ought to do, and want to + do, without knowing why. You remember what I told you about Teresa? She + may be with us in a few days more, for all I know to the contrary. I must + find a nice lodging for her, poor dear—and here I am, thinking about + it instead of doing it.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me do it,” Miss Minerva suggested. + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s sad face brightened. “That’s kind indeed!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! I shall take the children out, after dinner to-day. Looking + over lodgings will be an amusement to me and to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is Zo? Why haven’t you brought her with you?” + </p> + <p> + “She is having her music lesson—and I must go back to keep her in + order. About the lodging? A sitting-room and bedroom will be enough, I + suppose? In this neighbourhood, I am afraid the terms will be rather + high.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never mind that! Let us have clean airy rooms—and a kind + landlady. Teresa mustn’t know it, if the terms are high.” + </p> + <p> + “Will she allow you to pay her expenses?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, <i>you</i> put it delicately! My aunt seemed to doubt if Teresa had + any money of her own. I forgot, at the time, that my father had left her a + little income. She told me so herself, and wondered, poor dear, how she + was to spend it all. She mustn’t be allowed to spend it all. We will tell + her that the terms are half what they may really be—and I will pay + the other half. Isn’t it cruel of my aunt not to let my old nurse live in + the same house with me?” + </p> + <p> + At that moment, a message arrived from one of the persons of whom she was + speaking. Mrs. Gallilee wished to see Miss Carmina immediately. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said Miss Minerva, when the servant had withdrawn, “why do you + tremble so?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s something in me, Frances, that shudders at my aunt, ever since—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva understood that sudden pause—the undesigned allusion to + Carmina’s guiltless knowledge of her feeling towards Ovid. By unexpressed + consent, on either side, they still preserved their former relations as if + Mrs. Gallilee had not spoken. Miss Minerva looked at Carmina sadly and + kindly. “Good-bye for the present!” she said—and went upstairs again + to the schoolroom. + </p> + <p> + In the hall, Carmina found the servant waiting for her. He opened the + library door. The learned lady was at her studies. + </p> + <p> + “I have been speaking to Mr. Null about you,” said Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + On the previous evening, Carmina had kept her room. She had breakfasted in + bed—and she now saw her aunt for the first time, since Mrs. Gallilee + had left the house on her visit to Benjulia. The girl was instantly + conscious of a change—to be felt rather than to be realised—a + subtle change in her aunt’s way of looking at her and speaking to her. Her + heart beat fast. She took the nearest chair in silence. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor,” Mrs. Gallilee proceeded, “thinks it of importance to your + health to be as much as possible in the air. He wishes you to drive out + every day, while the fine weather lasts. I have ordered the open carriage + to be ready, after luncheon. Other engagements will prevent me from + accompanying you. You will be under the care of my maid, and you will be + out for two hours. Mr. Null hopes you will gain strength. Is there + anything you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you wish for a new dress?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” + </p> + <p> + “You have no complaint to make of the servants?” + </p> + <p> + “The servants are always kind to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I needn’t detain you any longer—I have a person coming to speak to + me.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina had entered the room in doubt and fear. She left it with + strangely-mingled feelings of perplexity and relief. Her sense of a + mysterious change in her aunt had strengthened with every word that Mrs. + Gallilee had said to her. She had heard of reformatory institutions, and + of discreet persons called matrons who managed them. In her imaginary + picture of such places, Mrs. Gallilee’s tone and manner realised, in the + strangest way, her idea of a matron speaking to a penitent. + </p> + <p> + As she crossed the hall, her thoughts took a new direction. Some + indefinable distrust of the coming time got possession of her. An ugly + model of the Colosseum, in cork, stood on the hall table. She looked at it + absently. “I hope Teresa will come soon,” she thought—and turned + away to the stairs. + </p> + <p> + She ascended slowly; her head drooping, her mind still preoccupied. + Arrived at the first landing, a sound of footsteps disturbed her. She + looked up—and found herself face to face with Mr. Le Frank, leaving + the schoolroom after his music lesson. At that sudden discovery, a cry of + alarm escaped her—the common little scream of a startled woman. Mr. + Le Frank made an elaborately formal bow: he apologised with sternly stupid + emphasis. “I <i>beg</i> your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + Moved by a natural impulse, penitently conscious of those few foolish + words of hers which he had so unfortunately overheard, the poor girl made + an effort to conciliate him. “I have very few friends, Mr. Le Frank,” she + said timidly. “May I still consider you as one of them? Will you forgive + and forget? Will you shake hands?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank made another magnificent bow. He was proud of his voice. In + his most resonant and mellifluous tones, he said, “You do me honour—” + and took the offered hand, and lifted it grandly, and touched it with his + lips. + </p> + <p> + She held by the baluster with her free hand, and controlled the sickening + sensation which that momentary contact with him produced. He might have + detected the outward signs of the struggle, but for an interruption which + preserved her from discovery. Mrs. Gallilee was standing at the open + library door. Mrs. Gallilee said, “I am waiting for you, Mr. Le Frank.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina hurried up the stairs, pursued already by a sense of her own + imprudence. In her first confusion and dismay, but one clear idea + presented itself. “Oh!” she said, “have I made another mistake?” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Mrs. Gallilee had received her music-master with the nearest + approach to an indulgent welcome, of which a hardened nature is capable. + </p> + <p> + “Take the easy chair, Mr. Le Frank. You are not afraid of the open + window?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear no! I like it.” He rapidly unrolled some leaves of music which + he had brought downstairs. “With regard to the song that I had the honour + of mentioning—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee pointed to the table. “Put the song there for the present. I + have a word to say first. How came you to frighten my niece? I heard + something like a scream, and naturally looked out. She was making an + apology; she asked you to forgive and forget. What does all this mean?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank exhausted his ingenuity in efforts of polite evasion without + the slightest success. From first to last (if the expression may be + permitted) Mrs. Gallilee had him under her thumb. He was not released, + until he had literally reported Carmina’s opinion of him as a man and a + musician, and had exactly described the circumstances under which he had + heard it. Mrs. Gallilee listened with an interest, which (under less + embarrassing circumstances) would have even satisfied Mrs. Le Frank’s + vanity. + </p> + <p> + She was not for a moment deceived by the clumsy affectation of good humour + with which he told his story. Her penetration discovered the vindictive + feeling towards Carmina, which offered him, in case of necessity, as an + instrument ready made to her hand. By fine degrees, she presented herself + in the new character of a sympathising friend. + </p> + <p> + “I know now, Mr. Le Frank, why you declined to be my niece’s music-master. + Allow me to apologise for having ignorantly placed you in a false + position. I appreciate the delicacy of your conduct—I understand, + and admire you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank’s florid cheeks turned redder still. His cold blood began to + simmer, heated by an all-pervading glow of flattered self-esteem. + </p> + <p> + “My niece’s motives for concealment are plain enough,” Mrs. Gallilee + proceeded. “Let me hope that she was ashamed to confess the total want of + taste, delicacy, and good manners which has so justly offended you. Miss + Minerva, however, has no excuse for keeping me in the dark. Her conduct, + in this matter, offers, I regret to say, one more instance of her habitual + neglect of the duties which attach to her position in my house. There + seems to be some private understanding between my governess and my niece, + of which I highly disapprove. However, the subject is too distasteful to + dwell on. You were speaking of your song—the last effort of your + genius, I think?” + </p> + <p> + His “genius”! The inner glow in Mr. Le Frank grew warmer and warmer. “I + asked for the honour of an interview,” he explained, “to make a request.” + He took up his leaves of music. “This is my last, and, I hope, my best + effort at composition. May I dedicate it—?” + </p> + <p> + “To me!” Mrs. Gallilee exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank felt the compliment. He bowed gratefully. + </p> + <p> + “Need I say how gladly I accept the honour?” With this gracious answer + Mrs. Gallilee rose. + </p> + <p> + Was the change of position a hint, suggesting that Mr. Le Frank might + leave her to her studies, now that his object was gained? Or was it an act + of homage offered by Science to Art? Mr. Le Frank was incapable of placing + an unfavourable interpretation on any position which a woman—and + such a woman—could assume in his presence. He felt the compliment + again. “The first copy published shall be sent to you,” he said—and + snatched up his hat, eager to set the printers at work. + </p> + <p> + “And five-and-twenty copies more, for which I subscribe,” cried his + munificent patroness, cordially shaking hands with him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank attempted to express his sense of obligation. Generous Mrs. + Gallilee refused to hear him. He took his leave; he got as far as the + hall; and then he was called back—softly, confidentially called back + to the library. + </p> + <p> + “A thought has just struck me,” said Mrs. Gallilee. “Please shut the door + for a moment. About that meeting between you and my niece? Perhaps, I am + taking a morbid view?” + </p> + <p> + She paused. Mr. Le Frank waited with breathless interest. + </p> + <p> + “Or is there something out of the common way, in that apology of hers?” + Mrs. Gallilee proceeded. “Have you any idea what the motive might be?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank’s ready suspicion was instantly aroused. “Not the least + idea,” he answered. “Can you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I am as completely puzzled as you are,” Mrs. Gallilee rejoined. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank considered. His suspicions made an imaginative effort, + assisted by his vanity. “After my refusal to teach her,” he suggested, + “that proposal to shake hands may have a meaning—” There, his + invention failed him. He stopped, and shook his head ominously. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s object being attained, she made no attempt to help him. + “Perhaps, time will show,” she answered discreetly. “Good-bye again—with + best wishes for the success of the song.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV. + </h2> + <p> + The solitude of her own room was no welcome refuge to Carmina, in her + present state of mind. She went on to the schoolroom. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva was alone. The two girls, in obedience to domestic + regulations, were making their midday toilet before dinner. Carmina + described her interview with Mrs. Gallilee, and her meeting with Mr. Le + Frank. “Don’t scold me,” she said; “I make no excuse for my folly.” + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Le Frank had left the house, after you spoke to him,” Miss Minerva + answered, “I should not have felt the anxiety which troubles me now. I + don’t like his going to Mrs. Gallilee afterwards—especially when you + tell me of that change in her manner towards you. Yours is a vivid + imagination, Carmina. Are you sure that it has not been playing you any + tricks?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly sure.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva was not quite satisfied. “Will you help me to feel as certain + about it as you do?” she asked. “Mrs. Gallilee generally looks in for a + few minutes, while the children are at dinner. Stay here, and say + something to her in my presence. I want to judge for myself.” + </p> + <p> + The girls came in. Maria’s perfect toilet, reflected Maria’s perfect + character. She performed the duties of politeness with her usual happy + choice of words. “Dear Carmina, it is indeed a pleasure to see you again + in our schoolroom. We are naturally anxious about your health. This lovely + weather is no doubt in your favour; and papa thinks Mr. Null a remarkably + clever man.” Zo stood by frowning, while these smooth conventionalities + trickled over her sister’s lips. Carmina asked what was the matter. Zo + looked gloomily at the dog on the rug. “I wish I was Tinker,” she said. + Maria smiled sweetly. “Dear Zoe, what a very strange wish! What would you + do, if you were Tinker?” The dog, hearing his name, rose and shook + himself. Zo pointed to him, with an appearance of the deepest interest. <i>“He</i> + hasn’t got to brush his hair, before he goes out for a walk; <i>his</i> + nails don’t took black when they’re dirty. And, I say!” (she whispered the + next words in Carmina’s ear) <i>“he</i> hasn’t got a governess.” + </p> + <p> + The dinner made its appearance; and Mrs. Gallilee followed the dinner. + Maria said grace. Zo, always ravenous at meals, forgot to say Amen. + Carmina, standing behind her chair, prompted her. Zo said “Amen; oh, + bother!” the first word at the top of her voice, and the last two in a + whisper. Mrs. Gallilee looked at Carmina as she might have looked at an + obtrusive person who had stepped in from the street. “You had better dress + before luncheon,” she suggested, “or you will keep the carriage waiting.” + Hearing this, Zo laid down her knife and fork, and looked over her + shoulder. “Ask if I may go with you,” she said. Carmina made the request. + “No,” Mrs. Gallilee answered, “the children must walk. My maid will + accompany you.” Carmina glanced at Miss Minerva on leaving the room. The + governess replied by a look. She too had seen the change in Mrs. + Gallilee’s manner, and was at a loss to understand it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s maid Marceline belonged to a quick-tempered race: she was + a Jersey woman. It is not easy to say which of the two felt most oppressed + by their enforced companionship in the carriage. + </p> + <p> + The maid was perhaps the most to be pitied. Secretly drawn towards Carmina + like the other servants in the house, she was forced by her mistress’s + private instruction, to play the part of a spy. “If the young lady changes + the route which the coachman has my orders to take, or if she communicates + with any person while your are out, you are to report it to me.” Mrs. + Gallilee had not forgotten the discovery of the travelling bag; and Mr. + Mool’s exposition of the law had informed her, that the superintendence of + Carmina was as much a matter of serious pecuniary interest as ever. + </p> + <p> + But recent events had, in one respect at least, improved the prospect. + </p> + <p> + If Ovid (as his mother actually ventured to hope!) broke off his + engagement, when he heard the scandalous story of Carmina’s birth, there + was surely a chance that she, like other girls of her sensitive + temperament, might feel the calamity that had fallen on her so acutely as + to condemn herself to a single life. Misled, partly by the hope of relief + from her own vile anxieties; partly by the heartless incapability of + appreciating generous feeling in others, developed by the pursuits of her + later life, Mrs. Gallilee seriously contemplated her son’s future decision + as a matter of reasonable doubt. + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile, this detestable child of adultery—this living + obstacle in the way of the magnificent prospects which otherwise awaited + Maria and Zoe, to say nothing of their mother—must remain in the + house, submitted to her guardian’s authority, watched by her guardian’s + vigilance. The hateful creature was still entitled to medical attendance + when she was ill, and must still be supplied with every remedy that the + doctor’s ingenuity could suggest. A liberal allowance was paid for the + care of her; and the trustees were bound to interfere if it was not fairly + earned. + </p> + <p> + Looking after the carriage as it drove away—Marceline on the front + seat presenting the picture of discomfort; and Carmina opposite to her, + unendurably pretty and interesting, with the last new poem on her lap—Mrs. + Gallilee’s reflections took their own bitter course. “Accidents happen to + other carriages, with other girls in them. Not to my carriage, with that + girl in it! Nothing will frighten <i>my</i> horses to-day; and, fat as he + is, <i>my</i> coachman will not have a fit on the box!” + </p> + <p> + It was only too true. At the appointed hour the carriage appeared again—and + (to complete the disappointment) Marceline had no report to make. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva had not forgotten her promise. When she returned from her + walk with the children, the rooms had been taken. Teresa’s London lodging + was within five minutes’ walk of the house. + </p> + <p> + That evening, Carmina sent a telegram to Rome, on the chance that the + nurse might not yet have begun her journey. The message (deferring other + explanations until they met) merely informed her that her rooms were + ready, adding the address and the landlady’s name. Guessing in the dark, + Carmina and the governess had ignorantly attributed the sinister + alteration in Mrs. Gallilee’s manner to the prospect of Teresa’s unwelcome + return. “While you have the means in your power,” Miss Minerva advised, + “it may be as well to let your old friend know that there is a home for + her when she reaches London.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. + </h2> + <p> + The weather, to Carmina’s infinite relief, changed for the worse the next + day. Incessant rain made it impossible to send her out in the carriage + again. + </p> + <p> + But it was an eventful day, nevertheless. On that rainy afternoon, Mr. + Gallilee asserted himself as a free agent, in the terrible presence of his + wife! + </p> + <p> + “It’s an uncommonly dull day, my dear,” he began. This passed without + notice, which was a great encouragement to go on. “If you will allows me + to say so, Carmina wants a little amusement.” Mrs. Gallilee looked up from + her book. Fearing that he might stop altogether if he took his time as + usual, Mr. Gallilee proceeded in a hurry. “There’s an afternoon + performance of conjuring tricks; and, do you know, I really think I might + take Carmina to see it. We shall be delighted if you will accompany us, my + dear; and they do say—perhaps you have heard of it yourself?—that + there’s a good deal of science in this exhibition.” His eyes rolled in + uneasy expectation, as he waited to hear what his wife might decide. She + waved her hand contemptuously in the direction of the door. Mr. Gallilee + retired with the alacrity of a young man. “Now we shall enjoy ourselves!” + he thought as he went up to Carmina’s room. + </p> + <p> + They were just leaving the house, when the music-master arrived at the + door to give his lesson. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee immediately put his head out of the cab window. “We are going + to see the conjuring!” he shouted cheerfully. “Carmina! don’t you see Mr. + Le Frank? He is bowing to you. Do you like conjuring, Mr. Le Frank? Don’t + tell the children where we are going! They would be disappointed, poor + things—but they must have their lessons, mustn’t they? Good-bye! I + say! stop a minute. If you ever want your umbrella mended, I know a man + who will do it cheap and well. Nasty day, isn’t it? Go on! go on!” + </p> + <p> + The general opinion which ranks vanity among the lighter failings of + humanity, commits a serious mistake. Vanity wants nothing but the motive + power to develop into absolute wickedness. Vanity can be savagely + suspicious and diabolically cruel. What are the two typical names which + stand revealed in history as the names of the two vainest men that ever + lived? Nero and Robespierre. + </p> + <p> + In his obscure sphere, and within his restricted means, the vanity of Mrs. + Gallilee’s music-master had developed its inherent qualities, under her + cunning and guarded instigation. Once set in action, his suspicion of + Carmina passed beyond all limits. There could be no reason but a bad + reason for that barefaced attempt to entrap him into a reconciliation. + Every evil motive which it was possible to attribute to a girl of her age, + no matter how monstrously improbable it might be, occurred to him when he + recalled her words, her look, and her manner at their meeting on the + stairs. His paltry little mind, at other times preoccupied in + contemplating himself and his abilities, was now so completely absorbed in + imagining every variety of conspiracy against his social and professional + position, that he was not even capable of giving his customary lesson to + two children. Before the appointed hour had expired, Miss Minerva remarked + that his mind did not appear to be at ease, and suggested that he had + better renew the lesson on the next day. After a futile attempt to assume + an appearance of tranquillity—he thanked her and took his leave. + </p> + <p> + On his way downstairs, he found the door of Carmina’s room left half open. + </p> + <p> + She was absent with Mr. Gallilee. Miss Minerva remained upstairs with the + children. Mrs. Gallilee was engaged in scientific research. At that hour + of the afternoon, there were no duties which called the servants to the + upper part of the house. He listened—he hesitated—he went into + the room. + </p> + <p> + It was possible that she might keep a journal: it was certain that she + wrote and received letters. If he could only find her desk unlocked and + her drawers open, the inmost secrets of her life would be at his mercy. + </p> + <p> + He tried her desk; he tried the cupboard under the bookcase. They were + both locked. The cabinet between the windows and the drawer of the table + were left unguarded. No discovery rewarded the careful search that he + pursued in these two repositories. He opened the books that she had left + on the table, and shook them. No forgotten letter, no private memorandum + (used as marks) dropped out. He looked all round him; he peeped into the + bedroom; he listened, to make sure that nobody was outside; he entered the + bedroom, and examined the toilet-table, and opened the doors of the + wardrobe—and still the search was fruitless, persevere as he might. + </p> + <p> + Returning to the sitting-room, he shook his fist at the writing-desk. “You + wouldn’t be locked,” he thought, “unless you had some shameful secrets to + keep! <i>I</i> shall have other opportunities; and <i>she</i> may not + always remember to turn the key.” He stole quietly down the stairs, and + met no one on his way out. + </p> + <p> + The bad weather continued on the next day. The object of Mr. Le Frank’s + suspicion remained in the house—and the second opportunity failed to + offer itself as yet. + </p> + <p> + The visit to the exhibition of conjuring had done Carmina harm instead of + good. Her head ached, in the close atmosphere—she was too fatigued + to be able to stay in the room until the performance came to an end. Poor + Mr. Gallilee retired in disgrace to the shelter of his club. At dinner, + even his perfect temper failed him for the moment. He found fault with the + champagne—and then apologised to the waiter. “I’m sorry I was a + little hard on you just now. The fact is, I’m out of sorts—you have + felt in that way yourself, haven’t you? The wine’s first-rate; and, really + the weather is so discouraging, I think I’ll try another pint.” + </p> + <p> + But Carmina’s buoyant heart defied the languor of illness and the gloomy + day. The post had brought her a letter from Ovid—enclosing a + photograph, taken at Montreal, which presented him in his travelling + costume. + </p> + <p> + He wrote in a tone of cheerfulness, which revived Carmina’s sinking + courage, and renewed for a time at least the happiness of other days. The + air of the plains of Canada he declared to be literally intoxicating. + Every hour seemed to be giving him back the vital energy that he had lost + in his London life. He slept on the ground, in the open air, more soundly + than he had ever slept in a bed. But one anxiety troubled his mind. In the + roving life which he now enjoyed, it was impossible that his letters could + follow him—and yet, every day that passed made him more unreasonably + eager to hear that Carmina was not weary of waiting for him, and that all + was well at home. + </p> + <p> + “And how have these vain aspirations of mine ended?”—the letter went + on. “They have ended, my darling, in a journey for one of my guides—an + Indian, whose fidelity I have put to the proof, and whose zeal I have + stimulated by a promise of reward. + </p> + <p> + “The Indian takes these lines to be posted at Quebec. He is also provided + with an order, authorising my bankers to trust him with the letters that + are waiting for me. I begin a canoe voyage to-morrow; and, after due + consultation with the crew, we have arranged a date and a place at which + my messenger will find me on his return. Shall I confess my own amiable + weakness? or do you know me well enough already to suspect the truth? My + love, I am sorely tempted to be false to my plans and arrangements to go + back with the Indian to Quebec—and to take a berth in the first + steamer that returns to England. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t suppose that I am troubled by any misgivings about what is going on + in my absence! It is one of the good signs of my returning health that I + take the brightest view of our present lives, and of our lives to come. I + feel tempted to go back, for the same reason that makes me anxious for + letters. I want to hear from you, because I love you—I want to + return at once, because I love you. There is longing, unutterable longing, + in my heart. No doubts, my sweet one, and no fears! + </p> + <p> + “But I was a doctor, before I became a lover. My medical knowledge tells + me that this is an opportunity of thoroughly fortifying my constitution, + and (with God’s blessing) of securing to myself reserves of health and + strength which will take us together happily on the way to old age. Dear + love, you must be my wife—not my nurse! There is the thought that + gives me self-denial enough to let the Indian go away by himself.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina answered this letter as soon as she had read it. + </p> + <p> + Before the mail could carry her reply to its destination, she well knew + that the Indian messenger would be on the way back to his master. But Ovid + had made her so happy that she felt the impulse to write to him at once, + as she might have felt the impulse to answer him at once if he had been + present and speaking to her. When the pages were filled, and the letter + had been closed and addressed, the effort produced its depressing effect + on her spirits. + </p> + <p> + There now appeared to her a certain wisdom in the loving rapidity of her + reply. + </p> + <p> + Even in the fullness of her joy, she was conscious of an underlying + distrust of herself. Although he refused to admit it, Mr. Null had + betrayed a want of faith in the remedy from which he had anticipated such + speedy results, by writing another prescription. He had also added a glass + to the daily allowance of wine, which he had thought sufficient thus far. + Without despairing of herself, Carmina felt that she had done wisely in + writing her answer, while she was still well enough to rival the cheerful + tone of Ovid’s letter. + </p> + <p> + She laid down to rest on the sofa, with the photograph in her hand. No + sense of loneliness oppressed her now; the portrait was the best of all + companions. Outside, the heavy rain pattered; in the room, the busy clock + ticked. She listened lazily, and looked at her lover, and kissed the + faithful image of him—peacefully happy. + </p> + <p> + The opening of the door was the first little event that disturbed her. Zo + peeped in. Her face was red, her hair was tousled, her fingers presented + inky signs of a recent writing lesson. + </p> + <p> + “I’m in a rage,” she announced; “and so is the Other One.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina called her to the sofa, and tried to find out who this second + angry person might be. “Oh, you know!” Zo answered doggedly. “She rapped + my knuckles. I call her a Beast.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! you mustn’t talk in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “She’ll be here directly,” Zo proceeded. “You look out! She’d rap <i>your</i> + knuckles—only you’re too big. If it wasn’t raining, I’d run away.” + Carmina assumed an air of severity, and entered a serious protest adapted + to her young friend’s intelligence. She might as well have spoken in a + foreign language. Zo had another reason to give, besides the rap on the + knuckles, for running away. + </p> + <p> + “I say!” she resumed—“you know the boy?” + </p> + <p> + “What boy, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “He comes round sometimes. He’s got a hurdy-gurdy. He’s got a monkey. He + grins. He says, <i>Aha—gimmee—haypenny.</i> I mean to go to + that boy!” + </p> + <p> + As a confession of Zo’s first love, this was irresistible. Carmina burst + out laughing. Zo indignantly claimed a hearing. “I haven’t done yet!” she + burst out. “The boy dances. Like this.” She cocked her head, and slapped + her thigh, and imitated the boy. “And sometimes he sings!” she cried with + another outburst of admiration. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Yah-yah-yah-bellah-vitah-yah!</i> That’s Italian, Carmina.” The door + opened again while the performer was in full vigour—and Miss Minerva + appeared. + </p> + <p> + When she entered the room, Carmina at once saw that Zo had correctly + observed her governess. Miss Minerva’s heavy eyebrows lowered; her lips + were pale; her head was held angrily erect, “Carmina!” she said sharply, + “you shouldn’t encourage that child.” She turned round, in search of the + truant pupil. Incurably stupid at her lessons, Zo’s mind had its gleams of + intelligence, in a state of liberty. One of those gleams had shone + propitiously, and had lighted her out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva took a chair: she dropped into it like a person worn out with + fatigue. Carmina spoke to her gently. Words of sympathy were thrown away + on that self-tormenting nature. + </p> + <p> + “No; I’m not ill,” she said. “A night without sleep; a perverse child to + teach in the morning; and a detestable temper at all times—that’s + what is the matter with me.” She looked at Carmina. “You seem to be + wonderfully better to-day. Has stupid Mr. Null really done you some good + at last?” She noticed the open writing-desk, and discovered the letter. + “Or is it good news?” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard from Ovid,” Carmina answered. The photograph was still in + her hand; but her inbred delicacy of feeling kept the portrait hidden. + </p> + <p> + The governess’s sallow complexion turned little by little to a dull + greyish white. Her hands, loosely clasped in her lap, tightened when she + heard Ovid’s name. That slight movement over, she stirred no more. After + waiting a little, Carmina ventured to speak. “Frances,” she said, “you + have not shaken hands with me yet.” Miss Minerva slowly looked up, keeping + her hands still clasped on her lap. + </p> + <p> + “When is he coming back?” she asked. It was said quietly. + </p> + <p> + Carmina quietly replied, “Not yet—I am sorry to say.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry too.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s good of you, Frances, to say that.” + </p> + <p> + “No: it’s not good of me. I’m thinking of myself—not of you.” She + suddenly lowered her tone. “I wish you were married to him,” she said. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. Miss Minerva was the first to speak again. + </p> + <p> + “Do you understand me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will help me to understand,” Carmina answered. + </p> + <p> + “If you were married to him, even my restless spirit might be at peace. + The struggle would be over.” + </p> + <p> + She left her chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room. The + passionate emotion which she had resolutely suppressed began to get beyond + her control. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking about you last night,” she abruptly resumed. “You are a + gentle little creature—but I have seen you show some spirit, when + your aunt’s cold-blooded insolence roused you. Do you know what I would + do, if I were in your place? <i>I</i> wouldn’t wait tamely till he came + back to me—I would go to him. Carmina! Carmina! leave this horrible + house!” She stopped, close by the sofa. “Let me look at you. Ha! I believe + you have thought of it yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I have thought of it.” + </p> + <p> + “What did I say? You poor little prisoner, you <i>have</i> the right + spirit in you! I wish I could give you some of my strength.” The + half-mocking tone in which she spoke, suddenly failed her. Her piercing + eyes grew dim; the hard lines in her face softened. She dropped on her + knees, and wound her lithe arms round Carmina, and kissed her. “You sweet + child!” she said—and burst passionately into tears. + </p> + <p> + Even then, the woman’s fiercely self-dependent nature asserted itself. She + pushed Carmina back on the sofa. “Don’t look at me! don’t speak to me!” + she gasped. “Leave me to get over it.” + </p> + <p> + She stifled the sobs that broke from her. Still on her knees, she looked + up, shuddering. A ghastly smile distorted her lips. “Ah, what fools we + are!” she said. “Where is that lavender water, my dear—your + favourite remedy for a burning head?” She found the bottle before Carmina + could help her, and soaked her handkerchief in the lavender water, and + tied it round her head. “Yes,” she went on, as if they had been gossiping + on the most commonplace subjects, “I think you’re right: this is the best + of all perfumes.” She looked at the clock. “The children’s dinner will be + ready in ten minutes. I must, and will, say what I have to say to you. It + may be the last poor return I can make, Carmina, for all your kindness.” + </p> + <p> + She returned to her chair. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help it if I frighten you,” she resumed; “I must tell you plainly + that I don’t like the prospect. In the first place, the sooner we two are + parted—oh, only for a while!—the better for you. After what I + went through, last night—no, I am not going to enter into any + particulars; I am only going to repeat, what I have said already—don’t + trust me. I mean it, Carmina! Your generous nature shall not mislead you, + if <i>I</i> can help it. When you are a happy married woman—when <i>he</i> + is farther removed from me than he is even now—remember your ugly, + ill-tempered friend, and let me come to you. Enough of this! I have other + misgivings that are waiting to be confessed. You know that old nurse of + yours intimately—while I only speak from a day or two’s experience + of her. To my judgment, she is a woman whose fondness for you might be + turned into a tigerish fondness, on very small provocation. You write to + her constantly. Does she know what you have suffered? Have you told her + the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Without reserve?” + </p> + <p> + “Entirely without reserve.” + </p> + <p> + “When that old woman comes to London, Carmina—and sees you, and sees + Mrs. Gallilee—don’t you think the consequences may be serious? and + your position between them something (if you were ten times stronger than + you are) that no fortitude can endure?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina started up on the sofa. She was not able to speak. Miss Minerva + gave her time to recover herself—after another look at the clock. + </p> + <p> + “I am not alarming you for nothing,” she proceeded; “I have something + hopeful to propose. Your friend Teresa has energies—wild energies. + Make a good use of them. She will do anything you ask or her. Take her + with you to Canada!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Frances!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva pointed to the letter on the desk. “Does he tell you when he + will be back?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He feels the importance of completely restoring his health—he + is going farther and farther away—he has sent to Quebec for his + letters.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there is no fear of your crossing each other on the voyage. Go to + Quebec, and wait for him there.” + </p> + <p> + “I should frighten him.” + </p> + <p> + “Not you!” + </p> + <p> + “What can I say to him?” + </p> + <p> + “What you <i>must</i> say, if you are weak enough to wait for him here. Do + you think his mother will consider his feelings, when he comes back to + marry you? I tell you again I am not talking at random. I have thought it + all out: I know how you can make your escape, and defy pursuit. You have + plenty of money; you have Teresa to take care of you. Go! For your own + sake, for his sake, go!” + </p> + <p> + The clock struck the hour. She rose and removed the handkerchief from her + head. “Hush!” she said, “Do I hear the rustling of a dress on the landing + below?” She snatched up a bottle of Mr. Null’s medicine—as a reason + for being in the room. The sound of the rustling dress came nearer and + nearer. Mrs. Gallilee (on her way to the schoolroom dinner) opened the + door. She instantly understood the purpose which the bottle was intended + to answer. + </p> + <p> + “It is my business to give Carmina her medicine,” she said. “Your business + is at the schoolroom table.” + </p> + <p> + She took possession of the bottle, and advanced to Carmina. There were two + looking-glasses in the room. One, in the usual position, over the + fireplace; the other opposite, on the wall behind the sofa. Turning back, + before she left the room, Miss Minerva saw Mrs. Gallilee’s face, when she + and Carmina looked at each other, reflected in the glass. + </p> + <p> + The girls were waiting for their dinner. Maria received the unpunctual + governess with her ready smile, and her appropriate speech. “Dear Miss + Minerva, we were really almost getting alarmed about you. Pardon me for + noticing it, you look—” She caught the eye of the governess, and + stopped confusedly. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Miss Minerva. “How do I look?” + </p> + <p> + Maria still hesitated. Zo spoke out as usual. “You look as if somebody had + frightened you.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. + </h2> + <h3> + After two days of rain, the weather cleared again. + </h3> + <p> + It was a calm, sunshiny Sunday morning. The flat country round Benjulia’s + house wore its brightest aspect on that clear autumn day. Even the + doctor’s gloomy domestic establishment reflected in some degree the change + for the better. When he rose that morning, Benjulia presented himself to + his household in a character which they were little accustomed to see—the + character of a good-humoured master. He astonished his silent servant by + attempting to whistle a tune. “If you ever looked cheerful in your life,” + he said to the man, “look cheerful now. I’m going to take a holiday!” + </p> + <p> + After working incessantly—never leaving his laboratory; eating at + his dreadful table; snatching an hour’s rest occasionally on the floor—he + had completed a series of experiments, with results on which he could + absolutely rely. He had advanced by one step nearer towards solving that + occult problem in brain disease, which had thus far baffled the + investigations of medical men throughout the civilised world. If his + present rate of progress continued, the lapse of another month might add + his name to the names that remain immortal among physicians, in the Annals + of Discovery. + </p> + <p> + So completely had his labours absorbed his mind that he only remembered + the letters which Mrs. Gallilee had left with him, when he finished his + breakfast on Sunday morning. Upon examination, there appeared no allusion + in Ovid’s correspondence to the mysterious case of illness which he had + attended at Montreal. The one method now left, by which Benjulia could + relieve the doubt that still troubled him, was to communicate directly + with his friend in Canada. He decided to celebrate his holiday by taking a + walk; his destination being the central telegraph office in London. + </p> + <p> + But, before he left the house, his domestic duties claimed attention. He + issued his orders to the cook. + </p> + <p> + At three o’clock he would return to dinner. That day was to witness the + celebration of his first regular meat for forty-eight hours past; and he + expected the strictest punctuality. The cook—lately engaged—was + a vigourous little woman, with fiery hair and a high colour. She, like the + man-servant, felt the genial influence of her master’s amiability. He + looked at her, for the first time since she had entered the house. A + twinkling light showed itself furtively in his dreary gray eyes: he took a + dusty old hand-screen from the sideboard, and made her a present of it! + “There,” he said with his dry humour, “don’t spoil your complexion before + the kitchen fire.” The cook possessed a sanguine temperament, and a taste + to be honoured and encouraged—the taste for reading novels. She put + her own romantic construction on the extraordinary compliment which the + doctor’s jesting humour had paid to her. As he walked out, grimly smiling + and thumping his big stick on the floor, a new idea illuminated her mind. + Her master admired her; her master was no ordinary man—it might end + in his marrying her. + </p> + <p> + On his way to the telegraph office, Benjulia left Ovid’s letters at Mrs. + Gallilee’s house. + </p> + <p> + If he had personally returned them, he would have found the learned lady + in no very gracious humour. On the previous day she had discovered Carmina + and Miss Minerva engaged in a private conference—without having been + able even to guess what the subject under discussion between them might + be. They were again together that morning. Maria and Zo had gone to church + with their father; Miss Minerva was kept at home by a headache. At that + hour, and under those circumstances, there was no plausible pretence which + would justify Mrs. Gallilee’s interference. She seriously contemplated the + sacrifice of a month’s salary, and the dismissal of her governess without + notice. + </p> + <p> + When the footman opened the door, Benjulia handed in the packet of + letters. After his latest experience of Mrs. Gallilee, he had no intention + of returning her visit. He walked away without uttering a word. + </p> + <p> + The cable took his message to Mr. Morphew in these terms:—“Ovid’s + patient at Montreal. Was the complaint brain disease? Yes or no.” Having + made arrangements for the forwarding of the reply from his club, he set + forth on the walk back to his house. + </p> + <p> + At five minutes to three, he was at home again. As the clock struck the + hour, he rang the bell. The man-servant appeared, without the dinner. + Benjulia’s astonishing amiability—on his holiday—was even + equal to this demand on its resources. + </p> + <p> + “I ordered roast mutton at three,” he said, with terrifying tranquillity. + “Where is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The dinner will be ready in ten minutes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is it not ready now?” + </p> + <p> + “The cook hopes you will excuse her, sir. She is a little behindhand + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “What has hindered her, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + The silent servant—on all other occasions the most impenetrable of + human beings—began to tremble. The doctor had, literally, kicked a + man out of the house who had tried to look through the laboratory + skylight. He had turned away a female servant at half an hour’s notice, + for forgetting to shut the door, a second time in one day. But what were + these highhanded proceedings, compared with the awful composure which, + being kept waiting for dinner, only asked what had hindered the cook, and + put the question politely, by saying, “if you please”? + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you were making love to her?” the doctor suggested, as gently as + ever. + </p> + <p> + This outrageous insinuation stung the silent servant into speech. “I’m + incapable of the action, sir!” he answered indignantly; “the woman was + reading a story.