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HEART AND SCIENCE

by Wilkie Collins

Heart and Science: A Story of the Present Time

TO

SARONY

(OF NEW YORK)

ARTIST; PHOTOGRAPHER,

AND

GOOD FRIEND

PREFACE

TO READERS IN GENERAL

I.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

SHAKESPEARE'S OPINION.--"It was always yet the trick of our
English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common."
_(King Henry IV., Part II.)_

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." _(Letter to Miss Edgeworth.)_

FARADAY'S OPINION.--"The education of the judgment has for its
first and its last step--Humility." _(Lecture on Mental Education, at
the Royal Institution.)_

Having given my reasons for writing the book, let me conclude by
telling you what I have kept out of the book.

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.

With this, your servant withdraws, and leaves you to the story.

II.

TO READERS IN PARTICULAR.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 _Times_
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.

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.

W. C.

London: April 1883

CHAPTER I.

The weary old nineteenth century had advanced into the last twenty
years of its life.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

CHAPTER II.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"How is our patient, Sir Richard?"

"Out of danger."

"And what do the other doctors say now?"

Sir Richard laughed: "They say it's my luck."

"Not convinced yet?"

"Not in the least. Who has ever succeeded in convincing fools? Let's
try another subject. Is your mother reconciled to your new plans?"

"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."

"Unmarried?" Sir Richard asked slyly.

"I don't know."

"Any money?"

Ovid smiled--not cheerfully. "Do you think my poor mother would be in a
state of indescribable agitation if there was _not_ money?"

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."

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.

"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."

"May I ask why?"

"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?"

"Yes."

"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, _"we_ 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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The patient lived in a house nearly opposite to the British Museum. In
this northward direction he now set his face.

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.

A marked change showed itself in his face.

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.

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.

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.

Where, in all London, could he have found a solitude more congenial to
a dreamer in daylight?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER III.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

She _was_ 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.

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.

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.

"My Carmina, you really ought to write that letter," she said; "the
illustrious Mrs. Gallilee is waiting to hear of our arrival in London."

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!"

Teresa received this proposal with undisguised amazement and alarm,

"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!"

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."

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."

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."

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?"

"Is there no Italian music in London?" Carmina asked suggestively.

The duenna's bright eyes answered this in their own language. She
snatched up the nearest newspaper.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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?

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.

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?"

Instead of answering these questions, Carmina looked over her shoulder.
"Is this poor creature following us?" she asked.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

Teresa's ready sympathy tried to find some acceptable alternative.
"Music would be better, wouldn't it?" she suggested.

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.

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!"

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.

CHAPTER IV.

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.

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.

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.

Had he offended her?

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.

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.

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?

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.

The solo on the piano came to an end.

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."

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.

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.

They looked at each other.

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.

CHAPTER V.

"May I ask for a cup of tea, Miss Minerva?"

"Delighted, I'm sure, Mr. Le Frank."

"And was Mrs. Gallilee pleased with the Concert?"

"Charmed."

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."

"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?"

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.

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.

"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!"

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.

"It _is_ 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."

Mr. Le Frank was not a true believer, even yet. "You don't mean _she_
fainted!" he said.

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 _that_ was serious. Put yourself in
Mrs. Gallilee's place--"

"I couldn't do it," said Mr. Le Frank, with humility.

Miss Minerva passed over this reply without notice. Perhaps she was not
a believer in the humility of musicians.

"The young lady's Christian name," she proceeded, "is Carmina; (put the
accent, if you please, on the _first_ 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?"

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.

"He is a patron of music," the pianist began.

"He hates music," the governess interposed.

"I mean Mr. Null," Mr. Le Frank persisted.

_"I_ mean--" Miss Minerva paused (like the cat with the mouse
again!)--_"I_ mean, Mr. Ovid Vere."

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.

"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 _us._ 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?"

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.

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.

"Dear Miss Minerva," said Maria, "the pastry-cook's name was Timbal. We
have had ices."

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.

"Rouse yourself, Zo," said Mr. Gallilee. "What did we have besides
ices?"

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.

"I've had so many of them," she said; "I don't know. Ask Maria."

Maria responded with the sweetest readiness. "Dear Zoe, you are so
slow! Cheesecakes."

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?"

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.

"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?"

"Don't tell her," Mr. Gallilee suggested.

"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."

"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?"

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.

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.

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.

"We really have a capital smoking-room at that club," he said. "I do
like a good cigar; and--what do _you_ 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."

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.

Mr. Gallilee turned to his youngest child. "Well, Zo--what do _you_
say?"

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.

Mr. Le Frank left the schoolroom next. He paid the governess the
compliment of reverting to her narrative of events at the concert.

"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!"

Left alone with her pupils, Miss Minerva looked at her watch. "Prepare
your lessons for to-morrow," she said.

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?

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.

"I wonder," she thought to herself, "what they are doing upstairs?"

CHAPTER VI.

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.

The four persons, now assembled in the pretty sitting-room upstairs,
were in a position of insupportable embarrassment towards each other.

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?

As for Carmina, her conduct complicated the mystery.

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?

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.

Ovid himself proved to be just as difficult to fathom, in another way

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.

Mrs. Gallilee could endure it no longer.

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.

"In your present state of health, Ovid," she began, "Carmina must not
accept your professional advice."

Something in those words stung Ovid's temper.

"My professional advice?" he repeated. "You talk as if she was
seriously ill!"

Carmina's sweet smile stopped him there.

"We don't know what may happen," she said, playfully.

"God forbid _that_ should happen!" He spoke so fervently that the women
all looked at him in surprise.

Mrs. Gallilee turned to her niece, and proceeded quietly with what she
had to say.

"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.

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.

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."

Teresa, watching them with interest, came a little nearer.

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."

Descending the stairs, Mrs. Gallilee and Ovid met the footman. "Mr.
Mool is in the library, ma'am," the man said.

"Have you anything to do, Ovid, for the next half-hour?" his mother
asked.

"Do you wish me to see Mr. Mool? If it's law-business, I am afraid I
shall not be of much use."

"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."

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?"

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."

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.

Mrs. Gallilee stopped in the hall, with an air of downright alarm.

"Your mind is in a dreadful state," she said.

"Have you really forgotten what I told you, only yesterday? The Will
appoints me Carmina's guardian."

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.

"Make allowances for an overworked man," he said. "You are quite right.
I ought to hear the Will read--I am at your service."

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!

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.

CHAPTER VII.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

His children were three in number:--his son Robert, and his daughters
Maria and Susan.

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!"

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.

The first of the three children to marry was the eldest sister.

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.

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.

Susan, ranking second in age, ranked second also in beauty; and yet, in
the race for a husband, Susan won the prize!

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.

Was there no counter-attraction in her married life?

Very little. Mr. Vere felt no sympathy with his wife's scientific
pursuits.

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.

In course of time, Mr. John Gallilee--"drifting about," as he said of
himself--drifted across the path of science.

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.

What was the history of Robert, during this interval of time? In two
words, Robert disgraced himself.

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.

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.

Another interval passed--and the sisters heard of Robert again.

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.

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?

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."

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.

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."

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.

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?

CHAPTER VIII.

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.

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.

"And how do you do, Mr. Mool? Have you been looking at my ferns?"

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."

"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."

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.

"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!"

"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?"

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?"

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."'

Ovid's astonishment could only express itself in action. He started to
his feet.

Mr. Mool went on reading. "'Free of legacy duty, to buy a mourning
ring--"'

"Impossible!" Ovid broke out.

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.

Happily for themselves, the two men never knew what the preservation of
their tranquillity owed to that one moment of delay.

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."

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.

"Is the room too hot for you?" Ovid asked.

It was a harmless question, but any question annoyed her at that
moment. "Nonsense!" she exclaimed irritably.

"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?

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."

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.

"I ought to have known it," he said, "without obliging you to tell me."

Mrs. Gallilee did _not_ blush. Mr. Mool did.

"Go on!" Mrs. Gallilee repeated. Mr. Mool looked at Ovid. "The next
name, Mr. Vere, is yours."

"Does my uncle remember me as he has remembered my mother?" asked Ovid.

"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--"

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--"

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!"

Mr. Mool volunteered to drive the dog out of the conservatory. Mrs.
Gallilee, as irritable as ever, stopped him at the door.

