The life of the New Year was still only numbered by weeks, when a modest
little marriage was celebrated--without the knowledge of the neighbours,
without a crowd in the church, and even without a wedding-breakfast.
Mr. Gallilee (honoured with the office of giving away the bride)
drew Ovid into a corner before they left the house. “She still looks
delicate, poor dear,” he said. “Do you really consider her to be well
again?”
“As well as she will ever be,” Ovid answered. “Before I returned to her,
time had been lost which no skill and no devotion can regain. But the
prospect has its bright side. Past events which might have cast their
shadow over all her life to come, have left no trace in her memory. I
will make her a happy woman. Leave the rest to me.”
Teresa and Mr. Mool were the witnesses; Maria and Zo were the
bridesmaids: they had only waited to go to church, until one other
eagerly expected person joined them. There was a general inquiry
for Miss Minerva. Carmina astonished everybody, from the bride-groom
downwards, by announcing that circumstances prevented her best and
dearest friend from being present. She smiled and blushed as she took
Ovid’s arm. “When we are man and wife, and I am quite sure of you,”
she whispered, “I will tell _you,_ what nobody else must know. In the
meantime, darling, if you can give Frances the highest place in your
estimation--next to me--you will only do justice to the noblest woman
that ever lived.”
She had a little note hidden in her bosom, while she said those words.
It was dated on the morning of her marriage: “When you return from the
honeymoon, Carmina, I shall be the first friend who opens her arms and
her heart to you. Forgive me if I am not with you to-day. We are all
human, my dear--don’t tell your husband.”
It was her last weakness. Carmina had no excuses to make for an absent
guest, when the first christening was celebrated. On that occasion the
happy young mother betrayed a conjugal secret to her dearest friend.
It was at Ovid’s suggestion that the infant daughter was called by Miss
Minerva’s christian name.
But when the married pair went away to their happy new life, there was
a little cloud of sadness, which vanished in sunshine--thanks to Zo.
Polite Mr. Mool, bent on making himself agreeable to everybody, paid
his court to Mr. Gallilee’s youngest daughter. “And who do you mean to
marry, my little Miss, when you grow up?” the lawyer asked with feeble
drollery.
Zo looked at him in grave surprise. “That’s all settled,” she said;
“I’ve got a man waiting for me.”
“Oh, indeed! And who may he be?”
“Donald!”
“That’s a very extraordinary child of yours,” Mr. Mool said to his
friend, as they walked away together.
Mr. Gallilee absently agreed. “Has my message been given to my wife?” he
asked.
Mr. Mool sighed and shook his head. “Messages from her husband are as
completely thrown away on her,” he answered, “as if she was still in the
asylum. In justice to yourself, consent to an amicable separation, and I
will arrange it.”
“Have you seen her?”
“I insisted on it, before I met her lawyers. She declares herself to be
an infamously injured woman--and, upon my honour, she proves it, from
her own point of view. ‘My husband never came near me in my illness, and
took my children away by stealth. My children were so perfectly ready
to be removed from their mother, that neither of them had the decency to
write me a letter. My niece contemplated shamelessly escaping to my
son, and wrote him a letter vilifying his mother in the most abominable
terms. And Ovid completes the round of ingratitude by marrying the girl
who has behaved in this way.’ I declare to you, Gallilee, that was how
she put it! ‘Am I to blame,’ she said, ‘for believing that story about
my brother’s wife? It’s acknowledged that she gave the man money--the
rest is a matter of opinion. Was I wrong to lose my temper, and say what
I did say to this so-called niece of mine? Yes, I was wrong, there: it’s
the only case in which there is a fault to find with me. But had I no
provocation? Have I not suffered? Don’t try to look as if you pitied me.
I stand in no need of pity. But I owe a duty to my own self-respect; and
that duty compels me to speak plainly. I will have nothing more to do
with the members of my heartless family. The rest of my life is devoted
to intellectual society, and the ennobling pursuits of science. Let me
hear no more, sir, of you or your employers.’ She rose like a queen, and
bowed me out of the room. I declare to you, my flesh creeps when I think
of her.”
“If I leave her now,” said Mr. Gallilee, “I leave her in debt.”
“Give me your word of honour not to mention what I am going to tell
you,” Mr. Mool rejoined. “If she needs money, the kindest man in the
world has offered me a blank cheque to fill in for her--and his name is
Ovid Vere.”
* * * * *
As the season advanced, two social entertainments which offered the
most complete contrast to each other, were given in London on the same
evening.
Mr. and Mrs. Ovid Vere had a little dinner party to celebrate their
return. Teresa (advanced to the dignity of housekeeper) insisted on
stuffing the tomatoes and cooking the macaroni with her own hand. The
guests were Lord and Lady Northlake; Maria and Zo; Miss Minerva and Mr.
Mool. Mr. Gallilee was present as one of the household. While he was in
London, he and his children lived under Ovid’s roof. When they went to
Scotland, Mr. Gallilee had a cottage of his own (which he insisted on
buying) in Lord Northlake’s park. He and Zo drank too much champagne at
dinner. The father made a speech; and the daughter sang, “We’re gayly
yet.”
In another quarter of London, there was a party which filled the street
with carriages, and which was reported in the newspapers the next
morning.
Mrs. Gallilee was At Home to Science. The Professors of the civilised
universe rallied round their fair friend. France, Italy, and Germany
bewildered the announcing servants with a perfect Babel of names--and
Great Britain was grandly represented. Those three superhuman men, who
had each had a peep behind the veil of creation, and discovered
the mystery of life, attended the party and became centres of three
circles--the circle that believed in “protoplasm,” the circle that
believed in “bioplasm,” and the circle that believed in “atomized
charges of electricity, conducted into the system by the oxygen of
respiration.” Lectures and demonstrations went on all through the
evening, all over the magnificent room engaged for the occasion. In one
corner, a fair philosopher in blue velvet and point lace, took the Sun
in hand facetiously. “The sun’s life, my friends, begins with a nebulous
infancy and a gaseous childhood.” In another corner, a gentleman of
shy and retiring manners converted “radiant energy into sonorous
vibrations”--themselves converted into sonorous poppings by waiters and
champagne bottles at the supper table. In the centre of the room,
the hostess solved the serious problem of diet; viewed as a method of
assisting tadpoles to develop themselves into frogs--with such cheering
results that these last lively beings joined the guests on the carpet,
and gratified intelligent curiosity by explorations on the stairs.
Within the space of one remarkable evening, three hundred illustrious
people were charmed, surprised, instructed, and amused; and when Science
went home, it left a conversazione (for once) with its stomach well
filled. At two in the morning, Mrs. Gallilee sat down in the empty room,
and said to the learned friend who lived with her,
“At last, I’m a happy woman!”
THE END.