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia bent his head, as if in acknowledgment of a highly satisfactory + explanation. “Oh? reading a story? People who read stories are said to + have excitable brains. Should you call the cook excitable?” + </p> + <p> + “I should, sir! Most cooks are excitable. They say it’s the kitchen fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Do they? You can go now. Don’t hurry the cook—I’ll wait.” + </p> + <p> + He waited, apparently following some new train of thought which highly + diverted him. Ten minutes passed—then a quarter of an hour then + another five minutes. When the servant returned with the dinner, the + master’s private reflections continued to amuse him: his thin lips were + still widening grimly, distended by his formidable smile. + </p> + <p> + On being carved, the mutton proved to be underdone. At other times, this + was an unpardonable crime in Benjulia’s domestic code of laws. All he said + now was, “Take it away.” He dined on potatoes, and bread and cheese. When + he had done, he was rather more amiable than ever. He said, “Ask the cook + to come and see me!” + </p> + <p> + The cook presented herself, with one hand on her palpitating heart, and + the other holding her handkerchief to her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What are you crying about?” Benjulia inquired; “I haven’t scolded you, + have I?” The cook began an apology; the doctor pointed to a chair. “Sit + down, and recover yourself.” The cook sat down, faintly smiling through + her tears. This otherwise incomprehensible reception of a person who had + kept the dinner waiting twenty minutes, and who had not done the mutton + properly even then (taken in connection with the master’s complimentary + inquiries, reported downstairs by the footman), could bear but one + interpretation. It wasn’t every woman who had her beautiful hair, and her + rosy complexion. Why had she not thought of going upstairs first, just to + see whether she looked her best in the glass? Would he begin by making a + confession? or would he begin by kissing her? + </p> + <p> + He began by lighting his pipe. For a while he smoked placidly with his eye + on the cook. “I hear you have been reading a story,” he resumed. “What is + the name of it?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Pamela; or Virtue Rewarded,’ sir.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia went on with his smoking. The cook, thus far demure and downcast, + lifted her eyes experimentally. He was still looking at her. Did he want + encouragement? The cook cautiously offered a little literary information, + </p> + <p> + “The author’s name is on the book, sir. Name of Richardson.” + </p> + <p> + The information was graciously received, “Yes; I’ve heard of the name, and + heard of the book. Is it interesting?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, it’s a beautiful story! My only excuse for being late with the + dinner—” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Pamela?” + </p> + <p> + “A young person in service, sir. I’m sure I wish I was more like her! I + felt quite broken-hearted when you sent the mutton down again; and you so + kind as to overlook the error in the roasting—” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia stopped the apology once more. He pursued his own ends with a + penitent cook, just as he pursued his own ends with a vivisected animal. + Nothing moved him out of his appointed course, in the one or in the other. + He returned to Pamela. + </p> + <p> + “And what becomes of her at the end of the story?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The cook simpered. “It’s Pamela who is the virtuous young person, sir. And + so the story comes true—Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded.” + </p> + <p> + “Who rewards her?” + </p> + <p> + Was there ever anything so lucky as this? Pamela’s situation was fast + becoming the cook’s situation. The bosom of the vigourous little woman + began to show signs of tender agitation—distributed over a large + surface. She rolled her eyes amorously. Benjulia puffed out another + mouthful of smoke. “Well,” he repeated, “who rewards Pamela?” + </p> + <p> + “Her master, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What does he do?” + </p> + <p> + The cook’s eyes sank modestly to her lap. The cook’s complexion became + brighter than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Her master marries her, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh?” + </p> + <p> + That was all he said. He was not astonished, or confused, or encouraged—he + simply intimated that he now knew how Pamela’s master had rewarded Pamela. + And, more dispiriting still, he took the opportunity of knocking the ashes + out of his pipe, and filled it, and lit it again. If the cook had been one + of the few miserable wretches who never read novels, she might have felt + her fondly founded hopes already sinking from under her. As it was, + Richardson sustained her faith in herself; Richardson reminded her that + Pamela’s master had hesitated, and that Pamela’s Virtue had not earned its + reward on easy terms. She stole another look at the doctor. The eloquence + of women’s eyes, so widely and justly celebrated in poetry and prose, now + spoke in the cook’s eyes. They said, “Marry me, dear sir, and you shall + never have underdone mutton again.” The hearts of other savages have been + known to soften under sufficient influences—why should the + scientific savage, under similar pressure, not melt a little too? The + doctor took up the talk again: he made a kind allusion to the cook’s + family circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “When you first came here, I think you told me you had no relations?” + </p> + <p> + “I am an orphan, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And you had been some time out of a situation, when I engaged you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; my poor little savings were nearly at an end!” Could he resist + that pathetic picture of the orphan’s little savings—framed, as it + were, in a delicately-designed reference to her fellow-servant in the + story? “I was as poor as Pamela,” she suggested softly. + </p> + <p> + “And as virtuous,” Benjulia added. + </p> + <p> + The cook’s eloquent eyes said, “Thank you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + He laid down his pipe. That was a good sign, surely? He drew his chair + nearer to her. Better and better! His arm was long enough, in the new + position, to reach her waist. Her waist was ready for him. + </p> + <p> + “You have nothing in particular to do, this afternoon; and I have nothing + particular to do.” He delivered himself of this assertion rather abruptly. + At the same time, it was one of those promising statements which pave the + way for anything. He might say, “Having nothing particular to do to-day—why + shouldn’t we make love?” Or he might say, “Having nothing particular to do + to-morrow—why shouldn’t we get the marriage license?” Would he put + it in that way? No: he made a proposal of quite another kind. He said, + “You seem to be fond of stories. Suppose I tell you a story?” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, there was some hidden meaning in this. There was unquestionably a + sudden alteration in his look and manner; the cook asked herself what it + meant. + </p> + <p> + If she had seen the doctor at his secret work in the laboratory, the + change in him might have put her on her guard. He was now looking + (experimentally) at the inferior creature seated before him in the chair, + as he looked (experimentally) at the other inferior creatures stretched + under him on the table. + </p> + <p> + His story began in the innocent, old-fashioned way. + </p> + <p> + “Once upon a time, there was a master and there was a maid. We will call + the master by the first letter of the alphabet—Mr. A. And we will + call the maid by the second letter—Miss B.” + </p> + <p> + The cook drew a long breath of relief. There <i>was</i> a hidden meaning + in the doctor’s story. The unfortunate woman thought to herself, “I have + not only got fine hair and a beautiful complexion; I am clever as well!” + On her rare evenings of liberty, she sometimes gratified another highly + creditable taste, besides the taste for reading novels. She was an eager + play-goer. That notable figure in the drama—the man who tells his + own story, under pretence of telling the story of another person—was + no unfamiliar figure in her stage experience. Her encouraging smile made + its modest appearance once more. In the very beginning of her master’s + story, she saw already the happy end. + </p> + <p> + “We all of us have our troubles in life,” Benjulia went on; “and Miss B. + had her troubles. For a long time, she was out of a situation; and she had + no kind parents to help her. Miss B. was an orphan. Her little savings + were almost gone.” + </p> + <p> + It was too distressing. The cook took out her handkerchief, and pitied + Miss B. with all her heart. + </p> + <p> + The doctor proceeded. + </p> + <p> + “But virtue, as we know when we read ‘Pamela,’ is sure of its reward. + Circumstances occurred in the household of Mr. A. which made it necessary + for him to engage a cook. He discovered an advertisement in a newspaper, + which informed him that Miss B. was in search of a situation. Mr. A. found + her to be a young and charming woman. Mr. A. engaged her.” At that + critical part of the story, Benjulia paused. “And what did Mr. A. do + next?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The cook could restrain herself no longer. She jumped out of her chair, + and threw her arms round the doctor’s neck. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia went on with his story as if nothing had happened. + </p> + <p> + “And what did Mr. A. do next?” he repeated. “He put his hand in his pocket—he + gave Miss B. a month’s wages—and he turned her out of the house. You + impudent hussy, you have delayed my dinner, spoilt my mutton, and hugged + me round the neck! There is your money. Go.” + </p> + <p> + With glaring eyes and gaping mouth, the cook stood looking at him, like a + woman struck to stone. In a moment more, the rage burst out of her in a + furious scream. She turned to the table, and snatched up a knife. Benjulia + wrenched it from her hand, and dropped back into his chair completely + overpowered by the success of his little joke. He did what he had never + done within the memory of his oldest friend—he burst out laughing. + “This <i>has</i> been a holiday!” he said. “Why haven’t I got somebody + with me to enjoy it?” + </p> + <p> + At that laugh, at those words, the cook’s fury in its fiercest heat became + frozen by terror. There was something superhuman in the doctor’s + diabolical joy. Even <i>he</i> felt the wild horror in the woman’s eyes as + they rested on him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with you?” he asked. She muttered and mumbled—and, + shrinking away from him, crept towards the door. As she approached the + window, a man outside passed by it on his way to the house. She pointed to + him; and repeated Benjulia’s own words: + </p> + <p> + “Somebody to enjoy it with you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She opened the dining-room door. The man-servant appeared in the hall, + with a gentleman behind him. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman was a scrupulously polite person. He looked with alarm at + the ghastly face of the cook as she ran past him, making for the kitchen + stairs. “I’m afraid I intrude on you at an unfortunate time,” he said to + Benjulia. “Pray excuse me; I will call again.” + </p> + <p> + “Come in, sir.” The doctor spoke absently, looking towards the hall, and + thinking of something else. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Mool,” he said. “I have had the honour of meeting you at one + of Mrs. Gallilee’s parties.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely. I don’t remember it myself. Take a seat.” + </p> + <p> + He was still thinking of something else. Modest Mr. Mool took a seat in + confusion. The doctor crossed the room, and opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me for a minute,” he said. “I will be back directly.” + </p> + <p> + He went to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called to the housemaid. “Is + the cook down there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What is she doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Crying her heart out.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia turned away again with the air of a disappointed man. A violent + moral shock sometimes has a serious effect on the brain—especially + when it is the brain of an excitable woman. Always a physiologist, even in + those rare moments when he was amusing himself, it had just struck + Benjulia that the cook—after her outbreak of fury—might be a + case worth studying. But, she had got relief in crying; her brain was + safe; she had ceased to interest him. He returned to the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + </h2> + <h3> + “You look hot, sir; have a drink. Old English ale, out of the barrel.” + </h3> + <p> + The tone was hearty. He poured out the sparkling ale into a big tumbler, + with hospitable good-will. Mr. Mool was completely, and most agreeably, + taken by surprise. He too was feeling the influence of the doctor’s good + humour—enriched in quality by pleasant remembrances of his interview + with the cook. + </p> + <p> + “I live in the suburbs, Doctor Benjulia, on this side of London,” Mr. Mool + explained; “and I have had a nice walk from my house to yours. If I have + done wrong, sir, in visiting you on Sunday, I can only plead that I am + engaged in business during the week—” + </p> + <p> + “All right. One day’s the same as another, provided you don’t interrupt + me. You don’t interrupt me now. Do you smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind my smoking?” + </p> + <p> + “I like it, doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Very amiable on your part, I’m sure. What did you say your name was?” + </p> + <p> + “Mool.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia looked at him suspiciously. Was he a physiologist, and a rival? + “You’re not a doctor—are you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I am a lawyer.” + </p> + <p> + One of the few popular prejudices which Benjulia shared with his inferior + fellow-creatures was the prejudice against lawyers. But for his angry + recollection of the provocation successfully offered to him by his + despicable brother, Mrs. Gallilee would never have found her way into his + confidence. But for his hearty enjoyment of the mystification of the cook, + Mr. Mool would have been requested to state the object of his visit in + writing, and would have gone home again a baffled man. The doctor’s + holiday amiability had reached its full development indeed, when he + allowed a strange lawyer to sit and talk with him! + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen of your profession,” he muttered, “never pay visits to people + whom they don’t know, without having their own interests in view. Mr. + Mool, you want something of me. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool’s professional tact warned him to waste no time on prefatory + phrases. + </p> + <p> + “I venture on my present intrusion,” he began, “in consequence of a + statement recently made to me, in my office, by Mrs. Gallilee.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” cried Benjulia. “I don’t like your beginning, I can tell you. Is + it necessary to mention the name of that old—?” He used a word, + described in dictionaries as having a twofold meaning. (First, “A female + of the canine kind.” Second, “A term of reproach for a woman.”) It shocked + Mr. Mool; and it is therefore unfit to be reported. + </p> + <p> + “Really, Doctor Benjulia!” + </p> + <p> + “Does that mean that you positively must talk about her?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool smiled. “Let us say that it may bear that meaning,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, then—and get it over. She made a statement in your office. + Out with it, my good fellow. Has it anything to do with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I should not otherwise, Doctor Benjulia, have ventured to present myself + at your house.” With that necessary explanation, Mr. Mool related all that + had passed between Mrs. Gallilee and himself. + </p> + <p> + At the outset of the narrative, Benjulia angrily laid aside his pipe, on + the point of interrupting the lawyer. He changed his mind; and, putting a + strong constraint on himself, listened in silence. “I hope, sir,” Mr. Mool + concluded, “you will not take a hard view of my motive. It is only the + truth to say that I am interested in Miss Carmina’s welfare. I felt the + sincerest respect and affection for her parents. You knew them too. They + were good people. On reflection you must surely regret it, if you have + carelessly repeated a false report? Won’t you help me to clear the poor + mother’s memory of this horrid stain?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia smoked in silence. Had that simple and touching appeal found its + way to him? He began very strangely, when he consented at last to open his + lips. + </p> + <p> + “You’re what they call, a middle-aged man,” he said. “I suppose you have + had some experience of women?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool blushed. “I am a married man, sir,” he replied gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Very well; that’s experience—of one kind. When a man’s out of + temper, and a woman wants something of him, do you know how cleverly she + can take advantage of her privileges to aggravate him, till there’s + nothing he won’t do to get her to leave him in peace? That’s how I came to + tell Mrs. Gallilee, what she told you.” + </p> + <p> + He waited a little, and comforted himself with his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Mind this,” he resumed, “I don’t profess to feel any interest in the + girl; and I never cared two straws about her parents. At the same time, if + you can turn to good account what I am going to say next—do it, and + welcome. This scandal began in the bragging of a fellow-student of mine at + Rome. He was angry with me, and angry with another man, for laughing at + him when he declared himself to be Mrs. Robert Graywell’s lover: and he + laid us a wager that we should see the woman alone in his room, that + night. We were hidden behind a curtain, and we did see her in his room. I + paid the money I had lost, and left Rome soon afterwards. The other man + refused to pay.” + </p> + <p> + “On what ground?” Mr. Mool eagerly asked. + </p> + <p> + “On the ground that she wore a thick veil, and never showed her face.” + </p> + <p> + “An unanswerable objection, Doctor Benjulia!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it might be. I didn’t think so myself. Two hours before, Mrs. + Robert Graywell and I had met in the street. She had on a dress of a + remarkable colour in those days—a sort of sea-green. And a bonnet to + match, which everybody stared at, because it was not half the size of the + big bonnets then in fashion. There was no mistaking the strange dress or + the tall figure, when I saw her again in the student’s room. So I paid the + bet.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the name of the man who refused to pay?” + </p> + <p> + “His name was Egisto Baccani.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard anything of him since?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He got into some political scrape, and took refuge, like the rest of + them, in England; and got his living, like the rest of them, by teaching + languages. He sent me his prospectus—that’s how I came to know about + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the prospectus?” + </p> + <p> + “Torn up, long ago.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool wrote down the name in his pocket-book. “There is nothing more + you can tell me?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Accept my best thanks, doctor. Good-day!” + </p> + <p> + “If you find Baccani let me know. Another drop of ale? Are you likely to + see Mrs. Gallilee soon?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if I find Baccani.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever play with children?” + </p> + <p> + “I have five of my own to play with,” Mr. Mool answered. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Ask for the youngest child when you go to Mrs. Gallilee’s. We + call her Zo. Put your finger on her spine—here, just below the neck. + Press on the place—so. And, when she wriggles, say, With the big + doctor’s love.” + </p> + <p> + Getting back to his own house, Mr. Mool was surprised to find an open + carriage at the garden gate. A smartly-dressed woman, on the front seat, + surveyed him with an uneasy look. “If you please, sir,” she said, “would + you kindly tell Miss Carmina that we really mustn’t wait any longer?” + </p> + <p> + The woman’s uneasiness was reflected in Mr. Mool’s face. A visit from + Carmina, at his private residence, could have no ordinary motive. The fear + instantly occurred to him that Mrs. Gallilee might have spoken to her of + her mother. + </p> + <p> + Before he opened the drawing-room door, this alarm passed away. He heard + Carmina talking with his wife and daughters. + </p> + <p> + “May I say one little word to you, Mr. Mool?” + </p> + <p> + He took her into his study. She was shy and confused, but certainly + neither angry nor distressed. + </p> + <p> + “My aunt sends me out every day, when it’s fine, for a drive,” she said. + “As the carriage passed close by, I thought I might ask you a question.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my dear! As many questions as you please.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s about the law. My aunt says she has the authority over me now, which + my dear father had while he was living. Is that true?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true.” + </p> + <p> + “For how long is she my guardian?” + </p> + <p> + “Until you are twenty-one years old.” + </p> + <p> + The faint colour faded from Carmina’s face. “More than three years perhaps + to suffer!” she said sadly. + </p> + <p> + “To suffer? What do you mean, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + She turned paler still, and made no reply. “I want to ask one thing more?” + she resumed, in sinking tones. “Would my aunt still be my guardian—supposing + I was married?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool answered this, with his eyes fixed on her in grave scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + “In that case, your husband is the only person who has any authority over + you. These are rather strange questions, Carmina. Won’t you take me into + your confidence?” + </p> + <p> + In sudden agitation she seized his hand and kissed it. “I must go!” she + said. “I have kept the carriage waiting too long already.” + </p> + <p> + She ran out, without once looking back. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s maid looked at her watch, when the carriage left Mr. + Mool’s house. “We shall be nearly an hour late, before we get home,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my fault, Marceline. Tell your mistress the truth, if she questions + you. I shall not think the worse of you for obeying your orders.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather lose my place, Miss, than get you into trouble.” + </p> + <p> + The woman spoke truly, Carmina’s sweet temper had made her position not + only endurable, but delightful: she had been treated like a companion and + a friend. But for that circumstance—so keenly had Marceline felt the + degradation of being employed as a spy—she would undoubtedly have + quitted Mrs. Gallilee’s service. + </p> + <p> + On the way home, instead of talking pleasantly as usual, Carmina was + silent and sad. Had this change in her spirits been caused by the visit to + Mr. Mool? It was even so. The lawyer had innocently decided her on taking + the desperate course which Miss Minerva had proposed. + </p> + <p> + If Mrs. Gallilee’s assertion of her absolute right of authority, as + guardian, had been declared by Mr. Mool to be incorrect, Carmina + (hopefully forgetful of her aunt’s temper) had thought of a compromise. + </p> + <p> + She would have consented to remain at Mrs. Gallilee’s disposal until Ovid + returned, on condition of being allowed, when Teresa arrived in London, to + live in retirement with her old nurse. This change of abode would prevent + any collision between Mrs. Gallilee and Teresa, and would make Carmina’s + life as peaceful, and even as happy, as she could wish. + </p> + <p> + But now that the lawyer had confirmed her aunt’s statement of the position + in which they stood towards one another, instant flight to Ovid’s love and + protection seemed to be the one choice left—unless Carmina could + resign herself to a life of merciless persecution and perpetual suspense. + </p> + <p> + The arrangements for the flight were already complete. + </p> + <p> + That momentary view of Mrs. Gallilee’s face, reflected in the glass, had + confirmed Miss Minerva’s resolution to interfere. Closeted with Carmina on + the Sunday morning, she had proposed a scheme of escape, which would even + set Mrs. Gallilee’s vigilance and cunning at defiance. No pecuniary + obstacle stood in the way. The first quarterly payment of Carmina’s + allowance of five hundred a year had been already made, by Mool’s advice. + Enough was left—even without the assistance which the nurse’s + resources would render—to purchase the necessary outfit, and to take + the two women to Quebec. On the day after Teresa’s arrival (at an hour of + the morning while the servants were still in bed) Carmina and her + companion could escape from the house on foot—and not leave a trace + behind them. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Fortune befriended Mrs. Gallilee’s maid. No questions were put + to her; no notice even was taken of the late return. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes before the carriage drew up at the house, a learned female + friend from the country called, by appointment, on Mrs. Gallilee. On the + coming Tuesday afternoon, an event of the deepest scientific interest was + to take place. A new Professor had undertaken to deliver himself, by means + of a lecture, of subversive opinions on “Matter.” A general discussion was + to follow; and in that discussion (upon certain conditions) Mrs. Gallilee + herself proposed to take part. + </p> + <p> + “If the Professor attempts to account for the mutual action of separate + atoms,” she said, “I defy him to do it, without assuming the existence of + a continuous material medium in space. And this point of view being + accepted—follow me here! what is the result? In plain words,” cried + Mrs. Gallilee, rising excitedly to her feet, “we dispense with the idea of + atoms!” + </p> + <p> + The friend looked infinitely relieved by the prospect of dispensing with + atoms. + </p> + <p> + “Now observe!” Mrs. Gallilee proceeded. “In connection with this part of + the subject, I shall wait to see if the Professor adopts Thomson’s theory. + You are acquainted with Thomson’s theory? No? Let me put it briefly. Mere + heterogeneity, together with gravitation, is sufficient to explain all the + apparently discordant laws of molecular action. You understand? Very well. + If the Professor passes over Thomson, <i>then,</i> I rise in the body of + the Hall, and take my stand—follow me again!—on these + grounds.” + </p> + <p> + While Mrs. Gallilee’s grounds were being laid out for the benefit of her + friend, the coachman took the carriage back to the stables; the maid went + downstairs to tea; and Carmina joined Miss Minerva in the schoolroom—all + three being protected from discovery, by Mrs. Gallilee’s rehearsal of her + performance in the Comedy of Atoms. + </p> + <p> + The Monday morning brought with it news from Rome—serious news which + confirmed Miss Minerva’s misgivings. + </p> + <p> + Carmina received a letter, bearing the Italian postmark, but not addressed + to her in Teresa’s handwriting. She looked to the signature before she + began to read. Her correspondent was the old priest—Father Patrizio. + He wrote in these words: + </p> + <p> + “My dear child,—Our good Teresa leaves us to-day, on her journey to + London. She has impatiently submitted to the legal ceremonies, rendered + necessary by her husband having died without making a will. He hardly left + anything in the way of money, after payment of his burial expenses, and + his few little debts. What is of far greater importance—he lived, + and died, a good Christian. I was with him in his last moments. Offer your + prayers, my dear, for the repose of his soul. + </p> + <p> + “Teresa left me, declaring her purpose of travelling night and day, so as + to reach you the sooner. + </p> + <p> + “In her headlong haste, she has not even waited to look over her husband’s + papers; but has taken the case containing them to England—to be + examined at leisure, in your beloved company. Strong as this good creature + is, I believe she will be obliged to rest on the road for a night at + least. Calculating on this, I assume that my letter will get to you first. + I have something to say about your old nurse, which it is well that you + should know. + </p> + <p> + “Do not for a moment suppose that I blame you for having told Teresa of + the unfriendly reception, which you appear to have met with from your aunt + and guardian. Who should you confide in—if not in the excellent + woman who has filled the place of a mother to you? Besides, from your + earliest years, have I not always instilled into you the reverence of + truth? You have told the truth in your letters. My child, I commend you, + and feel for you. + </p> + <p> + “But the impression produced on Teresa is not what you or I could wish. It + is one of her merits, that she loves you with the truest devotion; it is + one of her defects, that she is fierce and obstinate in resentment. Your + aunt has become an object of absolute hatred to her. I have combated + successfully, as I hope and believe—this unchristian state of + feeling. + </p> + <p> + “She is now beyond the reach of my influence. My purpose in writing is to + beg you to continue the good work that I have begun. Compose this + impetuous nature; restrain this fiery spirit. Your gentle influence, + Carmina, has a power of its own over those who love you—and who + loves you like Teresa?—of which perhaps you are not yourself aware. + Use your power discreetly; and, with the blessing of God and his Saints, I + have no fear of the result. + </p> + <p> + “Write to me, my child, when Teresa arrives—and let me hear that you + are happier, and better in health. Tell me also, whether there is any + speedy prospect of your marriage. If I may presume to judge from the + little I know, your dearest earthly interests depend on the removal of + obstacles to this salutary change in your life. I send you my good wishes, + and my blessing. If a poor old priest like me can be of any service, do + not forget. + </p> + <p> + “FATHER PATRIZIO.” + </p> + <p> + Any lingering hesitation that Carmina might still have felt, was at an end + when she read this letter. Good Father Patrizio, like good Mr. Mool, had + innocently urged her to set her guardian’s authority at defiance. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL. + </h2> + <p> + When the morning lessons were over, Carmina showed the priest’s letter to + Miss Minerva. The governess read it, and handed it back in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Have you nothing to say?” Carmina asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. You know my opinion already. That letter says what I have said—with + greater authority.” + </p> + <p> + “It has determined me to follow your advice, Frances.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it has done well.” + </p> + <p> + “And you see,” Carmina continued, “that Father Patrizio speaks of + obstacles in the way of my marriage. Teresa has evidently shown him my + letters. Do you think he fears, as I do, that my aunt may find some means + of separating us, even when Ovid comes back?” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke in faint weary tones—listlessly leaning back in her chair. + Carmina asked if she had passed another sleepless night. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “another bad night, and the usual martyrdom in teaching + the children. I don’t know which disgusts me most—Zoe’s impudent + stupidity, or Maria’s unendurable humbug.” + </p> + <p> + She had never yet spoken of Maria in this way. Even her voice seemed to be + changed. Instead of betraying the usual angry abruptness, her tones coldly + indicated impenetrable contempt. In the silence that ensued, she looked + up, and saw Carmina’s eyes resting on her anxiously and kindly. + </p> + <p> + “Any other human being but you,” she said, “would find me disagreeable and + rude—and would be quite right, too. I haven’t asked after your + health. You look paler than usual. Have you, too, had a bad night?” + </p> + <p> + “I fell asleep towards the morning. And—oh, I had such a delightful + dream! I could almost wish that I had never awakened from it.” + </p> + <p> + “Who did you dream of?” She put the question mechanically—frowning, + as if at some repellent thought suggested to her by what she had just + heard. + </p> + <p> + “I dreamed of my mother,” Carmina answered. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva raised herself at once in the chair. Whatever that passing + impression might have been, she was free from it now. There was some + little life again in her eyes; some little spirit in her voice. “Take me + out of myself,” she said; “tell me your dream.” + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing very remarkable, Frances. We all of us sometimes see our + dear lost ones in sleep. I saw my mother again, as I used to see her in + the nursery at bedtime—tall and beautiful, with her long dark hair + failing over her white dressing-gown to the waist. She stooped over me, + and kissed me; and she looked surprised. She said, ‘My little angel, why + are you here in a strange house? I have come to take you back to your own + cot, by my bedside.’ I wasn’t surprised or frightened; I put my arms round + her neck; and we floated away together through the cool starry night; and + we were at home again. I saw my cot, with its pretty white curtains and + pink ribbons. I heard my mother tell me an English fairy story, out of a + book which my father had given to her—and her kind voice grew + fainter and fainter, while I grew more and more sleepy—and it ended + softly, just as it used to end in the happy old days. And I woke, crying. + Do you ever dream of your mother now?” + </p> + <p> + “I? God forbid!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Frances, what a dreadful thing to say!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it? It was the thought in me, when you spoke. And with good reason, + too. I was the last of a large family—the ugly one; the ill-tempered + one; the encumbrance that made it harder than ever to find money enough to + pay the household expenses. My father swore at my mother for being my + mother. She reviled him just as bitterly in return; and vented the rest of + her ill-temper on my wretched little body, with no sparing hand. Bedtime + was her time for beating me. Talk of your mother—not of mine! You + were very young, were you not, when she died?” + </p> + <p> + “Too young to feel my misfortune—but old enough to remember the + sweetest woman that ever lived. Let me show you my father’s portrait of + her again. Doesn’t that face tell you what an angel she was? There was + some charm in her that all children felt. I can just remember some of my + playfellows who used to come to our garden. Other good mothers were with + us—but the children all crowded round <i>my</i> mother. They would + have her in all their games; they fought for places on her lap when she + told them stories; some of them cried, and some of them screamed, when it + was time to take them away from her. Oh, why do we live! why do we die! I + have bitter thoughts sometimes, Frances, like you. I have read in poetry + that death is a fearful thing. To me, death is a cruel thing,—and it + has never seemed so cruel as in these later days, since I have known Ovid. + If my mother had but lived till now, what happiness would have been added + to my life and to hers! How Ovid would have loved her—how she would + have loved Ovid!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva listened in silence. It was the silence of true interest and + sympathy, while Carmina was speaking of her mother. When her lover’s name + became mingled with the remembrances of her childhood—the change + came. Once more, the tell-tale lines began to harden in the governess’s + face. She lay back again in her chair. Her fingers irritably platted and + unplatted the edge of her black apron. + </p> + <p> + Carmina was too deeply absorbed in her thoughts, too eagerly bent on + giving them expression, to notice these warning signs. + </p> + <p> + “I have all my mother’s letters to my father,” she went on, “when he was + away from her on his sketching excursions, You have still a little time to + spare—I should so like to read some of them to you. I was reading + one, last night—which perhaps accounts for my dream? It is on a + subject that interests everybody. In my father’s absence, a very dear + friend of his met with a misfortune; and my mother had to prepare his wife + to hear the bad news—oh, that reminds me! There is something I want + to say to you first.” + </p> + <p> + “About yourself?” Miss Minerva asked. + </p> + <p> + “About Ovid. I want your advice.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva was silent. Carmina went on. “It’s about writing to Ovid,” + she explained. + </p> + <p> + “Write, of course!” + </p> + <p> + The reply was suddenly and sharply given. “Surely, I have not offended + you?” Carmina said. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! Let me hear your mother’s letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but I want you to hear the circumstances first.” + </p> + <p> + “You have mentioned them already.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind what I said.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say!” + </p> + <p> + “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—!” + </p> + <p> + The governess left her chair, and pointed to the clock. + </p> + <p> + Carmina looked at her—and rose in alarm. “Are you in pain?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The paroxysm of pain which Carmina had noticed, passed over her face once + more. She subdued it, and left the room. The pain mastered her again; a + low cry broke from her when she closed the door. Carmina ran out: + “Frances! what is it?” Frances looked over her shoulder, while she slowly + ascended the stairs. “Never mind!” she said gently. “I have got my + remedy.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina advanced a step to follow her, and drew back. + </p> + <p> + Was that expression of suffering really caused by pain of the body? or was + it attributable to anything that she had rashly said? She tried to recall + what had passed between Frances and herself. The effort wearied her. Her + thoughts turned self-reproachfully to Ovid. If <i>he</i> had been speaking + to a friend whose secret sorrow was known to him, would he have mentioned + the name of the woman whom they both loved? She looked at his portrait, + and reviled herself as a selfish insensible wretch. “Will Ovid improve + me?” she wondered. “Shall I be a little worthier of him, when I am his + wife?” + </p> + <p> + Luncheon time came; and Mrs. Gallilee sent word that they were not to wait + for her. + </p> + <p> + “She’s studying,” said Mr. Gallilee, with awe-struck looks. “She’s going + to make a speech at the Discussion to-morrow. The man who gives the + lecture is the man she’s going to pitch into. I don’t know him; but how do + you feel about it yourself, Carmina?—I wouldn’t stand in his shoes + for any sum of money you could offer me. Poor devil! I beg your pardon, my + dear; let me give you a wing of the fowl. Boiled fowl—eh? and tongue—ha? + Do you know the story of the foreigner? He dined out fifteen times with + his English friends. And there was boiled fowl and tongue at every dinner. + The fifteenth time, the foreigner couldn’t stand it any longer. He slapped + his forehead, and he said, ‘Ah, merciful Heaven, cock and bacon again!’ + You won’t mention it, will you?—and perhaps you think as I do?—I’m + sick of cock and bacon, myself.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null’s medical orders still prescribed fresh air. The carriage came to + the door at the regular hour; and Mr. Gallilee, with equal regularity, + withdrew to his club. + </p> + <p> + Carmina was too uneasy to leave the house, without seeing Miss Minerva + first. She went up to the schoolroom. + </p> + <p> + There was no sound of voices, when she opened the door. Miss Minerva was + writing, and silence had been proclaimed. The girls were ready dressed for + their walk. Industrious Maria had her book. Idle Zo, perched on a high + chair, sat kicking her legs. “If you say a word,” she whispered, as + Carmina passed her, “you’ll be called an Imp, and stuck up on a chair. I + shall go to the boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you better, Frances?” + </p> + <p> + “Much better, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Her face denied it; the look of suffering was there still. She tore up the + letter which she had been writing, and threw the fragments into the + waste-paper basket. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the second letter you’ve torn up,” Zo remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Say a word more—and you shall have bread and water for tea!” Miss + Minerva was not free from irritation, although she might be free from + pain. Even Zo noticed how angry the governess was. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you could drive with me in the carriage,” said Carmina. “The air + would do you so much good.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible! But you may soothe my irritable nerves in another way, if you + like.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Relieve me of these girls. Take them out with you. Do you mind?” + </p> + <p> + Zo instantly jumped off her chair; and even Maria looked up from her book. + </p> + <p> + “I will take them with pleasure. Must we ask my aunt’s permission?” + </p> + <p> + “We will dispense with your aunt’s permission. She is shut up in her study—and + we are all forbidden to disturb her. I will take it on myself.” She turned + to the girls with another outbreak of irritability. “Be off!” + </p> + <p> + Maria rose with dignity, and made one of her successful exits. “I am + sorry, dear Miss Minerva, if <i>I</i> have done anything to make you + angry.” She pointed the emphasis on “I,” by a side-look at her sister. Zo + bounced out of the room, and performed the Italian boy’s dance on the + landing. “For shame!” said Maria. Zo burst into singing. <i>“Yah + yah-yah-bellah-vitah-yah!</i> Jolly! jolly! jolly!—we are going out + for a drive!” + </p> + <p> + Carmina waited, to say a friendly word, before she followed the girls. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t think me neglectful, Frances, when I let you go upstairs by + yourself!” Miss Minerva answered sadly and kindly. “The best thing you + could do was to leave me by myself.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s mind was still not quite at ease. “Yes—but you were in + pain,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You curious child! I am not in pain now.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you make me comfortable, Frances? Give me a kiss.” + </p> + <p> + “Two, my dear—if you like.” + </p> + <p> + She kissed Carmina on one cheek and on the other. “Now leave me to write,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + Carmina left her. + </p> + <p> + The drive ought to have been a pleasant one, with Zo in the carriage. To + Marceline, it was a time of the heartiest enjoyment. Maria herself + condescended to smile, now and then. There was only one dull person among + them. “Miss Carmina was but poor company,” the maid remarked when they got + back. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee herself received them in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “You will never take the children out again without my leave,” she said to + Carmina. “The person who is really responsible for what you have done, + will mislead you no more.” With those words she entered the library, and + closed the door. + </p> + <p> + Maria and Zo, at the sight of their mother, had taken flight. Carmina + stood alone in the hall. Mrs. Gallilee had turned her cold. After awhile, + she followed the children as far as her own room. There, her resolution + failed her. She called faintly upstairs—“Frances!” There was no + answering voice. She went into her room. A small paper packet was on the + table; sealed, and addressed to herself. She tore it open. A ring with a + spinel ruby in it dropped out: she recognised the stone—it was Miss + Minerva’s ring. + </p> + <p> + Some blotted lines were traced on the paper inside. + </p> + <p> + “I have tried to pour out my heart to you in writing—and I have torn + up the letters. The fewest words are the best. Look back at my confession—and + you will know why I have left you. You shall hear from me, when I am more + worthy of you than I am now. In the meantime, wear my ring. It will tell + you how mean I once was. F. M.