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fliotographic

Sciences

Corporalion

23 -A\^ST MAIN STREET

WEBSYER.N.Y. 14580

i716) S73-4S03

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1 2 3

HEART AND SCIENCE;

• 7

^ ^lorij ot ilt« ^ttmt Simr.

WILKIE COLLINS.

ACTHOI OF "THl LAW ANi> THB LADV," " TWO DKMT1SIB8," '* TM FALLUS LBAVH, '

" THE BLACK BOBB," RTC, tTC,

HOSE PTJBLISHING COMPANV,

1883.

0(7 d^ '6

1991

jJntered according? to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and eighty-three, by WiLKiE Collins, in th«
Office of the Minister of Agriculture.

HEART AND SCIENCE;

A STORY OF THE PEESEKT TIME.

CHAPTER I.

The weary old nineteenth century had advanced into the last
twenty years of its life.

Towards two o'clock in the afternoon, Ovid Vere (of the
Royal College of Surgeons) stood at the window of his con-
sulting-room in London, looking out at the summer sunshine,
and the quiet dusty street.

He liad received a warning, familiar to the busy men of our
time — the warning from overwrought Nature, which counsels
rest after excessive work. With a prosperous career before
him, he had been compelieil (at only thirty-one years of age) to
ask a colleague to take ciiarge of his practice, and to give the
brain which he had cruelly wearied a rest of some months to
come. On the next day he had arranged to embark for the
Mediterranean in a friend's yacht.

An active man, devoted heart and soul to his profession, is
not a man who can learn the happy knack of being idle at a
moment's notice. Ovid found the mere act of looking out of
window, and wondering what he should do next, more than
he had patience to endure.

He turned to his study table. If he had possessed a wife to
look after him, he would have been reminded that he and his

HEART AND SCTENCE.

Study table had nothing in common, under present circum*
stances. Being deprived of conjugal superintendence, he broke
through his own rules. His restless hand unlocked a drawer,
and took out a manuscript work on medicine of his own writ-
ing. 'Surely,' bethought, 'I may finish a chapter, before I
go to sea to-morrow.'

ilis head, steady enough while he was only looking out of
window, began to swim before he had got to the bottom of a
page. The last sentences of the unfinished chapter alluded to
a matter of fact which he had not yet verified. In emergencies
of any sort, he was a patient man and a man of resource. The
necessary verification could be accomplished by a visit to the
College of Surgeons, situated in the great square called Lin-
coln's Inn fields. Here was a motive for a walk — with an
occ\ipation at the end of it, which only involved a question to
a Curator and an examination ()f a Specimen. He locked up
his manuscript, and set forth fui Lincoln's Inn-fiuids.

CHAPTER II.

When two frlecds happen to meet in the street, do they ever
look back along the procession of small circumstances which
has led them both, from the starting point of their own houses,
to the same spot, at the same time 1 Not one man in ten
thousand has probably ever thought of making such a fantastio
inquiry as this. And consequently not one man in ten thous-
and, living in the midst of reality, has discovered that he is
also living in the midst of romance.

From the moment when the young surgeon closed the door
of his house, he was walking blindfold on his way to a patient
in the future, who was personally still a stranger to him. H*".
never reached the College of Surgeons, he never embarked en
his friend's yacht. What were the obstacles which turned
him aside from the course he had in view 1 Nothing but t^
series of trivial circumstances, occurring in the everyday ex-
perience of a man who goes out for a walk.

Fe had only reached the next street, when the first of the
circumstances presented itself in the shape of a friend's car-
riage which drew up at his side. A bright benevolent face,
encircled by bushy white whiskers, looked out of the window,
and a hearty voice asked him if he had completed his arrange-
ments for a long holiday. Having replied to this, Ovid had a
question to put, on his side.

' How is our patient. Sir Richard 1 '

* Out of danger.'

* And what do the other doctors say, now 1 '
Sir Richard laughed. * They say it's my luck.*

* Not convinced yet 1 '

* Not in the least V7ho has ever succeeded in convincing
fbolsl Let's try another subject. Is your mother reconciled
to your new plans ? '

HEART AND SCIENCE.

* I can hardly tell you. My mother is in a state of indescri-
bable agitation. Her brother's will has been found in Italy.
And his daughter mayarrivein Pjngland at a moment's notice.'

' Unmarried ? ' Sir Richard asked slyly.

* I don't know.'
' Any money 1 '

Ovid smiled — not cheerfully. * Do you think my poor
mother would be in a state of indescribable agitation if there
was not money 1 '

'^'r Richard was one of those obsolete elderly persons who
q'lwce Shakspeare. ' Ah, well,' he said, * Your mother is like
Kent in King Lear — she's too old to learn. Is she as fond as
ever of lace 1 and as keen as ever after a bargain ? ' He handed
a card out of the carriage window. * I have just seen an old
patient of mine,' he resumed, * in whom I feel a friendly inter-
est. She is retiring from business by my advice ; and she asks
me, of all the people in the world, to help her in getting rid of
some wonderful " remnants," at "an alarming sacrifice ! " My
kind regards to your mother — and there's a chance for her.
One last word, Ovid. Don't be in too great a hurry to return
to work ; you have plenty of spare time before you. Look at
my wise dog here, on the front seat, and learn from him to bo
idle and happy.'

The great physician had another companion, besides his
dog. A friend, bound his way, had accepted a seat in the car-
riage. * Who is that handsome young man 1 ' the friend asked
as they drove away.

' He is the only son of a relative of mine, dead many years
since.' Sir Richard replied. * Don't forget that you have seen
him.'

' May I ask why 1 '

* He has not yet reached the prime of life ; and he is on the
way — already far on the way — to be one of the foremost men of
his time. With a private fortune, he has worked as few sur-
geons work who have their bread to get by their profession.
The money comes from his late father. His mother has mar-
ried again. The second Ivisband is a lazy, harmless, stupid
old fellow, • "^med Gallilee ; possessed of one small attraction —
fifty thousand pounds grubbed up in trade. There are two
little daughters, by the second marriage. With such a step-

BL.kRt AND SCIENCR.

escn-
Italy.
)tice.'

poor
there

8 who
is like
3nd as
anded
an old

inter-
le asks
; rid of
" My
)r her.

return
iook at
1 to be

les his
he car-
asked

years
/e seen

Ion the
len of

^w 8ur-

fession.

IS mar-
stupid

btion —
re two

la step-

father as I have described, and between ourselves, with a
mother who has rather more than her fair share of the jealous,
envious, and money-loving' propensities of humanity, my friend
Ovid is not diverted by family intluences from the close pursuit
of his profession. You will tell me, he may marry. Well ! if
he gets a good wife she will be a circumstance in his favour.
But, so far as I know, he is not that sort of man. Cooler, a
deal cooler, with women than I am — though I am old enough
to be his father. Let us get back to his professional prospects.
You heard him ask me about a patient ? *

' Yes.'

' Very good. Death was knocking hard at that patient's door,
when I called Ovid into consultation with myself and with two
other doctors who differed with me. It was one of the very
rare cases in which the old practice of bleeding was, to my
mind, the only treatment to pursue. I never told him that
this was the point in dispute between me and the other men —
and they said nothing, on their side, at my express reiiuest.
He took his time to examine and think ; and he saw the chance
of saving the patient by venturing on the use of the lancet, as
plainly as I did — with my forty years' experience to teach me !
A young man with that capacity for discovering the remote
cause of disease, and with that superiority to the trammels of
routine in applying the treatment, has no common medical
career before him. His holiday will set his health right in next
to no time. I see nothing in his way, at present — not even a
woman 1 But,' said Sir Richard, with the explanatory wink of one
eye peculiar (like quotation from Shakspeare) to persons of the
obsolete old time, ^we know better than to forecast the weather,
if a petticoat influence appears on the horizon. One prediction,
however, I do risk. If his mother buys any of that lace — I
know who will get the best of the bargain ! '

The conditions under which the old doctor was willing to
assume the character of a prophet never occurred. Ovid re-
membered that he was going away on a long journey — and
Ovid was a good son. He bought some of the lace as a pre-
sent to his mother at parting ; and, most assuredly, he got the
worst of the bargain.

His shortest way back to the straight course, from which he
had deviated in making his purchase, led him into a bystreet.

HEAllT AND SCIENCE.

near the flower and fruit market of Coventgarden. Here, he
met with the second in number of the circumstances which
attended his walk. He found himself encountered by an intoler-
ably filthy smell.

The market was not out of the direct way to Lincoln's Inn-
fields. He fled from the smell to the flowery and fruity per-
fumes of Covent-garden, and completed the disinfecting process
by means of a basket of strawberries.

Why did a poor ragged little girl, carrying a big baby, look
with such longingeyes at the delicious fruit that, as a kind-hearted
man, he had no alternative but to make her a present of the
strawberries 1 Why did two dirty boy friends of hers appear
immediately afterwards with news of Punch in a neighbouring
street, and lead the little girl away with them ? Why did these
two new circumstances inspire him with a fear that the boys
might take the strawberries away from the poor child, burdened
as she was with a baby almost as big as herself ? When we
suffer from overwrought nerves we are easily disturbed by
small misgivings. The idle man of wearied mind followed the
friends of the street drama to see what happened, forgetful of
the College of Surgeons and finding a new fund of amusement
in himself 1

Arrived in the neighbouring street, he discovered that the
Pnnch performance had come to an end — like some other dra-
matic performances of higher pretensions — for want of a paying
audience. He waited at a certain distance, watching the chil-
dren. His doubts had done them an injustice. The boys only
said, * Give us a taste.' And the liberal little girl rewarded
their good conduct. An equitable and friendly division of the
strawberries was made in a quiet corner.

Where — always excepting the case of a miser or a millionaire
— is the man to be found who could have returned to the pur-
suit of his own affairs, under these circumstances, without en-
couraging the practice of the social virtues by the present of a
few pennies ? Ovid was not that man.

P itting back in his breast pocket the bag in which he was
accuiitomed to carry small coins for small charities, his hand
touched something which felt like the envelope of a letter. He
took it out — looked at it with an expression of annoyance and

»!,.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

surpriso — and once more turned aside from the direct way to
Lincoln's Inn-fields.

The envelope contained his last prescription. Having occa-
sion to consult the ' Pharmacol oja,' he had written it at home,
and had promised to send it to the patient immediately. In
the absorbing interest of making his preparations for leaving
England, it had remained forgotten in his pocket for nearly
two days. The one means of setting this unlucky error right,
without further delay, was to deliver his prescription himself,
and to break through his own rules for the second time, by
attending to a case of illness — purely as an act of atonement.

The patient lived in a house nearly opposite to the British
Museum. In this northward direction he now set his face.

He made his apologies, and gave his advice — and, getting
out again into the street, tried once more to shape his course
for the College of Surgeons. Passing the walled garden of the
British Museum, he looked towards it — and paused. What
had stopped him this time 1 Nothing but a tree, fluttering its
bright leaves in the faint summer air.

A marked change showed itself in his face.

The moment before, he had been passing in review the
curious little interruptions which had attended his walk, and
had wondered humorously what would happen next. Two
women, meeting him, and seeing a smile on his lips, had said
to each other, ' There goes a happy man.' If they had encoun-
tered him now, they might have reversed their opinion. They
would have seen a man thinking of something once dear to
him, in the far and unforgotten past

He crossed over the road to the side-street which faced th«
garden. His head drooped ; he moved mechanically. Arrived
in the street, he lifted his eyes and stood (within nearer view
of it) looking at the tree.

Hundreds of miles away from Loudon, under another tree
of that gentle family, this man — so coid to women in after life
— had made child-love, in the days of his boyhood, to a sweet
little cousin long since numbered with the dead. The present
time, with its interests and anxieties, passed away like the
passing of a dream. Little by little, as the minutes followed
each other, his soie heart felt a calming influence, breathed
mysteriously from those fluttering leaves. Still forgetful of

<',

HEART AND SCIENCE.

the outward world, he wandered slowly up the street ; living
in the old scenes; thinking, not unhappily now, the old
thoughts.

Where, in all London, could he have found a solitude more
congenial to a dreamer in daylight ?

The broad district, stretching northward and eastward from
the British Museum, is like the quiet quarter of a country
town set in the midst of the roaring activities of the largest
city in the world. Here, you can cross the road, without put-
ting limb or life in peril. Here, when you are idle, you can
saunter and look about, safe from collision with merciless
straight-walkers whose time is money, and whose destiny is
business. Here, you may meet undisturbed cats on the pave-
ment, in the full glare of noontide, and may watch through
the railings of the squares, children at play on grass that almost
glows with the lustre of the Sussex Dowup. This haven of
rest is alike out of the way of fashion and business ; and is yet
within easy reach of the one and the other. Ovid paused in a
vast and silent square. If his little cousin had lived, he might
perhaps have seen his children at play in some such secluded
place as this.

The birds were singing blithely in the trees. A tradesman's
boy delivering fish to the cook, and two girls watering flowers
at a window, were the only living creatures near him, as he
roused himself and looked around.

Where was the College 1 Where were the Curator and the
Specimen 1 Those questions brought with them no feeling of
anxiety or surprise ; they crossed his mind like passing shadows.
He turned in a half-awakened way, without a wish or purpose
turned and listlessly looked back.

Two foot passsengers, dressed in mourning garments, were
rapidly approaching him. One of them, as they came near-
er, proved to be an aged woman. The other was a girl.

He drew aside to let them pass. They looked at him with
the lukewarm curiosity of strangers, as they went by. The
girl's eyes and his eyes met. Only the glance of an instant
— and its influence held him for life.

She went swiftly on, as little impressed by the chance meet-
ing as the old woman at her side. Without stopping to think
—without being capable of though'u — Ovid followed them. Am

HEART AiJD SClENCfi.

a matter of absolute necessity, the magnet draws to it the steel.
As a matter of absolute necessity, the girl drew to her the
man. Nevei before had he done what he was doing now • he
was, literally, out of himself. He saw them ahead of him •
and he saw nothing else. *

Towards the middle of the square, they turned aside into a
street on the left. A concert-hall was in the street— with doors
open for an afternoon performance. They entered the hall
Still out of himself, Ovid followed them.

CHAPTER I ir.

A ROOM of magnificent size ; furnished with ever^ convention-
al luxury that money can buy ; lavishly provided with news-
papers and books of reference ; lighted ^y tall windows in the
day time, and by gorgeous chandeliers at night, may be never-
theless one of the dreariest places of rest and shelter that can
be found on the civilised earth. Such places exist, by hundreds,
in those hotels of monstrous proportions and pretentions which
now engulf the traveller who ends his journey on the pier or
the platform. It may be that we feel ourselves to be strangers
among strangers — it may be that there is something innately
repellent in splendid carpets and curtains, chairs and tables,
which have no social associations to recommend them — it riay
ue that the mind loses its elasticity under the inevitable res-
traint on friendly communication, which expresses itself in
lowered tones and instinctive distrust of oar next neighbour —
but this alone is certain : life, in the public drawing room of a
great hotel, is life with all its liveliest emanations perishing mis-
erably in an exhausted receiver.

On the same day, and nearly at the same hour, when Ovi«l
had left his house, two women sat in a corner of th^ public
room in one of the largest of the railway hotels latterly built
in London.

Without observing it themselves, they were objects of cur-
iosity to their fellow travellers. They spoke to each other in
a foreign language. They tvere dressed in deep mourning —
with absence of fashion and a simplicity of material which
attracted the notice of every other woman in the room. One
of them wore a black veil over her grey hair. Her hands were
brown, and knotty at the joints ; her eyes looked unnaturally
brigh. for her age ; iauumerable wrinkles crossed and re-cross-

HEAnr AND SClKiNCE.

ed her skinny face ; and her aquiline nose ( as one of the ladii^s
present took occasion to remark ) was so disastrously like tlie
nose of uhe great Duke of Weliiugton as to be an offensive
feature in the face of a woman.

The lady's companion, being a man, took a more merciful
view. * She can't help being ugly, ' he whispered. ' But see
how she looks at the girl with her. A good old creature, I
say, if ever there was one yet. * The lady eyed him, as only a
jealous woman can eye her husband, and whispered back, * Of
course you're in love with that slip of a girl ! '

She was a slip of a girl — and not even a tall slip. At seven-
teen years of age, it was doubtful whether she would ever grow
to a better height.

But a girl who is too thin, and not even so tall as the Venus
de Medici, may still be possessed of personal attractions. It
was not altogether a matter of certainty, in this case, that the
attractions were sufficiently remarkable to excite general admi-
ration. The fine colour and the plump healthy cheeks, the
broad smile, the regular teeth, the well-developed mouth, and
the promising bosom, which form altogether the average type
of beauty found in the purely-bred English maiden, were not
among the noticeable charms of the small creature in gloomy
black shrinking into a corner of the big room. She had very
little colour of any sort to boast of. Her hair was of so light
a brown that it just escaped being flaxen ; but it had the negative
merit of not being forced down to her eyebrows, and twisted
into the hideous curly-wig which exhibits a liberal equality of
ugliness on the heads of women in the present day. There
was a delicacy of finish in her features — in the nose and the
lips especially — a sensitive changefulness in the expression of
her eyes ( too dark in themselves to be quite in harmony with
her light hair ) ; and a subtle yet simple witchery in her rare
smile, which atoned, in some degree at least, for want of com-
plexion in the face and of flesh in the figure. Men might
dispute her claims to beauty — but no one could deny that she
was, in the common phrase, an interesting person. Grace and
refinement ; a quickness of apprehension and a vivcity of
movement, suggestive of some foreign origin; a childish readiness
of wonder, in the presence of new objects, and perhaps, under
happier circumstaaceS| a childish playfulness, with personei

Heart and science.

I !

"whom she lovecil, were all characteristic attractions of the
modest stranger who was in charge of the ugly old oman,
and who was palpably the object of that wrinkled duenna's
devoted love.

A travelling writing-case stood open on a table near them.
In an interval of silence the girl looked at it reluctantly. They
had been talking of family affairs — and had spoken in Italian,
so as to keep their domestic secrets from the ears of the stran-
gers about them. The old woman was the first to resume the
conversation.

* My Carmina, you really ought to write that letter,* she said;
' the illustrious Mrs. Gallilee is waiting to hear of our arrival in
London.'

Carmina took up the pen and put it down again with a sigh.
'We only arrived last night,' she pleaded. ' Dear old Teresa,
let us hc^ve one day in Loudon by ourselves ! '

Teresa received this proposal with undisguised amazement
and alarm.

' Jesu Maria I a day in London — and your aunt waiting for
you all the time ! She is your second mother, my dear, by
appointment ; and her house is your new home. And you
propose to stop a whole day at an hotel, instead of going home.
Impossible I Write, my Carmina — write. See, here is the
address on a card : — " Fairfield-gardeas." What a pretty place
it must be to live in, with such a name as that ! And a sweet
lady no doubt. Come ! come I '

But Carmina still resisted. * I have never even seen my
aunt,' she said. * It is dreadful to pass my life with a stranger.
Remember, I was only a child when you came to us af^,er my
mother's death. It is hardly six months yet since I lost my
father. I have no one but you, and when I go to this new
home, you will leave me. I only ask for one more day to be to-
gether, before we part.'

The poor old duenna drew back, out of sight, in the shadow
of a curtain — and began to cry. Carmina took her haad, un-
der cover of a table-cloth ; Carmina knew how to console her.
* We will go and see sights,* she whispered ; ' and when dinner
time comes, you shall have a glass of the Porto-porto-wine.*

Teresa looked round omt of the shadow, as easily comforted
M a child. 'Sights/ she exclaimed — and dried her tears.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

*Porto-portowine ! ' she repeated — and smacked her withered
lips at the relishing words. * Ah, my child, you have not for-
gotten the consolations I told you of, when I lived in London
in my young days. To think of you, with an English father,
and never in London till now I I used to go to museums and
concerts sometimes, when my English mistress was pleased with
me. That gracious lady often gave me a glass of the line strong
purple wine. The Holy Virgin grant that Aunt Gallilee may
be as kind a woman ! Such a head of hair as the other one
she cannot hope to have. It was a joy to dress it. Do you
think I wouldn't stay here in England with you if 1 could ?
What is to become of my old man in Italy, with his cursed
asthma, and nobody to nurse him ? Oh ! but those were dull
years in London. The black endless streets — the dreadful
Sundays — the hundreds of thousands of people, always in a
hurry ; always with grim faces set on business, business, busi-
ness 1 I was glad to go back and be married in Italy. And
here I am in London again, after God knows how many years.
No matter. We will enjoy ourselves to-day ; and when we go
to Madame Gallilee's to-morrow, we will tell a little lie, and say
we only arrived on the evening that has not yet conae.'

The duenna's sense of humour was so tickled by this pros-
pective view of the little lie, that she leaned back in her chair
and laughed. Carmina's rare smile showed itself faintly. The
terrible first interview with the unknown aunt still oppressed
her. She took up a newspaper in despair, ' Oh, my old dear ! *
she said, ' let us get out of this dreadful room, and be reminded
of Italy I '

Teresa lifted her ugly hands in bewilderment. * Reminded
of Italy — in London 1 '

' Is ^.here no Italian music in London ? ' Carmina asked sug-
gestive^y.

The duenna's bright eyes answered this in their own Ian
guage. She snatched up the nearest newspaper.

It was then the height of the London concert season. Morn
ing performances of music were announced in rows. Readinj;
the advertised programmes, Carmina found them, in one re-
spect, all alike. They would have led an ignorant stranger to
wonder whether any such persons as Italian composers, French
composers and English composers had ever existed. The music

HEART AND SCIENCE.

off red to the English public was music of exclusively German
(and for the most part modern German) origin. Carmina held
ihe opinion — in common with Mozart and Rossini, as well as
other people — that music without melody is not music at all.
She laid aside the newspaper.

The plan of going to a concert being thus abandoned, the idea
occurred to them of seeing pictures. Teresa, in search of infor-
mation, tried her luck at a great table in the middle of the
room, on, which useful books were liberally displayed. She re-
turned with a catalogue of the Royal Academy Exhibition
(which some one had left on the table), and with the most uiii-
versAlly well-informed book, on a small scale, that has ever en-
lightened humanity — modestly described on the title page as
an Almanac.

Carmina opened the catalogue at the first page, and dis-
covered a list of Royal Academicians. Were all these gentle-
men celebrated painters } Out of nearly forty names, three
only had made themselves generally known beyond the limits
of England. She turned to the last page. The works of art
on show numbered more than fifteen hundred. Teresa loDkin<^
over her shoulder made the same discovery. * Our heads will
ache, and our feet will iiche,' she remarked, * before we get out
of that place.' Carmina laid aside the catalogue.

Teresa opened the Almanac at hazard, and hit on the page
devoted to amusements. Her next discovery led her to the
section inscribed ' Museums.' She scored an approving mark
at that place with her thumb-nail — and read the list in fluent
broken English.

The British Museum ? Teresa's memory of that magnificent
building recalled it vividly in one respect. She shook her
head. ' More headache and footache there ! ' Bethnal Green ;
Indian Museum ; College of Surgeons ; Practical Geology ;
South Kensington j Patent Museum — all unknown to Teresa.
'■ The saints preserve us, what headaches and footaches in all
these, if they are as big as that other one I ' She went on with
the list — and astonished everybody in the room by suddenly
clapping her hands. • Sir John Soane's Museum, Lincoln's Inn-
field's. Ah, but I remember that 1 A nice little museum in
a private house, and all sorts of pretty things to see. My dear
love, trust your old Teresa. Come to Soane I *

HEART A?^D SCTKXCE.

In ten minutes more they were dressed, and on the sLeps ot
the hotel. The bright sunlight, the pleasant air, invited them
to walk. On the same afternoon, when Ovid had set forth on
foot for Lincoln's Inn-fields, Carmina and Teresa set forth on
foot for Lincoln's Inn-fields. Trivial obstacles had kept the
women away from the Museum.

They crossed the Strand, and entered a street which led out
of it towards the North ; Teresa's pride in her memory forbid-
ding her thus far to ask their way.

Their talk — dwelling at first on Italy, and on the memory
of Carmina's Italian mother — reverted to the formidable sub-
ject of Mrs. Gallilee. Teresa's hopeful view of the future turned
to the cousins, and drew the picture of two charming little
girls, eagerly waiting to give their innocent hearts to their
young relative from Italy. * Are there only two 1 * she said.
' Surely you told me there was a boy, besides the girls t ' Car-
mina set her right. ' My cousin Ovid is a great doctor/ she
answered with an air of importance. * Poor papa used to say
that our family would have reason to be proud of him.' * Does
he live at home 1 ' asked simple Teresa. * Oh, dear, no ! He
has a grand house of his own. Hundreds of sick people go
there to be cured, and give hundreds of golden guineas.' Hun-
dreds of golden guineas gained by only curing sick people,
represented to Teresa's mind something in the nature of a
miracle : she solemnly raised her eyes to heaven. ' What a
cousin to have ! Is he young 1 is he handsome 1 is he married ? *

Instead of answering these questions, Carmina looked over
her shoulder. ' Is this poor creature following us ] ' she asked.

They had now turned to the right, and had entered a busy
street leading directly to Coven t-garden. The ' creature,* who
was undoubtedly following them, was one of the starved and
vagabond dogs of London. Every now and then, the sympa-
thies of their race lead these inveterate wanderers to attach
themselves, for the time, to some human companion, whom
their mysterious insight chooses from the crowd. Teresa, with
the hard feeling towards animals, vhich is one of the serious
defects of the Italian character, cried, ' Ah, the mangy beast ; '
and lifted her umbrella. The dog started back, waited a mo-
ment, and followed them again as they went on. Carmina's
gentle heart gave its pity to this lost and hungry creature, * I

!l '

BEABT JlSD SCIENCE.

i I

't'\'

must buy that poor dog something to eat/ she said — and stop-
ped Buddeuly as the idea struck her.

The dog, accustomed to kicks and curses, was ignorant of
kindness. Following close behind her, when she checked her-
self, he darted away in terror into the road. A cab was driven
by rapidly at the same moment. The wheel passed over the
ci'ig's neck. And there was an end, as a man remarked looking
on, of the troubles of a cur.

This common accident struck the girl's sensitive nature with
horror. Helpless and speechless, she trembled pitcously. The
nearest open door was the door of a music-seller's shop. Teresa
led her in, and asked for a chair and a glass of water. The
piupiietor, feeling the interest in Garmina which she seldom
failed to inspire among strangers, vent the length of offering
hei a glass of wine. Preferring water she soon recovered her-
seli sufficiently to be able to leave her chair.

' May I change my mind about going to the museum 1 ' she
saiu to her companion. ' After what has happened, I hardly
f( el equal to looking at curiosities.'

Teresa's ready sympathy tried to find some acceptable alter-
niitive. ' Music would be better, wouldn't it 1 ' she suggested.

The so-called Italian Opera was open that night ; and the
printed announcement of the performance was in the shop.

They both looked at it. Fortune was still against them.
A German opera appeared on the bill. Carmina turned to the
music-seller in despair. ' Is there no music, sir, but German
music to be heard in London 'i ' she asked. The hospitable
shopkeeper produced a concert programme for that afternoon
— the modest enterprise of an obscure piano-forte teacher who
could only venture to address pupils, patrons, and friends.
What did he promise? Among other things, music from
' Lucia,' music from * Norma,' music from * Ernani.' Teresa
made another approving mark with her thumb-nail ; and Car-
mina purchased tickets.

The music-seller hurried to the door to stop the first empty
cab that might pass. Carmina showed a deplorable ignorance
of the law of chances. She shrank from the bare idea of get-
ting into a cab. < We may run over some other poor creature,'
she said. ' If it isn't a dog, it may be a child next time.'
Teresa and the music-seller suggested a more reasonable view

tiEART AND SCIENCE.

—and stop-

gnorant of
lecked her-
was driven
d over the
ed looking

ature with
usly. The
>p. Teresa
iter. The
lie seldom
'f offering
leered her-

imr she
I hardly

ble alter-
Jggested.
; and the
-he shop.
St them,
ed to the

German
ospitable
.fternoon
iher who

friends.

iic from

Teresa

ind Car-

t empty
;norance
. of get-
'eature/
; time.'
lie view

^ gravely as they could. Carmina humbly submitted to the
claims of common sense — without yielding, for all that. * I
know I'm wrong,' she confessed. * Don't spoil my pleasure, I
can't do it I '

The strange parallel was now complete. Bound for the same
destination, Carmina and Ovid had failed to reach it alike.
And Carmina had stopped to look at the garden of the British
Museum, before she overtook Ovid in the quiet square.

CHAPTER IV.

If on entering the hall, Ovid had noticed the placards, he
would have found himself confronted by a coincidence. The
person who gave the concert was also the person who tauj^ht
music to his half-sisters. Not many days since, he had himself
assisted the enterprise, by taking a ticket at his mother's re-
quest. Seeing nothing, remembering nothing — hurried by the
fear of losing sight of the two strangers, if there was a large
audience — he impatiently paid for another ticket, at the doors.

The room was little more than half-full, and so insufficiently
ventilated that the atmosphere was oppressive even under ihose
circumstances. He easily discovered the two central chairs, in
the midway row of seats, which she and her companion had
chosen. There was a vacant chair (among many others) at one
extremity of the row in front of them. He took that place.
To look at hr,", without being discovered — there, so far, was
the beginning and the end of his utmost desire.

The performances had already begun. So long as her atten-
tion was directed to the singers and players on the platform,
he could feast his eyes on her with impunity. In an unoccu-
pied interval, she looked at the audience — and discovered him.

Had he offended her ?

If appearances were to be trusted, he had produced no im-
pression of any sort. She quietly looked away, towards the
other side of the room. The mere turning of her head was
misinterpreted by Ovid as an implied rebuke. He moved to
the row of seats behind her. She was now nearer to him than
she had been yet. He was again content, and more than con-
tent.

The next performance was a solo on the piano. A round of
applause welcomed the player. Ovid looked at the platform.

UKAllT AND SCIENCE.

^rds, he
e. The
) taught
himself
her's re-
1 by the
a large
e doors,
ficiently
ler ihose
lairs, in
ion had
i) at one
,t place,
far, was

ir atten-
atform,
unoccu-
ed him.

no im-
rds the
3ad was
oved to
m than
an con-

fer the first time. In the bowing man, with a pfetilftturoly
bald houd and a servile smile, he recognised Mrs. Gallilee's
music-master. The inevitable inference followed. His mother
might be in the room.

After careful examination of the scanty audience, he failed
to discover her — thus far. She would certainly arrive, never-
theless. My money's-worth for my money was a leading prin-
ciple in Mrs. Gallilee's life.

He sighed as he looked towards the door of entrance. Not
for long had he revelled in the luxury of a new happiness. He
had openly avowed his dislike of concerts, when his mother
had made him ta-''e a ticket for this concert. With her quick-
ness of apprehension what might she not suspect, if she found
him among the audience 1

Come what might of it, he still kept his place ; he still
feasted his eyes on the slim figure of the young girl, on the
gentle yet spirited carriage of her head. But the pleasure waa
no longer pleasure without alloy. His mother had got between
them now.

The solo on the piano came to an end.

In the interval that followed, he turned once more towards
the entrance. Just bh he was looking away again, he heard
Mrs. Gallilee's loud voice. She was administering a maternal
caution to ont of the children. * Behave better here than you
behaved in the carriage, or I shall take you away.'

If she found him in his present place — if she put her own
clever construction on what she saw — her opinion would assu-
redly express itself in some way. She was one of those women
who can insult another woman (and safely disguise it) by an in-
quiring look. For the girl's sake, Ovid instantly moved away
from her to the seats at the back of the hall.

Mrs. Gallilee made a striking entrance — dressed to perfec-
tion ; powdered and painted to perfection ; leading her daugh-
ters with grace ; followed by her governess with humility.
The usher courteously indicated places near the platform. Mrs.
Gallilee astonished him by a little lecture on acoustics de-
livered with the sweetest condescension. Her Christian hu-
mility smiled, and called the usher, Sir, * Sound, sir, is most
perfectly heard towards the centre of the auditorium.' She
led the way towards the centre. Vacant places invited her to

2Ji

illiAIl'l' AND SCIENCE;

the row of scats occupied by Cnrinina and Terusd. She, the
unknown aunt, seated herself next to the unknown niece.

They looked at each other.

Perhaps, it was the heat of the room. Perhaps, she had not
perfectly recovered the nervous shock of seeing the dog killed.
Carmina's head sank on good Teresa's shoulder. She had
fainted.

Sho, the
liece.

te had not

log killed.

She had

•If

CTHAPTER V.

* May I ask for a cup of tea, Miss Minerva 1 '
' Delighted, I'm sure, Mr. Lo Frank.*
' And was Mrs. Gallilee pleased with the concert.*

* Charmed. A perfect concert.'

*No, Miss Minerva — not perfect You forget the lady who
fainted. So alarming to the audience. So disagreeable to the
artists.'

• Take care, Mr. Le Frank. These new houses are flimsily
imilt ; they might hear you upstairs. The fainting lady is up
^tiiirs. All the elements of a romance are upstairs. Is your
tea to your liking] '

In this playfully provocative manner, Miss Minerva (the
t,'<)verness) trifled with the curiosity of Mr. Le Frank (ihe
niusic master), as the proverbial cat trifles with the terror of the
captive mouse. The man of the bald head and the servile smile
showed a polite interest in the coming disclosure ; he opened
his deeply-sunk eyes, and lazily lifted his delicate eye-brows.
He had called at Mrs Gallilee's house, after the concert, to get
a little tea (with a large infusion of praise) in the school-room —
and he was now confronted by a striking personal contrast in the
face of the governess, sitting opposite to him, dispensing the
hospitalities of the table.

Mr. Le Frank's plump cheeks were, in colour, of the obtru-
sively florid sort The relics of yellow hair still adhering to
the sides of his head, looked as silkily frail as spun glass. His
noble beard made amends for his untimely baldness. The
glossy glory of it exhaled delicious perfumes ; the keenest eyes
might have tried in vain to discover a hair that was out of
place. Miss Minerva's eager sallow face, so lean, and so hard,
ftud so long, looked, by contrast, as if it wanted, some sort of

HEART AND SCIENCE.

I i'l

T 1

•i!

discreet covering thrown over some part of it. Her coarse
black hair projected like a pent-house over her bushy black
eyebrows and her hard black eyes. Oh, dear me (as they said
in the servants' hall), she would never be married — so yellow
and so leariied, so ugly and so poor ! And yet, if mystery is
interesting, this was an interesting woman. The people about
her felt an uneasy perception of something secret, ominously
secret, in the nature of the governess which defied detection.
If Inquisitive Science could discover by analysis moral disease
in the blood — if Savage Science, vowed to medical research,
could dissect firmness of will, working at its steadiest repres-
sive action — then, the mystery of Miss Minerva's inner nature
might possibly have been revealed. As it was, nothing more
remarkable exposed itself to view than a quaintly irritable tem-
per ; serving perhaps as safety-valve to an underlying explo-
sive force, which (with strong enough temptation and sufficient
opportunity) might yet break out.

* Gently, Mr. Le Frank ! The tea is hot — you may burn your
mouth. How am I to tell you what has happened 1 ' Miss
Minerva dropped the playfully provocative tone, with infinite
tact, exactly at the right moment '' Just imagine,' she re-
sumed, * a scene on the stage, occurring in private life. The
lady who fainted at your concert turns out to be no less a per-
son than Mrs. Gallilee's niece I '

The general folly which reads a prospectus and blindly
speculates in shares, is matched by the equally difi'used stu-
pidity, which is incapable of discovering, on the stage or off,
that there can be any possible relation between fiction and
truth. Say it's in a novel — and you are a fool if you believe
it. Say it's in a newspaper — and you are a fool if you doubt
it. Mr. Le Frank, following the general example, followed it on
this occasion a little too unreservedly. He avowed his doubts
of the circumstance just related, although it was, on the
authority of a lady, a circumstance occurring in real life i
Far from being offended, Miss Minerva cordially sympathized
with him.

* It is too theatrical to be believed,' she admitted ; * but this
fainting young person is positively the interesting stranger we
have been expecting from Italy. You know Mrs. Gallilee.
Always sympathetic, always ready for any emergency. He^'a

HEART AND SCTENOE.

Ber coarse
why black
\ they said
-so yellow
nystery is
)ple about
ominously
detection,
al disease
research,
ist repres-
er nature
ing more
able tem-
ig explo-
sufficient

urn your
r Miss
1 infinite
she re-
'e. The
ss a per-

blindly
ied stu-
or ofF,
ion and
believe
I doubt
5d it on
doubts
on the
lifel
kthized

was the first smelling-bottle produced ; her's was the presence
of mind which suggested a horizontal position, in a case of
swooning. * Help the heart,' she said, ' don't impede it.' The
whole theory of fainting fits, in six words ! ' In another
moment, proceeded the governess, making a theatrical point
without suspecting it, — ' in another moment, Mrs. Gallilee
herself stood in need of the smelling-bottle.'

Mr. Le Frank was not a true believer, even yet. ' You
don't mean she fainted ! ' he said.

Miss Minerva held up the indicative forefinger, with which
she emphasised instruction when her pupils required rousing.

* Mrs. Gallilee's strength of mind — as I was about to say, if
you had listened to me — resisted the shock. What the effort
must have cost her you will presently understand. Our inter-
esting young lady was accompanied by a hideous old foreign
woman who completely lost her head. She smacked her
hands distractedly ; she called on the saints (which did not
produce the slightest effect) — but she mixed up a name, re-
markable even in Italy, with the rest of the delirium ; and
that was serious. Put yourself in Mrs. Gallilee's place — '

' I couldn't do it,' said Mr. Le Frank, with humility.

Miss Minerva looked at him, with a momentary flash of sus-
picion in her keen black eyes. There was an implied under-
standing between these two instructors of youth (nevev openly
acknowledged on either side), that they were to express the
same devoted admiration, whenever the talk turned on Mrs.
Gallilee, no matter what they might really think of their em-
ployer in their private minds. Mr. Le Frank bore the scrutiny
to which he was subjected with the serenity of innocence.
Miss Minerva went on with her story.

* The young lady's Christian name (Italian I think I told
you ) is Carmina ; (put the accent, if you please on the first
syllable). The moment Mrs. Gallilee heard the name, it
struck her like a blow. With wonderful tact, she enlightened
the old woman, and asserted herself as Miss Carmina s aunt,
in an instant. " I am Mrs. Gallilee : " that was all she said.
'The result ' — Miss Minerva paused, and pointed to the coiling ;

* the result is up there. Our charming guest was on the sofa,
and the hitleous old nurse was fanning her, when I had the
bonour of seeing them. No, Mr. Le Frank ! I haven't done

HEART AND SCIENCE.

" ii'i

■ I,

yet. There is a last act in this drama of private life still to re-
late. A medical gentleman was present at the concert, who
offered his services in reviving Mibs Carmina. The same gen-
tleman is now in attendance on the interesting Datient. Can
you guess who he is ? '

Mr. Le Frank had sold a ticket for his concert to the medi-
cal adviP3r of the family. A cautious guess in this direction
seemed to offer the likeliest chance of success.

* He is fond of music,' the pianist began.

* He hates music,' the governess interposed.

* I mean the family doctor,* Mr. Le Frank persisted.

* / mean — ' Miss Minerva paused (like the cat with the
mouse again !) —

* / mean Mr. Ovid Vere.'

What form the music-master's astonishment might have as-
sumed may be matter for speculation : it was never destined
to become matter of fact. At the moment when Miss Min-
erva, overwhelmed him with the climax of her story, a little
rosy elderly gentleman, with a round face, a sweet smile, and
a curly grey head, walked into the room, accompanied by two
girls. Persons of small importance — only Mr. Gallilee and his
daughters.

* How dye-do, Mr. Le Frank. I hope you got plenty of
money by the concert. I gave away my own two tickets.
You will excuse me, I'm sure. Music, I can't think why, al-
ways sends me to sleep. Here are your two pupils. Miss Min-
erva, safe and sound. It struck me we were rather in tlie
way, when tha^ sweet young creature was brought home.
Sadly in want of quiet, poor thing — not in want of us. Mrs.
Gallilee and Ovid, so clever and attentive, were just the right
people in the right place. 80 I put on my hat — I'm always
ivailable, Mr. Le Frank ; 1 have thegreut advantage of never
having anything to do — and I said to the girls. Let's have a
v/alk. We had no particular place to go to — that's another
advantage of mine — we drifted about. I didn't mean it,
hut, somehow or other, we stopped at a pastry-cook's shop.
What was the name of the pastry-cook 1 '

So far, Mr. Gallilee proceeded, speaking in the oddest self-
contradictory voice, if such a description is permissible — a
voice at once high in pitch and soft in tone : in short, as Mr,

HEART AND SCIENCE.

still to re-
cert, who
same gen-
snt. Can

the medi-
direction

(vith the

have as-
destined
iss Min-
, a little
lile, and
by two
and his

3nty of
tickets,
vliy, al-
38 Min-

in tiie

home.

Mrs.

3 right

always

never
liave a
nother
an it,

shop.

'■'4
■I

Le Frank once professionally remarked, a soft falsetto. When
the good gentleman paused to make his little effort of memory,
his eldest daughter — aged t^^elve, and always ready to distin-
guish herself — saw her opp' rtunity, and took the rest of the
narrative into her own bands. Miss Maria, named after her
mother, was one of the successful new products of the age
we live in — the conventionally-charming child (who has never
been smacked) ; possessed of the large round eyes that we see
in pictures, and the sweet manners and perfect principles that
we read of in books. She called everybody * dear ; ' she knew
to a nicety how much oxygen she wanted in the composition
of her native air ; and, alas ! poor wretch, she had never
wetted her shoes or dirtied her face since the day when she
was born.

* Dear Miss Minerva,* said Maria, * the pastry cook's name
was Timbal. We have had ices.'

His mind being now set at rest on the subject of the pastry-
cook, Mr. Gallilee turned to his youngest daughter — aged ten,
and one of the unsuccessful products of the age we live in. This
was a curiously slow, subdued, self-contained child ; the image
of her father, without his smile ; incurably stupid, or incurably
sulky — the friends of the family were not quite sure which.
Whether she might have been over-crammed with useless
knowledge, was not a question in connection with the subject
which occurred to anybody.

• Rouse yourself, Zo,' said Mr. Gallilee. * What did wehave
besides ices 1 '

Zoe (only known to her father, by vulgar abbreviation, as
' Zo') took Mr. Gallilee's stumpy red hand, and held hard by
it as if that was the one way in which a dull child could rouse
herself, with a prospect of success.

' We had .' Having got as far as that, she paused and

gave it up ; looked at her father j and tried to reach the end in
view by another way. * What do you call 'em 1 ' she asked —
and then gave it up again.

Maria helped her with the sweetest readiness. * Dear Zoe,
you are so slow. Cheesecakes.'

Mr. Gallilee patted Zoe's head as encouragingly as if she had
discovered the right ansv/er by herself. 'That's right — ices
^nd cheesecakes,' he said, * We tried cream-icej and then we

1 1

►.*>«

\ 11

HEART AND SCIENCE.

tried water-ice. The children, Miss Minerva, preferred the
cream-ice. And, do you know, I'm of their opinion. There's
something in a cream-ice — what do you think yourself of cream-
ices, Mr. Le Frank 1 '

It was one among the many weaknesses of Mr. Gallilee's
character to be incapable of opening his lips without, soonpr or
later, taking somebody into his confidence. In the merest
trifles, he instinctively invited sympathy and agreement from any
person within his reach — from a total stranger quite as readily
as from an intimate friend. Mr. Le Frank, representing the
present Court of Social Appeal, attempted to deliver judgment
on the question of ice^, and was interrupted without ceremony
by Miss Minerva. She, too, had been waiting her opportunity to
speak, and she now took it — not amiably.

' With all possible respect, Mr. Gallilee, I venture to entreat
that you will be a little more thoughtful, where the children
are concerned. I beg your pardon, Mr. Le Frank, for inter-
rupting you — but it is really a little too hard on Me. I am
held responsible for the health of these girls ; I am blamed
over and over again, when it is not my fault, for irregularities
in their diet — and there they are, at this moment, chilled with
ices and cloyed with cakes ! What will Mrs. Gallilee say 1 *

* Don't tell her,' Mr. Gallilee suggested.

* The girls will be thirsty for the rest of the evening,' Miss
Minerva proceeded ; * the girls will have no appetite for the
last meal before bedtime. And Mrs. Gallilee will ask Me what
it means. I do think I deserve a little more consideration, in
my dependent position. I have no resources ; I am on h&d
terms with my relatives ; I may lose my situation ; I may beg
my bread from door to door ; I may die in a workhouse — all
tliat I am resigned to. But to be charged, sir, with ruining
your daughters digestions '

' My good creature,' cried Mr. Gallilee, * don't be afraid of
the girls' digestions i Take off their hats, and give them some-
thing nice for supper. They inherit my stomach. Miss Min-
erva, and they'll " tuck in," as we used to say at school. Did
they say so in your time, Mr. Le Frank 1 '

Mrs. Gallilee's governess and vulgar expressions were ano-
malies never to be reconciled, under any circumstances. Miss
^in^rya took o^ the hats ux stern silence. Even * Pa|)a'

HEART AND SCIENCE.

miglit have seen the contempt 11 her face, if she had not man-
aged to hide it in this way, by means of the girls.

In the silence that ensued, Mr. Le Frank had his chance of
speaking, and shewed himself to be a gentleman with a hap-
pily-balanced character — a musician, with an eye to business.
Using gratitude to Mr. Gallilee — let us say, as a first adagio
movement in a symphony of sordid aspiration, he glided into
an allegretto of persuasion, in the interests of a friend who was
giving a concert next week. ' We poor artists have our faults,
my dear sir ; but we are all earnest in helping each other. My
friend sang for nothing at my concert. Don't suppose for a
moment that he expects it of me ! But I am going to play for
nothing at his concert. May I,' he inquired, quioniening to an
allegro, * appeal to your kind patronage to take two tickets 1 '
The last notes of the symphony died away in a golden tinkling,
in Mr. Le Frank' s pocket.

Having paid his tribute to art and artists, Mr. Gallilee looked
furtively at Miss Minerva. On the wise principle of letting
well alone, he perceived that the happy time had arrived for
leaving the room. How was he to make his exit ? He prided
himself on his readiness of resource, in difficulties of this sort,
and he was equal to the occasion as usual — he said he would
go to his club.

< We really have a capital smoking-room at that club,* he
said, * I do like a good cigar ; and — what do you think, Mr. Le
Frank 1 Isn't a pint of champagne nice drinking this hot
weather 1 Just cooled with ice — I don't know whether you
feel the weather, Miss Minerva, as I do ? — and poured fizzing
into a silver mug. Lord, how delicious ! Good-bye, girls.
Give me a kiss before I go.'

Maria led the way, as became the elder. She not only gave
the kiss, but threw an appropriate sentiment into the bargain.
' I do love you, dear papa,' said this perfect daughter — with a
look in Miss Minerva's direction which might have been a
malicious look in any eyes but Maria's.

Mr. Gallilee turned to his youngest child. * Well, Zo —
what do you say 1 '

Zoe took her father's hand once more, and rubbed her head
against it like a cat. This new method of expressing filial affection
seemed to interest Mr, Gallilee, 'Decs your head itch, my de^r } '

»* i;

8fi

HEART AND SCIFNCE.

he asked. The idea was new to Zoe. She gave her father's
hand another rub, and considered. ' Why do you do it 1 ' Miss
Minerva asked sharply. Zoe considered again, and answered :
' I don't know.' Mr. Gallilee rewarded her with a kiss, and
went away to champagne and the club.

Mr. Le Frank left the schoolroom next. He paid the gov-
erness the compliment of reverting to her narrative of events
at the concert.

