The tone was hearty. He poured out the sparkling ale into a big tumbler, with hospitable good-will. Mr. Mool was completely, and most agreeably, taken by surprise. He too was feeling the influence of the doctor’s good humour—enriched in quality by pleasant remembrances of his interview with the cook.
“I live in the suburbs, Doctor Benjulia, on this side of London,” Mr. Mool explained; “and I have had a nice walk from my house to yours. If I have done wrong, sir, in visiting you on Sunday, I can only plead that I am engaged in business during the week—”
“All right. One day’s the same as another, provided you don’t interrupt me. You don’t interrupt me now. Do you smoke?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you mind my smoking?”
“I like it, doctor.”
“Very amiable on your part, I’m sure. What did you say your name was?”
“Mool.”
Benjulia looked at him suspiciously. Was he a physiologist, and a rival? “You’re not a doctor—are you?” he said.
“I am a lawyer.”
One of the few popular prejudices which Benjulia shared with his inferior fellow-creatures was the prejudice against lawyers. But for his angry recollection of the provocation successfully offered to him by his despicable brother, Mrs. Gallilee would never have found her way into his confidence. But for his hearty enjoyment of the mystification of the cook, Mr. Mool would have been requested to state the object of his visit in writing, and would have gone home again a baffled man. The doctor’s holiday amiability had reached its full development indeed, when he allowed a strange lawyer to sit and talk with him!
“Gentlemen of your profession,” he muttered, “never pay visits to people whom they don’t know, without having their own interests in view. Mr. Mool, you want something of me. What is it?”
Mr. Mool’s professional tact warned him to waste no time on prefatory phrases.
“I venture on my present intrusion,” he began, “in consequence of a statement recently made to me, in my office, by Mrs. Gallilee.”
“Stop!” cried Benjulia. “I don’t like your beginning, I can tell you. Is it necessary to mention the name of that old—?” He used a word, described in dictionaries as having a twofold meaning. (First, “A female of the canine kind.” Second, “A term of reproach for a woman.”) It shocked Mr. Mool; and it is therefore unfit to be reported.
“Really, Doctor Benjulia!”
“Does that mean that you positively must talk about her?”
Mr. Mool smiled. “Let us say that it may bear that meaning,” he answered.
“Go on, then—and get it over. She made a statement in your office. Out with it, my good fellow. Has it anything to do with me?”
“I should not otherwise, Doctor Benjulia, have ventured to present myself at your house.” With that necessary explanation, Mr. Mool related all that had passed between Mrs. Gallilee and himself.
At the outset of the narrative, Benjulia angrily laid aside his pipe, on the point of interrupting the lawyer. He changed his mind; and, putting a strong constraint on himself, listened in silence. “I hope, sir,” Mr. Mool concluded, “you will not take a hard view of my motive. It is only the truth to say that I am interested in Miss Carmina’s welfare. I felt the sincerest respect and affection for her parents. You knew them too. They were good people. On reflection you must surely regret it, if you have carelessly repeated a false report? Won’t you help me to clear the poor mother’s memory of this horrid stain?”
Benjulia smoked in silence. Had that simple and touching appeal found its way to him? He began very strangely, when he consented at last to open his lips.
“You’re what they call, a middle-aged man,” he said. “I suppose you have had some experience of women?”
Mr. Mool blushed. “I am a married man, sir,” he replied gravely.
“Very well; that’s experience—of one kind. When a man’s out of temper, and a woman wants something of him, do you know how cleverly she can take advantage of her privileges to aggravate him, till there’s nothing he won’t do to get her to leave him in peace? That’s how I came to tell Mrs. Gallilee, what she told you.”
He waited a little, and comforted himself with his pipe.
“Mind this,” he resumed, “I don’t profess to feel any interest in the girl; and I never cared two straws about her parents. At the same time, if you can turn to good account what I am going to say next—do it, and welcome. This scandal began in the bragging of a fellow-student of mine at Rome. He was angry with me, and angry with another man, for laughing at him when he declared himself to be Mrs. Robert Graywell’s lover: and he laid us a wager that we should see the woman alone in his room, that night. We were hidden behind a curtain, and we did see her in his room. I paid the money I had lost, and left Rome soon afterwards. The other man refused to pay.”