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina looked at the ring. She remembered that Frances had tried to make + her accept it as security, in return for the loan of thirty pounds. + </p> + <p> + She referred to the confession. Two passages in it were underlined: “The + wickedness in me, on which Mrs. Gallilee calculated, may be in me still.” + And, again: “Even now, when you have found me out, I love him. Don’t trust + me.” + </p> + <p> + Never had Carmina trusted her more faithfully than at that bitter moment! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI. + </h2> + <h3> + The ordinary aspect of the schoolroom was seen no more. + </h3> + <p> + Installed in a position of temporary authority, the parlour-maid sat + silently at her needlework. Maria stood by the window, in the new + character of an idle girl—with her handkerchief in her hand, and her + everlasting book dropped unnoticed on the floor. Zo lay flat on her back, + on the hearth-rug, hugging the dog in her arms. At intervals, she rolled + herself over slowly from side to side, and stared at the ceiling with + wondering eyes. Miss Minerva’s departure had struck the parlour-maid dumb, + and had demoralized the pupils. + </p> + <p> + Maria broke the silence at last. “I wonder where Carmina is?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “In her room, most likely,” the parlour-maid suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Had I better go and see after her?” + </p> + <p> + The cautious parlour-maid declined to offer advice. Maria’s well-balanced + mind was so completely unhinged, that she looked with languid curiosity at + her sister. Zo still stared at the ceiling, and still rolled slowly from + one side to the other. The dog on her breast, lulled by the regular + motion, slept profoundly—not even troubled by a dream of fleas! + </p> + <p> + While Maria was still considering what it might be best to do, Carmina + entered the room. She looked, as the servant afterwards described it, + “like a person who had lost her way.” Maria exhibited the feeling of the + schoolroom, by raising her handkerchief in solemn silence to her eyes. + Without taking notice of this demonstration, Carmina approached the + parlour-maid, and said, “Did you see Miss Minerva before she went away?” + </p> + <p> + “I took her message, Miss.” + </p> + <p> + “What message?” + </p> + <p> + “The message, saying she wished to see my mistress for a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss, I was told to show the governess into the library. She went + down with her bonnet on, ready dressed to go out. Before she had been five + minutes with my mistress she came out again, and rang the hall-bell, and + spoke to Joseph. ‘My boxes are packed and directed,’ she says; ‘I will + send for them in an hour’s time. Good day, Joseph.’ And she stepped into + the street, as quietly as if she was going out shopping round the corner.” + </p> + <p> + “Have the boxes been sent for?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina lifted her head, and spoke in steadier tones. + </p> + <p> + “Where have they been taken to?” + </p> + <p> + “To the flower-shop at the back—to be kept till called for.” + </p> + <p> + “No other address?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + The last faint hope of tracing Frances was at an end. Carmina turned + wearily to leave the room. Zo called to her from the hearth-rug. Always + kind to the child, she retraced her steps. “What is it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Carmina returned to her room—to reflect on what she had heard from + the parlour-maid. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina was in no mood to profit by this excellent advice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Good news! the best of good news!” she answered impetuously. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee looked as happy as if the welcome telegram had been addressed + to himself. On his way out of the room, he underwent another relapse. The + footman’s audacious breach of trust began to trouble him once more: this + time in its relation to Mrs. Gallilee. The serious part of it was, that + the man had acted under his mistress’s orders. Mr. Gallilee said—he + actually said, without appealing to anybody—“If this happens again, + I shall be obliged to speak to my wife.” + </p> + <p> + The telegram was from Teresa. It had been despatched from Paris that + evening; and the message was thus expressed: + </p> + <p> + “Too tired to get on to England by to-night’s mail. Shall leave by the + early train to-morrow morning, and be with you by six o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s mind was exactly in the state to feel unmingled relief, at the + prospect of seeing the dear old friend of her happiest days. She laid her + head on the pillow that night, without a thought of what might follow the + event of Teresa’s return. + </p> + <p> + VOLUME THREE <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII. + </h2> + <p> + The next day—the important Tuesday of the lecture on Matter; the + delightful Tuesday of Teresa’s arrival—brought with it special + demands on Carmina’s pen. + </p> + <p> + Her first letter was addressed to Frances. It was frankly and earnestly + written; entreating Miss Minerva to appoint a place at which they might + meet, and assuring her, in the most affectionate terms, that she was still + loved, trusted, and admired by her faithful friend. Helped by her steadier + flow of spirits, Carmina could now see all that was worthiest of sympathy + and admiration, all that claimed loving submission and allowance from + herself, in the sacrifice to which Miss Minerva had submitted. How bravely + the poor governess had controlled the jealous misery that tortured her! + How nobly she had pronounced Carmina’s friendship for Carmina’s sake! + </p> + <p> + Later in the day, Marceline took the letter to the flower shop, and placed + it herself under the cord of one of the boxes still waiting to be claimed. + </p> + <p> + The second letter filled many pages, and occupied the remainder of the + morning. + </p> + <p> + With the utmost delicacy, but with perfect truthfulness at the same time, + Carmina revealed to her betrothed husband the serious reasons which had + forced her to withdraw herself from his mother’s care. Bound to speak at + last in her own defence, she felt that concealments and compromises would + be alike unworthy of Ovid and of herself. What she had already written to + Teresa, she now wrote again—with but one modification. She expressed + herself forbearingly towards Ovid’s mother. The closing words of the + letter were worthy of Carmina’s gentle, just, and generous nature. + </p> + <p> + “You will perhaps say, Why do I only hear now of all that you have + suffered? My love, I have longed to tell you of it! I have even taken up + my pen to begin. But I thought of you, and put it down again. How selfish, + how cruel, to hinder your recovery by causing you sorrow and suspense to + bring you back perhaps to England before your health was restored! I don’t + regret the effort that it has cost me to keep silence. My only sorrow in + writing to you is, that I must speak of your mother in terms which may + lower her in her son’s estimation.” + </p> + <p> + Joseph brought the luncheon up to Carmina’s room. + </p> + <p> + The mistress was still at her studies; the master had gone to his club. As + for the girls, their only teacher for the present was the teacher of + music. When the ordeal of the lecture and the discussion had been passed, + Mrs. Gallilee threatened to take Miss Minerva’s place herself, until a new + governess could be found. For once, Maria and Zo showed a sisterly + similarity in their feelings. It was hard to say which of the two looked + forward to her learned mother’s instruction with the greatest terror. + </p> + <p> + Carmina heard the pupils at the piano, while she was eating her luncheon. + The profanation of music ceased, when she went into the bedroom to get + ready for her daily drive. + </p> + <p> + She took her letter, duly closed and stamped, downstairs with her—to + be sent to the post with the other letters of the day, placed in the + hall-basket. In the weakened state of her nerves, the effort that she had + made in writing to Ovid had shaken her. Her heart beat uneasily; her knees + trembled, as she descended the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Arrived in sight of the hall, she discovered a man walking slowly to and + fro. He turned towards her as she advanced, and disclosed the detestable + face of Mr. Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + The music-master’s last reserves of patience had come to an end. Watch for + them as he might, no opportunities had presented themselves of renewing + his investigation in Carmina’s room. In the interval that had passed, his + hungry suspicion of her had been left to feed on itself. The motives for + that incomprehensible attempt to make a friend of him remained hidden in + as thick a darkness as ever. Victim of adverse circumstances, he had + determined (with the greatest reluctance) to take the straightforward + course. Instead of secretly getting his information from Carmina’s + journals and letters, he was now reduced to openly applying for + enlightenment to Carmina herself. + </p> + <p> + Occupying, for the time being, the position of an honourable man, he + presented himself at cruel disadvantage. He was not master of his own + glorious voice; he was without the self-possession indispensable to the + perfect performance of his magnificent bow. “I have waited to have a word + with you,” he began abruptly, “before you go out for your drive.” + </p> + <p> + Already unnerved, even before she had seen him—painfully conscious + that she had committed a serious error, on the last occasion when they had + met, in speaking at all—Carmina neither answered him nor looked at + him. She bent her head confusedly, and advanced a little nearer to the + house door. + </p> + <p> + He at once moved so as to place himself in her way. + </p> + <p> + “I must request you to call to mind what passed between us,” he resumed, + “when we met by accident some little time since.” + </p> + <p> + He had speculated on frightening her. His insolence stirred her spirit + into asserting itself. “Let me by, if you please,” she said; “the carriage + is waiting for me.” + </p> + <p> + “The carriage can wait a little longer,” he answered coarsely. “On the + occasion to which I have referred, you were so good as to make advances, + to which I cannot consider myself as having any claim. Perhaps you will + favour me by stating your motives?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—you do!” + </p> + <p> + She stepped back, and laid her hand on the bell which rang below stairs, + in the pantry. “Must I ring?” she said. + </p> + <p> + It was plain that she would do it, if he moved a step nearer to her. He + drew aside—with a look which made her tremble. On passing the hall + table, she placed her letter in the post-basket. His eye followed it, as + it left her hand: he became suddenly penitent and polite. “I am sorry if I + have alarmed you,” he said, and opened the house-door for her—without + showing himself to Marceline and the coachman outside. + </p> + <p> + The carriage having been driven away, he softly closed the door again, and + returned to the hall-table. He looked into the post-basket. + </p> + <p> + Was there any danger of discovery by the servants? The footman was absent, + attending his mistress on her way to the lecture. None of the female + servants were on the stairs. He took up Carmina’s letter, and looked at + the address: <i>To Ovid Vere, Esq.</i> + </p> + <p> + His eyes twinkled furtively; his excellent memory for injuries reminded + him that Ovid Vere had formerly endeavoured (without even caring to + conceal it) to prevent Mrs. Gallilee from engaging him as her + music-master. By subtle links of its own forging, his vindictive nature + now connected his hatred of the person to whom the letter was addressed, + with his interest in stealing the letter itself for the possible discovery + of Carmina’s secrets. The clock told him that there was plenty of time to + open the envelope, and (if the contents proved to be of no importance) to + close it again, and take it himself to the post. After a last look round, + he withdrew undiscovered, with the letter in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + On its way back to the house, the carriage was passed by a cab, with a man + in it, driven at such a furious rate that there was a narrow escape of + collision. The maid screamed; Carmina turned pale; the coachman wondered + why the man in the cab was in such a hurry. The man was Mr. Mool’s head + clerk, charged with news for Doctor Benjulia. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII. + </h2> + <p> + The mind of the clerk’s master had been troubled by serious doubts, after + Carmina left his house on Sunday. + </p> + <p> + Her agitated manner, her strange questions, and her abrupt departure, all + suggested to Mr. Mool’s mind some rash project in contemplation—perhaps + even the plan of an elopement. To most other men, the obvious course to + take would have been to communicate with Mrs. Gallilee. But the lawyer + preserved a vivid remembrance of the interview which had taken place at + his office. The detestable pleasure which Mrs. Gallilee had betrayed in + profaning the memory of Carmina’s mother, had so shocked and disgusted + him, that he recoiled from the idea of holding any further intercourse + with her, no matter how pressing the emergency might be. It was possible, + after what had passed, that Carmina might feel the propriety of making + some explanation by letter. He decided to wait until the next morning, on + the chance of hearing from her. + </p> + <p> + On the Monday, no letter arrived. + </p> + <p> + Proceeding to the office, Mr. Mool found, in his business-correspondence, + enough to occupy every moment of his time. He had purposed writing to + Carmina, but the idea was now inevitably pressed out of his mind. It was + only at the close of the day’s work that he had leisure to think of a + matter of greater importance—that is to say, of the necessity of + discovering Benjulia’s friend of other days, the Italian teacher Baccani. + He left instructions with one of his clerks to make inquiries, the next + morning, at the shops of foreign booksellers. There, and there only, the + question might be answered, whether Baccani was still living, and living + in London. + </p> + <p> + The inquiries proved successful. On Tuesday afternoon, Baccani’s address + was in Mr. Mool’s hands. + </p> + <p> + Busy as he still was, the lawyer set aside his own affairs, in deference + to the sacred duty of defending the memory of the dead, and to the + pressing necessity of silencing Mrs. Gallilee’s cruel and slanderous + tongue. Arrived at Baccani’s lodgings, he was informed that the + language-master had gone to his dinner at a neighbouring restaurant. Mr. + Mool waited at the lodgings, and sent a note to Baccani. In ten minutes + more he found himself in the presence of an elderly man, of ascetic + appearance; whose looks and tones showed him to be apt to take offence on + small provocation, and more than half ready to suspect an eminent + solicitor of being a spy. + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Mool’s experience was equal to the call on it. Having fully + explained the object that he had in view, he left the apology for his + intrusion to be inferred, and concluded by appealing, in his own modest + way, to the sympathy of an honourable man. + </p> + <p> + Silently forming his opinion of the lawyer, while he listened, Baccani + expressed the conclusion at which he had arrived, in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “My experience of mankind, sir, has been a bitterly bad one. You have + improved my opinion of human nature since you entered this room. That is + not a little thing to say, at my age and in my circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed gravely, and turned to his bed. From under it, he pulled out a + clumsy tin box. Having opened the rusty lock with some difficulty, he + produced a ragged pocket-book, and picked out from it a paper which looked + like an old letter. + </p> + <p> + “There,” he said, handing the paper to Mr. Mool, “is the statement which + vindicates this lady’s reputation. Before you open the manuscript I must + tell you how I came by it.” + </p> + <p> + He appeared to feel such embarrassment in approaching the subject, that + Mr. Mool interposed. “I am already acquainted,” he said, “with some of the + circumstances to which you are about to allude. I happen to know of the + wager in which the calumny originated, and of the manner in which that + wager was decided. The events which followed are the only events that I + need trouble you to describe.” + </p> + <p> + Baccani’s grateful sense of relief avowed itself without reserve. “I feel + your kindness,” he said, “almost as keenly as I feel my own disgraceful + conduct, in permitting a woman’s reputation to be made the subject of a + wager. From whom did you obtain your information?” + </p> + <p> + “From the person who mentioned your name to me—Doctor Benjulia.” + </p> + <p> + Baccani lifted his hand with a gesture of angry protest. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak of him again in my presence!” he burst out. “That man has + insulted me. When I took refuge from political persecution in this + country, I sent him my prospectus. From my own humble position as a + teacher of languages, I looked up without envy to his celebrity among + doctors; I thought I might remind him, not unfavourably, of our early + friendship—I, who had done him a hundred kindnesses in those past + days. He has never taken the slightest notice of me; he has not even + acknowledged the receipt of my prospectus. Despicable wretch! Let me hear + no more of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray forgive me if I refer to him again—for the last time,” Mr. + Mool pleaded. “Did your acquaintance with him continue, after the question + of the wager had been settled?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir!” Baccani answered sternly. “When I was at leisure to go to the + club at which we were accustomed to meet, he had left Rome. From that time + to this—I rejoice to say it—I have never set eyes on him.” + </p> + <p> + The obstacles which had prevented the refutation of the calumny from + reaching Benjulia were now revealed. Mr. Mool had only to hear, next, how + that refutation had been obtained. A polite hint sufficed to remind + Baccani of the explanation that he had promised. + </p> + <p> + “I am naturally suspicious,” he began abruptly; “and I doubted the woman + when I found that she kept her veil down. Besides, it was not in my way of + thinking to believe that an estimable married lady could have compromised + herself with a scoundrel, who had boasted that she was his mistress. I + waited in the street, until the woman came out. I followed her, and saw + her meet a man. The two went together to a theatre. I took my place near + them. She lifted her veil as a matter of course. My suspicion of foul play + was instantly confirmed. When the performance was over, I traced her back + to Mr. Robert Graywell’s house. He and his wife were both absent at a + party. I was too indignant to wait till they came back. Under the threat + of charging the wretch with stealing her mistress’s clothes, I extorted + from her the signed confession which you have in your hand. She was under + notice to leave her place for insolent behaviour. The personation which + had been intended to deceive me, was an act of revenge; planned between + herself and the blackguard who had employed her to make his lie look like + truth. A more shameless creature I never met with. She said to me, ‘I am + as tall as my mistress, and a better figure; and I’ve often worn her fine + clothes on holiday occasions.’ In your country Mr. Mool, such women—so + I am told—are ducked in a pond. There is one thing more to add, + before you read the confession. Mrs. Robert Graywell did imprudently send + the man some money—in answer to a begging letter artfully enough + written to excite her pity. A second application was refused by her + husband. What followed on that, you know already.” + </p> + <p> + Having read the confession, Mr. Mool was permitted to take a copy, and to + make any use of it which he might think desirable. His one remaining + anxiety was to hear what had become of the person who had planned the + deception. “Surely,” he said, “that villain has not escaped punishment?” + </p> + <p> + Baccani answered this in his own bitter way. + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir, how can you ask such a simple question? That sort of man + always escapes punishment. In the last extreme of poverty his luck + provides him with somebody to cheat. Common respect for Mrs. Robert + Graywell closed my lips; and I was the only person acquainted with the + circumstances. I wrote to our club declaring the fellow to be a cheat—and + leaving it to be inferred that he cheated at cards. He knew better than to + insist on my explaining myself—he resigned, and disappeared. I dare + say he is living still—living in clover on some unfortunate woman. + The beautiful and the good die untimely deaths. <i>He,</i> and his kind, + last and live.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool had neither time nor inclination to plead in favour of the more + hopeful view, which believes in the agreeable fiction called “Poetical + justice.” He tried to express his sense of obligation at parting. Baccani + refused to listen. + </p> + <p> + “The obligation is all on my side,” he said. “As I have already told you, + your visit has added a bright day to my calendar. In our pilgrimage, my + friend, through this world of rogues and fools, we may never meet again. + Let us remember gratefully that we <i>have</i> met. Farewell.” + </p> + <p> + So they parted. + </p> + <p> + Returning to his office, Mr. Mool attached to the copy of the confession a + brief statement of the circumstances under which the Italian had become + possessed of it. He then added these lines, addressed to Benjulia:—<i>“You</i> + set the false report afloat. I leave it to your sense of duty, to decide + whether you ought not to go at once to Mrs. Gallilee, and tell her that + the slander which you repeated is now proved to be a lie. If you don’t + agree with me, I must go to Mrs. Gallilee myself. In that case please + return, by the bearer, the papers which are enclosed.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk instructed to deliver these documents, within the shortest + possible space of time, found Mr. Mool waiting at the office, on his + return. He answered his master’s inquiries by producing Benjulia’s reply. + </p> + <p> + The doctor’s amiable humour was still in the ascendant. His success in + torturing his unfortunate cook had been followed by the receipt of a + telegram from his friend at Montreal, containing this satisfactory answer + to his question:—“Not brain disease.” With his mind now set + completely at rest, his instincts as a gentleman were at full liberty to + control him. “I entirely agree with you,” he wrote to Mr. Mool. “I go back + with your clerk; the cab will drop me at Mrs. Gallilee’s house.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool turned to the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Did you wait to hear if Mrs. Gallilee was at home?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee was absent, sir—attending a lecture.” + </p> + <p> + “What did Doctor Benjulia do?” + </p> + <p> + “Went into the house, to wait her return.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s page (attending to the house-door, in the footman’s + absence) had just shown Benjulia into the library, when there was another + ring at the bell. The new visitor was Mr. Le Frank. He appeared to be in a + hurry. Without any preliminary questions, he said, “Take my card to Mrs. + Gallilee.” + </p> + <p> + “My mistress is out, sir.” + </p> + <p> + The music-master looked impatiently at the hall-clock. The hall-clock + answered him by striking the half hour after five. + </p> + <p> + “Do you expect Mrs. Gallilee back soon?” + </p> + <p> + “We don’t know, sir. The footman had his orders to be in waiting with the + carriage, at five.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of irritable reflection, Mr. Le Frank took a letter from + his pocket. “Say that I have an appointment, and am not able to wait. Give + Mrs. Gallilee that letter the moment she comes in.” With those directions + he left the house. + </p> + <p> + The page looked at the letter. It was sealed; and, over the address, two + underlined words were written:—“Private. Immediate.” Mindful of + visits from tradespeople, anxious to see his mistress, and provided + beforehand with letters to be delivered immediately, the boy took a + pecuniary view of Mr. Le Frank’s errand at the house. “Another of them,” + he thought, “wanting his money.” + </p> + <p> + As he placed the letter on the hall-table, the library door opened, and + Benjulia appeared—weary already of waiting, without occupation, for + Mrs. Gallilee’s return. + </p> + <p> + “Is smoking allowed in the library?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The page looked up at the giant towering over him, with the envious + admiration of a short boy. He replied with a discretion beyond his years: + “Would you please step into the smoking-room, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Anybody there?” + </p> + <p> + “My master, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia at once declined the invitation to the smoking-room. “Anybody + else at home?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + Miss Carmina was upstairs—the page answered. “And I think,” he + added, “Mr. Null is with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Mr. Null?” + </p> + <p> + “The doctor, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia declined to disturb the doctor. He tried a third, and last + question. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Zo?” + </p> + <p> + “Here!” cried a shrill voice from the upper regions. “Who are You?” + </p> + <p> + To the page’s astonishment, the giant gentleman with the resonant bass + voice answered this quite gravely. “I’m Benjulia,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Come up!” cried Zo. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia ascended the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” shouted the voice from above. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got your big stick?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Bring it up with you.” Benjulia retraced his steps into the hall. The + page respectfully handed him his stick. Zo became impatient. “Look sharp!” + she called out. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia obediently quickened his pace. Zo left the schoolroom (in spite + of the faintly-heard protest of the maid in charge) to receive him on the + stairs. They met on the landing, outside Carmina’s room. Zo possessed + herself of the bamboo cane, and led the way in. “Carmina! here’s the big + stick, I told you about,” she announced. + </p> + <p> + “Whose stick, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Zo returned to the landing. “Come in, Benjulia,” she said—and seized + him by the coat-tails. Mr. Null rose instinctively. Was this his + celebrated colleague? + </p> + <p> + With some reluctance, Carmina appeared at the door; thinking of the day + when Ovid had fainted, and when the great man had treated her so harshly. + In fear of more rudeness, she unwillingly asked him to come in. + </p> + <p> + Still immovable on the landing, he looked at her in silence. + </p> + <p> + The serious question occurred to him which had formerly presented itself + to Mr. Mool. Had Mrs. Gallilee repeated, in Carmina’s presence, the lie + which slandered her mother’s memory—the lie which he was then in the + house to expose? + </p> + <p> + Watching Benjulia respectfully, Mr. Null saw, in that grave scrutiny, an + opportunity of presenting himself under a favourable light. He waved his + hand persuasively towards Carmina. “Some nervous prostration, sir, in my + interesting patient, as you no doubt perceive,” he began. “Not such rapid + progress towards recovery as I had hoped. I think of recommending the air + of the seaside.” Benjulia’s dreary eyes turned on him slowly, and + estimated his mental calibre at its exact value, in a moment. Mr. Null + felt that look in the very marrow of his bones. He bowed with servile + submission, and took his leave. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, Benjulia had satisfied himself that the embarrassment in + Carmina’s manner was merely attributable to shyness. She was now no longer + an object even of momentary interest to him. He was ready to play with Zo—but + not on condition of amusing himself with the child, in Carmina’s presence. + “I am waiting till Mrs. Gallilee returns,” he said to her in his quietly + indifferent way. “If you will excuse me, I’ll go downstairs again; I won’t + intrude.” + </p> + <p> + Her pale face flushed as she listened to him. Innocently supposing that + she had made her little offer of hospitality in too cold a manner, she + looked at Benjulia with a timid and troubled smile. “Pray wait here till + my aunt comes back,” she said. “Zo will amuse you, I’m sure.” Zo seconded + the invitation by hiding the stick, and laying hold again on her big + friend’s coattails. + </p> + <p> + He let the child drag him into the room, without noticing her. The silent + questioning of his eyes had been again directed to Carmina, at the moment + when she smiled. + </p> + <p> + His long and terrible experience made its own merciless discoveries, in + the nervous movement of her eyelids and her lips. The poor girl, pleasing + herself with the idea of having produced the right impression on him at + last, had only succeeded in becoming an object of medical inquiry, pursued + in secret. When he companionably took a chair by her side, and let Zo + climb on his knee, he was privately regretting his cold reception of Mr. + Null. Under certain conditions of nervous excitement, Carmina might + furnish an interesting case. “If I had been commonly civil to that fawning + idiot,” he thought, “I might have been called into consultation.” + </p> + <p> + They were all three seated—but there was no talk. Zo set the + example. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t tickled me yet,” she said. “Show Carmina how you do it.” + </p> + <p> + He gravely operated on the back of Zo’s neck; and his patient acknowledged + the process with a wriggle and a scream. The performance being so far at + an end, Zo called to the dog, and issued her orders once more. + </p> + <p> + “Now make Tinker kick his leg!” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia obeyed once again. The young tyrant was not satisfied yet. + </p> + <p> + “Now tickle Carmina!” she said. + </p> + <p> + He heard this without laughing: his fleshless lips never relaxed into a + smile. To Carmina’s unutterable embarrassment, he looked at her, when she + laughed, with steadier attention than ever. Those coldly-inquiring eyes + exercised some inscrutable influence over her. Now they made her angry; + and now they frightened her. The silence that had fallen on them again, + became an unendurable infliction. She burst into talk; she was loud and + familiar—ashamed of her own boldness, and quite unable to control + it. “You are very fond of Zo!” she said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + It was a perfectly commonplace remark—and yet, it seemed to perplex + him. + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” he answered. + </p> + <p> + She went on. Against her own will, she persisted in speaking to him. “And + I’m sure Zo is fond of you.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Zo. “Are you fond of me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Zo, staring hard at him, got off his knee; retired to a little distance to + think; and stood staring at him again. + </p> + <p> + He quietly repeated the question. Zo answered this time—as she had + formerly answered Teresa in the Gardens. “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + He turned again to Carmina, in a slow, puzzled way. “I don’t know either,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Hearing the big man own that he was no wiser than herself, Zo returned to + him—without, however, getting on his knee again. She clasped her + chubby hands under the inspiration of a new idea. “Let’s play at + something,” she said to Benjulia. “Do you know any games?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you know any games, when you were only as big as me?” + </p> + <p> + “I have forgotten them.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you got children?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you got a wife?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you got a friend?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you <i>are</i> a miserable chap!” + </p> + <p> + Thanks to Zo, Carmina’s sense of nervous oppression burst its way into + relief. She laughed loudly and wildly—she was on the verge of + hysterics, when Benjulia’s eyes, silently questioning her again, + controlled her at the critical moment. Her laughter died away. But the + exciting influence still possessed her; still forced her into the other + alternative of saying something—she neither knew nor cared what. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t live such a lonely life as yours,” she said to him—so + loudly and so confidently that even Zo noticed it. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t live such a life either,” he admitted, “but for one thing.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is that?” + </p> + <p> + “Why are you so loud?” Zo interposed. “Do you think he’s deaf?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia made a sign, commanding the child to be silent—without + turning towards her. He answered Carmina as if there had been no + interruption. + </p> + <p> + “My medical studies,” he said, “reconcile me to my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you got tired of your studies?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I should never get tired of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you couldn’t study any more?” + </p> + <p> + “In that case I shouldn’t live any more.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that it would kill you to leave off?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + He laid his great soft fingers on her pulse. She shrank from his touch; he + deliberately held her by the arm. “You’re getting excited,” he said. + “Never mind what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + Zo, left unnoticed and not liking it, saw a chance of asserting herself. + “I know why Carmina’s excited,” she said. “The old woman’s coming at six + o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + He paid no attention to the child; he persisted in keeping watch on + Carmina. “Who is the woman?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “The most lovable woman in the world,” she cried; “my dear old nurse!” She + started up from the sofa, and pointed with theatrical exaggeration of + gesture to the clock on the mantelpiece. “Look! it’s only ten minutes to + six. In ten minutes, I shall have my arms round Teresa’s neck. Don’t look + at me in that way! It’s your fault if I’m excited. It’s your dreadful eyes + that do it. Come here, Zo! I want to give you a kiss.” She seized on Zo + with a roughness that startled the child, and looked wildly at Benjulia. + “Ha! you don’t understand loving and kissing, do you? What’s the use of + speaking to <i>you</i> about my old nurse?” + </p> + <p> + He pointed imperatively to the sofa. “Sit down again.” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed him—but he had not quite composed her yet. Her eyes + sparkled; she went on talking. “Ah, you’re a hard man! a miserable man! a + man that will end badly! You never loved anybody. You don’t know what love + is.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + That icy question cooled her in an instant: her head sank on her bosom: + she suddenly became indifferent to persons and things about her. “When + will Teresa come?” she whispered to herself. “Oh, when will Teresa come!” + </p> + <p> + Any other man, whether he really felt for her or not, would, as a mere + matter of instinct, have said a kind word to her at that moment. Not the + vestige of a change appeared in Benjulia’s impenetrable composure. She + might have been a man—or a baby—or the picture of a girl + instead of the girl herself, so far as he was concerned. He quietly + returned to his question. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he resumed—“and what is love?” + </p> + <p> + Not a word, not a movement escaped her. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know,” he persisted, waiting for what might happen. + </p> + <p> + Nothing happened. He was not perplexed by the sudden change. “This is the + reaction,” he thought. “We shall see what comes of it.” He looked about + him. A bottle of water stood on one of the tables. “Likely to be useful,” + he concluded, “in case she feels faint.” + </p> + <p> + Zo had been listening; Zo saw her way to getting noticed again. Not quite + sure of herself this time, she appealed to Carmina. “Didn’t he say, just + now, he wanted to know?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina neither heard nor heeded her. Zo tried Benjulia next. “Shall I + tell you what we do in the schoolroom, when we want to know?” His + attention, like Carmina’s attention, seemed to be far away from her. Zo + impatiently reminded him of her presence—she laid her hand on his + knee. + </p> + <p> + It was only the hand of a child—an idle, quaint, perverse child—but + it touched, ignorantly touched, the one tender place in his nature, + unprofaned by the infernal cruelties which made his life acceptable to + him; the one tender place, hidden so deep from the man himself, that even + his far-reaching intellect groped in vain to find it out. There, + nevertheless, was the feeling which drew him to Zo, contending + successfully with his medical interest in a case of nervous derangement. + That unintelligible sympathy with a child looked dimly out of his eyes, + spoke faintly in his voice, when he replied to her. “Well,” he said, “what + do you do in the schoolroom?” + </p> + <p> + “We look in the dictionary,” Zo answered. “Carmina’s got a dictionary. + I’ll get it.” + </p> + <p> + She climbed on a chair, and found the book, and laid it on Benjulia’s lap. + “I don’t so much mind trying to spell a word,” she explained. “What I hate + is being asked what it means. Miss Minerva won’t let me off. She says, + Look. <i>I</i> won’t let <i>you</i> off. I’m Miss Minerva and you’re Zo. + Look!” + </p> + <p> + He humoured her silently and mechanically—just as he had humoured + her in the matter of the stick, and in the matter of the tickling. Having + opened the dictionary, he looked again at Carmina. She had not moved; she + seemed to be weary enough to fall asleep. The reaction—nothing but + the reaction. It might last for hours, or it might be at an end in another + minute. An interesting temperament, whichever way it ended. He opened the + dictionary. + </p> + <p> + “Love?” he muttered grimly to himself. “It seems I’m an object of + compassion, because I know nothing about love. Well, what does the book + say about it?” + </p> + <p> + He found the word, and ran his finger down the paragraphs of explanation + which followed. “Seven meanings to Love,” he remarked. “First: An + affection of the mind excited by beauty and worth of any kind, or by the + qualities of an object which communicate pleasure. Second: Courtship. + Third: Patriotism, as the love of country. Fourth: Benevolence. Fifth: The + object beloved. Sixth: A word of endearment. Seventh: Cupid, the god of + love.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and reflected a little. Zo, hearing nothing to amuse her, + strayed away to the window, and looked out. He glanced at Carmina. + </p> + <p> + “Which of those meanings makes the pleasure of her life?” he wondered. + “Which of them might have made the pleasure of mine?” He closed the + dictionary in contempt. “The very man whose business is to explain it, + tries seven different ways, and doesn’t explain it after all. And yet, + there is such a thing.” He reached that conclusion unwillingly and + angrily. For the first time, a doubt about himself forced its way into his + mind. Might he have looked higher than his torture-table and his knife? + Had he gained from his life all that his life might have given to him? + </p> + <p> + Left by herself, Zo began to grow tired of it. She tried to get Carmina + for a companion. “Come and look out of window,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Carmina gently refused: she was unwilling to be disturbed. Since she had + spoken to Benjulia, her thoughts had been dwelling restfully on Ovid. In + another day she might be on her way to him. When would Teresa come? + </p> + <p> + Benjulia was too preoccupied to notice her. The weak doubt that had got + the better of his strong reason, still held him in thrall. “Love!” he + broke out, in the bitterness of his heart. “It isn’t a question of + sentiment: it’s a question of use. Who is the better for love?” + </p> + <p> + She heard the last words, and answered him. “Everybody is the better for + it.” She looked at him with sorrowful eyes, and laid her hand on his arm. + “Everybody,” she added, “but you.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled scornfully. “Everybody is the better for it,” he repeated. “And + who knows what it is?” + </p> + <p> + She drew away her hand, and looked towards the heavenly tranquillity of + the evening sky. + </p> + <p> + “Who knows what it is?” he reiterated. + </p> + <p> + “God,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia was silent. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLV. + </h2> + <p> + The clock on the mantelpiece struck six. Zo, turning suddenly from the + window, ran to the sofa. “Here’s the carriage!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Teresa!” Carmina exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Zo crossed the room, on tiptoe, to the door of the bed-chamber. “It’s + mamma,” she said. “Don’t tell! I’m going to hide.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, dear?” + </p> + <p> + The answer to this was given mysteriously in a whisper. “She said I wasn’t + to come to you. She’s a quick one on her legs—she might catch me on + the stairs.” With that explanation, Zo slipped into the bedroom, and held + the door ajar. + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed—and Mrs. Gallilee failed to justify the opinion + expressed by her daughter. Not a sound was audible on the stairs. Not a + word more was uttered in the room. Benjulia had taken the child’s place at + the window. He sat there thinking. Carmina had suggested to him some new + ideas, relating to the intricate connection between human faith and human + happiness. Slowly, slowly, the clock recorded the lapse of minutes. + Carmina’s nervous anxiety began to forecast disaster to the absent nurse. + She took Teresa’s telegram from her pocket, and consulted it again. There + was no mistake; six o’clock was the time named for the traveller’s arrival—and + it was close on ten minutes past the hour. In her ignorance of railway + arrangements, she took it for granted that trains were punctual. But her + reading had told her that trains were subject to accident. “I suppose + delays occur,” she said to Benjulia, “without danger to the passengers?” + </p> + <p> + Before he could answer—Mrs. Gallilee suddenly entered the room. + </p> + <p> + She had opened the door so softly, that she took them both by surprise. To + Carmina’s excited imagination, she glided into their presence like a + ghost. Her look and manner showed serious agitation, desperately + suppressed. In certain places, the paint and powder on her face had + cracked, and revealed the furrows and wrinkles beneath. Her hard eyes + glittered; her laboured breathing was audible. + </p> + <p> + Indifferent to all demonstrations of emotion which did not scientifically + concern him, Benjulia quietly rose and advanced towards her. She seemed to + be unconscious of his presence. He spoke—allowing her to ignore him + without troubling himself to notice her temper. “When you are able to + attend to me, I want to speak to you. Shall I wait downstairs?” He took + his hat and stick—to leave the room; looked at Carmina as he passed + her; and at once went back to his place at the window. Her aunt’s silent + and sinister entrance had frightened her. Benjulia waited, in the + interests of physiology, to see how the new nervous excitement would end. + </p> + <p> + Thus far, Mrs. Gallilee had kept one of her hands hidden behind her. She + advanced close to Carmina, and allowed her hand to be seen. It held an + open letter. She shook the letter in her niece’s face. + </p> + <p> + In the position which Mrs. Gallilee now occupied, Carmina was hidden, for + the moment, from Benjulia’s view. Biding his time at the window, he looked + out. + </p> + <p> + A cab, with luggage on it, had just drawn up at the house. + </p> + <p> + Was this the old nurse who had been expected to arrive at six o’clock? + </p> + <p> + The footman came out to open the cab-door. He was followed by Mr. + Gallilee, eager to help the person inside to alight. The traveller proved + to be a grey-headed woman, shabbily dressed. Mr. Gallilee cordially shook + hands with her—patted her on the shoulder—gave her his arm—led + her into the house. The cab with the luggage on it remained at the door. + The nurse had evidently not reached the end of her journey yet. + </p> + <p> + Carmina shrank back on the sofa, when the leaves of the letter touched her + face. Mrs. Gallilee’s first words were now spoken, in a whisper. The inner + fury of her anger, struggling for a vent, began to get the better of her—she + gasped for breath and speech. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know this letter?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Carmina looked at the writing. It was the letter to Ovid, which she had + placed in the post-basket that afternoon; the letter which declared that + she could no longer endure his mother’s cold-blooded cruelty, and that she + only waited Teresa’s arrival to join him at Quebec. + </p> + <p> + After one dreadful moment of confusion, her mind realised the outrage + implied in the stealing and reading of her letter. + </p> + <p> + In the earlier time of Carmina’s sojourn in the house, Mrs. Gallilee had + accused her of deliberate deceit. She had instantly resented the insult by + leaving the room. The same spirit in her—the finely-strung spirit + that vibrates unfelt in gentle natures, while they live in peace—steadied + those quivering nerves, roused that failing courage. She met the furious + eyes fixed on her, without shrinking; she spoke gravely and firmly. “The + letter is mine,” she said. “How did you come by it?” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you ask me?” + </p> + <p> + “How dare <i>you</i> steal my letter?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee tore open the fastening of her dress at the throat, to get + breath. “You impudent bastard!” she burst out, in a frenzy of rage. + </p> + <p> + Waiting patiently at the window, Benjulia heard her. “Hold your damned + tongue!” he cried. “She’s your niece.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee turned on him: her fury broke into a screaming laugh. “My + niece?” she repeated. “You lie—and you know it! She’s the child of + an adulteress! She’s the child of her mother’s lover!” + </p> + <p> + The door opened as those horrible words passed her lips. The nurse and her + husband entered the room. + </p> + <p> + She was in no position to see them: she was incapable of hearing them. The + demon in her urged her on: she attempted to reiterate the detestable + falsehood. Her first word died away in silence. The lean brown fingers of + the Italian woman had her by the throat—held her as the claws of a + tigress might have held her. Her eyes rolled in the mute agony of an + appeal for help. In vain! in vain! Not a cry, not a sound, had drawn + attention to the attack. Her husband’s eyes were fixed, horror-struck, on + the victim of her rage. Benjulia had crossed the room to the sofa, when + Carmina heard the words spoken of her mother. From that moment, he was + watching the case. Mr. Gallilee alone looked round—when the nurse + tightened her hold in a last merciless grasp; dashed the insensible woman + on the floor; and, turning back, fell on her knees at her darling’s feet. + </p> + <p> + She looked up in Carmina’s face. + </p> + <p> + A ghastly stare, through half-closed eyes, showed death in life, blankly + returning her look. The shock had struck Carmina with a stony calm. She + had not started, she had not swooned. Rigid, immovable, there she sat; + voiceless and tearless; insensible even to touch; her arms hanging down; + her clenched hands resting on either side of her. + </p> + <p> + Teresa grovelled and groaned at her feet. Those ferocious hands that had + laid the slanderer prostrate on the floor, feebly beat her bosom and her + gray head. “Oh, Saints beloved of God! Oh, blessed Virgin, mother of + Christ, spare my child, my sweet child!” She rose in wild despair—she + seized Benjulia, and madly shook him. “Who are you? How dare you touch + her? Give her to me, or I’ll be the death of you. Oh, my Carmina, is it + sleep that holds you? Wake! wake! wake!” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me,” said Benjulia, sternly. + </p> + <p> + She dropped on the sofa by Carmina’s side, and lifted one of the cold + clenched hands to her lips. The tears fell slowly over her haggard face. + “I am very fond of her, sir,” she said humbly. “I’m only an old woman. See + what a dreadful welcome my child gives to me. It’s hard on an old woman—hard + on an old woman!” + </p> + <p> + His self-possession was not disturbed—even by this. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what I am?” he asked. “I am a doctor. Leave her to me.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a doctor. That’s good. A doctor’s good. Yes, yes. Does the old man + know this doctor—the kind old man?” She looked vacantly for Mr. + Gallilee. He was bending over his wife, sprinkling water on her deathly + face. + </p> + <p> + Teresa got on her feet, and pointed to Mrs. Gallilee. “The breath of that + She-Devil poisons the air,” she said. “I must take my child out of it. To + my place, sir, if you please. Only to my place.” + </p> + <p> + She attempted to lift Carmina from the sofa—and drew back, + breathlessly watching her. Her rigid face faintly relaxed; her eyelids + closed, and quivered. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee looked up from his wife. “Will one of you help me?” he asked. + His tone struck Benjulia. It was the hushed tone of sorrow—no more. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll see to it directly.” With that reply, Benjulia turned to Teresa. + “Where is your place?” he said. “Far or near?” + </p> + <p> + “The message,” she answered confusedly. “The message says.” She signed to + him to look in her hand-bag—dropped on the floor. + </p> + <p> + He found Carmina’s telegram, containing the address of the lodgings. The + house was close by. After some consideration, he sent the nurse into the + bedroom, with instructions to bring him the blankets off the bed. In the + minute that followed, he examined Mrs. Gallilee. “There’s nothing to be + frightened about. Let her maid attend to her.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee again surprised Benjulia. He turned from his wife, and looked + at Carmina. “For God’s sake, don’t leave her here!” he broke out. “After + what she has heard, this house is no place for her. Give her to the old + nurse!” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia only answered, as he had answered already—“I’ll see to it.” + Mr. Gallilee persisted. “Is there any risk in moving her?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the least of two risks. No more questions! Look to your wife.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee obeyed in silence. + </p> + <p> + When he lifted his head again, and rose to ring the bell for the maid, the + room was silent and lonely. A little pale frightened face peeped out + through the bedroom door. Zo ventured in. Her father caught her in his + arms, and kissed her as he had never kissed her yet. His eyes were wet + with tears. Zo noticed that he never said a word about mamma. The child + saw the change in her father, as Benjulia had seen it. She shared one + human feeling with her big friend—she, too, was surprised. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVI. + </h2> + <p> + THE first signs of reviving life had begun to appear, when Marceline + answered the bell. In a few minutes more, it was possible to raise Mrs. + Gallilee and to place her on the sofa. Having so far assisted the servant, + Mr. Gallilee took Zo by the hand, and drew back. Daunted by the terrible + scene which she had witnessed from her hiding-place, the child stood by + her father’s side in silence. The two waited together, watching Mrs. + Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + She looked wildly round the room. Discovering that she was alone with the + members of her family, she became composed: her mind slowly recovered its + balance. Her first thought was for herself. + </p> + <p> + “Has that woman disfigured me?” she said to the maid. + </p> + <p> + Knowing nothing of what had happened, Marceline was at a loss to + understand her. “Bring me a glass,” she said. The maid found a hand-glass + in the bedroom, and presented it to her. She looked at herself—and + drew a long breath of relief. That first anxiety at an end, she spoke to + her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Carmina?” + </p> + <p> + “Out of the house—thank God!” + </p> + <p> + The answer seemed to bewilder her: she appealed to Marceline. + </p> + <p> + “Did he say, thank God?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Can <i>you</i> tell me nothing? Who knows where Carmina has gone?” + </p> + <p> + “Joseph knows, ma’am. He heard Dr. Benjulia give the address to the + cabman.” With that answer, she turned anxiously to her master. “Is Miss + Carmina seriously ill, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Her mistress spoke again, before Mr. Gallilee could reply. “Marceline! + send Joseph up here.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mr. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + His wife eyed him with astonishment. “Why not?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He said quietly, “I forbid it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee addressed herself to the maid. “Go to my room, and bring me + another bonnet and a veil. Stop!” She tried to rise, and sank back. “I + must have something to strengthen me. Get the sal volatile.” + </p> + <p> + Marceline left the room. Mr. Gallilee followed her as far as the door—still + leading his little daughter. + </p> + <p> + “Go back, my dear, to your sister in the schoolroom,” he said. “I am + distressed, Zo; be a good girl, and you will console me. Say the same to + Maria. It will be dull for you, I am afraid. Be patient, my child, and try + to bear it for a while.” + </p> + <p> + “May I whisper something?” said Zo. “Will Carmina die?” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid!” + </p> + <p> + “Will they bring her back here?” + </p> + <p> + In her eagerness, the child spoke above a whisper. Mrs. Gallilee heard the + question, and answered it. + </p> + <p> + “They will bring Carmina back,” she said, “the moment I can get out.” + </p> + <p> + Zo looked at her father. “Do <i>you</i> say that?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head gravely, and told her again to go to the schoolroom. On + the first landing she stopped, and looked back. “I’ll be good, papa,” she + said—and went on up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Having reached the schoolroom, she became the object of many questions—not + one of which she answered. Followed by the dog, she sat down in a corner. + “What are you thinking about?” her sister inquired. This time she was + willing to reply. “I’m thinking about Carmina.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee closed the door when Zo left him. He took a chair, without + speaking to his wife or looking at her. + </p> + <p> + “What are you here for?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I must wait,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “To see what you do.” + </p> + <p> + Marceline returned, and administered a dose of sal volatile. Strengthened + by the stimulant, Mrs. Gallilee was able to rise. “My head is giddy,” she + said, as she took the maid’s arm; “but I think I can get downstairs with + your help.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee silently followed them out. + </p> + <p> + At the head of the stairs the giddiness increased. Firm as her resolution + might be, it gave way before the bodily injury which Mrs. Gallilee had + received. Her husband’s help was again needed to take her to her bedroom. + She stopped them at the ante-chamber; still obstinately bent on following + her own designs. “I shall be better directly,” she said; “put me on the + sofa.” Marceline relieved her of her bonnet and veil, and asked + respectfully if there was any other service required. She looked defiantly + at her husband, and reiterated the order—“Send for Joseph.” + Intelligent resolution is sometimes shaken; the inert obstinacy of a weak + creature, man or animal, is immovable. Mr. Gallilee dismissed the maid + with these words: “You needn’t wait, my good girl—I’ll speak to + Joseph myself, downstairs.” + </p> + <p> + His wife heard him with amazement and contempt. “Are you in your right + senses?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He paused on his way out. “You were always hard and headstrong,” he said + sadly; “I knew that. A cleverer man than I am might—I suppose it’s + possible—a clear-headed man might have found out how wicked you + are.” She lay, thinking; indifferent to anything he could say to her. “Are + you not ashamed?” he asked wonderingly. “And not even sorry?” She paid no + heed to him. He left her. + </p> + <p> + Descending to the hall, he was met by Joseph. “Doctor Benjulia has come + back, sir. He wishes to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “In the library.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait, Joseph; I have something to say to you. If your mistress asks where + they have taken Miss Carmina, you mustn’t—this is my order, Joseph—you + mustn’t tell her. If you have mentioned it to any of the other servants—it’s + quite likely they may have asked you, isn’t it?” he said, falling into his + old habit for a moment. “If you have mentioned it to the others,” he + resumed, <i>“they</i> mustn’t tell her. That’s all, my good man; that’s + all.” + </p> + <p> + To his own surprise, Joseph found himself regarding his master with a + feeling of respect. Mr. Gallilee entered the library. + </p> + <p> + “How is she?” he asked, eager for news of Carmina. + </p> + <p> + “The worse for being moved,” Benjulia replied. “What about your wife?” + </p> + <p> + Answering that question, Mr. Gallilee mentioned the precautions that he + had taken to keep the secret of Teresa’s address. + </p> + <p> + “You need be under no anxiety about that,” said Benjulia. “I have left + orders that Mrs. Gallilee is not to be admitted. There is a serious + necessity for keeping her out. In these cases of partial catalepsy, there + is no saying when the change may come. When it does come, I won’t answer + for her niece’s reason, if those two see each other again. Send for you + own medical man. The girl is his patient, and he is the person on whom the + responsibility rests. Let the servant take my card to him directly. We can + meet in consultation at the house.” + </p> + <p> + He wrote a line on one of his visiting cards. It was at once sent to Mr. + Null. + </p> + <p> + “There’s another matter to be settled before I go,” Benjulia proceeded. + “Here are some papers, which I have received from your lawyer, Mr. Moot. + They relate to a slander, which your wife unfortunately repeated—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee got up from his chair. “Don’t take my mind back to that—pray + don’t!” he pleaded earnestly. “I can’t bear it, Doctor Benjulia—I + can’t bear it! Please to excuse my rudeness: it isn’t intentional—I + don’t know myself what’s the matter with me. I’ve always led a quiet life, + sir; I’m not fit for such things as these. Don’t suppose I speak + selfishly. I’ll do what I can, if you will kindly spare me.” + </p> + <p> + He might as well have appealed to the sympathy of the table at which they + were sitting. Benjulia was absolutely incapable of understanding the state + of mind which those words revealed. + </p> + <p> + “Can you take these papers to your wife?” he asked. “I called here this + evening—being the person to blame—to set the matter right. As + it is, I leave her to make the discovery for herself. I desire to hold no + more communication with your wife. Have you anything to say to me before I + go?” + </p> + <p> + “Only one thing. Is there any harm in my calling at the house, to ask how + poor Carmina goes on?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask as often as you like—provided Mrs. Gallilee doesn’t accompany + you. If she’s obstinate, it may not be amiss to give your wife a word of + warning. In my opinion, the old nurse is not likely to let her off, next + time, with her life. I’ve had a little talk with that curious foreign + savage. I said, ‘You have committed, what we consider in England, a + murderous assault. If Mrs. Gallilee doesn’t mind the public exposure, you + may find yourself in a prison.’ She snapped her fingers in my face. + ‘Suppose I find myself with the hangman’s rope round my neck,’ she said, + ‘what do I care, so long as Carmina is safe from her aunt?’ After that + pretty answer, she sat down by her girl’s bedside, and burst out crying.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee listened absently: his mind still dwelt on Carmina. + </p> + <p> + “I meant well,” he said, “when I asked you to take her out of this house. + It’s no wonder if <i>I</i> was wrong. What I am too stupid to understand + is—why <i>you</i> allowed her to be moved.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia listened with a grim smile; Mr. Gallilee’s presumption amused + him. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether there was any room left for memory, when nature + furnished your narrow little head,” he answered pleasantly. “Didn’t I say + that moving her was the least of two risks? And haven’t I just warned you + of what might have happened, if we had left your wife and her niece + together in the same house? When I do a thing at my time of life, Mr. + Gallilee—don’t think me conceited—I know why I do it.” + </p> + <p> + While he was speaking of himself in these terms, he might have said + something more. He might have added, that his dread of the loss of + Carmina’s reason really meant his dread of a commonplace termination to an + exceptionally interesting case. He might also have acknowledged, that he + was not yielding obedience to the rules of professional etiquette, in + confiding the patient to her regular medical attendant, but following the + selfish suggestions of his own critical judgment. + </p> + <p> + His experience, brief as it had been, had satisfied him that stupid Mr. + Null’s course of action could be trusted to let the instructive progress + of the malady proceed. Mr. Null would treat the symptoms in perfect good + faith—without a suspicion of the nervous hysteria which, in such a + constitution as Carmina’s, threatened to establish itself, in course of + time, as the hidden cause. These motives—not only excused, but even + ennobled, by their scientific connection with the interests of Medical + Research—he might have avowed, under more favourable circumstances. + While his grand discovery was still barely within reach, Doctor Benjulia + stood committed to a system of diplomatic reserve, which even included + simple Mr. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + He took his hat and stick, and walked out into the hall. “Can I be of + further use?” he asked carelessly. “You will hear about the patient from + Mr. Null.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t desert Carmina?” said Mr. Gallilee. “You will see her yourself, + from time to time—won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be afraid; I’ll look after her.” He spoke sincerely in saying this. + Carmina’s case had already suggested new ideas. Even the civilised savage + of modern physiology (where his own interests are concerned) is not + absolutely insensible to a feeling of gratitude. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee opened the door for him. + </p> + <p> + “By the-bye,” he added, as he stepped out, “what’s become of Zo?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s upstairs, in the schoolroom.” + </p> + <p> + He made one of his dreary jokes. “Tell her, when she wants to be tickled + again, to let me know. Good-evening!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee returned to the upper part of the house, with the papers left + by Benjulia in his hand. Arriving at the dressing-room door, he hesitated. + The papers were enclosed in a sealed envelope, addressed to his wife. + Secured in this way from inquisitive eyes, there was no necessity for + personally presenting them. He went on to the schoolroom, and beckoned to + the parlour-maid to come out, and speak to him. + </p> + <p> + Having instructed her to deliver the papers—telling her mistress + that they had been left at the house by Doctor Benjulia—he dismissed + the woman from duty. “You needn’t return,” he said; “I’ll look after the + children myself.” + </p> + <p> + Maria was busy with her book; and even idle Zo was employed! + </p> + <p> + She was writing at her own inky desk; and she looked up in confusion, when + her father appeared. Unsuspicious Mr. Gallilee took if for granted that + his favourite daughter was employed on a writing lesson—following + Maria’s industrious example for once. “Good children!” he said, looking + affectionately from one to the other. “I won’t disturb you; go on.” He + took a chair, satisfied—comforted, even—to be in the same room + with the girls. + </p> + <p> + If he had placed himself nearer to the desk, he might have seen that Zo + had been thinking of Carmina to some purpose. + </p> + <p> + What could she do to make her friend and playfellow well and happy again? + There was the question which Zo asked herself, after having seen Carmina + carried insensible out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Possessed of that wonderful capacity for minute observation of the elder + persons about them, which is one among the many baffling mysteries + presented by the minds of children, Zo had long since discovered that the + member of the household, preferred to all others by Carmina, was the good + brother who had gone away and left them. In his absence, she was always + talking of him—and Zo had seen her kiss his photograph before she + put it back in the case. + </p> + <p> + Dwelling on these recollections, the child’s slowly-working mental process + arrived more easily than usual at the right conclusion. The way to make + Carmina well and happy again, was to bring Ovid back. One of the two + envelopes which he had directed for her still remained—waiting for + the letter which might say to him, “Come home!” + </p> + <p> + Zo determined to write that letter—and to do it at once. + </p> + <p> + She might have confided this design to her father (the one person besides + Carmina who neither scolded her nor laughed at her) if Mr. Gallilee had + distinguished himself by his masterful position in the house. But she had + seen him, as everybody else had seen him, “afraid of mamma.” The doubt + whether he might not “tell mamma,” decided her on keeping her secret. As + the event proved, the one person who informed Ovid of the terrible + necessity that existed for his return, was the little sister whom it had + been his last kind effort to console when he left England. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Gallilee entered the room, Zo had just reached the end of her + letter. Her system of composition excluded capitals and stops; and reduced + all the words in the English language, by a simple process of abridgment, + to words of one syllable. + </p> + <p> + <i>“dear ov you come back car is ill she wants you be quick be quick don’t + say I writ this miss min is gone I hate books I like you zo.”</i> + </p> + <p> + With the pen still in her hand, the wary writer looked round at her + father. She had her directed envelope (sadly crumpled) in her pocket; but + she was afraid to take it out. “Maria,” she thought, “would know what to + do in my place. Horrid Maria!” + </p> + <p> + Fortune, using the affairs of the household as an instrument, befriended + Zo. In a minute more her opportunity arrived. The parlour-maid + unexpectedly returned. She addressed Mr. Gallilee with the air of mystery + in which English servants, in possession of a message, especially delight. + “If you please, sir, Joseph wishes to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Outside, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell him to come in.” + </p> + <p> + Thanks to the etiquette of the servants’ hall—which did not permit + Joseph to present himself, voluntarily, in the regions above the + drawing-room, without being first represented by an ambassadress—attention + was now diverted from the children. Zo folded her letter, enclosed it in + the envelope, and hid it in her pocket. + </p> + <p> + Joseph appeared. “I beg your pardon, sir, I don’t quite know whether I + ought to disturb my mistress. Mr. Le Frank has called, and asked if he can + see her.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee consulted the parlour-maid. “Was your mistress asleep when I + sent you to her?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. She told me to bring her a cup of tea.” + </p> + <p> + On those rare former occasions, when Mrs. Gallilee had been ill, her + attentive husband never left it to the servants to consult her wishes. + That time had gone by for ever. + </p> + <p> + “Tell your mistress, Joseph, that Mr. Le Frank is here.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVII. + </h2> + <p> + The slander on which Mrs. Gallilee had reckoned, as a means of separating + Ovid and Carmina, was now a slander refuted by unanswerable proof. And the + man whose exertions had achieved this result, was her own lawyer—the + agent whom she had designed to employ, in asserting that claim of the + guardian over the ward which Teresa had defied. + </p> + <p> + As a necessary consequence, the relations between Mr. Mool and herself + were already at an end. + </p> + <p> + There she lay helpless—her authority set at naught; her person + outraged by a brutal attack—there she lay, urged to action by every + reason that a resolute woman could have for asserting her power, and + avenging her wrong—without a creature to take her part, without an + accomplice to serve her purpose. + </p> + <p> + She got on her feet, with the resolution of despair. Her heart sank—the + room whirled round her—she dropped back on the sofa. In a recumbent + position, the giddiness subsided. She could ring the hand-bell on the + table at her side. “Send instantly for Mr. Null,” she said to the maid. + “If he is out, let the messenger follow him, wherever he may be.” + </p> + <p> + The messenger came back with a note. Mr. Null would call on Mrs. Gallilee + as soon as possible. He was then engaged in attendance on Miss Carmina. + </p> + <p> + At that discovery, Mrs. Gallilee’s last reserves of independent resolution + gave way. The services of her own medical attendant were only at her + disposal, when Carmina had done with him! At the top of his letter the + address, which she had thus far tried vainly to discover, stared her in + the face: the house was within five minutes’ walk—and she was not + even able to cross the room! For the first time in her life, Mrs. + Gallilee’s imperious spirit acknowledged defeat. For the first time in her + life, she asked herself the despicable question: Who can I find to help + me? + </p> + <p> + Someone knocked at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + Joseph’s voice answered her. “Mr. Le Frank has called, ma’am—and + wishes to know if you can see him.” + </p> + <p> + She never stopped to think. She never even sent for the maid to see to her + personal appearance. The horror of her own helplessness drove her on. Here + was the man, whose timely betrayal of Carmina had stopped her on her way + to Ovid, in the nick of time! Here was the self-devoted instrument, + waiting to be employed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll see Mr. Le Frank,” she said. “Show him up.” + </p> + <p> + The music-master looked round the obscurely lit room, and bowed to the + recumbent figure on the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “I fear I disturb you, madam, at an inconvenient time.” + </p> + <p> + “I am suffering from illness, Mr. Le Frank; but I am able to receive you—as + you see.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped there. Now, when she saw him, and heard him, some perverse + hesitation in her began to doubt him. Now, when it was too late, she + weakly tried to put herself on her guard. What a decay of energy (she felt + it herself) in the ready and resolute woman, equal to any emergency at + other times! “To what am I to attribute the favour of your visit?” she + resumed. + </p> + <p> + Even her voice failed her: it faltered in spite of her efforts to steady + it. Mr. Le Frank’s vanity drew its own encouraging conclusion from this + one circumstance. + </p> + <p> + “I am anxious to know how I stand in your estimation,” he replied. “Early + this evening, I left a few lines here, enclosing a letter—with my + compliments. Have you received the letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you read it?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee hesitated. Mr. Le Frank smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t trouble you, madam, for any more direct reply,” he said; “I will + speak plainly. Be so good as to tell me plainly, on your side, which I am—a + man who has disgraced himself by stealing a letter? or a man who has + distinguished himself by doing you a service?” + </p> + <p> + An unpleasant alternative, neatly defined! To disavow Mr. Le Frank or to + use Mr. Le Frank—there was the case for Mrs. Gallilee’s + consideration. She was incapable of pronouncing judgment; the mere effort + of decision, after what she had suffered, fatigued and irritated her. “I + can’t deny,” she said, with weary resignation, “that you have done me a + service.” + </p> + <p> + He rose, and made a generous return for the confidence that had been + placed in him—he repeated his magnificent bow, and sat down again. + </p> + <p> + “Our position towards each other seems too plain to be mistaken,” he + proceeded. “Your niece’s letter—perfectly useless for the purpose + with which I opened it—offers me a means of being even with Miss + Carmina, and a chance of being useful to You. Shall I begin by keeping an + eye on the young lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Is that said, Mr. Le Frank, out of devotion to me?” + </p> + <p> + “My devotion to you might wear out,” he answered audaciously. “You may + trust my feeling towards your niece to last—I never forget an + injury. Is it indiscreet to inquire how you mean to keep Miss Carmina from + joining her lover in Quebec? Does a guardian’s authority extend to locking + her up in her room?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee felt the underlying familiarity in these questions—elaborately + concealed as it was under an assumption of respect. + </p> + <p> + “My niece is no longer in my house,” she answered coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Gone!” cried Mr. Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + She corrected the expression. “Removed,” she said, and dropped the subject + there. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank took the subject up again. “Removed, I presume, under the + care of her nurse?” he rejoined. + </p> + <p> + The nurse? What did he know about the nurse? “May I ask—?” Mrs. + Gallilee began. + </p> + <p> + He smiled indulgently, and stopped her there. “You are not quite yourself + to-night,” he said. “Permit me to remind you that your niece’s letter to + Mr. Ovid Vere is explicit, and that I took the liberty of reading it + before I left it at your house.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee listened in silence, conscious that she had committed + another error. She had carefully excluded from her confidence a man who + was already in possession of her secrets! Mr. Le Frank’s courteous + sympathy forbade him to take advantage of the position of superiority + which he now held. + </p> + <p> + “I will do myself the honour of calling again,” he said, “when you are + better able to place the right estimate on my humble offers of service. I + wouldn’t fatigue you, Mrs. Gallilee, for the world! At the same time, + permit me to put one last question which ought not to be delayed. When + Miss Carmina left you, did she take away her writing-desk and her keys?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Allow me to suggest that she may send for them at any moment.” + </p> + <p> + Before it was possible to ask for an explanation, Joseph presented himself + again. Mr. Null was waiting downstairs. Mrs. Gallilee arranged that he + should be admitted when she rang her bell. Mr. Le Frank approached the + sofa, when they were alone, and returned to his suggestion in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Surely, you see the importance of using your niece’s keys?” he resumed. + “We don’t know what correspondence may have been going on, in which the + nurse and the governess have been concerned. After we have already + intercepted a letter, hesitation is absurd! You are not equal to the + effort yourself. I know the room. Don’t be afraid of discovery; I have a + naturally soft footfall—and my excuse is ready, if somebody else has + a soft footfall too. Leave it to me.” + </p> + <p> + He lit a candle as he spoke. But for that allusion to the nurse, Mrs. + Gallilee might have ordered him to blow it out again. Eager for any + discovery which might, by the barest possibility, place Teresa at her + mercy, she silently submitted to Mr. Le Frank. “I’ll call to-morrow,” he + said—and slipped out of the room. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Null was announced, Mrs. Gallilee pushed up the shade over the + globe of the lamp. Her medical attendant’s face might be worth observing, + under a clear light. + </p> + <p> + His timid look, his confused manner, when he made the conventional + apologies, told her at once that Teresa had spoken, and that he knew what + had happened. Even he had never before been so soothing and so attentive. + But he forgot, or he was afraid, to consult appearances by asking what was + the matter, before he felt the pulse, and took the temperature, and wrote + his prescription. Not a word was uttered by Mrs. Gallilee, until the + medical formalities came to an end. “Is there anything more that I can + do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You can tell me,” she said, “when I shall be well again.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null was polite; Mr. Null was sympathetic. Mrs. Gallilee might be + herself again in a day or two—or Mrs. Gallilee might be unhappily + confined to her room for some little time. He had hope in his + prescription, and hope in perfect quiet and repose—he would suggest + the propriety of going to bed at once, and would not fail to call early + the next morning. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down again,” said Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null turned pale. He foresaw what was coming. + </p> + <p> + “You have been in attendance on Miss Carmina. I wish to know what her + illness is.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null began to prevaricate at the outset. “The case causes us serious + anxiety. The complications are formidable. Doctor Benjulia himself—” + </p> + <p> + “In plain words, Mr. Null, can she be moved?” + </p> + <p> + This produced a definite answer. “Quite impossible.” + </p> + <p> + She only ventured to put her next question after waiting a little to + control herself. + </p> + <p> + “Is that foreign woman, the nurse—the only nurse—in + attendance?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak of her, Mrs. Gallilee! A dreadful woman; coarse, furious, a + perfect savage. When I suggested a second nurse—” + </p> + <p> + “I understand. You asked just now if you could do anything for me. You can + do me a great service—you can recommend me a trustworthy lawyer.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null was surprised. As the old medical attendant of the family, he was + not unacquainted with the legal adviser. He mentioned Mr. Mool’s name. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Mool has forfeited my confidence,” Mrs. Gallilee announced. “Can you, + or can you not, recommend a lawyer?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly! My own lawyer.” + </p> + <p> + “You will find writing materials on the table behind me. I won’t keep you + more than five minutes. I want you to write from my dictation.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear lady, in your present condition—” + </p> + <p> + “Do as I tell you! My head is quiet while I lie down. Even a woman in my + condition can say what she means to do. I shall not close my eyes tonight, + unless I can feel that I have put that wretch in her right place. Who are + your lawyers?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null mentioned the names, and took up his pen. + </p> + <p> + “Introduce me in the customary form,” Mrs. Gallilee proceeded; “and then + refer the lawyers to my brother’s Will. Is it done?” + </p> + <p> + In due time it was done. + </p> + <p> + “Tell them next, how my niece has been taken away from me, and where she + has been taken to.” + </p> + <p> + To the best of his ability, Mr. Null complied. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Mrs. Gallilee, “write what I mean to do!” + </p> + <p> + The prospect of being revenged on Teresa revived her. For the moment, at + least, she almost looked like herself again. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null turned over to a new leaf, with a hand that trembled a little. + The dictating voice pronounced these words: + </p> + <p> + “I forbid the woman Teresa to act in the capacity of nurse to Miss + Carmina, and even to enter the room in which that young lady is now lying + ill. I further warn this person, that my niece will be restored to my + care, the moment her medical attendants allow her to be removed. And I + desire my legal advisers to assert my authority, as guardian, to-morrow + morning.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null finished his task in silent dismay. He took out his handkerchief + and wiped his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any very terrible effort required in saying those few words—even + to a shattered creature like me?” Mrs. Gallilee asked bitterly. “Let me + hear that the lawyers have got their instructions, when you come + to-morrow; and give me the name and address of a nurse whom you can + thoroughly recommend. Good-night!” + </p> + <p> + At last, Mr. Null got away. As he softly closed the dressing-room door, + the serious question still dwelt on his mind: What would Teresa do? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVIII. + </h2> + <p> + Even in the welcome retirement of the school-room, Mr. Gallilee’s mind was + not at ease. He was troubled by a question entirely new to him—the + question of himself, in the character of husband and father. + </p> + <p> + Accustomed through long years of conjugal association to look up to his + wife as a superior creature, he was now conscious that her place in his + estimation had been lost, beyond recovery. If he considered next what + ought to be done with Maria and Zo, he only renewed his perplexity and + distress. To leave them (as he had hitherto left them) absolutely + submitted to their mother’s authority, was to resign his children to the + influence of a woman, who had ceased to be the object of his confidence + and respect. He pondered over it in the schoolroom; he pondered over it + when he went to bed. On the next morning, he arrived at a conclusion in + the nature of a compromise. He decided on applying to his good friend, Mr. + Mool, for a word of advice. + </p> + <p> + His first proceeding was to call at Teresa’s lodgings, in the hope of + hearing better news of Carmina. + </p> + <p> + The melancholy report of her was expressed in two words: No change. He was + so distressed that he asked to see the landlady; and tried, in his own + helpless kindhearted way, to get a little hopeful information by asking + questions—useless questions, repeated over and over again in futile + changes of words. The landlady was patient: she respected the undisguised + grief of the gentle modest old man; but she held to the hard truth. The + one possible answer was the answer which her servant had already given. + When she followed him out, to open the door, Mr. Gallilee requested + permission to wait a moment in the hall. “If you will allow me, ma’am, + I’ll wipe my eyes before I go into the street.” + </p> + <p> + Arriving at the office without an appointment, he found the lawyer + engaged. A clerk presented to him a slip of paper, with a line written by + Mr. Mool: “Is it anything of importance?” Simple Mr. Gallilee wrote back: + “Oh, dear, no; it’s only me! I’ll call again.” Besides his critical + judgment in the matter of champagne, this excellent man possessed another + accomplishment—a beautiful handwriting. Mr. Mool, discovering a + crooked line and some ill-formed letters in the reply, drew his own + conclusions. He sent word to his old friend to wait. + </p> + <p> + In ten minutes more they were together, and the lawyer was informed of the + events that had followed the visit of Benjulia to Fairfield Gardens, on + the previous day. + </p> + <p> + For a while, the two men sat silently meditating—daunted by the + prospect before them. When the time came for speaking, they exercised an + influence over each other, of which both were alike unconscious. Out of + their common horror of Mrs. Gallilee’s conduct, and their common interest + in Carmina, they innocently achieved between them the creation of one + resolute man. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Gallilee, this is a very serious thing.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mool, I feel it so—or I shouldn’t have disturbed you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk of disturbing me! I see so many complications ahead of us, I + hardly know where to begin.” + </p> + <p> + “Just my case! It’s a comfort to me that you feel it as I do.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool rose and tried walking up and down his room, as a means of + stimulating his ingenuity. + </p> + <p> + “There’s this poor young lady,” he resumed. “If she gets better—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t put it in that way!” Mr. Gallilee interposed. “It sounds as if you + doubted her ever getting well—you see it yourself in that light, + don’t you? Be a little more positive, Mool, in mercy to me.” + </p> + <p> + “By all means,” Mr. Mool agreed. “Let us say, <i>when</i> she gets better. + But the difficulty meets us, all the same. If Mrs. Gallilee claims her + right, what are we to do?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee rose in his turn, and took a walk up and down the room. That + well-meant experiment only left him feebler than ever. + </p> + <p> + “What possessed her brother to make her Carmina’s guardian?” he asked—with + the nearest approach to irritability of which he was capable. + </p> + <p> + The lawyer was busy with his own thoughts. He only enlightened Mr. + Gallilee after the question had been repeated. + </p> + <p> + “I had the sincerest regard for Mr. Robert Graywell,” he said. “A better + husband and father—and don’t let me forget it, a more charming + artist—never lived. But,” said Mr. Mool, with the air of one + strong-minded man appealing to another: “weak, sadly weak. If you will + allow me to say so, your wife’s self-asserting way—well, it was so + unlike her brother’s way, that it had its effect on him! If Lady Northlake + had been a little less quiet and retiring, the matter might have ended in + a very different manner. As it was (I don’t wish to put the case + offensively) Mrs. Gallilee imposed on him—and there she is, in + authority, under the Will. Let that be. We must protect this poor girl. We + must act!” cried Mr. Mool with a burst of energy. + </p> + <p> + “We must act!” Mr. Gallilee repeated—and feebly clenched his fist, + and softly struck the table. + </p> + <p> + “I think I have an idea,” the lawyer proceeded; “suggested by something + said to me by Miss Carmina herself. May I ask if you are in her + confidence?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee’s face brightened at this. “Certainly,” he answered. “I + always kiss her when we say good-night, and kiss her again when we say + good-morning.” + </p> + <p> + This proof of his friend’s claims as Carmina’s chosen adviser, seemed + rather to surprise Mr. Mool. “Did she ever hint at an idea of hastening + her marriage?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + Plainly as the question was put, it thoroughly puzzled Mr. Gallilee. His + honest face answered for him—he was <i>not</i> in Carmina’s + confidence. Mr. Mool returned to his idea. + </p> + <p> + “The one thing we can do,” he said, “is to hasten Mr. Ovid’s return. There + is the only course to take—as I see it.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s do it at once!” cried Mr. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + “But tell me,” Mr. Mool insisted, greedy for encouragement—“does my + suggestion relieve your mind?