' I am greatly struck,' he said, * by what you told me about
Mr. Ovid Vere. We may, perhaps, have misjudged him, in
thinking that he doesn't like music. His coming to my con-
cert suggests a more cheering view. Do you think there
would be any impropriety in my calling to thank him ? Per-
haps it would be better if I wrote and enclosed two tickets for my
friend's concert 1 To tell you the truth, I've pledged myself to
dispose of a certain number of tickets. My friend is so much
in request — it's expecting too much to ask him to sing for no-
thing. I think I'll write. Good evening.*

Left alone with her pupils, Miss Minerva looked at her
watch. * Prepare your lessons for to moirow,' she said.

The girls produced their books. Maria's library of know-
ledge was in perfect order. The pages over which Zoe ponder-
ed in endless perplexity were crumpled by weary lingers and
stained by frequent tears. Oh, fatal knowledge, mercifully for-
bidden to the first two of our race, who shall count the crimes
and stupidities committed in your name.

Miss Minerva leaned back in her easy chair. Her mind was
occupied by the mysterious question of Ovid's presence at the
concert. She raised her hard black eyes to the ceiling, and
listened for sounds from above.

* I wonder,' she thought to herself, 'what they are doing up-
stairs 1 '

CHAPTER VI.

Mrs. Gallilee was an complete a mistress of the practice of
domestic virtue as of the theory of acoustics and fainting fits.
At dressing with taste and ordering dinners with invention ;
at heading her table gracefully, and making her guests comfort-
able ', at managing refractory servants and detecting dishonest
tradespeople, she was the equal of the least intellectual woman
that ever lived. Her preparations for the reception of her
niece were finished in advance, without an oversight in the
smallest detail. Carmina's inviting bedroom, in blue, opened
into Carmin&'s irresistible sitting-room, in brown. The venti-
lation was arranged, the light and shade were disposed, the
flowers were attractively placed, under Mrs. Gallilee's infallible
superintendence. Before Carmina had recovered her senses,
she was provided with a second mother, who played the part to
perfection.

The four persons, now assembled in the pretty sitting-room
upstairs were in a position of insupportable embarrassment to-
wards each other.

Finding her son at a concert (after he had told her that he
hated music) Mrs. Gallilee had first discovered him, hurrying
to the assistance of a young lady in a swoon, with all the
anxiety and alarm which he might have shown in the case of a
near and dear friend. And yet, when this stranger to hia
mother was revealed to her as a relation, he had displayed an
amazement equal to her own. What explanations could recon-
cile such contradictions as these ?

As for Carmina, her conduct complicated the mystery.

What was she doing at a concert, when she ought to have
been on her way to her aunt's house ? Why, if she must faint
when the hot room had not overpowered anyone else, had sh^ .

I I

•'. 1

iii

HEAllt ANi) SCIENCBl.

failed to recover in the usual way ! There she lay on the so'n
alternately flushing and turning pale when she was spoken to
ill at ease in the most comfortable house in London ; timid aim
confused, under the care of her best friends. Making all al-
lowance for a sensitive temperament, could a long journey
from Italy, and a childish fright at seeing a dog run over ac-
count for such a state of things as this ?

Annoyed and perplexed — but far too prudent to commit
herself ignorantly to inquiries which might lead to future
embarrassment — Mrs. Gallilee tried suggestive small talk as a
means of enlightenment. The wrinkled duenna, sitting misera-
bly on satin supported by frail gilt legs, seemed to take her
tone of feeling from her young mistress exactly as she took
her orders. Mrs. Gallilee spoke to her in English, and spoke
to her in Italian — and could make nothing of the experiment
in either case. The wild old creature seemed to be a" ^d to
look at her.

Ovid himself proved to be just as difficult to fathom, in an-
other way.

He certainly answered when his mother spoke to him, but
always briefly, and in the same absent tone. He asked no
questions, and offered no explanations. The sense of embar-
rassment, on his side, had produced unaccountable changes.
He showed the needful attention to Garmina, with a silent
gentleness whic^i presented him in a new character. His cus-
tomary manner with ailing persons, women as well men, was
rather abrupt : his quick perception hurried him into taking
the words out of their mouths ( too pleasantly to give offence )
when they were describing their symptoms. There he sat now,
contemplating his pale little cousin, with a patient attention
wonderful to see ; listening to the commonplace words which
dropped at intervals from her lips, as if — in his state of health,
and with the doubtful prospect which it implied — there were
no serious interests to occupy his mind.

Mrs. Gallilee could endure it no longer.

If she had not deliberately starved her imagination, and
emptied her heart of any tenderness of feeling which it might
once have possessed, her son's odd behaviour would have inter-
ested instead of perplexing her. As it was, her scientific
education left her as completely in the dark, where questions

tIEART X^r> SClEiJCte.

Sf>

Car-

an in-

of sentiment were concerned, as if her experience of humanity,
in its relation to love, had been experience in the cannibal
islands. She decided on leaving her niece to repose, and on
taking her son away with her.

* In your present state of health, Ovid, ' she began,
mina must not accept your professional advice. '

Something in those words stung Ovid's temper in
stant.

' You talk as if she was seriously ill ! ' he broke out.

Garmina 's sweet smile stopped him there.

' We don't know what may happen, * she said, playfully.

* God forbid that should happen I ' He spoke so fervently
that the women all looked at him in surprise.

Mrs. Gallilee proceeded quietly with what she had to say.

* Ovid is so sadly overworked, my dear, that I actually re-
joice in his giving up practice, and going away from us to-mor-
row. We will leave you for the present with your old friend.
Pray ring, if you want anything. * She kissed her hand to
Carmina, and, beckoning to her son, advanced towards the
door.

Teresa looked at her, and suddenly looked away again. Mrs.
Gallilee stopped, on her way out, at a chiffonier, and altered
the arrangement uf some of (the china on it. The duenna fol-
lowed on tiptoe — folded her thumb and two middle fingers
into the palm of her hand — and, stretching out the forefinger
and the little finger, touched Mrs. Gallilee on the back, so soft-
ly that she was unaware of it. * The Evil Eye, ' Teresa whis-
pered to herself in Italian, as she stole back to her place.

Ovid lingered near his cousin : neither of them had seen
what Teresa had done. He rose reluctantly to go. Feeling
his little attentions gratefully, Carmina checked him with in-
nocent familiarity as he left his chair. * I must thank you, '
she said, simply ; ' it seems hard indeed that you, who cure
others, should suffer from illness yourself. '

Teresa, watching them with interest, came a little nearer.

Her glittering eyes studied Ovid's face with close and jealous
scrutiny. Mrs. Gallilee reminded her son that she was waiting
for him. He had some last words yet to say. The duenna
drew back from the sofa, still looking at Ovid : she muttered
to herself, * Holy Teresa, my patroness, show me that man'a

Heart and science.

soul in Ins face I * At last, Ovid took his leave. * * I shall call
and see how you are to-morrow, ' he said, * before I go. ' He
nodded kindly to Teresa. Instead of being satisfied with that
act of courtesy, she wanted something more. * May I shake
hands 1 ' she asked. Mrs. Gallilee was a Liberal in Politics :
never had her principles been tried, as they were tried when
she heard those words. Teresa wrung Ovid's hand with tre-
mulous energy — still intent on reading his character in his face.
He asked her, smiling, what she saw to interest her. ' A good
man, I hope, ' she answered, sternly. Carmina and Ovid were
amused. Teresa rebuked them, as if they had been children.
* Laugh at some fitter time,' she said ; * not now.' Ovid open-
ed the door for his mother. Standing erect in the middle of
the room, the duenna looked after Mrs. Gallilee, and once
more whispered to herself, * The Evil Eye ! '

Descending the stairs, Mrs. Gallilee and Ovid met the foot-
man. ' Mr. Mool is in the library, ma'am, ' the man said.

* Have you anything to do, Ovid, for the next half hour 1 '
his mother asked.

* Dc you wish me to see Mr. Mool ? If it's law-business, I
jam afraid I shall not be of much use.'

* The lawyer is here by appointment, with a copy of your
late uncle's Will,* Mrs Gallilee answered. * You may have
fiome interest in it I think you ought to hear it read.'

Ovid showed no inclination to adopt this proposal. He
asked an idle question. ' I heard of their finding the Will —
are there any romantic circumstances 1 '

Mrs. Gallilee surveyed him with an expression of good-
humoured contempt. * What a boy you are, in some things I
Have you been reading a novel lately 1 My dear, when the
people in Italy made up their minds, at last, to have the
furniture in your uncle's room taken to pieces, they found the
Will. It had slipped behind a drawer, in a rotten old cabinet
full of useless papers. Nothing romantic (thank God), and noth-
ing (as Mr. Mool's letter tells me) can lead to misunderstand*

_, or disDutes.'

Ovid's indiflference was not to be conquered. He left it to his
mother to send him word if he had a legacy. * I am not as
much interested in it as you are/ he explained

ings

HEART AND SCIENCE.

' ' I shall call
ore I go. ' He
led with that
' May I shake
I in Politics :
e tried when
and with tre-
ier in his face,
ler. * A good
id Ovid were
►een children.
Ovid open-
^he middle of
)e, and once

met the foot-
lan said,
half hour 1 '

v-business, I

30py of your
may have
read.'

oposal. He
; the Will—

n of good-
ome things I
-r, when the
have the
y found the
old cabinet
), and noth-
understand-

eft it to his
. am not as

' T should think not I ' said Mrs. illilee, amused at his sim-
plicity.

* Plenty of money left to You, of course? ' He was evidently
tliiiikitig all tliH time of something elso.

Mrs. (lalliloe slopped in the hall, with an air of downright
alarm.

' Vour mind is in a tlivadfiil state,* she said. * Hive you
really foig()lL«!n what I told you, only yesterday ] The Wdl
appoints me (Jannina'.s guardian.'

He hadplainly forgotten t — he started, when his motiier re-
called the circumstance. ' Curious' he said to himself, ' that
I was not reminded of it, when I saw Carmina's rooms pre-
pared for her.' His mother anxiously looking at him, observed
that his face brightened. A new interest had been awakened,
which had suddenly made him change his mind.

' Make allowances for an overworked man,* he said. * You
are quite right. I ouglit to hear the Will read — 1 am at your
service.*

Even Mrs. Gallilee now drew the right inference at last.
She made no remark. Something seemed to move feebly
under her powder and paint. Soft emotion trying to find its
way to the surface 1 Impossible !

They entered the library together.

If, while they were still in the hall, some chance noise had
attracted their attention to the staircase, they might have seen
Miss Minerva peeping inquisitively over the balustrade which
guarded the upper landing ; and they might have suspected the
governess of having listened to their conversation — say,
through the opeu door of the school-room.

'.'W

CHAPTER VTI.

The library at Fairfield Gardens po8se«iRe^ ',wo special attrac-
tions, besides the books. It opened i'lto a conservatory ; and
it was adorned by an admirable portrait of Mrs. Gallilee,
painted by her brother.

Waiting the appearance of the fair original, Mr. Mool
looked at the portrait, and then mentally reviewed the history of
Mrs. Gallilee's family. What he did next, no person ac-
quainted with the habits of lawyers will be weak enough to
believe. Mr. Mool blushed.

Is this the language of exaggeration, describing a human
anomaly on the roll of attorneys ? The fact shall be left to
answer the question. Mr. Mool had made a mistake in his
choice of a profession. The result of the mistake was — a shy
lawyer.

Attended by such circumstances as these, the history of the
family assumes, for the moment, a certain importance. It is
connected with a blushing attorney. It will explain what
happened on the reading of the Will. And it is sure before-
hand of a favourable reception — for it is all about money.

Old Robert Gray well began life as the son of a small farmer.
He was generally considered to be rather an eccentric man ;
but prospered, nevertheless, as a merchant in the City of London.
When he retired from business, he possessed a house and estate
in the country, and a handsome fortune safely invested in the
Funds.

His children were three in number : — his son Robert, and
his daughters, Maria and Susan.

The death of his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached,
was the first serious calamity of his life. He retired to his

HEART AND SCIKNCE.

iai attrac-
tory ; and
Gallilee,

^r. Mool
history of
)erson ac-
Jnough to

a human
be left to
ke in his
is — a shy

•ry of the
36. It is
lin what
•e before-
ley.

farmer,
'ic man ;
London,
id estate
the

:in

ttached,
i to his

estate a soured and broken man. Loving husbands are not
al-'ays, as a necossary conn(M|uence, tender fathers. Old
Rooerl's daugliters offered bim no consolation on their mother's
death. Their anxiety about their raourninpj dresses so dis-
gusted him that he kept out of their way. No extraordinary
(f interest was connected with their prospects in life : they would
I be married — and there would be an end of thorn. As for the
son, he had long since placed himself beyond the narrow range
of his father's 8yra[)athies. In the first place, his refusal to
qualify himself fur a mercantile career had made it necessary
to dispose of the business to strangers. In the second place,
young Robert Graywell proved — without any hereditary in-
j fluence, and in the face of tho strongest discouragement— to
be a born painter ! One of the greatest artists of that day saw
the boy's first efforts, and pronounced judgment in these plain
words : ' What a pity Le has not got his bread to earn by his
brush ! *

On the death of Old Robert, his daughters found themselves
y;i (to use their own expression) reduced to a trumpery legacy of
I ten thousand pounds each. Their brother inherited the estate,
and the bulk of the property — not because his father cared
about founding a family, but because the boy had always been
his mother's favourite.

The first of the three children to marry was the eldest sister.

Maria considered herself fortunate in captivating Mr. Vere —
a man of old family, with a high sense of what he owed to his
name. He had a sufficient income, and he wanted no more.
His wife's dowry was settled on herself. When he died, he left
her a life-interest in his property amounting to six hundred a
year. This, added to the annual proceeds of her own little
fortune, made an income of one thousand pounds. The re-
mainder of Mr. Vere's property was left to his only surviving
child, Ovid.

With a thousand a year for herself, and with two thousand
a year for her son, on his coming of age, the widowed Maria
might possibly have been satisfied — but for the extraordinary
presumption of her younger sister.

Susan, ranking second in age, ranked second also in beauty ;
and yet in the race for a husband, Susan won the prize.

Soon after her sister's marriage, she made a conquest of a

I i!

HEART AND SCIENCE.

i !il

! ;!

! !

: 1

Scotch nobleman ; possessed of a palace in London, and a
palace in Scotland, and a rent-roll of forty tliousand poiinda
Maria, to use her own expression, never recovered it. From
the horrid day when Susan became Lady Northlake, Maria
became a serious woman. All her earthly interests centred
now in the cultivation of her intellect. She started on that
glorious career, which associated her with the march of science.
In only a year afterwards — as one example of the progress
which a resolute woman can make — she was familiar with
zoophyte fossils, and had dissected the nervous system of a bee.

Was there no counter attraction in her married life 1

Very little. Mr. Vere felt no sympathy with his wife's
scientific pursuits. On her husband's death, did she find no
consolation in her son 1 Let her speak for herself. ' My
son fills my heart. But the svihool, the university, and thw
hospital have all in turn taken his education oui of my hands.
My mind must be filled, as well as my heart.' She seized her
exquisite instruments, and returned to the nervous system of
the bees.

In course of time, Mr. John Gallilee — 'drifting about,' as he
said of himself — drifted across the path of science.

The widowed Mrs. Vere (as exhibited in public) was still a
fine woman. Mr. Gallilee admired * that style ; ' and Mr.
Gallilee had fifty thousand pounds. Only a little more, to my
lord and my lady, than one year's income. But, invested at
four per cent., it added an annual two thjusand pounds to
Mrs. Vere's annua; one thousand. Result, three thousand a
year, encumbered with Mr. Gallilee. On reflection, Mrs. Vere
accepted the encumbrance —and reaped her reward. Susan
was no longer distinguished as the sister who had her dresses
made in Paris ; and Mrs. Gallilee was not now sulijected to
the indignity of getting a lift in Lady Northlake 's carriage.

What was the history of Robert, during this interval of
time 1 In two words, Robert disgraced himself.

Taking possession of his country house, the new squire was
invited to contribute towards the expense of a pack of hounds
kept by subscription in the neighbourhood, and was advised to
make acquaintance with his fellow-sportsmen by giving a hunt-
breakfast. He answered very politely ; but the fact was not
to be concealed — the new man refused to encourage hunting ;

HEART AND SCIENCE.

he thoucrht that noble amusement stupid and cruel. Foi Ihe
same reason, he refused to preserve game. A last mistake was
left to make, and he made it. After returning the rector's
visit, he failed to appear at church. No person with the

smallest

knowledge of

the English character, as exhibited in

an English county, will fail to foresee that Robert's residence
on his estate was destined to come, sooner or later, to an un-
timely end. When he had finished his sketches of the pic-
turesque aspects of his landed property, he disappeared. The
estate was not entailed. Old Robert — who had insisted on
the minutest formalities and details in providing for his dearly-
loved wife — was impenetrably careless about the future of his
children. 'My fortune has no value now in ray eyes,' he said
to judicious friends ; ' let them run through it all if they
please. It would do them a deal of good if they were obliged
to earn their own living, like better people than themselves.*
Left free to take his own way, Robert sold the estate merely
to get rid of it. With no expensive tastes, except the taste
for buying pictures, he became a riJier man than ever.

When ih"ir brother next communicated with them, Lady
Northlake and Mrs. Gallilee heard of him as a voluntary exile
in Italy. He was building a magnificent studio ; he was con-
templating a series of pictures ; and he was a happy man for
the first time in his life.

Another interval passed — and the sisters heard of Robert
again.

Having already outraged the sense of propriety among hia
English neighbours, he now degraded himself in the estimation
of his family, by marrying a * model.' The letter announcing
this event declared, with perfect truth, that the reputation of
the Italian girl was above reproach. She sat to artists, as any
lady might Rit to any artist, * for the head only.' Her parents
gained a bare subsistence, by farming their own little morsel
of land : they were honest people — and what did brother
Robert care for rank 1 His own grandfather had been a far-
mer.
. Lady Northlake and Mrs. Gallile^ felt it due to themselves
to hold a consultation, on the subject of their sister-in-law.
Was it desirable, in their own social interests, to cast Robert
off, from that moment )

4.6

Heart and science.

Ii !

■J '

i, „„

Susan (previously advised by her kind-heatted husband)
leaned to the side of mercy. Robert's letter informed them
that he proposed to live, and die, in Italy. If he held to this
resolution, his marriage would surely be an endurable misfor-
tune to his relatives in Loudon. * Suppose we write to him*
Susan concluded, * and say we are surprised, but we have no
doubt he knows best. We offer our congratulations to Mrs.
Robert, and our sincere wishes for his happiness.'

To Lady Northlake's astonishment, Mrs. Gallilee adopted
this indulgent point of view, without a word of protest. She
had her reasons — but they were not producible to a lady whose
husband had forty thousand a year. Robert had paid her
debts.

An income of three thousand pounds, even in these days,
represents a handsome competence — provided you don't • owe
a duty to society.' In Mrs. Gallilee's position, an inc . me af
three thousand pounds represented genteel poverty. She was
getting into debt again ; and she was meditating future designs
on her brother's purse. A charming letter to Robert was the
result It ended with, ' Do send me a photograph of your
lovely wife ! * When the poor ' model died, not many years
afterwards, leaving one little daughter, Mrs. Gallilee implored
her brother to return ';o England. ' Come, dearest Robert,
and find consolation and a home, under the roof of your aflFec-
tionate Maria.'

But Robert remained in Italy, and was buried in Italy. At
the date of his death, he had three times paid his elder sister's
debts. On every occasion when he helped her in this liberal
way, she proved her gratitude by anticipating a larger, and x
larger, and a larger legacy if she outlived him.

Knowing (as the family lawyer) what large suras of money
Mrs. Gallilee had extracted from her brother, Mr. Mod also
knew that the advances thus made had been considered as the
equi , -ilent of any legacy, to which she might otherwise have
had some sisterly claim. It was his duty to have warned her
of this, when she questioned him generally on the subject of
the WUl ; and he had said nothing about it, acting under a most
unbecoming motive — in plain words, the motive of fear. From
ti.e self-reproachful feeling that now disturbed him had arisen
taat wo&derlul blush» which made its appearauce on Mr. MooI'q

HEART AND SCIENCE.

countenance, He was actually ashamed of himself. Is it too
mTht^' have asserted that he was ahuman anomaly on the roll
of attorneys 1

ill I

li 111

CHAPTER VII [.

Mrs, Galltlee ma^le her appenrance in Mio liUrnry— and
Mr. Muol's pulse accelerated its beat. Mrs. Galiilce's sou fol-
lowed her into the room — and Mr. Mod's pulse steadied itself
again. By special arrangement with the lawyer, Ovid had
been always kept in ignorance of his mother's affairs. No
matter how angry she might be in the coui-se of the next few
minutes, she could hardly express her indignation in the presence
of her son.

Joyous anticipation has the happiest effect on female beauty.
Mrs. Gallilee looked remarkably well that day. Having rather
a round and full face, she wore her hair (coloured from youthful
nature) in a fringe across her forehead, balanced on either side
by clusters of charming little curls. Her mourning for Robert
was worthy of its Parisian origin : it showed to perfect advan-
tage the bloom of her complexion and the whiteness of her
neck — also worthy of their Parisian origin. She looked like »
portrait of the period of Charles the Second, endowed with
life.

* And how do you do, Mr. Mool ] Have you been looking
at my ferns 1 '

The ferns were grouped at the entrance, leading from the
library to the conservatory. They had certainly not escaped
the notice of the lawyer, who possessed a hot house of his own,
and who was an enthusiast in botany. It now occurred to him
— if he innocently provoked embarrassing results — that ferns
might be turned to useful and harmless account as a means of
introducing a change of subject. * Even when she hasn't spoken
a word,' thought Mr. Mool, consulting his recollections, * I
have Itk her eyes go through me like a knife.*

HEART AND SCIENX'E.

4f)

'Spare us the technicalities, please,' Mrs. Gallilee continueH,
pointing to the documents on the table. ' I want to be exactly
acq\iainted with the duties T owe to Carmina. And, by the
way, I naturally feel some interest in knowing whether Lady
Nortlilake has any place in the Will.'

Mis. GalliJee never said *my sister/ never spoke in the fam-
ily circle of ' Susan.' The inexhaustible sense of injury, aroused
by that magnificent marriage, asserted itself in keeping her
sister at the full distance implied by never forgetting her
title.

* The first legacy mentioned in the Will/ said Mr. Mool, ' is
a legacy to Lady North lake.' Mrs, Gallilee's face turned as
hard as iron. ' One hundred pounds,' Mr. Mool continued, 'to
buy a mourning ring." Mrs. Gallilee's eyes turned eloquent in
an instant, and said as if in vsrords, ' Thank Heaven ! '

* So like your uncle's unpretending good sense,' she remark-
ed to her son. 'Any other legacy to Lady Northlake would
have been simply absurd. Yes, Mr. Mool 1 Perhaps my name
follows 1 '

Mr. Mool cast a side-look at the ferns. He afterwards de-
scribed his sensations as reminding him of pre\ ious experience
in a dentist's chair, at the awful moment when the operator
says * Let me look,' and has his devilish instrument hidden in
his hand. The 'situation,' to use the language of the stage,
was indeed critical enough already. Ovid added to the horror
of it, by maKmg a feeble joke. * What will you take for your
chance, mother 1 '

Before bad became worse, Mr. Mool summoned the energy
of despair. He wisely read the exact words of the Will, this
time : * And I give and bequeath to my sistei', Mrs. Maria
Gallilee, one hundred pounds.'

Ovid's astonishment could only express itself in action. He
started to his feet.

]\Ir. Mool went on reading. ' Free of legacy duty, to buy a
mourning ring *

* Impossible ! ' Ovid broke out.

Mr. Mool finished the sentence. 'And my sister will under-
stand the motive which animates me in making this bequest.'
He laid the Will on the table, and ventured to look up. At
the same time Ovid turned to his mother, struck by the words

lii

! :l

I; "

HEART AND SClENX'E.

which had been just read, and eager to enquire what their

meaning might be.

Happily for themselves, the two men never knew what the
preservation of their tranquillity owed to that one moment of
delay.

If they had looked at Mrs. Gallilee, when she was first aware
•f her position in the Will, they might have seen the incarnate
Devil self-revealed in a human face. They might have read,
in her eyes and on her lips, a warning as fearful as the
unearthly writing on the wall, which told the Eastern Monarch
of his coming death. ' See this woman, and know what / can
do with her, when she has repelled her guardian angel, and
her soul is left to Me.'

But the revelation showed itself, and vanished. Her face
was composed again when her son and her lawyer looked at it.
Her voice was under control ; her capacity for deceit was ready
for action. All those formidable qualities in her nature, which
a gentler and wiser training than hers had been might have
held in check, by development of preservative influences that
lay inert — were now driven back to th-^ir lurking place ; leav-
ing only the faintest traces of their momentary appearance on
the surface. Her breathing seemed to be oppressed ; her eye-
lids drooped heavily — and that was all.

' Is the room too hot for you V Ovid asked.

It was a harmless question, but any question atinoyed her
at that moment. * Nonsense ! ' she exclaimed, irritably.

The atmosphere of the conservatory is rich in reviving
smells,' Mr. Mool remarked. * Do I detect, among the delight-
ful perfumes which reach us, the fragrant root-stock of the
American fern 1 If I am wrong, Mrs. Gallilee, may I send you
some of the sweet-smelling Maidenhair from my own little hot-
house 1 ' He smiled persuasively. The fferns were already
justifying his confidence in their peace-making virtues, turned
discreetly to account. These terrible eyes rested on him merci-
fully. Not even a »)vert allusion to his silence in the matter
of the legacy escaped her. Did the lawyer's artlessly abrupt
attempt to change the subject warn her to be on her guard 1
In any case, she thanked him with the readiest courtesy fbv
his kind o£fer. Might she trouble him in the meantime to let
her see the Willi

liat their

what the
oment of

tst aware
incarnate
ave read,
as the
Monarch
lat / can
igel, and

Her fece
ed at it.
as ready
e, which
jht have
ces that
b; leav-
'aiice on
her eye-

yed her

eviving
ielight-

of the
Jnd you
tie hot-
ilready
turned

merci-
matter
abrupt
^uardt
Bsy fbr

to let

HEART AND SCIENCE.

She read attentively the concluding words of the ctause in
which her name appeared — 'My sister w.il understand the
motive which animates me in making this bequest,' — and then
handed back the Will to Mr. Mod. Before Ovid conld ask fur
it, she was ready with a plausible explanation. ' When your
uncle became a husband and a father,' she said, ' those claims
on him were paramount. He knew that a token of remem-
brance (the smaller the better) was all I would accept, if I
happened to outlive him. Please go on, Mr. Mooh*

In one respect, Ovid resembled his late uncle. They both
belonged to that high-minded order of men, who are slow to
suspect, and therefore easy to deceive. Ovid tenderly took
his mother's hand.

* I ought to have known it,' he said, * without obliging you
to tell me.*

Mrs. Gallilee did not blush. Mr. Mool did.

' Go on ! ' Mrs. Gallilee repeated. Mr. Mool looked at Ovid.

' The next name, Mr. Vere, is yours.*

* Does my uncle remember me as he has remembered my
mother 1 ' asked Ovid.

* Yes, sir — and let me tell you, a very pretty compliment is
attached to the bequest. " It is needless (your late uncle says)
to leave any more important proof of remembrance to my
nephew. His father has already provided for him ; and, with
his rare abilities, he will make a second fortune by the exer-
cise of his profession." Most gratifying, Mrs. Gallilee, is it
not ? The next clause provides for the good old housekeeper
Teresa, and for her husband if he survives her, in the following
terms *

Mrs. Gallilee was becoming impatient to hear more of herself.
' We may, 1 think, pass over that,' she suggested, * and get to
the part of it which relates to Carmina ana me. Don't think
I am impatient ; I am only desirous '

The growling of a dog in the conservatory interrupted her.
' That tiresome creature,' she said sharply ; ' I shall be obliged
to get rid of him ! '

Mr. Mool volunteered to drive the dog out of the conserva-
tory. Mrs. Gallilee, as irritable as ever, stopped him at the
door.

HEART AND SCIENCE,

at ' '

' Don't, Mr. Mdol I That dog's temper is not to be trusted.
He shows it with Miss Minerva, my governess — growls just in
that way whenever he sees lier. I dare say he smells you.
Tiiere ! Now he barks ! You are only making him worse.
Come back ! '

Being at the door, gentle Mr. Mool tried the ferns as peace-
makers once more. He gathered a leaf, and returned to his
place in a state of meek admiration. ' The flowering fern ! '
he said sofily. * A really fine specimen, Mrs. Gallilee, of the
Osmunda Regalis. What a world of beauty in this Bipinnate
Frond ! One hardly knows where the stalk ends and the leaf
begins ! '

The dog, a bright little terrier, came trotting intr the library.
He saluted the company briskly with his tail, not excepting
Mr. Mool. No growl, or approach to a growl, now escaped
him. The manner in which he laid himself down at Mrs.
Gallilee's feet, completely refuted her aspersion on his temper.
Ovid suggested that he might have been provoked by a cat in
the conservatory.

Meanwhile, Mr. Mool turned over a page of the will, and ar-
rived at the clauses relating to Carmina and her guardian,

* It may not be amiss,' he began, * to mention, in the first
place, that the fortune left to Miss Carmina, amounts, in round
numbers, to one hundred and thirty thousand pounds. The
Trustees '

* Skip the Trustees,* said Mrs. Gallilee.
Mr. Mool skipped.

* In the matter of the guardian,' he said, ' there is a prelimi-
nary cause in the event of your death or refusal to act, appoint-
ing Lady North lake '

* Skip Lady Northlake,' said Mrs. Gallilee.
Mr. Mool skipped.

' You are appointed Miss Carmiua's guardian until she comes
of age,' he resumed. ' If she marries in that interval '

He paused to turn over a page. Not only Mrs. Gallilee, but
Ovid also, now listened with the deepest interest. * If she
marries in that interval with her guardian's approval, her for-
tune is to be settled on herself and her children, as follows.'

' Suppose I don't approve of her choice 1 ' Mtf Gallilee in-
terposed. Ovid looked at his mother, and quickly looked

HEART AND SCIENCE.

away again. The dog caught his eye and jumped up to be
patted. Ovid was too preoccupied to notice this little advance.
The dog's eyes and ears expressed reproachful surprise. His
friend Ovid had treated l>im rudely for the first time in his life.

* 1/ the young lady contracts a matrimonial engagement of
which you disapprove,' Mr. Mool answered, *you are instructed
by the testator to assert your reasons in the presence of — well,
I may describe it as a family council ; composed of Mr. Galiilee
and of Lord and Lady Northlake.'

* Excessively foolish of Hubert,' Mrs. Galiilee remarked.
'And what, Mr. Mool, is this meddling council of three
todoT

* A majority of the council, Mrs. Galiilee, is to decide the
question absolutely. If the decision confirms your view, and if
Miss Carmina still persists in her resolution, notwithstand-
ing '

' Am I to give way 1 ' Mrs. Galiilee asked.

* Not until your niece comes of age, ma'am. Then she decides
for herself.*

* And inherits the fortune 1 '

* Only an income from part of it, if her marriage is disapprov-
ed by her relatives.*

* And what becomes of the rest 1 *

' The whole of it,' said Mr. Mool, 'will be invested by the
Trustees, and will be divided equally, on her death, among her
children.'

* Suppose she leaves no children 1 '

* That case is provided for, ma'am, by the last clause. I will
only say now that you are interested in the result.'

Mrs. Galiilee turned swiftly and sternly to her son. ' When
I am dead and gone,' she -said, ' I look to you to defend my
memory.*

'To defend your memory V Ovid repeated, wondering what
she could possibly mean.

* If I become interested in the disposal of Robert's fortune —
which God forbid ! — can't you forsee what will happen ? ' his
mother inquired bitterly. ' Lady Northlake will say, " Maria
intrigued for this ! " '

Mr. Mool looked doubtfully at the ferns. No I His vege-
table allies were not strong enough to check any further out-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

pouring of such family feeling as this. Nothing was to he
trusted, in the present emergency, but the superior authority ot
the Will.

'Pardon me,* he said; 'there are some further instructions,
Mrs. Gallilee, which, as I venture to think, exhibit your late
brother's well-known liberality of feeling in a very interesting
light. They relate to the provision made for his daughter,
while she is residing under your roof. Miss Carmina is to
have the services of the best masters in finishing her
education.'

* Certainly ! ' cried Mrs. Gallilee, with the utmost fervour.

' And the use of a carriage to herself, whenever she may re
quire it.'

' No, Mr. Mool ! Two carriages in such a climate as this.
One open and one closed.'

' And to defray these and other expenses, the Trustees are
authorized to place at your disposal one thousand a year.'

' Too much I too much ! '

Mr. Mool might have agreed with her — if he had not known
that Robert Graywell had thought of his sister's interests, in
making this excessive provision for expenses incurred on his
daughter's account.

' Perhaps her dresses and her pocket money are included 1 '
Mrs. Galilee resumed.

Mr. Mool smiled and shook his head. ' Mr. Graywell's
generosity has no limits,' he said, ' where his daughter is con-
cerned. Miss Carmina is to have five hundred a year for
pocket money and dresses.'

Mrs. Gallilee appealed to the sympathies of her son. * Isn't
it touching ? ' she said. * Dear Carmina ! my own people in
Paris shall make her dresses. Well, Mr. Mool ] '

* Allow me to read the exact language of the Will next,' Mr.
Mool answered. * *' If her sweet disposition leads her into ex-
ceeding her allowance, in the pursuit of her own little chari-
ties, my Trustees are hereby authorized, at their own dis-
cretion, to increase the amount, within the limit of another five
hundred pounds annually." It sounds presumptuous perhaps
on my part,' said Mr. Mool, venturing on a modest confessiii
of enthusiasm, ' but one can't help thinking, " What agoou
father I what a good child 1 " *

HEART AXD SCIENTE.

this.

Mrs. GalHlee had another appropriate remark ready on her
lips, when the unhioky aog interrupted her once more. He
made a sudden rush into the conservatory, barking with all
his might. A crashing noise followed the dog's outbreak,
which sounded like the fall of a flower-pot.

Ovid hurried into the conservatory, with the dog ahead of
him, tearing down the steps which led into the back garden.

The pot lay broken on the tiled floor. Struck by the beauty
of the flower that grew in it, he stooped to set it up again. If
instead of doing this, he had advanced at once to the second
door, he would have seen a lady hastening into the house ; and,
though her back view only was presented, he could hardly
have failed to recognise Miss M'nerva. As it was, when he
reached the door, the garden was srapty.

He looked up at the house, and saw Carmina at the open
window of her bedroom.

The sad expression on that sweet young face grieved him.
Was she thinking of her happy pasi life ? or of the doubtful
future, among strangers in a strange country 1 She noticed
Ovid, and her eyes brightened. His customary coldness with
women melted instantly : he kissed his hand to her. She re-
turned the salute (so familiar to her in Italy) with her gentle
smile, and looked back into the room. Teresa showed herself
at the window. Always following her impulses without troub-
ling herself to think first, the duenna followed them now. * We
are dull ud here,' she called out 1 * Come back to us, Mr. Ovid.*
The words had hardly been spoken before they both turned
from the window. Teresa pointed significantly into the room.
They disappeared.

Ovid went back to the library.

'Anybody listening T Mr. Mool enquired.

* I have not discovered anybody, but 1 doubt if a stray cat
could have upset that heavy ilower-pot.' He looked round him
as he made the reply. * Where is my mother V he asked.

Mrs. Gallilee had gone upstairs, eager to tell Carmina of the
handsome allowance made to her by her father. Having an-
swered in these terms, Mr. Mool began to fold up the Will —
and suddenly stopped.

'Very inconsiderate on my part,' he said , * I fcrgot, Mr.
Ovid, that you haven't heard the end of it Let me give you

f***3>

HEART AND SCIENCE.

His mother's reliLjious convictions began and

a briyf abstrnct. You know, p(•rl^'lp.s, that Miss Carmina is a
Caiholic 1 Very natural — hur poor uiother's religion. Well,
sir ; her good father forj^ets nothing. All attempts at proselyt-
ising are strictly forbidden.'

Ovid smiled
ended with the inorganic matter of the earth.

' The last clause,' Mr. Mool proceeileiJ, * seemed to agitate
Mrs. Oallilee (juite painfully. I nMuiri(h'd her that her brother
had no near relations living, but La<ly Xorthlake and herself.
As to leaving money to my lady, in my lord's princely posi-
tion '

* Pardon me,' Ovid interposed, * what is there to agitate my
mother in this 1 '

Mr. Mool made his apologies for not getting sooner to the
point, with the readiest g()o<l will. ' Professional habit, Mr
Ovid,* he explained. ' We are apt to be wordy — paitl, in fact,
at so much a folio, for so many words ! — and we like to clear
the ground first. Your late uncle ends his Will, by providing
for the disposal of his fortune, in two possible eve s, as fol-
lows : Miss Carmina may die unmarried, or Miss Car (being
married) may die without offspring.'

Seeing the importance of the last clause now, Ov'd stopped
him again. * Do I remember the amount of the fortune cor-
rectly 1 ' he asked. ' Did you tell me it was a hundred and
thirty thousand pounds 1 '

' Yes.'

* And what becomes of that large sura of money, if Carmina
never mirries, or if she leaves no children 1 '

* In either of these two cases, sir, that large sum of money
goes to Mrs. Gallilee and her daughters.'

la IS a

Well,
Jselyt-

m and

» •''1

itate
|rother
erself.

posi-

o the
;, Mr

fact,

clear

iding

s fol-

)eing

pped

I cor-

and

Qina
ney

CHAPTER IX.

Time had advanced to midnight, after the reading of the
Will — and Ovid was at home again.

The silence of the quiet street in which he lived was only
disturbed by the occasional rolling of carriage wheels, and by
dance-music from the house of one of his neighbours who
was giving a ball. He sat at his writing-table, thinking. Hon-
est self-examination had laid out the state of his mind before
him like a maj), and had sh >vvn him, in its true proportions;
the new interest that filled his life.

Of that interest he was now the willing slave. If he had
not known his mother to be with her, he would have gone back
to Carmina when the lawyer left the house. As it was, he had
sent a message up stairs, inviting himself to dinner, solely for
the purpose of seeing Carmina again — and he had been bitierly
disappointed when he heard that Mr. and Mrs. Gallilee were
engaged, and that his cousin would take tea in her room. He
had eaten something at his club, without caring what it was.
He had gone to the Opera afterwards, merely because his re-
collections of a favourite singing-lady of that season vaguely
reminded him of Carmina. And there he was, at midnight, on
his return from the music, eager for the next opportunity of
seeing his cousin, a few hours hence — when he had arranged
to say good-bye at the family breakfast-table.

To feel this change in him as vividly as he felt it, could lead
to but one conclusion in the mind of a man who was incapable
of purposely deceiving himself. He was certain as ever of the
importance of rest and change, in the broken state of his
health. And yet, in the face of that conviction, his contem-
plated sea-voyage had already become one of the vanished illu-
sions of his life.

rgT i B W rr

HEART AND SClENOil.

His friend had arranged to travel with him, that morning,
from London to the port at which the yacht was waiting for
tliem. They were hardly intimate enough to trust each other
unreservedly with seorets. The customary apology for break-
ing an engagement was the altrenative that remained. With
the paper op his desk and with the words in his mind, he was
yet in such a a strange state of indecision that he hesitated
to write the letter.

His morbidly-sensitive nerves were sadly shaken. Even the
familiar record of the half-hour by the hall clock startled him.
The stroke of the bell was succeeded by a mild and mournful
sound outside the door — the mewing of a cat.

He rose, without any appearance of surprise, and opened the
door.

With grace and dignity entered a small black female cat ;
exhibiting, by way of variety of colour, a melancholy triangu-
lar patch of white over the lower part of lier face, and four
brilliantly clean white paws. Ovid went back to his desk.
As soon as he was in his chair again, the cat jumped on his
shoulder, and sat there purring in his ear. This was the
place she occupied, whenever her master was writing alone.
Passing, one day through a suburban neighbourhood, on his
round of visits, the young surgeon had been attracted by a
crowd in a bye street. He had rescued his present companion
from starvation in a locked- up house ; the barbarous inhabi-
tants of which had gone away for a holiday, and had forgotten
the cat. The neighbours, collected by the poor creature's cries,
volunteered information in rather disparaging terms. Its ugly
name was * Snooks ' ; and it was always having kittens.
When Ovid, in spite of this warning, took Snooks away in his
carriage, popular feeling decided that the unknown gentleman
was ' a rum 'un.' From that moment, this fortunate little
member of a brutally-slandered race attached herself to her
new friend, and to that friend only. She endured the servants
civilly, but no more. The housekeeper tried to alter her ab-
surd name for the better — but she would answer to no other.
The cook — strictly ordered, when the perpetual kittens ap-
peared, always to spare the life of one of them — did her best to
prevent Snooks from invariably showing her newly-born off-
b^iiiig to her master, and never succeeded no matter how skil-

Heart aud science.

»<)

ft morninf,
waiting tor
[each other
^or break,
h^- With
}^(i, he was

hesitated

, Ei^enthe
rtled hill,.

Mournful

>pened the

>njale cat ;
y triangu-
and four
"s desk,
'd on his
was iliQ

^g aione.
^> on his
!ted by a

mpanion
s inhabi-
<^fgotten
e's cries,

Its llgly

kittens.

y ill iiis

'tleman

J iittle

^o her ,

rvants
ler aij.

other.
IS ap-
es t to
n off.

;| fully she might plot. In all the minor relations of life, the

■' man and the cat thoroughly understood each other. If Ovid

had owned the truth, he must have acknowledged that even

the company of Snooks was a relief to him, in the present state

of his mind.

When a man's flagging purpose is in want of a stimulant, the
most trifling change in the circumstances of the moment often
applies the animating influence. Even such a small interrup-
tion as the appearance of his cat rendered this service to Ovid.
To use the common and expressive phrase, it had * shaken him
up.' He wrote the letter — and Snooks killed the time by
washing her face.

His mind being so far relieved, he went to bed — the cat fol-
i lowing him up stairs to her bed in a corner of the room.
, Clothes are unwholesomo superfluities not contemplated in
the system of Nature. When we are exhausted, there is no
such thing as true repose for us until we are freed from our
dress. Men suVyected to any excessive exertion — fighting,
rowing, walking, working — must strip their bodies as com-
pletely as possble, or ihey are not equal to the call on them.
Ovid's kno\vlerlge of his own temperament told him that sleep
was not to be hoped for, that night. But the way to bed was
the way to rest notwithstanding, by getting rid of his clothes.

Wicli tho sunrise he rose and went out.

He took his letter with him, and dropped it into the box
in his friend's door. The sooner he committed himself to the
new course that he had taken, the more certain h^, might feel
of not renewing the miserable and useless indecision of the
past liiyht. ' Thank God, that's done ! ' he said to himself, as
he heard the letter fall into the box, and left the house.

After walking in the Park until he was weary, he sat down
by the ornamental lake, and watched the waterfowl enjoying
their happy lives.

Wherever he went, whatever he did, Carniina was always
with him. He had seen thousands of girls, whose personal at-
tractions were far more remarkable— and some few among them
whose nianuer was perLau.s equally winning. What was the
charm, in this iittle half-foreign cousin, that had seized on him
in an instant, and that seemed to fasten its subtle hold more
au(; more irresistibly with every new minute of his life 1 11©

(JO

tiEAui' ANb scitNOfi.

wjis content to feel the ohaim without carinp; to fathom it. The
lovely morning light took him in imagination to her bedside ;
he saw her sleeping peacefully in her new room. Would the
time come when she might dream of him 1 He looked at his
watch. It was seven o'clock. The breakfast-hour at Fairfield
Gardens had been fixed for eight, to give him time to catch the
morning train. Half an hour might be occupied in walking
back to his own bouse. Add ten minutes to make some change
in his dress — and he might set forth for his next meeting with
Carmina. No uneasy anticipation of what the family circle
might thiak of his sudden change of plan troubled his mind.
A very different question occupied him. For the first time in
his life, he wondered what dress a woman would wear at break-
fast time.

At eight o'clock, he opened his house door with his own key.
An elderly person, in a coarse black gown, was seated on the
bench in the hall. She rose, and advanced towards him. In
speechless astonishment, ^o confronted Carmina's faithful com-
panion — Teresa.

* If you please, I want to speak to you,' she said, in her best
English.

Ovid took her into his consulting-room. She wasted no time?
in apologies or explanations. * Don't tell ! ' she broke out.

* Carmina has had a bad night'
* I shall be at the house in half

an hour I ' Ovid eagerly as-
sured her.

The duenna shook her forefinger impatiently. ' She doesn't
want a doctor. She wants a friend when lam gone. What is
her life here ] A new life, among new people. Don't teU 1
She's frightened and miserable. So young, so shy, so easMy
startled. And I must leave her — I must ! I must ! My old
man is failing fast ; he may die, without a creature to comfort
him, if I don't go back. I could tear my hair when I think of
it. Don't speak ! It's my business to speak. Ha ! I knc v,
what I know. Young doctor, you're in love with Carmina I
I've read you like a book. You're quick to see, sudden to feel
— like one of my people. Be one of my people. Help me.'

She dragged a chair close to Ovid, and laid her hand suddenly
and heavily on his arm.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

' It's not mv fault, mind ; I have said nothing todistat-b hor.
iSo I I've made the best of it. I've lied to her. What do 1
care ! I would lie like Judas Iscariot himself to spare Carmina
a moment's pain. It's such a new life for her — try to see it for
yourself — su#h a new life. You and I shook hands y?stf'rday.
Do it again. Are you surprised to see me 1 I asked your mo-
ther's servants where you lived ; and here I am — with the cruel
teeth of anxiety gnawing me alive when I think of the time to
eoine. Oh, my lamb ! my angel ! she's alone. Oh, my God,
only seventeen years old, and alone in the world ! IS o father,
no mother ; and soon — oh, too soon, too soon — not even
Teresa. What are you looking at 1 What is there so wom-
derful in the tears of a stupid, useless old fool 1 Drops of
hot water. Ha ! ha ! if they fall on your fine carpet here, they
won't hurt it. You're a good fellow; you're a dear fellow.
Hush! [ know the Evil Eye when I see it. No more of that !
A secret in your ear — I've said a word for you to Carmina al-
ready. Give her time ; she's not cold ; young and innocent,
that's all. Love will come — I know, what I know — love will
come.'

She laughed— and, in the very act of laughing, changed again.
Fright looked wildly at Ovid out of her staring eyes. Some
terrifying remembrance had suddenly occurred to her. She
sprang to her feet.

* What did they tell me 1 * she cried. * What did you say
yourself when you left us yesterday 1 It can't lie ! it shan't be !
You're not going to leave Carmina, too ? '

Ovid's first impulse was to tell the whole truth. He resisted
the impulse. To own that Carmina was the one cause of his
abondonment of the sea-voyage, while she was not even aware
of the impression she had produced on ^^'r., would be to place
himself in a position from which his se'x-respect recoiled. * My
plans are changed,' was all he said to Teresa. ' Make your mind
ea.sy ; I'm not going away.*

The strange old creature snapped her fingers joyously. • Good-
bye ; I want no more of you.' With those cool and candid
words of farewell, she advanced to the door — stopped suddenly
to think — and came back. Only a moment had passed ; and
she was as sternly in earnest again as ever.

• May I call you by your name 1 ' she asj^ed.
' Certwnly ! '

i: : ^"

■it. >

■ r ll l ii l i V l i i yi i ' ii

■I

(52

HEART AND SCIENCE.

* Listen. I may not see you again before I go. This is my
last word ; never forget it. Even Carmina may iiave enemies.'

What could she be thinkinsj of? ' Enemies— in my mother's
house I ' Ovid exclaimed. ' What can you possibly mean ? '

Teresa went back to the door, and onlv answered him when
fihe had opened it to go.

' Wait, ' she said—' and you will see. '

my
ies.'
er'a

len

CHAPTER X.