“On what ground?” Mr. Mool eagerly asked.
“On the ground that she wore a thick veil, and never showed her face.”
“An unanswerable objection, Doctor Benjulia!”
“Perhaps it might be. I didn’t think so myself. Two hours before, Mrs. Robert Graywell and I had met in the street. She had on a dress of a remarkable colour in those days—a sort of sea-green. And a bonnet to match, which everybody stared at, because it was not half the size of the big bonnets then in fashion. There was no mistaking the strange dress or the tall figure, when I saw her again in the student’s room. So I paid the bet.”
“Do you remember the name of the man who refused to pay?”
“His name was Egisto Baccani.”
“Have you heard anything of him since?”
“Yes. He got into some political scrape, and took refuge, like the rest of them, in England; and got his living, like the rest of them, by teaching languages. He sent me his prospectus—that’s how I came to know about it.”
“Have you got the prospectus?”
“Torn up, long ago.”
Mr. Mool wrote down the name in his pocket-book. “There is nothing more you can tell me?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“Accept my best thanks, doctor. Good-day!”
“If you find Baccani let me know. Another drop of ale? Are you likely to see Mrs. Gallilee soon?”
“Yes—if I find Baccani.”
“Do you ever play with children?”
“I have five of my own to play with,” Mr. Mool answered.
“Very well. Ask for the youngest child when you go to Mrs. Gallilee’s. We call her Zo. Put your finger on her spine—here, just below the neck. Press on the place—so. And, when she wriggles, say, With the big doctor’s love.”
Getting back to his own house, Mr. Mool was surprised to find an open carriage at the garden gate. A smartly-dressed woman, on the front seat, surveyed him with an uneasy look. “If you please, sir,” she said, “would you kindly tell Miss Carmina that we really mustn’t wait any longer?”
The woman’s uneasiness was reflected in Mr. Mool’s face. A visit from Carmina, at his private residence, could have no ordinary motive. The fear instantly occurred to him that Mrs. Gallilee might have spoken to her of her mother.
Before he opened the drawing-room door, this alarm passed away. He heard Carmina talking with his wife and daughters.
“May I say one little word to you, Mr. Mool?”
He took her into his study. She was shy and confused, but certainly neither angry nor distressed.
“My aunt sends me out every day, when it’s fine, for a drive,” she said. “As the carriage passed close by, I thought I might ask you a question.”
“Certainly, my dear! As many questions as you please.”
“It’s about the law. My aunt says she has the authority over me now, which my dear father had while he was living. Is that true?”
“Quite true.”
“For how long is she my guardian?”
“Until you are twenty-one years old.”
The faint colour faded from Carmina’s face. “More than three years perhaps to suffer!” she said sadly.
“To suffer? What do you mean, my dear?”
She turned paler still, and made no reply. “I want to ask one thing more?” she resumed, in sinking tones. “Would my aunt still be my guardian—supposing I was married?”
Mr. Mool answered this, with his eyes fixed on her in grave scrutiny.
“In that case, your husband is the only person who has any authority over you. These are rather strange questions, Carmina. Won’t you take me into your confidence?”
In sudden agitation she seized his hand and kissed it. “I must go!” she said. “I have kept the carriage waiting too long already.”
She ran out, without once looking back.
Mrs. Gallilee’s maid looked at her watch, when the carriage left Mr. Mool’s house. “We shall be nearly an hour late, before we get home,” she said.
“It’s my fault, Marceline. Tell your mistress the truth, if she questions you. I shall not think the worse of you for obeying your orders.”
“I’d rather lose my place, Miss, than get you into trouble.”
The woman spoke truly, Carmina’s sweet temper had made her position not only endurable, but delightful: she had been treated like a companion and a friend. But for that circumstance—so keenly had Marceline felt the degradation of being employed as a spy—she would undoubtedly have quitted Mrs. Gallilee’s service.
On the way home, instead of talking pleasantly as usual, Carmina was silent and sad. Had this change in her spirits been caused by the visit to Mr. Mool? It was even so. The lawyer had innocently decided her on taking the desperate course which Miss Minerva had proposed.