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the first happy moment I’ve had to-day!” Mr. Gallilee’s weak voice + piped high: he was getting firmer and firmer with every word he uttered. + </p> + <p> + One of them produced a telegraph-form; the other seized a pen. “Shall we + send the message in your name?” Mr. Mool asked. + </p> + <p> + If Mr. Gallilee had possessed a hundred names he would have sent them (and + paid for them) all. “John Gallilee, 14 Fairfield Gardens, London, To—” + There the pen stopped. Ovid was still in the wilds of Canada. The one way + of communicating with him was through the medium of the bankers at Quebec, + To the bankers, accordingly, the message was sent. “Please telegraph Mr. + Ovid Vere’s address, the moment you know it.” + </p> + <p> + When the telegram had been sent to the office, an interval of inaction + followed. Mr. Gallilee’s fortitude suffered a relapse. “It’s a long time + to wait,” he said. + </p> + <p> + His friend agreed with him. Morally speaking, Mr. Mool’s strength lay in + points of law. No point of law appeared to be involved in the present + conference: he shared Mr. Gallilee’s depression of spirits. “We are quite + helpless,” he remarked, “till Mr. Ovid comes back. In the interval, I see + no choice for Miss Carmina but to submit to her guardian; unless—” + He looked hard at Mr. Gallilee, before he finished his sentence. “Unless,” + he resumed, “you can get over your present feeling about your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Get over it?” Mr. Gallilee repeated. + </p> + <p> + “It seems quite impossible now, I dare say,” the worthy lawyer admitted. + “A very painful impression has been produced on you. Naturally! naturally! + But the force of habit—a married life of many years—your own + kind feeling—” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” asked Mr. Gallilee, bewildered, impatient, almost + angry. + </p> + <p> + “A little persuasion on your part, my good friend—at the interesting + moment of reconciliation—might be followed by excellent results. + Mrs. Gallilee might not object to waive her claims, until time has + softened existing asperities. Surely, a compromise is possible, if you + could only prevail on yourself to forgive your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive her? I should be only too glad to forgive her!” cried Mr. + Gallilee, bursting into violent agitation. “How am I to do it? Good God! + Mool, how am I to do it? <i>You</i> didn’t hear those infamous words. <i>You</i> + didn’t see that dreadful death-struck look of the poor girl. I declare to + you I turn cold when I think of my wife! I can’t go to her when I ought to + go—I send the servants into her room. My children, too—my dear + good children—it’s enough to break one’s heart—think of their + being brought up by a mother who could say what she said, and do—What + will they see, I ask you what will they see, if she gets Carmina back in + the house, and treats that sweet young creature as she <i>will</i> treat + her? There were times last night, when I thought of going away for ever—Lord + knows where—and taking the girls with me. What am I talking about? I + had something to say, and I don’t know what it is; I don’t know my own + self! There, there; I’ll keep quiet. It’s my poor stupid head, I suppose—hot, + Mool, burning hot. Let’s be reasonable. Yes, yes, yes; let’s be + reasonable. You’re a lawyer. I said to myself, when I came here, ‘I want + Mool’s advice.’ Be a dear good fellow—set my mind at ease. Oh, my + friend, my old friend, what can I do for my children?” + </p> + <p> + Amazed and distressed—utterly at a loss how to interfere to any good + purpose—Mr. Mool recovered his presence of mind, the moment Mr. + Gallilee appealed to him in his legal capacity. “Don’t distress yourself + about your children,” he said kindly. “Thank God, we stand on firm ground, + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean it, Mool?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean it. Where your daughters are concerned, the authority is yours. Be + firm, Gallilee! be firm!” + </p> + <p> + “I will! You set me the example—don’t you? <i>You’re</i> firm—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Firm as a rock. I agree with you. For the present at least, the children + must be removed.” + </p> + <p> + “At once, Mool!” + </p> + <p> + “At once!” the lawyer repeated. + </p> + <p> + They had wrought each other up to the right pitch of resolution, by this + time. They were almost loud enough for the clerks to hear them in the + office. + </p> + <p> + “No matter what my wife may say!” Mr. Gallilee stipulated. + </p> + <p> + “No matter what she may say,” Mr. Mool rejoined, “the father is master.” + </p> + <p> + “And <i>you</i> know the law.” + </p> + <p> + “And I know the law. You have only to assert yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “And <i>you</i> have only to back me.” + </p> + <p> + “For your children’s sake, Gallilee!” + </p> + <p> + “Under my lawyer’s advice, Mool!” + </p> + <p> + The one resolute Man was produced at last—without a flaw in him + anywhere. They were both exhausted by the effort. Mr. Mool suggested a + glass of wine. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee ventured on a hint. “You don’t happen to have a drop of + champagne handy?” he said. + </p> + <p> + The lawyer rang for his housekeeper. In five minutes, they were pledging + each other in foaming tumblers. In five minutes more, they plunged back + into business. The question of the best place to which the children could + be removed, was easily settled. Mr. Mool offered his own house; + acknowledging modestly that it had perhaps one drawback—it was + within easy reach of Mrs. Gallilee. The statement of this objection + stimulated his friend’s memory. Lady Northlake was in Scotland. Lady + Northlake had invited Maria and Zo, over and over again, to pass the + autumn with their cousins; but Mrs. Gallilee’s jealousy had always + contrived to find some plausible reason for refusal. “Write at once,” Mr. + Mool advised. “You may do it in two lines. Your wife is ill; Miss Carmina + is ill; you are not able to leave London—and the children are pining + for fresh air.” In this sense, Mr. Gallilee wrote. He insisted on having + the letter sent to the post immediately. “I know it’s long before + post-time,” he explained. “But I want to compose my mind.” + </p> + <p> + The lawyer paused, with his glass of wine at his lips. “I say! You’re not + hesitating already?” + </p> + <p> + “No more than you are,” Mr. Gallilee answered. + </p> + <p> + “You will really send the girls away?” + </p> + <p> + “The girls shall go, on the day when Lady Northlake invites them.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll make a note of that,” said Mr. Mool. + </p> + <p> + He made the note; and they rose to say good-bye. Faithful Mr. Gallilee + still thought of Carmina. “Do consider it again!” he said at parting. “Are + you sure the law won’t help her?” + </p> + <p> + “I might look at her father’s Will,” Mr. Mool replied. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee saw the hopeful side of this suggestion, in the brightest + colours. “Why didn’t you think of it before?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool gently remonstrated. “Don’t forget how many things I have on my + mind,” he said. “It only occurs to me now that the Will may give us a + remedy—if there is any <i>open</i> opposition to the ward’s marriage + engagement, on the guardian’s part.” + </p> + <p> + There he stopped; knowing Mrs. Gallilee’s methods of opposition too well + to reckon hopefully on such a result as this. But he was a merciful man—and + he kept his misgivings to himself. + </p> + <p> + On the way home, Mr. Gallilee encountered his wife’s maid. Marceline was + dropping a letter into the pillar-post-box at the corner of the Square; + she changed colour, on seeing her master. “Corresponding with her + sweetheart,” Mr. Gallilee concluded. + </p> + <p> + Entering the house with an unfinished cigar in his mouth, he made straight + for the smoking-room—and passed his youngest daughter, below him, + waiting out of sight on the kitchen stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Have you done it?” Zo whispered, when Marceline returned by the servants’ + entrance. + </p> + <p> + “It’s safe in the post, dear. Now tell me what you saw yesterday, when you + were hidden in Miss Carmina’s bedroom.” + </p> + <p> + The tone in which she spoke implied a confidential agreement. With + honourable promptitude Zo, perched on her friend’s knee, exerted her + memory, and rewarded Marceline for posting her letter to Ovid. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIX. + </h2> + <p> + It was past the middle of the day, before Mr. Le Frank paid his promised + visit to Mrs. Gallilee. He entered the room with gloomy looks; and made + his polite inquiries, as became a depressed musician, in the minor key. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry, madam, to find you still on the sofa. Is there no improvement + in your health?” + </p> + <p> + “None whatever.” + </p> + <p> + “Does your medical attendant give you any hope?” + </p> + <p> + “He does what they all do—he preaches patience. No more of myself! + You appear to be in depressed spirits.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank admitted with a sigh that appearances had not misrepresented + him. “I have been bitterly disappointed,” he said. “My feelings as an + artist are wounded to the quick. But why do I trouble you with my poor + little personal affairs? I humbly beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes accompanied this modest apology with a look of uneasy + anticipation: he evidently expected to be asked to explain himself. Events + had followed her instructions to Mr. Null, which left Mrs. Gallilee in + need of employing her music-master’s services. She felt the necessity of + exerting herself; and did it—with an effort. + </p> + <p> + “You have no reason, I hope, to complain of your pupils?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “At this time of year, madam, I have no pupils. They are all out of town.” + </p> + <p> + She was too deeply preoccupied by her own affairs to trouble herself any + further. The direct way was the easy way. She said wearily, “Well, what is + it?” + </p> + <p> + He answered in plain terms, this time. + </p> + <p> + “A bitter humiliation, Mrs. Gallilee! I have been made to regret that I + asked you to honour me by accepting the dedication of my Song. The + music-sellers, on whom the sale depends, have not taken a tenth part of + the number of copies for which we expected them to subscribe. Has some + extraordinary change come over the public taste? My composition has been + carefully based on fashionable principles—that is to say, on the + principles of the modern German school. As little tune as possible; and + that little strictly confined to the accompaniment. And what is the + result? Loss confronts me, instead of profit—my agreement makes me + liable for half the expenses of publication. And, what is far more serious + in my estimation, your honoured name is associated with a failure! Don’t + notice me—the artist nature—I shall be better in a minute.” He + took out a profusely-scented handkerchief, and buried his face in it with + a groan. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s hard common sense understood the heart-broken composer to + perfection. + </p> + <p> + “Stupid of me not to have offered him money yesterday,” she thought: “this + waste of time need never have happened.” She set her mistake right with + admirable brevity and directness. “Don’t distress yourself, Mr. Le Frank. + Now my name is on it, the Song is mine. If your publisher’s account is not + satisfactory—be so good as to send it to <i>me.”</i> Mr. Le Frank + dropped his dry handkerchief, and sprang theatrically to his feet. His + indulgent patroness refused to hear him: to this admirable woman, the + dignity of Art was a sacred thing. “Not a word more on that subject,” she + said. “Tell me how you prospered last night. Your investigations cannot + have been interrupted, or I should have heard of it. Come to the result! + Have you found anything of importance in my niece’s room?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank had again been baffled, so far as the confirmation of his own + suspicions was concerned. But the time was not favourable to a confession + of personal disappointment. He understood the situation; and made himself + the hero of it, in three words. + </p> + <p> + “Judge for yourself,” he said—and held out the letter of warning + from Father Patrizio. + </p> + <p> + In silence, Mrs. Gallilee read the words which declared her to be the + object of Teresa’s inveterate resentment, and which charged Carmina with + the serious duty of keeping the peace. + </p> + <p> + “Does it alarm you?” Mr. Le Frank asked. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know what I feel,” she answered. “Give me time to think.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank went back to his chair. He had reason to congratulate himself + already: he had shifted to other shoulders the pecuniary responsibility + involved in the failure of his Song. Observing Mrs. Gallilee, he began to + see possibilities of a brighter prospect still. Thus far she had kept him + at a certain distance. Was the change of mind coming, which would admit + him to the position (with all its solid advantages) of a confidential + friend? + </p> + <p> + She suddenly took up Father Patrizio’s letter, and showed it to him. + </p> + <p> + “What impression does it produce on you,” she asked, “knowing no more than + you know now?” + </p> + <p> + “The priest’s cautious language, madam, speaks for itself. You have an + enemy who will stick at nothing.” + </p> + <p> + She still hesitated to trust him. + </p> + <p> + “You see me here,” she went on, “confined to my room; likely, perhaps, to + be in this helpless condition for some time to come. How would you protect + yourself against that woman, in my place?” + </p> + <p> + “I should wait.” + </p> + <p> + “For what purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “If you will allow me to use the language of the card-table, I should wait + till the woman shows her hand.” + </p> + <p> + “She <i>has</i> shown it.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask when?” + </p> + <p> + “This morning.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank said no more. If he was really wanted, Mrs. Gallilee had only + to speak. After a last moment of hesitation, the pitiless necessities of + her position decided her once more. “You see me too ill to move,” she + said; “the first thing to do, is to tell you why.” + </p> + <p> + She related the plain facts; without a word of comment, without a sign of + emotion. But her husband’s horror of her had left an impression, which + neither pride nor contempt had been strong enough to resist. She allowed + the music-master to infer, that contending claims to authority over + Carmina had led to a quarrel which provoked the assault. The secret of the + words that she had spoken, was the one secret that she kept from Mr. Le + Frank. + </p> + <p> + “While I was insensible,” she proceeded, “my niece was taken away from me. + She has been suffering from nervous illness; she was naturally terrified—and + she is now at the nurse’s lodgings, too ill to be moved. There you have + the state of affairs, up to last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Some people might think,” Mr. Le Frank remarked, “that the easiest way + out of it, so far, would be to summon the nurse for the assault.” + </p> + <p> + “The easiest way compels me to face a public exposure,” Mrs. Gallilee + answered. “In my position that is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank accepted this view of the case as a matter of course. “Under + the circumstances,” he said, “it’s not easy to advise you. How can you + make the woman submit to your authority, while you are lying here?” + </p> + <p> + “My lawyers have made her submit this morning.” + </p> + <p> + In the extremity of his surprise, Mr. Le Frank forgot himself. “The devil + they have!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “They have forbidden her, in my name,” Mrs. Gallilee continued, “to act as + nurse to my niece. They have informed her that Miss Carmina will be + restored to my care, the moment she can be moved. And they have sent me + her unconditional submission in writing, signed by herself.” + </p> + <p> + She took it from the desk at her side, and read it to him, in these words: + </p> + <p> + “I humbly ask pardon of Mrs. Gallilee for the violent and unlawful acts of + which I have been guilty. I acknowledge, and submit to, her authority as + guardian of Miss Carmina Graywell. And I appeal to her mercy (which I own + I have not deserved) to spare me the misery of separation from Miss + Carmina, on any conditions which it may be her good will and pleasure to + impose.” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” Mrs. Galilee concluded, “what do you say?” + </p> + <p> + Speaking sincerely for once, Mr. Le Frank made a startling reply. + </p> + <p> + “Submit on your side,” he said. “Do what she asks of you. And when you are + well enough to go to her lodgings, decline with thanks if she offers you + anything to eat or drink.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee raised herself on the sofa. “Are you insulting me, sir,” she + asked, “by making this serious emergency the subject of a joke?” + </p> + <p> + “I never was more in earnest, madam, in my life.” + </p> + <p> + “You think—you really think—that she is capable of trying to + poison me?” + </p> + <p> + “Most assuredly I do.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee sank back on the pillow. Mr. Le Frank stated his reasons; + checking them off, one by one, on his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Who is she?” he began. “She is an Italian woman of the lower orders. The + virtues of the people among whom she had been born and bred, are not + generally considered to include respect for the sanctity of human life. + What do we know already that she has done? She has alarmed the priest, who + keeps her conscience, and knows her well; and she has attacked you with + such murderous ferocity that it is a wonder you have escaped with your + life. What sort of message have you sent to her, after this experience of + her temper? You have told the tigress that you have the power to separate + her from her cub, and that you mean to use it. On those plain facts, as + they stare us in the face, which is the soundest conclusion? To believe + that she really submits—or to believe that she is only gaining time, + and is capable (if she sees no other alternative) of trying to poison + you?” + </p> + <p> + “What would you advise me to do?” In those words Mrs. Gallilee—never + before reduced to ask advice of anybody—owned that sound reasoning + was not thrown away on her. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank answered the demand made on him without hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “The nurse has not signed that act of submission,” he said, “without + having her own private reasons for appearing to give way. Rely on it, she + is prepared for you—and there is at least a chance that some proof + of it may be found. Have all her movements privately watched—and + search the room she lives in, as I searched Miss Carmina’s room last + night.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Mrs. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Mr. Le Frank repeated. + </p> + <p> + She angrily gave way. “Say at once that you are the man to do it for me!” + she answered. “And say next—if you can—how it is to be done.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank’s manner softened to an air of gentle gallantry. + </p> + <p> + “Pray compose yourself!” he said. “I am so glad to be of service to you, + and it is so easily done!” + </p> + <p> + “Easily?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear madam, quite easily. Isn’t the house a lodging-house; and, at this + time of year, have I anything to do?” He rose, and took his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Surely, you see me in my new character now? A single gentleman wants a + bedroom. His habits are quiet, and he gives excellent references. The + address, Mrs. Gallilee—may I trouble you for the address?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER L. + </h2> + <p> + Towards seven o’clock on the evening of Thursday, Carmina recognised + Teresa for the first time. + </p> + <p> + Her half-closed eyes opened, as if from a long sleep: they rested on the + old nurse without any appearance of surprise. “I am so glad to see you, my + dear,” she said faintly. “Are you very tired after you journey?” None of + the inquiries which might have been anticipated followed those first + words. Not the slightest allusion to Mrs. Gallilee escaped her; she + expressed no anxiety about Miss Minerva; no sign of uneasiness at finding + herself in a. strange room, disturbed her quiet face. Contentedly + reposing, she looked at Teresa from time to time and said, “You will stay + with me, won’t you?” Now and then, she confessed that her head felt dull + and heavy, and asked Teresa to take her hand. “I feel as if I was sinking + away from you,” she said; “keep hold of my hand and I shan’t be afraid to + go to sleep.” The words were hardly spoken, before she sank into slumber. + Occasionally, Teresa felt her hand tremble and kissed it. She seemed to be + conscious of the kiss, without waking—she smiled in her sleep. + </p> + <p> + But, when the first hours of the morning came, this state of passive + repose was disturbed. A violent attack of sickness came on. It was + repeated again and again. Teresa sent for Mr. Null. He did what he could + to relieve the new symptom; and he despatched a messenger to his + illustrious colleague. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia lost no time in answering personally the appeal that had been + made to him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null said, “Serious derangement of the stomach, sir.” Benjulia agreed + with him. Mr. Null showed his prescription. Benjulia sanctioned the + prescription. Mr. Null said, “Is there anything you wish to suggest, sir?” + Benjulia had nothing to suggest. + </p> + <p> + He waited, nevertheless, until Carmina was able to speak to him. Teresa + and Mr. Null wondered what he would say to her. He only said, “Do you + remember when you last saw me?” After a little consideration, she + answered, “Yes, Zo was with us; Zo brought in your big stick; and we + talked—” She tried to rouse her memory. “What did we talk about?” + she asked. A momentary agitation brought a flush to her face. “I can’t + remember it,” she said; “I can’t remember when you went away: does it + matter?” Benjulia replied, “Not the least in the world. Go to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + But he still remained in the room—watching her as she grew drowsy. + “Great weakness,” Mr. Null whispered. And Benjulia answered, “Yes; I’ll + call again.” + </p> + <p> + On his way out, he took Teresa aside. + </p> + <p> + “No more questions,” he said—“and don’t help her memory if she asks + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Will she remember, when she gets better?” Teresa inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible to say, yet. Wait and see.” + </p> + <p> + He left her in a hurry; his experiments were waiting for him. On the way + home, his mind dwelt on Carmina’s case. Some hidden process was at work + there: give it time—and it would show itself. “I hope that ass won’t + want me,” he said, thinking of his medical colleague, “for at least a week + to come.” + </p> + <p> + The week passed—and the physiologist was not disturbed. + </p> + <p> + During that interval, Mr. Null succeeded in partially overcoming the + attacks of sickness: they were less violent, and they were succeeded by + longer intervals of repose. In other respects, there seemed (as Teresa + persisted in thinking) to be some little promise of improvement. A certain + mental advance was unquestionably noticeable in Carmina. It first showed + itself in an interesting way: she began to speak of Ovid. + </p> + <p> + Her great anxiety was, that he should know nothing of her illness. She + forbade Teresa to write to him; she sent messages to Mr. and Mrs. + Gallilee, and even to Mr. Mool, entreating them to preserve silence. + </p> + <p> + The nurse engaged to deliver the messages—and failed to keep her + word. This breach of promise (as events had ordered it) proved to be + harmless. Mrs. Gallilee had good reasons for not writing. Her husband and + Mr. Mool had decided on sending their telegram to the bankers. As for + Teresa herself, she had no desire to communicate with Ovid. His absence + remained inexcusable, from her point of view. Well or ill, with or without + reason, it was the nurse’s opinion that he ought to have remained at home, + in Carmina’s interests. No other persons were in the least likely to write + to Ovid—nobody thought of Zo as a correspondent—Carmina was + pacified. + </p> + <p> + Once or twice, at this later time, the languid efforts of her memory took + a wider range. + </p> + <p> + She wondered why Mrs. Gallilee never came near her; owning that her aunt’s + absence was a relief to her, but not feeling interest enough in the + subject to ask for information. She also mentioned Miss Minerva. “Do you + know where she has gone? Don’t you think she ought to write to me?” Teresa + offered to make inquiries. She turned her head wearily on the pillow, and + said, “Never mind!” On another occasion, she asked for Zo, and said it + would be pleasant if Mr. Gallilee would call and bring her with him. But + she soon dropped the subject, not to return to it again. + </p> + <p> + The only remembrance which seemed to dwell on her mind for more than a few + minutes, was her remembrance of the last letter which she had written to + Ovid. + </p> + <p> + She pleased herself with imagining his surprise, when he received it; she + grew impatient under her continued illness, because it delayed her in + escaping to Canada; she talked to Teresa of the clever manner in which the + flight had been planned—with this strange failure of memory, that + she attributed the various arrangements for setting discovery at defiance, + not to Miss Minerva, but to the nurse. + </p> + <p> + Here, for the first time, her mind was approaching dangerous ground. The + stealing of the letter, and the events that had followed it, stood next in + the order of remembrance—if she was capable of a continued effort. + Her weakness saved her. Beyond the writing of the letter, her + recollections were unable to advance. Not the faintest allusion to any + later circumstances escaped her. The poor stricken brain still sought its + rest in frequent intervals of sleep. Sometimes, she drifted back into + partial unconsciousness; sometimes, the attacks of sickness returned. Mr. + Null set an excellent example of patience and resignation. He believed as + devoutly as ever in his prescriptions; he placed the greatest reliance on + time and care. The derangement of the stomach (as he called it) presented + something positive and tangible to treat: he had got over the doubts and + anxieties that troubled him, when Carmina was first removed to the + lodgings. Looking confidently at the surface—without an idea of what + was going on below it—he could tell Teresa, with a safe conscience, + that he understood the case. He was always ready to comfort her, when her + excitable Italian nature passed from the extreme of hope to the extreme of + despair. “My good woman, we see our way now: it’s a great point gained, I + assure you, to see our way.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by seeing your way?” said the downright nurse. “Tell me + when Carmina will be well again.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null’s medical knowledge was not yet equal to this demand on it. “The + progress is slow,” he admitted, “still Miss Carmina is getting on.” + </p> + <p> + “Is her aunt getting on?” Teresa asked abruptly. “When is Mistress + Gallilee likely to come here?” + </p> + <p> + “In a few days—” Mr. Null was about to add “I hope;” but he thought + of what might happen when the two women met. As it was, Teresa’s face + showed signs of serious disturbance: her mind was plainly not prepared for + this speedy prospect of a visit from Mrs. Gallilee. She took a letter out + of her pocket. + </p> + <p> + “I find a good deal of sly prudence in you,” she said to Mr. Null. “You + must have seen something, in your time, of the ways of deceitful + Englishwomen. What does that palaver mean in plain words?” She handed the + letter to him. + </p> + <p> + With some reluctance he read it. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gallilee declines to contract any engagement with the person + formerly employed as nurse, in the household of the late Mr. Robert + Graywell. Mrs. Gallilee so far recognises the apology and submission + offered to her, as to abstain from taking immediate proceedings. In + arriving at this decision, she is also influenced by the necessity of + sparing her niece any agitation which might interfere with the medical + treatment. When the circumstances appear to require it, she will not + hesitate to exert her authority.” + </p> + <p> + The handwriting told Mr. Null that this manifesto had not been written by + Mrs. Gallilee herself. The person who had succeeded him, in the capacity + of that lady’s amanuensis, had been evidently capable of giving sound + advice. Little did he suspect that this mysterious secretary was identical + with an enterprising pianist, who had once prevailed on him to take a seat + at a concert; price five shillings. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Teresa. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null hesitated. + </p> + <p> + The nurse stamped impatiently on the floor. “Tell me this! When she does + come here, will she part me from Carmina? Is that what she means?” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly,” said prudent Mr. Null. + </p> + <p> + Teresa pointed to the door. “Good-morning! I want nothing more of you. Oh, + man, man, leave me by myself!” + </p> + <p> + The moment she was alone, she fell on her knees. Fiercely whispering, she + repeated over and over again the words of the Lord’s Prayer: “‘Lead us not + into temptation, but deliver us from evil.’ Christ, hear me! Mother of + Christ, hear me! Oh, Carmina! Carmina!” + </p> + <p> + She rose and opened the door which communicated with the bedroom. + Trembling pitiably, she looked for a while at Carmina, peacefully asleep—then + turned away to a corner of the room, in which stood an old packing-case, + fitted with a lock. She took it up; and, returning with it to the + sitting-room, softly closed the bedroom door again. + </p> + <p> + After some hesitation, she decided to open the case. In the terror and + confusion that possessed her, she tried the wrong key. Setting this + mistake right, she disclosed—strangely mingled with the lighter + articles of her own dress—a heap of papers; some of them letters and + bills; some of them faded instructions in writing for the preparation of + artists’ colours. + </p> + <p> + She recoiled from the objects which her own act had disclosed. Why had she + not taken Father Patrizio’s advice? If she had only waited another day; if + she had only sorted her husband’s papers, before she threw the things that + her trunk was too full to hold into that half-empty case, what torment + might have been spared to her! Her eyes turned mournfully to the bedroom + door. “Oh, my darling, I was in such a hurry to get to You!” + </p> + <p> + At last, she controlled herself, and put her hand into the case. Searching + it in one corner, she produced a little tin canister. A dirty label was + pasted on the canister, bearing this quaint inscription in the Italian + language: + </p> + <p> + “If there is any of the powder we employ in making some of our prettiest + colours, left in here, I request my good wife, or any other trustworthy + person in her place, to put a seal on it, and take it directly to the + manufactory, with the late foreman’s best respects. It looks like nice + sugar. Beware of looks—or you may taste poison.” + </p> + <p> + On the point of opening the canister she hesitated. Under some strange + impulse, she did what a child might have done: she shook it, and listened. + </p> + <p> + The rustle of the rising and falling powder—renewing her terror—seemed + to exercise some irresistible fascination over her. “The devil’s dance,” + she said to herself, with a ghastly smile. “Softly up—and softly + down—and tempting me to take off the cover all the time! Why don’t I + get rid of it?” + </p> + <p> + That question set her thinking of Carmina’s guardian. + </p> + <p> + If Mr. Null was right, in a day or two Mrs. Gallilee might come to the + house. After the lawyers had threatened Teresa with the prospect of + separation from Carmina, she had opened the packing-case, for the first + time since she had left Rome—intending to sort her husband’s papers + as a means of relief from her own thoughts. In this way, she had + discovered the canister. The sight of the deadly powder had tempted her. + There were the horrid means of setting Mrs. Gallilee’s authority at + defiance! Some women in her place, would use them. Though she was not + looking into the canister now, she felt that thought stealing back into + her mind. There was but one hope for her: she resolved to get rid of the + poison. + </p> + <p> + How? + </p> + <p> + At that period of the year, there was no fire in the grate. Within the + limits of the room, the means of certain destruction were slow to present + themselves. Her own morbid horror of the canister made her suspicious of + the curiosity of other people, who might see it in her hand if she showed + herself on the stairs. But she was determined, if she lit a fire for the + purpose, to find the way to her end. The firmness of her resolution + expressed itself by locking the case again, without restoring the canister + to its hiding-place. + </p> + <p> + Providing herself next with a knife, she sat down in a corner—between + the bedroom door on one side, and a cupboard in an angle of the wall on + the other—and began the work of destruction by scraping off the + paper label. The fragments might be burnt, and the powder (if she made a + vow to the Virgin to do it) might be thrown into the fire next—and + then the empty canister would be harmless. + </p> + <p> + She had made but little progress in the work of scraping, when it occurred + to her that the lighting of a fire, on that warm autumn day, might look + suspicious if the landlady or Mr. Null happened to come in. It would be + safer to wait till night-time, when everybody would be in bed. + </p> + <p> + Arriving at this conclusion, she mechanically suspended the use of her + knife. + </p> + <p> + In the moment of silence that followed, she heard someone enter the + bedroom by the door which opened on the stairs. Immediately afterwards, + the person turned the handle of the second door at her side. She had + barely time enough to open the cupboard, and hide the canister in it—when + the landlady came in. + </p> + <p> + Teresa looked at her wildly. The landlady looked at the cupboard: she was + proud of her cupboard. + </p> + <p> + “Plenty of room there,” she said boastfully: “not another house in the + neighbourhood could offer you such accommodation as that! Yes—the + lock is out of order; I don’t deny it. The last lodger’s doings! She + spoilt my tablecloth, and put the inkstand over it to hide the place. + Beast! there’s her character in one word. You didn’t hear me knock at the + bedroom door? I am so glad to see her sleeping nicely, poor dear! Her + chicken broth is ready when she wakes. I’m late to-day in making my + inquiries after our young lady. You see we have been hard at work + upstairs, getting the bedroom ready for a new lodger. Such a contrast to + the person who has just left. A perfect gentleman, this time—and so + kind in waiting a week till I was able to accommodate him. My ground floor + rooms were vacant, as you know—but he said the terms were too high + for him. Oh, I didn’t forget to mention that we had an invalid in the + house! Quiet habits (I said) are indeed an essential qualification of any + new inmate, at such a time as this. He understood. ‘I’ve been an invalid + myself’ (he said); ‘and the very reason I am leaving my present lodgings + is that they are not quiet enough.’ Isn’t that just the sort of man we + want? And, let me tell you, a handsome man too. With a drawback, I must + own, in the shape of a bald head. But such a beard, and such a thrilling + voice! Hush! Did I hear her calling?” + </p> + <p> + At last, the landlady permitted other sounds to be audible, besides the + sound of her own voice. It became possible to discover that Carmina was + now awake. Teresa hurried into the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + Left by herself in the sitting-room, the landlady—“purely out of + curiosity,” as she afterwards said, in conversation with her new lodger—opened + the cupboard, and looked in. + </p> + <p> + The canister stood straight before her, on an upper shelf. Did Miss + Carmina’s nurse take snuff? She examined the canister: there was a white + powder inside. The mutilated label spoke in an unknown tongue. She wetted + her finger and tasted the powder. The result was so disagreeable that she + was obliged to use her handkerchief. She put the canister back, and closed + the cupboard. + </p> + <p> + “Medicine, undoubtedly,” the landlady said to herself. “Why should she + hurry to put it away, when I came in?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LI. + </h2> + <p> + In eight days from the date of his second interview with Mrs. Gallilee, + Mr. Le Frank took possession of his new bedroom. + </p> + <p> + He had arranged to report his proceedings in writing. In Teresa’s state of + mind, she would certainly distrust a fellow-lodger, discovered in personal + communication with Mrs. Gallilee. Mr. Le Frank employed the first day + after his arrival in collecting the materials for a report. In the + evening, he wrote to Mrs. Gallilee—under cover to a friend, who was + instructed to forward the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Private and confidential. Dear Madam,—I have not wasted my time and + my opportunities, as you will presently see. + </p> + <p> + “My bedroom is immediately above the floor of the house which is occupied + by Miss Carmina and her nurse. Having some little matters of my own to + settle, I was late in taking possession of my room. Before the lights on + the staircase were put out, I took the liberty of looking down at the next + landing. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember, when you were a child learning to write, that one of the + lines in your copy-books was, ‘Virtue is its own reward’? This ridiculous + assertion was actually verified in my case! Before I had been five minutes + at my post, I saw the nurse open her door. She looked up the staircase + (without discovering me, it is needless to say), and she looked down the + staircase—and, seeing nobody about, returned to her rooms. + </p> + <p> + “Waiting till I heard her lock the door, I stole downstairs, and listened + outside. + </p> + <p> + “One of my two fellow-lodgers (you know that I don’t believe in Miss + Carmina’s illness) was lighting a fire—on such a warm autumn night, + that the staircase window was left open! I am absolutely sure of what I + say: I heard the crackle of burning wood—I smelt coal smoke. + </p> + <p> + “The motive of this secret proceeding it seems impossible to guess at. If + they were burning documents of a dangerous and compromising kind, a candle + would have answered their purpose. If they wanted hot water, surely a tin + kettle and a spirit lamp must have been at hand in an invalid’s bedroom? + Perhaps, your superior penetration may be able to read the riddle which + baffles my ingenuity. + </p> + <p> + “So much for the first night. + </p> + <p> + “This afternoon, I had some talk with the landlady. My professional + avocations having trained me in the art of making myself agreeable to the + sex, I may say without vanity that I produced a favourable impression. In + other words, I contrived to set my fair friend talking freely about the + old nurse and the interesting invalid. + </p> + <p> + “Out of the flow of words poured on me, one fact of very serious + importance has risen to the surface. There is a suspicious canister in the + nurse’s possession. The landlady calls the powder inside, medicine. I say, + poison. + </p> + <p> + “Am I rushing at a fanciful conclusion? Please wait a little. + </p> + <p> + “During the week of delay which elapsed, before the lodger in possession + vacated my room, you kindly admitted me to an interview. I ventured to put + some questions, relating to Teresa’s life in Italy and to the persons with + whom she associated. Do you remember telling me, when I asked what you + knew of her husband, that he was foreman in a manufactory of artists’ + colours? and that you had your information from Miss Carmina herself, + after she had shown you the telegram announcing his death? + </p> + <p> + “A lady, possessed of your scientific knowledge, does not require to be + told that poisons are employed in making artists’ colours. Remember what + the priest’s letter says of Teresa’s feeling towards you, and then say—Is + it so very unlikely that she has brought with her to England one of the + poisons used by her husband in his trade? and is it quite unreasonable to + suppose (when she looks at her canister) that she may be thinking of you? + </p> + <p> + “I may be right or I may be wrong. Thanks to the dilapidated condition of + a lock, I can decide the question, at the first opportunity offered to me + by the nurse’s absence from the room. + </p> + <p> + “My next report shall tell you that I have contrived to provide myself + with a sample of the powder—leaving the canister undisturbed. The + sample shall be tested by a chemist. If he pronounces it to be poison, I + have a bold course of action to propose. + </p> + <p> + “As soon as you are well enough to go to the house, give the nurse her + chance of poisoning you. + </p> + <p> + “Dear madam, don’t be alarmed! I will accompany you; and I will answer for + the result. We will pay our visit at tea-time. Let her offer you a cup—and + let me (under pretence of handing it) get possession of the poisoned + drink. Before she can cry Stop!—I shall be on my way to the chemist. + </p> + <p> + “The penalty for attempted murder is penal servitude. If you still object + to a public exposure, we have the chemist’s report, together with your own + evidence, ready for your son on his return. How will he feel about his + marriage-engagement, when he finds that Miss Carmina’s dearest friend and + companion has tried—<i>perhaps, with her young lady’s knowledge</i>—to + poison his mother? + </p> + <p> + “Before concluding, I may mention that I had a narrow escape, only two + hours since, of being seen by Teresa on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “I was of course prepared for this sort of meeting, when I engaged my + room; and I have therefore not been foolish enough to enter the house + under an assumed name. On the contrary, I propose (in your interests) to + establish a neighbourly acquaintance—with time to help me. But the + matter of the poison admits of no delay. My chance of getting at it + unobserved may be seriously compromised, if the nurse remembers that she + first met with me in your house, and distrusts me accordingly. Your + devoted servant, L. F.” + </p> + <p> + Having completed his letter, he rang for the maid, and gave it to her to + post. + </p> + <p> + On her way downstairs, she was stopped on the next landing by Mr. Null. He + too had a letter ready: addressed to Doctor Benjulia. The fierce old nurse + followed him out, and said, “Post it instantly!” The civil maid asked if + Miss Carmina was better. “Worse!”—was all the rude foreigner said. + She looked at poor Mr. Null, as if it was his fault. + </p> + <p> + Left in the retirement of his room, Mr. Le Frank sat at the writing-table, + frowning and biting his nails. + </p> + <p> + Were these evidences of a troubled mind connected with the infamous + proposal which he had addressed to Mrs. Gallilee? Nothing of the sort! + Having sent away his letter, he was now at leisure to let his personal + anxieties absorb him without restraint. He was thinking of Carmina. The + oftener his efforts were baffled, the more resolute he became to discover + the secret of her behaviour to him. For the hundredth time he said to + himself, “Her devilish malice reviles me behind my back, and asks me + before my face to shake hands and be friends.” The more outrageously + unreasonable his suspicions became, under the exasperating influence of + suspense, the more inveterately his vindictive nature held to its + delusion. After meeting her in the hall at Fairfield Gardens, he really + believed Carmina’s illness to have been assumed as a means of keeping out + of his way. If a friend had said to him, “But what reason have you to + think so?”—he would have smiled compassionately, and have given that + friend up for a shallow-minded man. + </p> + <p> + He stole out again, and listened, undetected, at their door. Carmina was + speaking; but the words, in those faint tones, were inaudible. Teresa’s + stronger voice easily reached his ears. “My darling, talking is not good + for you. I’ll light the night-lamp—try to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + Hearing this, he went back to his bedroom to wait a little. Teresa’s + vigilance might relax if Carmina fell asleep. She might go downstairs for + a gossip with the landlady. + </p> + <p> + After smoking a cigar, he tried again. The lights on the staircase were + now put out: it was eleven o’clock. + </p> + <p> + She was not asleep: the nurse was reading to her from some devotional + book. He gave it up, for that night. His head ached; the ferment of his + own abominable thoughts had fevered him. A cowardly dread of the slightest + signs of illness was one of his special weaknesses. The whole day, + to-morrow, was before him. He felt his own pulse; and determined, in + justice to himself, to go to bed. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later, the landlady, on her way to bed, ascended the stairs. + She too heard the voice, still reading aloud—and tapped softly at + the door. Teresa opened it. + </p> + <p> + “Is the poor thing not asleep yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she been disturbed in some way?” + </p> + <p> + “Somebody has been walking about, overhead,” Teresa answered. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the new lodger!” exclaimed the landlady. “I’ll speak to Mr. Le + Frank.” + </p> + <p> + On the point of closing the door, and saying good-night, Teresa stopped, + and considered for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Is he your new lodger?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Do you know him?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw him when I was last in England.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more,” Teresa answered. “Good-night!