"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!"

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.

"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!"

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.

Meanwhile, Mr. Mool turned over a page of the Will, and arrived at the
clauses relating to Carmina and her guardian.

"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--"

"Skip the Trustees," said Mrs. Gallilee.

Mr. Mool skipped.

"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--"

"Skip Lady Northlake," said Mrs. Gallilee.

Mr. Mool skipped.

"You are appointed Miss Carmina's guardian, until she comes of age," he
resumed. "If she marries in that interval--"

He paused to turn over a page. Not only Mrs. Gallilee, but Ovid also,
now listened with the deepest interest.

"If she marries in that interval, with her guardian's approval--"

"Suppose I don't approve of her choice?" Mrs. Gallilee interposed.

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.

"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."

"Excessively foolish of Robert," Mrs. Gallilee remarked. "And what, Mr.
Mool, is this meddling council of three to do?"

"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--"

"Am I to give way?" Mrs. Gallilee asked.

"Not until your niece comes of age, ma'am. Then, she decides for
herself."

"And inherits the fortune?"

"Only an income from part of it--if her marriage is disapproved by her
guardian and her relatives."

"And what becomes of the rest?"

"The whole of it," said Mr. Mool, "will be invested by the Trustees,
and will be divided equally, on her death, among her children."

"Suppose she leaves no children?"

"That case is provided for, ma'am, by the last clause. I will only say
now, that you are interested in the result."

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."

"To defend your memory?" Ovid repeated, wondering what she could
possibly mean.

"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!'"

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.

"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."

"Certainly!" cried Mrs. Gallilee, with the utmost fervour.

"And the use of a carriage to herself, whenever she may require it."

"No, Mr. Mool! _Two_ carriages--in such a climate as this. One open,
and one closed."

"And to defray these and other expenses, the Trustees are authorized to
place at your disposal one thousand a year."

"Too much! too much!"

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.

"Perhaps, her dresses and her pocket money are included?" Mrs. Gallilee
resumed.

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."

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?"

"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!"

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.

Ovid hurried into the conservatory--with the dog ahead of him, tearing
down the steps which led into the back garden.

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.

He looked up at the house, and saw Carmina at the open window of her
bedroom.

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.

Ovid went back to the library.

"Anybody listening?" Mr. Mool inquired.

"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.

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.

"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."

Ovid smiled. His mother's religious convictions began and ended with
the inorganic matter of the earth.

"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--"

"Pardon me," Ovid interposed, "what is there to agitate my mother in
this?"

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."

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?"

"Yes."

"And what becomes of all that money, if Carmina never marries, or if
she leaves no children?"

"In either of those cases, sir, the whole of the money goes to Mrs.
Gallilee and her daughters."'

CHAPTER IX.

Time had advanced to midnight, after the reading of the Will--and Ovid
was at home.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

He rose, without any appearance of surprise, and opened the door.

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.

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.

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.

With the sunrise he rose and went out.

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.

After walking in the Park until he was weary, he sat down by the
ornamental lake, and watched the waterfowl enjoying their happy lives.

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.

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.

"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."

"I shall be at the house in half an hour!" Ovid eagerly assured her.

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 _my_ 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. _Be_ one of my people. Help me."

She dragged a chair close to Ovid, and laid her hand suddenly and
heavily on his arm.

"It's not my fault, mind; _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."

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.

"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?"

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."

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.

"May I call you by your name?" she asked.

"Certainly!"

"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!"

What could she be thinking of? "Enemies--in my mother's house!" Ovid
exclaimed. "What can you possibly mean?"

Teresa returned to the door, and only answered him when she had opened
it to go.

"The Evil Eye never lies," she said. "Wait--and you will see."

CHAPTER X.

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.

He was in no humour to wait, and make his confession at that moment.
"Not yet," was his only reply.

Mrs. Gallilee led the way into the room. "Ovid's luggage is not ready
yet," she announced; "I believe he will lose his train."

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?"

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.

Mrs. Gallilee's mind still dwelt on her son's luggage, and on the
rigorous punctuality of railway arrangements.

"What is your servant about?" she said to Ovid. "It's his business to
see that you are ready in time."

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.

"My servant is not to blame," he said. "I have written an apology to my
friend--I am not going away."

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.

Mrs. Gallilee always set the right example. Mrs. Gallilee was the first
to demand an explanation.

"What does this extraordinary proceeding mean?" she asked.

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."

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.

"Are we to hear your reasons?" she inquired.

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.

"I don't think a sea-voyage is the right thing for me," he answered.

"Rather a sudden change of opinion," Mrs. Gallilee remarked.

Ovid coolly agreed with her. It _was_ rather sudden, he said.

The governess still looked at him, wondering whether he would provoke
an outbreak.

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.

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 _not_
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!"

They all rose from the table.

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."

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."

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.

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!"

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?"

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?"

"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."

Carmina hastened away, and so helped Mrs. Gallilee to the immediate
object which she had in view--a private interview with her son.

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.

"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."

Ovid was completely taken by surprise, and owned it by his silence.
Mrs. Gallilee went on in a tone of innocent maternal pleasantry.

"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."

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."

"Then we will return to the present," Mrs. Gallilee replied--still with
the readiest submission to the humour of her son.

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.

"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."

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.

"I am afraid I disturb you," she began.

Ovid seized the opportunity of retreat. He had some letters to
write--he hurried away to the library.

"Is there any mistake?" the governess asked, when she and Mrs. Gallilee
were alone.

"In what respect, Miss Minerva?"

"I met your niece, ma'am, on the stairs. She says you wish the children
to have a holiday."

"Yes, to go with my son and Miss Carmina to the Zoological Gardens."

"Miss Carmina said I was to go too."

"Miss Carmina was perfectly right."

The governess fixed her searching eyes on Mrs. Gallilee. "You really
wish me to go with them?" she said.

"I do."

"I know why."

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?"

"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."

"You are a good guesser," Mrs. Gallilee remarked quietly.

"No," said Miss Minerva more quietly still; "I have only seen what you
have seen."

"Did I tell you what I have seen?"

"Quite needless, ma'am. Your son is in love with his cousin. When am I
to be ready?"

The bland mistress mentioned the hour. The rude governess left the
room.

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.

"Soured by a hopeless passion," she said to herself. "And the object
is--my son."

CHAPTER XI.

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.

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.

"Has Miss Minerva been your mother's governess for a long time?" she
inquired.

"For some years," Ovid replied. "Will you let me put a question on my
side? Why do you ask?"

Carmina hesitated--and answered in a whisper, "She looks ill-tempered."

"She _is_ ill-tempered," Ovid confessed. "I suspect," he added with a
smile, "you don't like Miss Minerva."

Carmina attempted no denial; her excuse was a woman's excuse all over:
"She doesn't like _me."_

"How do you know?"

"I have been looking at her. Does she beat the children?"

"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."

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.

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.

Carmina hurried to the cage as if she had been a child herself. Seeing
Ovid left alone, the governess seized _her_ 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.

"Does your cousin know much about birds?" Miss Minerva began.

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.

"So far, we have not spoken of the birds," Ovid innocently answered.

"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."

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.

"Certainly!"

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

The young girl turned round directly. "What is it, dear?"

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?"

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.

"Don't tell!" she began. "I saw another man look like Ovid."

"When, dear?" Carmina asked--meaning, at what past date.

"When his face was close to yours," Zo answered--meaning, under what
recent circumstances.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"Do you know Joseph?" she began.

Teresa had heard the footman called by his name: she knew who Joseph
was.

"Do you know Matilda?" Zo proceeded.

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.

Zo nodded furiously--the end of it was coming already.

"And before that," Teresa went on, "you saw Joseph's face close to
Matilda's face."

"I saw Joseph kiss Matilda!" Zo burst out, with a scream of triumph.
"Why doesn't Ovid kiss Carmina?"

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.

Teresa turned--and found herself in the presence of a remarkable man.

CHAPTER XII.

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.

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.

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.

"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?"

"Have you been to see Mama?" Zo asked.

"I have _not_ been to see Mama--but I know what she would say to me if
you dashed out your brains, for all that."

"What would she say?"

"She would say--Doctor Benjulia, your name ought to be Herod."'

"Who was Herod?"

"Herod was a Royal Jew, who killed little girls when they took away his
walking-stick. Come here, child. Shall I tickle you?"