If Mrs. Gallilee’s assertion of her absolute right of authority, as guardian, had been declared by Mr. Mool to be incorrect, Carmina (hopefully forgetful of her aunt’s temper) had thought of a compromise.
She would have consented to remain at Mrs. Gallilee’s disposal until Ovid returned, on condition of being allowed, when Teresa arrived in London, to live in retirement with her old nurse. This change of abode would prevent any collision between Mrs. Gallilee and Teresa, and would make Carmina’s life as peaceful, and even as happy, as she could wish.
But now that the lawyer had confirmed her aunt’s statement of the position in which they stood towards one another, instant flight to Ovid’s love and protection seemed to be the one choice left—unless Carmina could resign herself to a life of merciless persecution and perpetual suspense.
The arrangements for the flight were already complete.
That momentary view of Mrs. Gallilee’s face, reflected in the glass, had confirmed Miss Minerva’s resolution to interfere. Closeted with Carmina on the Sunday morning, she had proposed a scheme of escape, which would even set Mrs. Gallilee’s vigilance and cunning at defiance. No pecuniary obstacle stood in the way. The first quarterly payment of Carmina’s allowance of five hundred a year had been already made, by Mool’s advice. Enough was left—even without the assistance which the nurse’s resources would render—to purchase the necessary outfit, and to take the two women to Quebec. On the day after Teresa’s arrival (at an hour of the morning while the servants were still in bed) Carmina and her companion could escape from the house on foot—and not leave a trace behind them.
Meanwhile, Fortune befriended Mrs. Gallilee’s maid. No questions were put to her; no notice even was taken of the late return.
Five minutes before the carriage drew up at the house, a learned female friend from the country called, by appointment, on Mrs. Gallilee. On the coming Tuesday afternoon, an event of the deepest scientific interest was to take place. A new Professor had undertaken to deliver himself, by means of a lecture, of subversive opinions on “Matter.” A general discussion was to follow; and in that discussion (upon certain conditions) Mrs. Gallilee herself proposed to take part.
“If the Professor attempts to account for the mutual action of separate atoms,” she said, “I defy him to do it, without assuming the existence of a continuous material medium in space. And this point of view being accepted—follow me here! what is the result? In plain words,” cried Mrs. Gallilee, rising excitedly to her feet, “we dispense with the idea of atoms!”
The friend looked infinitely relieved by the prospect of dispensing with atoms.
“Now observe!” Mrs. Gallilee proceeded. “In connection with this part of the subject, I shall wait to see if the Professor adopts Thomson’s theory. You are acquainted with Thomson’s theory? No? Let me put it briefly. Mere heterogeneity, together with gravitation, is sufficient to explain all the apparently discordant laws of molecular action. You understand? Very well. If the Professor passes over Thomson, then, I rise in the body of the Hall, and take my stand—follow me again!—on these grounds.”
While Mrs. Gallilee’s grounds were being laid out for the benefit of her friend, the coachman took the carriage back to the stables; the maid went downstairs to tea; and Carmina joined Miss Minerva in the schoolroom—all three being protected from discovery, by Mrs. Gallilee’s rehearsal of her performance in the Comedy of Atoms.
The Monday morning brought with it news from Rome—serious news which confirmed Miss Minerva’s misgivings.
Carmina received a letter, bearing the Italian postmark, but not addressed to her in Teresa’s handwriting. She looked to the signature before she began to read. Her correspondent was the old priest—Father Patrizio. He wrote in these words:
“My dear child,—Our good Teresa leaves us to-day, on her journey to London. She has impatiently submitted to the legal ceremonies, rendered necessary by her husband having died without making a will. He hardly left anything in the way of money, after payment of his burial expenses, and his few little debts. What is of far greater importance—he lived, and died, a good Christian. I was with him in his last moments. Offer your prayers, my dear, for the repose of his soul.
“Teresa left me, declaring her purpose of travelling night and day, so as to reach you the sooner.
“In her headlong haste, she has not even waited to look over her husband’s papers; but has taken the case containing them to England—to be examined at leisure, in your beloved company. Strong as this good creature is, I believe she will be obliged to rest on the road for a night at least. Calculating on this, I assume that my letter will get to you first. I have something to say about your old nurse, which it is well that you should know.