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LII. + </h2> + <p> + Watching through the night by Carmina’s bedside, Teresa found herself + thinking of Mr. Le Frank. It was one way of getting through the weary + time, to guess at the motive which had led him to become a lodger in the + house. + </p> + <p> + Common probabilities pointed to the inference that he might have reasons + for changing his residence, which only concerned himself. But common + probabilities—from Teresa’s point of view—did not apply to Mr. + Le Frank. On meeting him, at the time of her last visit to England, his + personal appearance had produced such a disagreeable impression on her, + that she had even told Carmina “the music-master looked like a rogue.” + With her former prejudice against him now revived, and with her serious + present reasons for distrusting Mrs. Gallilee, she rejected the idea of + his accidental presence under her landlady’s roof. To her mind, the + business of the new lodger in the house was, in all likelihood, the + business of a spy. + </p> + <p> + While Mr. Le Frank was warily laying his plans for the next day, he had + himself become an object of suspicion to the very woman whose secrets he + was plotting to surprise. + </p> + <p> + This was the longest and saddest night which the faithful old nurse had + passed at her darling’s bedside. + </p> + <p> + For the first time, Carmina was fretful, and hard to please: patient + persuasion was needed to induce her to take her medicine. Even when she + was thirsty, she had an irritable objection to being disturbed, if the + lemonade was offered to her which she had relished at other times. Once or + twice, when she drowsily stirred in her bed, she showed symptoms of + delusion. The poor girl supposed it was the eve or her wedding-day, and + eagerly asked what Teresa had done with her new dress. A little later, + when she had perhaps been dreaming, she fancied that her mother was still + alive, and repeated the long-forgotten talk of her childhood. “What have I + said to distress you?” she asked wonderingly, when she found Teresa + crying. + </p> + <p> + Soon after sunrise, there came a long interval of repose. + </p> + <p> + At the later time when Benjulia arrived, she was quiet and uncomplaining. + The change for the worse which had induced Teresa to insist on sending for + him, was perversely absent. Mr. Null expected to be roughly rebuked for + having disturbed the great man by a false alarm. He attempted to explain: + and Teresa attempted to explain. Benjulia paid not the slightest attention + to either of them. He made no angry remarks—and he showed, in his + own impenetrable way, as gratifying an interest in the case as ever. + </p> + <p> + “Draw up the blind,” he said; “I want to have a good look at her.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null waited respectfully, and imposed strict silence on Teresa, while + the investigation was going on. It lasted so long that he ventured to say, + “Do you see anything particular, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia saw his doubts cleared up: time (as he had anticipated) had + brought development with it, and had enabled him to arrive at a + conclusion. The shock that had struck Carmina had produced complicated + hysterical disturbance, which was now beginning to simulate paralysis. + Benjulia’s profound and practised observation detected a trifling + inequality in the size of the pupils of the eyes, and a slightly unequal + action on either side of the face—delicately presented in the + eyelids, the nostrils, and the lips. Here was no common affection of the + brain, which even Mr. Null could understand! Here, at last, was Benjulia’s + reward for sacrificing the precious hours which might otherwise have been + employed in the laboratory! From that day, Carmina was destined to receive + unknown honour: she was to take her place, along with the other animals, + in his note-book of experiments. + </p> + <p> + He turned quietly to Mr. Null, and finished the consultation in two words. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you nothing to suggest, sir?” Mr. Null inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Go on with the treatment—and draw down the blind, if she complains + of the light. Good-day!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure he’s a great doctor?” said Teresa, when the door had closed + on him. + </p> + <p> + “The greatest we have!” cried Mr. Null with enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “Is he a good man?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to know if we can trust him to tell us the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a doubt of it!” (Who could doubt it, indeed, after he had approved of + Mr. Null’s medical treatment?) + </p> + <p> + “There’s one thing you have forgotten,” Teresa persisted. “You haven’t + asked him when Carmina can be moved.” + </p> + <p> + “My good woman, if I had put such a question, he would have set me down as + a fool! Nobody can say when she will be well enough to be moved.” + </p> + <p> + He took his hat. The nurse followed him out. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to Mrs. Gallilee, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she better?” + </p> + <p> + “She is almost well again.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIII. + </h2> + <p> + Left alone, Teresa went into the sitting-room: she was afraid to show + herself at the bedside. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null had destroyed the one hope which had supported her thus far—the + hope of escaping from England with Carmina, before Mrs. Gallilee could + interfere. Looking steadfastly at that inspiriting prospect, she had + forced herself to sign the humble apology and submission which the lawyers + had dictated. What was the prospect now? Heavily had the merciless hand of + calamity fallen on that brave old soul—and, at last, it had beaten + her down! While she stood at the window, mechanically looking out, the + dreary view of the back street trembled and disappeared. Teresa was + crying. Happily for herself, she was unable to control her own weakness; + the tears lightened her heavy heart. She waited a little, in the fear that + her eyes might betray her, before she returned to Carmina. In that + interval, she heard the sound of a closing door, on the floor above. + </p> + <p> + “The music-master!” she said to herself. + </p> + <p> + In an instant, she was at the sitting-room door, looking through the + keyhole. It was the one safe way of watching him—and that was enough + for Teresa. + </p> + <p> + His figure appeared suddenly within her narrow range of view—on the + mat outside the door. If her distrust of him was without foundation, he + would go on downstairs. No! He stopped on the mat to listen—he + stooped—his eye would have been at the keyhole in another moment. + </p> + <p> + She seized a chair, and moved it. The sound instantly drove him away. He + went on, down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Teresa considered with herself what safest means of protection—and, + if possible, of punishment as well—lay within her reach. How, and + where, could the trap be set that might catch him? + </p> + <p> + She was still puzzled by that question, when the landlady made her + appearance—politely anxious to hear what the doctors thought of + their patient. Satisfied so far, the wearisome woman had her apologies to + make next, for not having yet cautioned Mr. Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + “Thinking over it, since last night,” she said confidentially, “I cannot + imagine how you heard him walking overhead. He has such a soft step that + he positively takes me by surprise when he comes into my room. He has gone + out for an hour; and I have done him a little favour which I am not in the + habit of conferring on ordinary lodgers—I have lent him my umbrella, + as it threatens rain. In his absence, I will ask you to listen while I + walk about in his room. One can’t be too particular, when rest is of such + importance to your young lady—and it has struck me as just possible, + that the floor of his room may be in fault. My dear, the boards may creak! + I’m a sad fidget, I know; but, if the carpenter can set things right—without + any horrid hammering, of course!—the sooner he is sent for, the more + relieved I shall feel.” + </p> + <p> + Through this harangue, the nurse had waited, with a patience far from + characteristic of her, for an opportunity of saying a timely word. By some + tortuous mental process, that she was quite unable to trace, the + landlady’s allusion to Mr. Le Frank had suggested the very idea of which, + in her undisturbed solitude, she had been vainly in search. Never before, + had the mistress of the house appeared to Teresa in such a favourable + light. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t trouble yourself, ma’am,” she said, as soon as she could make + herself heard; “it <i>was</i> the creaking of the boards that told me + somebody was moving overhead.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’m not a fidget after all? Oh, how you relieve me! Whatever the + servants may have to do, one of them shall be sent instantly to the + carpenter. So glad to be of any service to that sweet young creature!” + </p> + <p> + Teresa consulted her watch before she returned to the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + The improvement in Carmina still continued: she was able to take some of + the light nourishment that was waiting for her. As Benjulia had + anticipated, she asked to have the blind lowered a little. Teresa drew it + completely over the window: she had her own reasons for tempting Carmina + to repose. In half an hour more, the weary girl was sleeping, and the + nurse was at liberty to set her trap for Mr. Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + Her first proceeding was to dip the end of a quill pen into her bottle of + salad oil, and to lubricate the lock and key of the door that gave access + to the bedroom from the stairs. Having satisfied herself that the key + could now be used without making the slightest sound, she turned to the + door of communication with the sitting-room next. + </p> + <p> + This door was covered with green baize. It had handles but no lock; and it + swung inwards, so as to allow the door of the cupboard (situated in the + angle of the sitting-room wall) to open towards the bedroom freely. Teresa + oiled the hinges, and the brass bolt and staple which protected the baize + door on the side of the bedroom. That done, she looked again at her watch. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Frank’s absence was expected to last for an hour. In five minutes + more, the hour would expire. + </p> + <p> + After bolting the door of communication, she paused in the bedroom, and + wafted a kiss to Carmina, still at rest. She left the room by the door + which opened on the stairs, and locked it, taking away the key with her. + </p> + <p> + Having gone down the first flight of stairs, she stopped and went back. + The one unsecured door, was the door which led into the sitting-room from + the staircase. She opened it and left it invitingly ajar. “Now,” she said + to herself, “the trap will catch him!” + </p> + <p> + The hall clock struck the hour when she entered the landlady’s room. + </p> + <p> + The woman of many words was at once charmed and annoyed. Charmed to hear + that the dear invalid was resting, and to receive a visit from the nurse: + annoyed by the absence of the carpenter, at work somewhere else for the + whole of the day. “If my dear husband had been alive, we should have been + independent of carpenters; he could turn his hand to anything. Now do sit + down—I want you to taste some cherry brandy of my own making.” + </p> + <p> + As Teresa took a chair, Mr. Le Frank returned. The two secret adversaries + met, face to face. + </p> + <p> + “Surely I remember this lady?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Teresa encountered him, on his own ground. She made her best curtsey, and + reminded him of the circumstances under which they had formerly met. The + hospitable landlady produced her cherry brandy. “We are going to have a + nice little chat; do sit down, sir, and join us.” Mr. Le Frank made his + apologies. The umbrella which had been so kindly lent to him, had not + protected his shoes; his feet were wet; and he was so sadly liable to take + cold that he must beg permission to put on his dry things immediately. + </p> + <p> + Having bowed himself out, he stopped in the passage, and, standing on + tiptoe, peeped through a window in the wall, by which light was conveyed + to the landlady’s little room. The two women were comfortably seated + together, with the cherry brandy and a plate of biscuits on a table + between them. “In for a good long gossip,” thought Mr. Le Frank. “Now is + my time!” + </p> + <p> + Not five minutes more had passed, before Teresa made an excuse for running + upstairs again. She had forgotten to leave the bell rope, in case Carmina + woke, within the reach of her hand. The excellent heart of the hostess + made allowance for natural anxiety. “Do it, you good soul,” she said; “and + come back directly!” Left by herself, she filled her glass again, and + smiled. Sweetness of temper (encouraged by cherry brandy) can even smile + at a glass—unless it happens to be empty. + </p> + <p> + Approaching her own rooms, Teresa waited, and listened, before she showed + herself. No sound reached her through the half open sitting-room door. She + noiselessly entered the bedroom, and then locked the door again. Once more + she listened; and once more there was nothing to be heard. Had he seen her + on the stairs? + </p> + <p> + As the doubt crossed her mind, she heard the boards creak on the floor + above. Mr. Le Frank was in his room. + </p> + <p> + Did this mean that her well-laid plan had failed? Or did it mean that he + was really changing his shoes and stockings? The last inference was the + right one. + </p> + <p> + He had made no mere excuse downstairs. The serious interests that he had + at stake, were not important enough to make him forget his precious + health. His chest was delicate; a cold might settle on his lungs. The + temptation of the half-open door had its due effect on this prudent man; + but it failed to make him forget that his feet were wet. + </p> + <p> + The boards creaked again; the door of his room was softly closed—then + there was silence. Teresa only knew when he had entered the sitting-room + by hearing him try the bolted baize door. After that, he must have stepped + out again. He next tried the door of the bedchamber, from the stairs. + </p> + <p> + There was a quiet interval once more. Teresa noiselessly drew back the + bolt; and, opening the baize door by a mere hair’s-breadth, admitted sound + from the sitting-room. She now heard him turning the key in a chiffonier, + which only contained tradesmen’s circulars, receipted bills, and a few + books. + </p> + <p> + (Even with the canister in the cupboard, waiting to be opened, his + uppermost idea was to discover Carmina’s vindictive motive in Carmina’s + papers!) + </p> + <p> + The contents of the chiffonier disappointed him—judging by the tone + in which he muttered to himself. The next sound startled Teresa; it was a + tap against the lintel of the door behind which she was standing. He had + thrown open the cupboard. + </p> + <p> + The rasping of the cover, as he took it off, told her that he was + examining the canister. She had put it back on the shelf, a harmless thing + now—the poison and the label having been both destroyed by fire. + Nevertheless, his choosing the canister, from dozens of other things + scattered invitingly about it, inspired her with a feeling of distrustful + surprise. She was no longer content to find out what he was doing by means + of her ears. Determined to see him, and to catch him in the fact, she + pulled open the baize door—at the moment when he must have + discovered that the canister was empty. A faint thump told her he had + thrown it on the floor. + </p> + <p> + The view of the sitting-room was still hidden from her. She had forgotten + the cupboard door. + </p> + <p> + Now that it was wide open, it covered the entrance to the bedroom, and + completely screened them one from the other. For the moment she was + startled, and hesitated whether to show herself or not. His voice stopped + her. + </p> + <p> + “Is there another canister?” he said to himself. “The dirty old savage may + have hidden it—” + </p> + <p> + Teresa heard no more. “The dirty old savage” was an insult not to be + endured! She forgot her intention of stealing on him unobserved; she + forgot her resolution to do nothing that could awaken Carmina. Her fierce + temper urged her into furious action. With both hands outspread, she flew + at the cupboard door, and banged it to in an instant. + </p> + <p> + A shriek of agony rang through the house. The swiftly closing door had + caught, and crushed, the fingers of Le Frank’s right hand, at the moment + when he was putting it into the cupboard again. + </p> + <p> + Without stopping to help him, without even looking at him, she ran back to + Carmina. + </p> + <p> + The swinging baize door fell to, and closed of itself. No second cry was + heard. Nothing happened to falsify her desperate assertion that the shriek + was the delusion of a vivid dream. She took Carmina in her arms, and + patted and fondled her like a child. “See, my darling, I’m with you as + usual; and I have heard nothing. Don’t, oh, don’t tremble in that way! + There—I’ll wrap you up in my shawl, and read to you. No! let’s talk + of Ovid.” + </p> + <p> + Her efforts to compose Carmina were interrupted by a muffled sound of + men’s footsteps and women’s voices in the next room. + </p> + <p> + She hurriedly opened the door, and entreated them to whisper and be quiet. + In the instant before she closed it again, she saw and heard. Le Frank lay + in a swoon on the floor. The landlady was kneeling by him, looking at his + injured hand; and the lodgers were saying, “Send him to the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIV. + </h2> + <p> + On Monday morning, the strain on Mrs. Gallilee’s powers of patient + endurance came to an end. With the help of Mr. Null’s arm, she was able to + get downstairs to the library. On Tuesday, there would be no objection to + her going out for a drive. Mr. Null left her, restored to her equable flow + of spirits. He had asked if she wished to have somebody to keep her + company—and she had answered briskly, “Not on any account! I prefer + being alone.” + </p> + <p> + On the morning of Saturday, she had received Mr. Le Frank’s letter; but + she had not then recovered sufficiently to be able to read it through. She + could now take it up again, and get to the end. + </p> + <p> + Other women might have been alarmed by the atrocious wickedness of the + conspiracy which the music-master had planned. Mrs. Gallilee was only + offended. That he should think her capable—in her social position—of + favouring such a plot as he had suggested, was an insult which she was + determined neither to forgive nor forget. Fortunately, she had not + committed herself in writing; he could produce no proof of the relations + that had existed between them. The first and best use to make of her + recovery would be to dismiss him—after paying his expenses, + privately and prudently, in money instead of by cheque. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, the man’s insolence had left its revolting impression on + her mind. The one way to remove it was to find some agreeable occupation + for her thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Look at your library table, learned lady, and take the appropriate means + of relief that it offers. See the lively modern parasites that infest + Science, eager to invite your attention to their little crawling selves. + Follow scientific inquiry, rushing into print to proclaim its own + importance, and to declare any human being, who ventures to doubt or + differ, a fanatic or a fool. Respect the leaders of public opinion, + writing notices of professors, who have made discoveries not yet tried by + time, not yet universally accepted even by their brethren, in terms which + would be exaggerated if they were applied to Newton or to Bacon. Submit to + lectures and addresses by dozens which, if they prove nothing else, prove + that what was scientific knowledge some years since; is scientific + ignorance now—and that what is scientific knowledge now, may be + scientific ignorance in some years more. Absorb your mind in controversies + and discussions, in which Mr. Always Right and Mr. Never Wrong exhibit the + natural tendency of man to believe in himself, in the most rampant stage + of development that the world has yet seen. And when you have done all + this, doubt not that you have made a good use of your time. You have + discovered what the gentle wisdom of FARADAY saw and deplored, when he + warned the science of his day in words which should live for ever: “The + first and last step in the education of the judgment is—Humility.” + Having agreeably occupied her mind with subjects that were worthy of it, + Mrs. Gallilee rose to seek a little physical relief by walking up and down + the room. + </p> + <p> + Passing and repassing the bookcases, she noticed a remote corner devoted + to miscellaneous literature. A volume in faded binding of sky-blue, had + been placed upside down. She looked at the book before she put it in its + right position. The title was “Gallery of British Beauty.” Among the + illustrations—long since forgotten—appeared her own portrait, + when she was a girl of Carmina’s age. + </p> + <p> + A faintly contemptuous smile parted her hard lips, provoked by the + recollections of her youth. + </p> + <p> + What a fool she had been, at that early period of her life! In those days, + she had trembled with pleasure at the singing of a famous Italian tenor; + she had flown into a passion when a new dress proved to be a misfit, on + the evening of a ball; she had given money to beggars in the street; she + had fallen in love with a poor young man, and had terrified her + weak-minded hysterical mother, by threatening to commit suicide when the + beloved object was forbidden the house. Comparing the girl of seventeen + with the matured and cultivated woman of later years, what a matchless + example Mrs. Gallilee presented of the healthy influence of education, + directed to scientific pursuits! “Ah!” she thought, as she put the book + back in its place, “my girls will have reason to thank me when they grow + up; they have had a mother who has done her duty.” + </p> + <p> + She took a few more turns up and down the room. The sky had cleared again; + a golden gleam of sunlight drew her to the window. The next moment she + regretted even this concession to human weakness. A disagreeable + association presented itself, and arrested the pleasant flow of her + thoughts. Mr. Gallilee appeared on the door-step; leaving the house on + foot, and carrying a large brown-paper parcel under his arm. + </p> + <p> + With servants at his disposal, why was he carrying the parcel himself? The + time had been, when Mrs. Gallilee would have tapped at the window, and + would have insisted on his instantly returning and answering the question. + But his conduct, since the catastrophe in Carmina’s room, had produced a + complete estrangement between the married pair. All his inquiries after + his wife’s health had been made by deputy. When he was not in the + schoolroom with the children, he was at his club. Until he came to his + senses, and made humble apology, no earthly consideration would induce + Mrs. Gallilee to take the slightest notice of him. + </p> + <p> + She returned to her reading. + </p> + <p> + The footman came in, with two letters—one arriving by post; the + other having been dropped into the box by private messenger. + Communications of this latter sort proceeded, not unfrequently, from + creditors. Mrs. Gallilee opened the stamped letter first. + </p> + <p> + It contained nothing more important than a few lines from a daily + governess, whom she had engaged until a successor to Miss Minerva could be + found. In obedience to Mrs. Gallilee’s instructions, the governess would + begin her attendance at ten o’clock on the next morning. + </p> + <p> + The second letter was of a very different kind. It related the disaster + which had befallen Mr. Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null was the writer. As Miss Carmina’s medical attendant, it was his + duty to inform her guardian that her health had been unfavourably affected + by an alarm in the house. Having described the nature of the alarm, he + proceeded in these words: “You will, I fear, lose the services of your + present music-master. Inquiries made this morning at the hospital, and + reported to me, appear to suggest serious results. The wounded man’s + constitution is in an unhealthy state; the surgeons are not sure of being + able to save two of the fingers. I will do myself the honour of calling + to-morrow before you go out for your drive.” + </p> + <p> + The impression produced by this intelligence on the lady to whom it was + addressed, can only be reported in her own words. She—who knew, on + the best scientific authority, that the world had created itself—completely + lost her head, and actually said, “Thank God!” + </p> + <p> + For weeks to come—perhaps for months if the surgeons’ forebodings + were fulfilled—Mrs. Gallilee had got rid of Mr. Le Frank. In that + moment of infinite relief, if her husband had presented himself, it is + even possible that he might have been forgiven. + </p> + <p> + As it was, Mr. Gallilee returned late in the afternoon; entered his own + domain of the smoking-room; and left the house again five minutes + afterwards. Joseph officiously opened the door for him; and Joseph was + surprised, precisely as his mistress had been surprised. Mr. Gallilee had + a large brown paper parcel under his arm—the second which he had + taken out of the house with his own hands! Moreover, he looked excessively + confused when the footman discovered him. That night, he was late in + returning from the club. Joseph (now on the watch) observed that he was + not steady on his legs—and drew his own conclusions accordingly. + </p> + <p> + Punctual to her time, on the next morning, the new governess arrived. Mrs. + Gallilee received her, and sent for the children. + </p> + <p> + The maid in charge of them appeared alone. She had no doubt that the young + ladies would be back directly. The master had taken them out for a little + walk, before they began their lessons. He had been informed that the lady + who had been appointed to teach them would arrive at ten o’clock. And what + had he said? He had said, “Very good.” + </p> + <p> + The half-hour struck—eleven o’clock struck—and neither the + father nor the children returned. Ten minutes later, someone rang the door + bell. The door being duly opened, nobody appeared on the house-step. + Joseph looked into the letter-box, and found a note addressed to his + mistress, in his master’s handwriting. He immediately delivered it. + </p> + <p> + Hitherto, Mrs. Gallilee had only been anxious. Joseph, waiting for events + outside the door, heard the bell rung furiously; and found his mistress + (as he forcibly described it) “like a woman gone distracted.” Not without + reason—to do her justice. Mr. Gallilee’s method of relieving his + wife’s anxiety was remarkable by its brevity. In one sentence, he assured + her that there was no need to feel alarmed. In another, he mentioned that + he had taken the girls away with him for a change of air. And then he + signed his initials—J. G. + </p> + <p> + Every servant in the house was summoned to the library, when Mrs. Gallilee + had in some degree recovered herself. + </p> + <p> + One after another they were strictly examined; and one after another they + had no evidence to give—excepting the maid who had been present when + the master took the young ladies away. The little she had to tell, pointed + to the inference that he had not admitted the girls to his confidence + before they left the house. Maria had submitted, without appearing to be + particularly pleased at the prospect of so early a walk. Zo (never ready + to exert either her intelligence or her legs) had openly declared that she + would rather stay at home. To this the master had answered, “Get your + things on directly!”—and had said it so sharply that Miss Zoe stared + at him in astonishment. Had they taken anything with them—a + travelling bag for instance? They had taken nothing, except Mr. Gallilee’s + umbrella. Who had seen Mr. Gallilee last, on the previous night? Joseph + had seen him last. The lower classes in England have one, and but one, + true feeling of sympathy with the higher classes. The man above them + appeals to their hearts, and merits their true service, when he is + unsteady on his legs. Joseph nobly confined his evidence to what he had + observed some hours previously: he mentioned the parcel. Mrs. Gallilee’s + keen perception, quickened by her own experience at the window, arrived at + the truth. Those two bulky packages must have contained clothes—left, + in anticipation of the journey, under the care of an accomplice. It was + impossible that Mr. Gallilee could have got at the girls’ dresses and + linen, and have made the necessary selections from them, without a woman’s + assistance. The female servants were examined again. Each one of them + positively asserted her innocence. Mrs. Gallilee threatened to send for + the police. The indignant women all cried in chorus, “Search our boxes!” + Mrs. Gallilee took a wiser course. She sent to the lawyers who had been + recommended to her by Mr. Null. The messenger had just been despatched, + when Mr. Null himself, in performance of yesterday’s engagement, called at + the house. + </p> + <p> + He, too, was agitated. It was impossible that he could have heard what had + happened. Was he the bearer of bad news? Mrs. Gallilee thought of Carmina + first, and then of Mr. Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + “Prepare for a surprise,” Mr. Null began, “a joyful surprise, Mrs. + Gallilee! I have received a telegram from your son.” + </p> + <p> + He handed it to her as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “September 6th. Arrived at Quebec, and received information of Carmina’s + illness. Shall catch the Boston steamer, and sail to-morrow for Liverpool. + Break the news gently to C. For God’s sake send telegram to meet me at + Queenstown.” + </p> + <p> + It was then the 7th of September. If all went well, Ovid might be in + London in ten days more. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LV. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee read the telegram—paused—and read it again. She + let it drop on her lap; but her eyes still rested mechanically on the slip + of paper. When she spoke, her voice startled Mr. Null. Usually loud and + hard, her tones were strangely subdued. If his back had been turned + towards her, he would hardly have known who was speaking to him. + </p> + <p> + “I must ask you to make allowances for me,” she began, abruptly; “I hardly + know what to say. This surprise comes at a time when I am badly prepared + for it. I am getting well; but, you see, I am not quite so strong as I was + before that woman attacked me. My husband has gone away—I don’t know + where—and has taken my children with him. Read his note: but don’t + say anything. You must let me be quiet, or I can’t think.” + </p> + <p> + She handed the letter to Mr. Null. He looked at her—read the few + words submitted to him—and looked at her again. For once, his stock + of conventional phrases failed him. Who could have anticipated such + conduct on the part of her husband? Who could have supposed that she + herself would have been affected in this way, by the return of her son? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee drew a long heavy breath. “I have got it now,” she said. “My + son is coming home in a hurry because of Carmina’s illness. Has Carmina + written to him?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null was in his element again: this question appealed to his knowledge + of his patient. “Impossible, Mrs. Gallilee—in her present state of + health.” + </p> + <p> + “In her present state of health? I forgot that. There was something else. + Oh, yes! Has Carmina seen the telegram?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null explained. He had just come from Carmina. In his medical + capacity, he had thought it judicious to try the moral effect on his + patient of a first allusion to the good news. He had only ventured to say + that Mr. Ovid’s agents in Canada had heard from him on his travels, and + had reason to believe that he would shortly return to Quebec. Upon the + whole, the impression produced on the young lady— + </p> + <p> + It was useless to go on. Mrs. Gallilee was pursuing her own thoughts, + without even the pretence of listening to him. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know who wrote to my son,” she persisted. “Was it the nurse?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null considered this to be in the last degree unlikely. The nurse’s + language showed a hostile feeling towards Mr. Ovid, in consequence of his + absence. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee looked once more at the telegram. “Why,” she asked, “does + Ovid telegraph to You?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null answered with his customary sense of what was due to himself. “As + the medical attendant of the family, your son naturally supposed, madam, + that Miss Carmina was under my care.” + </p> + <p> + The implied reproof produced no effect. “I wonder whether my son was + afraid to trust us?” was all Mrs. Gallilee said. It was the chance guess + of a wandering mind—but it had hit the truth. Kept in ignorance of + Carmina’s illness by the elder members of the family, at what other + conclusion could Ovid arrive, with Zo’s letter before him? After a + momentary pause, Mrs. Gallilee went on. “I suppose I may keep the + telegram?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Prudent Mr. Null offered a copy—and made the copy, then and there. + The original (he explained) was his authority for acting on Mr. Ovid’s + behalf, and he must therefore beg leave to keep it. Mrs. Gallilee + permitted him to exchange the two papers. “Is there anything more?” she + asked. “Your time is valuable of course. Don’t let me detain you.” + </p> + <p> + “May I feel your pulse before I go?” + </p> + <p> + She held out her arm to him in silence. + </p> + <p> + The carriage came to the door while he was counting the beat of the pulse. + She glanced at the window, and said, “Send it away.” Mr. Null + remonstrated. “My dear lady, the air will do you good.” She answered + obstinately and quietly, “No”—and once more became absorbed in + thought. + </p> + <p> + It had been her intention to combine her first day of carriage exercise + with a visit to Teresa’s lodgings, and a personal exertion of her + authority. The news of Ovid’s impending return made it a matter of serious + importance to consider this resolution under a new light. She had now, not + only to reckon with Teresa, but with her son. With this burden on her + enfeebled mind—heavily laden by the sense of injury which her + husband’s flight had aroused—she had not even reserves enough of + energy to spare for the trifling effort of dressing to go out. She broke + into irritability, for the first time. “I am trying to find out who has + written to my son. How can I do it when you are worrying me about the + carriage? Have you ever held a full glass in your hand, and been afraid of + letting it overflow? That’s what I’m afraid of—in my mind—I + don’t mean that my mind is a glass—I mean—” Her forehead + turned red. <i>“Will</i> you leave me?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + He left her instantly. + </p> + <p> + The change in her manner, the difficulty she found in expressing her + thoughts, had even startled stupid Mr. Null. She had herself alluded to + results of the murderous attack made on her by Teresa, which had not + perhaps hitherto sufficiently impressed him. In the shock inflicted on the + patient’s body, had there been involved some subtly-working influence that + had disturbed the steady balance of her mind? Pondering uneasily on that + question, he spoke to Joseph in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know about your master and the children?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you had told me of it, when you let me in.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I done any harm, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know yet. If you want me, I shall be at home to dinner at seven.” + </p> + <p> + The next visitor was one of the partners in the legal firm, to which Mrs. + Gallilee had applied for advice. After what Mr. Null had said, Joseph + hesitated to conduct this gentleman into the presence of his mistress. He + left the lawyer in the waiting-room, and took his card. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s attitude had not changed. She sat looking down at the + copied telegram and the letter from her husband, lying together on her + lap. Joseph was obliged to speak twice, before he could rouse her. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” was all she said. + </p> + <p> + “What time shall I say, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + She put her hand to her head—and broke into anger against Joseph. + “Settle it yourself, you wretch!” Her head drooped again over the papers. + Joseph returned to the lawyer. “My mistress is not very well, sir. She + will be obliged if you will call to-morrow, at your own time.” + </p> + <p> + About an hour later, she rang her bell—rang it unintermittingly, + until Joseph appeared. “I’m famished,” she said. “Something to eat! I + never was so hungry in my life. At once—I can’t wait.” + </p> + <p> + The cook sent up a cold fowl, and a ham. Her eyes devoured the food, while + the footman was carving it for her. Her bad temper seemed to have + completely disappeared. She said, “What a delicious dinner! Just the very + things I like.” She lifted the first morsel to her mouth—and laid + the fork down again with a weary sigh. “No: I can’t eat; what has come to + me?” With those words, she pushed her chair away from the table, and + looked slowly all round her. “I want the telegram and the letter.” Joseph + found them. “Can you help me?” she said. “I am trying to find out who + wrote my son. Say yes, or no, at once; I hate waiting.” + </p> + <p> + Joseph left her in her old posture, with her head down and the papers on + her lap. + </p> + <p> + The appearance of the uneaten dinner in the kitchen produced a discussion, + followed by a quarrel. + </p> + <p> + Joseph was of the opinion that the mistress had got more upon her mind + than her mind could well bear. It was useless to send for Mr. Null; he had + already mentioned that he would not be home until seven o’clock.. There + was no superior person in the house to consult. It was not for the + servants to take responsibility on themselves. “Fetch the nearest doctor, + and let <i>him</i> be answerable, if anything serious happens.” Such was + Joseph’s advice. + </p> + <p> + The women (angrily remembering that Mrs. Gallilee had spoken of sending + for the police) ridiculed the footman’s cautious proposal—with one + exception. When the others ironically asked him if he was not accustomed + to the mistress’s temper yet, Mrs. Gallilee’s own maid (Marceline) said, + “What do we know about it? Joseph is the only one of us who has seen her, + since the morning.” + </p> + <p> + This perfectly sensible remark had the effect of a breath of wind on a + smouldering fire. The female servants, all equally suspected of having + assisted Mr. Gallilee in making up his parcels, were all equally assured + that there was a traitress among them—and that Marceline was the + woman. Hitherto suppressed, this feeling now openly found its way to + expression. Marceline lost her temper; and betrayed herself as her + master’s guilty confederate. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a mean mongrel—am I?” cried the angry maid, repeating the + cook’s allusion to her birthplace in the Channel Islands. “The mistress + shall know, this minute, that I’m the woman who did it!” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you say so before?” the cook retorted. + </p> + <p> + “Because I promised my master not to tell on him, till he got to his + journey’s end.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’ll lay a wager?” asked the cook. “I bet half-a-crown she changes her + mind, before she gets to the top of the stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she thinks the mistress will forgive her,” the parlour-maid + suggested ironically. + </p> + <p> + “Or perhaps,” the housemaid added, “she means to give the mistress notice + to leave.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s exactly what I’m going to do!” said Marceline. + </p> + <p> + The women all declined to believe her. She appealed to Joseph. “What did I + tell you, when the mistress first sent me out in the carriage with poor + Miss Carmina? Didn’t I say that I was no spy, and that I wouldn’t submit + to be made one? I would have left the house—I would!—but for + Miss Carmina’s kindness. Any other young lady would have made me feel my + mean position. <i>She</i> treated me like a friend—and I don’t + forget it. I’ll go straight from this place, and help to nurse her!” + </p> + <p> + With that declaration, Marceline left the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Arrived at the library door, she paused. Not as the cook had suggested, to + “change her mind;” but to consider beforehand how much she should confess + to her mistress, and how much she should hold in reserve. + </p> + <p> + Zo’s narrative of what had happened, on the evening of Teresa’s arrival, + had produced its inevitable effect on the maid’s mind. Strengthening, by + the sympathy which it excited, her grateful attachment to Carmina, it had + necessarily intensified her dislike of Mrs. Gallilee—and Mrs. + Gallilee’s innocent husband had profited by that circumstance! + </p> + <p> + Unexpectedly tried by time, Mr. Gallilee’s resolution to assert his + paternal authority, in spite of his wife, had failed him. The same + timidity which invents a lie in a hurry, can construct a stratagem at + leisure. Marceline had discovered her master putting a plan of escape, + devised by himself, to its first practical trial before the open wardrobe + of his daughters—and had asked slyly if she could be of any use. + Never remarkable for presence of mind in emergencies, Mr. Gallilee had + helplessly admitted to his confidence the last person in the house, whom + anyone else (in his position) would have trusted. “My good soul, I want to + take the girls away quietly for change of air—you have got little + secrets of your own, like me, haven’t you?—and the fact is, I don’t + quite know how many petticoats—.” There, he checked himself; + conscious, when it was too late, that he was asking his wife’s maid to + help him in deceiving his wife. The ready Marceline helped him through the + difficulty. “I understand, sir: my mistress’s mind is much occupied—and + you don’t want to trouble her about this little journey.” Mr. Gallilee, at + a loss for any other answer, pulled out his purse. Marceline modestly drew + back at the sight of it. “My mistress pays me, sir; I serve <i>you</i> for + nothing.” In those words, she would have informed any other man of the + place which Mrs. Gallilee held in her estimation. Her master simply + considered her to be the most disinterested woman he had ever met with. If + she lost her situation through helping him, he engaged to pay her wages + until she found another place. The maid set his mind at rest on that + subject. “A woman who understands hairdressing as I do, sir, can refer to + other ladies besides Mrs. Gallilee, and can get a place whenever she wants + one.” + </p> + <p> + Having decided on what she should confess, and on what she should conceal, + Marceline knocked at the library door. Receiving no answer, she went in. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee was leaning back in her chair: her hands hung down on either + side of her; her eyes looked up drowsily at the ceiling. Prepared to see a + person with an overburdened mind, the maid (without sympathy, to quicken + her perceptions) saw nothing but a person on the point of taking a nap. + </p> + <p> + “Can I speak a word, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. “Is that my maid?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + Treated—to all appearance—with marked contempt, Marceline no + longer cared to assume the forms of respect either in language or manner. + “I wish to give you notice to leave,” she said abruptly; “I find I can’t + get on with my fellow-servants.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee slowly raised her head, and looked at her maid—and + said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “And while I’m about it,” the angry woman proceeded, “I may as well own + the truth. You suspect one of us of helping my master to take away the + young ladies’ things—I mean some few of their things. Well! you + needn’t blame innocent people. I’m the person.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee laid her head back again on the chair—and burst out + laughing. + </p> + <p> + For one moment, Marceline looked at her mistress in blank surprise. Then, + the terrible truth burst on her. She ran into the hall, and called for + Joseph. + </p> + <p> + He hurried up the stairs. The instant he presented himself at the open + door, Mrs. Gallilee rose to her feet. “My medical attendant,” she said, + with an assumption of dignity; “I must explain myself.” She held up one + hand, outstretched; and counted her fingers with the other. “First my + husband. Then my son. Now my maid. One, two, three. Mr. Null, do you know + the proverb? ‘It’s the last hair that breaks the camel’s back.’” She + suddenly dropped on her knees. “Will somebody pray for me?” she cried + piteously. “I don’t know how to pray for myself. Where is God?” + </p> + <p> + Bareheaded as he was, Joseph ran out. The nearest doctor lived on the + opposite side of the Square. He happened to be at home. When he reached + the house, the women servants were holding their mistress down by main + force. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVI. + </h2> + <p> + On the next day, Mr. Mool—returning from a legal consultation to an + appointment at his office—found a gentleman, whom he knew by sight, + walking up and down before his door; apparently bent on intercepting him. + “Mr. Null, I believe?” he said, with his customary politeness. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null answered to his name, and asked for a moment of Mr. Mool’s time. + Mr. Mool looked grave, and said he was late for an appointment already. + Mr. Null admitted that the clerks in the office had told him so, and said + at last, what he ought to have said at first: “I am Mrs. Gallilee’s + medical attendant—there is serious necessity for communicating with + her husband.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool instantly led the way into the office. + </p> + <p> + The chief clerk approached his employer, with some severity of manner. + “The parties have been waiting, sir, for more than a quarter of an hour.” + Mr. Mool’s attention wandered: he was thinking of Mrs. Gallilee. “Is she + dying?” he asked. “She is out of her mind,” Mr. Null answered. Those words + petrified the lawyer: he looked helplessly at the clerk—who, in his + turn, looked indignantly at the office clock. Mr. Mool recovered himself. + “Say I am detained by a most distressing circumstance; I will call on the + parties later in the day, at their own hour.” Giving those directions to + the clerk, he hurried Mr. Null upstairs into a private room. “Tell me + about it; pray tell me about it. Stop! Perhaps, there is not time enough. + What can I do?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null put the question, which he ought to have asked when they met at + the house door. “Can you tell me Mr. Gallilee’s address?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly! Care of the Earl of Northlake—” + </p> + <p> + “Will you please write it in my pocket-book? I am so upset by this + dreadful affair that I can’t trust my memory.” + </p> + <p> + Such a confession of helplessness as this, was all that was wanted to + rouse Mr. Mool. He rejected the pocket-book, and wrote the address on a + telegram. “Return directly: your wife is seriously ill.” In five minutes + more, the message was on its way to Scotland; and Mr. Null was at liberty + to tell his melancholy story—if he could. + </p> + <p> + With assistance from Mr. Mool, he got through it. “This morning,” he + proceeded, “I have had the two best opinions in London. Assuming that + there is no hereditary taint, the doctors think favourably of Mrs. + Gallilee’s chances of recovery.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it violent madness?” Mr. Mool asked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null admitted that two nurses were required. “The doctors don’t look + on her violence as a discouraging symptom,” he said. “They are inclined to + attribute it to the strength of her constitution. I felt it my duty to + place my own knowledge of the case before them. Without mentioning painful + family circumstances—” + </p> + <p> + “I happen to be acquainted with the circumstances,” Mr. Mool interposed. + “Are they in any way connected with this dreadful state of things?” + </p> + <p> + He put that question eagerly, as if he had some strong personal interest + in hearing the reply. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null blundered on steadily with his story. “I thought it right (with + all due reserve) to mention that Mrs. Gallilee had been subjected to—I + won’t trouble you with medical language—let us say, to a severe + shock; involving mental disturbance as well as bodily injury, before her + reason gave way.” + </p> + <p> + “And they considered that to be the cause—?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null asserted his dignity. “The doctors agreed with Me, that it had + shaken her power of self-control.” + </p> + <p> + “You relieve me, Mr. Null—you infinitely relieve me! If our way of + removing the children had done the mischief, I should never have forgiven + myself.” + </p> + <p> + He blushed, and said no more. Had Mr. Null noticed the slip of the tongue + into which his agitation had betrayed him? Mr. Null did certainly look as + if he was going to put a question. The lawyer desperately forestalled him. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask how you came to apply to me for Mr. Gallilee’s address? Did you + think of it yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null had never had an idea of his own, from the day of his birth, + downward. “A very intelligent man,” he answered, “reminded me that you + were an old friend of Mr. Gallilee. In short, it was Joseph—the + footman at Fairfield Gardens.” + </p> + <p> + Joseph’s good opinion was of no importance to Mr. Mool’s professional + interests. He could gratify Mr. Null’s curiosity without fear of lowering + himself in the estimation of a client. + </p> + <p> + “I had better, perhaps, explain that chance allusion of mine to the + children,” he began. “My good friend, Mr. Gallilee, had his own reasons + for removing his daughters from home for a time—reasons, I am bound + to add, in which I concur. The children were to be placed under the care + of their aunt, Lady Northlake. Unfortunately, her ladyship was away with + my lord, cruising in their yacht. They were not able to receive Maria and + Zoe at once. In the interval that elapsed—excuse my entering into + particulars—our excellent friend had his own domestic reasons for + arranging the—the sort of clandestine departure which did in fact + take place. It was perhaps unwise on my part to consent—in short, I + permitted some of the necessary clothing to be privately deposited here, + and called for on the way to the station. Very unprofessional, I am aware. + I did it for the best; and allowed my friendly feeling to mislead me. Can + I be of any use? How is poor Miss Carmina? No better? Oh, dear! dear! Mr. + Ovid will hear dreadful news, when he comes home. Can’t we prepare him for + it, in any way?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null announced that a telegram would meet Ovid at Queenstown—with + the air of a man who had removed every obstacle that could be suggested to + him. The kind-hearted lawyer shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Is there no friend who can meet him there?” Mr. Mool suggested. “I have + clients depending on me—cases, in which property is concerned, and + reputation is at stake—or I would gladly go myself. You, with your + patients, are as little at liberty as I am. Can’t you think of some other + friend?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null could think of nobody, and had nothing to propose. Of the three + weak men, now brought into association by the influence of domestic + calamity, he was the feeblest, beyond all doubt. Mr. Mool had knowledge of + law, and could on occasion be incited to energy. Mr. Gallilee had warm + affections, which, being stimulated, could at least assert themselves. Mr. + Null, professionally and personally, was incapable of stepping beyond his + own narrow limits, under any provocation whatever. He submitted to the + force of events as a cabbage-leaf submits to the teeth of a rabbit. + </p> + <p> + After leaving the office, Carmina’s medical attendant had his patient to + see. Since the unfortunate alarm in the house, he had begun to feel + doubtful and anxious about her again. + </p> + <p> + In the sitting-room, he found Teresa and the landlady in consultation. In + her own abrupt way, the nurse made him acquainted with the nature of the + conference. + </p> + <p> + “We have two worries to bother us,” she said; “and the music-master is the + worst of the two. There’s a notion at the hospital (set agoing, I don’t + doubt, by the man himself), that I crushed his fingers on purpose. That’s + a lie! With the open cupboard door between us, how could I see him, or he + see me? When I gave it a push-to, I no more knew where his hand was, than + you do. If I meant anything, I meant to slap his face for prying about in + my room. We’ve made out a writing between us, to show to the doctors. You + shall have a copy, in case you’re asked about it. Now for the other + matter. You keep on telling me I shall fall ill myself, if I don’t get a + person to help me with Carmina. Make your mind easy—the person has + come.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + Teresa pointed to the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “Recommended by me?” Mr. Null inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Recommended by herself. And we don’t like her. That’s the other worry.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null’s dignity declined to attach any importance to the “other worry.” + “No nurse has any business here, without my sanction! I’ll send her away + directly.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed open the baize door. A lady was sitting by Carmina’s bedside. + Even in the dim light, there was no mistaking <i>that</i> face. Mr. Null + recognised—Miss Minerva. + </p> + <p> + She rose, and bowed to him. He returned the bow stiffly. Nature’s + protecting care of fools supplies them with an instinct which distrusts + ability. Mr. Null never liked Miss Minerva. At the same time, he was a + little afraid of her. This was not the sort of nurse who could be ordered + to retire at a moment’s notice. + </p> + <p> + “I have been waiting anxiously to see you,” she said—and led the way + to the farther end of the room. “Carmina terrifies me,” she added in a + whisper. “I have been here for an hour. When I entered the room her face, + poor dear, seemed to come to life again; she was able to express her joy + at seeing me. Even the jealous old nurse noticed the change for the + better. Why didn’t it last? Look at her—oh, look at her!” + </p> + <p> + The melancholy relapse that had followed the short interval of excitement + was visible to anyone now. + </p> + <p> + There was the “simulated paralysis,” showing itself plainly in every part + of the face. She lay still as death, looking vacantly at the foot of the + bed. Mr. Null was inclined to resent the interference of a meddling woman, + in the discharge of his duty. He felt Carmina’s pulse, in sulky silence. + Her eyes never moved; her hand showed no consciousness of his touch. + Teresa opened the door, and looked in—impatiently eager to see the + intruding nurse sent away. Miss Minerva invited her to return to her place + at the bedside. “I only ask to occupy it,” she said considerately, “when + you want rest.” Teresa was ready with an ungracious reply, but found no + opportunity of putting it into words. Miss Minerva turned quickly to Mr. + Null. “I must ask you to let me say a few words more,” she continued; “I + will wait for you in the next room.” + </p> + <p> + Her resolute eyes rested on him with a look which said plainly, “I mean to + be heard.” He followed her into the sitting-room, and waited in sullen + submission to hear what she had to say. + </p> + <p> + “I must not trouble you by entering into my own affairs,” she began. “I + will only say that I have obtained an engagement much sooner than I had + anticipated, and that the convenience of my employers made it necessary + for me to meet them in Paris. I owed Carmina a letter; but I had reasons + for not writing until I knew whether she had, or had not, left London. + With that object, I called this morning at her aunt’s house. You now see + me here—after what I have heard from the servants. I make no + comment, and I ask for no explanations. One thing only, I must know. + Teresa refers me to you. Is Carmina attended by any other medical man?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null answered stiffly, “I am in consultation with Doctor Benjulia; and + I expect him to-day.” + </p> + <p> + The reply startled her. “Dr. Benjulia?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “The greatest man we have!” Mr. Null asserted in his most positive manner. + </p> + <p> + She silently determined to wait until Doctor Benjulia arrived. + </p> + <p> + “What is the last news of Mr. Ovid?” she said to him, after an interval of + consideration. + </p> + <p> + He told her the news, in the fewest words possible. Even he observed that + it seemed to excite her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Null! who is to prepare him for what he will see in that room? + Who is to tell him what he must hear of his mother?” + </p> + <p> + There was a certain familiarity in the language of this appeal, which Mr. + Null felt it necessary to discourage. “The matter is left in my hands,” he + announced. “I shall telegraph to him at Queenstown. When he comes home, he + will find my prescriptions on the table. Being a medical man himself, my + treatment of the case will tell Mr. Ovid Vere everything.” + </p> + <p> + The obstinate insensibility of his tone stopped her on the point of saying + what Mr. Mool had said already. She, too, felt for Ovid, when she thought + of the cruel brevity of a telegram. “At what date will the vessel reach + Queenstown?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “By way of making sure,” said Mr. Null, “I shall telegraph in a week’s + time.” + </p> + <p> + She troubled him with no more inquiries. He had purposely remained + standing, in the expectation that she would take the hint, and go; and he + now walked to the window, and looked out. She remained in her chair, + thinking. In a few minutes more, there was a heavy step on the stairs. + Benjulia had arrived. + </p> + <p> + He looked hard at Miss Minerva, in unconcealed surprise at finding her in + the house. She rose, and made an effort to propitiate him by shaking + hands. “I am very anxious,” she said gently, “to hear your opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “Your hand tells me that,” he answered. “It’s a cold hand, on a warm day. + You’re an excitable woman.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Mr. Null, and led the way into the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + Left by herself, Miss Minerva discovered writing materials (placed ready + for Mr. Null’s next prescription) on a side table. She made use of them at + once to write to her employer. “A dear friend of mine is seriously ill, + and in urgent need of all that my devotion can do for her. If you are + willing to release me from my duties for a short time, your sympathy and + indulgence will not be thrown away on an ungrateful woman. If you cannot + do me this favour, I ask your pardon for putting you to inconvenience, and + leave some other person, whose mind is at ease, to occupy the place which + I am for the present unfit to fill.” Having completed her letter in those + terms, she waited Benjulia’s return. + </p> + <p> + There was sadness in her face, but no agitation, as she looked patiently + towards the bedroom door. At last—in her inmost heart, she knew it—the + victory over herself was a victory won. Carmina could trust her now; and + Ovid himself should see it! + </p> + <p> + Mr. Null returned to the sitting-room alone. Doctor Benjulia had no time + to spare: he had left the bedroom by the other door. + </p> + <p> + “I may say (as you seem anxious) that my colleague approves of a proposal, + on my part, to slightly modify the last prescription. We recognise the new + symptoms, without feeling alarm.” Having issued this bulletin, Mr. Null + sat down to make his feeble treatment of his patient feebler still. + </p> + <p> + When he looked up again, the room was empty. Had she left the house? No: + her travelling hat and her gloves were on the other table. Had she boldly + confronted Teresa on her own ground? + </p> + <p> + He took his modified prescription into the bedroom. There she was, and + there sat the implacable nurse, already persuaded into listening to her! + What conceivable subject could there be, which offered two such women + neutral ground to meet on? Mr. Null left the house without the faintest + suspicion that Carmina might be the subject. + </p> + <p> + “May I try to rouse her?” + </p> + <p> + Teresa answered by silently resigning her place at the bedside. Miss + Minerva touched Carmina’s hand, and spoke. “Have you heard the good news, + dear? Ovid is coming back in little more than a week.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina looked—reluctantly looked—at her friend, and said, + with an effort, “I am glad.” + </p> + <p> + “You will be better,” Miss Minerva continued, “the moment you see him.” + </p> + <p> + Her face became faintly animated. “I shall be able to say good-bye,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + “Not good-bye, darling. He is returning to you after a long journey.” + </p> + <p> + “I am going, Frances, on a longer journey still.” She closed her eyes, too + weary or too indifferent to say more. + </p> + <p> + Miss Minerva drew back, struggling against the tears that fell fast over + her face. The jealous old nurse quietly moved nearer to her, and kissed + her hand. “I’ve been a brute and a fool,” said Teresa; “you’re almost as + fond of her as I am.” + </p> + <p> + A week later, Miss Minerva left London, to wait for Ovid at Queenstown. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVII. + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Mool was in attendance at Fairfield Gardens, when his old friend + arrived from Scotland, to tell him what the cautiously expressed message + in the telegram really meant. + </p> + <p> + But one idea seemed to be impressed on Mr. Gallilee’s mind—the idea + of reconciliation. He insisted on seeing his wife. It was in vain to tell + him that she was utterly incapable of reciprocating or even of + understanding his wishes. Absolute resistance was the one alternative left—and + it was followed by distressing results. The kind-hearted old man burst + into a fit of crying, which even shook the resolution of the doctors. One + of them went upstairs to warn the nurses. The other said, “Let him see + her.” + </p> + <p> + The instant he showed himself in the room, Mrs. Gallilee recognised him + with a shriek of fury. The nurses held her back—while Mr. Mool + dragged him out again, and shut the door. The object of the doctors had + been gained. His own eyes had convinced him of the terrible necessity of + placing his wife under restraint. She was removed to a private asylum. + </p> + <p> + Maria and Zo had been left in Scotland—as perfectly happy as girls + could be, in the society of their cousins, and under the affectionate care + of their aunt. Mr. Gallilee remained in London; but he was not left alone + in the deserted house. The good lawyer had a spare room at his disposal; + and Mrs. Mool and her daughters received him with true sympathy. Coming + events helped to steady his mind. He was comforted in the anticipation of + Ovid’s return, and interested in hearing of the generous motive which had + led Miss Minerva to meet his stepson. + </p> + <p> + “I never agreed with the others when they used to abuse our governess,” he + said. “She might have been quick-tempered, and she might have been ugly—I + suppose I saw her in some other light myself.” He had truly seen her under + another light. In his simple affectionate nature, there had been + instinctive recognition of that great heart. + </p> + <p> + He was allowed to see Carmina, in the hope that pleasant associations + connected with him might have a favourable influence. She smiled faintly, + and gave him her hand when she saw him at the bedside—but that was + all. + </p> + <p> + Too deeply distressed to ask to see her again, he made his inquiries for + the future at the door. Day after day, the answer was always the same. + </p> + <p> + Before she left London, Miss Minerva had taken it on herself to engage the + vacant rooms, on the ground floor of the lodging-house, for Ovid. She knew + his heart, as she knew her own heart. Once under the same roof with + Carmina, he would leave it no more—until life gave her back to him, + or death took her away. Hearing of what had been done, Mr. Gallilee + removed to Ovid’s rooms the writing-desk and the books, the favourite + music and the faded flowers, left by Carmina at Fairfield Gardens. + “Anything that belongs to her,” he thought, “will surely be welcome to the + poor fellow when he comes back.” + </p> + <p> + On one afternoon—never afterwards to be forgotten—he had only + begun to make his daily inquiry, when the door on the ground floor was + opened, and Miss Minerva beckoned to him. + </p> + <p> + Her face daunted Mr. Gallilee: he asked in a whisper, if Ovid had + returned. + </p> + <p> + She pointed upwards, and answered, “He is with her now.” + </p> + <p> + “How did he bear it?” + </p> + <p> + “We don’t know; we were afraid to follow him into the room.” + </p> + <p> + She turned towards the window as she spoke. Teresa was sitting there—vacantly + looking out. Mr. Gallilee spoke to her kindly: she made no answer; she + never even moved. “Worn out!” Miss Minerva whispered to him. “When she + thinks of Carmina now, she thinks without hope.” + </p> + <p> + He shuddered. The expression of his own fear was in those words—and + he shrank from it. Miss Minerva took his hand, and led him to a chair. + “Ovid will know best,” she reminded him; “let us wait for what Ovid will + say.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you meet him on board the vessel?” Mr. Gallilee asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “How did he look?” + </p> + <p> + “So well and so strong that you would hardly have known him again—till + he asked about Carmina. Then he turned pale. I knew that I must tell him + the truth—but I was afraid to take it entirely on myself. Something + Mr. Null said to me, before I left London, suggested that I might help + Ovid to understand me if I took the prescriptions to Queenstown. I had not + noticed that they were signed by Doctor Benjulia, as well as by Mr. Null. + Don’t ask me what effect the discovery had on him! I bore it at the time—I + can’t speak of it now.” + </p> + <p> + “You good creature! you dear good creature! Forgive me if I have + distressed you; I didn’t meant it.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not distressed me. Is there anything else I can tell you?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee hesitated. “There is one thing more,” he said. “It isn’t + about Carmina this time—” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated again. Miss Minerva understood. “Yes,” she answered; “I spoke + to Ovid of his mother. In mercy to himself and to me, he would hear no + details. ‘I know enough,’ he said, ‘if I know that she is the person to + blame. I was prepared to hear it. My mother’s silence could only be + accounted for in one way, when I had read Zo’s letter.’—Don’t you + know, Mr. Gallilee, that the child wrote to Ovid?” + </p> + <p> + The surprise and delight of Zo’s fond old father, when he heard the story + of the letter, forced a smile from Miss Minerva, even at that time of + doubt and sorrow. He declared that he would have returned to his daughter + by the mail train of that night, but for two considerations. He must see + his stepson before he went back to Scotland; and he must search all the + toy-shops in London for the most magnificent present that could be offered + to a young person of ten years old. “Tell Ovid, with my love, I’ll call + again to-morrow,” he said, looking at his watch. “I have just time to + write to Zo by to-day’s post.” He went to his club, for the first time + since he had returned to London. Miss Minerva thought of bygone days, and + wondered if he would enjoy his champagne. + </p> + <p> + A little later Mr. Null called—anxious to know if Ovid had arrived. + </p> + <p> + Other women, in the position of Miss Minerva and Teresa, might have + hesitated to keep the patient’s room closed to the doctor. These two were + resolved. They refused to disturb Ovid, even by sending up a message. Mr. + Null took offence. “Understand, both of you,” he said, “when I call + to-morrow morning, I shall insist on going upstairs—and if I find + this incivility repeated, I shall throw up the case.” He left the room, + triumphing in his fool’s paradise of aggressive self-conceit. + </p> + <p> + They waited for some time longer—and still no message reached them + from upstairs. “We may be wrong in staying here,” Miss Minerva suggested; + “he may want to be alone when he leaves her—let us go.” + </p> + <p> + She rose to return to the house of her new employers. They respected her, + and felt for her: while Carmina’s illness continued, she had the entire + disposal of her time. The nurse accompanied her to the door; resigned to + take refuge in the landlady’s room. “I’m afraid to be by myself,” Teresa + said. “Even that woman’s chatter is better for me than my own thoughts.” + </p> + <p> + Before parting for the night they waited in the hall, looking towards the + stairs, and listening anxiously. Not a sound disturbed the melancholy + silence. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVIII. + </h2> + <h3> + Among many vain hopes, one hope had been realised: they had met again. + </h3> + <p> + In the darkened room, her weary eyes could hardly have seen the betrayal + of what he suffered—even if she had looked up in his face. She was + content to rest her head on his breast, and to feel his arm round her. “I + am glad, dear,” she said, “to have lived long enough for this.” + </p> + <p> + Those were her first words—after the first kiss. She had trembled + and sighed, when he ran to her and bent over her: it was the one + expression left of all her joy and all her love. But it passed away as + other lesser agitations had passed away. One last reserve of energy obeyed + the gentle persuasion of love. Silent towards all other friends, she was + able to speak to Ovid. + </p> + <p> + “You used to breathe so lightly,” she said. “How is it that I hear you + now. Oh, Ovid, don’t cry! I couldn’t bear that.” + </p> + <p> + He answered her quietly. “Don’t be afraid, darling; I won’t distress you.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will let me say, what I want to say?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes!” + </p> + <p> + This satisfied her. “I may rest a little now,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He too was silent; held down by the heavy hand of despair. + </p> + <p> + The time had been, in the days of his failing health, when the solemn + shadows of evening falling over the fields—the soaring song of the + lark in the bright heights of the midday sky—the dear lost + remembrances that the divine touch of music finds again—brought + tears into his eyes. They were dry eyes now! Those once tremulous nerves + had gathered steady strength, on the broad prairies and in the roving + life. Could trembling sorrow, seeking its way to the sources of tears, + overbear the robust vitality that rioted in his blood, whether she lived + or whether she died? In those deep breathings that had alarmed her, she + had indeed heard the struggle of grief, vainly urging its way to + expression against the masterful health and strength that set moral + weakness at defiance. Nature had remade this man—and Nature never + pities. + </p> + <p> + It was an effort to her to collect her thoughts—but she did collect + them. She was able to tell him what was in her mind. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think, Ovid, your mother will care much what becomes of me, when I + die?” + </p> + <p> + He started at those dreadful words—so softly, so patiently spoken. + “You will live,” he said. “My Carmina, what am I here for but to bring you + back to life?” + </p> + <p> + She made no attempt to dispute with him. Quietly, persistently, she + returned to the thought that was in her. + </p> + <p> + “Say that I forgive your mother, Ovid—and that I only ask one thing + in return. I ask her to leave me to you, when the end has come. My dear, + there is a feeling in me that I can’t get over. Don’t let me be buried in + a great place all crowded with the dead! I once saw a picture—it was + at home in Italy, I think—an English picture of a quiet little + churchyard in the country. The shadows of the trees rested on the lonely + graves. And some great poet had written—oh, such beautiful words + about it. <i>The red-breast loves to build and warble there, And little + footsteps lightly print the ground.</i> Promise, Ovid, you will take me to + some place, far from crowds and noise—where children may gather the + flowers on my grave.” + </p> + <p> + He promised—and she thanked him, and rested again. + </p> + <p> + “There was something else,” she said, when the interval had passed. “My + head is so sleepy. I wonder whether I can think of it?” + </p> + <p> + After a while, she did think of it. + </p> + <p> + “I want to make you a little farewell present. Will you undo my gold + chain? Don’t cry, Ovid! oh, don’t cry!” + </p> + <p> + He obeyed her. The gold chain held the two lockets—the treasured + portraits of her father and her mother. “Wear them for my sake,” she + murmured. “Lift me up; I want to put them round your neck myself.” She + tried, vainly tried, to clasp the chain. Her head fell back on his breast. + “Too sleepy,” she said; “always too sleepy now! Say you love me, Ovid.” + </p> + <p> + He said it. + </p> + <p> + “Kiss me, dear.” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “Now lay me down on the pillow. I’m not eighteen yet—and I feel as + old as eighty! Rest; all I want is rest.” Looking at him fondly, her eyes + closed little by little—then softly opened again. “Don’t wait in + this dull room, darling; I will send for you, if I wake.” + </p> + <p> + It was the only wish of hers that he disobeyed. From time to time, his + fingers touched her pulse, and felt its feeble beat. From time to time, he + stooped and let the faint coming and going of her breath flutter on his + cheek. The twilight fell, and darkness began to gather over the room. + Still, he kept his place by her, like a man entranced. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIX. + </h2> + <p> + The first trivial sound that broke the spell, was the sound of a match + struck in the next room. + </p> + <p> + He rose, and groped his way to the door. Teresa had ventured upstairs, and + had kindled a light. Some momentary doubt of him kept the nurse silent + when he looked at her. He stammered, and stared about him confusedly, when + he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Where—where—?” He seemed to have lost his hold on his + thoughts—he gave it up, and tried again. “I want to be alone,” he + said; recovering, for the moment, some power of expressing himself. + </p> + <p> + Teresa’s first fear of him vanished. She took him by the hand like a + child, and led him downstairs to his rooms. He stood silently watching + her, while she lit the candles. + </p> + <p> + “When Carmina sleeps now,” he asked, “does it last long?” + </p> + <p> + “Often for hours together,” the nurse answered. + </p> + <p> + He said no more; he seemed to have forgotten that there was another person + in the room. + </p> + <p> + She found courage in her pity for him. “Try to pray,” she said, and left + him. + </p> + <p> + He fell on his knees; but still the words failed him. He tried to quiet + his mind by holy thoughts. No! The dumb agony in him was powerless to find + relief. Only the shadows of thoughts crossed his mind; his eyes ached with + a burning heat. He began to be afraid of himself. The active habits of the + life that he had left, drove him out, with the instincts of an animal, + into space and air. Neither knowing nor caring in what direction he turned + his steps, he walked on at the top of his speed. On and on, till the + crowded houses began to grow more rare—till there were gaps of open + ground, on either side of him—till the moon rose behind a plantation + of trees, and bathed in its melancholy light a lonely high road. He + followed the road till he was tired of it, and turned aside into a winding + lane. The lights and shadows, alternating with each other, soothed and + pleased him. He had got the relief in exercise that had been denied him + while he was in repose. He could think again; he could feel the resolution + stirring in him to save that dear one, or to die with her. Now at last, he + was man enough to face the terrible necessity that confronted him, and + fight the battle of Art and Love against Death. He stopped, and looked + round; eager to return, and be ready for her waking. In that solitary + place, there was no hope of finding a person to direct him. He turned, to + go back to the high road. + </p> + <p> + At that same moment, he became conscious of the odour of tobacco wafted + towards him on the calm night air. Some one was smoking in the lane. + </p> + <p> + He retraced his steps, until he reached a gate—with a barren field + behind it. There was the man, whose tobacco smoke he had smelt, leaning on + the gate, with his pipe in his mouth. + </p> + <p> + The moonlight fell full on Ovid’s face, as he approached to ask his way. + The man suddenly stood up—stared at him—and said, “Hullo! is + it you or your ghost?” + </p> + <p> + His face was in shadow, but his voice answered for him. The man was + Benjulia. + </p> + <p> + “Have you come to see me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you shake hands?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s wrong?” + </p> + <p> + Ovid waited to answer until he had steadied his temper. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen Carmina,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia went on with his smoking. “An interesting case, isn’t it?” he + remarked. + </p> + <p> + “You were called into consultation by Mr. Null,” Ovid continued; “and you + approved of his ignorant treatment—you, who knew better.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think I did!” Benjulia rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “You deliberately encouraged an incompetent man; you let that poor girl go + on from bad to worse—for some vile end of your own.” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia good-naturedly corrected him. “No, no. For an excellent end—for + knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + “If I fail to remedy the mischief, which is your doing, and yours alone—” + </p> + <p> + Benjulia took his pipe out of his mouth. “How do you mean to cure her?” he + eagerly interposed. “Have you got a new idea?” + </p> + <p> + “If I fail,” Ovid repeated, “her death lies at your door. You merciless + villain—as certainly as that moon is now shining over us, your life + shall answer for hers.” + </p> + <p> + Astonishment—immeasurable astonishment—sealed Benjulia’s lips. + He looked down the lane when Ovid left him, completely stupefied. The one + imaginable way of accounting for such language as he had heard—spoken + by a competent member of his own profession!—presented the old + familiar alternative. “Drunk or mad?” he wondered while he lit his pipe + again. Walking back to the house, his old distrust of Ovid troubled him + once more. He decided to call at Teresa’s lodgings in a day or two, and + ascertain from the landlady (and the chemist) how Carmina was being cured. + </p> + <p> + Returning to the high road, Ovid was passed by a tradesman, driving his + cart towards London. The man civilly offered to take him as far as the + nearest outlying cabstand. + </p> + <p> + Neither the landlady nor Teresa had gone to their beds when he returned. + Their account of Carmina, during his absence, contained nothing to alarm + him. He bade them goodnight—eager to be left alone in his room. + </p> + <p> + In the house and out of the house, there was now the perfect silence that + helps a man to think. His mind was clear; his memory answered, when he + called on it to review that part of his own medical practice which might + help him, by experience, in his present need. But he shrank—with + Carmina’s life in his hands—from trusting wholly to himself. A + higher authority than his was waiting to be consulted. He took from his + portmanteau the manuscript presented to him by the poor wretch, whose last + hours he had soothed in the garret at Montreal. + </p> + <p> + The work opened with a declaration which gave it a special value, in + Ovid’s estimation. + </p> + <p> + “If this imperfect record of experience is ever read by other eyes than + mine, I wish to make one plain statement at the outset. The information + which is presented in these pages is wholly derived from the results of + bedside practice; pursued under miserable obstacles and interruptions, and + spread over a period of many years. Whatever faults and failings I may + have been guilty of as a man, I am innocent, in my professional capacity, + of ever having perpetrated the useless and detestable cruelties which go + by the name of Vivisection. Without entering into any of the disputes on + either side, which this practice has provoked, I declare my conviction + that no asserted usefulness in the end, can justify deliberate cruelty in + the means. The man who seriously maintains that any pursuit in which he + can engage is independent of moral restraint, is a man in a state of + revolt against God. I refuse to hear him in his own defense, on that + ground.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid turned next to the section of the work which was entitled “Brain + Disease.” The writer introduced his observations in these prefatory words: + </p> + <p> + “A celebrated physiologist, plainly avowing the ignorance of doctors in + the matter of the brain and its diseases, and alluding to appearances + presented by post-mortem examination, concludes his confession thus: ‘We + cannot even be sure whether many of the changes discovered are the cause + or the result of the disease, or whether the two are the conjoint results + of a common cause.’ + </p> + <p> + “So this man writes, after experience in Vivisection. + </p> + <p> + “Let my different experience be heard next. Not knowing into what hands + this manuscript may fall, or what unexpected opportunities of usefulness + it may encounter after my death, I purposely abstain from using technical + language in the statement which I have now to make. + </p> + <p> + “In medical investigations, as in all other forms of human inquiry, the + result in view is not infrequently obtained by indirect and unexpected + means. What I have to say here on the subject of brain disease, was first + suggested by experience of two cases, which seemed in the last degree + unlikely to help me. They were both cases of young women; each one having + been hysterically affected by a serious moral shock; terminating, after a + longer or shorter interval, in simulated paralysis. One of these cases I + treated successfully. While I was still in attendance on the other, + (pursuing the same course of treatment which events had already proved to + be right), a fatal accident terminated my patient’s life, and rendered a + post-mortem examination necessary. From those starting points, I arrived—by + devious ways which I am now to relate—at deductions and discoveries + that threw a new light on the nature and treatment of brain disease.” + </p> + <p> + Hour by hour, Ovid studied the pages that followed, until his mind and the + mind of the writer were one. He then returned to certain preliminary + allusions to the medical treatment of the two girls—inexpressibly + precious to him, in Carmina’s present interests. The dawn of day found him + prepared at all points, and only waiting until the lapse of the next few + hours placed the means of action in his hands. + </p> + <p> + But there was one anxiety still to be relieved, before he lay down to + rest. + </p> + <p> + He took off his shoes, and stole upstairs to Carmina’s door. The faithful + Teresa was astir, earnestly persuading her to take some nourishment. The + little that he could hear of her voice, as she answered, made his heart + ache—it was so faint and so low. Still she could speak; and still + there was the old saying to remember, which has comforted so many and + deceived so many: While there’s life, there’s hope. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LX. + </h2> + <p> + After a brief interview with his step-son, Mr. Gallilee returned to his + daughters in Scotland. + </p> + <p> + Touched by his fatherly interest in Carmina, Ovid engaged to keep him + informed of her progress towards recovery. If the anticipation of saving + her proved to be the sad delusion of love and hope, silence would signify + what no words could say. + </p> + <p> + In ten days’ time, there was a happy end to suspense. The slow process of + recovery might extend perhaps to the end of the year. But, if no accident + happened, Ovid had the best reasons for believing that Carmina’s life was + safe. + </p> + <p> + Freed from the terrible anxieties that had oppressed him, he was able to + write again, a few days later, in a cheerful tone, and to occupy his pen + at Mr. Gallilee’s express request, with such an apparently trifling + subject as the conduct of Mr. Null. + </p> + <p> + “Your old medical adviser was quite right in informing you that I had + relieved him from any further attendance on Carmina. But his lively + imagination (or perhaps I ought to say, his sense of his own consequence) + has misled you when he also declares that I purposely insulted him. I took + the greatest pains not to wound his self-esteem. He left me in anger, + nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + “A day or two afterwards, I received a note from him; addressing me as + ‘Sir,’ and asking ironically if I had any objection to his looking at the + copies of my prescriptions in the chemist’s book. Though he was old enough + to be my father (he remarked) it seemed that experience counted for + nothing; he had still something to learn from his junior, in the treatment + of disease—and so on. + </p> + <p> + “At that miserable time of doubt and anxiety, I could only send a verbal + reply, leaving him to do what he liked. Before I tell you of the use that + he made of his liberty of action, I must confess something relating to the + prescriptions themselves. Don’t be afraid of long and learned words, and + don’t suppose that I am occupying your attention in this way, without a + serious reason for it which you will presently understand. + </p> + <p> + “A note in the manuscript—to my study of which, I owe, under God, + the preservation of Carmina’s life—warned me that chemists, in the + writer’s country, had either refused to make up certain prescriptions + given in the work, or had taken the liberty of altering the new quantities + and combinations of some of the drugs prescribed. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely the same thing happened here, in the case of the first chemist + to whom I sent. He refused to make up the medicine, unless I provided him + with a signed statement taking the whole responsibility on myself. + </p> + <p> + “Having ascertained the exact nature of his objection, I dismissed him + without his guarantee, and employed another chemist; taking care (in the + interests of my time and my temper) to write my more important + prescriptions under reserve. That is to say, I followed the conventional + rules, as to quantities and combinations, and made the necessary additions + or changes from my own private stores when the medicine was sent home. + </p> + <p> + “Poor foolish Mr. Null, finding nothing to astonish him in my course of + medicine—as represented by the chemist—appears by his own + confession, to have copied the prescriptions with a malicious object in + view. ‘I have sent them, (he informs me, in a second letter) to Doctor + Benjulia; in order that he too may learn something in his profession from + the master who has dispensed with our services.’ This new effort of irony + means that I stand self-condemned of vanity, in presuming to rely on my + own commonplace resources—represented by the deceitful evidence of + the chemist’s book! + </p> + <p> + “But I am grateful to Mr. Null, notwithstanding: he has done me a service, + in meaning to do me an injury. + </p> + <p> + “My imperfect prescriptions have quieted the mind of the man to whom he + sent them. This wretch’s distrust has long since falsely suspected me of + some professional rivalry pursued in secret; the feeling showed itself + again, when I met with him by accident on the night of my return to + London. Since Mr. Null has communicated with him, the landlady is no + longer insulted by his visits, and offended by his questions—all + relating to the course of treatment which I was pursuing upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “You now understand why I have ventured to trouble you on a purely + professional topic. To turn to matters of more interest—our dear + Carmina is well enough to remember you, and to send her love to you and + the girls. But even this little effort is followed by fatigue. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean only fatigue of body: that is now a question of time and + care. I mean fatigue of mind—expressing itself by defect of memory. + </p> + <p> + “On the morning when the first positive change for the better appeared, I + was at her bedside when she woke. She looked at me in amazement. ‘Why + didn’t you warn me of your sudden return?’ she asked, ‘I have only written + to you to-day—to your bankers at Quebec! What does it mean?’ + </p> + <p> + “I did my best to soothe her, and succeeded. There is a complete lapse in + her memory—I am only too sure of it! She has no recollection of + anything that has happened since she wrote her last letter to me—a + letter which must have been lost (perhaps intercepted?), or I should have + received it before I left Quebec. This forgetfulness of the dreadful + trials through which my poor darling has passed, is, in itself, a + circumstance which we must all rejoice over for her sake. But I am + discouraged by it, at the same time; fearing it may indicate some more + serious injury than I have yet discovered. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Minerva—what should I do without the help and sympathy of that + best of true women?