Mrs. Galtjlee was on her way to the breakfast-room when
her son entered the house. Tliey met in the hall. ' la
your packing done ? * she asked.

He was in no humour to wait, and make his confession at
that moment. * Not yet, ' was his only reply.

Mrs. Gallilee led the way into the room. 'Ovid's luggage
is not ready yet, ' she announced ; * I believe he will lose his
train. '

They were all at the breakfast table ; the children and the
governess included. Carmina's worn face, telling its tale of a
wakeful night, brightened again, as it had brightened at the
bedroom window, when she saw Ovid. She took his hand
frankly, and made light of her weary looks. * No, my cousin,'
she said, playfully ; * I mean to be worthier of my ^^retty bed
to-night ; I am not going to be your patient yet,' Mr. Gallilee
(with his mouth full at the moment ) offered good advice.

* Eat and drink as I do, my dear, ' he said to Carmina ; * and
you will sleep as I do. Otf I go when the light's out —flat on
my back, as Mrs. Gallilee will tell you — and wake me if you
can, till it's time to get up. Have some buttered eggs, Ovid.
They're good, ain't they, Zo ? ' Zo looked up from her plate,
and agreed with her father, in one emphatic word, 'Jolly I'
Miss Minerva, queen of governesses, instantly did her duty.

* Zoe ! how often must I tell you not to talk slang ? Do you
ever hear your sister say " Jolly 1 " ' That highly-cultivated
child, Maria, strong in conscious virtue, added her authority
in support of the protest. ' No young lady who respects her-
self, Zoe, will ever talk slang.* Mr. Gallilee was unworthy of
such a daughter. He muttered under his breath, ' Oh, bother ! '
Zo held out her plate for more. Mr. Gallilee was delighted.

''i

tli

; :.MB.^aRK y:

HEART AND SCIENCE.

I s

* My chiltl ali over ! ' he exclaimed. * We are both of as good
fet ders. Zo will grow up a fine woman.* He appealed to his
stepson to agree with him. ' That's your medical opinion, Ovid,
isn't it 1 ' Carmina's pretty smile passed like "ipplintf light,
over her eyes and her lips. In her brief experience of England,
Mr. Gallilee was the one exhilarating element in family life.

Mrs Gallilee's mind still dwelt on her son's luggage, and on
the rigorous punctuality of railway arrangements.

' What is your servant about 1 ' she said to Ovid. * It's his
business to see that you are ready in time.'

It was useless to allow the false impression that prevailed to
continue any longer. Ovid set them all right, in the plainest
and fewest words.

My servant is not to blame,' he said. * I have written an
apology to my friend — I am not going away.'

For the moment, this astounding announcement was received
in silent dismay — excepting the youngest member of the com-
pany. After her father, Ovid was the one other person in the
world who held a place in Zo's odd little heart. Her sentiments
were now expressed without hesitation and without reserve.
She put down her spoon, and she cried, * Hooray ! ' Another
exhibition of vulgarity. But even Miss Minerva was too com-
pletely pre-occupied by the revelation which had burst on the
family, to administer the necessary reproof. Her har«l black
eyes were ri vetted on Ovid. As for Mr. Gallilee, he held his
bread and butter suspended in midair, and stared open-moutL
ed at his stepson, in helpless consternation.

Mrs. Gallilee always set the right example. Mrs. Gallilee
was the first to demand an exjilanation.

* What does this extraordinary proceeding mean ? ' she asked.

Ovid was impenetrable to the tone in which that question
was put. He looked at his cousin, when he declared his change
of plan — and he was looking at her still. Whatever the feel-
ing of the moment might be, Carmina's sensitive face express-
ed it vividly. Who could mistake the faintly-rising colour in
her cheeks, the sweet quickening of light in her eyes, when she
met Ovid's look ? Still without a suspicion of the feeling that
she had awakened in him, her sense of the interest taken in
her by Ovid was the proud sense that makes girls innocently
bold. Whatever the others might think of his broken engitge-

his

nEATlT AND SCIENCE.

meiit, her eyes said plainly, ' My sensation is happy surprise.'
Mrs.Gaililee summoned her son to attend to her,in no friendly

voice. She too had looked at Carmina — and had registered

the result of her observation privately.

' Are we to hear your reasons ] ' she inquired.

Ovid had made the one discovery in the world, on which his

whole heart was set. He was so happy, that he kept his

niothdi o'lt of the secret, with a masterly composure worthy of

herself.

* I don't think a sea-voyage is the right thing for me,' ue
answered.

* Rather a sudden change of opinion,' Mrs. Gallilee remarked.

Ovid coolly agreed with her. ' It was rather sudden,' he said.

Miss Minerva, demurely listening in expectation of an out-
break, was disappointed. After a little pause, Mrs. Gallilee
accepted her son's short answer, with a sudden submission
which liad a meaning of its own. She offered Ovid another
cuj. of tea ; and, more remarkable yet, she turned to her eldest
daughter, and deliberately changed the subject. * What are your
lessons, my dear, to-day 1' Mrs. Gallilee asked, with bland ma-
ternal interest.

Miss Minerva looked into her plate, after a glance of inquiry
at Ovid. ' Is he wise enough,' she wondered, ' to see that his
mother means mischief ? '

A 'lappy man is not apt to draw subtle conclusions. Besides,
he was too good a son to suspect his mother.

By this time, Mr. Gallilee had recovered himself ; he finished
his bread and butter. * Don't hurry Ovid, my dear,' he said
cheerfully to his wife. Mrs. Gallilee's sudden recovery of her
temper did not include her husband. If a look could have
annihilated that worthy man, his corporal presence must have
vanished into air, when he had delivered himself of his little
suggestion. As it was, he only helped Zo to another spoonful
of jam. * When Ovid first thought of that voyage,* he went
on, * I said, " Suppose he's sick ¥* A dreadful sensation isn't it,
Miss Minerva ) First you seem to sink into your shoes, and
then it all comes up — eh ? You're not sick at sea? I congratulate
you I I most sincerely congratulate you ! My dear Ovid,
come and dine with me to-night at the club.' He looked doubt-

^il.

' "4
(I

.tji

•liU>WMWH>WUiiMw.

M!!

if; ','<

II II

HEART AND SCIENCE.

fully at his wife, as he made that proposal. 'Gottho head-
ache, my dear t I'll take you out with pleasure for a walk.
What's ilie matter with her, Miss Minerva i 0, I see. Hush I
Maria's going to say grace. Amen ! Amen ! *

They all rose from the table.

Mr. Gallilee was the first to leave the room. Smoking in the
house being prohibited by his wife, he usually enjoyed his morn-
ing cigar in the garden of the square. He looked at Carmina
and Ovid, as if he wanted one of them to accompany him. They
were both at the aviary, admiring the birds, and absorbed in
their own talk. Mr. Gallilee resigned himself to his fate j ap-
pealing, on his way out, to somebody to agree with him as
usual. 'Well !' he said with a little sigh, 'a cigar keeps one
company.* Miss Minerva passed near him, on her way to the
school-room with her pupils. ' You would find it so yourself.
Miss Minerva — that is to say, if you smoked, which of course
you don't. Be a good girl, Zo ; attend to your lessons.' Zo's
perversity in the matter of lessons, put its own crooked con-
struction on this excellent advice. She answered in a whisper,

• Give us a holiday.'

The passing aspirations of idle minds, being subject to the
law of chances, sometimes exhibit, by their fulfilment, the van-
ity of human wishes in a sensible light. Thanks to the con-
versation between Carmina and Ovid, Zo got her holiday after
all.

Mrs. Gallilee, still as amiable as ever, had joined her son and
her niece at the aviary. Ovid said to his mother, * Carmina is
fond of birds. I have been telling her slie may see all the races
of birds assembled in the Zoological Gardens. It's a perfect
day. Why shouldn't we go ? *

The stupidest woman living would have understood what
this proposal really meant. Mrs. Gallilee sanctioned it as com-
posedly as if Ovid and Carmina had been brother and sister .

* I wish I could go with you,' she said, ' but my hour :ihcld «.f-
fairs fill my morning. And there is a lecture this afternoon,
which I cannot possibly lose. I don't know, Carmina, whether
you are interested in these things 1 We are to have the appa r-
atus, which illustrates the convetto^'on of radiant energy into
sonorous vibrations. Have you evei heard, my dear, of the
Pinthermancy of Ebonite 1 Not in your way, perhaps ? '

HEART ANQ SCIENCE.

Carmina looked as unintelligent as Zo herself. Mrs. Galli-
lee's science seemed to frighten lier. The Diathermancy of
Ebonite, by some incomprehensible process, drove her bewil-
dered mind back on her old companion. * I want to give Teresa
a little pleasure before we part,' she said tioiidlv ; ' may she go
with us ? '

* Of course 1 ' said Mrs. Gallilee. * And now I think of it,
why shouldn't the children have a little pleasure to 1 I will
give them a holiday. Don't be alarmed, Ovid ; Miss Minerva
will look after them. In the meantime, Carmina, tell your good
old friend to get ready.'

Carmina hastened away, and so helped Mrs. Gallilee to the
immediate object which she hud in view — a private interview
with her son.

Ovid anticipated a searching enquiry into the motives which
had led him to give up the sea voyage. His mother was far
too clever a woman to waste her time in that way. Her first
words told him that his motive was as clearly revealed to her as
the sunlight shining in at the window.

* That's a charming girl,' she said, when Carmina closed the
door behind her. * Modest and natural — quite the sort of girl,
Ovid, to attract a clever man like you.'

Ovid was completely taken by surprise, and owned it by his
silence. Mrs. Gallilee went on in a tone of innocent maternal
pleasantry.

* You know you began young,' she said ; * yonr first love was
that poor little wizen girl of Lady iNorthlake's who died.
Child's play, you will tell me, and nothing more. But, my
dear, I am afraid I shall require some persuasion, before I
quite sympathise with this new — what shall I call it ? — infatu-
ation is too hard a word, and " fancy " means nothing. We will
leave it a blank. Marriages of cousins are debatable marriages
to say the least of them ; and Protestant fathers and Papist
mothers do occasionally invoh ) difficulties with children. Not
that I say No Far from it. But if this is to go on, I do
hesitate.'

Something in his mother's tone grated on Ovid's sensibilities.
* I don't at all follow you,' he said, rather sharply, * you are
looking a little too far into the futv^re,'

,'h

■i *

n
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MWMW-riiiOfti «MpHw«i«|<^

. I .

i'ii>jiii1illiii>1C,

HEART AND SCIENCE.

' Then we will return to the present,* Mrs. Gallilee replied —
still with the readiest submission to the humour of her son.

On recent occasions, she had expressed the opinion that Ovid
would do wisely — at his age, and with his professional prosi^'cts
— to wait a few years before he thought of marrying. Having
now said enough to make his mind easy on the si^bject of her
niece (without appearing to be meanly influenced, in modifying
her opinion, by the question of money) her next object was to
induce him to leave England immediately, for the recovery of
his health. With Ovid absent, and with Carmina under her
superintendence, Mrs. Gallilee could see her way plainly to her
oyen private ends.

' Keally,* she resumed, * you ought to think seriously of
change of air and scene. You know you would not allow a
patient, in your present state of health, to trifle with himself
as you are trifling now. P you don't like the sea, try the con-
tinent. Get away somewhere, my dear, for your own sake.'

It was only possible to answer this in one way. Ovid owned
that his mother was right, and asked for time to think. To
his infinite relief, he was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Miss Minerva entered the room — not in a very amiable temper,
judging by appearances.

* I am afraid I disturb you,' she began, looking at Mrs.
Gallilee.

Ovid seized the opportunity of retreat. He had some letters
to write — he hurried away to the library.

* Is there any mistake ? ' the governess asked, when she and
Mrs. Gallilee were alone.

* In what respect. Miss Minerva 1 '

* I met your niece, ma'am, on the stairs. She says you wish
the children to have a holiday.'

* YeSy to go with my son and Miss Carmina to the Zoological
Gardens.'

*Miss Carmina said I was to go too.'

* Miss Carmina was perfectly right.'

Tlie governeEs fixed her searching eyes on Mrs. Gallilee.
• You wish me to go with them 1 ' she said.
•I do.'

* I know why.'

ttteAtlt ANt) SCtENCii.

In the course of their experience, Mrs. Gallilee and Miss
Minerva had once quarrelled fiercely — and Mrs. Gallilee had
got the worst of it. She learnt her lesson. For the future
she knew how to deal with her governess. When one said, 'I
know why,' the other said, ' Do you 1 '

* Let's have it out plainly, ma'am,' Miss Minerva proceeded.
' I am not to let Mr. Ovid,' she laid a bitterly strong emphasis
on the name, and flushed angrily) — * I am not to let Mr. Ovid
and Miss Garmina be alone together.'

* You are a good guesser,' Mrs. Gallilee remarked quietly.

' No,' said MissrMinerva more quietly still ; ' I have only seen
what you have seen.

* Did I tell you what I have seen 1 '

' Quite needless, ma'am. Your son is in love with his cousin.
When am I to be ready ? *

The bland mistress mentioned the hour. The rude governesA
left the room.

Mrs. Gallilee looked at the closing door with a curious
smile. She had already suspected Miss Minerva of being
crossed in love. The suspicion was now confirmed, and the
man was discovered.

' Sourecl by a hopeless passion/ she said lo herself. 'And the
object is — my sou.'

^J i

; '

CTIAFTEU XL

On enterwfr the Zoological Gardens, Ovid ^urnod at once to
the riglit, le;. ling Carmina to the aviaries, so that she might
begin by seeing the birds. Miss Minerva, with Maria in duti-
ful attendance, followed them. Teresa kept at a little ditstaoco
behind ; and Zo took her own erratic course, now attaching
herself to one member of the little party, and now to another.
When thev reached the aviaries the order of march becMme
confused ; differences in the birds made their appeal to ditfer-
ances in the taste of the visitors. Insatiably e^ger for useful
information, that prize-pupil Maria held her governess captive
at one cage ; while Zo darted away towanls another, out of
reach of discipline, and good Teresa volunteered to l)ring her
back. For a minute, Ovid and his cousin were left alone. He
might have taken a lover's advantage even of that small oppor-
tunity. But Carmina had something to say to him — and Car-
mina spoke first.

* Has Miss Minerva bee^i your mother's governess for a loiig
time 1 ' she inquired.

' For some years,' Ovid replied. * Will you let me put a
question on my side 1 Why do you ask ? '

Carmina hesitated — and answered in a whisper, * She looks
ill tempered. *

' Shew ill-tempered, ' Ovid confessed. * I suspect,' he added
with a smile, * you don't like Miss Minerva. '

Carmina attempted no denial ; her excuse was a woman's
excuse all over : ' She doesn't like Jiie. '

* How do you know 1 '

* I have been looking at her. Does she beat tlie children 1 *
' My dear Carmina ! do you think she would ho my mother's

governess if she treated the children in that way 't BesideSi

IIEAIIT AND SCIENCE.

Miss Minerva is too well-bred a woman to degrade herself by
acts of violence. Family misfortunes have very materially
lowered her position in the world. '

He was reminded, as he said those words, of the time when
Miss Minerva had entered on her present employment, and
when she had been the sul)ject of some little curiosity on hia
own part. Mrs. G.illiiee's answer, when he once asked why
she kept such an irritable woman in the house, had been
entirely satistactory. so far as she herself was concerned : ' Miss
Minerva is remarkably well informed, and I get her cheap.'
Exactly like his mother ! But it left Miss Minerva's motives
involved in utter obscurity. Why had this hi<^hly cultivated
woman accepted an inatleqnate reward for her services, for
years together 1 Whv — to take the event of that morning as
another example — after plainly showing ner temper to her em-
ployer, had she been so ready to submit to a suddenly decreed
holiday, which disarranged her whole course of lessons for the
week ? Little did Ovid think that the one reconciling influence
which adjusted these contradictions, and set at rest every
doubt that grew out of them, was to be found in himself. Even
tiie humiliation of watching him in his mother's interest, and
of witnessing his devotion to another woman, was a sacrifice
which Miss Minerva could endure for the one inestimable
privilege of being in Ovid's company.

Before Carmina could ask any more questions a shrill voice,
at its highest pitch of excitement, called her away. Zo had
just discovered the most amusing bird in the Gardens — the
low comedian of the feathered race — otherwise known as the
Piping Crow.

Carmina hurried to the cage as if she had been a child her-
self. Seeing Ovid left alone, the governess seized her chance
of speaking to him. 'iuv, first word that passed hor lips told
their own story. While Carmina had been studying Miss
Minerva, Miss Minerva had been studying Carmina. Already,
the same instinctive sense of rivalry had associated on a com-
mon ground of feeling the two most dissimilar women that
ever breathed the breath of life.

' Does your cousin know much about birds 1 ' Miss Minerva
began.

(

'II

7^^

HEART AND SCIEKCE.

H m

The opinion which doclares Miat vanity is a lauhig peculiar
to the sex is a s'-'inder on women. All the world over, there
are more vain, men in it than vain women. If Ovid had not
been one of the exceptions to a general rule among men, or
even if his experience of the natures of women had been a little
less limited, he too might have discovered Miss Minerva's
secret. Even her capacity for self-control failed, at the moment
when she took Carmina's place. These stony black eyes, so
hard and cold when they looked at anyone else — flamed with
an ail-devouring sense of possession when they first rested on
Ovid. ' He's mine. For one golden moment he's mine ! *
They spoke — and, suddenly, the every Jay blind was drawn
down again : there was nobody present but a well-bred woman,
talking with delicately implied deference to a distinguished
mah.

• So far, we have not spoken of the birds,' Ovid innorently
answei*ed.

' And vet vou seemed to be both looking at them ! ' She at
one*' covered this unwary outbreak of jealousy under an imper-
vious surface of compliment. ' IMiss Canuina is not perhaps
txactly pretty, but she is a singularly interesting girl.'

Ovid cordially (toe cordially) agreed. Miss IMinerva had
presented her hetter self to hiui under a most agreeable aspect.
She tried — struggled — fought with herself — to preserve ap-
pearances. The demon in her got possession again < *" her ton-
gue. * Do you find the young lady intelligent 1 ' she inquired.

* Certainly I '

Only one word — spoken perhaps a little sharply. The mis-
erable woman same under it. * An idle question on my part,'
she said, with the pathetic humility that tries to be cheerful.
* And another warning, Mr. Vere, never to judge by appear-
ances.' She looked at him, and returned to the children.

Ovid's eyes followed her compassionately, 'Poor wretch!'
he thought. ' What an infernal temper, and how hard she tries
to luiitr^l it ! ' He joined Oarmina, with a new delight in be-
ing near her again. Zo was, still in ectasies over the Piping
Crow. ' Oh, the jolly little chap ! Look how he cocks his
head I He mocks me when I whistle. Buy him ! ' cried Zo,
tug^g at Ovid's coat tails in the excitement that possessed her,
*buy him, and let me take him home with me I '

HEART AND SCIENdE.

niis-

Some visitors within hearing began to laugK Mlfls Minerva
opened her lips ; Maria opened h(>r lips. To the astonishment
of both of them the coming rebuke proved to be needless.

A sudden tranRformation to silence and docility had made
a new creature of Zo before they could speak — and Ovid had
unconsciously worked the miracle. For the first time in the
child's experience lie had sufVered his coat tails to be pulled
without immediately attending to her. Who was he looking at 1
It was only too easy to see that Carniina had got him all to
herself. The jealous little heart swelled in Zo's i)osom. In
silent perplexity she kept watch on the friend who had never
disappointed her before. Little by little, her slow intelligence
began to realize the discovery of souiething in his face, which
made him look handsomer than ever, and which she had never
seen in it yet. They all left tuo aviaries, and turned to the
railed paddocks in which the larger birds were assembled. And
still Zo followed so quietly, so silently, that her elder sister —
threatened with a rival in good behaviour — looked at her in
undisguised alarm.

Incited by Maria (who felt the necessity of vindicating her
character ) Miss Minerva began a dissertation on cranes, sug-
gested by the birds with the brittle-looking legs hopping up to
her in expectation of something to eat. Ovid was absorbed
in attending to his cousin ; he had provided himself with
some bread, and was helping Carmina to feed the birds. But
one person noticed Zo, now that her strange lapse into good
behaviour had lost the charm of novelty. Old Teresa watched
her. There was something plainly troubling the child in secret ;
she had a mind to know what it might be.

Zo approached Ovid again, determined to understand the
change in him if perseverance could do it. Ue was talking so
confidentially to Carmina, that he almost whispered in her ear.
Zo eyed him, without daring to toucJi his coat tails again. Miss
Minerva tried hard to go on composedly with the dissertation
on cranes. * Flocks of these birds, Maria, pass periodically over

the southern and central countries of Europe ' Her breath

failed her, as she looked at Ovid : she could say no more. Zo
stopped those maddening confidences ; Zo, in desperate want of
inforroat' m, tugged boldly at Carmina's skirts this time.

.--^

7'«nw;'-rriyj:'^*j^j'«r_" r-yr-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

I !

The young girl turned round directly. ' What is it, dear ? '

With big tears of indignation rising i.\ her eyes, Zo pointed
to Ovid. * I say ! ' she whispered, * is he going to buy the Piping
Crow for you ? '

To Zo's discomfiture they both laughed. She dried her eyes
with her fists, and waited doggedly for an answer. Carmina
set the child's mind at ease very prettily arid kindly ; and Ovid
added the pacifying influence of a familiar ])at on her cheek.
Noticed at last, and satisfied that the bird was not to be bought
for anybody, Zo's sense of injury was appeased ; her jealousy
melted away as the next result. After a portentous knitting
of the eyebrows which betokened mental exertion, she sudden-
ly took Carmina into her confidence,

' Don't tell Ovid, ' she L3gan. ' I saw another man look like
him. '

' When, dear 1 ' Carmina asked — meaning, at what past date.

* When his face was close to yours, ' Zo answered — meaning,
under what present circumstances.

Ovid hearing this reply, knew his small sister well enough to
foresee embarrassing results if he allowed the conversation to
proceed. He took Carmina's arm, and led her a little farther
on.

Miss Minerva obstinately followed tJiem, with Maria in at-
tendance, f.till imperfectly enlightened on the migration of
cranes. Zo looked round, in search of another audience. Teresa
had been listening ; she was present, waiting for events. Being
herself, what stupid people call, * an oddity, ' her sympathies
were attracted by this quaint child. In Teresa's opinion, seeing
the animals was very inferior, as an amusement, to exploring
Zo's mind. She produced a cake of chocolate, from a travelling
bag which she carried with her everywhere. The cake was
sweet, it was flavoured with vanilla, and it was offered to Zo,
unembittered by advice not to be greedy and make herself ill.
Staring hard at Teresa, she took an experimental bite. The
wily duenna chose that propitious moment to present herself
in the capacity of a new audience.

* Who was that other man you saw, who looked like Mr.
Ovid 1 ' she asked ; speaking in the tone of serious equality
which is always flattering to the self esteem of children in in-
tercourse with their elders. Zo was so proud of having her

HEART AND SCIENCE.

is it, dear ? '

Zo pointed

the Piping

ed her eyes

Carmina

; and Ovid

her cheek.

) be bought

r jealousy

IS knitting

he sudden-

n look like

'' past date.
- meaning,

enough to
rsation to
tie farther

iria in at-
{ration of
3e. Teresa
its. Being
ynipathits
311, seeing
exploring
travelling
cake was
ed to Zo,
erself ill.
e. The
it herself

like Mr.
equality
m iu in-
king her

own talk reported by a grown-up stranger, that she even forgot
the chocolate. * 1 wanted to say more than that, ' she announced.
* Would you like to hear the end of it ? * And this admirable
foreign person answered, ' I should very much like. '

Zo hesitated. To follow out its own little train of thought in
words was no easy task to the immature mind which Miss
Minerva had so mercilessly overworked. Led by Dame Nature
(best of governesses !) Zo found her way out of the labyrinth
by means of questions. ' Do you know Joseph ? ' she began.

Teresa had heard the footman called by his name : she knew
who Joseph was.

* Do you knr w Matilda ? ' Zo proceeded.

Teresa had .eard the housemaid called by her name : she
knew who Matilda was. And, better still, she helped her little
friend by a timt'ly guess at what was coming, presented under
tlie form of a reminder. * You saw Mr. Ovid's face close to
Carmina's face, ' she said.

Zo nodded furiously — the end of it was coming already.

* And before that, ' Teresa went on, * you saw Joseph's face
close to Matilda's face. '

' I saw Joseph kiss Matilda ! ' Zo burst out, with a scream
of triumph. * Why doesn't Ovid kiss Carmina 1*

A deep base voice, behind them, answered gravely : * Because
the governess is in the way. ' And a big bamboo walking-stick
pointed over their heads at Miss Minerva. Zo instantly recog-
nized the stick, and took it into her own hands.

Teresa turned — and found herself in the presence of a re-
markable man.

wAT,

■ r

I '■;

' i '

CHAPTER XTI.

In the first, place, the stranger was almost tall enough to be
shown as a giant ; he towered to a stature of six feet six inches,
English measure. If his immense bones had been i)ro{)erly
covered with flesh, he would have presented the rare combina-
tion of fine proportions with great height. He was so niisera
bly — it might almost be said, so hideously — thin that his ent-niies
spoke of him as ' the living skeleton.* His masive forehead, his
great gloomy gray eyes, hia protuberant cheek bones, overhung
a fleshless lower face naked of beard, whiskers, and moustache.
His complexion added to the sta^-tling efiect which his personal
appearance produced on strangers. It was of the true gipsy-
brown, and, being darker in tone than his eyes,, added remark-
ably to the weird look, the dismal thougbtt'ul scrutiny, which
it was his habit to fix on persons talking with him, no matter
whether they were worthy of attention or not. His straight
black hair hung as gracelessly on either side of his hollow face
as the hair of an American Indian. His great dusk hands,
never covered by gloves in the summer time, showed amber-
coloured nails on bluntly pointed fingers, turned up at the tips.
Those tips felt like satin when they touched you. When he
wished to be careful, he could handle the frailest objects with
the most exquisite delicacy. His dress was of the recklessl}'
loose and easy kind. His long frock-coat descended below his
knees ; his flowing trousers were veritable bags ; his lean and
wrinkled throat turned about in a widely-opened shirt coUar,
unconfined by any sort of of neck-tie. He had a theory tliat a
head-dress should be solid enough to resist a chance blow — a
fall from a horse, or the dropping of a loose brick from a liouse
under repair. His hard black hat, broad and curly at the brim,
might have gractd the head of a bishop, if it had not been seen-

HEART AND SCIENCfi.

larised by a queer resemblance to the bell shaped hat worn by
dandies in the early years of the present century. In one word
he was, both in himself and in his dress, the sort of man whom
no stranger is careless enough to pass without turning round for
a second look. Teresa, eyeing him with reluctant curiosity,
drew back a step, and privately reviled him ( in the secrecy of
her own language ) as an ugly beast 1 Even his name startled
people by the outlandish sound of it. Those *»nemies who called
him * the living skeleton ' said it r^^vealed his gipsy origin. In
medical and scientific circles he was well and widelv known as
— Doctor Benjulia.

Zo ran away with his bamboo stick. After a passing look of
gloomy indifference at the duenna, he called to the child to
come back.

She obeyed him in an oddly indirect way, as if she had
been returning against her will. At the same time she looked
up in his face, with an absence of shyness which showed,
like the snatching away of his stick, that she was familiarly
acquainted with him, and accustomed to take liberties. And
yet there was an expression of uneasy expectation in her round
attentive eyea * Do you want it back again V she asked, offering
the stick.

* Of course I do. What would your mother say to me, if
you tumbled over my big bamboo, ^nd dashed out your brains
on this hard gravel walk ? '

* Have you been to see Mama ? ' Zo asked.

* I have not been to see Mama — but I know what she would
say to me if you dashed out your brains, for all that.'

* What would she say ] '

'She would say — Doc+^or Benjulia, your name ought to be
Herod,'

* Who was Herod 1 '

* Herod was a Royal Jew, who killed little girls when they
took away his walking stick. Come here, child. Shall I tickle
you I'

'I knew you would say that,' Zo answered.

When men in general thoroughly enjoy the pleasure of talk-
ing nonsense to children, they can no more help smiling than
they can help breathing. The doctor was an extraordinary
e^Lception to this rule : his grim face never relaxed — not even

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wmw^ww lliiiii ^^»l>■lf^^lHllil^^

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fiEART AND SCIENCE.

when Zo reminded him that one of his favourite recreations
was tickling children. She obeyed him, with the curious ap-
pearance of reluctant submission showing itself once more. He
put two of his soft big finger-tips on her spine, just below the
back of her neck, and pressed on the place. Zo started and
wriggled under his touch. He observed her with as serious an
interest as if he had been conducting a medical experiment.
' That's how you make your dog kick with his leg,' said Zo,
recalling her experience of the doctor in the society of the dog.
* How do you do it 1 '

*I touch the Cervical Plexua' Doctor Benjulia answered as
gravely as ever.

This attempt at mystifying the child failed completely. Zo
considered the unknown tongue in which he had answered her as
being equivalent to lessons. She declined to notice the Cervical
Plexus, and returned to the little terrier at home. * Do you
think the dog likes it V she asked.

* Never mind the dog. Do you like it 1 *

* I don't know.'

Doctor Benjulia turned to Teresa. His gloom;; gray eyes
rested on her, as that they might on any inanimate object near
him, — on the railings that imprison the birds, or the pipes
that kept the monkey-house warm. * I have been playing the
fool, ma'am, with this child,' he said ; * and I fear I have de-
tained you. I beg your pardon.' He pulled off his episcopal
hat and walked grimly on, without taking any further notice
of Zo.

Teresa made her best courtesy in return. The magnificent
civility of the ugly giant daunted, while it flattered her. • The
manners of a prince,' she said, ' and the complexion of a gipsy.
Is he a nobleman 1 '

Zo answered, ' he's a doctor,' — as if that was something
much better.

* Do you like him 1 * Teresa inquired next.

Zo answered the duenna as she had answered the doctor : * I
don't know.'

In the meantime, Ovid and his cousin had not been unob-
servant of what was passing at a little distance from them.
B.?njulia's great height, and his evident familiarity with thQ
child, stirred Oarmiua'souriosity,

ras
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HEART AND SCIENCE.

Ovid seemed to be disinclined to talk to hina. Miss Minerva
made herself useful, with the readiest politenesa She men-
tioned his odd name and described him as one of Mrs. Gallilee's
old friends. ' Of late years,' she proceeded, * he is said to have
discontinued medical practice, and devoted himself to chemical
experiments. Nobody seems to know much about him. He
has built a house in a desolate field — in some lost suburban neigh-
bourhood that nobody can discover. In plain English^ Doctor
Benjulia is a mystery.'

Hearing this, Carmina appealed again to Ovid.

* When I am asked riddles,' she said, * I am never easy till
the answer is guessed for me. And when I hear mysteries, I
am dying to have them revealed. You are a doctor yourself.
Do tell me something more ! '

Ovid might have evaded her intreaties by means of an excuse.
But her eyes were irresistible : they looked him into submis-
sion in an instant.

* Dr. Benjulia is what is called a Specialist,' ho said. * I
mean that he only professes to treat certain diseases. Brains
and nerves are Benjulia's diseases. Without quite discon-
tinuing his medical practice, he limits himself to serious cases
— when other doctors are puzzled, you know, and want him to
help them. With this exception, he has certainly sacrificed hia
professional interests to his mania for experiments in chemistry.
What those experiments are, nobody knows but himself.* He
keeps the key of his laboratory about him by day and by night
When the place wants cleaning, he does the cleaning with his
own hands.

Carmina listened with breathless interest : ' Has nobody
peeped in at the windows,' she asked.

'There are no windows — only a skylight in the roof.'

* Can't somebody get up on the roof, and look in through the
skylight r

Ovid laughed. * One of his men-servants is said to have
tried that experiment,' he replied.

* And what did he see 1 '

* A large white blind, drawn under the skylight, and hiding
the whole room from view. Somehow, the doctor discovered
him — and the man wag instantly dismissed. Of course there
aie reports which explain the mystery of the doctor and his

:H i

»*.•*«**.-;-.-■-

t'MUf-i't'litteisasti

: I!

HEART AND SCIENCE.

laboiatory. One report says that lie is trying to find a way oi
turning common metals into gold. Another declares that he is
inventing some explosive compound, so horribly destructive
that it will put an end to war. All I can tell you is, that his
mind (when I happen to meet him) seems to he as completely
absorbed as ever in brains and nerves. But, what they can
have to do with chemical experiments, secretly pursued in a
lonely field, is a riddle to which 1 have thus fur found no
answer.

' Is he married ? ' Carmina inquired.

The question seemed to amuse Ovid. ' If Doctor Benjulia
had a wife, you think we might get at his secrets ? There is no
such chance for us — he manages his doiucstic affairs for him-
self.'

* Hasn't be even got a housekeeper ? '

* Not even a housekeeper ! *

While he was making that reply, he saw the doctor slowly
advancing towards them. * Excuse me for one minute,' he re-
sumed ; * I ^'ill just speak to him, and come back to you.'

Carmina turned to Miss Minerva in surprise.

* Ovid seems to have some reason for keeping the tall man
away from us,' she said. ' Does he dislike Doctor Henjulia 1 '

But for restraining moaves, the governess might have grati-
fied her hatred of Carmina by a sharp reply. She had her rea-
sons — not only after what she had overheard in the conserva-
tory, but after what she had seen in the Gardens — for winning*
Carmina's confidence, and exercising over her the influence of
a trusted friend. Miss Minerva made instant use of her first
opportunity.

* I can tell you what I have noticed myself,' she said confi-
dentially. ' When Mrs. Gallilee gives parties, 1 am allowed to
be present — to see the famous professors of science. On one of
these occasions they were talking of instinct and reason. Your
cousin, Mr. Ovid Vere, said it was no easy matter to decide
where instinct ended and ;.eason began. In his own experience,
he had sometimes found people of feeble minds, who judged by
instinct, arrive at sounder conclusions than their superiors in
intelligence, who judged by reason. The talk took another
turn — and, soon after, Doctor Benjulia joined the guests. I

BKAET ANb SClEJiCE.

don't know whether you have observed that Mr. Gallilee is
very fond of his stepson ] '

Oh, yes, Carmina had noticed that. ' I like Mr. Gallilee,'
she said warmly ; ' he is such a nice, kind-hearted, natural old
man.'

Miss Minerva concealed a sneer under a smile. She too was
so fpnd of Mr. Gallilee I * Well,' she resumed, * the doctor
paid his respects to the master and mistress of the house ; and
then he shooL hands with Mr. Ovid— and then the scientific
gentlemen all got round him, and had a learned talk. Mr. Gal!i-
lee came up to his ste{)son, looking a little discomposed. He
spoke in a whisper — you know his way 1 — " Ovid, do you like
Doctor Benjulia? Don't mention it; I hate him." Strong
language for Mr. Gallilee, wasn't it? Mr. Ovid said, "Why
do you hate him ? " And poor Mr. Gallilee answered like a
child, "Because I do." Some ladies came in, and the old gen-
tleman left us to speak to them. I ventured to say to Mr.
Ovid, " Is that instinct or reason 1 " He took it quite seriously.
" Instinct," he said — " and it troubles me." I leave you. Miss
Carmina, to draw your own conclusion.'

They both looked up. Ovld and the doctor w^re walking
slowly away from them, and were just passing Teresa and the
child. At the same moment one of the keepers of the animals
approached Doctor Benjulia. After they had talked together
for a while the man withdrew. Zo (who had heard it all, and
had understood a part of it) ran up to Carmina, charged witi.
news.

' There's a sick monkey in the gardens, in a room all by him-
self,' the child cried. * And, 1 say ; look there ! ' She pointed
excitedly to Benjulia and Ovid, walking on again slowly in the
direction of the aviaries. * There's the big doctor who tickles
me ! He says he'll see the poor monkey, as soon as he's done
with Ovid. And what do you think he said besides 1 He 3aid
perhaps he'd take the mmkey home with him.'

* I wonder what's the matter with the poor creature ? ' Car-
mina asked.

< After what Mr. Ovid has told us, I think t know,' Miss
Minerva answered. ' Doctor Benjulia wouldn't be interested
in the monkey unless it had a disease of the brain.'

r *

1 ,: .:

i <

^S^.,^^

CHAPTER XI II.

Ovid had promised to rotuin to Canuina in a luiiuite. Tlie
minutes passed, and still Dr. Benjulia held him in talk.

Now that he was no longer seeking amusement, in his own
dreary way, by mystifying Zo, the lines seemed to liarden in
the doctor's grim, brown face. A scrupulously polite man, he
was always cold in his politeness. He waited to have his hand
shaken, and waited to be spoken to. And yet, on this occasion,
he had something to say. VV -^n Ovid opened the conversation,
he changed the subiect direct j .

* Benjulia 1 what brii gs you to the Zoological Gardens ?*

* One of the monkeys has got brain disease ; and they fancy
I migh like to see the beast before they kill him. Ha\e you
been thinking lately of that patient we lost 1 '

Not at the moment remembering the patient, Ovid made no
immediate reply. The doctor seemed to distrust his silence.

* You don't mean to say you iiave forgotten the case 1 ' he
resumed. * We called it hysteria, not knowing what else it was.
I don't forgive the girl for slipping thn^ugh our fingers ; 1 hate
to be beaten by Death, in that way. Have you made up your
mind what to do, on the next occasion ] Perhaps you think
you could have saved her life if you had been sent for, now 1 '

*No, indeed, I am just as ignorant '

' Give ignorance time,' Benjulia interposed ; * and ignorance
will become knowledge — if a man is in earnest. The proper
treatment might occur to you to-morrow.'

He held to his idea with such obstinacy that Ovid set him
right, rath jr impatiently. * The proper treatment Ims as much
chance of occurring to the greatest ass in the profession,' he
answere i, 'a^j it has of occurring to me. I can put my mind to no
good medlcdl use ', my work has been too much for me. 1 ami
obliged to give up practice, aud reat — for a time.'

HEAllT AND SCIKNOK.

.S:]

The

Nob even a forniil ex|>ress'Oti of Ryn)|t(tliy evc«|)»>(| |)..(t..r
llenjtilia. Having l)t?eu a distnistfiil fritMul .so far, hv lucime
an iiiquiaite friend now. * Vou'rc going away, of conrHe,' he
Bait-l. ' Where to 1 On the Continent ? Not to Italy — if you
really want to r< over yonr health !'

* What is tlie objection to Italy ] '

The docror put his great hand solemnly to his young friend's
shoulder. * The medical schools in tiiat country are recovering
tlu'ir past reputation,' he said. ' They are becoming active
centres of physiological inquiry. Vou will be dragged into it,
to a dead oei-tainty. They're sure to try what they can strike
out, by collision with a man like you. What will become of
that overworked mind of yours, when a lot of j)rofe!ssors {i e
searching it without mercy ? Have you ever been to Canada 1 '

' No. Have you 1 '

*I have been everywhere. Canada is just the place for you,
in this su mer season. Bracing air ; and steady-going doctors
who leave the fools in Europe to pry into the secrets of Nature.
Thousands of miles of land, if you like riding. Thousands
of miles of water, if you like sailing. Pack up, and go to
Canada.*

What did all this mean? Was he afraid that his colleague
might stumble on some discovery whi -h he was in search of
hims'elf] And did the discovery relate to his own special
subject of brains and nerves] Ovid made an attempt to under-
stand him.

* Tell me something about yourself, Benjulia,' he said. • Are
you returning to your regular professional woik ] '

Benjulia struck his bamboo stick emphatically on the gravel
walk. * Never ! unless I know more than 1 know now.'

This surely meant that he was as much devoted to his i^hemi-
cal experiments as ever ] In that case, how could Ovid (who
knew nothing of chemical experiments) be an obsta'^le in the
doctor's way] Baffled thus far, he made another attempt at
inducing Benjulia to explain himself.

* When is the world to hear of your disc o veries in chemistry 1 '
he asked.

The doctor's massive forehead gathered ominously into a
frown. ' Damn the world 1 ' That was his on^y reply.

s .

"EAliT AND SCIENCE.

<la'k ii! Z iV'Tr' '" ■'""- '"""-elf to to b„ kon, • „
m himself « r .,« wnoie man seempr? f« u , '"^'y

i-|^, b... ...... C.4L "^i'i- r-;; -._^^^j

^el^tl^'^^^^^^^^ awakened. .Havei

iiienda lust now Wu - ^ ^"<^w> ae went on To ^ "^

times seen his H,,-r, i • , ^^^^ ^^"^ laugh • thAv », T "'

^t widened nri^fctrtt^^ 4^^ ''^'^a' sS-
why jou don't kiss her.' ' ''' ^"^ Proceeded, ' Zo wondm

■inis specimen of Hpnini; > ^
exactly to Ovid'« taste™' t:Mt\7t:;5 P'T"''^ «« "ot

wos, to all ap^arance! onf of tL"t'''- ^"''^'"^ ^r anybod.
not qualified himself to offeTan /r-""'!''''"^ on which he had

Benjulia suddenly camp f!? f' ,

'h^thatmisbegotted'Zt"ot"b ''^'"'"' i-' "^ed,
Ovid started. Words of .f^ P *" ''® » «'oman ? ■ '

0^ '"« "'-'«^« on the other, "^^^^^j^ ^^^^^^

iSl^3u3KKiE-».*-j.!a*»,

HEART AND SCIENCE.

the favourable answer which Zo had already reported. They
walked on again. Ovid was at liberty to speak.

' Do you know what you said of my cousin, just now 1 ' he
began.

His tone seemed to surprise the doctor. * What did I say V
he asked.

* You used a very offensive word. You called Carmina a
"misbegotten child." Are you repeating some vile slander on
the memory of her mother ? "

Benjulia came to another standstill. ♦ Slander ! ' he repeated
— and said no more.

Ovid's anger broke out. * Yes/ he replied. * Or a lie, if
you like, told of a woman as high above reproach as your
mother or mine ! '

'You are hot,* the doctor remarked, and walked on
again. When I was in Italy ' he paused to calculate,

* when I was at Rome, fifteen years ago, your cousin was a
wretched little ricketty child. I said to Kobert Gray well,
" Don't get too fond of that girl ; she'll never live to grow up,"
He said something about taking her away to the mountain air.
I didn't think, myself, the mountain air would be of any use.

It seems I was wrong. Well, its a surprise to find her '

he waited, and calculated again, ' to find her grown up to be
seventeen years old.' To Ovid's ears, there was an inhuman
indifi'erence in his tone as he said this, which it was impossible
not to resent, by looks, if not in words. Benjulia noticed the
impression that he had produced, w thout in the least under-
standing it. 'Your nervous system's in a nasty state,' he re-
marked : ' you had better take care of yourself. I'll go and
look at the monkey.*

His face was like the face of the impenetrable sphinx ; his
deep bass voice droned placidly. Ovid's anger had passed by
him like the passing of the summer air. * Good-bye,' he said

* and take care of those nasty nerves. I tell you again — they
mean mischief."

Not altogether willingly, 'Ovid made his apologies. * If I
have misunderstood you, I beg your pardon. At the same time
I don't think I am to blame. Why did you mislead me by
using that detestable word 1 *

* Wasn't it the right word ? '

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If I

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n^'AlJT AND SCIENCE.

. ; p»e right word— wl,e,, vn,. i
' Vou could ox-,„.„t „„„ . , "^"JO'-^'HToeat

Sravc c.o„,,,„«„,, tLat*- S ', X^'"? •""' -"-'™ .TtC

T™;;t:«"'^™." i-'-]« I ougK' Its "iT,'"'" ' -«'■'

"'"'«'"«• I'll look r,,„';^"'«""™.»"

Timnk you for ,v,Min<iinir ,ne,

JinookatthedictionHrywhen

'-'vid a mind ««s not not . i „
Pe'sfeW, .that JI l:'r;j;'- ,'^';«'»''.otl.erthinga.he

,,^^«"ya3ked.odo.o,.o„,„,,,„,,^_ .Wl...

1 could stay you. ^ '""'• ^ »» ""J ou the bee'tie iXre

("ot n a lunatic asy 1^** tfl?*" ""'""""''^ ''-".an boine

' Vi]I .^''w]^/- " ""'"■■ "« "^"^ -^"^ ««P«oial e.pHa^,
ttem/No\Sng h^{pJ„^d''S P^'i^ular interest in either of

HEART AND RCTENnE.

'Not that I can iTiuembor, Woiiinn in licr position don't
much fancy talking of ai relative who hiiH nianiod ' — ho stopped
to choose his next words. * I don't want to l»e lude ; suppose
we say inarricu] lunioiith him 1 '

Rcllt'ction told Ovid that this was tcuu. Kv<!n in conversation
with himself (before; tin; iii-iivul in Kngiand of liolxirt's Will),
his mother rarely mentioned her l)iotli(U' and still more rarely
his family. Tlieie wiis anotluM- reason for Mi-s. (lallilcie's silence!,
known only to herself. l*ob(Mt was in the secn^t of her debts,
and Robert had laid her uiuhiv heavy pecuniary obligations.
The very S' und of his nunie was revolting to his amiable sister :
it reminded her of that humiliating s(mis»! known in society as
a sen- e of gratitude.

Carmina was still waiting, and there was nothing further to
be gained by pursuing the talk with stieh a man as lienjulia.
Feeling that ho had not succeeded, as he could liavo wished,
in setting his mind ccmpletoly at rest, Ovid held out his hand
to say good-bye.

Taking the oH'ored hand readily enough, the doctor repeated
his old qiuwtion — ' I haven't been rude, have I ? ' — with an un-
pleasant a()pearance of goim; through a form purely for form's
sake. Ovid's natural generosity of feeling urged him to meet
the advanci;, strangely as it had been made, with a friendly
reception. ' 1 am afraid it is I who have l)een rude,' he said
* Will you go back with me, and be introduced to Carmina

Benjulia made his acknowledgments in his own remarkable
way. ' No, thank you, ' he said, quietly, * I'd rather se? the
monkey. '

^^ff i> {

wATi

..T*!-

:i i

fcii

ll I

CHAPTER XIV.

In the meantime, Zo had become the • nnocent cause of a
difference of opinion between two no less dissimilar personages
than Maria and the duenna.

Havmg her mind full of the sick monkey, the child felt a
natural curiosity to see the other monkeys who were well.
Amiable Miss Minerva consulted her young friend from Italy
before she complied with Zo's wishes. Would Miss Carmina
like to visit the monkey-house 1 Ovid's cousin, remembering
Ovid's promise, looked towards the end of the walk. He Wd,8
not returning io her — ho was not even in sight. Carmina re-
signed hev&elf to circumstances, with a little air of pique which
was duly registered in Miss Minerva's memory.

Arriving at the monkeyhouse, Teresa appeared in a new
character. She suiprised her companions by showing an interest
in natural history.

* Are they all monkeys in that big place 1 ' she asked. How
do the beasts like it, I wonder ] '

This comprehensiivo inquiry was addressed to the governess,
as the most learned person present. Miss Minerva referred to
her elder pupil with an encouraging smile. ' Maria will inform
you,' she said. Her studies in nutural history have made her
well acquainted with the habits of monkeys.'

Thus authorised to exhibit her learning, even the discreet
Maria actually blushed with pleasure. It was that young lady's
most highly-prized reward to display her knowledge (in imita-
tion of her governess's method of instruction) for the benefit
of unfortunate persons of the lower rank, whose education had
been imperfectly carried out. The tone of amiable patronage
with which -liQ now imparted uieful information to a woman
old enough to be her grandmother, would have made the hands

aroi

pell

poif

ap^

tei

of I

HEART AND SCIENCE.

of tno bygone generation burn to box her ears. ' The monkeys
are kept in large and airy cages,' Mariii began ; * and the tem-
perature is regulated with the utmost care. I shall be happy to
point out to you the differenco between the monkey and the
ape. You are not [)erhai)S aware that the members of the lat-
ter family are called " Bimiadse, " and are without tails and
cheek-pouches 1 '

Listening so far in dumb amazement, Teresa checked the flow
of information at tails and cheek-pouches.