“Do not for a moment suppose that I blame you for having told Teresa of the unfriendly reception, which you appear to have met with from your aunt and guardian. Who should you confide in—if not in the excellent woman who has filled the place of a mother to you? Besides, from your earliest years, have I not always instilled into you the reverence of truth? You have told the truth in your letters. My child, I commend you, and feel for you.
“But the impression produced on Teresa is not what you or I could wish. It is one of her merits, that she loves you with the truest devotion; it is one of her defects, that she is fierce and obstinate in resentment. Your aunt has become an object of absolute hatred to her. I have combated successfully, as I hope and believe—this unchristian state of feeling.
“She is now beyond the reach of my influence. My purpose in writing is to beg you to continue the good work that I have begun. Compose this impetuous nature; restrain this fiery spirit. Your gentle influence, Carmina, has a power of its own over those who love you—and who loves you like Teresa?—of which perhaps you are not yourself aware. Use your power discreetly; and, with the blessing of God and his Saints, I have no fear of the result.
“Write to me, my child, when Teresa arrives—and let me hear that you are happier, and better in health. Tell me also, whether there is any speedy prospect of your marriage. If I may presume to judge from the little I know, your dearest earthly interests depend on the removal of obstacles to this salutary change in your life. I send you my good wishes, and my blessing. If a poor old priest like me can be of any service, do not forget.
“FATHER PATRIZIO.”
Any lingering hesitation that Carmina might still have felt, was at an end when she read this letter. Good Father Patrizio, like good Mr. Mool, had innocently urged her to set her guardian’s authority at defiance.
When the morning lessons were over, Carmina showed the priest’s letter to Miss Minerva. The governess read it, and handed it back in silence.
“Have you nothing to say?” Carmina asked.
“Nothing. You know my opinion already. That letter says what I have said—with greater authority.”
“It has determined me to follow your advice, Frances.”
“Then it has done well.”
“And you see,” Carmina continued, “that Father Patrizio speaks of obstacles in the way of my marriage. Teresa has evidently shown him my letters. Do you think he fears, as I do, that my aunt may find some means of separating us, even when Ovid comes back?”
“Very likely.”
She spoke in faint weary tones—listlessly leaning back in her chair. Carmina asked if she had passed another sleepless night.
“Yes,” she said, “another bad night, and the usual martyrdom in teaching the children. I don’t know which disgusts me most—Zoe’s impudent stupidity, or Maria’s unendurable humbug.”
She had never yet spoken of Maria in this way. Even her voice seemed to be changed. Instead of betraying the usual angry abruptness, her tones coldly indicated impenetrable contempt. In the silence that ensued, she looked up, and saw Carmina’s eyes resting on her anxiously and kindly.
“Any other human being but you,” she said, “would find me disagreeable and rude—and would be quite right, too. I haven’t asked after your health. You look paler than usual. Have you, too, had a bad night?”
“I fell asleep towards the morning. And—oh, I had such a delightful dream! I could almost wish that I had never awakened from it.”
“Who did you dream of?” She put the question mechanically—frowning, as if at some repellent thought suggested to her by what she had just heard.
“I dreamed of my mother,” Carmina answered.
Miss Minerva raised herself at once in the chair. Whatever that passing impression might have been, she was free from it now. There was some little life again in her eyes; some little spirit in her voice. “Take me out of myself,” she said; “tell me your dream.”
“It is nothing very remarkable, Frances. We all of us sometimes see our dear lost ones in sleep. I saw my mother again, as I used to see her in the nursery at bedtime—tall and beautiful, with her long dark hair failing over her white dressing-gown to the waist. She stooped over me, and kissed me; and she looked surprised. She said, ‘My little angel, why are you here in a strange house? I have come to take you back to your own cot, by my bedside.’ I wasn’t surprised or frightened; I put my arms round her neck; and we floated away together through the cool starry night; and we were at home again. I saw my cot, with its pretty white curtains and pink ribbons. I heard my mother tell me an English fairy story, out of a book which my father had given to her—and her kind voice grew fainter and fainter, while I grew more and more sleepy—and it ended softly, just as it used to end in the happy old days. And I woke, crying. Do you ever dream of your mother now?”