"I knew you'd say that," Zo answered.

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?"

"I touch the Cervical Plexus," Doctor Benjulia answered as gravely as
ever.

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.

"Never mind the dog. Do _you_ like it?"

"I don't know."

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.

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?"

Zo answered, "He's a doctor,"--as if that was something much better.

"Do you like him?" Teresa inquired next.

Zo answered the duenna as she had answered the doctor: "I don't know."

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.

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."

Hearing this, Carmina appealed again to Ovid.

"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!"

Ovid might have evaded her entreaties by means of an excuse. But her
eyes were irresistible: they looked him into submission in an instant.

"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."

Carmina listened with great interest: "Has nobody peeped in at the
windows?" she asked.

"There are no windows--only a skylight in the roof."

"Can't somebody get up on the roof, and look in through the skylight?"

Ovid laughed. "One of his men-servants is said to have tried that
experiment," he replied.

"And what did the servant see?"

"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.

"Is he married?" Carmina inquired.

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."

"Hasn't he even got a housekeeper?"

"Not even a housekeeper!"

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."

Carmina turned to Miss Minerva in surprise.

"Ovid seems to have some reason for keeping the tall man away from us,"
she said. "Does he dislike Doctor Benjulia?"

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.

"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?"

Oh, yes! Carmina had noticed that. "I like Mr. Gallilee," she said
warmly; "he is such a nice, kind-hearted, natural old man."

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."

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.

"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."

"I wonder what's the matter with the poor creature?" Carmina asked.

"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."

CHAPTER XIII.

Ovid had promised to return to Carmina in a minute. The minutes passed,
and still Doctor Benjulia held him in talk.

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.

"Benjulia! what brings You to the Zoological Gardens?"

"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?"

Not at the moment remembering the patient, Ovid made no immediate
reply. The doctor seemed to distrust his silence.

"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?"

"No, indeed, I am just as ignorant--"

"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."

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."

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!"

"What is the objection to Italy?"

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?"

"No. Have you?"

"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."

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.

"Tell me something about yourself, Benjulia," he said. "Are you
returning to your regular professional work?"

Benjulia struck his bamboo stick emphatically on the gravel-walk.
"Never! Unless I know more than I know now."

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.

"When is the world to hear of your discoveries?" he asked.

The doctor's massive forehead gathered ominously into a frown, "Damn
the world!" That was his only reply.

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.

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."

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.

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."

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.

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.

"My cousin," Ovid replied as shortly as possible.

"Your cousin? A girl of Lady Northlake's?"

"No: my late uncle's daughter."

Benjulia suddenly came to a standstill. "What!" he cried, "has that
misbegotten child grown up to be a woman?"'

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.

"Do you know what you said of my cousin, just now?" he began.

His tone seemed to surprise the doctor. "What did I say?" he asked.

"You used a very offensive word. You called Carmina a 'misbegotten
child.' Are you repeating some vile slander on the memory of her
mother?"

Benjulia came to another standstill. "Slander?" he repeated--and said
no more.

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!"

"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."

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."

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?"

"Wasn't it the right word?"

"The right word--when you only wanted to speak of a poor sickly child!
Considering that you took your degree at Oxford--"

"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."

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.

"Well?" asked the doctor, stopping directly. "What is it?"

"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."

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."

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."

"Yes; I knew your uncle; and," he added with especial emphasis, "I knew
his wife."

"Well?"

"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.

"Surely my mother must have reminded you?"

"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?"

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.

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.

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.

"I am afraid it is I who have been rude," he said. "Will you go back
with me, and be introduced to Carmina?"

Benjulia made his acknowledgments in his own remarkable way. "No, thank
you," he said, quietly, "I'd rather see the monkey."

CHAPTER XIV.

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.

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.

Arriving at the monkey-house, Teresa appeared in a new character. She
surprised her companions by showing an interest in natural history.

"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?"

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."

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.

"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?"

Listening so far in dumb amazement, Teresa checked the flow of
information at tails and cheek-pouches.

"What gibberish is this child talking to me?" she asked. "I want to
know how the monkeys amuse themselves in that large house?"

Maria's perfect training condescended to enlighten even this state of
mind.

"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."

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."

Maria was bewildered, but nor daunted yet. "Pardon me," she pleaded; "I
fear I don't quite understand you."

"Then there are two of us puzzled," the duenna remarked. _"I_ don't
understand _you._ 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."

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.

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.

"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--"

Teresa lost _her_ temper.

"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."

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.

Teresa was not further irritated by being kept waiting for any length
of time. In a few minutes Carmina joined her on the bench.

"Tired of the beasts already, my pretty one?"

"Worse than tired--driven away by the smell! Dear old Teresa, why did
you speak so roughly to Miss Minerva and Maria?"

"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?"

Carmina listened in astonishment. "You said just the contrary of the
family," she exclaimed, "only yesterday!"

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.

"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 _is_ my opinion, for all that. I
hate those women, mistress and governess, both alike. There! now it's
out. Are you angry with me?"

"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."

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. _There_ is
what I call a Man! If I was as young as you are, and as pretty as you
are--"

A warning gesture from Carmina closed Teresa's lips. Ovid was rapidly
approaching them.

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?

"Was the tall doctor so very interesting?" she ventured to inquire.

"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?"

"Never! Did he know my father and mother?"

"He says so."

"Oh, do introduce me to him!"

"We must wait a little. He prefers being introduced to the monkey
to-day. Where are Miss Minerva and the children?"

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!"

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.

"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?"

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.

"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."

"Proud!" Ovid repeated, not immediately understanding her.

"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?"

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.

"Carmina, do you remember where you first saw me?"

"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."

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."

This bold avowal would have confused a less innocent girl. It only took
Carmina by surprise.

"What made you follow us?" she asked.

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."

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?"

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.

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 _her!_ 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.

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.

"I didn't mean it," he said to Carmina sadly; "I am afraid I have
offended you."

"Oh, how little you know me," she cried, "if you think that!"

This time their eyes met. The truth dawned on her--and he saw it.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

"He might bite me, sir."

"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.

Carmina came running back with the brandy. The doctor smelt it first,
and then took notice of her. "Out of breath?" he said.

"Why don't you give him the brandy?" she answered impatiently.

"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."

"Is he coming to himself?" Carmina asked.

"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. _"This_
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."

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.

"Did they?" said Benjulia--and shut his thin-lipped mouth as if he was
determined to drop the subject for ever.

Ovid stirred feebly, and half opened his eyes.

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!"

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.

"What does this fainting fit mean?" she asked timidly. "Is Ovid going
to be ill?"

"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."

He looked back over his shoulder. "Send him away."

She returned, and knelt down by Ovid--still slowly reviving. With a
fond and gentle hand, she wiped the moisture from his forehead.

"Just as we were beginning to understand each other!" she said to
herself, with a sad little sigh.

CHAPTER XV.

Two days passed. In spite of the warnings that he had received, Ovid
remained in London.

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.

"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 _you;_
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--"

The paper was blotted, and the rest was illegible.

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."

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."

"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.

"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."

"What are Coprolites?" Carmina asked, trying to inform herself on the
subject of her aunt's distinctions.

Still good-humoured, but with an effort that began to appear, Mrs.
Gallilee lowered herself to the level of her niece.

"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?"

"Very interesting books--at least to me," Carmina answered. "I have
found many volumes of poetry. Do you ever read poetry?"

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!"

Unlucky Carmina tried a more promising topic. "What beautiful flowers
you have in the drawing-room!" she said.

"Nothing remarkable, my dear. Everybody has flowers in their
drawing-rooms--they are part of the furniture."

"Did you arrange them yourself, aunt?"

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?"

"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.

Mrs. Gallilee made a last effort. "When you see a little more of
society, my child, you will know that one _must_ like music. So again
with pictures--one _must_ go to the Royal Academy Exhibition. So
again--"

Before she could mention any more social sacrifices, the servant came
in with a letter, and stopped her.

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."

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.

"I wish to speak to you both," she began, "on the subject of my son."

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?"

Admirably reasoned, and correctly guessed!

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.

"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--"

She paused, on the point of finishing the sentence. Although she _had_
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."

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.

"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.

Mrs. Gallilee resumed.

"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?"

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.

"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.

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.