* What gibberish is this child talking to me 1 ' she asked.
* I want to know how the monkeys ?muse themselves in that
big house ? '

Maria's perfect training condescended to enlighten even this
state of mind.

• They have ropes to swing on,' she answered sweetly ; ' and
visitors feed them through the wires of the cage. Branches
of trees are also placed for th(ur diversion ; reminding many of
Lhcm no doubt of the vast tropical forests in whch, as we learn
from travellers, they pass in flocks from tree to tree. '

Teresa held up her hand as a signal to to stop. * J^ little
of You, my young lady, goes a long way,' she said. Consi-
der how much I can hold, before you cram me at this rate. '

Maria was bewildered, but not daunted yet. ' Pardon me,
she pleaded ; * I fear 1 don't (i[uite understand you.'

'Then there are two of us puzzled,' the duenna remarked,
roui^hly ; ' / don't understand i/nii. I shan't go into that house.
A '^hristian can't be expected to ca»'o about beasts — but right
is right, all tlie world over. Because a monkey is a nasty crea-
ture (as I've heard, not even good to eat when he's dead) that's
no reason for taking him out ot his own country and putting
him into a cage. If we are to see creatures in prison, let's see
creatures who have des'-rved it— men and women ; rogues and
sluts. The monkeys haven't deserved it. Go in — I'll wait for
you at the door.

Setting her bitterst emphasis on this protest, which expressed
inveterate hostility to Maria using coui[)assion for caged animals
as the readiest means at hand, Teresa seated herself in triumph
on tne nearest bench.

A young person, })os8essed of no more than ordinary know-
ledge, might have left the old woman to enjoy the privilege of

I I

I !

HEART Af^D SClENCfi.

Baying the last word. Misfi Minerva's pupil, exuding inforrad*
tion as it were at every pore in her skin, had been rudely dried
up at a moment's notice. Even earthly perfection has its weak
places within reach. Maria lost her temper.

* You will allow me to remind you,' she said, * that intelligent
curiosity leads us to study the habits of ar.imals that are new to
us. We place them in a cage '

Teresa lost Jier temper.

' YoiiWe an animal tfiat's new to me,' cried the irate duenna.
* I never in all my life met with such a child before. If y^u
please, madam governess, put this girl into a cage. My intelli-
gent curiosity wants to study a monkey that's new to me.'

It was fortunate frr Te/esa that she was Carmina's favourite
and friend, and, as such, a person to be carefully handled. Miss
Minerva stopped tUe growing quarrel with the readiest discretion
and good-feeling. She patted Teresa on the shoulder, and
looked at Carniina with a pleasant smile. * Worthy old creature 1
how full of humour she is ! The energy of the people, Miss
Carmina. Remark the quaint force with which they express
their ideas ! No — not a word of apology, I beg and pray. Ma-
ria, my dew, take your sister's hand, and we will follow.' She
put her arm in Carmina's with the happiest mixture of famili-
arity and respect, and she nodded to Carmina's old companion
with the cordiality of a good-humoured friend.

Teresa was not further irritated by being kept waiting for any
length of time. In a few minutes Carmina joined her nn the
bench.

* Tired of the beasts already, my pretty one 1 *

' Worse than tired — driven away by the smell ! Dear old
Teresa, why did you speak so roughly to Miss Minerva and
Maria?'

* Because I hate them ! because I hate the family ! Was yoifr
poor father demented in his last moments when he trusted you
among these detestable people ? '

Carmina listened in astonishment. 'You said just the con-
traiy of the family,' she exclaimed, 'only yesterday ! '

Teresa hung her head in confusion. Her well-meant attempt
to reconcile Carmina to the new life on whioh she had entered
■was now revealed as a sham, thanks to her own outbreak of
temper. The one honest alternative left was tu vvi* the

kEART AND SCIENCE.

h til, ana put Carmina on her guard without alarming her, if
possible.

* I'll never tell a lie again, as long as I live,'' Teresa declared.
' You see I don't like to discourage yon. After all, I dare say
I'm more wrong than right in my opinion. Bub it is my
opinion, for all that I hate those women, mistress and gov-
erness, both alike. There ! now its out. Are you angry
with me ? '

* I am never angry with you, my old friend ; I am only a lit-
tle vexed. Don't say you hate people, after only knowing them
for a day or two ! I am sure Miss Minerva has been very kind
— to me, as well as Ui you. I feel ashamed of myself already
for having begun by disliking her.

Teresa took her young mistress's hand, and patted it com-
passionately. ' Poor innocent, if you only had my experience
to help you ! There are good ones and bad ones among all crea-
tures. I say to you the Gallilees are bad ones ! Even their
music-master (I «aw him this morning) looks like a'rogue. You
will tell me the poor old gentleman is harmless, surely. I shall
not contradict that — I shall only ask, what is the use of a man
who is as weak as water ] Oh, I like him, but I distinguish.
I also like Zo. But what is a child — especially when that
beastly governess has muddled her unfortunate little head with
learning No, my angel, there's but one person among these
people who comforts me, when I think of the day that will part
us. Ha ! do I see a little colour coming into your cheeks 1 You
sly girl ! you know who it is. There is what I call a Man ! If
1 were as young as you are, and as pretty as you are '

A warning gesture from Carmina closed Teresa's lips. Ovid
was rapidly approaching them.

He looked a little annoyed, and he made his apologies with-
out memtioning the doctor's name. His cousin was interested
enough in him already to ask herself what this meant Did he
really dislike Benjulia, and had there been some disagreement
between them 1

' Was the tall doctor so very interesting 1 ' she ventured to
inquire.

Not in the least ! ' He answered as if the subject was dis-
agreeable to him — and yet he returned to it. ' By-the-by, did
you ever hear Benjulia's name mentioned, at home in Italy ] '

1^ II

lifiAUT AND SCIENCE.

n ?

' Ncvor ! Did ho know my father and mother ] '

'He say a so.'

' Oh do introduce me to him ! '

' We must wait a little. He prefers being introduced to tne
nioukey today. Where a:e Miss Minerva and the children V

Teresa replied. She pointed to the monkey-house, and then
drew ( )vid aside. * Take her to see some more birds, and trust
me to keep the governess out of your way,' whispered the good
creature. * Make love — hot love to her, doctor ! *

In a minute more the cousins were out of sight. How are
you to make love to a young girl after an acquaintance of a day
or t wo ? The question would have been easily answered by
some men. It thoroughly puzzled Ovid.

* I am so glad to get back to you ! ' he said, honestly open-
ing his mind to her. * Were you half as glad when you saw
me return 1 '

He knew nothing of the de\ ous and serpentine paths by
which love finds the way to its ends. It had not occurred to
liim to ap[)roach her with those oBcret cones and stolen looks
which speak for themselves. She answered with the straight-
forward directness of which he had set the example.

' I hope you don't think me insensible to your kindness,' she
said. ' I am more pleased and more proud than I can tell
you. '

' Proud ? ' Ovid repeated, not immediately understanding
her.

• W^hy not 1 ' she said. * My poor father used to say you
would be an honour to the family. Ought I not to be proud,
when I find such a man taking so much notice of me V

She looked up at him shylr At that moment he would have
resigned all his prospects of celebrity for the privilege of kiss-
ing her. He made another attempt to bring her — in spirit — a
little nearer to him.

' Carmina, do you remember when you first saw me 1 '

' Of course I do ! It was in the concert- room. When I saw
you there, I remembered passing you in the large square. It
was a strange coincidence that you should have gone to the
\ ery concert that Teiesa and I went to by accident'

Ovid ran the risk, and made his confession. ]t was no co-
incidence,' he said. * After our meeting in the square I followed
you to the concert.'

HEART AND SCIENCE.

n;^

Til is bold 8-vowal would have confused a less innocont ^'vA.
It only took Carinina by surprise.

• What mado you follow us 1 ' she asked.

'Us?' Did she suppose he had followed the old woman ?
Ovid lost no time in setting her right. *I didn't even see Teresa,'
he said. * I followed You.'

She was silent. What did her silence mean 1 Was she con-
fused, or was she still at a loss to understand him t That mor-
bid sensitiveness, which was one of the most serious signs of
his failing health, was by this time sufficiently irritated to hurry
him into extremities. ' Did you ever hear,' he asked, *of such
a thing as love at first sight ? '

She started. Surprise, confusion, doubt, succeeded each other
in rapid changes on her mobile and delicate face. Still silent,
she roused her courage, and looked at him.

If he had returned the look, he would have told the story of
his first love without another word to help him. But his shat-
tered nerves made him timid, at the moment of all others
when it was his interest to be bold. The fear that he might
have allowed himself to speak too freely — a weakness which
would never have misled him in his days of health and strength
— kept his eyes on the ground. She looked away again with a
quick flush of shame. When such a man as Ovid spoke of love
at first sight, what an instance of her own vanity it was to
have thought that his mind was dwelling on her ! He had
kindly lowered himself to the level of a girl's intelligence, and
had been tiying to interest her by talking the language of ro-
mance. She was so dissatisfied with herself that she made a
movement to turn back.

He was too bitterly disappointed, on his side, to attempt to
prolong the interview. A deadly sense of weakness was begin-
ning to overpower him. It was the inevitable result of his
utter want of care for himself. After a sleepless night, he had
taken a long walk before breakfast ; and to these demands on
his failing reserves of strength, he had now added the fatigue
of dawdling about a garden. Physically and morally he had
no energy left.

' I didnt mean it.' he said to Carmlna, sadly ; * I am afraid
I have oifended you.'

♦ Oh, hpw little you know me,' she cried, * if you think that I '

HP *

i I

iU .

HEART AND SCIENCE.

^' -■'

This time their eyes met. The truth dawned on her and lie
saw it.

He took her hand. The coldness of his grasp startled her.

* Do you still wonder why I followed you 1 ' he asked. The words
were so faintly uttered that she could barely hear them. Heavy
drops of perspiration stood on his forehead : his face faded to
a grey and ghastly whiteness — he staggered, and tried desperately
to catch at the branch of a tree near them. She threw her
arms round him. With all her little strength she tried to
hold him up. Her utmost effort only availed to drag him to
the grass plot by their side, and to soften his fall. Even as
the cry for help passed her lips, she saw help coming, A tall
man was approaching her — not running even when he saw
what had happened ; only stalking with long strides. He was
followed by one of the keepers of the gardens. Doctor Ben-
julia had his sick monkey to take care of. He kept the crea*
ture sheltered under his long frock coat

* Don't do that, if you please,' was all the doctor said, as
Carmina tried to lift Ovid's head from the grass. He spoke
with his customary composure, and laid his hand on the heart
of the fainting man, as coolly as if it had been the heart of a
stranger. ' Which of you two can run the faster ? ' he asked,
looking backwards and forwards between Carmina and the
keeper. * I want some brandy.'

The refreshment room was within sight. Before the keeper
quite understood what was required of him, Carmina was
speeding over the grass like Atalanta herself.

Benjulia looked after her, with his usual grave attention.

* That wench can run,' he said to himself, and turned once more
to Ovid. ' In his state of health, he's been fool enough to over-
exert himself.' So ho disposed of the case in his own mind.
Having done that, he remembered the monkey, deposited for
the time being on the grass, ' Too cold for him,' he remarked,
with more appearance of interest than he had shown yet.
' Here, keeper I Pick up the monkey till I'm ready to take
him again.' The man hesitated.

* He might bite me, sir. '

* Pick him up I ' the doctor reiterated, * he can't bite anybody
after what I've done to him.' The monkey was indeed in a
atate of Btupor. The keeper obeyed his inatructions, looking

r «i

HEART AND SCIENCE.

half stupefied himself : he seemed to be even more afraid of the
doctor than of the monkey. * Do you think I'm the Devil 1 *
Benjulia asked with dismal irony. The man looked as if he
■would say, * Yes,' if he dared.

Carmina came running back with the brandy. The doctor
smelt it tiist, and then took notice of her. • Out of breath 1 *
he said.

* Why don't you give him the brandy,' she answered im-
patiently.

' Strong lungs,' Benjulia proceeded, sitting down cross-legged
by Ovid, and administering the stimulant without hurrying
himself. * Some girls would not have been abi«' to speak, after
such a run as you have had. I didn't think n loh of you or
your lungs when you were a baby.'

' Is he coming to himself ? ' Carmina asked.

* Do you know what a pi mp is ? ' Benjulia rejoined. ' Very
well, a pump sometimes gets out of order. Give the carpenter
time, and he'll put it right again.' He let his mighty hand
drop on Ovid's breast. * This pump is out of order ; and I'm
the carpenter. Give me time, and I'll set it right again. You're
not; a bit like your mother.'

Watching eagerly for the slightest signs of recovery in Ovid's
face, Carmina detected a faint return of colour. She was so
relieved that she was able to listen to the doctor's oddly dis-
cussive talk, and even to join in it. * Some of our friends used
to think I was like my father,' she ansvi^ered.

'Did they 1 * said Benjulia — and shut his thin-lipped mouth
like a trap ; shut it as if he was determined to drop the sub-
ject for ever.

Ovid stirred feebly, and half opened his eyes.

Benjulia got up. * You don't want me any longer,' he said.
* Now, Mr. Keeper, give me back the monkey.' He dismissed
the man, and tucked the monkey under one arm as if it had
been a bundle. ' There are your friends,* he resumed, pointing
to the end of the walk. * Good-day.*

Carmina stopped him. Too anxious to stand on ceremony,
she laid her hand on his arm. He shook it off — not angrily :
just brushing it away, as he might have brushed away the ash
of his cigar or a splash of mud in the street.

* What does this fainting fit mean 1 ' she asked, timidly. * Is
Ovid going to to be iU ) *.

L„

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I !

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'ii

HEAHT AND SH r:\OE.

yet .osolntoly/ -t; ™e 7Lf ' "; '"""7",'' ''""'"'mbly and
from his forehead "^ ' '"' "^'^'^^ ^^'^ moisture

I!.'!

i!;i'

r ^1 I

CHAPTER XV.

Two days passed. In spite of the vvarningH that he had received,
Ovid remained in London.

The indisputable authority of Bonjulia had no more effect
on him than the unanswerable arjumenta of Mrs. Gallilee.
* Recent circumstances ' ( as his mother expressed it ) ' had
strengthened his infatuated resistance to reason.' The dread-
ed event of Teresa's departure had been hastened by a telegram
from Italy ; and Ovid felt for Carmina's distress with sympa-
thies whicli made her dearer to him than ever. On the second
morning after the visit to the Zoological Gardens, her fortitude
liad been severely tried. She had found the telegram under
her pillow, enclosed in a farewell letter. Teresa had gone.

* My Carmina, I have kissed you, and cried over you — and I
am writing good-byo as well as my poor eyes will let me. Oh,
my heart's darling, I cannot be cruel enough to wake you, and
see you suffer. Forgive me for going away, with only this
dumb farewell. I am so found of you — that is my only excuse.
While he still lives, my helpless old man has his claim on me.
Write by every post, and trust me to write back — and remem-
ber what I said when I spoke of Ovid. Love the good man
who loves you ; and try to make the best of the others. They
cannot surely be cruel to the poor angel who depends on their
kindness. Oh, how hard life is '

The paper was blotted, and the rest was illegible.

The miserable day of Teresa's departure was passed by Car-
mina in the solitude of her room : gently and firmly, she refused
to see anyone. This strange conduct added to Mrs. Gallilee's
anxieties. Already absorbed in considering Ovid's obstinacy,
and the means of overcoming it, she was now confronted by a
resolute side iu the character of her niece, which took hej- by

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HEART AND SCIENCE.

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snrpnsG. There might be difficulties to come, in managing Car-
mina, which she had not foreseen. Meanwhile, she was left to
act on her own unaided discretion in the serious matter of her
son's failing liealth. Benjulia had refused to help her ; he was
too closely occupied in his laboratory to pay or receive visits.

* 1 have already given my advice ' ( the doctor wrote ). * Send
him away. W hen he has had u month's change, let me see his
letters ; and then, if I have anything more to say, I will tell
you what I think of your sou.'

Left in this position, Mrs. Gftllilee's hard self-denial yielded
to the one sound conclusion that lay before her. The only in>
fiuence that could be now used over Ovid, with the smallest
chance of success, was the influence of her niece. She allowed
Carmina time enough to recover after the loss of her dear old
friend. Three days after Teresa's departure, she invited her
niece to take tea in her own boudoir. Carmina found her read-
ing. ' A charming book, she said, as she laid it down, ' on a
most interesting subject, Geographical Botany. The author
divides the earth into twenty-five botanical regions — but, I for*
get ; you are not like Maria, you don't care about these thing& '

' I am so ignorant,' Carmina suggested. 'Perhaps, I may know
better when 1 get older. ' A book on the table attracted her
by its beautiful binding. She touk it up. Mrs. Gallilee look-
ed at her with compassionate good humour.

* Science again, my dear, ' she said facetiously, * inviting you
in a pretty dress ! You have taken up the " Curiosities of
Coprolites," That book is one of my distinctions — a present-
ation copy from th6> author. '

< What are Coprolites ? ' Carmina asked, trying to inform
Lerself on the subject of her aunt's distinctions.

Still good-humoured, but with an effort that began to appear,
Mrs. Gallilee lowered herself to the level of her niece.

^ Coprolites,' she explained, * are the fossilised indigestions
of extinct reptiles. The great philosopher who has written that
book has discovered scales, bones, teeth, and shells — the undi-
gested food of those interesting Saurian& What a man ! what
a field for investigation 1 Tell me about your own reading.
What have you found in the library 1 '

* Very interesting books— at least to me,' Carmina answer-
ed. * I have found many volumes of poetry. Do you ever
read poetry T

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Mrs. GalHlae laid herself back in her chair, and submitted
patiently to her niece's simplicity. ' Poetry 1 ' she repeated,
in accents of resignation. * Oh, good Heavens ! '

Unlucky Carmina tried a more promising topic. ' What
beautiful flowers you have in the drawing-room ! ' she said.

' Nothing remarkable, my dear. Everybody has flowers in
drawing-rooms — they are part of the furniture. *

* Did you arrange them yourself, aunt ? '

Mrs. Gallilee still endured it. ' The florist's man,' she said,
' does all that. I sometimes dissect flowers, but I never trou-
ble myself to arrange them. What would be the use of the man
if I did V This view of the question struck Carmina dumb.
Mrs. Gallilee wt.^t on. * By-the-bye, talking of flowers re-
minds one of other superfluities. Have you tried the piano
in your room 1 Will it do 1 *

* The tone is quite perfect ! ' Carmina answerea with enthusi-
asm. ' Did you clioose it 9 ' Mrs. Galilee looked as if she was
going to say ' Good Heavens' again, and perhaps endure it no
longer. Carmina wsis too simple to interpret these signs in the
right way. Why should her aunt not choose a piano 1 * Don't
you like music 1 ' she added.

Mrs. Gallilee made a last efibrt ' When you see a little more
of society, my child, you will know that one must like music.
So again with pictures — one must go to the Eoyal Academy Ex-
hibition. So again '

Before she could mention any more social sacrifices, the ser-
vant came in with a letter, and stopped her.

Mrs. Galilee looked at the addresa The weary indifierence
of her manner changed to vivid interest, the moment she saw
the handwriting. * From the Professor ! ' she exclaimed. • Ex-
cuse me, for one minute.' She read the letter, and closed it
again with a sigh of relief. ' I knew it I ' she said to herself.
' I have always maintained that the albuminoid substance of
flags' eggs is insufficient (viewed as nourishment) to transform
a tadpole into a frog — and, at last, the Professor owns that I am
right. I beg your pardon, Carmina ; I am carried away by a
subject that I have been working at in my stolen intervals, for
weeks past. Let me give you some tea. I have asked Miss
Minervt^ to join us. Whtvt is keeping her, J wonder \ She

'f?*—mM,'..aamM,itiu4

100

HEART AND SCIENCE.

is usually bo punctual. I suppose Zo has been behaving badly
again.'

In a few minutes more, the governess herself confirmed this
maternal forewarning of the truth Zo had declined to commit
to memory 'the political consequences of the granting of
Magna Charta — , and now stood reserved for punishment, when
her mother ' had time to attend to ic' Mrs. Gallilee at once
disposed of this little responsibility. ' Bread and water for tea,*
she said, and proceeded to the business of the evening.

' I wish to speak to you both,' she began, * on the subject of
my son.*

The two persons addressed waited in silence to hear more.
Carmina's head drooped : she looked down. Miss Minerva at*
tentively observed Mi*s. Gallilee. * Why am I invited to hear
what she has to say about her son ) ' was the question which
occurred to the governesa ' Is she afraid that Carmina might
tell me about it, if I was not let into the family secrets 1 *

Admirably reasoned, and correctly guessed !

Mrs. Gallilee had latterly observed that the governess was
insinuating herself into the confidenco of her niece — that is to
say, into the confidence of a young lady, whose father was gen-
erally reported to have died in possession of a handsome for-
tune. To check the further growth of a friendship of this sort,
(without openly offending Miss Minerva; was an imperative
duty. Mrs. Gallilee saw her way to the discreet accomplish-
ment of that object. Her niece and her governess were inter-
ested— div.irsely interested — in Ovid. If she invited them both
together, to consult with her on the delicate subject of her son,
there would be every chance of exciting some difference of
opinion, sufficiently irritating to begin the process of estrange-
ment, by keeping them apart when they had left the tea-table.

' It is most important that there should be no misunderstand-
ings among us,' Mrs. Gallilee proceeded. < Let me set the ex-
ample of speaking without reserve. We all three know that
Ovid persists in remaining in London '

She paused, on the point of finishing the sentence. Although
she had converted a Professor, Mrs. Gallilee was still only a
woman. There did enter into her other calculationp> the possi-
bility of exciting some interesting betrayal of her governess's
passion for her son. On {^Uuding to Ovid, she turned suddenly

ti£AUT AND SCt£NC£i.

ibl

to Miss Minerva. * I am sure you will excuse me troubling you
vith family anxieties,' she said - on the watch for some change
of colour, or some trembling at the lips.

It was cleverly done ; but it laboured undei' one disadvan-
tage. Miss Minerva had no idea of what the needless apology
meant, having no suspicion of the discovery of her secret by her
employer. But to feel herself baffled in trying to penetrate
Mrs. Gallilee's motive was enough, of itself, to put Mrs. Galli-
lee's governess on her guard for the rest of the evening.

' You honour me, madam, by admitting me to your confi-
dence' — was what she said. * Trip me up, you cat, if you can ! '
was what she thought

Mrs. Gallilee resumed.

* We know that Ovid persists in remaining in Ix)ndon, when
change of air and scene are absolutely necessary to the recovery
of his health. And we know why. Carmina, my child, don't
think for a moment that I blame you ! don't even suppose that
I blame my son. You are too charming a person not to excuse,
nay even to justify, any man's admiration. But let us (as we
hard old people say) look the facts in the face. If Ovid had
not seen you, he ^ould be now on the health-giving oea, on his
way to Spain and Italy. You are the innocent cause of his ob-
stinate indifference, his most deplorable and dangerous disregard
of the duty which he owes to himself. He refuses to listen to his
mother, he sets the opinion of his skilled medical colleague at
defiance. But one person has any influence over him.' She
paused again, and tried to trip up the governess onoe mora
* Miss Minerva, let me appeal to You. 1 regard you as a mem-
ber of our family ; I have the sincerest admiration of your tact
and good sense. Am I exceeding the limits of delicacy, if I say
plainly to my niece. Persuade Ovid to go ] '

If Carmina had possessed an elder sister, with a plain per-
sonal appearance and an easy conscience, not even that sister
could have matched the perfect composure with which Miss
Minerva replied.

* I don't possess your happy faculty of expressing yourself,
Mrs. Galilee. But, if I had been in your place, 1 should
have said to the best of my poor ability exactly what you have
said now.' She bent her head with a graceful gesture of i-es[)ect,

¥.'•

■ t'i I

H.'J

HEART AND SClEKCtl

and looked at Carmina with a gentle sisterlj interest while she
stirred her tea.

At the very opening of the skirmish, Mrs. Gallilee was de*
feated. She had failed to provoke the slightest sign of jealousy,
or even of ill temper. Unquestionably the hardest and the
falsest woman of the two — possessing the most dangerously
deceitful manner, and the most mischievous readiness of lan-
guage — she was, nevertheless, Miss Minerva's inferior, in the
one supreme capacity of which they both stood in need, the
capacity of self-restraint.

She showed this inferiority on expressing her thanks. The
underlying malice broke through the smooth surface that was
intended to hide it. ' I am apt to doubt myself,' she said ; ' and
such encouragement of yours always relieves me. Of course I
don't ask you for more' than a word of advice. Of course I
don't expect i/ou to persuade Ovid.

* Of course not ! ' Mrs. Minerva agreed. ' May I ask for a
little more sugar in ray tea ? '

Mr& Gallilee turned to Carmina.

* Well my dear ? I have spoken to you, as I might have
spoken to one of my own daughters, if she had been of your
age. Tell me frankly, in return, whether I may count on your
help.'

Still pale and downcast, Carmina agreed. * I will do my
best, if you wish it. But— — '

* Yes 1 Go on.'

She still hesitated. Mrs. Gallilee tried gentle remonstrance.
* My child, surely you are not afraid of me ? '

She was certainly afraid. But she controlled herself.

* You are Ovid's mother, and I am only his cousin,' she re-
sumed. *1 don't like to hear you say that my influence over
him is greater than yours.'

It was far from the poor girl's intention ; but there was an
implied rebuke in this. In her present state of irritation, Mrs.
Gallilee felt it'

* Come ! come !' she said. ' Don't affect to be ignorant, my
dear, of what you know perfectly well'

Carmina lifted her head. For the first time in the experi*
ence of the two eider women, this gentle creature showed that
she could resent an insult The fine spirit that was in her
^d he eyes, and fixed them firmly on her aunt.

ktkVCt A^b SCIENCE.

los

* Do you accuse me of deceit 1 ' she asked.

' Let me call it false modesty/ Mrs. Gallilee retorted.

Carmina rose without another word — and walked out of
the room.

In the extremity of her surprise, Mrs. Gallilee appealed to
Miss Minerva . * Is she in a passion ? '
* * She didn't bang the door/ the governess quiovly remarked.

' I am not joking, Miss Minerva.'

'/am not joking either, madam.'

The tone of that answer implied an uncompromising assertion
of equality. You are not to suppose (it said) that a lady drops
below your level, because she receives a salary and teaches your
children. Mrs. Gallilee was so angry, by this time, that she
forgot the importance of preventing a conference between Miss
Minerva and her niece. For once she was the creature of im-
pulse — the overpowering impulse to dismiss her insolent gov-
emess from her hospitable table.

* May I oflTer you another cup of tea 1 '

* Thank you — no more. May I return to my pupils ? ;

* By all means.'

Carmina had not been five minutes in her room before she
heard a knock at the door. Had Mrs. Gallilee followed her t

* Who is there 1 ' she asked. And a voice outside answered

* Only Miss Minerva.

11%

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CHAPTER XVI.

' I AM afraid I Lave startled you ? ' said the governess, carefully
closing the door.

* I was a little frightened, * Carmina answered as siuply as a
child, * I thought It was my aunt. '

' Have you been crying 1 '

' I couldn't help it. Miss Minerva.

' Mrs. Gallilee spoke cruelly to you — I don't wonder at your
feeling angry. '

Carmina gently shook her hand. ' I have been crying, ' she
explained, ' because I am sorry and ashamed. How can I make
it up with my aunt ? Shall I go back at once and beg her par-
don 1 I think you are my friend, Miss Minerva. Will you
advise me ? '

It was so prettily and so innoceir ly sai I that even the gover-
ness was touched — for the moment. * Siiall I prove to you
that I am your friend 'i ' she proposed. ' 1 advise you nob to
go back yet to your aunt — and I will tell you why. Mrs. Galli-
lee bears malice ; she is a thoroughly unforgiving woman. And
I should be the first to feel it, if she knew what I have just
said to you. '

* Oh, Miss Minerva ! you don't think that I would betray
your confidence 1 *

* No, my dear, I don't. I felt attracted towards you, when
we first met. You didn't return the f(?eling — you (very natur-
ally) disliked me. I am ugly and ill-tempered ', and, if there
is anything good in me, it does'nt show itself on the surface.
Yes ! yes ! I believe you are getting over your first prejudice ;
I believe you are beginning to understand me. If I can make
your life here a little happier, as time goes on, I shall be only
too glad to do it. ' She put her long yellow hands on cither
bide of Carmiua's head, and kissed her ioi chead«

*■ . " * i^ i^w tM migaw

HEART AND SCIENCE.

105

The poor cl»il 1 threw her arms round MIm Minervft'i neck,
ftud cried her heart out on the bosom of th« woman who wai
deceiving her. ' I have nobody left, now Tereaa haa gone,* ahe
aaid. ' Oii do try to be kind to me — I feel so friondless and so
lonely ! '

Miss Minerva neither moved nor spoke. She waited, and let
the girl cry.

Her hard black eyebrows gathered into a frown ; her sallow
face deepened in colour. She was in a state of rebellion against
herself. Through all the hardening influences of the woman's
life — through the iron fortifications against good which evil
builds round a bad nature— that innocent outburst of trust p.nd
grief had broken its way ; and had purified for a while the
fetid inner darkness with divine light. She had entered the
room, with her own base interests to serve. In her small sor-
did way, she, like her employer, was persecuted by debts —
miserable debts to sellers of expensive washes, which night
render her ugly complexion more passable in Ovid's eyes ; to
makers of costly gloves, which might show Ovid the shape of
her hands, and hide their colour ; to skilled workmen in fine
leather, who could tempt Ovid to look at hf r high instep, and
her fine ankle — the only beauties that she oould reveal to tho
only man whom she cared to please. For the time, those im-
portunate creditoi-s ceased to threaten her. For the time, what
■he had heard in the conservatory, while the7 were reading
the Will lost its tempting infiuence. She remaii>ed in the room
for half an hour more — and she left it without having bor-
rowed a farthing.

* Are you easier now 1 '

* Yes, dear. ' _
She dried her eyes, and looked shyly at Miss Minerra. * I

have been treating you as if I had a sister, ' aihe aaid, ' you don't
think me too familiar, I hope 1 '

* I wish I was your sister, God knows I '

The words were hardly out of her mouth, bofore she was
frightened by her own fervour. * Shall I tell you what to do
with ililrs. GallileeT she said abruptly. < Write her a little
note.'

Yea t yes I and

you

will take it for me 1

'il

. /

\ii

Caruiina's eyes brighteued through her tears, the suggeation

,:Mi

mi
5/

IOC

HRART AND SCTENCE.

!•

was such a relief! In a minute, the note'wafl wrilfpn : ' M7
dear Auut 1 have boliaved very badly, and I am verv much
ashamed of it. May T trust to your indulgence to forgive me 1
I will try to be worthier of your kindness for the future ; and
I sincerely beg your pardon.' She signed her name in breathless
haste. * Please take it at once ! ' she said eagerly.

Miss Minerva smiled. ' If I take it,' she said, 'T shall do
harm instead of good — I shall be accused of interfering. Give
it to one of the servants. Not yet I when Mrs. Gallllee is an-
gry, she doesn't get over it so soon as you seem to think. Leave
her to dabble in science first, ' said the governess in tones of
immeasurable contempt. ' When she has half stified herself with
some filthy smell, or dissected some wretched insect or flower,
she may be in a better humour. Wait.'

Carmina thought of the happy days at home in Italy, when
her father used to laugh at her little outbreaks of temper, and
good Teresa only shrugged her shoulders. What a change — oh
me, what a change for the worse. She drew from her boson a
locket, hung round her neck by a thin gold chain — and opei. id
it, and kissed the glass over the miniature portraits inside.

* Would you like to see them ] ' she said to Miss Minerva.

* My mother's likeness was painted for me by my father ; and
then he had Lis photograph taken to match it. I open my
portraits and look at them, while I say my prayera It's
almost like having them alive again, sometimes. Oh, if I only
had my father to advise me now — . ' Her heart swelled — but
she kept back the tears ; she was learning that self restraint,
poor soul, alread}^ * Perhaps,' she went on. * I ought not to
want advice. After that fainting-fit in the gardens, if I can
persuade Ovid to leave us, I ought to do it — and I will do it.'

Miss Minerva crossed the room, and looked out of the win-
dow. Carmina had roused the dormant jealousy; Carmina
had fatally weakened the good influences which she had herself
produced. The sudden .silence of her new friend perj>lexed lier.
She too went to the window. * Do you see any objectiuu ] ' she
asked,

* No.*

A short answer — and still looking out of window. Carmina
tried again. * Besides, there are my aunt's wishes to conaidor
After my behaviour '

jtsMmmmmmm

HEART AND SCIKNTE.

107

Mi«s Mi'nPixa tnmpfl round from the window sharply. * Of
couTMi-. There can't he a douht of it.* Her tone softened a
little ' You are young, Carmina — I suppose I may call you hy
yonr name — you areyoun^j; und simple, Do those innocfnteyos
of yours ever see heh)W th*. eurface V

•1 don't quite understan ou.'

* Do you think your aunt's only motive in wishing Mr. Ovid
Vere to leave London is anxiety about his health 1 Do you
feel no suspicion that she wants to keep him from You 1 '

Carmina toyed with her locket, in an enibarra><Rment which
she was quite unable to disguiwe. 'Are you a! raid to trust
Die ? ' Miss Minerva asked. That reproach instantly opened
the girls lipa.

* I am afraid to tell you how foolish I am,' she' answered.
Perhaps, I still feel a little strangeness between us 1 It seems

to be so formal to call you Miss Minerva. I don't know what
your Christian name is. Will you tell me 1 '

Miss Minerva replied rather unwillingly. * My name is
Frances Don't call me Fanny.'

* Why not 1 '

* Because it's too absurd to be endured. What does the mere
sound of Fanny suggest 1 A flirting, dancing creature —
plump and fair, and playful and pretty ! ' She went to the
looking glass, and pointed disdainfully to the reflection of her-
self. ' Sickening to think of,' said she, * when you look at
that. Call me Frances — a man's name, with only the difference
between an i and an e. No sentiment in it ; hard, like me.
Well, what was it you didn't like to say of yourself 1 *

Carmina dropped her voice to a whisper. ' It's no use asking
me what I do see, or don't see, in my aunt,* she answered. ' I
am afraid we shall never be — what we ought to be to each
other. When she came to that concert, and sat by me and
looked at me ' She stopped, and shuddered over the recol-
lection of it.

Miss Minerva urged her to go on — first, by a gesture ; then
by a suggestion : ' They said yon fainted under the heat.'

* I didn't feel the heat. I felt a horrid creeping all over me.
Before I looked at her, mind — when I only knew that somebody
was sitting next to me. And, then, I (Ud look round. Her
eyes a^d my eyes flashed into each other. In that moment^ I

108

aiEART AND SHENCE.

lo8t all sonso of myself mh if I was dfad. T can only tell you
of it iti tliiit way. It \tkh a ili'-.itlful siirpii.sf to riii' to rti-
inciiiber it — ami adiciHlful ptiiii, vvlu;n tliny hronj^ht ine to my-
self a^ain. Tiioiigh 1 do look ho little and no weak, 1 am
stroiigtM- than people think ; 1 never fainted before. My aunt
iH — bow can \ »ay it propcsily 1 — bard to get on with since tbat
time. Is thore something wicked in my natural I do be-
lieve she feels in the same way towards me. Yes; I dare say
it's imagination, but it's an bad as reality for all that. Ob, I
am sure you are right — she does want to keep Ovid out of my
way ! *

' Because she doesn't like you? ' said Miss Minerva. 'Is that
the only reason you can think of 1 '

* What other reason can there be 1 *

The ijoverness summoned her utmost power of self restraints
She needed it, even to 8peak of the bare possibility of Carmina's-
marriage to Orid, as if it was only a matter of speculative in-
terest to herself.

' Some people object to marriage between cousins,' she said.
'You are cousins. Souio people oltject to marriage between

Catholics and Protestants. You are a Catholic * No I

She could not trust liersclf to refer to him directly ; she went
on to the next sentence. ' And there might be some other
reason,' she resumed.

' Do you know what it is 1 ' Carmina asked.

' No more than you do — thus far.

She spoke the plain truth. Thanks to the dog's interruption,
and to the necessity of saving herself from discovery, the last
clause of the Will had been read in her absence.

' Can't you even guess what it is 1 * Carmina persisted.

' Mr& Gallilee is very ambitious,' the governess replied : ' and
her son has a fortune of his own. She may wish him to marry
a lady of high rank. But — no — she is so fond of money, I
fancy money must be concerned in it.*

' How ) ' Carmina asked.

Miss Minerva paused ; apparently expecting her young friend
to say something more. Carmina said nothing more. Miss
Minerva answered coldly, * I don't know.'

Before the conversation could proceed, they were interrupted
b^ the appearance of the parlour-maid, v/ith a message from

i .

TIE ART AND RCIFNCR.

lof)

^liP Rchool-room. Miss Maria wanted a little help in hfir Latin
leHHon. Noticing Cannina's letter, as she advance*! to the door,
it Htnick Miss Minerva that the woman might deliver it. 'la
Mrs. Gallilee at homel' she asked. Mrs. Oaliih'o has just
gone out * One of Iier scientific lectures, I suppose,' said Miss
Minerva to Carmina * Your note must wait till she conies
back.'

The door closed on the governess — aiiJ tlie parlour maid took
a liberty. She remained in the room , and produced a morsel
of folded paper, hitherto concealed from view. Smirking and
md smiling, she handed the paper to Curmina.

< From Mr. Ovid, Miss.'

CHA.PTER XVn.

' Pray come to me ; I am waiting for you in the garden of the

'^' If

k"'quare.

In those two lines, Ovid's note began and ended. The par-
lourniaid — deeply interested in an appointment which was not
without precedent in her own experience — ventured on an ex-
pression of sympathy, before she returned to the servants' hall.
' Please to excuse me. Miss, I hope Mr. Ovid isn't ill 1 He
looked sadly pale, I thoug'it. Allow me to give you your hat.
Carmina thanked her, and hurried dovwi stairs.

Ovid was waiting at the gate of the Square — and he did in-
deed look wretchedly ill.

It was useless to make inquiries ; they only seemed to irri-
tate him. • I am bettor already, now that you have come to
me.* He said that, and led the way to a sheltered seat among
the trees. In the later evening time the Square was almost
empty. Two middle-aged ladirg, walking up and down (who
considerately remombered their own youth, and kept out of the
way), and a boy rigging a model yach*: (who was too closely
occupied to notice them), were the only persons in the enclosure
besides themselves.

*Does my mother know that you have come here]' Ovid
asked.

* Mrs. Gallilee has gone out. I didn't stop to think of it,
when I got your letter. Am I doing wrong ] '

* Ovid took her hand. * Is it doing wrong to relieve me of
anxieties that I have no courage to endure ] When we meet
in the house either my mother or her obedient servant, Misa
Minerva, is sure to interrupt us. At last, my darling, I have
got you to myself ! You know that I love you. Why can't I
look into your heart, and see what secrets it is keeping froia

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Ill

me 1 I try to hope ; but I want some little encouragement.
Carmina ! shall I ever hear you say that you love me 1 '

She trembled and turned away her head. Her own words
to the governess were in her mind ; her own conviction of the
want of all sympathy between Mrs. Gallilee and nerself made
her shrink from answering him.

* I understand your silence.' With those words he 'Iropped
her hand, and looked at her no more.

It was sadly, not bitterly spoken. She attempted to find
excuses ; she showed but too plainly how she pitied him. ' If

I only had myself to think of ' Her voice failed her.

A. new life came into his eyes, the colour rose in his haggard
face : even these tew faltering words had encouraged him !

She tried again to make him understand her. ' I am so afraid
of distressing you, Ovid ; and I am so anxious not to make
mischief between yor. and your mother .*

* What has my mother to do with it?*

She went on, without noticing the interruption. * You Tvon't
think me ungrateful 1 We had better speak of something else.
Only this evening, your mother sent for me, and — don't be
angry ! — I am afraid she might be vexed if she knew what you
have been saying to me. Perhaps I am wrong 1 Perhaps she
only thinks I am too young. Oh, Ovid, how you look at me !
Your mother hasn't said in so many words '

' What has she said 1 1

In that question she saw the chance of speaking to him of
other interests than the inter3sts of love.

* You must go away to another climate, ' she said ; * and your
mother tells me I must persuade you to do it. I obey her with
all my heart. Dear Ovid, you know how I shall miss you ;
you know what a Iqks it will be to me, when you say good-byo
— but there is only one way to get well again. I entreat you
to take that way 1 Your mother thinks I have some influence
over you. Have I any influence 1 '

* Judge for yourself, ' she answered. * You wish me to leave
your

* For your own sake. Only for your own sake,'

* Do you wish me to come back again 1 '
' It's cruel to ask the (question I *

!':

112

HEAUT AND SCIENCE.

* It rests with you, Carmina. Sen 1 me away when yon like,
and w^here you like. But, before I go, give me my one ii;ason
for making the sacrifice. l[o change will do anything for me,
no climate will restore my health — unless you give me your
love. I am old enough to know njyself ; I have thought of it
by day and by night. Am I cruel to press you in this way ?
I will only say one word more. It doesn't matter what be-
comes of me — if you refuse to be my wife. '

* Without experience, without advice — with her own heart
protesting against her silence — the restrai it that she had laid
on herself grew harder and harder to endure. The tears rose
in her eyes. He saw them ; they embittered his mind against
his mother. With a darkening face, he rose, and walked up
and down before her, struggling with himself.

* This is my mother's doing,' he said.

His tone terrified her. The dread, present to her mind all
through the interview, of making herself a cause of estrange-
ment between mother and son, so completely overcame her that
she even made an attempt to defend Mrs. Gallilee ! At the first
words, he sat down by her again. For a moment, he scrutin-
ised her face without mercy — and then repented of his own
severity.

* My poor child,' he said, * you are afraid to tell me what has
happened. I won't press you oo speak against your own in-
clinations. It would be cruel and needless — I have got at the
truth at last. In the one hope of my life, my mother is my
enemy. She is bent on separating us ; she shall not succeed.
I won't leave you. * *

Carmina looked at him. His eyes dropped before her, in
confusion and shame.

' Are you angry with me 1 ' she asked.

No reproaches could have touched his heart as that question
touched it. * Angry with you ? Oh, my darling, if you only
knew how angry I am with myself ! It cuts me to the heart to
see how I have distressed you. I am a miserable selfish wretch ;
I don't deserve your love. Forgive me, and forget me. I will
make the best atonement I can, Carmina. I will go away to-
morrow. '

Under hard trial, she had preserved her self-control. She had
resisted him j she had resisted herself. His sudden submission

M'v..

hEART AND SCIKNX'E.

(disarmed lier in an instant. With a a low cry of love and fear
she threw her arms round his neck, and laid her burning cheek
against his face. * I can't help it, ' she whispered ; * Oh, Ovid,
don't despise me ! ' His arms closed round her ; his lips were
pressed to hers. ' Kiss me,' he said. She kissed him, trembling
in his embrace. That innocent self-abandonment did not plead
with him in vain. He released her — and only held her hand.
There was silence between them ; long, happy silence.

He was the first to speak again. * How can I go away now I
he said.

She only smiled at the reckless forgetfulness of the promise
by which he had bound himself a few minutes since. * What did
you tell me,' she asked playfully, * when you called yourself
by hard names, and told me you didn't deserve my love? * Her
smile vanished softly, and left only a look of tender entreaty in
its place. * Set me an example of firmness, Ovid — don't leave
all to me ! Kemember what you have made me say. Remem-
ber——* she only hesitated for a moment — ' remember what
an interest I have in you now. I love you, Ovid. Say you
will go. '

He said it gratefully. * My life is yours ; my will is yours.
Decide for me, and I will begin my journey. '

She was so impressed by her sense of this new responsibility
that she answered him as gravely as if she had been his wife.
* I must give you time to pack up,' she said.

' Say time to be with You ! '

She fell into thought. He asked if she was still considering
when to send him away, ' No,' she said ; ' it isn't that. I
was wondering at myself. What is it that makes a great man
like you so fond of me ? '

His arm stole round her waist. He could just see her in the
darkening twilight under the trees ; the murmuring of the
leaves was the only sound near them — his kisses lingered on her
face. She sighed softly. * Don't make it too hard for me to send
you away 1 ' she whispered. He raised her, and put her arm in
his. ' Come, ' he said, < we will walk a little in the cool air.'

They returned to the subject of hip departure.

It was still early in the week. She inquired if Saturday
would be too soon to begin his journey. No : he felt it, too—
the longer they delayed, the harder the parting would be.

,,.hlitt^i|M^.lil„jMMtll

HEART AiS^D SCIENCE.

11 .-,

1:8-!

i !

* Have you thought yet where you mil go ? ' she askrfl.

* I must begin with a sea-voyage,' he lejdied. * Long railway
journeys, in my present state, will only do me hai'm. The dif-
ficulty is where to go. I have been to America ; India is too
hot; Australia is too far. Benjulia has suggested Canada.'

As he mentioned the doctor's name her hand mechanically
pressed his arm.

* That strange man ! ' she said. * Even his name startles one;
I hardly know what to think of him. He seemed to have
more feeling for the monkey than for you or me. It was cer-
tainly kind of him to take the poor creature home, and try
what he could do with it. Are you sure he is a great chemist 1 '

Ovid 8toj)[)ed. Such a question, from Cainiina, sounded
strangely to him. * What makes you doubt it 1 ' he said.

* You won't laugh at me, Ovid ) '

* You know I won't ! *

* Now you shall hear. We knew a famous Italian chemist at
Rome— such a nice old man! He and my father used to j^lay
]»iquet ; and I looked at them, and tried to learn — and I v/as
too stupid. But 1 had plenty of opportunities of noticing our
old friend's hands. They were covered with stains ; and he
caught me looking at them. He was not in the least ofiended;
he told me his experiments had spotted his skin in that way, and
nothing would clean off the stains. I saw Dr. Benjulia's great
big hands, while he was giving you the brandy — and I remem-
bered afterwards that there wtre no stains on them. I seem
to surprise you.'

' You do indeed surprise me. After knowing Benjulia for
years, I hnve never noticed what you have discovered on tirst
seeing him.'

* Perhaps, he has some way of cleaning the stains off his
hands.'

Ovid agreed to this, as the readiest means of dismissing the
subject. Oarmina had really startled hlrr^. Some irrational
connection between the great chemist's attention to the monkey,
and the perplexing purity of his hands, persisted in vaguely
asserting itself in Ovid's mind. His acknowledged doubts of
Benjulia troubled him as they had never troubled h'tn yet. Ho
turned to Carmina for relief.

•Still thinking, my lover

Ht.vuT AND scn:NC!i

11-

i railway
The dif.
Ha is too
lada.'
hanically

ties one;
to have
was cer-
and try
lemist ?'
sounded
d.

omist at
to play
d I v/as
iin^ our
Hiid he
iended ;
ay, and
'« great
remem-
I seem

ilia for
m tirst

off his

ng the
itional
snkey,
iguely
bts of
It. He

Jinking of yon,' she Hpsworcd. ' 1 want you to pioin/*
ttibsoniHiliing — and I tini alraid to ask it.' **

' Afraid ? You don't love me, after all ! '

'Then I say it at once 1 ' How long do you expect to be
away 1 '

* For two or three months, perhaps.'

'Promise to wait till you return, bel'ore you tell your mother
that we *

* That we are engaged 1 '
'Yes.

' You have my promise,Carmina : but you make me uneasv.'
'Whyr •

* In my absence you will be under my mother's care. And
you don't like my mother.'

Few words and plain words — and they sorely troubled her.

