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!”