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 _you_ to persuade Ovid."

"Of course not!" Miss Minerva agreed. "May I ask for a little more
sugar in my tea?"

Mrs. Gallilee turned to Carmina.

"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."

Still pale and downcast, Carmina obeyed. "I will do my best, if you
wish it. But--"

"Yes? Go on."

She still hesitated. Mrs. Gallilee tried gentle remonstrance. "My
child, surely you are not afraid of me?"

She was certainly afraid. But she controlled herself.

"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."

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.

"Come! come!" she said. "Don't affect to be ignorant, my dear, of what
you know perfectly well."

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.

"Do you accuse me of deceit?" she asked.

"Let us call it false modesty," Mrs. Gallilee retorted.

Carmina rose without another word--and walked out of the room.

In the extremity of her surprise, Mrs. Gallilee appealed to Miss
Minerva. "Is she in a passion?"

"She didn't bang the door," the governess quietly remarked.

"I am not joking, Miss Minerva."

"I am not joking either, madam."

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.

"May I offer you another cup of tea?"

"Thank you--no more. May I return to my pupils?"

"By all means!"

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,

"Only Miss Minerva!"

CHAPTER XVI.

"I am afraid I have startled you?" said the governess, carefully
closing the door.

"I thought it was my aunt," Carmina answered, as simply as a child.

"Have you been crying?"

"I couldn't help it, Miss Minerva."

"Mrs. Gallilee spoke cruelly to you--I don't wonder at your feeling
angry."

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?"

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."

"Oh, Miss Minerva! you don't think that I would betray your
confidence?"

"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.

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!"

Miss Minerva neither moved nor spoke. She waited, and let the girl cry.

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.

"Are you easier now?"

"Yes, dear."

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?"

"I wish I was your sister, God knows!"

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."

"Yes! yes! and you will take it for me?"

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.

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."

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!"

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.

"No."

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--"

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?"

"I don't quite understand you."

"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?"

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.

"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?"

Miss Minerva replied rather unwillingly. "My name is Frances. Don't
call me Fanny!"

"Why not?"

"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?"

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.

Miss Minerva urged her to go on--first, by a gesture; then by a
suggestion: "They said you fainted under the heat."

"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!"

"Because she doesn't like you?" said Miss Minerva. "Is that the only
reason you can think of?"

"What other reason can there be?"

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.

"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.

"Do you know what that is?" Carmina asked.

"No more than you do--thus far."

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.

"Can't you even guess what it is?" Carmina persisted.

"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."

"In what way?" Carmina asked.

"I have already told you," Miss Minerva answered, "that I don't know."

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."

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.

"From Mr. Ovid, Miss."

CHAPTER XVII.

"Pray come to me; I am waiting for you in the garden of the Square."

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.

Ovid was waiting at the gate of the Square--and he did indeed look
wretchedly ill.

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.

"Does my mother know that you have come here?" Ovid asked.

"Mrs. Gallilee has gone out. I didn't stop to think of it, when I got
your letter. Am I doing wrong?"

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?"

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.

"I understand your silence." With those words he dropped her hand, and
looked at her no more.

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!

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--"

"What has my mother to do with it?"

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--"

"What has she said?"

In that question she saw the chance of speaking to him of other
interests than the interests of love.

"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?"

"Judge for yourself," he answered. "You wish me to leave you?"

"For your own sake. Only for your own sake."

"Do you wish me to come back again?"

"It's cruel to ask the question!"

"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."

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.

"This is my mother's doing," he said.

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.

"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."

Carmina looked at him. His eyes dropped before her, in confusion and
shame.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked.

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."

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.

He was the first to speak again. "How can I go away now?" he said.

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."

He said it gratefully. "My life is yours; my will is yours. Decide for
me, and I will begin my journey."

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.

"Say time to be with You!"

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?"

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."

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.

"Have you thought yet where you will go?" she asked.

"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."

As he mentioned the doctor's name, her hand mechanically pressed his
arm.

"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?"

Ovid stopped. Such a question, from Carmina, sounded strange to him.
"What makes you doubt it?" he said.

"You won't laugh at me, Ovid?"

"You know I won't!"

"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."

"You do indeed surprise me. After knowing Benjulia for years, I have
never noticed, what you have discovered on first seeing him."

"Perhaps he has some way of cleaning the stains off his hands."

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.

"Still thinking, my love?"

"Thinking of you," she answered. "I want you to promise me
something--and I am afraid to ask it."

"Afraid? You don't love me, after all!"

"Then I will say it at once! How long do you expect to be away?"

"For two or three months, perhaps."

"Promise to wait till you return, before you tell your mother--"

"That we are engaged?"

"Yes."

"You have my promise, Carmina; but you make me uneasy."

"Why?"

"In my absence, you will be under my mother's care. And you don't like
my mother."

Few words and plain words--and they sorely troubled her.

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!

"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?"

She thought this way of putting it irresistible. Ovid resisted,
nevertheless. Carmina plunged into lower depths of deceit immediately.

"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."

"And yet, you are afraid of her."

She shook his arm impatiently. "I say, No!"

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?"

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.

"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?"

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.

"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."

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."

Ovid heard this with some surprise. "A friend in my mother's house?" he
asked.

"Certainly!"

"Who is it?"

"Miss Minerva."

"What!" His tone expressed such immeasurable amazement, that Carmina's
sense of justice was roused in defence of her new friend.

"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."

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.

"The best reasons," she replied, in the most positive manner.

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.

"Hush!" Carmina interposed. "Surely, I heard somebody calling to me?"

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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Carmina! are you in the Square?"

"Leave it to me," Ovid whispered. "We will come to you directly," he
called back.

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."

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.

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."

Ovid was waiting for them in the hall. They went into the library. Mrs.
Gallilee enfolded her son in a fervent motherly embrace.

"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."

Ovid informed his mother of Benjulia's suggestion, and asked her what
she thought of it.

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!"

Ovid made his acknowledgments resignedly. Carmina could see that Mrs.
Gallilee's overpowering vitality was beginning to oppress her son.

"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."

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.

When Ovid had left them, Carmina expected to hear something of her
aunt's discovery in the Square.

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!"

Safe in the solitude of her bedroom, the governess ominously knitted
her heavy eyebrows.

"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?"

CHAPTER XIX.

The lapse of a few hours exercised no deteriorating influence on Mrs.
Gallilee's amiability.

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.

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.

"Have you ever been to Doctor Benjulia's house?" Carmina asked.

"Never."

"Then all you have told me about him is mere report? Now you will find
out the truth! Of course you will go?"

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."

Threatened, if he remained obstinate, with such a result as this, Ovid
had no alternative but to submit.

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.

He arrived at an iron gate, opening out of a lonely lane.

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.

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--?

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.

He put his hand on the latch of the gate, and looked back at the
laboratory. He hesitated.

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.

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.

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.

"Don't come near me!" cried Benjulia, the moment Ovid showed himself.

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.

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.

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.

"It's your own fault if the place is dull. Why haven't you planted
trees, and laid out a garden?"

"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."

"You don't seem to care about furniture either," said Ovid.

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.

"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?"

His intolerable composure only added to his guest's irritability.

"A selfish way of putting it," Ovid broke out. "Have you nobody to
think of but yourself?"

"Nobody--I am happy to say."

"That's downright cynicism, Benjulia!"

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 _him_ 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."

"Does your brother return your indifference? You must be a nice pair,
if he does!"

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.

"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 _me;_ and it seems to relieve
_her._ 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."

Ovid refused the drink, and changed the subject. "Your servant is a
remarkably silent person," he said.

"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."

"Is that the reason why you don't keep a watch-dog?"

"I don't like dogs. They bark."

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.

"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."

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.

"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.

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?)

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.

"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."

Ovid looked at him steadily, when he uttered the last word. Benjulia
looked back, just as steadily at Ovid.

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.

"I thank you for the letter," he began; "and I will not forget the
warning."

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.

"Is there anything more I can do for you?" he interposed.

"You can answer a simple question," Ovid replied. "My cousin Carmina--"

Benjulia interrupted him again: "Don't you think we said enough about
your cousin in the Gardens?" he suggested.

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."

"The sooner she forgets my kindness the better. The monkey is dead."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Why?"

"I thought the creature was living in pain."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I heard a moaning--"

"Where?"