If she owned that he was right, what would the consequence
be 1 He might refuse to leave her. Even assuming tliat he
controlled himself, he would take his departure harassed by
anxieties which might exercise the worst possible influence over
the good effect oi the journey. To prevaricate with herself or
with him was out of the question. That very evening she had
quarrelled with his mother ; and she had yet to discover whether
Mrs. Gallilee had forgiven her. In her heait of hearts she hated
deceit — and in her heart of hearts, she longed to set his mind at
ease. In that embarrassing position, what was the right way
out 1 Satan persuaded Eve ; and Love j)ersuaded Carmina.
Love asked if she was cruel enough to make her heart's darling
miserable when he was so fond of her 1 Before she could re-
alize it, she had begun to deceive him. Poor humanity ! Poor
Carmina !

' You are almost as hard on me as if you were Dr. Benjulia
himself 1 ' she said. * I feel your mother's superiority — and you
tell me I don't like her. Havn't you seen how good she's been
tomel'

She thought this way of putting it irresistible. Ovid resisted,
nevertheless. Carmina plunged lower into depths of deceit
immediately.

* Haven't you seen my pretty rooms ? my piano 1 my pictures 1
my chiua 1 my flowers 1 I should be the most insensible crea-
ttti« living, if X didn't feel grateful to your mother.'

ui i

■■f
- s .

ilc

HEART A.ND SCIENCE.

* And yet you are afraid of lier.*

' She shook his arm impatiently. ' I say, No 1 *
/ He was as obstinate as ever. * I say, Yes! If you're not afraid,
why do you wish to keep our engagement from my mother's
knowledge ? '

His reasoning was unanswerable. But wh?re is the woman
to be found, who is not supple enough to slip through the stiff
fingers of Reason 1 She sheltered herself from his logic behind
his language.

' Must 1 remind you again of the time when you were angry 1 '
she rejoined. ' You said your mother was bent on separating
us. If 1 don't want her to ku<fw of our engagement just yet
— isn't that a good reason 1 * She rested her head caressingly
on his shoulder. * Tell me,' she went on, thinking of one of
Miss Minerva's suggestions, 'doesn't my aunt look to a higher
marriage for you than a marriage with me \ '

It was impossible to deny that Mrs. Gallilee's views might
justify that inquiry. Had she not more than once advised him
to wait a few years — in other words, to wait until he had won
the highest honours of his profession — before he thought of
marrying at all ? But Carmina was too precious to him to be
humiliated by comparisons with other women, no matter what
their rank might be. He paid her a compliment, instead of
giving her an answer.

'My mother can't look higher than you.' he said. *I wish
I could feel sure, Carmina — in leaving you with her — that I am
leaving you with a friend whom you trust and love.'

There was a sadness in his tone that grieved her. * Wait till
you come back,' she replied, speaking as gaily as she could.
♦ You will be ashamed to remember your own njisgivings.
And don't forget, dear, that I have another friend besides
your mother— the best and kindest of friends — to take care of
me.'

Ovid heard this with some surprise. ' A friend in my mother's
house 1 ' be asked.

< Certainly I '

* Who is it r

* Miss Minerva.*

* What I ' His tone expressed such immeasurable amazement
that Carmina's sense of justioe was roused in defence of her new

sil
uJ
?l
b|

aj
81
re

y ':

HEART AND SCIENCE.

117

• If 7 began by wronging Miss Minerva, T bad tbe excuse of
being a stranger,* she said warmly. ♦You have known her for
years, and you ought to have found out lier good quHlities long
since. Are men all alike, I wonder ] Even my poor dear father
used to call ugly women the inexcusable mistakes of Nature.
Poor Miss Minerva says herself she is ugly, and expects every
body to misjudge her acccordingly. I don't misjudge her, for
one. Teresa has left me ; and you are going away next. A
miserable prospect Ovid, but not quite without hope. Frances
— yes, I call her by her Christian name, and she calls me by
mine, — Frances will console me and make my life as happy as it
can be till you come back.'

Excepting bad temper, and merciless cultivation of the minds
of children, Ovid knew of nothing that justified his prejudice
against the governess. Still Carmina's sudden conversion in-
spired him with something like alarm. * 1 suppose you have good
reasons for what you tell me,' he said.

' The best reasons,* she replied, in the most positive man-
ner. He considered for a moment how he could most deli-
cately inquire what those reasons might be. But valuable
opportunities may be lost in a moment, ' Will you help me to
do justice to Miss Minerva?' he cautioubly began. 'Will
you tell me what she has done '

' Hush ! * Carmina interposed. * Surely, I heard somebody
calling to me ] '

They paused, and listened. A voice hailed them from the
outer side of the gardeiL They started guiltily. It was the
voice of Mrs. Gallilee.

■1:

Pli

cn.wTEn xvui

>Vred. 'We will come to y„„

' Cahmina ! are von ;„ *i, c.
' l^eave it to me" n • >° ^J"""^ ' '

t:T^^^^^^^^^^!!^^^^-^- Ovi-i «p,.e
nave no more cause tn nZ \ • ^ * "^ ®ach other « V^., •,!

her son 'ru . "^'^®^' ^as aJdresserl f^n •
Inis comnlefPH fJ,« « • -^

HEART AND SriENPR

—the explosion itself would be frozen, and produce no sound.
Think of seiious people locking up in that dreadful direction
and talking of going to heaven. Oh, the insignificjince of man,
except — I am to make a joke, Ovid — except when he pleases
his old mother by going away for the benefit of his health !
And where are you going ? Has sensible Carmina advised you?
I agree with her btjforehand, whatever she has said.'

Ovid informed hif> mother of Benjulia's suggestion, and asked
her what she thought of it.

Mrs. Galiil'^e's cverHowing geniality instantly flooded the
absent doctor, lie was rude, he was ui;ly ; but what an inesti-
mable friend ! what admirable advice ! In Ovid's state of health
he must not write letters ; his mother would write and thank the
doctor, and ask for an introductions to local grandees who occupied
a position in colonial society. She seized the newspaper ; a
steamer for Canada sailed from Liverpool on Saturday. Ovid
could secure his cabin the next morning ('amidships my dear,
if you can possibly get it'), and could laave London by Friday's
train. In her eagerness to faciliti»te his departure, she proposed
to superintend the shutting up of his house in his absence, and
to arrange for the disposal of the servants, if he considered it
worth while to keep them. She even thought of, Snooks.'
The easiest way to provide for the cat would he of course to have
her poisoned ; but Ovid was so eccentric in some things that
practical suggestions were thrown away on him. * Sixpence a
week for cat's meat isu't much,' cried Mrs. Gallilee in an out-
burst of generosity. * We will take Snooks.'

Ovid made his acknowledgments resignedly. Carmina
could see that Mrs. Gallilee's overpowering vitality was be-
ginning to oppress her son.

* I needn't trouble you, mother,' he said, * my domestic affairs
were all settled when I first felt the necessity of getting rest.
My manservant travels with me. My housemaid and kitchen-
maid will go to their friends in the country ; the cook will look
after the house : and the little page, wlio is almost as fond of the
cat as I am, will look after Snooks. If you will send for a cab,
I think I will go home. Like other people in my wretched
state, I feel fatigued towards night-time.'

His lips just touched Carmina's delicate little ear, while his
mother turned away to ring the bell. * Expect me to-morrow,'

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120

HEART AND SCIENCE.

he whispered. *I lovo you ! — love you 1 love you I' He seemed
to find the perfection of luxury in the reiteration of these words.

When Ovid had left them, Carmina expected to hear some-
thing of her aunt's discoveiy in the Square. Mrs. Oallilee's
innocence was impenetrable. Not finding her niece in the
house, she had thought of the Square. What could be more
natural than that the cousins should take an evening walk, in
one of the prettiest enclosures in London ? Her anticipations of
Ovid's recovery, and her admiration of Carmina's powers of
persuasion appeared, for the time, to be the only active ideas in
that comprehensive mind. When the^ervant brought in the tray
with the claret and soda-water, she sent for Mihs Minerva to
join them, and hear the good news; completely ignoring the
interruption of their friendly relations, earlier in the evening.
She became festive and facetious ut the sight of the soda-water.
* Let us imitate the men. Miss Minerva, and drink a toast be-
fore we go to bed. Be cheerful Carmina, and share half a bottle
of soda water with me. A pleasant journey to Ovid, and a safe
return. Cheered by the influences of conviviality, the friend of
Professors, the tender nurse of half develo[>ed tadpoles lapsed into
learning again. Mrs. Gallilee improvised an appropriate lec-
ture on Canada — on the botany of the Dominion ; on the geo-
logy of the Dominion ; on the number of gallons of water
wasted every hour by the falls of Niagara. • Science will set
it all right, my dears ; we shall make that idle water work for
us one of those days. Good night Miss Minerva. Dear Car-
mina, pleasant dreams ! '

Safe in the solitude of her bed-room, the
ously knitted her heavy eyebrowa

* In all my experience,' she thought, * I never saw Mrs. Gal-
lilee in such spirits before. What mischief is she meditating,
when she has got rid of her son 7

governess

omm-

P v.!
1

¥'.■■■■■ ' t "

CHAPTER XIX

The lapse of a tew hours exercised no deteriorating influence
on Mrs. Gallilee's amiability.

On the next day, thanks to his mother's interference, Ovid was
left in the undisturbed enjoyment of Carmina's society. Not
only Miss Minerva, but even Mr. Gallilee and the children,
were kept out of the way with a delicately-exercised dexterity,
which defied the readiest suspicion to take offence. In one
word, all that sympathy and indulgence could do to invite
Ovid's confidence, was unobtrusively and modestly done. Never
had the mistress of domestic diplomacy reached her ends with
finpr art.

In the afternoon, a messenger delivered Benjalia's reply to .
Mrs. Gallilee's announcement of her son's contemplated journey
— despatched by the morning's post. The doctor was confined
to the house by an attack of gout. If Ovid wanted information
on the subject of Canada, Ovid must go to him, and get it.
That was all.

* Have you ever been to Doctor Benjulia's house 1 ' Carmina
asked.

* Never.'

* Then all you have told me about him is mere report 1 Now
you will find out the truth ! Of course you will go 1 '

Ovid felt no desire to make a voyage of exploration to Ben-
julia's lonely house — and said so plainly. Carmina used all
her powers of persuasion to induce him to change his mind.
Mrs. Gallilee (superior to the influence of girlish curiosity) felt
the importance of obtaining introductions to Canadian society,
and agreed with her niece. * I shall order the carriage,' she
said, assuming a playfully-despotic tone ; * and, if you don't go

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HEART AND SCiEKOfe.

to the doctor — Carmina and I will pay him a visit in your
place.'

Threatened, if he remained obstinate, with such a result as
this, Ovid had no alternative but to submit.

The one order that could be given to the coachman was to
drive to the Village of Hendon, on the north-western side of
London, and to trust to inquiries for the rest of the way.
Between Hendon and Willesden, there are pastoral solitudes
within an hour's drive of Oxford Street — wooded lanes and
wild-flowers, farms and cornfields, still unprofaned by devasta-
ting brickwork of the builder of modern times. Following
winding ways, under shadowing trees, the coachman made his
last inquiry at a roadside public-house. Hearing that B^^n-
julia's place of abode was now within half a mile of him, Ovid
set forth on foot ; leaving the driver and the horses to take
their ease in their inn.

He arrived at an iron gate, opening out of a lonely lane.

There, in the middle of a barren little field, he saw Ben-
Julia's house — a hideous square building of yellow brick, with
a slate roof. A low wall surrounded the place, having another
iron gate at the entrance. The enclosure within was as barren
as the field without ; not even an attempt at flower-garden or
kitchen-garden was visible. At a distance of some two hun-
dred yards from the house, stood a second and smaller build-
ing, with a skylight in the roof, which Ovid recognised (from
description) as the famous laboratory. Behind it was the
hedge which parted Benjulia's morsel of land from the land of
his neighbour.- Here, the trees rose again, and the fields be-
yond were cultivated. No dwellings, and no living creatures
appeared. So near to London — and yet, in its loneliness, so
far away — there was something unnatural in the solitude of
the pkce.

Led by a feeling ^f curiosity, which was fast degenerating
into suspicion, Ovid approached the laboratory, without show-
ing himself in fro at of the house. No watch-dog barked ; no
servant appeared on the look-out for a visitor. He was
ashamed of himself as he did it — but (so strongly had ho been
impressed by Carmina's observation of the doctor) he even
tried the locked door of the laboratory, and waited and list-
ened I It was a breezy summer-day ; the leaves of the tree«

ttEARt AKi) SCtENcE.

12:*

Hear him rustled cheerfully. Was there another sound audible 1
Yes — low and faint, there arose through the sweet woodland
melody a moaning cry. It paused ; it was repeated ; it
stopped. He looked round him, not quite sure whether the
sound proceeded from the outside or the inside of the building.
He shock the door. Nothing happeneii. The suffering crea-
ture (if it was a suffering creature) was silent or dead. Had
ishemical experiment accidentally injured some living thing ?
Or 1

He recoiled from pursuing that second inquiry. The labora-
tory had, by this time, become an object of horror to him. He
returned to the dwelling-house.

He put his hand ou the latch of the gate, and looked back
at the laboratory. He hesitated.

That moaning cry, so piteous and so short-lived, haunted his
ears. The idea of approaching Benjulia became repellent to
him. What he might afterwards think of himself — what his
mother and Carmina might think of him — if he returned with-
out having entered the doctor's house, were considerations
which had no influence ever his mind, in his present mood.
The impulse of the moment was the one power that swayed
him. He put the latch back in its socket ' I won't go in,' he
said to himself.

It was too late. As he turned from the house a man-servant
appeared at the door ; crossed the enclosure ; and threw the
gate open for Ovid, without uttering a word.

They entered the passage. The speechless man-servant
opened a door on the right, and made a bow, inviting the vis-
itor to enter. Ovid found himself in a room as barren as the
field outside. Ther« were the plastered walls, there was the
bare floor, left exactlv as the builders had l^ft them when the
house was finished. After a short absence, the man appeared
again. He might be depressed in spirits, or crabbed in tem-
per ; the fact remained that even now, he had nothing to say.
He opened a door on the opposite side of the passage — made
another bow — and vanished.

' Don't come near me I' cried Benjulia, the moment Ovid
showed himself.

The doctor was seated in an inner corner of the room ;
robed in a long black dressing-gown, buttoned round hia

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124

iiEAUT AND fciCtENdfi.

lliiout, which hid every part of him below his fleshless face,
except his big hands, and his tortured gouty foot. Rage and
pain glared in his gloomy grey eyes, and shook his clenched
tists, resting on the arms of an easy chair. * Ten thousand
red-hot devils are boring ten thousand holes through my foot,'
he said. * If you touch the pillow on my stool, I shall fly at
your throat' He poured some cooling lotion from a bottle
into a small watering-pot, and irrigated his foot as if it had
been a bed of flowers. By way of further relief to the pain, he
swore ferociously ; addressing his oaths to himself, in thunder-
ous undertones which made the glasses ring on the sideboard.

Relieved, in his present frame of mind, to have escaped the
necessity of shaking hands, Ovid took a chair, and looked
about him. Even here he discovered but little furniture, and
that little of the heavy old-fashioned sort. Besides the side-
board, he perceived a dining table, six chairs, and a dingy
brown carpet. There were no curtains on the window, and no
pictures or prints on the drab-coloured walls. The empty grate
showed its bleak black cavity undisguised ; and the mantelpiece
iiad nothing on it but the doctor's dirty and strong-smelling
pipe. Benjnlia set down his watering-pot, as a sign that the
paroxysm of pain had passed away. ' A dull place to live in,
isn't it r In those words he welcomed the visitor to his house.

Irritated by the accident which had forced him into the re-
pellent presence of Benjulia, Ovid answered in a tone which
matched the doctor on his own hard ground.

♦ It's your own fault if the place is dull. Why haven't you
planted trees, tind laid out a garden V

' I dare say I shall surprise you,' Benjulia quietly rejoined ;
' but I have a habit of speaking my mind. I don't object to
a dull place ; and I don't care about trees* and gardens.'

' You don't seem to care about furniture eitl er,' said Ovid.

Now that he was out of pain for a while, the doctor's innate
insensibility to what other people might think of him, or might
say to him, resumed its customary torpor in its own strangely
unconscious way. He seemed only to understand that Ovid's
curiosity was i.i search of information about trifles. Well,
there would be less trouble in giving him l.lj information.

than investigating
furniture.

his motives. So Benjulia talked of his

HEATIT AND SCIENCE

125

i t

' I dare say you're right,* he said. ' My sister-in-luw — did
you know I had a relation of that sorti — my sister-iijliw got
the tables and chairs and beds and basins. Buying things at
shops doesn't interest me. I gave her a cheque ; and I told
her to furnish a room for me to eat in, and a room for me to
bleep in — and not to forget the kitchen and the garrets for tJie
servants. What more do I want 1 '

His intolerable composure only added to his guest's irrita-
bility.

* A. selfish way of putting it,' Ovid broke out. * Have you
nobody to think of but yourself 1 '

'Nobody — I am happy to say.'

* That's downright cynicism, Beujulia !'

The doctor reflected. ' Is it ] ' he said. * Perhaps you may
be right again. I think it's only indifference myself. Curi-
ously enough, my brother looked at it from your point of view
— he even used the same word that you used just now. T sup-
pose he found my " cynicism " beyond the reach of reform. At
any rate, he left off coming here. I got rid of hitn on easy
terms. What do you say I That inhuman way of talking is
unwortlty of me I Keally I don't think so. I'm not a down-
right savage. It's only indifference.'

* Does your brother return your indifference 1 You must be
a nice pair, if he does ! '

Benjulia seemed to find a certain dreary amusement in con-
sidering the question that Ovid had proposed. He decided on
doing justice to his absent relative.

* My brother's intelligence is perhaps equal to such a small
effort as you suggest,' he said. ' He has just braiuo enough to
keep himself out of an asylum for idiots. Shall I tell you what
).e is in two words ? A licentious glutton — that's what he is.
I let his wife come here sometimes, and cry. It doesn't trouble
me ; and it seems to relieve /ler. More of my indifference —
eh 1 Well I don't know. I gave her the change out of the
furniture-cheque, to buy a new bonnet with. You might call
that indifference, and you might be right once more. I don't
care about money. Will you have a drink 1 You see I can't
move. Please ring for the man.*

Ovid refused the drink, and changed the subject. ' Your
servant is a remarkably silent person,' he said.

If
v.

' ! »"':•

1?0

heaut and sctencb.

■-

■ ■ . ■' ;i ;

■ ■ ■ \

r 1

?' ; 1

' That's his merit,' Benjulia answered, * the women servants
have quarrelled with every other man I've had. They can't
quarrel with this man. I have raised his wages in grateful
acknowledgment of his usefulness to me. I hate noise/

' Is that the reason why you don't keep a watch-dog 1 '

* I don't like dogs. They bark.'

He had apparently some other disagreeable association with
dogs, which he was not disposed to communicate. His hollow
eyes stared gloomily into vacancy. Ovid's presence in the roQBi
st-emed to have become, for the time being, an impression
erased from his mind. He recovered himself, with the custom-
ary vehement rubbing of his head, and turned the talk to the
object of Ovid's visit.

* So you have taken my advice,' he said. * You're going to
Canada, and you want to get at what I can tell you before you
start. Here's my journal. It will jog, my memory, and help
us both.'

His writing materials were placed on a movable table,
screwed to his chair. Near them lay a shabby-looking book,
guarded by a lock. Ten minutes after he had opened his jour-
nal, and had looked bere and there through the pages, his hard
intellect had grasped all that it required. Steadily and copi-
ously his mind emptied its information into Ovid's mind ;
without a single digression from begiiining to end, and with
the most mercilessly direct reference to the traveller's practical
war.ts. Not a word escaped him, relating to national character
Oi to the beauties of Nature. Mrs. Gallilee had criticised the
Falls of Niagara &s a reservoir of wasted power. Doctor Ben-
julia's scientific superiority over the woman .asserted itself with
magnificent ease. He never mentioned Niagara at all.

* Have I served your purpose as a guide ? ' he asked. * Never
mind thanking me. Yes or no will do. Very good. I have
got a line of writing to give you next.' He mended his quill
pen, and made no observation. * Have you ever noticed that
women have one pleasure which lasts to the end of their lives 1'
he said. ' Young and old, they have the saxue inexhaustible
enjoyment of society ; and, young and old, they are all alike
incapable of understanding a man when he says he doesn't care
to go to a party. Even your clever mothey thinks you wftut tQ

HEART AND SCIENCE.

127

go to parties in Canada.' He tried liis pen, and found it would
do — and began his letter.

Seeinfj his hands at work, Ovid was again reminded of Car-
mina's discovery. His eyes wandered a little aside towards the
corner formed by the pillar of the chimney-piece and the wall
of the room. The big bamboo-stick rested there. A handle
was attached to it, made of light-coloured horn, and on that
handle there were some stains. Ovid looked at them with a
doctor's practised eye. They were dry stains of blood. (Had
he washed his hands on the last occasion when he used his
stick 1 And had he forgotten that the handle wanted washing
too 1)

Benjulia finished his letter, and wrote the address. He book
up the envelope, to give it to Ovid — and stopped, as if some
doubt tempted him to change his mind. The hesitation was
only momentary. He persisted in his first intention, and gave
Ovid the letter. It was addressed to a doctor at Montreal.

'That man won't introduce you to society,' Benjulia an-
nounced, * and won't worry your brains with medical talk.
Keep off one subject on your side. A mad bull is nothing to
my friend if you speak of Vivisection.'

Ovid looked at him steadily, when he uttered the last word.
Benjulia looked back, just as steadily at Ovid.

At the moment of that reciprocal scrutiny, did the two men
suspect each other 1 Ovid on his side determined not to leave
the house without putting his suspicions to the test.

* I thank you for the lettei,' he began ; * and I will not for-
get the warning.'

The doctor's capacity for the exercise of the social virtues
had its limits. His reserves of hospitality were by this time
near their end.

' Is there anything more I can do for you 1* he interposed.

• You can answer a simple question,' Ovid replied. * My
cousin Carmina '

Benjulia interrupted him again; * Don't you think we said
enough about your cousin in the Gardens?' he suggested.

Ovid acknowledged the hint with a neatness of retort almost
worthy of his mother. ' You have your own merciful disposi-
tion to blame, if I return to the subject,' he replied. * My
cousia cannot forget your kindness to the monkey.*

■w

1 i

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1

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128

HEART AND SCIENCE.

' The sooner she forgets my kindness the better. The raoukey
is dead.'

* I am glad to hear it.'
'WhyT

I thought the creature was living in pain.'

* What do you mean ] '

' I mean that I heard a moaning .'

'Where?'

' In the building behind your house.'

* You heard the wind in the trees.'

* Nothing of the sort. Are your chemical experiments ever
made on animals t '

The doctor parried that direct attack without giving ground
by so much as a hair's breadth.

* What did I say when I gave you your letter of introduc-
tion ? ' he asked. * I said, A mad bull is nothing to my friend,
if you speak to him of Vivisection. Now I have something
more to tell you. I am like my friend.' He waited a little.
* Will that do 1 ' he asked.

* Yes,' said Ovid ; ' that will do.'

They were as near to an open quarrel as two men could be :
Ovid took up his hat to go. Even at that critical moment,
Benjulia's strange jealousy of his young colleague — as a [)os-
sible rival in some field of discovery which he claimed as his
own — showed itself once more. There was no
tone ; he still spoke like a judicious friend.

' A last word of advice,' he said. ' You are travelling for
your health ; don't let inqusitive strangers lead you into talk.
Some of them might be physiologists.'

Getting out into the lane again, Ovid looked at his letter to
the doctor in Montreal. His first impulse was to destroy it.

As Benjulia had hesitated before giving him the letter, so he
now hesitated before tearing it up. Contrary to the usual
practice in such cases, the envelope was closed. Under these
circumstances, Ovid's pride decided him on using the intro-
tion. Time was still to pass, before events opened his eyes to
the importance of his decision. To the end of his life he re-
membered that Benjulia had been near to keeping back the
letter, and that he had been near to tearing it up.

change in his

CHAPTER XX.

The wise ancient who asserted that * Time flies* must
have made that remarkable discovery while he was in a
state of preparation for a journey. When are we most ac-
tually sensible of the shortness of life 1 When do we
consult our watches in perpetual dread of the result I When
does the night steal on us unawares, and the morning take us
by surprise 1 When we are going on a journey.

The remaining days of the week went by with a rush. Ovid
had hardly time to ask himself if Friday had really come, be-
fore the hours of his life at home were already numbered.

He had still a little time to spare when he returned to
Fairfield Gardens late in the afternoon. Finding no one in
the library, he went up to the drawing-room. His mother
was alone, reading.

' Have you anything to say to me, before I tell Carmina that
you are here 1 ' Mrs. Galilee put that question quietly, so far
as her voice was concerned. But she still kept her eyes on
her book. Ovid knew that she was ofiering him his first and
last chance of speaking plainly, before he went away. In Car-
niina's interests he spoke.

* Mother,* he said, * I am leaving the one person in the world
who is most precious to me, under your care.'

* Do you mean,' Mrs. Gallilee asked, ' that you and Carmina
are engaged to be married 1/

' I mean that ; and I am not sure that you approve of the
engagement. Will you be plainer with me than you were on
the Ust occasion when we spoke on this subject ) '

' When was that 1 ' Mrs. Gallilee inquired.

* When you and I were alone for a few minutes, on the
morning when I breakfasted here. You said it was quite imfc-

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130

HEART AND SCIENCE.

ural that Carmina should have attracted me ; but you were
careful not to encourage the idea of a marriage between us. I
understood that you disapproved of it — but you didn't plainly
tell me why.*

* Can a women always give their reason 1 '

* Yes, when they are women like you.'

* Thank you, my dear, tor a pretty compliment. I cau tax
my memory. I think I hinted at the obvious objections to your
engagement. You and Carmina are cousins ; and you belong
to different religious communities. I may add, that a man with
your brilliant prospects had, in my opinion, no reason to marry
unless hiii wife was in a position to increase his influence and
celebrity. I had looked forward to seeing my ojever son rJse
to a level with other persons of rank, who are members of our
family. There is my confession, Ovid. If I did hesitate on the
occasion to which you have referred, I have now, J think, told
you why.

* Am I to understand that you hesitate stiU ? ' Ovid asked.

* No.* With that brief reply she rose to put away her book.
Ovid followed her to the book-case. * Has Carmina conquered

you 1 * he said.

She put her book back in its place. * Carmina has con-
quered me,* she answered.

* You say it coldly.'

* What does that matter, if I say it truly ? '

The struggle in him between hope and fear burst its way out.

* Oh mother, no words can tell yon how fond I am of Car-
mina ! For God^s sake take care of her, and be kind to her ! *

' For your sake,' said Mrs. Gallilee, gently correcting the lan-
guage of her excitable son, from her own protoplastic point of
view. ' You do me an injustice if you feel anxious about
(!!armina, when you leave her here. My dead brother's child,
is my child. You may be sure of that.' She took his hand,
and drew him to her, and kissed his forehead with dignity and
deliberation. If Mr. Mool had been present, during the regis-
tration of that solemn pledge, he would have been irresistibly
reminded of the other ceremony, which is called signing a
deed.

' Have you any instructions to give me 1 ' Mrs. Gallilee pro-
Q^^dedi * For instance, my dear, do you object to my taking

HEART AND SCIENCE.

131

Carmina to parties 1 I mean, of course, parties which will im-
prove her mind/

He fell sadly below his mother's level in replying to this.

* Do everything you can to make her life happy while I am
away,' those were his only instructions.

But Mrs. Gallilee had not done with him yet. ' With regard
to visitors,' she went on, ' I presume you wish me to be care-
ful, if I find young men calling here oftener than usual 1 '

Ovid actually laughed at this. * Do you think I doubt her V
he asked. ' The earth doesn't hold a truer girl than my little
Carmina?' A thought struck him. while he said it. The
brightness faded out of his face ; his voice lost its gaiety.
'There is one person who may call on you,' he said, ' whom I
don't wish her to see.*

' Who is he r

* Unfortunately, he is a man who has excited her curiosity. .
I mean Benjulia.

* It »vas now Mrs. Gallilee's turn to be amused. Her laugh
was not one of her foremost fascinations. It was hard in tone,
and limited in range — it opened her mouth, but it failed to
kindle a light in her eyes. * Jealous of the ugly doctor !' she
exclaimed. * Oh, Ovid, what next !'

* You never made a greater mistake in your life,' her son
answered sharply.

' Then what is the objection to him 1 ' Mrs. Gallilee rejoined.

It was not easy to meet that question with a plain reply. If
Ovid assertel that Benjulia's chemical experiments were as-
sumed — for some reason known only to himself — as a cloak to
cover the atrocities of the Savage Science, he would only raise
the doctor in his mother's estimation. If on the other hand
he described what had passed between them when they met in
the Zoological Gardens, Mrs. Gallilee's strong common sense
might refuse to accept her son's fanciful impression, and might
summon the doctor to explain the tone in which he had alluded
to Carmina and her mother. Having rashly placed himself in
this dilemma, Ovid unwisely escaped from it by the easiest way.

* I don't think Benjulia a iSt person/ he said, 'to be in the
company of a young girl'

Mrs. Gallilee accepted this expression of opinion with a readi-
ness which would have told a more suspicious man that he h^(i

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132

HEART AND SCIENCE.

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made a mistake. Ovid had roused the curiosity — perhaps
awakened the distrust — of his clever mother.

' You know best,' Mrs. Gallilee replied ; * I will bear in mind
what you say.' She rang the bell to send for Carmina, and
added internally, ' Something wrong here ; Benjulia shall tell
me what it meaus.'

Left by himself in the drawing room, Ovid found the minutes
passing slowly, for the first time since the day had been fixed
for his departure. He attributed this impression to his natu-
ral impatience for the appearance of Carmina — until the plain
evidence of the clock pointed to a delay of five endless minutes,
and more. As he approached the door to make inquiries, it
opened at last. Hurrying to meet Carmina, he found himself
face to face with Miss Minerva !

She came in hastily, and held out her hand without looking
at him.

' Forgive me for intending on you,' she b^. 1, with a rapidity
of utterance and a timidity of manner strangely unlike herself.
* I'm obliged to prepare the children's lessons for to-morrow ;
and this is my only opportunity of bidding you good bye.
You have my best wishes — my heartfelt wishes — for your
safety and your health and — and your enjoyment of the jour-
ney. Good-bye ! good-bye I'

After holding his hand, for a moment, she hastened back to
the door. There she stopped, turned towards him again, and
looked at him for the first time. 'I have one thing more to
say,' she broke out. 'I will do all I can to make Carmina's
life pleasant in your absence.' Before he could thank her, she
was gone.

In another minute Carmina came in, and found Ovid pacing
backwards and forwards perplexed and annoyed. She had
passed the governess on the stairs — had there been any misun-
kerstanding between them 1

' Have you seen Miss Minerva f ' she asked.

He put his arm round her, and seated her by him on the
sofa. ' I don't understand Miss Minerva,' he said. * How is
it that she came here, when I was expecting You 1 '

* She asked me, as a favour, to let her see you first ; and she
seemed to be ^o anxious about it that I gave way. I didu'tj
do wrong, Ovid — did 11'

kEART AND SCIENCE.

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^ My darling, you are always kind, and always right ! But
why couldn't she say good-bye (with the others) downstairs)
Do you understand this curious woman 1 '

* I think I do.' She paused, and toyed with the hair over
Ovid's forehead. < Miss Minerva is fond of you, poor thing/
she said innocently.

« Fond of met '

The surprise expressed in his question seemed to produce
no impression on her ; she still played with his hair.

' I want tc see how it looks,' she said, ' when it's parted in
the middle. No ! it looks better as you always wear it. How
handsome you are, Ovid ! Don't you wish I was beautiful too t
Everybody in the house loves you ; and everybody is sorry
you are going away. I like Miss Minerva, I like everybody, for
being so fond of my dear, dear hero. Oh, what shall I do when
day atter day passes, and only takes you farther and farther away
from me 1 No 1 I won't cry. You shan't go away with a heavy
heart, my dear one, if I can help it. Where is your photo-
graph 1 You promised me your photograph. Let me look at
it. Yes, it's like you, and yet not like you. It will do to
think over, when I am alone. My love, it has copied your
eyes, but it has not copied the divine kindness and goodness
that I see in them 1 ' She paused, and laid her head on his
bosom. * I shall cry, in spite of my resolution, if I look at you
any longer. We won't look — we won't talk — I can feel your
arm round me — I can hear your heart. Silence is best. I
have been told of people dying happily ; and I never under-
stood it before. I think 1 could die happily now.' She put
her hand over his lips before he could reprove her, and nestled
closer to him. ' Hush ! ' she said softly ; * hush ! '

They neither moved nor spoke ; that silent happiness was
the best happiness, while it lasted. Mrs. Gallilee broke the
charm. She suddenly opened the door, pointed to the clock
and went away again.

The cruel time had come. They made their last promises ;
shared their last kisses ; held each other in the last embrace.
She threw herself on the sofa, as he left her — with a gesture
which entreated him to go, while she could still control her-
self. ^ Once, he looked round, when he reached the door — and
then it was over.

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Alone on the landing, he dashed the tears away from his
eyes. Suffering and sorrow tried hard to get the better of Iwt^
manhood ; they had shaken, but had not conquered him. He
was calm, when he joined the members of the family, waiting
in the library.

Perpetually setting an example, Mrs. Gallilee ascended her
domestic pedestal as usual. She favoured her son with one
more kiss, and reminded him of the railway. ' We understand
each Other, Ovid — you have only five minutes to spare. Write,
when you get to Quebec. Now, Maria ? say good-bye.'

Maria presented herself to her brother with a grace which
did honour to the family- dancing master. Her short farew* 11
speech was a, model of its kind.

< Dear Ovid, I am only a child ; but I feel truly anxious foi
the recovery of your health. At this favourable season yon
may look forward to a pleasant voyage. Please accept my best
wishes.* She offered her cheek to be kissed — and looked like
a young person who had done her duty, and knew it.

Mr. Gallilee — modestly secluded behind the window cur-
tains — appeared, at a sign from his wife. One of his |lum|'
re<l hands held a bundle of cigars. The other clutched an en-
ormous new travelling-flask — the giant of its tribe.

* My dear boy, it's possible there may be good brandy ami
cigars on board; bub that's not ray experience of steanieis — is
it yours?' He stop[ied to consult his wife. * My dear, is i'
yours ? * Mrs. Gallilee held up the * Railway Guide,' and shook
it significantly. Mr. Gallilee went on in a hurry. ' There's
some of the right stuff in this fl,i8k,0vid, if you will accept it.
Five and forty yfears old — would you like to taste it 1 W^iuld
you like to taste it, my dear ? ' Mrs. Gallilee seized the ' Rail-
way Guide,' again, with a terrible look. Her husband crammed
the big flask into one of Ovid's pockets, and the cigars into the
other. • You'll find them a comfort when you're away from
us. God bless you, my son I You don't mind my calling you
my son ; 1 could'nt be fonder of you, if I really was your
father. Let's part as cheerfully as we can,' said poor Mr. Gal-
lilee, with the tears rolling undisguised over his fat cheeks.
* We can write to each other — can't we ] Oh dear ! dear ! I
wish I could taka it as easy as Maria does. Zo ! come uuU give
Jwna a kiss, poor fellow. Where's Zol*

ttEART And science!.

Mr& Gallilee made the discovery — she dragged Zo into view,
from under the table. Ovid took his little sister on his knee,
and asked why she had hidden herself.

' Because I don't want to say good-bye ! ' cried the child, giv-
ing her reason with a passionate outbreak of sorrow that shook
her from head to foot. * Take me with you, Ovid, take me
with you V He did his best to console her, under adverse cir-
cumstances. Mrs. Galiilee's warning voice sounded like a
knell — ' Time ! time ? ' Zo's shrill treble rang out louder still.
Zo was determined to write to Ovid, if she was not allowed to
go with him. ' Pa's going to write to you — why shouldn't 1 1 '
she screamed through her tears. ' Dear Zu, you are too young,'
Maria remarked. * Damned nonsense 1 ' subbed Mr. Gallilee ;
* she s/taW write ! * 'Time, time!* Mrs. Gallilee reitera^ted.
Taking no part in the dispute, Ovid directed two envelopes for
Zo, and quieted her in that way. He hurried into the hall ; ho
glanced at the stairs that led to the drawing-room. Carmina
was on the landing, waiting for a farewell look at him. On
the higher flight of stairs, invisible from the hall, Miss Minerva
was watching the scene of departure. Reckless of railways and
steamers, Ovid ran up to Carmina. Another and another kiss ;
and then away to the open house-door, with Zo at his heels,
trying to get into the cab with him. A last kind word to the
child, as they carried her back to the house ; a last look at the
familiar faces in the doorway ; a last effort to resist that fore-
taste of death which embitters all human partings — and Ovid
was gone 1

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CHAPTER XXI.

In the afternoon of the day that followed Ovid's departure,
the three ladies of the household were in a state of retirement
"—each in her own room.

The writing-table in Mrs. Gallilee's boudoir was covered
with letters. Her banker's pa«8-book and her cheque-book
Were on the desk ; Mr. Gallilee's affairs having been long since
left as completely in the hands of his wife, as if Mr. Gallilee
had been dead. A sheet of paper lay near the cheque-book,
covered with calculations divided into two colums. Tlie figures
in the right-hand column were contained in one line at the top
of the page. The figures in the left-hand column filled the page
from top to bottom. With her fan in her hand, and her pen in
the ink-bottle, Mrs. Gallilee waited, steadily thinking.

It was the hottest day of the season. All the fat women in
London fanned themselves on that sultry afternoon ; and Mrs.
Gallilee followed the general example. When she looked to
the right, her calculations showed the balance at the bank.
When she looked to the left, her calculations showed her debts :
some partially paid, some not paid at all. If she wearied of
the prospect thus presented, and turned for relief to her letters,
she was confronted by polite requests for money, from trades-
peti^jle in the first place, and from secretaries of fashionable
•Charities in the second. Here and there, by way of variety,
were invitations to parties, representing more pecuniary liabil-
ities, incurred for new dresses, and foi hospitalities acknow-
ledged by dinners and conversaziones at her own house. Money
that she owed, money that she must spend ; nothing but outlay
. and money — and where was it to come from ?

So far as her pecuniary resources were concerned, she was
-equally removed from hope and fear. Twice a year the same

HEART AND SCIENCE.

137

Income flowed in regularly from the same Invebtmenti. What
she could pay at any future time was far more plainly revep.led
to her than what she might owe. With tact and management
it would be possible to partially satisfy creditors, and keep up
appearances for six months more. Tu that conclusion her re-
flections led her, and left her to write clu'(|iu's.

And after the six months — what then 1

Having first completed her correspondence with the trades-
people, and having next decided on her contril)utions <<• t!i«^
Charities, this iron matron took up her fan again, cooled Iicr*
self, and met the question of the future face to face.

Ovid was the central figure in the prospect.

If he lived devoted to his profession, and lived unmarried,
there was a last resource always left to Mrs. Gallilee. For
yearo i>ast, his professional gains had added largely to the in-
come which he had inherited from his father. Unembarrassed
by expensive tastes, he had some thousands of pounds put by
— for the simple reason that he was at a loss what else to do
with them. Thus far her brother's generosity had spared Mrs.
Gallilee the hard necessity of making a confession to her son.
As things were now, she must submit to tell the humiliating
truth ; and Ovid (with no wife to check his liberal instincts)
would do what Ovid's uncle (with no wife living to check his
liberal instincts) had done already.

There was the prospect, if her son remained a bachelor. But
her son had resolved to marry Carmina. What would be the
result if she was weak enough to allow it 1

There would be, not one result, but three results. Natural;
Legal; Pecuniary.

The natural result would be — children.

The legal result (if only one of those children lived) would
be the loss to Mrs. Gallilee and her daughters of the splendid
fortune reserved for them in the Will, if Carmina died without
leaving oflfspring.

The pecuniary result would be (adding the husband's income
to the wife's) eight thousand a year for the young married
people.

And how much for a loan, applicable to the mother-in-law's
creditors ? Judging Carmina by the standard of herself — by
what other standard do we really judge our fellow-creatures,
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TTEAI^T AND SCTFATE.

no matter how clever we may be ? — Mrs. Gallilee decided that
not one farthing would be left to help her to pay debts, which
were steadily increasing with every new concession that she
made to the claims of society. Young Mrs. Ovid Vere, at the
head of a household, would have the grand example of her
other aunt before her eyes. In London, at least (although her
place of residence might not be a palace), she would be a poor
creature indeed, if she failed to spend eight thousand a year, in
the effort to be worthy of the social position of Lady North-
lake. Add to these results of Ovid's contemplated marripge
the loss of a thousand a year, secured to the guardian by the
Will, while the ward remained under her care — and the state-
ment of disaster would be complete. 'Disgrace for myself;
and, if these debts accumulate, genteel poverty for my children
— there is the price 1 pay for it, if Ovid and Carmina become
man and wife.'

She quietly laid aside her fan, as the thought in her com-
pleted itself in this form.

The trivial action, and the lock which accompanied it, had a
a sinister meaning of their own beyond the reach of words.
And Ovid was already on the sea. And Teresa was far away
in Italy.

The clock on the mantel-piece struck five ; and the punctual
parlour-maid appeared with her mistress's customary cup of
tea Mrs. Gallilee asked for the governess. The servant an-
swered that Miss Minerva was in her room.

* Where are the young ladies 1 '

' My master.has taken them out for a walk.*

* Have they had their music lesson ? *

* Not yet, ma'am. Mr. Le Frank left word yesterday that
he would come at six this evening.'

« Does Mr. Gallilee know that 1 '

* I heard Miss Minerva tell my master, while I was helping
the young ladies to get ready.'

* Very well. Ask Miss Minerva to come here, and speak to
me.'

Miss Minerva sat at the open window of her bed-room, look-
ing out vacantly at the backs of houses, in the street behind
Fairfield Gardens.

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HEART AND SCIENCE.

139

The evil spirit was the dominant spirit in her again. She
too, was thinking of Ovid and Carmina. Her memory was busy
with the parting scene on the previous day.

The more she thought of all that had happened in that short
space of time, the more bitterly she felt against herself. Her
one besetting weakness had openly degraded her without so
much as an attempt at resistance on her part. The fear of be-
traying herself, if she took leave of the man she secretly loved
in the presence of his family, had forced her to ask a favour of
Carmina and to .isk it, under circumstances which might have
led her rival to suspect the truth. Admitted to a private in-
terview with Ovid, she had failed to control her agitation ;
and, worse still, in her ungovernable eagerness to produce a
favourable impression on him at parting, she had promised
— honestly promised, in that moment of impulse — to make Car-
mina's happiness her own peculiar care. Carmina, who had
destroyed in a day the hope of years ! Carmina who had taken
him away from her ; who had clung round him when he ran
upstairs, and had kissed him — fervently, shamelessly kissed
him — before the servants in the hall 1

She started to her feet roused to a frenzy of rage by her own
recollections. Standing at the window, she looked down at
the pavement of the court yard — it was far enough below to
kill her instantly if she fell on it. Through the heat of her
anger there crept the chill and stealthy prompting of despair.
She leaned over the window-sill — she was not afraid — she
might have done it, but for a trifling interruption. Somebody
spoke outside.

It was the parlour-maid. Instead of entering the room, she
spoke through the open door. The woman was one of Miss Min-
erva's many enemies in the house. ' Mrs. Gallilee wishes to see
you,* she said — and shut the door again, the instant the words
were out of her mouth.

Mrs. Gallilee !

The very name was full of promise at that moment. It su^
gested hope — merciless detestable hope.

She left the window, and consulted her looking-glass. Even
to herself, her haggard face was terrible to see. She poured
eau de cologne and water into her basin, and bathed her burn-
ing head and eyes. Her shaggy black hair stood in need of at-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

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tention next. She took almost as much pains with it as if she
had been going into the presence of Ovid himself. * I must
make a calm appearance,' she thought, still as far as ever from
suspecting that her employer had guessed her secret, * or his
mother may find me out.' Her knees trembled under her.
She sat down for a minute to rest.

Was she merely wanted for some ordinary domestic consul-
tation ? or was there really a chance of hearing the question of
Ovid and Carmina brought forward at the coming interview 1

She believed whaii she hoped ; she believed that the time
had come when Mrs. Gallilee had need of an ally — perhaps of
an accomplice. Only let her object be the separation of the
two cousins — and Miss Minerva was eager to help her, in either
capacity. Suppose she was too cautious to mention her object 9
Miss Minerva was equally ready for her employer, in that case ,
the doubt which had suggested her fruitless questions to Car-
mina, when they were alone in the young girl's room — the
doubt whether a clue to the discovery of Mrs. Gallilee's mo-
tives, might not be found in that latter part of the Will which
she had failed to overhear, was as present as ever in the gover-
ness's mind. * The learned lady is not infallible,' she thought
as she entered Mrs. Gallilee's room. *If one unwary word
trips over her tongue, I shall pick it up I '

Mrs. Gallilee's manner was encouraging at the outset. She
had lett her writing-table ; and she now presented herself, re-
clining in an easy chair, weary and discouraged — the picture of
a woman in want of a helpful friend.

* My head aches with adding up figures, and writing letters,'
she said. *I wish you would finish my correspondence for
me.'

Miss Minerva took her place at the desk. She at once dis-
covered the unfinished correspondence to be a .Jc) pretence.
Three cheques for charitable subscriptions, due at that date,
were waiting to be sent to three secretaries, with the custom-
ary letters. In five minutes, the letters were ready for the
post. * Anything more V Miss Minerva asked.

* Not that I remember. Do you mind giving me my fan 1 I
feel perfectly helpless — I am wretchedly depressed to-day.'

* The heat, perhaps 1 *

* No. The expenses. Every year, the demands of our re-

HEART AND SCtENCtJ.

141

sources seem to increase. On principle, I dislike living up to
our income — and I am obliged to do it.'

Here, plainly revealed to the governess's experienced eyes,
was another false pretence — used to introduce the true object
of the interview, as something which might accidentally sug-
gest itself in the course of conversation. Miss Minerva ex-
pressed the necessary regret with innocent readiness. * Might
I suggest economy 1 ' she asked with impenetrable gravity.

* Admirably advised,' Mrs. Gallilee admitted ; * but how is it
to be done 1 Those subscriptions, for instance, are more than
I ought to give. And what happens if I lower the amount 1 I
expose myself to unfavourable comparison with other people of
our rank in society.'

* Miss Minerva still patiently played the part expected of
her. * You might perhaps do with only one carriage-horse/
she remarked.

'My good creature, look at the people who have only one
carriage-horse 1 Situated as I am, can I descend to that level 1
Don't suppose I care two straws about these things, myself.
What is my one pride and pleasure in life 1 The pride and
pleasure of improving my mind. But I have Lady Northlake
for a sister ; and I must not be entirely unworthy of my family
connections. I have two daughters ; and I must think of their
interests. In a few years, Maria will be presented at Court.
Thanks to you, she will be one of the most accomplished girls
in England. Think of Maria's mother in a one horse chaise I
Dear child ! tell me about her lessons. Is she getting on as
well as ever 1 '

* Examine her yourself, Mrs. Gallilee. I can answer for the
result.'

* No, Miss Minerva I I have too much confidence in you to
do anything of the kind. Besides, in one of the most import-
ant of Maria's accomplishments, I am entirely dependent on
yourself. I know nothing of music. You are not responsible
for her progress in that direction. Still, I should like to know
if you are satisfied with Maria's music ] '

'Quite satisfied.'

' You don't think she is getting — how can I express it 1—
shall I say beyond the reach of Mr. Le Frank's teaching ) '

* Certainly not.*

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142

HEART AND SCIENCE.