—Miss Minerva has cautiously tested her memory in + other directions, with encouraging results, so far. But I shall not feel + easy until I have tried further experiments, by means of some person who + does not exercise a powerful influence over her, and whose memory is + naturally occupied with what we older people call trifles. + </p> + <p> + “When you all leave Scotland next month, bring Zo here with you. My dear + little correspondent is just the sort of quaint child I want for the + purpose. Kiss her for me till she is out of breath—and say that is + what I mean to do when we meet.” + </p> + <p> + The return to London took place in the last week in October. + </p> + <p> + Lord and Lady Northlake went to their town residence, taking Maria and Zo + with them. There were associations connected with Fairfield Gardens, which + made the prospect of living there—without even the society of his + children—unendurable to Mr. Gallilee. Ovid’s house, still waiting + the return of its master, was open to his step-father. The poor man was + only too glad (in his own simple language) “to keep the nest warm for his + son.” + </p> + <p> + The latest inquiries made at the asylum were hopefully answered. Thus far, + the measures taken to restore Mrs. Gallilee to herself had succeeded + beyond expectation. But one unfavourable symptom remained. She was + habitually silent. When she did speak, her mind seemed to be occupied with + scientific subjects: she never mentioned her husband, or any other member + of the family. Time and attention would remove this drawback. In two or + three months more perhaps, if all went well, she might return to her + family and her friends, as sane a woman as ever. + </p> + <p> + Calling at Fairfield Gardens for any letters that might be waiting there, + Mr. Gallilee received a circular in lithographed writing; accompanied by a + roll of thick white paper. The signature revealed the familiar name of Mr. + Le Frank. + </p> + <p> + The circular set forth that the writer had won renown and a moderate + income, as pianist and teacher of music. “A terrible accident, ladies and + gentlemen, has injured my right hand, and has rendered amputation of two + of my fingers necessary. Deprived for life of my professional resources, I + have but one means of subsistence left—<i>viz:</i>—-collecting + subscriptions for a song of my own composition. N.B.—The mutilated + musician leaves the question of terms in the hands of the art-loving + public, and will do himself the honour of calling to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Good-natured Mr. Gallilee left a sovereign to be given to the victim of + circumstances—and then set forth for Lord Northlake’s house. He and + Ovid had arranged that Zo was to be taken to see Carmina that day. + </p> + <p> + On his way through the streets, he was met by Mr. Mool. The lawyer looked + at the song under his friend’s arm. “What’s that you’re taking such care + of?” he asked. “It looks like music. A new piece for the young ladies—eh?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee explained. Mr. Mool struck his stick on the pavement, as the + nearest available means of expressing indignation. + </p> + <p> + “Never let another farthing of your money get into that rascal’s pocket! + It’s no merit of his that the poor old Italian nurse has not made her + appearance in the police reports.” + </p> + <p> + With this preface, Mr. Mool related the circumstances under which Mr. Le + Frank had met with his accident. “His first proceeding when they + discharged him from the hospital,” continued the lawyer, “was to summon + Teresa before a magistrate. Fortunately she showed the summons to me. I + appeared for her, provided with a plan of the rooms which spoke for + itself; and I put two questions to the complainant. What business had he + in another person’s room? and why was his hand in that other person’s + cupboard? The reporter kindly left the case unrecorded; and when the + fellow ended by threatening the poor woman outside the court, we bound him + over to keep the peace. I have my eye on him—and I’ll catch him yet, + under the Vagrant Act!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXI. + </h2> + <p> + Aided by time, care, and skill, Carmina had gained strength enough to pass + some hours of the day in the sitting-room; reclining in an invalid-chair + invented for her by Ovid. The welcome sight of Zo—brightened and + developed by happy autumn days passed in Scotland—brought a deep + flush to her face, and quickened the pulse which Ovid was touching, under + pretence of holding her hand. These signs of excessive nervous sensibility + warned him to limit the child’s visit to a short space of time. Neither + Miss Minerva nor Teresa were in the room: Carmina could have Zo all to + herself. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my dear,” she said, in a kiss, “tell me about Scotland.” + </p> + <p> + “Scotland,” Zo answered with dignity, “belongs to uncle Northlake. He pays + for everything; and I’m Missus.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s true,” said Mr. Gallilee, bursting with pride. “My lord says it’s no + use having a will of your own where Zo is. When he introduces her to + anybody on the estate, he says, ‘Here’s the Missus.’” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee’s youngest daughter listened critically to the parental + testimony. “You see he knows,” she said to Ovid. “There’s nothing to laugh + at.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina tried another question. “Did you think of me, dear, when you were + far away?” + </p> + <p> + “Think of you?” Zo repeated. “You’re to sleep in my bedroom when we go + back to Scotland—and I’m to be out of bed, and one of ‘em, when you + eat your first Scotch dinner. Shall I tell you what you’ll see on the + table? You’ll see a big brown steaming bag in a dish—and you’ll see + me slit it with a knife—and the bag’s fat inside will tumble out, + all smoking hot and stinking. That’s a Scotch dinner. Oh!” she cried, + losing her dignity in the sudden interest of a new idea, “oh, Carmina, do + you remember the Italian boy, and his song?” + </p> + <p> + Here was one of those tests of her memory for trifles, applied with a + child’s happy abruptness, for which Ovid had been waiting. He listened + eagerly. To his unutterable relief, Carmina laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I remember it!” she said. “Who could forget the boy who sings + and grins and says <i>Gimmeehaypenny?”</i> + </p> + <p> + “That’s it!” cried Zo. “The boy’s song was a good one in its way. I’ve + learnt a better in Scotland. You’ve heard of Donald, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Zo turned indignantly to her father. “Why didn’t you tell her of Donald?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee humbly admitted that he was in fault. Carmina asked who + Donald was, and what he was like. Zo unconsciously tested her memory for + the second time. + </p> + <p> + “You know that day,” she said, “when Joseph had an errand at the grocer’s + and I went along with him, and Miss Minerva said I was a vulgar child?” + </p> + <p> + Carmina’s memory recalled this new trifle, without an effort. “I know,” + she answered; “you told me Joseph and the grocer weighed you in the great + scales.” + </p> + <p> + Zo delighted Ovid by trying her again. “When they put me into the scales, + Carmina, what did I weigh?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly four stone, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite four stone. Donald weighs fourteen.’ What do you think of that?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee once more offered his testimony. “The biggest Piper on my + lord’s estate,” he began, “comes of a Highland family, and was removed to + the Lowlands by my lord’s father. A great player—” + </p> + <p> + “And <i>my</i> friend,” Zo explained, stopping her father in full career. + “He takes snuff out of a cow’s horn. He shovels it up his fat nose with a + spoon, like this. His nose wags. He says, ‘Try my sneeshin.’ Sneeshin’s + Scotch for snuff. He boos till he’s nearly double when uncle Northlake + speaks to him. Boos is Scotch for bows. He skirls on the pipes—skirls + means screeches. When you first hear him, he’ll make your stomach ache. + You’ll get used to that—and you’ll find you like him. He wears a + purse and a petticoat; he never had a pair of trousers on in his life; + there’s no pride about him. Say you’re my friend and he’ll let you smack + his legs—” + </p> + <p> + Here, Ovid was obliged to bring the biography of Donald to a close. + Carmina’s enjoyment of Zo was becoming too keen for her strength; her + bursts of laughter grew louder and louder—the wholesome limit of + excitement was being rapidly passed. “Tell us about your cousins,” he + said, by way of effecting a diversion. + </p> + <p> + “The big ones?” Zo asked. + </p> + <p> + “No; the little ones, like you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nice girls—they play at everything I tell ‘em. Jolly boys—when + they knock a girl down, they pick her up again, and clean her.” + </p> + <p> + Carmina was once more in danger of passing the limit. Ovid made another + attempt to effect a diversion. Singing would be comparatively harmless in + its effect—as he rashly supposed. “What’s that song you learnt in + Scotland?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It’s Donald’s song,” Zo replied. <i>“He</i> taught me.” + </p> + <p> + At the sound of Donald’s dreadful name, Ovid looked at his watch, and said + there was no time for the song. Mr. Gallilee suddenly and seriously sided + with his step-son. “How she got among the men after dinner,” he said, + “nobody knows. Lady Northlake has forbidden Donald to teach her any more + songs; and I have requested him, as a favour to me, not to let her smack + his legs. Come, my dear, it’s time we were home again.” + </p> + <p> + Well intended by both gentlemen—but too late. Zo was ready for the + performance; her hat was cocked on one side; her plump little arms were + set akimbo; her round eyes opened and closed facetiously in winks worthy + of a low comedian. “I’m Donald,” she announced: and burst out with the + song: <i>“We’re gayly yet, we’re gayly yet; We’re not very fou, but we’re + gayly yet: Then sit ye awhile, and tipple a bit; For we’re not very fou, + but we’re gayly yet.”</i> She snatched up Carmina’s medicine glass, and + waved it over her head with a Bacchanalian screech. “Fill a brimmer, + Tammie! Here’s to Redshanks!” + </p> + <p> + “And pray who is Redshanks?” asked a lady, standing in the doorway. Zo + turned round—and instantly collapsed. A terrible figure, associated + with lessons and punishments, stood before her. The convivial friend of + Donald, the established Missus of Lord Northlake, disappeared—and a + polite pupil took their place. “If you please, Miss Minerva, Redshanks is + nickname for a Highlander.” Who would have recognised the singer of “We’re + gayly yet,” in the subdued young person who made that reply? + </p> + <p> + The door opened again. Another disastrous intrusion? Yes, another! Teresa + appeared this time—caught Zo up in her arms—and gave the child + a kiss that was heard all over the room. “Ah, mia Giocosa!” cried the old + nurse—too happy to speak in any language but her own. “What does + that mean?” Zo asked, settling her ruffled petticoats. “It means,” said + Teresa, who prided herself on her English, “Ah, my Jolly.” This to a young + lady who could slit a haggis! This to the only person in Scotland, + privileged to smack Donald’s legs! Zo turned to her father, and recovered + her dignity. Maria herself could hardly have spoken with more severe + propriety. “I wish to go home,” said Zo. + </p> + <p> + Ovid had only to look at Carmina, and to see the necessity of immediate + compliance with his little sister’s wishes. No more laughing, no more + excitement, for that day. He led Zo out himself, and resigned her to her + father at the door of his rooms on the ground floor. + </p> + <p> + Cheered already by having got away from Miss Minerva and the nurse, Zo + desired to know who lived downstairs; and, hearing that these were Ovid’s + rooms, insisted on seeing them. The three went in together. + </p> + <p> + Ovid drew Mr. Gallilee into a corner. “I’m easier about Carmina now,” he + said. “The failure of her memory doesn’t extend backwards. It begins with + the shock to her brain, on the day when Teresa removed her to this house—and + it will end, I feel confident, with the end of her illness.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee’s attention suddenly wandered. “Zo!” he called out, “don’t + touch your brother’s papers.” + </p> + <p> + The one object that had excited the child’s curiosity was the + writing-table. Dozens of sheets of paper were scattered over it, covered + with writing, blotted and interlined. Some of these leaves had overflowed + the table, and found a resting-place on the floor. Zo was amusing herself + by picking them up. “Well!” she said, handing them obediently to Ovid, + “I’ve had many a rap on the knuckles for writing not half as bad as + yours.” + </p> + <p> + Hearing his daughter’s remark, Mr. Gallilee became interested in looking + at the fragments of manuscript. “What an awful mess!” he exclaimed. “May I + try if I can read a bit?” Ovid smiled. “Try by all means; you will make + one useful discovery at least—you will see that the most patient men + on the face of the civilised earth are Printers!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee tried a page—and gave it up before he turned giddy. “Is + it fair to ask what this is?” + </p> + <p> + “Something easy to feel, and hard to express,” Ovid answered. “These + ill-written lines are my offering of gratitude to the memory of an unknown + and unhappy man.” + </p> + <p> + “The man you told me of, who died at Montreal?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You never mentioned his name.” + </p> + <p> + “His last wishes forbade me to mention it to any living creature. God + knows there were pitiable, most pitiable, reasons for his dying unknown! + The stone over his grave only bears his initials, and the date of his + death. But,” said Ovid, kindling with enthusiasm, as he laid his hand on + his manuscript, “the discoveries of this great physician shall benefit + humanity! And my debt to him shall be acknowledged, with the admiration + and the devotion that I truly feel!” + </p> + <p> + “In a book?” asked Mr. Gallilee. + </p> + <p> + “In a book that is now being printed. You will see it before the New + Year.” + </p> + <p> + Finding nothing to amuse her in the sitting-room, Zo had tried the bedroom + next. She now returned to Ovid, dragging after her a long white staff that + looked like an Alpen-stock. “What’s this?” she asked. “A broomstick?” + </p> + <p> + “A specimen of rare Canadian wood, my dear. Would you like to have it?” + </p> + <p> + Zo took the offer quite seriously. She looked with longing eyes at the + specimen, three times as tall as herself—and shook her head. “I’m + not big enough for it, yet,” she said. “Look at it, papa! Benjulia’s stick + is nothing to this.” + </p> + <p> + That name—on the child’s lips—had a sound revolting to Ovid. + “Don’t speak of him!” he said irritably. + </p> + <p> + “Mustn’t I speak of him,” Zo asked, “when I want him to tickle me?” Ovid + beckoned to her father. “Take her away now,” he whispered—“and never + let her see that man again.” + </p> + <p> + The warning was needless. The man’s destiny had decreed that he and Zo + were never more to meet. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXII. + </h2> + <p> + Benjulia’s servants had but a dull time of it, poor souls, in the lonely + house. Towards the end of December, they subscribed among themselves to + buy one of those wonderful Christmas Numbers—presenting year after + year the same large-eyed ladies, long-legged lovers, corpulent children, + snow landscapes, and gluttonous merry-makings—which have become a + national institution: say, the pictorial plum puddings of the English + nation. + </p> + <p> + The servants had plenty of time to enjoy their genial newspaper, before + the dining-room bell disturbed them. + </p> + <p> + For some weeks past, the master had again begun to spend the whole of his + time in the mysterious laboratory. On the rare occasions when he returned + to the house, he was always out of temper. If the servants knew nothing + else, they knew what these signs meant—the great man was harder at + work than ever; and in spite of his industry, he was not getting on so + well as usual. + </p> + <p> + On this particular evening, the bell rang at the customary time—and + the cook (successor to the unfortunate creature with pretensions to beauty + and sentiment) hastened to get the dinner ready. + </p> + <p> + The footman turned to the dresser, and took from it a little heap of + newspapers; carefully counting them before he ventured to carry them + upstairs. This was Doctor Benjulia’s regular weekly supply of medical + literature; and here, again, the mysterious man presented an + incomprehensible problem to his fellow-creatures. He subscribed to every + medical publication in England—and he never read one of them! The + footman cut the leaves; and the master, with his forefinger to help him, + ran his eye up and down the pages; apparently in search of some + announcement that he never found—and, still more extraordinary, + without showing the faintest sign of disappointment when he had done. + Every week, he briskly shoved his unread periodicals into a huge basket, + and sent them downstairs as waste paper. + </p> + <p> + The footman took up the newspapers and the dinner together—and was + received with frowns and curses. He was abused for everything that he did + in his own department, and for everything that the cook had done besides. + “Whatever the master’s working at,” he announced, on returning to the + kitchen, “he’s farther away from hitting the right nail on the head than + ever. Upon my soul, I think I shall have to give warning! Let’s relieve + our minds. Where’s the Christmas Number?” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later, the servants were startled by a tremendous bang of the + house-door which shook the whole building. The footman ran upstairs: the + dining-room was empty; the master’s hat was not on its peg in the hall; + and the medical newspapers were scattered about in the wildest confusion. + Close to the fender lay a crumpled leaf, torn out. Its position suggested + that it had narrowly missed being thrown into the fire. The footman + smoothed it out, and looked at it. + </p> + <p> + One side of the leaf contained a report of a lecture. This was dry + reading. The footman tried the other side, and found a review of a new + medical work. + </p> + <p> + This would have been dull reading too, but for an extract from a Preface, + stating how the book came to be published, and what wonderful discoveries, + relating to peoples’ brains, it contained. There were some curious things + said here—especially about a melancholy deathbed at a place called + Montreal—which made the Preface almost as interesting as a story. + But what was there in this to hurry the master out of the house, as if the + devil had been at his heels? + </p> + <p> + Doctor Benjulia’s nearest neighbour was a small farmer named Gregg. He was + taking a nap that evening, when his wife bounced into the room, and said, + “Here’s the big doctor gone mad!” And there he was truly, at Mrs. Gregg’s + heels, clamouring to have the horse put to in the gig, and to be driven to + London instantly. He said, “Pay yourself what you please”—and opened + his pocket-book, full of bank-notes. Mr. Gregg said, “It seems, sir, this + is a matter of life or death.” Whereupon he looked at Mr. Gregg—and + considered a little—and, becoming quiet on a sudden, answered, “Yes, + it is.” + </p> + <p> + On the road to London, he never once spoke—except to himself—and + then only from time to time. + </p> + <p> + It seemed, judging by what fell from him now and then, that he was + troubled about a man and a letter. He had suspected the man all along; but + he had nevertheless given him the letter—and now it had ended in the + letter turning out badly for Doctor Benjulia himself. Where he went to in + London, it was not possible to say. Mr. Gregg’s horse was not fast enough + for him. As soon as he could find one, he took a cab. + </p> + <p> + The shopman of Mr. Barrable, the famous publisher of medical works, had + just put up the shutters, and was going downstairs to his tea, when he + heard a knocking at the shop door. The person proved to be a very tall + man, in a violent hurry to buy Mr. Ovid Vere’s new book. He said, by way + of apology, that he was in that line himself, and that his name was + Benjulia. The shopman knew him by reputation, and sold him the book. He + was in such a hurry to read it, that he actually began in the shop. It was + necessary to tell him that business hours were over. Hearing this, he ran + out, and told the cabman to drive as fast as possible to Pall Mall. + </p> + <p> + The library waiter at Doctor Benjulia’s Club found him in the library, + busy with a book. + </p> + <p> + He was quite alone; the members, at that hour of the evening, being + generally at dinner, or in the smoking-room. The man whose business it was + to attend to the fires, went in during the night, from time to time, and + always found him in the same corner. It began to get late. He finished his + reading; but it seemed to make no difference. There he sat—wide + awake—holding his closed book on his knee, seemingly lost in his own + thoughts. This went on till it was time to close the Club. They were + obliged to disturb him. He said nothing; and went slowly down into the + hall, leaving his book behind him. It was an awful night, raining and + sleeting—but he took no notice of the weather. When they fetched a + cab, the driver refused to take him to where he lived, on such a night as + that. He only said, “Very well; go to the nearest hotel.” + </p> + <p> + The night porter at the hotel let in a tall gentleman, and showed him into + one of the bedrooms kept ready for persons arriving late. Having no + luggage, he paid the charges beforehand. About eight o’clock in the + morning, he rang for the waiter—who observed that his bed had not + been slept in. All he wanted for breakfast was the strongest coffee that + could be made. It was not strong enough to please him when he tasted it; + and he had some brandy put in. He paid, and was liberal to the waiter, and + went away. + </p> + <p> + The policeman on duty, that day, whose beat included the streets at the + back of Fairfield Gardens, noticed in one of them, a tall gentleman + walking backwards and forwards, and looking from time to time at one + particular house. When he passed that way again, there was the gentleman + still patrolling the street, and still looking towards the same house. The + policeman waited a little, and watched. The place was a respectable + lodging house, and the stranger was certainly a gentleman, though a queer + one to look at. It was not the policeman’s business to interfere on + suspicion, except in the case of notoriously bad characters. So, though he + did think it odd, he went on again. + </p> + <p> + Between twelve and one o’clock in the afternoon, Ovid left his Lodgings, + to go to the neighbouring livery stables, and choose an open carriage. The + sun was shining, and the air was brisk and dry, after the stormy night. It + was just the day when he might venture to take Carmina out for a drive. + </p> + <p> + On his way down the street, he heard footsteps behind him, and felt + himself touched on the shoulder. He turned—and discovered Benjulia. + On the point of speaking resentfully, he restrained himself. There was + something in the wretch’s face that struck him with horror. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia said, “I won’t keep you long; I want to know one thing. Will she + live or die?” + </p> + <p> + “Her life is safe—I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Through your new mode of treatment?” + </p> + <p> + His eyes and his voice said more than his words. Ovid instantly knew that + he had seen the book; and that the book had forestalled him in the + discovery to which he had devoted his life. Was it possible to pity a man + whose hardened nature never pitied others? All things are possible to a + large heart. Ovid shrank from answering him. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “When we met that night at my garden gate,” he said, “you told me my life + should answer for her life, if she died. My neglect has not killed her—and + you have no need to keep your word. But I don’t get off, Mr. Ovid Vere, + without paying the penalty. You have taken something from me, which was + dearer than life, I wished to tell you that—I have no more to say.” + </p> + <p> + Ovid silently offered his hand. + </p> + <p> + Benjulia’s head drooped in thought. The generous protest of the man whom + he had injured, spoke in that outstretched hand. He looked at Ovid. + </p> + <p> + “No!” he said—and walked away. + </p> + <p> + Leaving the street, he went round to Fairfield Gardens, and rang the bell + at Mr. Gallilee’s door. The bell was answered by a polite old woman—a + stranger to him among the servants. + </p> + <p> + “Is Zo in the house?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody’s in the house, sir. It’s to be let, if you please, as soon as the + furniture can be moved.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where Zo is? I mean, Mr. Gallilee’s youngest child.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry to say, sir, I’m not acquainted with the family.” + </p> + <p> + He waited at the door, apparently hesitating what to do next. “I’ll go + upstairs,” he said suddenly; “I want to look at the house. You needn’t go + with me; I know my way.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you kindly, sir!” + </p> + <p> + He went straight to the schoolroom. + </p> + <p> + The repellent melancholy of an uninhabited place had fallen on it already. + The plain furniture was not worth taking care of: it was battered and old, + and left to dust and neglect. There were two common deal writing desks, + formerly used by the two girls. One of them was covered with splashes of + ink: varied here and there by barbarous caricatures of faces, in which + dots and strokes represented eyes, noses, and mouths. He knew whose desk + this was, and opened the cover of it. In the recess beneath were soiled + tables of figures, torn maps, and dogs-eared writing books. The ragged + paper cover of one of these last, bore on its inner side a grotesquely + imperfect inscription:—<i>my cop book zo.</i> He tore off the cover, + and put it in the breast pocket of his coat. + </p> + <p> + “I should have liked to tickle her once more,” he thought, as he went down + stairs again. The polite old woman opened the door, curtsying + deferentially. He gave her half a crown. “God bless you, sir!” she burst + out, in a gush of gratitude. + </p> + <p> + He checked himself, on the point of stepping into the street, and looked + at her with some curiosity. “Do you believe in God?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The old woman was even capable of making a confession of faith politely. + “Yes, sir,” she said, “if you have no objection.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped into the street. “I wonder whether she is right?” he thought. + “It doesn’t matter; I shall soon know.” + </p> + <p> + The servants were honestly glad to see him, when he got home. They had + taken it in turn to sit up through the night; knowing his regular habits, + and feeling the dread that some accident had happened. Never before had + they seen him so fatigued. He dropped helplessly into his chair; his + gigantic body shook with shivering fits. The footman begged him to take + some refreshment. “Brandy, and raw eggs,” he said. These being brought to + him, he told them to wait until he rang—and locked the door when + they went out. + </p> + <p> + After waiting until the short winter daylight was at an end, the footman + ventured to knock, and ask if the master wanted lights. He replied that he + had lit the candles for himself. No smell of tobacco smoke came from the + room; and he had let the day pass without going to the laboratory. These + were portentous signs. The footman said to his fellow servants, “There’s + something wrong.” The women looked at each other in vague terror. One of + them said, “Hadn’t we better give notice to leave?” And the other + whispered a question: “Do you think he’s committed a crime?” + </p> + <p> + Towards ten o’clock, the bell rang at last. Immediately afterwards they + heard him calling to them from the hall. “I want you, all three, up here.” + </p> + <p> + They went up together—the two women anticipating a sight of horror, + and keeping close to the footman. + </p> + <p> + The master was walking quietly backwards and forwards in the room: the + table had pen and ink on it, and was covered with writings. He spoke to + them in his customary tones; there was not the slightest appearance of + agitation in his manner. + </p> + <p> + “I mean to leave this house, and go away,” he began. “You are dismissed + from my service, for that reason only. Take your written characters from + the table; read them, and say if there is anything to complain of.” There + was nothing to complain of. On another part of the table there were three + little heaps of money. “A month’s wages for each of you,” he explained, + “in place of a month’s warning. I wish you good luck.” One of the women + (the one who had suggested giving notice to leave) began to cry. He took + no notice of this demonstration, and went on. “I want two of you to do me + a favour before we part. You will please witness the signature of my + Will.” The sensitive servant drew back directly. “No!” she said, “I + couldn’t do it. I never heard the Death-Watch before in winter time—I + heard it all last night.” + </p> + <p> + The other two witnessed the signature. They observed that the Will was a + very short one. It was impossible not to notice the only legacy left; the + words crossed the paper, just above the signatures, and only occupied two + lines: “I leave to Zoe, youngest daughter of Mr. John Gallilee, of + Fairfield Gardens, London, everything absolutely of which I die + possessed.” Excepting the formal introductory phrases, and the statement + relating to the witnesses—both copied from a handy book of law, + lying open on the table—this was the Will. + </p> + <p> + The female servants were allowed to go downstairs; after having been + informed that they were to leave the next morning. The footman was + detained in the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to the laboratory,” the master said; “and I want a few things + carried to the door.” + </p> + <p> + The big basket for waste paper, three times filled with letters and + manuscripts; the books; the medicine chest; and the stone jar of oil from + the kitchen—these, the master and the man removed together; setting + them down at the laboratory door. It was a still cold starlight winter’s + night. The intermittent shriek of a railway whistle in the distance, was + the only sound that disturbed the quiet of the time. + </p> + <p> + “Good night!” said the master. + </p> + <p> + The man returned the salute, and walked back to the house, closing the + front door. He was now more firmly persuaded than ever that something was + wrong. In the hall, the women were waiting for him. “What does it mean?” + they asked. “Keep quiet,” he said; “I’m going to see.” + </p> + <p> + In another minute he was posted at the back of the house, behind the edge + of the wall. Looking out from this place, he could see the light of the + lamps in the laboratory streaming through the open door, and the dark + figure of the master coming and going, as he removed the objects left + outside into the building. Then the door was shut, and nothing was visible + but the dim glow that found its way to the skylight, through the white + blind inside. + </p> + <p> + He boldly crossed the open space of ground, resolved to try what his ears + might discover, now that his eyes were useless. He posted himself at the + back of the laboratory, close to one of the side walls. + </p> + <p> + Now and then, he heard—what had reached his ears when he had been + listening on former occasions—the faint whining cries of animals. + These were followed by new sounds. Three smothered shrieks, succeeding + each other at irregular intervals, made his blood run cold. Had three + death-strokes been dealt on some suffering creatures, with the same sudden + and terrible certainty? Silence, horrible silence, was all that answered. + In the distant railway there was an interval of peace. + </p> + <p> + The door was opened again; the flood of light streamed out on the + darkness. Suddenly the yellow glow was spotted by the black figures of + small swiftly-running creatures—perhaps cats, perhaps rabbits—escaping + from the laboratory. The tall form of the master followed slowly, and + stood revealed watching the flight of the animals. In a moment more, the + last of the liberated creatures came out—a large dog, limping as if + one of its legs was injured. It stopped as it passed the master, and tried + to fawn on him. He threatened it with his hand. “Be off with you, like the + rest!” he said. The dog slowly crossed the flow of light, and was + swallowed up in darkness. + </p> + <p> + The last of them that could move was gone. The death shrieks of the others + had told their fate. + </p> + <p> + But still, there stood the master alone—a grand black figure, with + its head turned up to the stars. The minutes followed one another: the + servant waited, and watched him. The solitary man had a habit, well known + to those about him, of speaking to himself; not a word escaped him now; + his upturned head never moved; the bright wintry heaven held him + spellbound. + </p> + <p> + At last, the change came. Once more the silence was broken by the scream + of the railway whistle. + </p> + <p> + He started like a person suddenly roused from deep sleep, and went back + into the laboratory. The last sound then followed—the locking and + bolting of the door. + </p> + <p> + The servant left his hiding-place: his master’s secret, was no secret now. + He hated himself for eating that master’s bread, and earning that master’s + money. One of the ignorant masses, this man! Mere sentiment had a strange + hold on his stupid mind; the remembrance of the poor wounded dog, + companionable and forgiving under cruel injuries, cut into his heart like + a knife. His thought at that moment, was an act of treason to the royalty + of Knowledge,—“I wish to God I could lame <i>him,</i> as he has + lamed the dog!” Another fanatic! another fool! Oh, Science, be merciful to + the fanatics, and the fools! + </p> + <p> + When he got back to the house, the women were still on the look-out for + him. “Don’t speak to me now,” he said. “Get to your beds. And, mind this—let’s + be off to-morrow morning before <i>he</i> can see us.” + </p> + <p> + There was no sleep for him when he went to his own bed. + </p> + <p> + The remembrance of the dog tormented him. The other lesser animals were + active; capable of enjoying their liberty and finding shelter for + themselves. Where had the maimed creature found a refuge, on that bitter + night? Again, and again, and again, the question forced its way into his + mind. He could endure it no longer. Cautiously and quickly—in dread + of his extraordinary conduct being perhaps discovered by the women—he + dressed himself, and opened the house door to look for the dog. + </p> + <p> + Out of the darkness on the step, there rose something dark. He put out his + hand. A persuasive tongue, gently licking it, pleaded for a word of + welcome. The crippled animal could only have got to the door in one way; + the gate which protected the house-enclosure must have been left open. + First giving the dog a refuge in the kitchen, the footman—rigidly + performing his last duties—went to close the gate. + </p> + <p> + At his first step into the enclosure he stopped panic-stricken. + </p> + <p> + The starlit sky over the laboratory was veiled in murky red. Roaring + flame, and spouting showers of sparks, poured through the broken skylight. + Voices from the farm raised the first cry—“Fire! fire!” + </p> + <p> + At the inquest, the evidence suggested suspicion of incendiarism and + suicide. The papers, the books, the oil betrayed themselves as combustible + materials, carried into the place for a purpose. The medicine chest was + known (by its use in cases of illness among the servants) to contain + opium. Adjourned inquiry elicited that the laboratory was not insured, and + that the deceased was in comfortable circumstances. Where were the + motives? One intelligent man, who had drifted into the jury, was satisfied + with the evidence. He held that the desperate wretch had some reason of + his own for first poisoning himself, and then setting fire to the scene of + his labours. Having a majority of eleven against him, the wise juryman + consented to a merciful verdict of death by misadventure. The hideous + remains of what had once been Benjulia, found Christian burial. His + brethren of the torture-table, attended the funeral in large numbers. + Vivisection had been beaten on its own field of discovery. They honoured + the martyr who had fallen in their cause. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXIII. + </h2> + <p> + The life of the New Year was still only numbered by weeks, when a modest + little marriage was celebrated—without the knowledge of the + neighbours, without a crowd in the church, and even without a + wedding-breakfast. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee (honoured with the office of giving away the bride) drew Ovid + into a corner before they left the house. “She still looks delicate, poor + dear,” he said. “Do you really consider her to be well again?” + </p> + <p> + “As well as she will ever be,” Ovid answered. “Before I returned to her, + time had been lost which no skill and no devotion can regain. But the + prospect has its bright side. Past events which might have cast their + shadow over all her life to come, have left no trace in her memory. I will + make her a happy woman. Leave the rest to me.” + </p> + <p> + Teresa and Mr. Mool were the witnesses; Maria and Zo were the bridesmaids: + they had only waited to go to church, until one other eagerly expected + person joined them. There was a general inquiry for Miss Minerva. Carmina + astonished everybody, from the bride-groom downwards, by announcing that + circumstances prevented her best and dearest friend from being present. + She smiled and blushed as she took Ovid’s arm. “When we are man and wife, + and I am quite sure of you,” she whispered, “I will tell <i>you,</i> what + nobody else must know. In the meantime, darling, if you can give Frances + the highest place in your estimation—next to me—you will only + do justice to the noblest woman that ever lived.” + </p> + <p> + She had a little note hidden in her bosom, while she said those words. It + was dated on the morning of her marriage: “When you return from the + honeymoon, Carmina, I shall be the first friend who opens her arms and her + heart to you. Forgive me if I am not with you to-day. We are all human, my + dear—don’t tell your husband.” + </p> + <p> + It was her last weakness. Carmina had no excuses to make for an absent + guest, when the first christening was celebrated. On that occasion the + happy young mother betrayed a conjugal secret to her dearest friend. It + was at Ovid’s suggestion that the infant daughter was called by Miss + Minerva’s christian name. + </p> + <p> + But when the married pair went away to their happy new life, there was a + little cloud of sadness, which vanished in sunshine—thanks to Zo. + Polite Mr. Mool, bent on making himself agreeable to everybody, paid his + court to Mr. Gallilee’s youngest daughter. “And who do you mean to marry, + my little Miss, when you grow up?” the lawyer asked with feeble drollery. + </p> + <p> + Zo looked at him in grave surprise. “That’s all settled,” she said; “I’ve + got a man waiting for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed! And who may he be?” + </p> + <p> + “Donald!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a very extraordinary child of yours,” Mr. Mool said to his friend, + as they walked away together. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gallilee absently agreed. “Has my message been given to my wife?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mool sighed and shook his head. “Messages from her husband are as + completely thrown away on her,” he answered, “as if she was still in the + asylum. In justice to yourself, consent to an amicable separation, and I + will arrange it.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “I insisted on it, before I met her lawyers. She declares herself to be an + infamously injured woman—and, upon my honour, she proves it, from + her own point of view. ‘My husband never came near me in my illness, and + took my children away by stealth. My children were so perfectly ready to + be removed from their mother, that neither of them had the decency to + write me a letter. My niece contemplated shamelessly escaping to my son, + and wrote him a letter vilifying his mother in the most abominable terms. + And Ovid completes the round of ingratitude by marrying the girl who has + behaved in this way.’ I declare to you, Gallilee, that was how she put it! + ‘Am I to blame,’ she said, ‘for believing that story about my brother’s + wife? It’s acknowledged that she gave the man money—the rest is a + matter of opinion. Was I wrong to lose my temper, and say what I did say + to this so-called niece of mine? Yes, I was wrong, there: it’s the only + case in which there is a fault to find with me. But had I no provocation? + Have I not suffered? Don’t try to look as if you pitied me. I stand in no + need of pity. But I owe a duty to my own self-respect; and that duty + compels me to speak plainly. I will have nothing more to do with the + members of my heartless family. The rest of my life is devoted to + intellectual society, and the ennobling pursuits of science. Let me hear + no more, sir, of you or your employers.’ She rose like a queen, and bowed + me out of the room. I declare to you, my flesh creeps when I think of + her.” + </p> + <p> + “If I leave her now,” said Mr. Gallilee, “I leave her in debt.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me your word of honour not to mention what I am going to tell you,” + Mr. Mool rejoined. “If she needs money, the kindest man in the world has + offered me a blank cheque to fill in for her—and his name is Ovid + Vere.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + As the season advanced, two social entertainments which offered the most + complete contrast to each other, were given in London on the same evening. + </p> + <p> + Mr. and Mrs. Ovid Vere had a little dinner party to celebrate their + return. Teresa (advanced to the dignity of housekeeper) insisted on + stuffing the tomatoes and cooking the macaroni with her own hand. The + guests were Lord and Lady Northlake; Maria and Zo; Miss Minerva and Mr. + Mool. Mr. Gallilee was present as one of the household. While he was in + London, he and his children lived under Ovid’s roof. When they went to + Scotland, Mr. Gallilee had a cottage of his own (which he insisted on + buying) in Lord Northlake’s park. He and Zo drank too much champagne at + dinner. The father made a speech; and the daughter sang, “We’re gayly + yet.” + </p> + <p> + In another quarter of London, there was a party which filled the street + with carriages, and which was reported in the newspapers the next morning. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gallilee was At Home to Science. The Professors of the civilised + universe rallied round their fair friend. France, Italy, and Germany + bewildered the announcing servants with a perfect Babel of names—and + Great Britain was grandly represented. Those three superhuman men, who had + each had a peep behind the veil of creation, and discovered the mystery of + life, attended the party and became centres of three circles—the + circle that believed in “protoplasm,” the circle that believed in + “bioplasm,” and the circle that believed in “atomized charges of + electricity, conducted into the system by the oxygen of respiration.” + Lectures and demonstrations went on all through the evening, all over the + magnificent room engaged for the occasion. In one corner, a fair + philosopher in blue velvet and point lace, took the Sun in hand + facetiously. “The sun’s life, my friends, begins with a nebulous infancy + and a gaseous childhood.” In another corner, a gentleman of shy and + retiring manners converted “radiant energy into sonorous vibrations”—themselves + converted into sonorous poppings by waiters and champagne bottles at the + supper table. In the centre of the room, the hostess solved the serious + problem of diet; viewed as a method of assisting tadpoles to develop + themselves into frogs—with such cheering results that these last + lively beings joined the guests on the carpet, and gratified intelligent + curiosity by explorations on the stairs. Within the space of one + remarkable evening, three hundred illustrious people were charmed, + surprised, instructed, and amused; and when Science went home, it left a + conversazione (for once) with its stomach well filled. At two in the + morning, Mrs. Gallilee sat down in the empty room, and said to the learned + friend who lived with her, + </p> + <p> + “At last, I’m a happy woman!” + </p> + <p> + THE END. <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Heart and Science, by Wilkie Collins + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART AND SCIENCE *** + +***** This file should be named 7892-h.htm or 7892-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/8/9/7892/ + +Produced by James Rusk, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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