"In the building behind your house."

"You heard the wind in the trees."

"Nothing of the sort. Are your chemical experiments ever made on
animals?"

The doctor parried that direct attack, without giving ground by so much
as a hair's breadth.

"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.

"Yes," said Ovid; "that will do."

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.

"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."

"And might suggest new ideas," Ovid rejoined, determined to make him
speak out this time.

Benjulia nodded, in perfect agreement with his guest's view.

"Are you afraid of new ideas?" Ovid went on.

"Perhaps I am--in _your_ head." He made that admission, without
hesitation or embarrassment. "Good-bye!" he resumed. "My sensitive foot
feels noises: don't bang the door."

Getting out into the lane again, Ovid looked at his letter to the
doctor at Montreal. His first impulse was to destroy it.

As Benjulia had hesitated before giving him the letter, so he now
hesitated before tearing it up.

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.

CHAPTER XX.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"Mother," he said, "I am leaving the one person in the world who is
most precious to me, under your care."

"Do you mean," Mrs. Gallilee asked, "that you and Carmina are engaged
to be married?"

"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?"

"When was that?" Mrs. Gallilee inquired.

"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."

"Can women always give their reason?"

"Yes--when they are women like you."

"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."

"Am I to understand that you hesitate still?" Ovid asked.

"No." With that brief reply she rose to put away her book.

Ovid followed her to the bookcase. "Has Carmina conquered you?" he
said.

She put her book back in its place. "Carmina has conquered me," she
answered.

"You say it coldly."

"What does that matter, if I say it truly?"

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!"

"For _your_ 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 _my_ 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.

"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."

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.

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?"

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."

"Who is he?"

"Unfortunately, he is a man who has excited her curiosity. I mean
Benjulia."

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?"

"You never made a greater mistake in your life," her son answered
sharply.

"Then what is the objection to him?" Mrs. Gallilee rejoined.

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."

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.

"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!

She came in hastily, and held out her hand without looking at him.

"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!"

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.

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?

"Have you seen Miss Minerva?" she asked.

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?"

"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?"

"My darling, you are always kind, and always right! But why couldn't
she say good-bye (with the others) downstairs? Do _you_ understand this
curious woman?"

"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.

"Fond of me?"

The surprise which his tone expressed, failed to attract her attention.
She quietly varied the phrase that she had just used.

"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!"

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

"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.

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.

"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?"

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.

"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 _shall_ 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!

VOLUME TWO

CHAPTER XXI.

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.

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.

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?

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.

And after the six months--what then?

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.

Ovid was the central figure in the prospect.

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 _his_ liberal instincts) would do what
Ovid's uncle (with no wife living to check his liberal instincts) had
done already.

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?

There would be, not one result, but three results. Natural; Legal;
Pecuniary.

The natural result would be--children.

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.

The pecuniary result would be (adding the husband's income to the
wife's) about eight thousand a year for the young married people.

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."

She quietly laid aside her fan, as the thought in her completed itself
in this form.

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.

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.

"Where are the young ladies?"

"My master has taken them out for a walk."

"Have they had their music lesson?"

"Not yet, ma'am. Mr. Le Frank left word yesterday that he would come at
six this evening."

"Does Mr. Gallilee know that?"

"I heard Miss Minerva tell my master, while I was helping the young
ladies to get ready."

"Very well. Ask Miss Minerva to come here, and speak to me."

Miss Minerva sat at the open window of her bedroom, looking out
vacantly at the backs of houses, in the street behind Fairfield
Gardens.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Mrs. Gallilee!

The very name was full of promise at that moment. It suggested
hope--merciless hope.

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.

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?

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!"

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.

"My head aches with adding up figures, and writing letters," she said.
"I wish you would finish my correspondence for me."

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.

"Not that I remember. Do you mind giving me my fan? I feel perfectly
helpless--I am wretchedly depressed to-day."

"The heat, perhaps?"

"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."

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.

"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."

Miss Minerva still patiently played the part expected of her. "You
might perhaps do with only one carriage-horse," she remarked.

"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?"

"Examine her yourself, Mrs. Gallilee. I can answer for the result."

"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?"

"Quite satisfied."

"You don't think she is getting--how can I express it?--shall I say
beyond the reach of Mr. Le Frank's teaching?"

"Certainly not."

"Perhaps you would consider Mr. Le Frank equal to the instruction of an
older and more advanced pupil than Maria?"

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.

"I have always thought Mr. Le Frank an excellent teacher," she said.

"Can you give me no more definite answer than that?" Mrs. Gallilee
asked.

"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."

"I am speaking," said Mrs. Gallilee quietly, "of my niece, Carmina."

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.

CHAPTER XXII.

There was an interval of silence between the two ladies.

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.

"The birds are noisy," said Mrs. Gallilee.

"And the piano sounds out of tune," Miss Minerva remarked.

There was no help for it. Either Mrs. Gallilee must return to the
matter in hand---or the matter in hand must drop.

"I am afraid I have not made myself understood," she resumed.

"I am afraid I have been very stupid," Miss Minerva confessed.

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?"

Miss Minerva remained as prudent as ever. She answered, "I have had no
opportunity of forming an opinion."

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?"

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.

"Only to say that I will take his request into consideration," Mrs.
Gallilee replied.

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.

Mrs. Gallilee was surprised. "Do you allude to Mr. Le Frank?" she
inquired.

"No. I don't doubt that his instructions would be of service to any
young lady."

"Are you thinking of my niece?"

"No, Mrs. Gallilee. I am thinking of your son."

"In what way, if you please?"

"In this way. I believe your son would object to employing Mr. Le Frank
as Miss Carmina's teacher."

"On musical grounds?"

"No; on personal grounds."

"What do you mean?"

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."

"An abominable slander, Miss Minerva! I am surprised that you should
refer to it."

"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."

There she paused, and crossed her hands on her lap, and waited for what
was to come next.

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."

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.

"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."

"I should see it in that light as plainly as you do," Miss Minerva
quietly replied, "if Mr. Ovid was at home."

"What difference does that make?"

"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."

Having planted _her_ sting, she rose to retire.

"Have you any further commands for me?" she asked.

"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?"

"In her room, I believe."

"Will you have the goodness to send her here?"

"With the greatest pleasure. Good-evening!"

So ended Mrs. Gallilee's first attempt to make use of Miss Minerva,
without trusting her.

CHAPTER XXIII.

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.

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!

"Mrs. Gallilee wishes to see you."

She started. "Is there anything wrong?" she asked.

"No. What makes you think so?"

"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?"

"That's it. I am not well."

"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?"

"I think I had better not tell you."

"Why?"

"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!"

"One more, please. Is it anything about Ovid?"

"No."

"Then my aunt can wait a little. Do sit down! I want to speak to you."

"About what?"

"About Ovid, of course!"

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.

"I have already told you your aunt is out of temper," she said. "Go to
her at once."

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.

"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.

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.

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.

"Don't be hard on Zo!" she said.

"I must do my duty," Miss Minerva answered sternly.

"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."

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.

"Well, my dear, for one thing Mr. Le Frank is so ugly. Don't you agree
with me?"

"I think you had better keep your opinion to yourself. If he heard of
it--"

"Is he vain? My poor father used to say that all bad musicians were
vain."

"You don't call Mr. Le Frank a bad musician?"

"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!"

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.

Another knock at the door--a single peremptory knock this time--stopped
the performance.

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.

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.

"Has he heard me?" Carmina asked in dismay.

"He may only have heard you playing."

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.

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The month of July was near its end.

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:

"Are you vexed with me, dearest, for this late reply to your sad news
from Italy? I have but one excuse to offer.

"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.

"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?

"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.

"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.

"It happened three weeks ago.

"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.

"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.

"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!

"Have I done with my troubles now? No, Teresa; not even yet. Oh, how I
wish I was with you in Italy!

"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?

"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.

"Shall I tell you how it began? Yes; I will.

"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.

"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?

"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.

"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.

"Can you guess how she received me? Nobody--I say it positively--nobody
could guess.

"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 _you,'_ 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?

"Looking back at your letter, I see that you ask if I have made any new
acquaintances.

"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 _her_ for my guardian.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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."

CHAPTER XXV.

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.

Ovid's letter was thus expressed:

"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?

"This is my case. Let me give you an instance.