“I? God forbid!”
“Oh, Frances, what a dreadful thing to say!”
“Is it? It was the thought in me, when you spoke. And with good reason, too. I was the last of a large family—the ugly one; the ill-tempered one; the encumbrance that made it harder than ever to find money enough to pay the household expenses. My father swore at my mother for being my mother. She reviled him just as bitterly in return; and vented the rest of her ill-temper on my wretched little body, with no sparing hand. Bedtime was her time for beating me. Talk of your mother—not of mine! You were very young, were you not, when she died?”
“Too young to feel my misfortune—but old enough to remember the sweetest woman that ever lived. Let me show you my father’s portrait of her again. Doesn’t that face tell you what an angel she was? There was some charm in her that all children felt. I can just remember some of my playfellows who used to come to our garden. Other good mothers were with us—but the children all crowded round my mother. They would have her in all their games; they fought for places on her lap when she told them stories; some of them cried, and some of them screamed, when it was time to take them away from her. Oh, why do we live! why do we die! I have bitter thoughts sometimes, Frances, like you. I have read in poetry that death is a fearful thing. To me, death is a cruel thing,—and it has never seemed so cruel as in these later days, since I have known Ovid. If my mother had but lived till now, what happiness would have been added to my life and to hers! How Ovid would have loved her—how she would have loved Ovid!”
Miss Minerva listened in silence. It was the silence of true interest and sympathy, while Carmina was speaking of her mother. When her lover’s name became mingled with the remembrances of her childhood—the change came. Once more, the tell-tale lines began to harden in the governess’s face. She lay back again in her chair. Her fingers irritably platted and unplatted the edge of her black apron.
Carmina was too deeply absorbed in her thoughts, too eagerly bent on giving them expression, to notice these warning signs.
“I have all my mother’s letters to my father,” she went on, “when he was away from her on his sketching excursions, You have still a little time to spare—I should so like to read some of them to you. I was reading one, last night—which perhaps accounts for my dream? It is on a subject that interests everybody. In my father’s absence, a very dear friend of his met with a misfortune; and my mother had to prepare his wife to hear the bad news—oh, that reminds me! There is something I want to say to you first.”
“About yourself?” Miss Minerva asked.
“About Ovid. I want your advice.”
Miss Minerva was silent. Carmina went on. “It’s about writing to Ovid,” she explained.
“Write, of course!”
The reply was suddenly and sharply given. “Surely, I have not offended you?” Carmina said.
“Nonsense! Let me hear your mother’s letter.”
“Yes—but I want you to hear the circumstances first.”
“You have mentioned them already.”
“No! no! I mean the circumstances, in my case.” She drew her chair closer to Miss Minerva. “I want to whisper—for fear of somebody passing on the stairs. The more I think of it, the more I feel that I ought to prepare Ovid for seeing me, before I make my escape. You said when we talked of it—”
“Never mind what I said.”
“Oh, but I do mind! You said I could go to Ovid’s bankers at Quebec, and then write when I knew where he was. I have been thinking over it since—and I see a serious risk. He might return from his inland journey, on the very day that I get there; he might even meet me in the street. In his delicate health—I daren’t think of what the consequences of such a surprise might be! And then there is the dreadful necessity of telling him, that his mother has driven me into taking this desperate step. In my place, wouldn’t you feel that you could do it more delicately in writing?”
“I dare say!”
“I might write to-morrow, for instance. To-morrow is one of the American mail days. My letter would get to Canada (remembering the roundabout way by which Teresa and I are to travel, for fear of discovery), days and days before we could arrive. I should shut myself up in an hotel at Quebec; and Teresa could go every day to the bank, to hear if Ovid was likely to send for his letters, or likely to call soon and ask for them. Then he would be prepared. Then, when we meet—!”
The governess left her chair, and pointed to the clock.
Carmina looked at her—and rose in alarm. “Are you in pain?” she asked.
“Yes—neuralgia, I think. I have the remedy in my room. Don’t keep me, my dear. Mrs. Gallilee mustn’t find me here again.”