* Perhaps you would consider Mr. Le Frank, equal to the in-
struction of an older and more advanced pupil than Maria t '

Thus far, Miss Minerva had answered the questions sub-
mitted to her with well-concealed indifference. This last in-
quiry roused her attention. Why did Mrs. Gallilee show an
interest for the first time, in Mr. Le Frank's capacity as a
teacher ! Who was this * older and more advanced pupil,' for
whose appearance in the conversation the previous questions
had so smoothly prepared the way 1 Miss Minerva was already
on her guard.

' I have always thought Mr. Le Frank an excellent teacher,
she said.

* Can you give me no more definite answer than that 1 ' Mrs.
Gallilee asked.

* I am quite unacquainted,' the governess replied, * with the
musical proficiency of the pupil to whom you refer. I don't
even know whether you are speaking of a lady or a gentleman.'

' I am speaking,' said Mrs. Gallilee quietly, * of my niece,
Carmina.*

Those words set all further doubt at rest in Miss Minerva's
mind. Introduced by such elaborate preparation, the allusion
to Carmina's name could only lead, in due course, to the sub-
ject of Carmina's marriage. By indirect mftthods of approach,
Mrs. Gallilee had at last reached the object that she had in
view.

^f&

CHAPTER XXir.

There was an interval of silence between the two ladles.

Mrs. Galliiee waited for Miss Minerva to speak next. Miss
Minerva waited to be taken into Mrs. Gallilee's confidence. The
.>parrows twittered in the garden ; and, far away in the school-
room, -he notes of the piano announced that the niusic-lessoii
had begun.

' The birds are noisy,* said Mrs. Galliiee.

' And the piano sounds out of tune,' Miss Minerva remarked.

* There was no help for it. Either Mrs. Galliiee must return
to the matter in hand — or the matter in hand must drop.

' I am afraid I have nc made myself understood/ she re-
sumed.

' I am afraid I have been very stupid,' Miss Minerva con-
fessed.

Resigning herself to circumstances, Mrs. Galliiee put the ad-
journed question under a new form. ' We were speaking of
Mr. Le Frank as a teacher, and of my niece as a pupil,' she
said. * Have you been able to form any opinion of Carmina'f?
musical abilities 'i ' Miss Minerva remained as prudent as ever.
She answered, * I have had no opportunity of forming an
opinion.*

Mrs. Galliiee met this cautious reply by playing her trump
card. She handed a letter to Miss Minerva. ' I have received
a proposal from Mr. Le Frank,' she said. * Will you tell me
what you think of it 1 '

The letter was short and servile. Mr. Le Frank presented his
best respects. If Mrs. Gallilee's charming niece stood in need
of musical instruction, he ventured to hope that he might have
the honour and happiness of superintending her studies. Look-
ing back to the top of the letter, the governess discovered thati

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HEAET AND SCIENCE.

this modest request bore a date of eight days sinC^. ' Have
you written to Mr. Le Frank r she asked.

* Only to say that I will take his request into consideration,'
Mrs. Gallilee replied.

Had she waited for her son's departure, before she committed
herself to a decision 1 On the chance that this might be the
case, Miss Minerva consulted her memory. When Mrs. Galli-
lee first decided on engaging a music-master to teach the chil-
dren, her son had disapproved of employing Mr. Le Frank.
This circumstance might possibly be worth bearing in mind.
'Do you see any objection to accepting Mr. Le Frank's
proposal 1 ' Mrs. Gallilee asked. Miss Minerva saw an objec-
tion forewith, and, thanks to her effort of memory, discovered
an especially mischievous way of stating it. ' I feel a certain
delicacy in offering an opinion,' she said modestly.

Mrs. Gallilee was surprised. 'Do you allude to Mr. Le
Frank ] ' she inquired.

* No. I don't doubt that his instructions would be of service
to any young lady.'

' Are you thinking of my niece V

* No, Mrs. Gallilee. I am thinking of your son.*

* In what way, if you please 1 '

' In this way. I believe your son would object to employing
Mr. Le Frank as Miss Carmina's teacher.'
' On musical grounds ? '

* No, on personal grounds.

* What do you mean 1 '

Miss Minerva explained her meaning. ' I think you have
forgotten what happened, when you first employed Mr. Le
Frank to teach Maria and Zoe. His personal appearance pro-
duced an unfavourable impression on your son ; and Mr. Ovid
made certain inquiries which you had not thought necessary.
Pardon me if I persist in mentioning the circumstances. I owe
it to myself to justify my opinion — an opinion, you will please
to remember, that I did not volunteer. Mr. Ovid's investiga-
tions brought to light a very unpleasant report, relating to Mr.
Le Frank and a youne lady who had been one of his pupils.'

' An abominable slander, Miss Minerva I I am surprised
thai yuu sUuuld refer lo iu'

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HEART AND SCIENCE.

* I am referring, madam, to the view of the matter taken by
Mr. Ovid. If Mr. Le Frank had failed to defend himself suc-
cessfully, he would of course not have been received into this
house. But your son had his own opinion of the defence. I
was present at the time, and 1 heard him say that, if Maria and
Zoe had been older, he should have advised employing a music-
master who had no false reports against him to contradict. As
they were only children, he would say nothing more. That is
what I had in my mind, when I gave my opinion. I think Mr.
Ovid will be annoyed when he hears that Mr. Le Frank is his
cousin's music-master. And, if any foolish gossip reaches him
in his absence, I fear it might lead to mischievous results — I
mean, to misunderstandings not easily set right by correspond-
ence, and quite likely therefore to lead, in the end, to distrust
and jealousy.'

There she paused, and crossed her hands on her lap, and
waited for what was to come next.

If Mrs. Gallilee could have looked into her mind at that
moment, as well as into her face, she would have read Miss
Minerva's thoughts in these plain terms : 'All this time,
madam, you have been keeping up appearances in the face of
detection. You are going to use Mr. Le Frank as a means of
making mischief between Ovid and Carmina. If you had taken
me into your confidence, I might have been willing to
help you. As it is, please observe that I am not caught in the
trap you have set for me. If Mr. Ovid discovers your little
plot, you can't lay the blame on your governess's advice.'
* Mrs. Gallilee felt that she had again measured herself with
Miss Minerva, and had again been beaten. She had confidently
reckoned on the governess's secret feeling towards her son to
encourage, without hesitation or distrust, any project for pro-
moting the estrangement of Ovid and Carmina. There was no
alternative now but to put her first obstacle in the way of the
marriage, on her own sole responsibility.

* I don't doubt that you have spoken sincerely,' she said ;
* but you have failed to do justice to my son's good sense ; and
you are — naturally enough, in your position — incapable of es-
timating his devoted attachment to Carmina.' Having planted
that sting, she paused to observe the effect. Not the slightest
visible result rewarded her, She weut on. * Almost the last

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HEART AND SCIENCE.

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word J he said to me expres^sed his confidence — his affectionate
confidence — in my nit ce. The bare idea of his being jealous
of anybod}', and especially of such a person as Mr. Le Frank,
is simply ridiculous. 1 am astonished that you don't see it in
that light.'

' I should see it in that light as plainly as you do/ Miss
minerva quietly replied, ' if Mr. Ovid was at home.'

* What difference does that make ? '

* Excuse me — it makes a great difference, as I think. He has
gone away on a long journey, and gone away in bad health. He
will have his hours of depression. At such times, trifles are
serious things ; and even well-meant words — in letters — are
sometimes misunderstood. I can (iffer no better ai)ology for
what I have said ; and I can only regret that I have made so
unsatisfactory a return for your nattering confidence in me.'

Having planted her sting, she rose to retire.

* Have you any further commands for me 1 * she asked.

*I should like to be quite sure that I have not misunderstood
you,' said Mrs Gallilee. * Yi u consider Mr. Le Frank to be
competent, as director of any young lady's musical studies 1
Thank you. On the one point on which I wished to consult
you, my mind is at ease. Do you know where Carmina isl'

* In her room, I believe.'

* Will you have the goodness to send her here 1 '
' With the greatest pleasure. Good evening.'

So ended Mrs. Gallilee's first attempt to make use of Mispi
Minerva, without trusting her.

Miss

CHAPTKIi XXIir.

[lSf\

The mistress of the house, and the governess of the house had
their own special reasons for retiring to their owti rooms.
Carmina was in solitude as a matter of necessity. The only
friends that the poor girl could gather round her now, were the
absent and the dead.

She had written to Ovid — merely for the pleasure o" think-
ing that her letter would accompany him, in the inailsteamer
which took him to Quebec. She had written to Teresa. She
had opened her piano, and had played the divinely beautiful
music of Mozart, until its tenderness saddened her, and she
closed the instrument with an aching heart. For a while she
sat by the window thinking of Ovid. The decline of day has
its melancholy affinities with the decline of life. As the even-
ing wore on, her lonliness had become harder and harder to
endure. She rang for the maid, and asked if Miss Minerva
wa& at leisure. Miss Minerva had been sent for by Mr«, Gal-
lilee. Where was Zo 1 In the schoolroom, waiting until Mr.
Le Frank had done with Maria, to take her turn at the piano.
Left alone again, Carmina opened her locket, and put Ovid's
portrait by it on the table. Her sad fancy revived her dead
parents — imagined her lover being presented to them — saw
him winning their hearts by his genial voice, his sweet smile,
his wise and kindly words. Miss Minerva, entering the room,
found her still absorbed in her own little melancholy day
dream ; recalling the absent, reviving the dead — as if she had
been nearing the close of life. And only seventeen years old.
Alas for Carmina, only seventeen 1

* Mrs. Gallilee wishes to see you.'

She started to her feet, in alarm. ' Is there anything wrong 1 *
Bhe asked.

HEAUT AND SCIENCE.

'No. What makes you think 80 1 '

' You speak in such a strange way. Oh, Frances, I have been
longing for you to keep me company ! And now you are here,
you look at me as coldly as if I had offended you. Perhaps you
are not well 1 '

•That's it. I am not well.'

'Have some of my lavemler water ! Let me bathe your fore-
head, and then blow on it to cool you this hot weather. No ?
Sit down, dear, at any rate. What does my aunt want with
me]'

' 1 think I had better not tell you.'

'Why?'

♦Your aunt is sure to ask you what I have said. I have
tried her temper ; you know what her temper is ! She has
sent me here instead of sending the maid, on the chance that I
may commit some imprudence. I give you her message exactly
as the servant might have given it — and you can tell her so
with a safe conscience. No more questions I '

' One more, please. Is it anything about Ovid 1 '

'No.'

' Then my aunt can wait a little. Do sit down ! I want to
speak to you.*

♦ About what 1 '

' About Ovid, of course !

Carmina's look and tone at once set Miss Minerva's mind at
ease. Her conduct, on the previous day, had aroused no jeal-
ous suspicion in her innocent rival. She refused to take the
offered chair.

' I have already told you your aunt is out of temper,' she
said. ' Go to her as once.'

Carmina rose unwillingly. ' There were so many things I
wanted to say to you,' she began — and was interrupted by a
rapid little series of knocks at the door. Was the person in a
hurry 1 The person proved to be the discreet and accomplished
Maria. She made her excuses to Carmina with sweetuess, and
turned to Miss Minerva with sorrow.

* I regret to say that you are wanted in the schoolroom. Mr.
Le Frank can do nothing with Zoe. Oh, dear I ' She sighed
over her sister's wickednesa, and waited for iuBtructions,

HEART AND SCIENrE.

Ir.

To be called away, under any circumstances, was a relief to
Miss Minerva. Carmiiia's atiectiuiiate welcome had irritated
her in the most incomprehensible manner. She was anj?ry with
herself for being irritated ; she felt inclined to abuse the girl
for believing in her. * You fool, why don't you see through
me ? Why don't you write to that other fool who is in love
with you, and tell him how I hate you both 1 ' But for her
self-command, she might have burst out with such mad words
as those. Maria's appearance was inexpressibly welcome.
* Say I will follow you directly,' she answered.

Maria, in the language of the stage, made a capital exit.
With a few hurried words of apology, Miss Minerva prepared
to follow. Caimina stopped her at the door.

* Don't be ha -d on Zo 1 ' she said.

* I must do mj duty. Miss Minerva answered sternly.

' We were sometimes naughty ourselves when we were chil-
dren,' Carmina pleaded. * And only the other day she had
bread and water for tea. I am so fond of Zo ! And besides
* she looked doubtfully at Miss Minerva — * I don't think
Mr. Le Frank is the sort of man to get on with children.'

After what had just passed between Mrs. Gallilee and her-
self, this expression of opinion excited the governess's cnriosity.
' What makes you say that ? ' she asked.

'Well, my dear, for one thing Mr. Le Frank is so ugly.
Don't you agree with me 1 '

* I think you had better keep your opinion to yourself. If
he heard of it '

* Is he vain ? My poor father used to say that all bad
musicians were vain.'

' You don't call Mr. Le Frank a bad musician ? '

* Oh, but I do ! I heard him at his concert. Mere execution
of the most mechanical kind. A musical box is as good as that
man's playing. This is how he does it! '

Her girlish good spirits had revived in her friend's company.
She turned gaily to the piano, and amused herself by imitat ng
Mr. Le Frank. Anotlier knock at the door — a single peremp-
tory knock this time — stopped the performance.

Miss Minerva had left the door aj ir, when Carmina had pre-
vented her from quitting the room. She looked through the
open space, and discovered — Mr. Le Frank.

i iiiw ii iii iii iii'ii i iirii

loO

TTF.ART AND SCIEXCE.

His bald head trembled, his florid complexion was livid with
suppressed rag j. ' That little devil has run away ! ' he said —
and hurried down the stairs again, as if he dare not trust him-
self to utter a word more.

' Has he heard me 1 ' Carmina asked in dismay.

' He may only have hoard you playing.'

Oifering this hopeftil suggestion, Miss Minerva felt no doubt
in her own mind, that Mr. Le Frank was perfectly well ac-
quainted with Carmina's opinion of him. It was easy enough
to understand that lie should himself inform the governess of
an incident, so entirely beyond the reach of his own interfer-
ence as the flight of Z >. But it was impossible to assume that
the furious anger which his face betrayed, could have been ex-
cited by a child who had run away from a lesson. No : tlie
vainest of men and musicians had heard that he was ugly, and
that his pianoforte-playing resembled the performance of a musi-
cal box.

They left the room together — Carmina, ill at ease, to attend
on her aunt ; Miss Minerva, pondering on what had happened,
to find the fugitive Zo.

The footman had already spared ' the trouble of searching
the house. He had seen Zo runn ^ oUt bare-headed into the
square, and had immediately followed her. The young rebel
was locked up. ' I don't care,' said Zo ; ' I hate Mr. Le Frank.'
Miss Minerva's mind was too seriously pre-occupied to notice
this aggravation of her pupil's oflFence. One subject absorbed
her attention — the interview then in progress between Carmina
and her aunt.

How would *Mrs. Gallilee's scheme prosper now ? Mr. Le
Frank might, or might not, consent to be Carmina's teacher.
Another result, however, was certain. Miss Minerva thoroughly
well knew the vindictive nature of the man. He neither for-
gave nor forgot — he was Carmina's enemy for life.

CHAPTKR XXIV.

The month of July was near its end.

On the morning of the twenty -eighth, Carmina was engaged
in replying to a letter received from Teresa. Her answer con-
tained a record of domestic events, during an interval of some
importance in her life under Mrs. Gallilee'a roof. Translated
from the Italian, the letter was expressed in these terms :

' Are you vexed with me, dearest, for this late reply to your
sad news irom Italy 1 I have but one excuse to offer.

* Can I hear of your anxiety about your husband, and not
feel the wish to help you to bear your burden by writing cheer-
fully of myself 1 Over and over again, I have thought of you
and have opened my desk. My spirits have failed me, and I
have shut it up again. Am I now in a happier frame of mind 1
Yes, my good old nurse, I am happier. I have had a letter
from Ovid.

' He has arrived safely at Quebec, and he is beginning to fet i
better already, after the voyage. You cannot imagine how
beautifully, how tenderly he writes ! I am almost reconciled to
his absence, when I read his letter. Will that give you some
idea of the happiness and the consolation that I owe to this
best and dearest of men 1

* Ah, my old granny, I see yon start, and make that favour-
ite mark with your thumb-nail under the word "consolation"!
I hear you say to yourself, " Is she unhappy in her English
home •? And is aunt Gallilee to blame for it 1 " Yes ! it is even
so. What I would not for the whole world write to Ovid, I
may confess to you. Aunt Gallilee is indeed a hard, hard
woman.

* Do you remember telling me, in your dear downright way,

152

HEART AND SCI3NCE,

\\rn

h.\

that Mr. Le Frank looked like a rogue ) I don't know whether
he is a rogue — but I do know that it is thiough his conduct
that my aunt is offended with me.

* It happened three weeks ago.

* She sent for me, and said that my education must be com-
pleted, and that my music in particjlar must be atterded to. I
was quite willing to obey her, and I said so with all needful
leadiness and respect. She answered that she had already
chosen a music-master for me — and then, to ray astonishment,
the mentioned his name. Mr. Le Frank, who taught her chil-
dren, was also to teach me ! I have plenty of faults, but I really
think vanity is not one of them. It is only due to my excel-
lent master in Italy to say that I am a better pianoforte player
than Mr. Le Frank.

' I never breathed a word of this, mind, to my aunt. It
would have been ungrateful and useless. She knows and cares
nothing about music.

* So we parted good friends, and she wrote the same evening
to engage my master. The next day she got his reply. Mr. Le
Frank refused to be my professor of music — and this, after he
had himself proposed to teach me, in a letter addressed to my
aunt ? Being asked for his reasons, he made an excuse. The
spare time at his disposal, when he had written, had been since
occupied by another pupil. The true reason for his conduct is,
that he heard me speak of him — rashly enough, I don't deny
it — as an ugly man and a bad player. Miss Minerva sounded
him on the subject, at my request, for the purpose of course of
making my apologies. He affected not to understand what she
meant — with what motive I am sure I don't know. False and
revengeful, you may say, and perhaps you may be right. But
the serious part of it, as far as I am concerned, is my aunt's
behaviour to me. If I had thwarted her in the dearest wish
of her life, she could hardly treat me with greater coldness and
severity. She has not stirred again, in the matter of my edu-
cation. We only meet at meal-times ; and she receives me,
when I sit down at table, as she might receive a perfect
stranger. Her icy civility is unendurable. And this woman
is my darling Ovid's mother !

* Have I done with my troubles now 1 No, Teresa ; not
even yet. Oh, dear, I wish I was with you in Italy !

v./

HKAllT AND SCIENCE.

153

' Your letiera persist in telling me that I am deluded in be-
lieving Miss Minerva to be truly my friend. Do pray remember
— even if I am wrong — what a solitary position mine is, in
Mrs. Gallilee's house ! I can play with dear little Zo; but who
can I talk to, who can I confide in, if it turns out that Miss
Minerva has been deceiving me 1

' "When I last wrote to you, I refused to acknowledge that
any such dreadful discovery as this could be possible j I re-
sented the bare idea of it as a cruel insult to my friend. Since
that time — my face burns with shame while 1 write it — I am a
little, just a little, shaken in my opinion.

* Shall I tell you how it began 1 Yes ; I will.

*My good old friend, you have your predjudices. But you
speak your mind truly — and who else can I consult 1 Not Ovid 1
The one effort of my life is to prevent him from feeling anxious
about me. And, besides, I have contended against his opinion
of Miss Minerva, and have brought him to think of her more
kindly. Has he been right, notwithstanding? and are you
right 1 And am I alone wrong 1 You shall judge for yourself.

* Miss Minerva began to change towards me, after I had done
the thing of all others which ought to have brought us closer
together than ever. She is very poorly paid by my aunt, and
she has been worried by little debts. When she owned this, I
most willingly lent her the money to pay her bills — a mere
trifle, only thirty pounds. What do you think she did 1 She
crushed up the bank-notes in her hand, and left the room in the
strangest headlong manner, as if i had insulted her instead of
helping her ! All the next day, she avoided me. The day
after, I myself went to her room, and asked what was the
matter. She gave me a most extraordinary answer. She
said, "I don't know which of us two 1 most detest — myself

Myself for borrowing your money, or you for lend-
I left her ; not feeling off"ended, only bewildered

you.
ing it."

and distressed. More than an hour passed before she made
her excuses. " I am ill and miserable " — that was all she
said. She did indeed look so wretched that I forgave her
directly. Would you not have done so, in my place 1

* This happened a fortnight since. Only yesterday, she
broke out again, and put my affection for her to a far more
severe trial. 1 have not got over it yet.

I ml

III

■ ^ Wmki ..

1 ■•!-|!

'Ill

II:

\ !

1 1-

154

HEART AND SCIENCE.

* There was a message for her in Ovid's letter —expressed in
the friendliest terms. He remembered with gratitude her kind
promise, on saying good-bye ; he believed she would do all that
lay in her power to make my life happy in his absence ; and
he only regretted her leaving him in such haste that he had no
time to thank her personally. Such was the substance of the
message. I was proud and pleased te go to her room myself,
and read it to her.

* Can you guess how she received me ] Nobody — I say it
positively — nobody could guess.

* She actually flew into a rage ! Not only with me (which I
might have pardoned), but with Ovid (which is perfectly inex-
cusable). " How dare he write to you," she burst out, " of what
I said to him when we took leave of each other 1 And how dare
you come here, and read it to me ? What do I care about your
life, in his absence. ! Of what earthly consequence are his re-
membrance and his gratitude to Me ! " She spoke of him, with
such fury and such contempt, that she roused me at last. I
said to her, " You abominable woman, there is but one excuse
for you. You're mad ! " I left the room — and didn't I bang the
door! We have not met since. Let me hear your opinion,
Teresa, I was in a passion when I told her she was mad ; but
was I altogether wrong 1 Do you ^ !^ally think the poor crea-
ture is in her right senses 1

* Looking back at your letter, I see that you a'sk if I have
made any new acquaintances

* I have been introduced to one of the sweetost women I ever
met with. And vi^ho do you think she is 1 My other aunt —
Mrs. Gallilee's younger sister. Lady Northlake ! They say she
was not so handsome as Mrs. Gallilee, when they were both
young. For my part, I can only declare that no such com-
parison is possible between them now. In look, in voice, in
manner there is something so charming in Lady Northlake
that I quite despair of describing it. My father used to say
that she was amiable and weak ; led by her husband, and easily
imposed upon. I am not clever en )ugh to have his eye for
character : and perhaps I am weak and easily imposed
upon too. Before I had been ten minutes in Lady
Northlake's company, I would have given everything I possess
in the world to have had Iter for my guardian.

ttEART AND SCIENCEI4

•i «» »

loo

ressed in
her kind
[0 all that
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le had no
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Q myself,

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say
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posed
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ossess

(•;

* She had called to say goodbye, on leaving London ; and
my aunt was not at home. We had a long delightful talk to-
gether. She asked me so kindly to visit her in Scotland, and
be introduced to Lord Northlake, that I accepted the invita-
tion with a glad heart.

* When my aunt returned,! quite forgot that we were on bad
terms. I gave her an enthusiastic account of all that had
passed between her sister and myself. How do you think she
met this little advance ou my part 1 She positively refused to
let me go to Scotland.

' As soon as I had in some degree got over my disappoint-
ment, I asked for her reasons. " I am your guardian," she
said ; " and I am acting in the exorcise of my own discretion,
I think it better you should stay with me." I made no fur-
ther remark. My aunt's cruelty made me think of my dead
father's kindness. It was as much as I could do to keep from
crying.

* Thinking over it afterwards, I supposed (as this is the
season when everybody leaves town) that she had arranged to
take me into the country with her. Mr. Gallilee, who is always
good to me, thought so too, and promised me some sailing at
the seaside. To the astonishment of everybody, she has not
shown any intention of going away from London, Even the
servants ask what it means.

* This is a letter of camplaints. Am 1 adding to your anxie-
ties instead of relieving them ? My kind old nurse, there ia
no need to be anxious. At the worst of my little troubles, I
have only to think of Ovid — and his mother's ice melts away
from me directly ; I feel brave enough to endure anything.

* Take my heart's best love, dear — no, next best love, after
Ovid ! — and give some of it, to your poor suffering husband.
May I ask one little favour ? The English gentleman who has
taken our old hon^- • at Rome, will not object to give you a few
flowers out of w?..at was once my garden. Send them to me in
your next letter.'

It
11

i i i

1^1

I I

1 ',

CHAPTER XXV.

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 des-
troy. 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 1 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. Morpliew. Last
night, he wao oo kind as to invite me to a musical entertain-
ment at hisiiouse. He is a medical man ; and he amuses him-
self in his leisure hours by playing on that big and dreary mem-
ber of the family of fiddles, whose name is Violincello, As-
sisted by friends, he hospitably cools his guests, in the hot
season, by the amateur performance of quartettes. My dear,
I passed a delightful evening. Listening to the music 1 Not
listening to a single note of it. Thinking of you.

* Have I roused your curiosity 1 I fancy I can see your eyes
brighten ; I fancy I can hear you telling me to go on 1

* My thoughts reminded me that music is one of the enjoy-
ments of your life. Before I went away, I ought to have re-
membered this, and to have told you that the manager of the

ff".

HEART AND SCIENCE.

157

' (

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 1

' Did 1 forget anything else before my departure 1 Did I tell
you how precious you are to me ? how beautiful you are to me 1
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 1 have I no
travelling adventures to relate ? You insist on hearing of every-
thing 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 coufession 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 in-
formed of the circumstanceii 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 :u all pos-
sible 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 ac-
quainted with him through a letter of introduction given to me
by Eenjulia.

* 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 shock 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!

158

HEART AND SCIENCE.

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 hiu 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 in-
troduction (closed by the doctor's own hand, before he gave it
to me) as a proof. Would you like to read the letter, too t
Here is a copy : — ** The man who brings this is an overworked
doctor, 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 thau 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 ai his bedside."

' Hearing this, I venturod to make some inquiries. The an-
swers painted such a melancholy pictur< of poverty and suffer-
ing, and so vividly reminded me of a similar case in my own
experience, that I forgot I was an invalid myself, and volun-
teered to visif the dying man in Mr. Morphew's placet

* 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. W^hat 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 him was impos-
sible. 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—
^ p^ulfttto from the Southern Stj^te^ of America, by biyth, Th«

HEART AND SCIENCE.

159

•Id. His
Qe when
lis table,
him. I
me.

roundly
3r of in-
gave it
er, too?
'Worked
. Don't
rmatiou
t desert
bted to
me at

e again
is time
hat he

In this
cannot
lis last

nean-
suffer-
own
rolun-

city,
treet.
3S on
►w. I
tutof
ipos-
tion.

Til©

one fatal event of his life had been his marriage. Evay 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 oi' his best
friends. On the last occasion when she left him, he had fol-
lowed her to Montreal. In a fit of drunken frenzy, she had
freed him from her at last by selfdestruction. Her death
affected his reason. When he was disv^harged 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 centered in devotion to the memory of his wife.
" Nobody will take care of ner grave," he said, " when I am
gone.'

' My love, I have always thought fondly of you. After hear-
ing 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 wcman who had dis-
honoured him. Who am I that I should judge him 1 Besides,
I shall fulfil his last wishes an 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 portman-
teau there was a roll of paper, 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 pm 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 my gift, and exam-
ined it for the first time.

*To my amazera3nt, I found myself rewarded a hundredfold

!1''

;i^

fi >:

160

HEART AND SCTENCK

for the little I had been able to do. This unhappy raan mnst
have been possessed of abilities which (luulcr favouring ciicum'
stances) would, I don't hesitate to say, have ranked him among
the greatest physicians cf our time. The language in which
he writes is obscure, and sometimes grammatically incorrect.
But he, and ho alone, has solved a problem in the treatment oi
brain disease, which has thus far been the despair of medical
men throughout the whole civilized world.

* If a stranger was looking over my shouldei*, 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 1 Mj'^ 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
youl

* 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 forests 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 ^leet in society with a particularly positive man,
who looks as if he were 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 ^Iways 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 9

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161

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 per-
sonally interest you. Here it is, in its own Roman brevity :
" Except Pa and Carmina, we are all a bad lot at home." Af-
ter 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 belo'.v, and love me as I love you. There

is a world of meaning, Carmina, even in these commonplace

words. Oh, if I could only go to you by the mail steamer, in

he place of my letter I '

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CHAPTER XXVr.

The answers to Ovid's questions were not to be found in Car-
mina's reply. She was unwilling to tell him what had hap-
pened at the conversazione ; and she shrank from writing to
him of his mother. Her true position in Mrs. Gallilee's house
— growing, day by day, harder and harder to endure ; threat-
ening, more and more plainly, complications and perils to
come — was revealed in her next letter to her old friend in Italy.
She wrote to Teresa in these words :

* If you love me, forget the inhuman manner in which I have
spoken of Miss Minerva !

' After I had written to you, I would have recalled my let-
ter, if it could have been done, I began, that evening, to feel
ashamed of what I had said in my anger. As the hours went
on, and bedtime approached, I became so wretched that I ran
the risk of another harsh reception, by intruding on her once
more. It was a circumstance in my favour that she was, to all
appearance, in bad spirits too. Tiiere was something in her
voice, wheir she asked what I wanted, which made me think
— though she looks like the last person in the world to be guilty
of such weakness — that she had been crying.

* I gave the best expression I could to my feelings of repent-
ance and regret. What I actually said to her, has slipped out
of my memory ; I was frightened and upset — and I am always
stupid in that condition. My attempt at reconciliation may
have been clumsy enough ; but she might surely have seen that
I had no intention to mystify and distress her. And yet, what
else could she have imagined, to judge by her own actions and
words.

' lier bedroom caudle W9is on the tj^ble behind me, ^he

I !

HEART AND SCIENOE.

1C3

unatched it up and held it before my face, and looked at me as
if I was some extraordinary object that she had never seen or
heard of before I " You are little better than a child," she
said ; " I have ten times your strength of will — what is there
in you that I can't resist 1 Go away from me ! Be on your
guard against me ! I am false ; I am suspicious ; I am cruel.
You simpleton, have you no instincts to protect you 1 Is there
nothing in you that shrinks from me 1"

' She put down the candle, and burst into a wi etched mock-
ing laugh. " There she stands," cried this strange creature,
*' and looks at me with the eyes of a baby that sees something
new. I can't frighten her. I can't disgust her. What does
it mean ) " She dropped into a chair ; her voice sank almost
to a whisper — I should have thought she was afraid of me, if
such a thing had been possible. " What do you know of me,
that I don't know of myself 1 " she asked.

' It was quite beyond me to understand what she meant. I
took a chair, and sat down by her. " 1 only know what you
said to me yesterday," I answered.

* " What did I say 1 "

* " You told me you were miserable."

' " I told you a lie ! Believe what I have said to you to-day.
In your own interest, believe it to be the truth ! "

'Nothing would induce me to believe it. "No," I said.
" You were miserable yesterday, and you are miserable to-day.
T/ia« is the truth 1"

•What put my next bold words into my head, I don't know.
It doesn't matter ; the thought was in me — and out it came.

* " You have some burden on your mind," I went on. " If
I can't relieve you of it, I can help you to bear it. Come ! tell
me what it is." I waited; but it was of no use — she never
even looked at me. " Are you in love 1 " I asked.

* She jumped up from her chair, so suddenly and so violently
that she threw it on the floor. Still, not a word passed her
lips. I found courage enough to go on — but not courage
enough to look at her.

' '* I love Ovid, and Ovid loves me," I said. " There is my
consolation, whatever my troubles may be. Are you not so
fortunate ? Do you love somebody, who doesn't love you 1 "

* She turned her back oa me, and went to the toilet-t^ble<

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HEART AND SCIENCE.

I think she lookel at herself in the glass. " Well," she saiil,
speaking to me at last, " what else 1

' " (Nothing else," I answered — " except that I hope 1 have
not offended you."

' She left the t^lass as suddenly as she had approached it, and
took up the candle again. Once more she held it so that it
lit my face.

* " Guess who he is," she said.

' " How can I do that 1 " I asked.

*She quietly put down the candle again. In some way,
quite incomprehensible to myself, I seemed t6 have relieved
her. She spoke to me in a changed voice, gently ind isadlyV

* " You are the host of good girls, and you mean kindly.
It's of no use — you can do nothing. Forgive my insolence
yesterday ; I was mad with envy of your happy marriage en-
gagement. You don't understand such a nature as mine. So
much the better ! ah, so much the better ! Good-night."

* There was such hopeless submission and self-abandonment
In those words, tliat 1 could not find it in my heart to leave
her. I thought of how I might have behaved, of the wild
things I might have said, if Ovid had cared nothing for me.
All that had bewildered and angered me in her conduct was
explained now ! What could I do to encourage her 1 Your
last letter, with our old priest's enclosure, was in my pocket.
I took it out. ' " Would you mind reading a short letter " I
said, " befere we bid each other good night 1 " I held out the
pil<'8t*s letter.

* She drew back with a dark look ; she appeared to have
some suspicion of it. " Who is the writer 1 " she inquired
sharply.

* " A person who is a stranger to you."

* Her face cleared directly. She took the letter from me,
and waited to hear what I had to say next. " The person,"
I told her, " is a wise and good old man — the priest who mar-
ried my father and mother, and baptized me. We all of us
used to consult Father Patrizio, when we wanted advice. My
nurse Teresa felt anxious about me in Ovid's absence ; she
spoke to him of my exile — forgive me for using the word I —
in this house, and owned that she was uneasy about me. He
i^d he would consider, before he gave her his opinion. The

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HEART AND SCIENCE.

1(].J

next day, he seut her the letter which you have got in your
hand."

' There, I came to a full stop ; having something yet to say,
but not knowing how to express myself with the necessary
delicacy.

I a \^ijy do you wish me to read the letter 1 " she asked.

quietly.
•"11

think there is something in it which might

' There, like a fool, I came to another full stop. She was
as patient as ever ; she only made a little sign to me to go on.

' " I think Father Patrizio's letter might put you in a
better frame of mind," I said ; " it might keep you from de-
spising yourself."

* She went back to her chair, and read the letter. You have
permitted me to keep the comforting words of the good
Father, among my other treasures. I copy his letter for you in
this place — so that you may read it again, and see what I had in
my mind, and understand how it affected poor Miss Minerva.

' " Teresa, my well-beloved friend — I have considered the
anxieties that trouble you, with this result : that I can do my
best, conscientiously, to quiet your mind. I have had the ex-
perience of forty years in the duties of the priesthood. In
that long time, the innermost secrets of thousands of men and
women have been confided to me. From such means of ob-
servation, I have drawn many useful conclusions ; and some
of them may be useful to you. I will put what I have to say,
in the plainest and fewest words : consider them carefully, on
your side. The growth of the better nature, in men, is per-
fected by many influences. The growth of the better nature,
in women, is perfected by one influence — and that influence is
Love. Are you surprised that a priest should write in this
way 1 Did you expect me to say Religion 1 Love, my sister,
is Religion, in women. It opens their hearts to all that is
good for them ; and it acts independently of the conditions of
human happiness. A miserable woman, tormented by hope-
less love, is still the better and the nobler for that love ; and
a time will surely come when she will show it. You have
fears for Carmina — cast away, poor soul, among strangers with
hard hearts. I tell you to have no fears. She may suflFer
under trials ; she may sink under trials. But the strength t9
rise again is in her— and that strength is Love."

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HEAIIT AiVD SCIENCE.

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' ■ a'

* Having read our old friend's letter, Miss Minerva turned
back, and read it again — and waited a little, repeating some
part of it to herself. " Does it encourage you 1 " I asked.

* She handed the letter back to me. " I have got one sen-
tence in it by heart," she said.

* You will know what that sentence is, without my telling .
you. I felt so relieved, when I oaw the change in her for the
better — I was so inexpressibly happy in the conviction that
we were as good friends again as ever — that I bent down to
kiss her, on saying good-night.

* She put up her hand and stopped me. " No," she said, "not
till I have done something to deserve it. You are more in
need of hc-lp than ycu think. Stay here a little longer ; I have
a word to say to you about your aunt."

* I returned to my chair, feeling a little startled. Her eyes
rested on me absently — she was, as I imagined, considering
with herself, when she spoke. I refrained from interrupting
her thoughts. The night was still and dark. Not a sound
reached our ears from without. In the house, the silence was
soflly broken by a rustling movement on the stairs. It came
nearer. The door was opened suddenly. Mrs. Gallilee entered
the room.

* What folly possessed me ? Why was I frightened 1 I really
could not help it — I screamed. My aunt walked straight up
to me, without taking the smallest notice of Mi?sj Minerva.
" What are you doing here, when ^ ou ought to be in your bedl "
she asked.

* She spoke "in such an imperative manner — with such
authority and such contempt — that I looked at her in astonish-
ment. Some suspicion seemed to be roused in her by finding
me and Miss Minerva together.

* " No more gossip ! " she called out sternly. " Do you hear
me] Go to bed!"

' Was it not enough to rouse anybody i I felt my pride burn-
ing in my face. " Am I child, or a servant 1 " I said, " I shall
go to bod early or late as I please."

* She tovok one step forward ; she seized me by the arm and
forced me to my feet. Think of it Teresa ! In all my life I
have never had a hand laid on me except in kindness. Who
knows it better than you ! I tried vainly to speak— I saw Misft

^ — ^

Heart and sciekce.

IG?

Minerva rise to interfere — I heard her say " Mrs. Gallilee you
forget yourself ! " Somehow, I got out of the room. On the
landing, a dreadful fit of trembling shook me from head to
foot. I sank down on the stairs. At first, I thought I was
going to faint. No ; I shook and shivered, but I kept my
senses. I could hear their voices in the room.

' Mrs. Gallilee began. " Did you tell me just now that I had
forgotten myself 1 "

' Miss Minerva answered, '* Certainly, madam. You did for-
get yourself."

* The next words escaped me. After that, they grew louder ;
and I heard them again — my aunt first.

' " I am dissatisfied with your manner to me, Miss Minerva.
It has latterly altered very much for the worse."
' " In what respect, Mrs. Gallilee 1 "

* " In this respect. Your way of speaking to me implies an
assertion of equality "

' " Stop p minute, madam ! I am not so rich as you are. But
I am at a loss to know in what other way I am not your equal.
Did you assert your superiority — may I ask — when you came
into ray room without first knocking at the door ? "

* " Miss Minerva ! Do you wish to remain in my service ?"
' " Say employment Mrs. Gallilee — if you please. I am

quite indifferent in the matter. I am equally ready, at your
entire convenience, to stay or to go."

' Mrs. Gallilee's voice sounded nearer, as if she was approach-
ing the door. " I think we arranged," she said, " that there
was to be a month's notice on either side, when I first engaged
youl"

* " Yes — at my suggestion."

* "Take your month's notice, if you please."

* " Dating from to-morrow ?"
' " Of cours*^ I "

* My aunt came out, and found me on the stairs. I tried to
rise. It was not to be done. My head turned giddy. She
must have seen that I was quite prostrate — and yet she took
no notice of the state I was in. Cruel, cruel, creature ! she ac-
cused me of listening.

* " Can't you see that the poor girl is ill ] "

' It was Miss Minerva's voice. I looked round ai her, feol«

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HEART AND SCIENCE.

ing fainter and fainter. She stooped ; I felt her strong sinewy
arms round me ; she lifl3d me gently. "I'll take care of you,"
she whispered — and carried me downstairs to my room, as easily
as if I had been a child.

* I must rest, Teresa. The remembrance of that dreadful
night brings it all back again. Dou't be anxious about me, my
old dear 1 You shall hear more to-morrow.'

i m

CHAPTER XXVIT.

!;^

On the next day events happened, the influence of which upon
Carolina's excitable nature urged her to complete her un-
finished letter^ without taking the rest that she needed. Once
more — and, as the result proved, for the last time — she wrote
to her faithful old friend in these words :

' Don't ask me to tell you how the night passed ! Miss
Minerva was the first person who came to me in the morning.

* She had barely said a few kind words, when Maria inter-
rupted us, reminding her governess of the morning's lessons.
•' Mrs. Gallilee has sent her," Miss Minerva whispered ; " I
will return to you in the hour before the children's dinner."

'The next person who appeared was, as we both anticipated,
Mrs. Gallilee herself.

* She brought me a cup of tea ; and the first words she spoke
were words of apology for her conduct on the previous night.
Her excuse was that she had been " luirassed by anxieties
which completely upset her." And — can you believe it 1 — she
implored me not to mention " the little misunderstanding be-
tw'en us when I next wrote to her son!" Is this womnn
ma le of iron and stone, instead of flesh and blood 1 Does she
really think me such a wretch as to cause Ovid, under any pro-
vocation, a moment's anxiety while he is away 1 The fewest
words that would satisfy her, and so send her out of my room,
were the only words I said.

* After this, an agreeable surprise was in store for me. The
familiar voice of good Mr. Gallilee applied for admission —
througii the keyhole !

* " Are you asleep, my dear 1 May I come in 1 " His kind
fat old face peeped round the door when I said Yes — and re-
minded me of Zo, at dinner, when she asks for more pudding,

170

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and doesn't think she will get it. Mr. Gallilee had something
to ask for, and some doubt of getting it which accounted for
the resemblance. " I've taken the liberty, Carmina, of send-
ing for our doctor. You're a delicate })lant, my dear "

(Here, his face disappeared, and he spoke to somebody out-
side) — " You think so yourself, don't you, Mr. Null ? And
you have a family of daughters, haven't you ? " (His face ap-
»^eared again ; more like Zo than ever.) " Do please see him,
my child ; I'm not easy about you. I was on the stairs last
night — nobody ever notices me, do they, Mr. Null ? — and I
saw Miss Minerva — good creature, and, Lord, how strong ! —
carrying you to your bed. Mr. Null's waiting outside. Don't
distress me by saying No ! "

'Is there anybody cruel enough to distress Mr. Gallilee]
The doctor came in — looking like a clergyman ; dressed all in
black, with a beautiful frill to hi.s shirt, and a spotless white
cravat. He stared hard at me ; he produced a little glass-tube ;
he gave it a shake, and put it under my arm ; he took it away
again, and consulted it ; he said, " Aha ! " ; he approved of
my tongue ; he disliked my pulse ; he gave his opinion at last.
" Perfect quiet. I must see Mrs, Gallilee." And there was
an end of it.

' Mr. Gallilee observed the medical proceedings with awe.
"Mr. Null is a wonderful man," he whispered, before he fol-
lowed the doctor out. Ill and wretched as I was, this little
interruption amused me. I wonder why I write about it here ]
There are serious things waiting to be told — am I weakly put-
ting them off?

' Miss Minerva came back to me as she had promised. " It
is well," she said gravely, " that the dotor has beeu to see
you."

' I asked if the doctor thought me very ill.

* " He thinks you have narrowly escaped a nervous fever ;
and he has given some positive orders. One of them is that
your slightest wishes are to be humoured. If he had not said
that, Mrs. Gallilee would have prevented me from seeing yon.
She has been obliged to give way ; and she liates me— almost
as bitterly, Carmina, as she hates you."

' This called to my mind the interruption of the previous
night, when Miss Minerva had something important to tell

HEART AND SCIENCE.

171

me. When I asked what it was, she shook her head, and said
painful subjects of conversation were not fit subjects in my
present state.

' Need I add that T insisted on hearing what she had to say,
Oh, bow completely my poor father must have been deceived?
when he made his horrible sister my guardian ! if I had not
fortunately oif ended the music-master, she would have used
Mr. Le Frank as a means of making Ovid jealous, and of sow-
ing the seeds of dissension between us. Having failed so far,
she is (as Miss Minerva thinks) at a loss to discovar any other
means of gaining her wicked ends. Her rage at finding herself
baffled seems to account for her furious conduct when she
discovered me in Miss Minerva's room.

' You will ask, as I did, what has she to gain by this wicked
plotting aud contriving, with its shocking accompaniments of
malice and anger. Ordinary objections, on the part of a mo-
ther, to the marriage of a son will surely not account for Mrs.
Gallilee's behaviour. Can you guess what it means 1

* Miss Minerva has, all along, firmly believed that the mo-
tive is, in one word, money — and that I am concerned in it.
She asks me if I know anything about my father's Will. When
I say. No, she tells me to write privately to Mr. Mool, and re-
quest him to send me a copy.

* At firstjl was quite at a loss to understand this point of view.
My aunt lives in splendour. I know from what my father
once told me that she had a thousand pounds a year of her
own ; and that Mr. Gallilee had two thousand a year more ;
when she married him. And I have heard Ovid himself say
that his mother was too eager about saving money.

' Miss Minerva showed no surprise when I mentioned these
ohiecoions. " You may add to Mrs. Gallilee's income," she
answered, " the allowance which she receives as your guardian,
for your expenses. I hold to my opinion, nevertheless. I say
Mr. Ovid is wrong, and all her friends are wrong. They think
she is fond of money — the truth is, she is short of money.
There is the secret of the hard bargains she drives, and the
mercenary opinions she holds. I don't doubt thai her income
would be enough for most other women in her position. It is
not enoygh for a woman who is jealous of her rich sister's place
in the world. Wait a little, and you will see that I am not

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HEART AND SCIENCE.

talking at random. You were present at the grand party she
gave some weeks sincel "

* " I wish I had stayed in my own room/' I said. " Mrs.
Gallilee was offended with me tor not admiring her scientific
friends. With one or two exceptions, they talked of nothing
but themselves and their discoveries — and, oh dear, how ugly
they were ! "

' " Never mind that now, Carmina. Did you notice the pro-
fusion of splendid flowers, in the hall and on the stairease, as
well as in the reception rooms 1 "

« •' Yes."

' " Did you observe — no, you are a young girl— did you
hear any of the gentlemen, in the supper-room, expressing their
admiration of the luxuries provided for the guests, the exquis-
ite French cookery and the delicious wine ? Why was all the
money which these things cost spent in one evening? Because
Lady Noithlake's parties must be matched by Mrs. Gallilee's
parties. Lady Northlake lives in a fashionable neighbourhood
in London, and has splendid carriages and horses. This is a
fashionable neighbourhood. Judge what this house costs and
the carriages and horses, when 1 tell you that the rent of the
stables alone is o\qv a hundred pounds a year. Lady North-
lake has a superb place in Sotland. Mrs. Gallilee is not able
to rival her sister in that respect — but she has her marine villa
in the Isle of Wight. When Mr. Gallilee said you should have
some sailing this autumn, did you think he meant that he
would hire a boat ? He referred to the yacht, which is part of
the establishment at the seaside. Lady Northlake goes ) acht-
ing with her husband ; and Mrs. Gallilee goes yachting with
her husband. Do you know what it costs, when the first mil-
iner in Paris supplies English ladies with dresses? That
milliner's lowest charge for a dress which Mrs. Gallilee would
despise — ordinary material, my dear, and imitation lace — is
forty pounds. Think a little — and even your inexperience
will see that the mistress of this house is spending more than
she can aflford, and is likely (unless she has resources that we
know nothing about) to be, sooner or later, in serious need of
money."

* This was a new revelation to me, and it altered my opinion
of course. But I still failed to see what Mrs. Gallilee's extra-

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173

you

vagances had to do with her wicked resolution to prevent Ovid
from marrying me. Miss Minerva's only answer to this was
to tell me to write to Mr. Mool, while I had the chance. " I
will take the letter to him," she said, " and bring the reply
myself. We can't trust the letter-basket in the hall."

* The letter was written in a minute. Just as she took it
from me, the parlourmaid announced that the early dinner
was ready.

*Two hours later the reply was in my hands. The old
father had taken Maria and Zo for their walk j and Miss Min-
erva had left the house by herself ; sending word to Mrs. Gal-
lilee that she was obliged to go out on business of her own.

* " Did Mrs. Gallilee see you come in 1 " I asked.
' " Yes. She was watching for me, uo doubt."

' " Did she see you go up stairs to my room 1 "

< " Yes."

'"And said nothing]"

*" Nothing."

* We looked at each other ; both of us feeling tne same
doubt of how the day would end. Miss Minerva pointed im-
patiently to the lawyer's reply. I opened it.