"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.

"Have I roused your curiosity? I fancy I can see your eyes brighten; I
fancy I can hear you telling me to go on!

"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
_that_ will make him look like an honest man!

"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.

"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!

"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 _your_
confession--when you said that you loved me.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.'

"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.

"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.

"At my next visit he was able to speak.

"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.'

"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.

"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.

"There is still something more to tell.

"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.

"I can make you but one return,' he said; 'I give you my book.'

"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.

"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.

"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?

"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.

"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.

"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?

"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.

"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!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

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:

"If you love me, forget the inhuman manner in which I have spoken of
Miss Minerva!

"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.

"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.

"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?'

"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.

"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.

"'What did I say?'

"'You told me you were miserable.'

"'I told you a lie! Believe what I have said to you to-day. In your own
interests, believe it to be the truth!'

"Nothing would induce me to believe it. 'No,' I said. 'You were
miserable yesterday, and you are miserable to-day. _That_ is the
truth!'

"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.

"'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.

"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.

"'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?'

"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?'

"'Nothing else,' I answered--'except that I hope I have not offended
you.'

"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.

"'Guess who he is,' she said.

"'How can I do that?' I asked.

"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.

"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!'

"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
_her_ 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.

"'Would you mind reading a short letter,' I said, 'before we wish each
other goodnight?' I held out the priest's letter.

"She drew back with a dark look; she appeared to have some suspicion of
it. 'Who is the writer?' she inquired sharply.

"'A person who is a stranger to you.'

"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.'

"There, I came to a full stop; having something yet to say, but not
knowing how to express myself with the necessary delicacy.

"'Why do you wish me to read the letter?' she asked, quietly.

"I think there is something in it which might--.'

"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.

"'I think Father Patrizio's letter might put you in a better frame of
mind,' I said; 'it might keep you from despising yourself.'

"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.

"'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, _is_
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.'

"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.

"'Does it encourage you?' I asked.

"She handed the letter back to me. 'I have got one sentence in it by
heart,' she said.

"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.

"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.'

"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.

"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.

"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.

"No more gossip!' she called out sternly. 'Do you hear me? Go to bed!'

"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.'

"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.

"Mrs. Gallilee began. 'Did you tell me just now that I had forgotten
myself?'

"Miss Minerva answered, 'Certainly, madam. You _did_ forget yourself.'

"The next words escaped me. After that, they grew louder; and I heard
them again--my aunt first.

"'I am dissatisfied with your manner to me, Miss Minerva. It has
latterly altered very much for the worse.'

"'In what respect, Mrs. Gallilee?'

"'In this respect. Your way of speaking to me implies an assertion of
equality--'

"'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?'

"'Miss Minerva! Do you wish to remain in my service?'

"'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.'

"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?'

"'Yes--at my suggestion.'

"'Take your month's notice, if you please.'

"'Dating from to-morrow?'

"'Of course!'

"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.

"'Can't you see that the poor girl is ill?'

"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.

"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."

CHAPTER XXVII.

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:

"Don't ask me to tell you how the night passed! Miss Minerva was the
first person who came to me in the morning.

"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.'

"The next person who appeared was, as we had both anticipated, Mrs.
Gallilee herself.

"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.

"After this, an agreeable surprise was in store for me. The familiar
voice of good Mr. Gallilee applied for admission--through the keyhole!

"'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!'

"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.

"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?

"Miss Minerva came back to me as she had promised. 'It is well,' she
said gravely, 'that the doctor has been to see you.'

"I asked if the doctor thought me very ill.

"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.'

"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.

"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.

"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?

"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?'

"'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!'

"'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?'

"'Yes.'

"'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.'

"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.

"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.

"'Did Mrs. Gallilee see you come in?' I asked.

"'Yes. She was watching for me, no doubt.'

"Did she see you go upstairs to my room?'

"'Yes.'

"'And said nothing?'

"'Nothing.'

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.'

"When she talked of my happiness, I naturally thought of Ovid. I asked
if there was anything about him in the Will.

"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.'

"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.'

"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.

"You see it all now--don't you? After I had thanked Miss Minerva,
turned away my head on the pillow overpowered by disgust.

"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.'

"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."

"The night has come, and Mrs. Gallilee's cruelty has at last proved too
much even for my endurance.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"She poured out the composing medicine which Mr. Null had ordered for
me. I took it in silence. She sat down by the bedside.

"'My child,' she began, 'we are friends again now. You bear no malice,
I am sure.'

"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.

"'Are you feeling better?' she asked.

"'Yes.'

"'Is there anything I can get for you?'

"'Not now--thank you.'

"'Would you like to see Mr. Null again, before to-morrow?'

"'Oh, no!'

"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.

"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?'

"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.

"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.

"'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.'

"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.

"'My dear child, that is exactly what I lament! This person has
insinuated herself into your confidence--and she is utterly unworthy of
it.'

"Could I let those abominable words pass in silence? 'Mrs. Gallilee!' I
said, 'you are cruelly wronging a woman whom I love and respect!'

"'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!'

"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!

"Mrs. Gallilee went on, without mercy.

"'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.'

"She got up. Her object was gained: she was even with me, and with the
woman who had befriended me, at last.

"'Lie down in your bed again,' she said, 'and think over what I have
told you. In your own interests, think over it well.'

"I was left alone.

"Shall I tell you what saved me from sinking under the shock?
Ovid--thousands and thousands of miles away--Ovid saved me.

"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.

"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?'

"I am now waiting to receive Miss Minerva's reply.

"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.

"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.

"I have only done her justice. The maid has just asked me to open the
door. I have got my answer. Read it."

"'Mrs. Gallilee has spoken the truth.

"'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.

"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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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 _will_ write it--don't trust me!

"'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.

"'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!

"'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.'"

"Have you read her letter, Teresa? Am I wrong in feeling that this poor
wounded heart has surely some claim on me? If I _am_ wrong, oh, what am
I to do? what am I to do?"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The last lines addressed by Carmina to her old nurse were completed on
the seventeenth of August, and were posted that night.

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.

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.

"Any other letters this morning?" she asked.

"Two, for my master."

"No more than that!"

"Nothing more, ma'am--except a telegram for Miss Carmina."

"When did it come?"

"Soon after the letters."

"Have you given it to her?"

"Being a telegram, ma'am, I thought I ought to take it to Miss Carmina
at once."

"Quite right. You can go."

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

"No bad news, I hope?"

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:

"My husband died this morning. Expect me in London from day to day."

"Why is this person coming to London?" Mrs. Gallilee inquired.

Stung by the insolent composure of that question, Carmina answered
sharply, "Her name is on the telegram; you ought to know!"

"Indeed?" said Mrs. Gallilee. "Perhaps, she likes London?"

"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?"

"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?"

"Her husband was foreman in a manufactory till his health failed him."

"And then," Mrs. Gallilee concluded, "the money failed him, of course.
What did he manufacture?"

"Artists' colours."

"Oh! an artists' colourman? Not a very lucrative business, I should
think. Has his widow any resources of her own?"

"My purse is hers!"

"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."

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.

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.

"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."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the door. After opening it,
she paused--and looked back into the room.

"Have you thought of what I told you, last night?" she asked.

Sorely as they had been tried, Carmina's energies rallied at this. "I
have done my best to forget it!" she answered.

"At Miss Minerva's request?"

Carmina took no notice of the question.

Mrs. Gallilee persisted. "Have you had any communication with that
person?"

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.

"Please come down here," said Mrs. Galilee.

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.

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.

"Have you been here already this morning?" she inquired.

"No."

"Is there some coolness between you and my niece?"

"None, madam, that I know of."

"Then, why don't you speak to her when you come into the room?"

"Miss Carmina has been ill. I see her resting on the sofa--and I am
unwilling to disturb her."

"Not even by saying good-morning?"

"Not even that!"

"You are exceedingly careful, Miss Minerva."

"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?"

Mrs. Gallilee prepared to put her niece and her governess to the final
test.

"I wish you to suspend the children's lesson for an hour or two," she
answered.

"Certainly. Shall I tell them?"

"No; I will tell them myself."

"What do you wish me to do?" said Miss Minerva.

"I wish you to remain here with my niece."

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.

Mrs. Gallilee addressed her in a whisper. "Let me say a word to you at
the door."

