“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“My dear,” said Miss Minerva, when the servant had withdrawn, “why do you tremble so?”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.”
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.”
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; her head was held angrily erect, “Carmina!” she said sharply, “you shouldn’t encourage that child.” She turned round, in search of the truant pupil. Incurably stupid at her lessons, Zo’s mind had its gleams of intelligence, in a state of liberty. One of those gleams had shone propitiously, and had lighted her out of the room.
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.”
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 of other savages have been known to soften under sufficient influences—why should the scientific savage, under similar pressure, not melt a little too? The doctor took up the talk again: he made a kind allusion to the cook’s family circumstances.
“When you first came here, I think you told me you had no relations?”
“I am an orphan, sir.”
“And you had been some time out of a situation, when I engaged you?”
“Yes, sir; my poor little savings were nearly at an end!” Could he resist that pathetic picture of the orphan’s little savings—framed, as it were, in a delicately-designed reference to her fellow-servant in the story? “I was as poor as Pamela,” she suggested softly.
“And as virtuous,” Benjulia added.
The cook’s eloquent eyes said, “Thank you, sir.”
He laid down his pipe. That was a good sign, surely? He drew his chair nearer to her. Better and better! His arm was long enough, in the new position, to reach her waist. Her waist was ready for him.
“You have nothing in particular to do, this afternoon; and I have nothing particular to do.” He delivered himself of this assertion rather abruptly. At the same time, it was one of those promising statements which pave the way for anything. He might say, “Having nothing particular to do to-day—why shouldn’t we make love?” Or he might say, “Having nothing particular to do to-morrow—why shouldn’t we get the marriage license?” Would he put it in that way? No: he made a proposal of quite another kind. He said, “You seem to be fond of stories. Suppose I tell you a story?”
Perhaps, there was some hidden meaning in this. There was unquestionably a sudden alteration in his look and manner; the cook asked herself what it meant.
If she had seen the doctor at his secret work in the laboratory, the change in him might have put her on her guard. He was now looking (experimentally) at the inferior creature seated before him in the chair, as he looked (experimentally) at the other inferior creatures stretched under him on the table.
His story began in the innocent, old-fashioned way.
“Once upon a time, there was a master and there was a maid. We will call the master by the first letter of the alphabet—Mr. A. And we will call the maid by the second letter—Miss B.”
The cook drew a long breath of relief. There was a hidden meaning in the doctor’s story. The unfortunate woman thought to herself, “I have not only got fine hair and a beautiful complexion; I am clever as well!” On her rare evenings of liberty, she sometimes gratified another highly creditable taste, besides the taste for reading novels. She was an eager play-goer. That notable figure in the drama—the man who tells his own story, under pretence of telling the story of another person—was no unfamiliar figure in her stage experience. Her encouraging smile made its modest appearance once more. In the very beginning of her master’s story, she saw already the happy end.
“We all of us have our troubles in life,” Benjulia went on; “and Miss B. had her troubles. For a long time, she was out of a situation; and she had no kind parents to help her. Miss B. was an orphan. Her little savings were almost gone.”
It was too distressing. The cook took out her handkerchief, and pitied Miss B. with all her heart.
The doctor proceeded.
“But virtue, as we know when we read ‘Pamela,’ is sure of its reward. Circumstances occurred in the household of Mr. A. which made it necessary for him to engage a cook. He discovered an advertisement in a newspaper, which informed him that Miss B. was in search of a situation. Mr. A. found her to be a young and charming woman. Mr. A. engaged her.” At that critical part of the story, Benjulia paused. “And what did Mr. A. do next?” he asked.
The cook could restrain herself no longer. She jumped out of her chair, and threw her arms round the doctor’s neck.
Benjulia went on with his story as if nothing had happened.
“And what did Mr. A. do next?” he repeated. “He put his hand in his pocket—he gave Miss B. a month’s wages—and he turned her out of the house. You impudent hussy, you have delayed my dinner, spoilt my mutton, and hugged me round the neck! There is your money. Go.”
With glaring eyes and gaping mouth, the cook stood looking at him, like a woman struck to stone. In a moment more, the rage burst out of her in a furious scream. She turned to the table, and snatched up a knife. Benjulia wrenched it from her hand, and dropped back into his chair completely overpowered by the success of his little joke. He did what he had never done within the memory of his oldest friend—he burst out laughing. “This has been a holiday!” he said. “Why haven’t I got somebody with me to enjoy it?”
At that laugh, at those words, the cook’s fury in its fiercest heat became frozen by terror. There was something superhuman in the doctor’s diabolical joy. Even he felt the wild horror in the woman’s eyes as they rested on him.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. She muttered and mumbled—and, shrinking away from him, crept towards the door. As she approached the window, a man outside passed by it on his way to the house. She pointed to him; and repeated Benjulia’s own words:
“Somebody to enjoy it with you,” she said.
She opened the dining-room door. The man-servant appeared in the hall, with a gentleman behind him.
The gentleman was a scrupulously polite person. He looked with alarm at the ghastly face of the cook as she ran past him, making for the kitchen stairs. “I’m afraid I intrude on you at an unfortunate time,” he said to Benjulia. “Pray excuse me; I will call again.”
“Come in, sir.” The doctor spoke absently, looking towards the hall, and thinking of something else.
The gentleman entered the room.
“My name is Mool,” he said. “I have had the honour of meeting you at one of Mrs. Gallilee’s parties.”
“Very likely. I don’t remember it myself. Take a seat.”
He was still thinking of something else. Modest Mr. Mool took a seat in confusion. The doctor crossed the room, and opened the door.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he said. “I will be back directly.”
He went to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called to the housemaid. “Is the cook down there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is she doing?”
“Crying her heart out.”
Benjulia turned away again with the air of a disappointed man. A violent moral shock sometimes has a serious effect on the brain—especially when it is the brain of an excitable woman. Always a physiologist, even in those rare moments when he was amusing himself, it had just struck Benjulia that the cook—after her outbreak of fury—might be a case worth studying. But, she had got relief in crying; her brain was safe; she had ceased to interest him. He returned to the dining-room.