The paroxysm of pain which Carmina had noticed, passed over her face once more. She subdued it, and left the room. The pain mastered her again; a low cry broke from her when she closed the door. Carmina ran out: “Frances! what is it?” Frances looked over her shoulder, while she slowly ascended the stairs. “Never mind!” she said gently. “I have got my remedy.”
Carmina advanced a step to follow her, and drew back.
Was that expression of suffering really caused by pain of the body? or was it attributable to anything that she had rashly said? She tried to recall what had passed between Frances and herself. The effort wearied her. Her thoughts turned self-reproachfully to Ovid. If he had been speaking to a friend whose secret sorrow was known to him, would he have mentioned the name of the woman whom they both loved? She looked at his portrait, and reviled herself as a selfish insensible wretch. “Will Ovid improve me?” she wondered. “Shall I be a little worthier of him, when I am his wife?”
Luncheon time came; and Mrs. Gallilee sent word that they were not to wait for her.
“She’s studying,” said Mr. Gallilee, with awe-struck looks. “She’s going to make a speech at the Discussion to-morrow. The man who gives the lecture is the man she’s going to pitch into. I don’t know him; but how do you feel about it yourself, Carmina?—I wouldn’t stand in his shoes for any sum of money you could offer me. Poor devil! I beg your pardon, my dear; let me give you a wing of the fowl. Boiled fowl—eh? and tongue—ha? Do you know the story of the foreigner? He dined out fifteen times with his English friends. And there was boiled fowl and tongue at every dinner. The fifteenth time, the foreigner couldn’t stand it any longer. He slapped his forehead, and he said, ‘Ah, merciful Heaven, cock and bacon again!’ You won’t mention it, will you?—and perhaps you think as I do?—I’m sick of cock and bacon, myself.”
Mr. Null’s medical orders still prescribed fresh air. The carriage came to the door at the regular hour; and Mr. Gallilee, with equal regularity, withdrew to his club.
Carmina was too uneasy to leave the house, without seeing Miss Minerva first. She went up to the schoolroom.
There was no sound of voices, when she opened the door. Miss Minerva was writing, and silence had been proclaimed. The girls were ready dressed for their walk. Industrious Maria had her book. Idle Zo, perched on a high chair, sat kicking her legs. “If you say a word,” she whispered, as Carmina passed her, “you’ll be called an Imp, and stuck up on a chair. I shall go to the boy.”
“Are you better, Frances?”
“Much better, my dear.”
Her face denied it; the look of suffering was there still. She tore up the letter which she had been writing, and threw the fragments into the waste-paper basket.
“That’s the second letter you’ve torn up,” Zo remarked.
“Say a word more—and you shall have bread and water for tea!” Miss Minerva was not free from irritation, although she might be free from pain. Even Zo noticed how angry the governess was.
“I wish you could drive with me in the carriage,” said Carmina. “The air would do you so much good.”
“Impossible! But you may soothe my irritable nerves in another way, if you like.”
“How?”
“Relieve me of these girls. Take them out with you. Do you mind?”
Zo instantly jumped off her chair; and even Maria looked up from her book.
“I will take them with pleasure. Must we ask my aunt’s permission?”
“We will dispense with your aunt’s permission. She is shut up in her study—and we are all forbidden to disturb her. I will take it on myself.” She turned to the girls with another outbreak of irritability. “Be off!”
Maria rose with dignity, and made one of her successful exits. “I am sorry, dear Miss Minerva, if I have done anything to make you angry.” She pointed the emphasis on “I,” by a side-look at her sister. Zo bounced out of the room, and performed the Italian boy’s dance on the landing. “For shame!” said Maria. Zo burst into singing. “Yah yah-yah-bellah-vitah-yah! Jolly! jolly! jolly!—we are going out for a drive!”
Carmina waited, to say a friendly word, before she followed the girls.
“You didn’t think me neglectful, Frances, when I let you go upstairs by yourself!” Miss Minerva answered sadly and kindly. “The best thing you could do was to leave me by myself.”
Carmina’s mind was still not quite at ease. “Yes—but you were in pain,” she said.
