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.”