Miss Minerva followed her to the landing outside. Carmina turned again,
listening anxiously.

"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?" (_"Now,"_ she thought, "if there is
jealousy between them, I shall see it!")

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.

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.

CHAPTER XXIX.

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."

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.

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?

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!

Benjulia's letter was among the other letters waiting on the table. She
took it up, and read it again.

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."

Why?

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.

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.

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.

One of the letters was from her sister in Scotland. Among other
subjects, it referred to Carmina.

"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."

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!

The marine villa reminded her of the family migration to the sea-side.

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.

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.

"What is it now? Didn't the housekeeper tell you that I am not to be
disturbed?"

"I beg your pardon, ma'am. My master--"

"What does your master want?"

"He wishes to see you, ma'am."

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."

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!"

"Now," said Mrs. Gallilee, "what do you want?"

"Only a little word. How well you're looking, my dear!"

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.

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!"

_"Will_ you come to the point, Mr. Gallilee?"

"With pleasure, my dear--with pleasure. I'm afraid I smell of tobacco?"

"I don't care if you do!"

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!

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 _this_ the result?

"Mr. Gallilee!"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Sit down!"

Mr. Gallilee sat down.

"Have you been to the club?"

Mr. Gallilee got up again.

"Sit down!"

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."

"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!"

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.

"What have you got there?" Mrs. Gallilee asked sharply. "One of the
letters you had this morning?"

Mr. Gallilee looked at her with admiration. "Wonderful woman!" he said.
"Nothing escapes her! Allow me, my dear."

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!"

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!"

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!"

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

Mrs. Gallilee went home again, with her pecuniary anxieties at rest for
the time. The carriage was waiting for her at the door.

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.

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.

CHAPTER XXX.

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."

Was this "serious case of illness"--described as being "accompanied by
shocking circumstances"--a case of disease of the brain?

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.

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."

The information of which he was in search might be in _that_ 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.

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.

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.

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."

Further reflection decided Benjulia on writing. Even when he had a
favour to ask, he was unable to address Lemuel with common politeness.

"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.

CHAPTER XXXI.

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.

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.

"Hullo!" cried the elder brother.

"Hullo!" answered the younger, like an echo.

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.

"How-d'ye-do, Nathan?" he said.

"What the devil brings you here?" was the answer.

Lemuel passed over his brother's rudeness without notice. His mouth
curled up at the corners with a mischievous smile.

"I thought you wished to see my letter," he said.

"Why couldn't you send it by post?"

"My wife wished me to take the opportunity of calling on you."

"That's a lie," said Benjulia quietly. "Try another excuse. Or do a new
thing. For once, speak the truth."

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.

"How did you get away from your office?" Benjulia inquired.

"It's easy to get a holiday at this time of year. Business is slack,
old boy--"

"Stop! I don't allow you to speak to me in that way."

"No offence, brother Nathan!"

"Brother Lemuel, I never allow a fool to offend me. I put him in his
place--that's all."

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.

Lemuel saw his way to making some return for his brother's reception of
him.

"It's my dog," he said; "and it's lucky for you that I have left him in
the cab."

"Why?"

"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."

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.

"What's the use of washing my hands," he answered, "when I am going
back to my work?"

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."

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."

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."

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.

"What has Morphew got to say to you that I mustn't read?" he asked.

"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?"

Benjulia answered this in the easiest way--he nodded his head.

"Is it Vivisection?" Lemuel inquired slyly.

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."

"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."

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."

"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. _Bow-wow_ 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!"

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.

"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?"

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!"

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.

"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."

"I'll help you," said Benjulia--interested in developing the state of
his brother's brain.

"I don't believe you," said Lemuel--interested in developing the state
of his brother's temper.

"Try me, Lemuel."

"All right, Nathan."

The two brothers returned to their chairs; reduced for once to the same
moral level.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"Now," said Benjulia, "what is it to be? The favourite public bugbear?
Vivisection?"

"Yes."

"Very well. What can I do for you?"

"Tell me first," said Lemuel, "what is Law?"

"Nobody knows."

"Well, then, what _ought_ it to be?"

"Justice, I suppose."

"Let me wait a bit, Nathan, and get that into my mind."

Benjulia waited with exemplary patience.

"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?"

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.

"Does the Law forbid you to make your experiments on a man?" he asked.

"Of course it does!"

"Why doesn't the Law forbid you to make your experiments on a dog?"

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:

The Law which forbids you to dissect a living man, allows you to
dissect a living dog. Why?

There was positively no answer to this.

Suppose he said, Because a dog is an animal? Could he, as a
physiologist, deny that a man is an animal too?

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.

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?

Honestly accepting the dilemma which thus presented itself, the
conclusion that followed seemed to be beyond dispute.

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.

"Well," said Lemuel, "am I to have an answer?"

"I'm not a lawyer."

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!

"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."

He returned to his reading. Lemuel watched him--still confidently
waiting for results.

The letter proceeded in these terms:

"Your employer may perhaps be inclined to publish my work, if I can
satisfy him that it will address itself to the general reader.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"I should deal in the same way, with the other pretence, of improving
our practice of surgery by experiment on living animals.

"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.

"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.

"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. _He_ doesn't
shrink behind false pretences. _He_ doesn't add cant to cruelty. _He_
boldly proclaims the truth:--I do it, because I like it!"

Benjulia rose, and threw the letter on the floor.

_"I_ proclaim the truth," he said; _"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."

"That's odd," said Lemuel.

"What's odd?"

"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!"

"Let me congratulate you first," said Benjulia. "It isn't every fool
who knows that he _is_ 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 _you_ 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? _That_ 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!"

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.

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.

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.

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!"

He took Benjulia's arm, and led him upstairs.

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."

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."

If she had been twenty years younger the hint might have been thrown
away. As it was, Lemuel retired.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

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."

The office boy came into the room, with a visiting card in his hand.

"I'm going home to dinner," said Mr. Mool. "The person must call
to-morrow."

The boy laid the card on the table. The person was Mrs. Gallilee.

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."

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."

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.

"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."

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?"

"I have had that honour, Mrs. Gallilee. Not a very sociable person--if
I may venture to say so."

"Downright rude, Mr. Mool, on some occasions. But that doesn't matter
now. I have just been visiting the doctor."

Was this visit connected with the "disgrace to the family?" Mr. Mool
ventured to put a question.

"Doctor Benjulia is not related to you, ma'am--is he?"

"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."

"Really, Mrs. Gallilee--"

"Mr. Mool!"

"I beg your pardon, ma'am."

"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."

"Your niece, Mrs. Gallilee."

"No!"

"Not Miss Carmina?"

"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."

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.

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!"

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.

"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."

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.

"Before we enter on the legal aspect of the case--" he began.

"The shocking case," Mrs. Gallilee interposed, in the interests of
Virtue.

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."

"By all means! I am ready to go into any details, no matter how
disgusting they may be."

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.

"Am I right in supposing that you believe what you have told me?" he
resumed.

"Most assuredly!"

"Is Doctor Benjulia the only person who has spoken to you on the
subject?"

"The only person."

"His information being derived from his friend--the fellow-student whom
you mentioned just now?"

"In other words," Mrs. Gallilee answered viciously, "the father of the
wretched girl who has been foisted on my care."

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.

"I suppose the doctor had some reason for believing what his friend
told him?"

"Ample reason! Vice and poverty generally go together--_this_ man was
poor. He showed Doctor Benjulia money received from his mistress--her
husband's money, it is needless to say."

"Her motive might be innocent, Mrs. Gallilee. Had the man any letters
of hers to show?"

"Letters? From a woman in her position? It's notorious, Mr. Mool, that
Italian models don't know how to read or write."

"May I ask if there are any further proofs?"

"You have had proofs enough."

"With all possible respect, ma'am, I deny that."

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.

"If you are determined to believe in the woman's innocence," she said,
"without knowing any of the circumstances--"

Mr. Mool went on from bad to worse: he interrupted her now.

"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."

"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."

"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?"

"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."

"Until to-day," the lawyer remarked; "Doctor Benjulia appears to have
been quite ready to mention the subject to-day."

"Under special circumstances, Mr. Mool. Perhaps, you will not allow
that special circumstances make any difference?"

On the contrary, Mr. Mool made every allowance. At the same time, he
waited to hear what the circumstances might be.