“You curious child! I am not in pain now.”
“Will you make me comfortable, Frances? Give me a kiss.”
“Two, my dear—if you like.”
She kissed Carmina on one cheek and on the other. “Now leave me to write,” she said.
Carmina left her.
The drive ought to have been a pleasant one, with Zo in the carriage. To Marceline, it was a time of the heartiest enjoyment. Maria herself condescended to smile, now and then. There was only one dull person among them. “Miss Carmina was but poor company,” the maid remarked when they got back.
Mrs. Gallilee herself received them in the hall.
“You will never take the children out again without my leave,” she said to Carmina. “The person who is really responsible for what you have done, will mislead you no more.” With those words she entered the library, and closed the door.
Maria and Zo, at the sight of their mother, had taken flight. Carmina stood alone in the hall. Mrs. Gallilee had turned her cold. After awhile, she followed the children as far as her own room. There, her resolution failed her. She called faintly upstairs—“Frances!” There was no answering voice. She went into her room. A small paper packet was on the table; sealed, and addressed to herself. She tore it open. A ring with a spinel ruby in it dropped out: she recognised the stone—it was Miss Minerva’s ring.
Some blotted lines were traced on the paper inside.
“I have tried to pour out my heart to you in writing—and I have torn up the letters. The fewest words are the best. Look back at my confession—and you will know why I have left you. You shall hear from me, when I am more worthy of you than I am now. In the meantime, wear my ring. It will tell you how mean I once was. F. M.”
Carmina looked at the ring. She remembered that Frances had tried to make her accept it as security, in return for the loan of thirty pounds.
She referred to the confession. Two passages in it were underlined: “The wickedness in me, on which Mrs. Gallilee calculated, may be in me still.” And, again: “Even now, when you have found me out, I love him. Don’t trust me.”
Never had Carmina trusted her more faithfully than at that bitter moment!
Installed in a position of temporary authority, the parlour-maid sat silently at her needlework. Maria stood by the window, in the new character of an idle girl—with her handkerchief in her hand, and her everlasting book dropped unnoticed on the floor. Zo lay flat on her back, on the hearth-rug, hugging the dog in her arms. At intervals, she rolled herself over slowly from side to side, and stared at the ceiling with wondering eyes. Miss Minerva’s departure had struck the parlour-maid dumb, and had demoralized the pupils.
Maria broke the silence at last. “I wonder where Carmina is?” she said.
“In her room, most likely,” the parlour-maid suggested.
“Had I better go and see after her?”
The cautious parlour-maid declined to offer advice. Maria’s well-balanced mind was so completely unhinged, that she looked with languid curiosity at her sister. Zo still stared at the ceiling, and still rolled slowly from one side to the other. The dog on her breast, lulled by the regular motion, slept profoundly—not even troubled by a dream of fleas!
While Maria was still considering what it might be best to do, Carmina entered the room. She looked, as the servant afterwards described it, “like a person who had lost her way.” Maria exhibited the feeling of the schoolroom, by raising her handkerchief in solemn silence to her eyes. Without taking notice of this demonstration, Carmina approached the parlour-maid, and said, “Did you see Miss Minerva before she went away?”
“I took her message, Miss.”
“What message?”
“The message, saying she wished to see my mistress for a few minutes.”
“Well?”
“Well, Miss, I was told to show the governess into the library. She went down with her bonnet on, ready dressed to go out. Before she had been five minutes with my mistress she came out again, and rang the hall-bell, and spoke to Joseph. ‘My boxes are packed and directed,’ she says; ‘I will send for them in an hour’s time. Good day, Joseph.’ And she stepped into the street, as quietly as if she was going out shopping round the corner.”
“Have the boxes been sent for?”
“Yes, Miss.”
Carmina lifted her head, and spoke in steadier tones.
“Where have they been taken to?”
“To the flower-shop at the back—to be kept till called for.”
“No other address?”
“None.”
The last faint hope of tracing Frances was at an end. Carmina turned wearily to leave the room. Zo called to her from the hearth-rug. Always kind to the child, she retraced her steps. “What is it?” she asked.