* Mr. Mool's letter was very kind, but quite incomprehensible
in the latter part of it. He mentioned some proceeding, called
* proving the Will," and he referred to a place called " Doc-
tors' Commons." However, there was the copy of the Will,
and that was all we wanted.

' I began reading it How I pitied the unfortunate men who
have to learn the law. My dear Teresa, I might as well have
tried to read an unknown tongue. The strange words, the per-
petual repetitions, the absence of stops utterly bewildered me.
I handed the copy to Miss rMinerva. Instead of begin-
ning on the first page, as I had done, she turned to the last.
With what breathless interest I watched her face. First, I
saw that she understood what she was reading. Then, after
a while, she turned pale. And then she lifted her eyes to me.
" Don't be frightened," she said.

* But I was frightened. My ignorant imagination pictured
some dreadful unknown power given to Mrs. Gallilee by the
Will, " What can mv aunt do to me 1 " I asked.

* Miss Minerva compoied me— without concealiDg the tratht

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In her position Carmina, and with her intensely cold and sel-
fish nature, thera is no fearof her attempting to reach her ends
by violent means. Your happiness may be in danger — and that
prospect, God knows, is bad enough."

* When she talked of my happiness, I naturally thought of
Ovid. I asked if there was anythiug about him in the Will.

* It was no doubt a stupid thing to say at such a time ; and
it soemed to annoy her. " You are the only person con-
cerned," she answered sharply. " It is Mrs. Gallilee's interest
that you shall never be her son's wife, or any any man's wife.
If she can have her way, you will live and die an unmar-
ried woman."

' This did me ^ od ; it made me angry. I began to
feel like myself again. I said, " Please let me hear the rest
of it."

* She complied in these plain, terribly plain, words : " If you
die, without leaving children, the Will gives the whole of
your fortune to Mrs. Gallilee and her daughters. Need I re-
mind you that your father was only providing against some
possible calamity? Excepting accidents, he naturally anticipat-
ed your marriage, and your leaving children to succeed you."

* Who knew that better than I did 1 He was always talk-
ing, poor dear, of the offers of marriage that I should re-
ceive, and hoping to live long enough to see my wedding day 1
1 opened my locket, and gave him a kiss. When Miss Minerva
asked if she should try to make my situation clear to me, or if
I preferred putting it off for a time, I was composed enough
to thank her^und to beg her to go on.

* " We are neither of us lawyers," she said ; " but we may
manage to understand your position, if we try. Mrs. Gallilee's
terest in the money seems to be a remote interest. Making all
allowance for the uncertainty of life, we may fairly calculate on
your outliving your aunt. But Maria and Zoe may outlive you.
To the best of my belief, it is the interest of those two children

thai

their mother is thinking of.

We both agreed, just now.

that her extravagance might force her to borrow money. Sup-
pose she gets her husband's permission (we know Mr. Gallilee) ;
and suppose she borrows money, like other people in her rank
of life, of her bankers ? "
' I know Miss Minerva to be a clever woman j bat her famil-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

175

iariby with these matters of business surprised me — and I
owned it.

* She smiled sadly. " I am speaking from experience," she
answered. " Experience in my own family. My father was
obliged to borrow money — a considerable sum in his position.
As security for paying back what he borrowed, he transferred
a part, a large part' of the fortune often thousand pounds from
which his income was derived, to the persons who ad-
vanced the loan. He paid the yearly interest regularly — but
he died, unable to pay back the loan. His creditors paid them-
selves, as they had a right to do, with the money that he had
transferred to them — and one of the results is, that I am earn-
ing my bread as a governess. What happened in my father's
case may happen (with much larger sums of money concerned)
in Mrs. Gallilee's case — and, if she fails to repay the loan,
Maria and Zoe will be left with a diminished income at their
parents' death. Do you see what the result will be if you die
unmarried 1 "

* I saw that my fortune would make up for all that Maria
and Zoe might lose through their mother's extravagance.

* " Suppose your aunt has resources that we don't know of "
Miss Minerva went on, " her interest m prtventiug your mare
riage remains unchanged. If her daughters inherit your fortun-
their piospects rise nearly to a level with the prospects that
await Lady Northlake's children. After what I have told you
of Mrs. Gallilee's jealousy of her sister's position, need I say
more 1 "

' I thp.nked her with all my heart — &,nd turned away my
head on the pillow, overpowered by disgust.

* The clock in the hall struck the hour of the children's tea,
Miss Minerva would be wanted immediately. At parting, bho
kissed me. " There is the kiss that you meant to give me last
night," she said. " Don't despair of yourself. I am to be in
the house for a month longer ; and I am a match for Mrs. Gal-
lilee. We will say no more now. Compose yourself, and try
to sleep."

* She went away to her duties. Sleep was out of the ques-
tion. My attention wandered when I tried to rea<l. Doing
nothing meant, in other words, thinking of what liad happened
If you had come into my room, I should havij told yuu all

III

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176

HEART AND SCIENCE.

about it The next best tliin^; was to talk to you in this way.
You don't know what a relief it has been to nie to write these
lines.*

* The night has come, and the trials that have assailed me in
this house have reached their climax.

'Try not to be suiprised ; try not to be alarmed. If my
mind to morrow is the same as my mind to-night, I shall at-
tempt to make my escape. I shall take refuge with Lady
Northlake.

* Oh, if I could go to Ovid. But he is travelling in the wilder-
ness of Canada. Until his return to the coast, I can only
write to him to the care of his bankers at Quebec. I should
not know where to find him, when I arrived — and what a
dreadful meeting, if I did find him. To be obliged to acknow-
ledge that it is his mother who has driven me away. There will
be nothing to alarm him, if I go to his mother's sister. If
you could see Lady Northlake, you will feel as sure as I do that
she will t e my part.

* After writing to you, I must have fallen asleep. It was
quite dark, when I was awakened by the striking of a match
in my room. I looked round expecting to see Miss Minerva.
The person lighting my candle was Mrs. Gallilee.

' She poured out the composing medicine which Mr. Null had
ordered for me. I took it in silence. Slie sat down by the
bed-side.

* " My child," she began, " we are friends again now.
You bear no mralice, I am sure."

' Distrust still kept me silent. I remembered that she had
watched for Miss Minerva's return, and that she had seen Miss
Minerva go up to my room. The idea that she meant to
be revenged on us both, for having our secrets and keeping
them from her knowledge, took complete possesson of my
mind.

* " Are you feeling better ? " she asked.
* " Yes."

* '* Is theie anything I can get for you."

* " Not now — thank you."

' " Would you like to
morrow ? "

see Mr. Null again, before to-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

177

* " Oh no ! "

* These were ungraciously short replies — but it cost me an
effort to speak to her at all. She Khowed no signs of taking
olfence : she proceeded as smoothly as ever.

' " My dear Ctirmina, I have my faults of temper ; and, with
such pursuits as mine, 1 am not perhaps a sympathetic com-
pauion for a young girl, i^ut 1 hope you believe that it is
my duty and my pleasure to he a second mother to you 1 "

' Yes ! she did really say that. Whether I was only angry*
or whether I was getting hysterical, 1 don't know. I began to
feel an oppression in my breathing that almost choked me.
There are two windows in my room, a'^d one of them only
was open. I was obliged to ask hor to open the other.

" She did it ; she came back and fanned me. I submitted
as long as I could — and then I begged her not to tronble herself
any longer. She put down the fan, and went on with what
she had to say.

* " I wish to speak to you about Miss Minerva. You are aware
that I gave her notice, last night, to leave her situation. For
your sake, I regret <^^hat I did not take this step l)efore you
came to England."

' My confidence in myself returned when I heard Miss Min-
erva spoken of in thi>^ way. I said at once that I considered
her to be one of my host and truest friends.

* " My dear child, that is exactly what I lament. Miss
Minerva has insinuated herself into your confidence — and she
is utterly unworthy of it."

* Could I let those abominable words pass in silence 1 " Mrs.
Gallilee I " I said, " you are cruelly wronging a woman whom
I love and respect."

'"Mrs. GalUlee ?" she repeated. "Do I owe it to Miss
Minerva that you have left off calling me Aunt ! Your obstinacy,
Carmina, leaves me no alternative ^^ut to speak out. If I had
done my duty, I ought to have Mid long since, what I am
going to say now. You are putting your trust in the bitterest
enemy yon have ; an enemy who secretly hates you with the
unforgiving hatred of a rival — "

* 1 started up in the bed. Look back at my letter, describ-
ing what had passed between Miss Minerva and rao, when I
went to her room j and you will know what I felt on hearing her

■^

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178

HEAIIT AND SCIKNOE.

spoken of as " a rival." My sensoof juatico refused to believe
it. But oh, my dear old nurse, tliero was aomo deeper yonse
ill me that said, as if in words, It is true.

' Mrs. Gallilee went on, without mercy.

•" I know her thoroughly; I have studied her thorou;:;hly ; I
have looked into her ftflse heart. Nobody has discovered her but
me. Charge her with it if you like ; and let her deny it if she
dare. Miss Minerva is secretly in love with my son."

' She got up. H»!r object was gained ; she was even with
Miss Minerva at last.

* " Lie down in your bed again," she said, " and think over
what I have told you. In your own interests, think over it
well."

• I was left alone.

'Shall 1 tell you what saved me from sinking under the
shock 1 Ovid — thousands and thousands of miles away — Ovid
saved me.

' I love him with all my heart and soul ; and I do firmly be-
lieve that I know him better than I know myself. If his
mother had betrayed Miss Minerva to him as she has betrayed
her to me, that unhappy woman would have had his truest piiy,
I am as certain of this, as I am that I see the moon, while I
write, shining on my bed. Ovid would have pitied her. And
I pitied her.

' That feeling calmtd me, aud saved me.

* I wrote the lines that follow, and sent them to her by the
maid. In the fear that she might mistake my motives, and
think me angry and jealous, I addressed herwith my former
familiarity by her Christian name :

'" Last night, Frances, I ventured to ask if you loved some
one who did not lov3 you. And you answered by saying to
me, Guess who he is. My aunt has just told me that he is her
son. Has she spoken the truth ? "

' I am waiting to receive the reply to that question.

' For the first time since I have been in the house, my door
is locked. I cannot, and will not, see Mrs. Gallilee again. All
her former cruelties are, as I feel it, nothing to the cruelty of
her coming here when I am ill, and saying to me what she has
said.

< The weary time passesj and still there is no reply. U

HEAUT AND SCIENCli:.

1 70

t^ranoes angry ? or is she hwsitftting how to answer in« — |Hr-
sonally or by writing 1 No! hIib has too much dehcacy of
feehng to answer in her own person.

* I liave only done her justice. Tlie maid has just asked mo
to open the door. I nave got her reply. Read it.

' " Mrs Gftllilee has spoken the truth.

'" How I can have betrayed myself so that she has dis-
covered my miserable secret, is more than I can tell. I will
not own it to her, or to any living creature but yourself. Un-
deserving as I am, I know that I can trust you.

' " It is needless to dwell at any length on this confession.
Many things in my conduct which must have perplexed you
will explain themselves now. There has been, however, one
concealment on my part, which it is due to you that I should
acknowledge.

* " If Mrs. Gallilee had taken me into her confidence, I con-
fess that my jealousy would have degraded me into becoming
her accomplice. As things were, I was too angry and too cun-
ning to let her make use of me without trusting me.

* " There are other acts of deceit which I ought to acknow
ledge — if T could summon composure enough to write about
them. Better to say at once — I am not worthy of your par-
don, not worthy even of your pity.

* " With the same sincerity, I warn you that the wickedness in
me, on which Mrs. Gallilee calculated, may be in me still. The
influence of your higher and better nature — helped perhaps by
that other influence of which the old priest spoke in his letter
— has opened my heart to tenderness and penitence of which I
never believed myself capable ; has brought the burning tears
into my eyes which make it a hard task to write to you. All
this I know, and yet I dare not believe in myself. It is use-
less to deny it, Carmina — I love him — Even now when youhave
found me out—I love him. Don't trust me. Oh, God, what
torture it is to write it— but I do write it — I will write it —
don't trust me.

• " One thing I may say for myself. I know the utter hope-
lessness of that love which I have acknowledged. I know
that he returus your lovei and will never return mine. So let
it be.

180

HEART AND SCIENCE.

* " I am not younji ; 1 have no right to comfort mysolf with
hopes that I know ro be vain. ]f one of us is to suffer, let it be
that one who is r.sed to suflVi ing. I liave never been the darling
of my parents, like you ; I have not been used at home to the
kindness and the love that yon remember. A life without
sweetness and joy has well fitted me for a loveless future.
And, besides, you are worthy of him, and I am not. Mrs.
Gallilee is wrong, Carmina, if she thinks I am your rival. I
am not your rival ; I never can be your rival. Believe noth-
ing else, but for God sake, believe that !

* "I have no more to say — at least no more that I can remem-
ber now. Perhaps, you shrink from remaining in the same
house with me 1 Let me know it and I shall be ready — I
might almost say, glad — to go."

* Have you read her letter, Teresa ? Am I wrong in feeling
that this poor wounded heart has surely some claim on me 1
If I am wrong, oh, what am 1 to do 1 what am I to do I '

,«'! -M

«k>^'

OHArTER XXVTIT.

The last lines addressed by Carmina to her old nurse wer
com^>]oted on the seventeenth of August, and were posted th
night.

The day that followed was menjorable to Carmina, and mei
orable to Mrs. Gallilee. Dr. Benjulia had his reasons also fi
remembering the eighteenth of August.

Still in search of a means of undermining the confident
which united Ovid and Carmina, and still calling on her invor-
tion in vain, Mrs. Gallilee had passed a sleepless night. Hti
maid, entering the room at the usual hour, was ordered to
leave her in bed, and not to return until the bell rang. On
ordinary occasions, Mrs. Gallilee was up in time to receive the
letters arriving by the iirst delivery ; the corrt'spondence of the
other members of the houselioid being sorted by her own hands,
before it was distributed by the servant. On this particular
morning, (after sleeping a little through sheer exhaustion) she
entered the empty breakfast room two hoiu's later than usual
The letters waiting for her were addressed only to herself, bhe
rang for the maid.

' Any other letters this morning 1 ' she asked.

' Two for my master.'

* No more than that ! '

* Nothing more ma'am — except a telegram for Miss Carmina.

* When did it come 1 '

* Soon after the letters*

' Have you given it to her 1 *

' Being a telegram, ma'am, I thought I ought to take it to
Miss Carmina at once.'

* Quite right. You can go.*

A telegram for Carmina I Was there some private cones-

182

HEART AND SCIENCE.

ill I

ill

-I'

;■':

, ii

; ■'■

.1 k

pondence going 6h 1 And were the interests involved too im-
portant to wait for the ordinary means of communication
by post 1 Considering these questions, Mrs. Gallilee poured
out a cup of tea, and looked over her letters.

Only one of them especially attracted her notice in her pre-
sent frame of mind. The writer was Benjulia. He dispensed
as usual wi^h the customary forms of address.

* I have had a letter about Ovid, from a friend of mine in
Canada. There is an allusion to him of the jomplimentary sort,
which I don't altogether understand. I want to ask you about
it — but I can't spare the time to go a-visiting. My experiments
are in too critical a state to be left just now. You have got
your carriage — and youi- fine friends are out of town. If you
want a drive, come to me, and bring your last letters from Ovid
with you.*

' Mrs. Gallilee decided on considering this characteristic pro-
posal later in the day. Her first and foremost in teres L took her
upstairs to her niece's room.

Carmina had left her bed. .Robed in her white dressiug-
gown, she lay on the sofa in the sitting-room. When her aunt
came in, she started and shuddered. Those signs of nervous
aversion escaped the notice of Mr. Galli'ee. Her attention had
been at once attracted by a travelling bag, opened as if in pre-
paration for packing. The telegram lay on Carmina's lap.
The significant connection between those two objects as-
serted itself plainly. But it was exactly the opposite of the
connection suspected by Mrs. Gallilee. The telegram had pre-
vented Carmijia from leaving the house.

Mrs. Gallilee paved the way for the necessary investigation,
by making a few commonplace enquiries. How had Carmine
passed the night ? Had the maid taken care of her at break-
fast time 1 Was there anything that her annt could do for
her 1 Carmina replied with a reluctance which she was unable
to conceal. Mrs. Gallilee passed over the cold reception ac-
corded to }ier, without remark, and pointed with a bland smile
to the telegram.

' No bad news, I hope f '

Carmina handed the telegram silently to her aunt. The
change of circumstances which the arrival of the message had
produced made concealment superfluous. Mi*s. Gallilee ouened

HEART AND SCIENCE.

183

The
,ge hud
ooened

the telegram, keeping hor suspicions in reserve. It had been
Bent from Rome by tlie old foreign woman, named ' Teresa,' and
it contained these words :

* My husband died this morning. Expect me in London from
day to day.'

' Why is this person coming lo London 1 ' Mrs. Gallilee in-
quired.

Stunqj by the insolent composure of tliJit ({uestion, Carraina
answered sharply, ' You ought t(^ know ! '

'Indeed ? ' said Mrs. GHlIilee. ' Perhaps she likes London V

' She hates London ! You have had her in the house ; you
have seen us together. Now she has lost her husband, do you
think she can liv e apart from the one person in the world whom
she loves best 1 '

' My dear, these matters of mere sentiment escape my notice,'
Mrs. Gallilee rejoined. It's an expensive journey from Italy to
England. What was her husband 1

' Her husband was foreman in a manufactory of artists' col-
ours, till his health fiiiled him.'

' And then,' Mrs. Gallilee concluded, * the money failed him.
[ understand. Has his widow any resources of her own '] '

* She has saved something, poor dear, in our service. But
that doesn't matter. My pui-se is hers.'

* Very generous, I am sure. Even the humblest lodgings
are dear in this neighbourhood. However — with your assist-
ance — your old servant may be able to live somewhere near
you*'

Having settled the question of Teresa's life in London in
tliis way, Mrs. Gallilee returned to the prime objf^ ".t of her .«jus-
picion — she took possession of the travelling bag.

Carmina looked at Iter with the submission of utter bewil-
Jeiment. Teresa had been the companion of her life; Teresa
had been received as her attendant, when she was first estab-
lished under her aunt's roof. She had assumed that her nurse
would become a member of the household again, as a matter
of course. With Teresa to encourage her, she had summoned
the resolution to live with Ovid's mother, laitil Ovid came
back. And now she had been informed, in words too plain to
be mistaken^ that Teresa musthnd a home for herself when she

'^:

184

HEART AND SCIENCE.

t*ii

]ii

i -lfi

returned to London. Surprise, disappointment, indignation
held Carmina speechless.

'Tliis thing,' Mis. Gallilee proceeded, holding up the bag,
• will he only in your way hero. I will iiavo it put with our
own bags and box'^s, iji tlio luinbci- i-ooni. And, by-th(vby, 1
fancy you don't ((iiite uudcrHtand (naturally enough, at your
age) otir relativi; positions in tiiis iiouHc My cliild, the author-
ity of your late fatlun- is the authority which your guardian
holds over you. I hope never to l»e obliged to exercise it —
<>specially, if you will be good enouuh to ienieuiV»er two things.
I expect yon to consult nie in your choice of companions ; and
to wait for my approval bet\)ro you make arrangements, whicl.>
— well, let us say, which re(piire the bag to be removed from
the lumber-room.

Without waiting for a re[)ly, she turned to the door. After
opening it she paused— and looked back into the room.

' Have you thought of what T said to you, last night ]' she
asked.

Sorely as they had been tried, Oarmina's energies riillied at
this. ' I have done my best to forget it ! ' she answered.

' At ISIisH Minerva's request V

Carmina took no notice of the (piestion.

Mrs. Gallilee perwisted. * Have you had any communication
with Miss Minerva l '

There was stili no reply. Preserving her temper, Mrs.
Gallilee stepped out on the landing, and called to Miss Minerva.
The governess answered from the upper floor.

* Please come down here,' said Mrs. Gallilee.

Miss Minerva obeyed. Her face was paler than usual ; her
eyes had lost something of their piercing brightness. She
stopped outside Carmina's dotr. Mrs. Gallilee requested her
to enter the room.

After an instant — only an instant — of hesitation. Miss Min-
erva crossed the threshold. She cast one quick glance at Car-
mina, and lowered her eyes before the look could be returned.
Mrs. Gallilee discovered no mute signs of an understanding
between them. She turned to the governess.

' Have you been here already this morning 1 ' she inquired.

«No.'

' Is there some coolness between you and my niece.

.i i

HEART AND SCIEirCE.

185

* None, nwulun, that 1 know of.'

■ Then, why dou"" you 8j)oak to her when you coniG into the
room 1 '

* Miss Ciirnuna lias been ill. I see her resting on the sofa —
and I am unwilling to disturb her.'

' Not even by saying good morning 1 '
'Not even that !'

* You are exceedingly careful, Miss Minerva.'

' I have had some experience; of sick |)eoi)le, madam ; and I
have learned to be careful. May I ask what you have called
me down stairs for 1 '

Mrs. Gallilee prepared to put her niece and her governess to
the final test.

' I wish you to suspend the children's lessons for an hour
or two/ she answered.

' Certainly. Shall I tell them ] '

* No ; I will toll them myself, on my way to my own room.'
' What do you wish me to do ] ' said Miss Minerva.

I wish you to remain here with my niece.'

If Mrs. Gallilee, after answering in those terms, had looked
at her niece, instead of looking at her governess, she would
h.ive seen Carmina — distrustful of her own self-control — move
cu the sofa so as to turn her face to the wall. As it was. Miss
Minerva's g.ttitiule and look silently claimed some explanation.

Mrs. Gallilee aiMressed her in a whisper. ' Let nu; say a
word to you at the door.'

Miss Minerva followed her to the landing outside. Carmina
turned again, watching them earnestly.

*I am not at all satisfied with her looks, this morning,' Mrs,
Gallilee proceeded ; ' and I don't think it right she should be
left alone. My household duties must be attended to. Will
you take my ])lace at the sofa, until the doctor comes ? '
{^ Now,* she thought, ' if there is jealousy between them, I shall
see it ! ')

She saw nothing : the governen^ (piietly bowed to her, and
went back to Carmina. She heard nothing : although the half-
closed door gave her 9p[)ortunitif s for listening. Ignorant, she
had entered the room. Ignorant, she left it.

Carmina lay still and silent. With noiseless step. Miss Min-
erva approached the sofa, and stood by it, waiting. Neither of

* i ,

ttrnt AND SCIEKCtei

them lifted her eyes, the uue to the other. The woman suffered
her tortiire in secret. The girl's sweet eyes filled slowly with
tears. One by one the minutes of the morning passed — not
many in number, before there was a change. In silence, Car-
mina held out her hand. In silence, Miss Minerva took it and
kisbed iU

CHAPTER XXTX,

Mrs. Gallilee saw her housekeeper as usiia!, and gave liet
orders for the day. ' If there is anything forgotten/ she said,
* I must leave it to you. For the next hour or two, don't let
me be disturbed.'

Some of her letters of the morning were still unread, others
required immediate acknowledgment. She was not as ready for
her duties as usual. For once, the most unendurably industri-
ous of women was idle, and sat thinking.

Even her unimaginative nature began to tremble on the
verge of supers I, i lion. Twice, had the subtle force of circum-
stances defeated her, in the attempt to meddle with the con-
templated marriage of her son. By means of the music master,
she had planned to give Ovid jealous reasons for doubting Car-
mina — and she had failed. By means of the governess, she had
planned to give Carmina jealous reasons for doubting Ovid —
and she had failed. When some people talked of Fatality, were
they quite such fools as she had hitherto supposed them to be ]
It would be a waste of time to inquire. What next step could
she take 1

Urged by the intolerable sense of defeat to find i easons for
still looking hopefully to the future, no matter how intrinsically
worthless those reasons might be, the learned Mrs. Gallilee low-
ered herself to the intellectual level of the most ignorant servant
in the house. The modern Muse of Science unconsciously
opened her mind to the vulgar belief in luck. She said to her-
self, as her kitchen-maid might have said, We will see what
comes of it, the third time?

Benjulia's letter was among the other letters on the table.
She took it up, and read it again.

In her present frame of mind, to find her thoughts occupied

' I

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l88

HEAllT AND SCIKNCB.

' t

Wi'i

¥■ !'

L 'i

t.\ .1

Fi ■ ;

I'
I:: ■

V : j,

\>y tlie doctor, was to be reminded of Ovid's strange allusion to
his professional colleague, on the day of his departure. Speak-
ing of Carmina, he had referred to one person whom he did not
wish her to see in his absence ; and that person, he had himself
admitted to be Benjulia. He had been asked to state his ob-
jections to the doctor — and how had he replied 1 He had said,
' I don't think Benjulia a fit person to be in the company of a
young girl. '

Why?

There are many men of mature age, who are not fit persons
to be in the company of young girls — but they are either men
who despise, or men who admire, young girls. Benjulia be-
longed neither to the one nor to the other of these two classes.
Girls were objects of absolute indifierence to him — with the
one exception of Zo, aged ten. Never yet, after meeting him
in society hundreds of times, had Mrs. Gallilee seen him talk to
young ladies or even notice young ladies. Ovid's alleged reason
for objecting to Benjulia stood palpably revealed as a clumsy
excuse.

In the present posture of events, to arrive at that conclusion
was enough for Mrs. Gallilee. It occurred to her now, as it
had occurred to her at the time, that there must be something
wrong. Without stopping to pursue the idea, she rang the
bell, and ordered her carriage to be ready that afternoon, at
three o'clock.

Doubtful, and more than doubtful, though it might be, the
bare prospect of finding herself possessed, before the day was
out, of a means of action capable of being used against Car-
mina, raised Mrs. Oallilee's spirits. She was ready at last to
attend to her correspondence.

One of the letters was from her sister in Scotland. Among
other subjects it referred to Carmina.

* Why won't you let that sweet girl come and stay with us V
Lady Northlake asked. * My daughters are longing for such
a companion ; and both my sons are ready to envy Ovid the
moment they see her. Tell my nephew, when you next write,
that I thoroughly understand his falling in love with that
gentle pretty creature at first sight.'

Carmina's illness was the ready excuse which presented itself
in Mrs. Gallilee's reply. With or without an excuse, Lady

ii.'w_.

HEART AND SOfENCE.

189

Northlake was to be resolutely prevented from taking a foremost
place in her niece's heart, and encouraging the idea of her
niece's marriage. Mrs. Galliloe felt almost pious enough to
thank Heaven that her sister's palace in the Highlands was
at one end of Great Britain, and her own marine villa at the
other !

The marine villa reminded her of the family migration to
the seHBide.

When would it be desirable to leave London ? Not until
her mind was rflievcdof the heavier anxieties that now weighed
on it. Not while ovtMits might happen — in cvonnection with the
threatening creditors or tiie contemplated marriage — which
would baffle her prem^nt calci itions, and make her presence in
London a matter of serious importance to her own interests.
Miss Minerva, again, was a new obstacle in the way. To take
her to t?>e Isle of Wight was not to be thought of for a mo-
ment. To dismiss her at once, by paying the month's salary,
might be the preferable course to pursue — but for two objec-
tions. In the first place (if the friendly understanding between
them really continued) Carrnina might communicate with the
discarded governess in secret. In the second place, to pay Miss
Minerva's salary b(;fore she had earned it, was a concession
from which Mrs. Gallilee's spite, and Mrs. Gallilee's principle
of paltry economy, recoiled in disgust. No ! the waiting policy
in London, under whatever aspect it might be viewed, was for
the present the one policy to pursue.

She returned to the demands of her correspondence. Just as
she had taken up her pen, the sanctuary of the boudoir was
violated by the appea'-anue of a servant.

* What is it now 1 Didn't the housekeeper tell you that I am
not to be disturbed 1 '

' I beg your pardon, ma'am. My master '

* What does your master want 1 '
'He wishes to see you, ma'am.'

This was a circumstance entirely without parallel in the
domestic history of the house. In sheer astonishment, Mrs.
Gallilee pushed away her letters, and said * Show him in.'

When the boys of fifty years since were naughty, the school-
master of the period was not accustomed to punish them by
tippealing to their sense of honour. Xf 9, boy wanted a flog-

]no

HEART ANi» SCIENCE,

•ii il

ging, in those days, the educational system seized a cane or a
birch-rod and give it to them. Mr. Oallilee entered liis wife's
room, with the feelings which had once animatod liiin, on en-
tering the school-master's study to be caned. Wluii he said,
'Good morning, my dear,' liis face presented the exjjvession of
fifty years since, when he had said * Please, sir, let mo off this
time ! '

' Now,' said Mrs. Gallilee, ' what do yon want t '
' Only a little word. How well you're looking, my dear 1 '
After a sleepless night, followed by her defeat in Carmina's
room, Mrs. Gallilee looked, and knew that she looked, ugly and
old. And her wretched husband had reminded her of it. * Go
on ! ' she answered sternly.

Mr. Gallilee moistened his dry lips. ' I think I'll take a
chair, if you will allow me,' lie said. Having taken his chair
(at a respectful distance from his wife), he looked all round
the room with the air of a visitor who had never seen it before.
* How very pretty I ' he remarked softly. * Such taste in co-
lour. I think the carpet was your own design, wasn't it 1 How
chaste ! '

* Will you come to the point, Mr. Gallilee ? '

* With pleasure, my dear — with pleasure. I'm afraid I smell
of tobacco 1 '

* I don't care if you do ! '

This was such an agreeable surprise to Mr. Gallilee, that ho
got on his legs again to enjoy it standing up. ' How kind !
Really now, how kind 1 * He approached Mrs. Gallilee confi-
dentially. * And do you know, my dear, it was one of the most
remarkable cigars I ever smoked.* Mrs. Gallilee laid down her
pen and looked at him with a formidable frown. In the ex-
tremity of his confusion Mr. Gallilee ventured nearer. He felt
the sinister fascination of the serpent in the expression of those
awful eyebrows. * How well you are looking ! How amaz-
ingly well you are looking this morning I * He leered at his
learned wife, and patted her shoulder !

For the moment, Mrs. Gallilee was petrified. At his time
of life, was this fat and feeble creature approaching her with
conjugal endearments ? At that early hour of the day, had his
guilty lips tasted his favourite champagne, foaming in his well-

's*

HEART AND Sr'IENfE.

101

ne or %
a wife'H

on eii-
le Huid,
^sion of

off tliia

ear 1 '
irmina's
igly and
t. 'Go

take a
bis chair
11 round
t before.
;e in co-
it? How

d T smell

that ho
»w kind !
,ee confi-
;he most
own her
the ex-
He felt
of those
w amaz-
at his

lis time

]ier with

had his

m well-

beloved silver mug, over hi^ much.adiuirod liiuip of iw ? Aiid
wiifl this the result?

' Mr. Galliloe ! '

' Yes, my dear ? *

' Sit down ! '

Mr. Gallilee sat down.

* Have you been to the club 1 '
Mr. Gallilee got up again.

* Sit down ! '

Mr. Gallilee sat down. * T was about to say, my dear, that
I'll show you over the club with the greatest pleasure — if that's
what you mean.'

* If you are not a downright idiot,' said Mrs. Gallilee, * un-
derstand this ! E'ther say what you have to say, or ' she

lifted her hand, and let it down on the writing-table with a slap
that made the pens ring in the inkstand— ' or leave the room ! *

Mr. Gallilee lifted his hand, and searched in the breast-
pocket of his coat. He pulled out his cigar case, and put it
back in a hurry. He tried again, and produced a letter. Ho
looked piteously round the room, in sore need of somebody
whom he might appeal to, and ended in appealing to liimself.
' What sort of tem[)er wi]l she be in ? ' he whispered.

* What have you got thei'e 1 ' Mrs. Gallilee asked sharply.
• One of the letters you had this morning ? '

Mr. Gallilee looked at her with admiration. Wonderful
woman ! ' he said. * Nothing escaped her. Allow me, my
dear.'

He rose and presented the letter, as if he was presenting a
petition. Mrs. Gallilee snatched it out of his hand. Mr. Gal-
lilee went softly back to his chair, and breathed a devout ejac-
ulation. ' Oh, Lord ! '

It was a letter from one of the tradespeople, whom Mrs.
Gallilee had attempted to pacify with a payment ' on account.'
The tradesman felt compelled, in justice to himself, to appeal
to Mr. Gallilee, as master of the house (?). It was imposible
for him (he submitiijed with the greatest respect) to accept a
payment, which did not amount to one-third of the sum
owing to him for more than a twelvemonth. * Wretch ! * cried
Mrs. Gallilee. * I'll settle his bill and never employ him again ! '
She ojpened her cheque-book, f^nd dipped her pen in the \n}i.

111

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102

HEART AND SCIENCE.

A faint voice meekly protested. Mr. Gallilee wfts on Ins legs
again. Mr. Gallilee said, ' Please don't ! '

She looked at him in speechless amazement. There he stood ;
his round eyes staring at the cheque-book, his fat cheeks quiv-
ering with alarm. * You musn't do it,' he said, with a firat
and last outburst of courage. ' Give ine a minute, my dear —
oh, good gracious, give me a minute ! '

He searched in his pocket again, and produced another letter.
His eyes wandered towards the door ! drops of perspiration
oozed out on his forehead. He laid the second letter on the
table ; he looked at his wife, and — ran out of the room.

Mrs. Gallilee opened the second letter. Another dissatisfied
tradesman 1 No ; creditors far more formidable than the gro-
cer and the butcher. An official letter from the bankers, in-
forming Mr. Gallilee that ' the account was overdrawn.'

She seized her pass-book, and her paper of calculationa
Never yet had her rigid arithmetic committed an error. Column
by column she revised her figures — and made the humiliating
discovery of her firtit mistake. She had drawn out all, and more
than all, her money deposited in the bank ; and the next half-
yearly payment of income was not due until Christmas.

There was but one thing to be done — to go at once to the
bank. Already Miss Mineiva's view of the prospect tliat
awaited her employer was a view confirmed. Those * othfr
resources,' to which the governess had alluded, as unknown pos-
sibilities to be taken into account, were one and all represented
by Ovid. If he had not been in the wilds of Canada, Mrs. Gal-
lilee would have made her confession to him without hesitation.
A)i it was, the servant called a cab, and she made her confession
ij the bankers.

The matter was soon settled to her satisfaction. It rested
with Mr. Gallilee. In the house, he might abdicate his authority
to his heart's content. Out of the house, in the matter of busi-
ness, he was master still. His ' investments ' represented ex-
cellent * security ; ' he had only to say how much he wanted
to borrow, and to sign certain papers — and the thing was
done.

Mrs Gallilee went home again, with her pecuniary anxieties
at rest for the time. The carriage was waiting for her at th9
door.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

193

Should she fulfil her intention of visiting Benjulial She
was not a person who readily changed her mind — and, besides,
after the troubles of tho morning, the drive into the country
would be a welcome relief. Hearing that Mr. Gallilee was still
at home, she looked in at the smoking-room. Unerring in-
stinct told her where to find her husband, under present circum-
stances. There he was, enjoying his cigar in comfort, with his
feet on a chair. She opened the door. ' I want you, this
evening,' she said — and shut the door again ; leaving Mr. Gal-
lilee suffocated by a mouthful of his own smoke.

Before getting in the carriage, she only waited to restore her
fare with a judicious sprinkling of powder. Benjulia's humour
was c«»sentially an uncertain humour. It might be necessary
to fasc.'aate the doctor. '

'IV

iri
'1'

CHAPTER XXX

The complimentary allusion to Ovid, which Benjulia had not
beeti able to understand, was contained in a letter from Mr.
Morphew, and wps expreseed in these words.

' Let me sincerely thank you for making us acquainted with
Doctor Ovid Vere. Now that he has left us, we really feel as
if we had said good-bye to an old friend. I don't know when
I have met with such a perfectly unselfish man — and I say this,
speaking from experience of him. In my unavoidable absence
he volunteered to attend a serious case of illness, accompanied
by shocking circumstances — and this at a time when, as you
know, his own broken health forbids him to undertake any
professional duty. While he could preserve the patient's life
— and lie did wonders, in this way — he was every day at the
bedside, taxing his strength '•! the service of a perfect stranger.
I fancy I see you (with your impatience of letter-writing at
any length) looking to the end. Don't be alarmed. I am
writing to your brother Lemuel by this mail, and I have little
time to spare.'

Was this 'serious case of illness '—described as being * ac-
companied by shocking circumstances ' — a case of disease of
the brain 1

There was the question, proposed by Ben Julia's inveterate
suspicion of Ovid, as a rival who might intrude on the field of
discovery which he was resolved to keep to himself ! He re-
viled poor Mr. Morphew as 'a born idiot* for not having
plainly stated what the patient's malady was, instead of wast-
ing paper on smooth sentences, encumbered by long words.
Judging by the description, there were other elements of interest
in the case besides the medical interest. If Ovid had men-
tioned it, on that account, in his letters to bis i^other — and if

HEART AND SCIENCE.

195

those letters could be examined — his customary preciseness of
language might be trusteri to relieve Benjulia's doubts. With
that purpose in view, tl e loctor had written k) Mrs. Gallilee.

Before he laid down hm pen, he looked once more at Mr.
Morphew's letter, and absently made a mark under one Ime :
' I am writing to your brother Lemuel by this mail.'

The information of which he was in search might be in that
letter. If Mrs. Galliiee's correspondence with her son failed
to enlighten him, here was another chance of making the de-
sired discovery. Surely the wisest course to take would be to
write to Lemuel as well.

His one motive for hesitation was dislike of his younger bro-
ther — dislike so inveterate that he even recoiled from com-
municating with Lemuel through the post. There had never
been any sympathy between them ; but indifference had only
matured into downright enmity, on the doctr-'s part, a ye.ir
since. Accident (the result of his own absence of mind, while
he was perplexed by an unsuccessful experiment) had placed
Lemuel in possession of his hideous secret. The one person in
the world who knew how he was really occupied in the labora-
tory, was his brother.

Here was the true motive of the bitterly contemptuous tone
in which Benjulia had spoken to Ovid of his nearest relation.
Lemuel's character was certainly deserving of severe judgment,
in some of its aspects. In his hours of employment (as chief
clerk in the office of a London publisher) he steadily and punc-
tually performed the duties entrusted to him. In his hours of
freedom, his sensual instincts got the better of hiin ; and his
jealous wife had her reasons for complaint. Among his friends
he was the subject of a wide diversity of opinion. Some of
them agreed with his brother in thinking him little better
than a fool. Others suspected him of possessing natural abili-
ties, but of being too lazy, perhaps too cunning, to exert them.
In the office he allowed himself to be called *a mere machine '
— and escaped the over-work which fell to the share of quicker
men. When his wife and her relations declared him to be a
mere animal, he never contradicted them — and so gained the
reputation of a person on whom reprimand was thrown away.
Under the protection of this unenviable character, he some-
times said severe things with an air of perfect simplicity.

1 1

100

HEART AND SCIENCE

? 1 s

When the fuiions rioctor discovered him in the laboratory, anu
said, * I'll be the death of you, if you tell any living creature
■what I am doing ! * — Lemuel answered, with a stare of stupid
astonishment, ' make your mind easy ; I should be ashamed to
mention it.'

Furth'jr reflection decided Benjulia on writing. Even when
he had a favour to ask, he was unable to address Lemuel with
common politeness. ' I hear that Morphew has written to you
by the last mail. I want to see the letter/ So much he wiote,
and no more. What was barely enough for the purpose, was
enough for the doctor, when he addre^seii his brother.

J i

CHAPTER XXXI.

|i'

086, was

Between one and two o'clock, the next afternoon, Benjulia (at
work in his laboratory) heard the bell which announced the
arrival of a visitor at the house. No matter what the circum-
stances might be, the servants were forbidden to disturb him
at his studies in any other way.

Very unwillingly he obeyed the call — locking the door be-
hind him. At that hour it was luncheon-time in well-regulated
households — and it was at the last degree unlikely that Mrs.
Gallilee could be the visitor. Getting within view of the
front of the house, he saw a man standing on the door-step.
Advancing a little nearer he recognized Lemuel.

* Hullo ! ' cried the elder brother.

* Hullo ! ' answered the younger, like an echo.

'They stood looking at each other with the suspicious curi*
osity of two strange cats. Between Nathan Benjulia, the fa>
mous doctor, and Lemuel Benjulia, the publisher's clerk, there
was just family resemblance enough to suggest that they were
relatione The younger brother was only a little over the or-
dinary height ; he was rather fat than thin ; he wore a mous-
tache and whiskers; he dressed smartly —and his prevailing
expression announced that he was thoroughly well satisfied with
himself. But he inherited Benjulia's gipsy complexion ; and,
in form and colour, he had Benjulia's eyes.

* How-dye-do, Nathan 1 ' he said.

' What the devil brings you here ? ' was the answer.

Lemuel passed o^er his brother's rudeness without no-
tice. His mouth curled up at the corners with a mischievous
smile.

' I thought you wished to see my letter,' he said.

* Why couldn't you send it by post 1 '

; t

|i]

lOs

HEAUt AND SClilNX'fi.

•

li!

ijij
hi

I,!

'My wife wishod me to takn the opportunity of calling on you.'

'That's a lie,' said nonjuiia quietly. 'Try another excuse.
Or do a new thing. For once apeak the truth.'

For the second time, Lemuel showed no resentment— so far
as appearance went. ' If you will have it,' ho said ' a lady of
my acquaintance (would you like to be introduced to her?) is
s\ ending her holiday in the village near you. Being in the
neighbourhood, I thought I might as well bring my letter with
me '

Without waiting to hear more, Benjulia led the way into the
room in which he had received Ovid.

' How did you get away from your office 1 * he inquired

' It's easy to get a holiday at this time of year. Business is
slack, old boy '

' Stop ! I don't allow you to speak to me in that way.'

' No offence, brother Nathan.'

' Brother Lemuel, I never allow a fool to offend me. I put
him in his place — that's all.

The distant barking of a dog became audible from the lane
by which the house was approached. The sound seemed to
annoy Benjulia. * What.s thati' he asked.

Lemuel saw his way to making some return for his brother's
reception of him.

' It's my dog,' he said ; * and it's lucky for you that I have
left him in the cab.

•Why?'

'Well, he's as sweet tempered a dog as ever lived, But he
has one fault. He doesn't take kindly to scientific gentlemen
in your line of business.' Lemuel paused, and pointed to his
brother's ban Is. ' If he smelt that, he might try his teeth at
viviseoting You.*

The spots of blood which Ovid had once seen on Benjulia's
stick, were on his hands now. With unrullled composure he
looked at the horrid stains, silently telling their tale of torture.

' What's the use of washing my hands,' he answered, ' when
I am going back to my work 1 '

He wiped his finger and thumb on the tail of Iiis coat.
' Now,' he resumed, * if you have got your letter with you, let
me look at it.'

X^muel produced tie letter. ' There are some bits in it,' hQ

ItEAUT AND SICENCE.

lliO

explained, 'which you had better not see. That's the rcuHon
wliy I brought it myself. Read the first page — and then I'll
tell you where to skip. *

So far, there is no allusion to Ovid. Benjulia turned to the
second page — and Lemuel pointed to tlie middle of it. * Read
as far as that,' he went on ' and then skip till you come to the
last bit at the end.'

On the last page Ovid's name appeared. He was mentioned
as a * delightful person, introduced by your brother,' — and
with that the letter ended. In the first bitterness of dlHuppoint-
ment, Benjulia conceived an angry suspicion of those portions
of the letter which he had been requested to pass over unread.

< What has Morphew got to say to you that I mustn't read ? '
he asked.

* Suppose you tell me first, what you want to find in the let-
ter,* Lemuel rejoined. * Morphew is a doctor like you. Is it
anything medical 1 '

Benjulia answered this in the easiest way — he nodded his head.

* Is it vivisection 1 * Lemuel enquired slily.

Benjulia then handed the letter back, and pointed to the door.
His momentary interest in the supi)ressed passages was at an
end. ' That will do,' he answered. * Take yourself and your
letter away.'

' Ah,' said Lemi^el, ' I'm glad ycu don't want to look at it
again.' He put the letter away, and buttoned his coat, and
tapped his pocket significantly. * You have got a nasty temper,
Nathan — and there are things here thai might try it.'

In the case of any other man, Benjulia would have seen
that the one object of these prudent remarks v/as to irritate
him. Misled by his' profound conviction of his brother's stu-
pidity, he now thought it possible that the concealed portions
of the letter might be worth notice. He stopped Lemuel
at the door. ' I've changed my mind,' he said ; ' I want to
look at the letter again.'

* You had better not,' Lemuel persisted. * Morphew's going
to write a book against you — and he asks me to get it pub>
lished at our place. I'm on his side, you know ; I shall do my
best to help him ; I can lay my hand on literary fellows who
will lick his style into shape — it will be an awful exposure ! '
Benjulia still held out his hand. With over-acted reluctance,
Lemuel unbuttoned his 'coat. The distant dog barked again as

■ i

(

1 ' '

'■

1
1

■

1 ''

IL^

200

nEART AND SCIENCK.

he gave the lotU'r back. ' Please excuse my dear old dog,' he
said with maudlin tendernesM ; ' the poor dumb animal seems
to know that I am taking hiH side in the controversy. JJoiv-
wow means, in his language, Fie upon the cruel hands that bore
holes in our heads and use saws on our backs. Ah, Nathan, if
you have got any dogs in that horrid place of your's, pat them
and give them their dinner. You never heard me talk like
this before — did you 1 I'm a new man since I joined the
Society for suppressing you. Oh, if I only had the gift of
writing.*

The effect of this experiment on his brother's temper failed
to fultiil Lemuel's expectations. The doctor's interest was
roused on the doctor's own subject of inquiry.

* You're quite right,* said Benjulia, gravely, * I never heard
you talk in this way Ix^fore. Come to the light.' He led
Lemuel to the window — lookod at him with the closest atten-
tion — and carefully consulted Jiis pulse. Lemuel smiled.
* I'm not joking,' said P>(Mijulia stornly. ' Tell me thi& Have
you had headaches lately 1 Do you find your memory failing
you V

As he put these questions, ho thought to ht.nself — seriously
thought — * fs this fellow's brain softening] I wish I had him
on my table ! '

Lemuel persisted in presenting himself under a sentimental
aspect. He had not forgotten his elder brother's rudeness
yet — and he knew, by experience, the one weakness in Ben-
julia's character which, with his usual resources, it was possible
to attack.

* Thank you for your kind inquiries,' he replied. * Never mind
my head, so long as my heart's in the right place. I don't pre-
tend to be clever — but I've got my feelings ; and I could put
some awkward questions on what you call Medical Research, if
I had Morphew to help me.

* I'll help you,' said Benjulia — interested in developing the
state of his brother's brain.

* I don't believe you,' said Lemuel — interested in developing
the state of his brother's temper.

' Try me, Lemuel. '
' All right, Nathan.'

The two brothers returned to theii' chairs ; reduced for onco
to the same moral level.

CHAPTER XXXII.

' Now,' Haid Benjnlia, what is it to bo. The favourite publlo
bugbear 1 Vivisection I '

' Very weH. What can I do for you 1 *
•Tell me first,' said Lemuel, 'what is Lawl*
•Nobody knows.'

* Well, then, what ought it to bel '

* Justice, I suppose.'

' Let me wait a bit, Nathan, and got that into my mind.'

Beiijulia waited with exemplary patience.

' Now about yourself,' LtMuuul continued. ' You won't be
offended — will you ? Should I be right, if I called you a dissec-
tor of living creatures 1 '

Benjulia was reminded of the day when he had discovered
his brother in the laboratory. II is dark complexion deepened
into hue. Hie oold grey eyes seemed to promise a coming out-
break. Lemuel went on.

' Does the law forbid you to make your experiments on a
man,' he asked.