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.

Mr. Mool waited, and waited in vain. He reminded his client of what she
had just said.

"You mentioned certain circumstances. May I know what they are?" he
asked.

Mrs. Gallilee rose, before she replied.

"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?"

"I can do it in one word, Mrs. Gallilee. Wrong."

"What!"

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."

"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--"

"That will do, Mr. Mool. You really mean to say that this girl's
interest in my brother's Will--"

"Remains quite unaffected, ma'am, by all that you have told me."

"And I am still obliged to keep her under my care?"

"Or," Mr. Mool answered, "to resign the office of guardian, in favour
of Lady Northlake--appointed to act, in your place."

"I won't trouble you any further, sir. Good-evening!"

She turned to leave the office. Mr. Mool actually tried to stop her.

"One word more, Mrs. Galilee."

"No; we have said enough already."

Mr. Mool's audacity arrived at its climax. He put his hand on the lock
of the office door, and held it shut.

"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--"

"Good-evening, Mr. Mool!"

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.

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.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

"I don't know what is the matter with me. Sometimes I think I am going
to be really ill."

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.

"Are you still taking medicine?" Miss Minerva inquired.

"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."

"Let me do it," Miss Minerva suggested.

Carmina's sad face brightened. "That's kind indeed!" she said.

"Nonsense! I shall take the children out, after dinner to-day. Looking
over lodgings will be an amusement to me and to them."

"Where is Zo? Why haven't you brought her with you?"

"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."

"Oh, never mind that! Let us have clean airy rooms--and a kind
landlady. Teresa mustn't know it, if the terms are high."

"Will she allow you to pay her expenses?"

"Ah, _you_ 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?"

At that moment, a message arrived from one of the persons of whom she
was speaking. Mrs. Gallilee wished to see Miss Carmina immediately.

"My dear," said Miss Minerva, when the servant had withdrawn, "why do
you tremble so?"

"There's something in me, Frances, that shudders at my aunt, ever
since--"

She stopped.

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.

In the hall, Carmina found the servant waiting for her. He opened the
library door. The learned lady was at her studies.

"I have been speaking to Mr. Null about you," said Mrs. Gallilee.

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.

"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?"

"Nothing--thank you."

"Perhaps you wish for a new dress?"

"Oh, no!"

"You have no complaint to make of the servants?"

"The servants are always kind to me."

"I needn't detain you any longer--I have a person coming to speak to
me."

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.

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.

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 _beg_ your pardon."

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?"

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.

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."

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?"

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gallilee had received her music-master with the nearest
approach to an indulgent welcome, of which a hardened nature is
capable.

"Take the easy chair, Mr. Le Frank. You are not afraid of the open
window?"

"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--"

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?"

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"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?"

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--?"

"To me!" Mrs. Gallilee exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm.

Mr. Le Frank felt the compliment. He bowed gratefully.

"Need I say how gladly I accept the honour?" With this gracious answer
Mrs. Gallilee rose.

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.

"And five-and-twenty copies more, for which I subscribe," cried his
munificent patroness, cordially shaking hands with him.

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.

"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?"

She paused. Mr. Le Frank waited with breathless interest.

"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?"

Mr. Le Frank's ready suspicion was instantly aroused. "Not the least
idea," he answered. "Can you tell me?"

"I am as completely puzzled as you are," Mrs. Gallilee rejoined.

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.

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."

CHAPTER XXXV.

The solitude of her own room was no welcome refuge to Carmina, in her
present state of mind. She went on to the schoolroom.

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."

"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?"

"Perfectly sure."

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."

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. _"He_ hasn't got to brush his hair, before he
goes out for a walk; _his_ nails don't took black when they're dirty.
And, I say!" (she whispered the next words in Carmina's ear) _"he_
hasn't got a governess."

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.

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.

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.

But recent events had, in one respect at least, improved the prospect.

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.

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.

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 _my_ horses
to-day; and, fat as he is, _my_ coachman will not have a fit on the
box!"

It was only too true. At the appointed hour the carriage appeared
again--and (to complete the disappointment) Marceline had no report to
make.

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.

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."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

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.

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!

"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.

They were just leaving the house, when the music-master arrived at the
door to give his lesson.

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!"

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.

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.

On his way downstairs, he found the door of Carmina's room left half
open.

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.

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.

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.

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_ shall have other opportunities; and _she_ may not
always remember to turn the key." He stole quietly down the stairs, and
met no one on his way out.

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.

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."

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

"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!

"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."

Carmina answered this letter as soon as she had read it.

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.

There now appeared to her a certain wisdom in the loving rapidity of
her reply.

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.

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.

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.

"I'm in a rage," she announced; "and so is the Other One."

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."

"Hush! you mustn't talk in that way."

"She'll be here directly," Zo proceeded. "You look out! She'd rap
_your_ 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.

"I say!" she resumed--"you know the boy?"

"What boy, dear?"

"He comes round sometimes. He's got a hurdy-gurdy. He's got a monkey.
He grins. He says, _Aha--gimmee--haypenny._ I mean to go to that boy!"

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.

_"Yah-yah-yah-bellah-vitah-yah!_ That's Italian, Carmina." The door
opened again while the performer was in full vigour--and Miss Minerva
appeared.

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; he 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.

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.

"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?"

"I have heard from Ovid," Carmina answered. The photograph was still in
her hand; but her inbred delicacy of feeling kept the portrait hidden.

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.

"When is he coming back?" she asked. It was said quietly.

Carmina quietly replied, "Not yet--I am sorry to say."

"I am sorry too."

"It's good of you, Frances, to say that."

"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.

There was a pause. Miss Minerva was the first to speak again.

"Do you understand me?" she asked.

"Perhaps you will help me to understand," Carmina answered.

"If you were married to him, even my restless spirit might be at peace.
The struggle would be over."

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.

"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_ 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?"

"I have thought of it."

"What did I say? You poor little prisoner, you _have_ 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.

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."

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."

She returned to her chair.

"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_ can help it. When you are a happy married woman--when _he_
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?"

"Yes."

"Without reserve?"

"Entirely without reserve."

"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?"

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.

"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!"

"Oh, Frances!"

Miss Minerva pointed to the letter on the desk. "Does he tell you when
he will be back?"

"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."

"Then there is no fear of your crossing each other on the voyage. Go to
Quebec, and wait for him there."

"I should frighten him."

"Not you!"

"What can I say to him?"

"What you _must_ 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!"

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.

"It is my business to give Carmina her medicine," she said. "Your
business is at the schoolroom table."

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.

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.

"Well?" said Miss Minerva. "How do I look?"

Maria still hesitated. Zo spoke out as usual. "You look as if somebody
had frightened you."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

After two days of rain, the weather cleared again.

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!"

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.

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.

But, before he left the house, his domestic duties claimed attention.
He issued his orders to the cook.

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.

On his way to the telegraph office, Benjulia left Ovid's letters at
Mrs. Gallilee's house.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"I ordered roast mutton at three," he said, with terrifying
tranquillity. "Where is it?"

"The dinner will be ready in ten minutes, sir."

"Why is it not ready now?"

"The cook hopes you will excuse her, sir. She is a little behindhand
to-day."

"What has hindered her, if you please?"

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"?

"Perhaps you were making love to her?" the doctor suggested, as gently
as ever.

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."

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?"

"I should, sir! Most cooks are excitable. They say it's the kitchen
fire."

"Do they? You can go now. Don't hurry the cook--I'll wait."

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.

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!"

The cook presented herself, with one hand on her palpitating heart, and
the other holding her handkerchief to her eyes.

"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?

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?"

"'Pamela; or Virtue Rewarded,' sir."

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,

"The author's name is on the book, sir. Name of Richardson."

The information was graciously received, "Yes; I've heard of the name,
and heard of the book. Is it interesting?"

"Oh, sir, it's a beautiful story! My only excuse for being late with
the dinner--"

"Who's Pamela?"

"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--"

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.

"And what becomes of her at the end of the story?" he asked.

The cook simpered. "It's Pamela who is the virtuous young person, sir.
And so the story comes true--Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded."

"Who rewards her?"

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?"

"Her master, sir."

"What does he do?"

The cook's eyes sank modestly to her lap. The cook's complexion became
brighter than ever.

"Her master marries her, sir."

"Oh?"

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