Zo got on her legs before she spoke, like a member of parliament. “I’ve been thinking about that governess,” she announced. “Didn’t I once tell you I was going to run away? And wasn’t it because of Her? Hush! Here’s the part of it I can’t make out—She’s run away from Me. I don’t bear malice; I’m only glad in myself. No more dirty nails. No more bread and water for tea. That’s all. Good morning.” Zo laid herself down again on the rug; and the dog laid himself down again on Zo.
Carmina returned to her room—to reflect on what she had heard from the parlour-maid.
It was now plain that Mrs. Gallilee had not been allowed the opportunity of dismissing her governess at a moment’s notice: Miss Minerva’s sudden departure was unquestionably due to Miss Minerva herself.
Thus far, Carmina was able to think clearly—and no farther. The confused sense of helpless distress which she had felt, after reading the few farewell words that Frances had addressed to her, still oppressed her mind. There were moments when she vaguely understood, and bitterly lamented, the motives which had animated her unhappy friend. Other moments followed, when she impulsively resented the act which had thrown her on her own resources, at the very time when she had most need of the encouragement that could be afforded by the sympathy of a firmer nature than her own. She began to doubt the steadiness of her resolution—without Frances to take leave of her, on the morning of the escape. For the first time, she was now tortured by distrust of Ovid’s reception of her; by dread of his possible disapproval of her boldness; by morbid suspicion even of his taking his mother’s part. Bewildered and reckless, she threw herself on the sofa—her heart embittered against Frances—indifferent whether she lived or died.
At dinner-time she sent a message, begging to be excused from appearing at the table. Mrs. Gallilee at once presented herself, harder and colder than ever, to inspect the invalid. Perceiving no immediate necessity for summoning Mr. Null, she said, “Ring, if you want anything,” and left the room.
Mr. Gallilee followed, after an interval, with a little surreptitious offering of wine (hidden under his coat); and with a selection of tarts crammed into his pocket.
“Smuggled goods, my dear,” he whispered, “picked up when nobody happened to be looking my way. When we are miserable—has the idea ever occurred to you?—it’s a sign from kind Providence that we are intended to eat and drink. The sherry’s old, and the pastry melts in your mouth. Shall I stay with you? You would rather not? Just my feeling! Remarkable similarity in our opinions—don’t you think so yourself? I’m sorry for poor Miss Minerva. Suppose you go to bed?”
Carmina was in no mood to profit by this excellent advice.
She was still walking restlessly up and down her room, when the time came for shutting up the house. With the sound of closing locks and bolts, there was suddenly mingled a sharp ring at the bell; followed by another unexpected event. Mr. Gallilee paid her a second visit—in a state of transformation. His fat face was flushed: he positively looked as if he was capable of feeling strong emotion, unconnected with champagne and the club! He presented a telegram to Carmina—and, when he spoke, there were thrills of agitation in the tones of his piping voice.
“My dear, something very unpleasant has happened. I met Joseph taking this to my wife. Highly improper, in my opinion,—what do you say yourself?—to take it to Mrs. Gallilee, when it’s addressed to you. It was no mistake; he was so impudent as to say he had his orders. I have reproved Joseph.” Mr. Gallilee looked astonished at himself, when he made this latter statement—then relapsed into his customary sweetness of temper. “No bad news?” he asked anxiously, when Carmina opened the telegram.
“Good news! the best of good news!” she answered impetuously.
Mr. Gallilee looked as happy as if the welcome telegram had been addressed to himself. On his way out of the room, he underwent another relapse. The footman’s audacious breach of trust began to trouble him once more: this time in its relation to Mrs. Gallilee. The serious part of it was, that the man had acted under his mistress’s orders. Mr. Gallilee said—he actually said, without appealing to anybody—“If this happens again, I shall be obliged to speak to my wife.”
The telegram was from Teresa. It had been despatched from Paris that evening; and the message was thus expressed:
“Too tired to get on to England by to-night’s mail. Shall leave by the early train to-morrow morning, and be with you by six o’clock.”
Carmina’s mind was exactly in the state to feel unmingled relief, at the prospect of seeing the dear old friend of her happiest days. She laid her head on the pillow that night, without a thought of what might follow the event of Teresa’s return.