* Of course it does ! *

' Why doesn't the law forbid you to make your experimenta
on a dog 1 '

Benjulia's face cleared again. The one penetrable point in
his ironclad nature had not been reached yet. That apparently
childish question about the dog appeared, not only to have in-
terested him, but to have taken him by surprise. His atten-
tion wandered away from his brother. His clear intellect put
Lemuel's objection in closer logical form, and asked if there was
any answer to it, thus :

The law which forbids you to dissect a living man, allows
you to dissect a living dog. Why ]

II!

i (

* 1

202

HEART ANP SriEKCE

; ^

\ <

t iP

There wm positively no answer to tliii.

Suppose he said, Because u dog is nn animal 1 Could he, m
a physiologist, deny that a man is an animal too 1

Suppose he said, Because the dog is the inferior creatme in
intellect ? The obvious answer to this would be, But the lower
order of savage, or the luwer order of lunatic, compared with
the dog, is the inferior creature in intellect ; and, in these caAes,
the dog has, on your own showing, the better right to prot(;c-
tion of the two.

Suppose he said. Because a man is a creature with a soul, and
a dog is a creature without a soul T This would be simply in-
viting another unanswerable question : How do you know 1

Honestly accepting the dilemma which thus presented itself,
the conclusion that followed seemed to be beyond dispute.

If the Law, in the matter of Vivisection, asserts the princi-
ple of interference, the Law has barred its right to place arbi-
trary limits on its own action. If it protects any living crea
tures, it is bound in reason and in justice, to protect all.

' Well,* said Lemuel, * am I to have an answer 1 *

• I'm not a lawyer.'

With this convenient reply, Benjulia opened Mr. Morphew's
letter, and read the forbidden part of it which began on the
second page. There he found the very questions with which
his brother had puzzled him — followed by the conclusion at
which he had himself arrived !

• You interpreted the language of your dog just now,' he
said quietly to Lemuel, ' and I naturally supposed your brain
might be softening. Such as it is, I perceive your memory is
in working order. Accept my excuses for feeling your pulse.
You have ceased to be an object of interest to me.*

He returned to his reading. Lemuel watched him — still
confidently waiting for results.

The letter proceeded in these terms :

' Your employer may perhaps be inclined to publish my
work, if I can satisfy him that it will address itself to the gene-
ral reader.

' We all know what are the false pretences, under which
English physiologists practise their cruelties. I want to expose
those false pretences in the simplest and plainest way, by ap-
pealing to my own experience as an ordinary working member
uf the medical profession.'

he, M

btuie in
e lower
xl with
je caRt*H,
I protec-

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,ed itself,
pute.
^e princi-
lace arbi-
ing crea
all.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

20:1

orphew'a
an on the
ith which
elusion at

now,' he

rour brain

lemory is

r pulse.

-still

iblish my
the gene-

ler which
to expose

lay, by ap-
\a member

* Take the pretence of increasing our knowledge of the action
of drugs and poisons, by trying them on animals. The very
drugs, the action of which dogs and cats have been needlessly
tortured to demonstrate, I have successfully used on my hu-
man patients in the practice of a lifetime.

* I should also like to ask what proof there is that the effect
of a poison on an animal may be trusted to inform us, ^ith
certainty, of the efl'ect of the same poison on a man. To quote
two instances only which justify doubt — and to take birds this
time, by way of a change — a pigeon will swallow <»pium enough
to kill a man, and will not be in the least ttfTectcd by it ; and
parsley, which is an innocent herb in the stomach of a human
being, is deadly poison to a parrot.

' I should deal in the same way, with the other pretence,
of improving our practice of surgery by experiment ou living
animals.'

' Not long since, I saw the diseased leg of a dog cut off at
the hip joint. When the limb was removed, not a single ves-
sel bled. Try the same operation on a man — and twelve or
fifteen vessels must be tied as a matter of absolute necessity.

* Again. We are told by a great authority that the baking
of dogs in ovens has led to new discoveries in treating fever.
I have always supposed that the heat, in fever, is not a cause
of disease, but a consequence. However; let that be, and let
us still stick to experience. Has this inferr.ai cruelty produced
results which help us to cure scarlet fever 1 Our bedside prac-
tice tells us that scarlet fever runs its course as it alw<»ys did.
I can multiply such examples as these by hundreds when I
write my book.

* Briefly stated, you now ha/e the Tiethpd by which T pro-
pose to drag the scientific English bavage from his shelter
behind the medical interests of humanity, and to show him in
his true character, — as plainly as the Scientific Foreign savage
shows himseh' of his own accord. He doesn't shrink behind
false pretences. He doesn't add cant to cruelty. He boldly
proclaims the truth : — / do it, because I like it ! '

Benjulia rose, and threw the letter on the floor.

' / proclaim the truth,' he said ; ' / do it because I like it.
There are some few Englishmen who treat ignorant public
opinion with the contempt that it deserves — and I am one of

t !

204

HEART A1;D science.

them.' He pointed scornfully to the letter. * That wordy old
fool is right about the false pretences. Publish his book, and
I'll buy a copy of it.*

' That's odd,' said Lemuel.

* What's odd r

* Well, Nathan, I'm only a fool — but if you talk in that way
of false pretences and public opinion, why do you tell everybody
that your horrid cutting and carving is harmless chemistry 1
And why were you in such a rage when I got into your work-
shop, and found you out ? Answer me that 1 '

< Let me congratulate you first,' said Benjulia. ' It isn't
every fool who knows that he is a fool. Now you shall have
your answer. Before^fthe end of the year, all the world will
be welcome to come into my workshop, and see me at the em-
ployment of my life. Brother Lemuel, when you stole you.
way through my unlocked door, you found me travelling on
the road to the grandest medical discovery of this century.
You stupii ass, do you think I cared about what you could
find out 1 I am in 3uch perpetual terror of being forestalled
by my colleagues, that I am not master of myself, even when
such eyes as yours look at my work. In a month or two more
— perhaps in a week or two — I shall have solved the grand
problem. I labour at it all day. I think of it, I dream of it,
all night. It will kill me. Strong as I am, it will kill me
What do you say 1 Am I working myself into my grave, in
the medical interests of humanity i That for humanity ! I
am working for my own satisfaction — for my own pride — for
my own unutterable pleasure in beating other men — for the
fame that will keep my name living hundreds of years hence.
Humanity 1 I say with my foreign brethern — Knowledge for
its own sake, is the one god I worship. Knowledge is its own
justification and its own reward. The roaring mob follows us
with its cry of Cruelty. We pity their ignorance. Knowledge
sanctifies cruelty. The old anatomist stole dead bodies for
Knowledge. In that sacred cause, if I could steal a living man
without being found out, I would tie him on my table, and
grasp my grand discovery in days, instead of months. Where
are you going ) What t You're afraid to be in the same room
with me i A man who can talk as I do, is a man who would

HteAHT AND SCIENCE.

205

stick at nothing 1 Is that the light in which you lower order
of creatures look at us 1 Look a little higher— and you will
see that a man who talks as I do is a man set above you by
Knowledge. Exert yourself, and try to understand me. Have
1 no virtues, even from your point of view ? Am I not a good
citizen ] Don't I pay my debts 1 Don't I serve my friends ?
You miserable creature, you have had my money when you
wanted it. Look at that letter on the floor. The man men-
tioned in it is one of those colleagues whom I distrust. I did
my duty by him for all that. I gave him the information he
wanted ; I introduced him to a friend in a land of strangers.
Have I no feeling, as you call it ] My lust experiments on a
monkey horrified me. His cries of suffering, his gestures of
entreaty were like the cries and gestures of a child. I would
have given the world to put him out of his misery. But I
went on. In the glorious cause I went on. Hy hands turned
cold — my heart ached — I thought of a child I sometimes play
with — I suffered — I resisted — I went on. All for Knowledge !
all for knowledge ! *

His brother's presence was forgotten. His dark face turned
livid ; his gigantic frame shuddered ; his breath came and
went in deep sobbing gasps — it was terrible to see him and
hear him.

Lemuel slunk out of the room. The jackal had roused the
lion ; the mean spirit of mischief in him had not bargained for
this. ' I begin to believe in the devil,* he said to himself when
he got to the house door.

As he descended the steps, a carriage appeared in the lane.
A footman opened the gate of the enclosure. The carriage
approached the house, with a lady in it.

Lemuel ran back to his brother. * Here's a lady coming,'
he said. ' You're in a nice state to see her ! Pull yourself to-
gether, Nathan — and damn it, wash your hands ! *

He took Benjulia's arm and led him upstairs.

When Lemuel rciurned to the hall, Mrs. Gallilee was as-
cending the house-steps. He bowed profoundly, in homage to
the well-preserved remains of a fine woman. * My brother
will be with you directly, ma'am. Pray allow me to give yuu
a chair.'

20G

HEART AND SCIENCE.

His hat was in his hand. Mr& Oallilee's knowledge of the
world easily estimated him at his exact value. She got rid of
liim with her best grace. ' Pray don't let me detain you, Sir ;
1 will wait with pleasure.*

If she had been twenty years younger, the hint might have
been thrown away. As it was, Lenxuel rotiied.

lilt! .

i of the
t rid of
»u. Sir ;

ht have

CHAPTElt XXXI JX

An unusually long day's work at the of&ce had fatigued good
Mr. MooL He pushed aside his papers, and let his weary
eyes rest on a glass vase full of flowers on the table — a present
frum a grateful client. As a man, he enjoyed the lovely
colours of the nosegay. As a botanist, he lamented the act
which had cut the flowers from their parent stems, and doomed
them to premature death. ' I shouldn't have had the heart to
do it myself,' he thought ; ' but tastes diflFer.'

The office boy came into the room, with a visiting card in
his hand.

* I'm going home to dinner,' said Mr. Mool. * The person
must call to-morrow.'

The boy laid the card on the table. The person was Mrs.
Gallilee.

Mrs. Gallilee, at seven o'clock in the evening ! Mrs. Galli-
lee without a previous appointment by letter! Mr. Mool
trembled under the apprehension of some serious family emer-
gency, in imminent need of legal interference. He submitted
as a matter of course. ' Show the lady in.'

Before a word had passed between them, the lawyer's mind
was relieved. Mrs. Gallilee shone on him with her sweetest
smiles ; pressed his hand with her friendliest warmth ; almired
the nosegay with her readiest enthusiasm. 'Quite perfect,'
she said — 'especially the Pansy. The round flat edge, Mr.
Mool ; the upper petals perfectly uniform — there is a flower
hat defies criticism ! I long to dissect it'

Mr. Mool politely resignf'd the Pansy to dissection (murder-
us mutilation, he would have called it, in the case of one of
his own flowers), and waited to hear what his learned clienti
(night have to say to him.

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208

HEART AND SCIENCE.

* I am going to surprise yon,' Mrs. Gallilee aunouncecl.
* No — to shock you. No — even that is not strong enough — let
me say, to horrify you.*

Mr. Mool's anxieties returned, complicated by confusion.
The behaviour of Mrs. Gallilee exhibited the most unaccount-
able contrast to her language. She showed no sign of those
strong emotions to which she had alluded. How am I to put
it ? * she went on, with a transparent affection of embarrass-
ment. Shall I call it a disgrace to our family 1 ' Mr. Mool
started. Mrs. Gallilee entreated him to compose himself; she
approached the inevitable disclosure by degrees. * I think,*
she said, * you have met Doctor Benjulia at my house ?'

* I have had that honour, Mrs. Gallilee. Not a very soci-
able person — if I may venture to say so.'

* Uownright rude, Mr. Mool, on some occasions. But that
doesn*t matter now. I have just been visiting the doctor.'

Was this visit connected with the disgrace of the family ? '
Mr. Mool ventured to put a question. ' Doctor Benjulia is
not related to you, ma'am, is he 1 *

'Not the least in the world. Please don't interrupt me
again. I am, so to speak, laying a train of circumstances be-
fore you ; and I might leave one of them out. When Doctor
Benjulia was a young man — I am returning to my train of cir-
cumstances, Mr. Mool — he was at Rome, pursuing his profes
sional studies. I have all this, mind, straight from the doctor
himself. At Rome, he became acquainted witth my late bro-
ther, after the period of his unfortunate marriage. Stop ! I
have failed to put it strongly enough again. I ought to have
said, his disgraceful marriage.'

'Really, Mrs. Gallilee *

* Mr. Mool ! '

* I beg your pardon, ma'am.'

* Don't mention it ! The next circumstance is ready in my
mind. One of the doctor's tellow-students (described as being
a perfectly irresistible man) was also possessed of abilities
which even attracted our unsociable Benjulia. They became
friends. At the time of which I am now speaking, my bro
ther's disgusting wife — oh, but I repeat it Mr. Mool I I sa}
again, his disgusting wife — was the mother of a female child.

' Your niece, Mrs. Gallilee.*

HEART ANa SCIENCE.

209

•No!'

* Not Miss Carmiaa t '

' Miss Carmina is no more my niece than she is your niece.
Carry your mind back to what I have just said. I mentioned
a medical student who was an irresistible man. Miss Car-
mina's father was that man.'

Mr. Mool started to hiis feet. His astonishmont and indig-
nation would have instantly expressed themselves, if he had
not been a lawyer. As it was, his professional experience
warned him of the imprudence of speaking too soon. He ac-
complished the effort of self-repression — and saC down again.
Mrs. Gallilee passed over the little interruption without no-
tice. Her exultation forced its way outwards. Her eyes glit-
tered ; her voice rose. * The law, Mr. Mool ! what does the
law say 1 ' she burst out. ' Is my brother's Will no better than
waste paper ? Is the money divided among his only near rela-
tions ? Tell me ! tell me ! '

Mr. Mool suddenly plunged his face into hie vase of flowers.
Did he feel that the air of the oflfice wanted purifying ? or was
he conscious that his face might betray him unless he did it 1
Mrs. Gallilee was at no loss to set her own clever interpreta-
tion on her lawyer's extraordinary proceeding.

* Take your time,' she said with the most patronising kind-
ness. ' I know your sensitive nature ; I know what I felt my-
self when this dreadful discovery burst upon me. If you re-
member, I said I should horrify you. Take your time, my
dear sir — pray take your time.'

To be encouraged in this way — as if he was the emotional
client, and Mrs. Gallilee the impassive lawyer — roused Mr.
Mool. Shy men are, in the innermost depths of their nature,
proud men ; the lawyer had his professional pride. He came
out of his flowery retreat, with a steady countenance. For
the first time in his life, he was not afraid of Mrs. Gallilee.
' Before we enter on the legal aspect of the case — * he began.
' The shockin^^; case,' Mrs. Gallilee interposed, in the inter-
ests of virtue.

Under any other circumstances Mr. Mool would have ac-
cepted the correction. He actually took no notice of it now 1
' There is one point,' he proceeded, * oa which I must beg you
to enlighten me.'

210

HEART AND SCIENCE.

* By all means ! T am ready to go into any details, no mat"
ter liow dihgusLin^ they may be.'

Mr. Mool thought of the certain 'ladies' (oljects of perfectly
needless respect among men) who, being requested to leave the
Court, at unmentionable Trials, persist in keeping their places.
Strong in his nev\r resolntion, he decided on disappointing Mrs.
Gallilee.

* Am I right in supposing that you believe what you have
told me 1 ' he reauraed.

' Most assuredly ! '

* Is Doctor Benjulia the only person who has spoken to you
on the subject ] '

* The only person.*

* His information being derived from his friend — the fellow-
student whom you mentioned just now 1 '

' In other words,' Mrs. Gaflilee answered viciously, ' the fa-
ther of the wretched girl who has been foisted on my care.'

If Mr. Mool's courage had been in any danger of failing him,
he would have found it again now. He went on, as if he was
examining a witness in a police court

* I suppose the doctor had some reason for believing what
his friend told him 1 '

' Ample reason I Vice and poverty generally go together —
this man was poor. He showed Doctor Benjulia money re-
ceived from his mistress — her husband's money, it is needless
to say.

'Her motive might be innocent, Mrs. Gallilee. Had the
man any letters of hers to show 1 '

' None. She was too cunning — or very likely, too ignorant
—to write letters.'

' May I ask if there are any further proofs 1 '

' You have had proofs enough.'

' With all possible respect,* ma^am, I deny that.'

Mrs. Gallilee had not been asked to enter into disgusting
details. Mrs. Gallilee had been contradicted by her obedient
humble servant of other days. She thought it high time to
bring the examination to an end.

' If you are determined to believe in the woman's innocence,
she said, * without knowing any of the circumstances *

Mr. Mool went on from bad to worse : he interrupted her now.

HEAliT AND F( lh:NCK.

£1 {

* Excuse me, Mrs. Gallilee, T think you forget tl»at one (»f
my autumn holidays, many years since was spent in ftaly. I
was in Rome, like Doctor Denjulia, after your hruther's mar-
riage. His wife was, to my certain knowledge, received in
society. Her reputation was unblemished ; and her husband
was devoted to her.'

• In plain English,' said Mrs. Gallilee, * my brother was a
poor weak creature — and his wife when you knew her had not
been found out.'

' That is just the difficulty I feel,* Mr. Mool rejoined. * How
is it that she is only found out now 1 Years have passed since
she died. More years must have passed since this attack on
her character reached Doctor Benjulia's knowledge. He is
an old friend of yours. Why has he only told you of it to day 1
I hope I don't offend you by asking these questions 1

' Oh, dear no ! your questions are so easily answered. I
never encouraged the doctor to speak of my brother and hia
wife. The subject was too distasteful to me— and I don't
doubt that Doctor Benjulia felt about it as I did.'

' Until to-day,' the lawyer quietly remarked, ' Doctor Ben-
julia appears to have been quite ready to mention the subject
to-day.'

' Under special circumstances, Mr. Mool. Perhaps you will
not allow that special circumstances make any difference ) '

On the contrary, Mr. Mool made every allowance — and then
waited to hear what the circumstances might be.

But Mrs. Gallilee had her reasons for keeping silence. It
was impossible to mention Benjulia's reception of her without
inflicting a wound on her self-esteem. To begin with, he had
kept the door of the room open, and haa remained standing.
* Have you got Ovid's letters 1 Leave them here ; I'm not fit
to read them now.' Those were his first words. There was
nothing in the letters which a friend might not read : she ac-
cordingly consented to leave them. The doctor had expressed
his 9ense of obligation by bidding her to get into her carriage
agaiL< and go. ' I have been put in a passion ; I have made
a fool of myself ; I havn't a nerve in my body that isn't quiver-
ing with rage, Go ! go ' go ! ' There was his explanation. Mrs.
Gallilee's impenetrable obstinacy faced him without shrinking
She had not driven all the way tu the doctor's house to be

^A'l

MKAUT AN'i) SCtENCE.

sent back again without gaining her object ; she had her ques<
tions to put to him, and she persisted in pressing them as only
a woman can. He was left — with the education of a gentleman
against him — between the two vulgar alternatives of turning
her out by main force, or of yielding and getting rid of her
decently in that way. Leaning towards slanderous gossip were
not among Benjulia's frailties. He had regretted (for his own
sake, not fur Carmina's) the allusion into which accident had
led him, during his interview with Ovid in the gardens. At
any other time, he would have flatly refused to lower himself
to the level of a scandal-mongering woman, by entering on the
subject. In his present mood, if pacifying Mrs. Gallilee, and
ridding himb«?lf of Mrs. Gallilee, meant one and the same thing,
he was ready, recklessly ready, to let her have her own way.
She heard the infamous story, which she had repeated to her
lawyer ; and she had Lemuel Benjulia's visit, and Mr. Mor-
phew's contemplated attack on Vivisection, to thank for get-
ing her information.

Mr. Mool waited, and waited. He reminded his client of
what he had just said.

* You mentioned certain circumstances. May I know what
they are ) ' she asked.

Mrs. Gallilee rose before she replied.

* Your time is valuable, and my time is valuable,* she said.
* We shall not convince each other by prolonging our conver-
sation. I came here, Mr. Mool, to ask you a question about
the law. Permit me to remind you that I have not had my an-
swer yet. My own impression is that the girl now in my
house, not being my brother's child, has no claim on my broth-
er's property ! Tell me in two words, if you please — am I
right or wrong 1 '

* I can do it in one word, Mrs. Gallilee. Wrong.'
'Wbat!'

Mr. Mool entered on the necessary explanation, triumphing,
in the reply that he had just made. ' It's the smartest thing/
he thought, * I ever said in my life.'

< While husbands and wives live together,' he continued,
' the Law holds that all children, born in wedlock, are the hus-
band's children. Even if Miss Carmiua's mother had not been

BEART AND SCIENCS.

213

ai good and innoceut a woman as ever drew the breath of
life '

* That will do, Mr. Mool. You really mean to say that this
girl's interest in my brother's Will '

* Remains quite nnafTccted, ma'am, by all that you have told
me.'

* And I am still obliged to keep her under my care 1 *

' Or,' Mr. Mool answered, * to resign the office of guardian,
in favour of Lady Northlake — appointed to act, in your place.'
' I won't trouble you any further, sir. Good evening.'
3he turned to leave the office. Mr. Mool actually tried to
stop her.

* One word more, Mrs Gallilee.'

* No ; we have said enough already.'

Mr. Mool's audacity arrived at its climaic He put his hand
on the lock of the office door, and held it shut.

'The young lady, Mrs. Gallilee ! I am sure you will never
breathe a word of this to the pretty gentle young lady ? Kvf ri if
it was true ; and, as God is my witness, I am sure it's falee — '

' Good evening, Mr. Mool.'

He opened the door, and let her go ; her looks and tones
told him that remonstrance was worse than useless. Fruoi
years end to years end, this modest and amiable man had never
been heard to swear. He swore now. • Damn Diiotor Ben-
julia ! ' he burst out, in the solitude of the office. His dinner
was waiting for him at home. Instead of putting on his hat,
hewent back to his writing-table. U isthonghts pn jVcted them-
selves into the future — and discovered possibilities irom which
they recoiled. He took up his pen, and began a letter, ' To
John Gallilee, Esquire : — Dear sir, Circumstances have occurred
which I am not at liberty to mention, but which make it
necessary for me, in justice to my own views and feelings, to
withdraw from the position of legal adviser to yourself and
family.' He paused and considered with himself. ' No ; ' he
decided, 'I may be of some use to that poor child, while I am
the famil}' lawyer.' He tore up his unfinished letter.

When Mr. Mool got home that night, it was noticed that he
had a poor appetite for his dinner. On the other hand, he
drank more wine than usual.

-; i

CITAPTER XXXTV.

* I don't know what ia 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 law-
/er — and this was Carmina's answer, when the governess
•'itered her room, after the lessons of the morning, and asked
f she felt better.

* Are you still taking medicine 1 * Miss Minerva asked.

* 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,
Francos. 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 1 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.
Garminp's sad face brightened. ' That's kind indeed I ' she
said.

* Nonsense t 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 1 Why havn't you brought her with you 1 '

' She is having her music lesson — and I must go back to
keep her in order. About the lodging ) A sitting-room and
bed-room will be enough, I suppose 1 In this neighbourhood,
I am afraid the terms will be rather high.'

* Oil, never mind that ! Let us have clean airy rooms— an«l
a kind landlady. Teresa musn't know it, if the terms are
high.'

* Will she allow you to pay her expenses t '

UEAUT AND SCIENCE.

215

she

jr to-
and

Lur

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and
Ihooil,

an<

' All, you put it delicately ! My aunt seemed to doubt if
Teresa had any money of her own. I foigut 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 wh'*' tiiey may really be — and I will pay the
other half. Isn't L jruel of my aunt not to let my old nurse
live in the same house with me 1 '

At that moment, a message arrived from the person of whom
she was speaking. Mrs. Gallilee wished to see Miss Carmina
immediately.

My dear,' said Miss Minerva, when the servant had with-
drawn, why do you tremble sol '

'There's somethitig in me, Frances, that shudders at my
aunt, ever since '

She stopped.

Miss Minerva understood that solemn pause — the undesigned
allusion to Carmina's guileless knowledge of her feeling towards
Ovid. By unexpresst'd consent, on either side, they still pre-
served 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 w»»nt up stairs again to the
schoolroom.

In the ball Carmina found the servant waiting for her. He
opened the library door. Tiie 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. Ttie girl was )*iHt<iuLly 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 impor-
tance 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

21G

HEART AND SCIENCE.

tor two hours. Mr. Null hopes you will gain strength, k
there anything you want I '

' Nothing — thank you.'

' Perhaps you wish for a new dress } '

'Oh, nor

* You have no complaint to make of the servants 1
'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 that mysterious change in her aunt had strength-
ened with every word that Mr& 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. Galiilee's tone and manner realized, in the
strangest way, her irea of a matron speaking to a penitent.

As she crossed the hall, her thoughts took a new direction.
Some indefinable distn.i.^' 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 pre-
occupied. 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 school-room after his music
lesson. At that suddeu 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 her's which he had so unfortunately over-
heard, tLe poor girl made an effort to conciliate him. * I have
very ft^ friends, Mr. Le Frank,' she said timidly. ' May I
still consider you as one of them ) Will you forgive and forget 1
Will you shake hands 1 '
. Mr. Le Frank made another magnificent bow. He was
proud of his voice. In his most resonant and melifluous tones,

he said, ' You do me honour ' and took the offered hand,

and lifted it grandly, and touched it with his lips.

lose
ver-
lave
tyl

was
j)ne8,
[audi

tiEART AND SCIENCE.

217

fehe held by the baluster with h«r 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. Oallilee was stan<ling 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 1 ' she said, ' have 1 made
another mistake 1 '

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gallilee had received her mnsic-master with
the nearest approach to an indulgent welcome of which her
nature was capable.

* Take the easy chair, Mr. Le Frank. You are not afraid of
the open window 1'

' On, dear no ! I like it.' He rapidly unrolled some leaves
of music which he had brought down-stairs. < 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 tliis 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 Mr. 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
band. By fine degrees, she presented herself in the new char-
acter of a sympathising friend.

* I now know, Mr. Le Frank, why you declined to be my

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218

HEART AND SCIENCE

I i

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niece's music-master. Allow me to apologise for having ignor*
antly 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 yuu. Miss Minerva, however, has
no excuse for keeping me in the dark. Her conduct, in this
matter, offers,! 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. How-
ever, the subject is too distasteful to dwell on. You were
speaking of your song — the last effort of your genius, I
think r

His * genius ! * The inner glow in Mr. Le Frank grew
warmer and warmer. • 1 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 1 hope, my best effort at compo-
sition. May I dedicate it 1 '

' 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 V With this
gracious answer Mrs. Gallilee rose.

Was tlie 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 inter-
pretation 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.
Geuerous Mrs, Gallilee refused to hear him. He took hia

bEART AND SCIENCE.

2ld

lation.
k hia

leave ; he got as far as the hall ; and then he was called back
— softly, confidentially called back to the library.

' One thing more.' said Mrs. Gallilee. Please shut the door
for a moment; Miss Carmina may be on the stairs again. Have
you any idea — when she made that extraordinary apology —
what her motive was 1 *

Mr. Le Frank's ready suspicion was instantly aroused. * Not
the least idea,' he answered. * Can you tell me 1 '

*I am. as completely puzzled as you are,* Mrs. Gallilee re-
joined. * Perhaps time will show. Goodbye agaiuT»with best
wishes for the success of the song.'

If. Le
it was

Arti
linter-
loman

igain.
-and

jribe,*
with

CHAPTER XXXV.

The solitude of her own room was no welcome refuge to Car-
mina, in her present state of mind. She went on to the school-
room.

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. Gal-
lilee 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 in-
deed a pleasure to see you again in our school-room. We are
naturally anxious about your health. This lovely weather is
no doubt in your favour ; and papa thinks Mr. Null a remark-
ably 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 do^

HEART AND SCIENCE.

221

any

me
Gal-

liria's
with

are

leris

lark-

kooth

lina

dog

on the rug. ' I wish I was Tinker,' she said. Maria smiled
sweetiy * Dear Zo, what a very strange wish. What would
you do, it' 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,'
she remarked, * before he'goeiS out; and his nails don't show
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. Za 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 ob-
trusive 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.

It is not easy to say which of the two, Carmina or the maid,
felt most oppressed by their enforced companionship, in the
carriage. The maid was perhaps the most to be pitied. Se-
cretly drawn towards Carmina like the other servants in the
house, she was forced by her mistress's private orders, 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 should communi-
cate with any person while you are out, you are to report it to
me.' Mrs. Gallilee had not forgotten the discovery of the tra-
velling 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 Car-
miaa's birth, there was surely a chance that she, like othev

■ \

] ;

lii
%] I'.

>•■ ■ '■' \

' fi

000

Beart and science.

girls of her sensitive temperament, might feel the oftlamity that
had fallen on her so acutely as to condemn her to a single life.
Misled, partly from the hope of relief from her own vile anxie-
ties, partly by her heartless incapability of estimating the ac-
tion of generous feeling in others, Mrs. Gallilee seriously con-
templated her son's future decision as a matter of reasonable
doubt.

In the meanwhile, this deteptable child of adultery — this
living obstacle in the way of the magnificent prospects which
otherwise awaited Maria and Zo, 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 crea-
ture 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 awav —the maid on
the front seat presenting the picture of discomfort ; and Car-
mina 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 j.ot have a fit on the box ! '

It was only too true. At the appointed hour the carriage
appeared again — and the maid 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 of the landlady's name. Guessing in the dark, Carmina
and the governess had ignorantly attributed the sinister altera-
tions in Mrs. Gallilee's manner to the prospect of Teresa's un-
welcome return. * "While you have the means in your power,'
Miss Minerva advised, ' it may be as well to let your old friend
IvMW tl^i^t there is a home for her whea slio rei^ches l4on4o^«'

CHAPTER XXXVI.

The weather, to Carmina's infinite relief, changed for the worse
on 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 allow me to say so, Cnrmina wants a little amuse-
ment.' Mrs. Gallilee looked up from her book. Fearing that
he might stop altogether if he took his time as usual, Mr. Gal-
lilee 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 ac-
company us, my dear; and they do say — perhaps you may
have heard of it yourself ? — that there's a good deal of science
in the 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 en-
joy 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 1 * he shouted cheerfully.

* Carmina ! don't you see Mr. Le Frank ? He's bowing to you.
Do you like conjuring, Mr. Le Frank 1 Don't tell the chil-
dren where we are going ! They would be disappointed, poor
things — but they must have their lessons, mustn't they ?
Goodbye. I say ! atop a, miaute. Jf you eve^ want your um-

1 •

■li

. i

!.l

Ww^

'■ 9W- '

.' i- 1 -

■: ? f

;,' '^ '

i r ' '

f i:

i . ^.

U' ■

I ii

!i \

'i ■

1 1

224.

HEATIT AND SCIENCE.

brella mpn/]f>d, T know a man who will do it cheflp and well.
Nasty day, isn't it 1 Go on ! go on ! '

The general opinion which ranks vanity among the lighter
failings of humanity, commits a serious mistake. Vanity
wants nothing more than the motive power to develop into
absolute wickedness. Vanity can be savagely suspicious and
diabolically cruel. What are the typical names which stand
revealed in history as the names of the two vainest men that
ever lived i Nero and Robespierre.

In his obscure sphere, and within his restricted means, the
vanity of Mrs. Gallilee's music-master had developed its de-
testable qualities, under her cunning and guarded instiga
tion. Once set in action, his suspicion of Carmiiia passed bt
yond all limits. There could be no reason but a bad reason foi
that barefaced attempt to entrap him into a reconciliation.
Every evil motive which it was possible to attiib'.te 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 he)
manner at their meeting on the stairs. His paltry little mind
j,t other times preoccupied in contemplating himself and In
abilities, was now so completely absorbed in imagining even
variety of conspiracy against his social and professional pusi
don, that he was not capable of giving his customary less(jn t*
two children. Before the appointed hour had expired. Mis-
Minerva remarked that his mind did not appear to be at ease
and suggested that he had better renew the lesson on the nexi
lay. After a futile attempt to assume the appearance of tran
quillity — he thanked her, and took his leave.

On his way down stairs, 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 scien-
tific research. At that hour of the alternoon, 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 the drawers open, the inmost secrets of her
life would be at his mercy.

He tried her desk ; he tried the cupboard under the hools,'

HEART AND SCIENCE.

225

Lis-
ise

iaib

led
len-

1)0

ise.

iin
ler
ler

case. They were both locked. The cabinet between the win-
dows, and the drawer of the table were left unguarded. No dis-
covery rewarded the careful search that he pursued in these
two repositories. He opened the books that she had left on the
t£.ble, and shook them. No forgotten letter, no private memo-
randum (used as marks) dropped out. He looked all around
him ; he peeped into the bed room ; he listened, to make sure
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 writ-
ing-desk, • You wouldn't be locked,' he thought, * uuless you
had some shameful secrets to keep ! I shall have other oppor-
tunities ; and s?ie 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
secoud opportunity failed to oiler itself as yet.

The visit to the exhibition of conjuring had done Carmina
harm instead of good. Her head ached, in the close atmos-
phere — she was too fatigued to be able to stay in the room
until the poiformances 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
far.lt with the champagne — and then apologised to the waiter.
' I am sorry I was a little hard on you just now. The fact is,
Tm out of sorts — you have felt in that way yourself, haven't
you ? The wine's first-rate ; and, really the weatLoi u so dis-
couraging, 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 pre-
sented him in his travelling costume. He wrote in a tone of
cheerfulness, which revived Carmina's sinking courage, and re-
newed for a time at least the happiness rf other days. The air
of the plains of Canada he declared *: . 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, Bat OQ^

4 ^

ISI

II '?

22G

HEART AND SCIENCE.

anxiety troabled 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, on whose fidelity I have put to
the proof, and whose ztal 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 . confess my own amiable
weakness ] or do you know me well enough already to sus-
pect the truth 1 My love, I am sorely tempted to be false to my
plans and arrangments — to go back with the Indian to Quebec
— and to take a berth in the first steamer that retu/ns to Eng-
land.

' Don't suppose that I am troubled by any misgivings about
what is going on in my absence ! J t is one of the good signs
of my returning health that I takn 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

long'Pg,

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 secur-
ing 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 wile— 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
Long before the mail cculd carry her reply to its destination,
^\\ff well knew that tl^e Indian messenger would be on the way

HEART AND SCIENCE.

227

back to liis master. But Ovid had made her so happy that
she felt the impulse to write to him at once, as she nii^iit 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 let-
ter had been closed and addressed, the eflbrt produced its de-
pressing effect on her spirits.

There now appeared to her a certain wisdom in the loving
rapidity of her reply. Even in the fulness 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 ne 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 p':»rtrait
was the best of all companions. Outside, the heavy rain pat-
tered ; i& 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 dis-
turbed 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 j * 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 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 run-
ning away.

* I sa;jr 1 ' she resumed — * You Vnow the hoj ] '

1 '

1 1,1

228

HEART AND SCIENCE.

■\ \

'Whfttboy, dearl'

* He comes round Rometimes. He's got a hurdy-gurdy. He's
got a monkey. He grins. He says, Aha-gimineehaypenny. I
mean to go to that boy 1 '

As a confession of Zo's first love, this was irresistible. Oar-
mina burst out laughing Zo indignantly claimed a hearing.
*I havn't done yet! ' she burst out. 'The boy dancea Like
thia' She cocked her head, and slapped her thigh, and imi-
tated the boy. ' And sometimes he sings I * she cried with
another outburst of admiration. ' Yah yahyah-hellah-vitah-
yah\ That's Italian, Carmina.' The door opened again while
the performance 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 ang-
rily erect. She said sharply, ' you shouldn't encourage that
child.' She turned round, in search of the truant pupil. In-
curably stupid at her lessons, Zo's mind had its gleams of in-
telligence, 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 per-
verse 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 of Ovid,* Carmina answered. The photo-
graph 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, tier hands, loosely clasped in her lap,
tightened when she heard Ovid's name. That slight move-
ment over, she stirred no more. After waiting a little, Car-
luip^ ventured to speak. < Frances/ she said, ' vou have not

fiEART AND SCIENCe<

229

las
feed
lood

shaken hands with me yet.' Miss Minerva slowly looked up,
keeping her hands still clasped on her lap.

' When is he coming back 1 ' she asked. It was said quietly,
Garmina 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 understand,' Carmina answered.

* If you were married to him, even my restless spirit might
be at peace. The struggle will be over.'

She left her and walked restlessly up and down the room.
The passionate emotion which she had resolutely suppressed
begnn to go 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 was in your place I
J 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 1 '

* I have thought of it.'

* What did I say 1 You, poor little prisoner, you have the
right spirit in you! I wish I could give you some of my
strength 1 ' The half mocking tone in which she spoke, sud-
denly 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 Cai mina, and kissed her. ' You sweet
child !' she said, — and burst passionately into tears.

Even the woman's fiercely self-dependent nature asserted it-
self. She pushed Carmina back on the sofa. ' Don't look at
me 1 don't speak to me ! ' she gasped. ' Leave me to get over
it.'

She stifled the sobs that broke from her. Still on her knee^.

i I!

\ -r

\ i1

230

Heart and seiEifOfi.

the looked up, shuddering. A ghastly smile distorted her llpd.
* Ah, what fools we are I' she said. ' Where is the lavender
water, ray dear, — your favourite remedy for a burning head 1 '
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 gos-
sipping on tho most commonplace subjects, <I think you're
rignt ; 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 kind'
ness.'

She returned to her chair.

'I can't help it if I highten 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 into any particulars ; I am only going to repeat
what I have said already — don't trust me. I mean it, Car-
mina. Your generous nature will not mislead you, if I can
help it. When you are a married woman — when he is farther
removed from me than he is 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 that you have suffered ?
Have you told her the truth? '

•Yes.'

* Without reserve 1 '

' Entirely without reserve.'

* When that old woman comss to London, Carmina — and
sees you, and sees Mrs. Galiilee — don't you think the conse-
quences 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 tho sofa. She was not able to speaki

n&xut ANb SCl£KC£.

36*

im
at

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 ho[)eful to propose. Your friend Teresa has ener-
gies — wild energies. Make a good use of them. She will do
anything you ask of her. Take her with you to Canada 1 '

' Oh, Frances ! *

Miss Minerva pointed to the letter on the rl^sk. ' Does ho
tell you when he will be back 1 '

' No. He feels the importance of completely restoring his
health — he is going farther and farther away — he has sent to
Quebec for his lettera'

' Then there is no fear of you 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 1 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. Y"ou have plenty
of money j you have Teresa to take care of you, who loves you
with all her heart and soul. Go I For your own sake, for his
sake, go ! '

The clock struck the hour. She rose and removed the hand-
kerchief 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 up to the school-room dinner) opened
the door. She instantly understood the purpose which the
bottle was intended to answer.

' It is mi/ business to give Carmina her medicine/ she said.
* Your business is at the school-room 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 be-
hind the sofa. Turning back, before she left the room, Miss

, t

232

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Minerva sttw Mrs. Oallilee's face, when she and Carmina loolied
•at each other, reflected in the glass.

The girls were waiting for their dinner — Maria in a state of
Iplacid patience ; Zo, peeping under the covers of the dishes, and
inhaling voluptuously the flavour of stewed eels.

Maiia received the unpunctual governess, with her ready
«mile, and her appropriate speech. * Dear Miss Minerva, we
were really almost getting alarmed about you. We hope
nothing unpleasant has happened. Pardon me for noticing it
—-you look so very determined.'

Miss Minerva answered absently — as if sho was speaking,
W>t to Maria, but to herself.

' Yes/ she said, * I am determined.'

oked

ite of
i, and

feady
a, we
hope
Lngit

iking,

CHAPTER XXXVir.

After two days ot rain the weatlier cleared again.

It was a calm sunshiny {Sunday morning. The flat coufitrr
round Benjulia's house wore its brightest aspect on that cleiii*
autumn day. Even the doctor's gloomy domestic estahlishtuent
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 occasion-
ally on the floor — he had completed a series of experiments,
with results un which he could absolutely rely. He had ad-
vanced 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 physi-
cians, in the Annals of Discovery.

So completely had his labours absorbed his mind that he only
remembered the letter» which Mrs. Gallilee had left v iih aim.
when he finished his bii^akfast on Sunday morning. Upon ex-
amination there appeared no allusion in Ovid's correspondence
to the mysterious case of illness which he had attended at Mon-
treal. The one method now left, by which Benjulia could
relieve the doubt that still troubled him, was to communicate
dii'ectly with his friend in Canada. He decided to celebrate
o

i 1

' I

234

HEART AND SCIENCE.

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 meal for forty-
eight hours past ; and he expected the strictest punctuality.
The cook — lately engaged — was a vigorous 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 grey eyes : he took a
dusty old hand-screen from the sideboard, and made her a pre-
sent of it ! * There,' he said with his dry humour, * don't spoil
your complexion before the kitchen fire.' The cook possessed
a sanguine temperament, -^r I a taste to be honoured and en-
couraged — 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 — the idea that her master might
marry 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 discussio between them might be.
They were again together that n. :* ag. Maria and Zo had
gone to church with their father ] A. Jsa Minerva was kept at
home by a headache. At that hour, and under those circum-
stances, 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.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

235

The cable took his message to Mr. Morphew, in these terms :
* Ovid's patient at Montreal. Was the complaint br.ain disease 1
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 ap-
peared, without the dinner. Benjulia's astonishing amiability
— on his holiday — was even equal to this demand on its re-
sources.

* I ordered roast mutton at three/ he said with terrifyiDg
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 1 '

The silent servant — on all other occasions the most impene-
trable 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 high-handed
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 1 '

* Perhaps you were making love to her ? ' the doctor sug-
gested, as gentlj as ever.

This outrageous insinuation stung the silent servant into
speech. * I'm incapable of the action, sir ! ' he answered in-
dignantly ; * the woman was reading a story.*

Benjulia bent his head, as if in acknowledgment of a highly
satisfactory explanation. ' That will do,' he said ; * 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 reflec-
tions continued to amuse him : his thin lips were still widen-
ing grimly, distended by his formidable smile.

On being carved, the mutton proved to be underdone. At

r *,■*-'

236

HEART AND SCIENCE.

other times this was an unpardonable crime in Be nju1ia*8 do-
mestic code of laws. All he said now was 'Take it away.'
lie 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 palpita-
ting heart, and the other holding her handkerchief to her eyes.

* What are you crying about ] ' Benjulia inquired; 'I haven't
scolded you, have 1 1 ' The cook began an apology ; the doc-
tor pointed to a chair. ' Sit down and recover yourself.' The
cook sat down, faintly smiling through her tears. This other-
wise incomprehensible reception of a person who had kept the
dinner waiting twenty minutes, and who had not done the
mutton properly even then, could bear but one interpretation.
It wasn't every woman, who had her beautiful hair and he
rosy complexion. Why had she not thought of going up stairt'
first, just to see whether she looked her best in the ghiss t
Would he be ,in by making a confession ? or would he begin
by kissing her 1

He began by lighting his pipe. For a while he smoked
placidly with his eye on the cook. ' I hear you have been read
ing a story,' he resumed. * What in Cue name of it ? '

* " Pamela ; or Virtue Rewarded," sir.'

Benjulia went on with his smoking. The cook, thus far de
mure and downcast, lifted her eyes experimentally. He wa^
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 Bichardson.'
The information was graciously received. * Yes : I've heard
of the name, and heard of the book. Ib it interesting 1 '

* Oh, sir, it's a beautiful story ! My only excuse for being
late with the dinner '

« Who's Pamela 1 '

' A young person in service, sir. I'm sure I wish I was more
like her 1 I felt quite broken-hearted when you sent the mut
ton down again ; and you so kind as to overlook an 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
wit!: a vivisected animal. Nothing moved him out of hi«

HEART AND SCIENCE

f;37

i I

appointed course, in the one case or in the '>.hor. He returned
to Pamela.

* And what becomes of her at the end of the story 1 ' 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 situa-
tion was fast becoming the cook's situation. The bosom of the
vigorous little woman began to show signs of tender agitation
— distributed over a large surface. She rolled her eyes amor-
ously. Benjulia puffed out another mouthful of smoke. ' Well/
he repeated, * who rewards Pamela 1 '

' Her master, sir.'

* What does he do T

The cook's eyes sank modestly to her lap. The cook's com-
plexion became brighter than ever

* Her master marries her, sir.'
'Ohr

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' 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 othei savages have been known to soften under
sufficient influences — why should the scientific savage, under
similar pressure, not melt a little too 1 The doctor took up the
talk again : he made a kind allusion to the cook's family
circumstances.

< VVhea you first oamo here, I ihiok you told me you had no
relatioxial*

238

HEART AND SCIENCE,

* I am an orphan, sir.'

* And you had been some time out of a situation, when I
engaged you 1 '

' Yes, sir ; my poor little savings were nearly at an end.'
Could he resist that pathetic picture of the orphan's little sav-
ings — 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 1 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 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 par-
ticular to do to morrow, why shouldn't we get the marriage li-
cense ? 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 1 '

Perhaps, there was some liHden meaning in this. There was
unquestionably a sudden altei^ation in his look and manner :
the cook wondered what it meai^ o.

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 at the inferior creature seated before him in the
chair, as he looked at the other inferior creatures stretched un-
der him on the table.

His story began pleasantly 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 com-
plexion ] I am clever as well 1 ' On her rare evenings of lib-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

239

highlv

creditable taste,
eager play-

erty, she sometimes gratified another

besides the taste for reading novels. She was an

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 dis-
covered 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 charoiing women. Mr. A. engaged her.' At
that critical point of the stoiy, 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 rou^d the
neck. There's your money. Go.'

With glaring eyes and gaping mouth, the cook stood lookiug
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 knifa Benjulia wrenched it out of
her hand, and dropped back into his chair completely overpow-
ered 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 1 ' he said. ' Why haven'ti
* I got somebody with me to enjoy it) '

i>40

HEART AND SCIENCE.

At that laugh, at those words, the cook's fury in its fiercest
heat became frozen by terror. There was something superhu-
man in the doctor's diabolical joy. Even lie felt the wild hor-
ror 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 housa She pointed to him ; and re-
peated Benjulias own worda

' Somebody to enjoy it with you,' she said.

She opened the duor. The mau-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.

* JVly 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 a woman. Just
as the stranger made his appearance, it had struck Benjulia that
the cook might be a case worth studying. But, she had got
relief in crying ; her brain was safe; she had ceased to interest
him. ii« returned to the diuing-room*

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

* You look hot, sir ; have a drink. Old English ale, out of
the barrel.*

The tone was hearty. He poured out the sparkling ale into
a big tumbler, with hospitable good will. Mr. Mool was com-
pletely, and most agreeably, taken by surprist.. He too was
feeling the influence of the doctor's good humour — enriched in
quality by pleasant remembrances of his interview with the
cook.

'Hive in the suburbs. Dr. Benjulia, on this side of London,'
Mr. Mool explained ; * and I have had a nice walk from my
house to yours. If I Iiave done wrong, sir, in visiting you
on Sunday, I can only plead that I am engaged in business
•luring 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 1 '

* No, thank you.'

* Do you mind my smoking 1 '
'I like it, doctor.'

* Very amiable on your part, I am sure. What did you say
your n&me was ? *

' Mooi.'

Benjulia looked at him suspiciously. Was he a physiologist,
and a rival ] ' You're not a doctor — are you 1 ' 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 conMence. Bat lor bit

242

HEART AND S(JIENCE.

liparty onjoymont of tho inystitication of tlio cook, Mr. Mod
would liave hinnx refiuestod to state tho object of his visit in
writing, and would have gone liomo 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 r

Mr. Mool's professional tact warned him to waste no time on
prefatory phrases.

*I venture on my present intrusion,' he began, 'inconse-
quence of a statement recently made to me, in my office, by
Mrs. Gallilee.'

* Stop ! ' cried Benjulia. * I don't like your beginning, T 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, Dr. Benjulia.'

* Does that mean that you positively must talk about her? '
!Mr. Mool smiled. ' Let us say that it may bear that mean-
ing,* 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 f

* I should not otherwise, Dr. Benjulia, have ventured to
present myself at your house.' With that necessary expla-
nation, Mr. Mool clearly and briefly 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
to. They were good people. On reflection, you must surely

nEAUT AND SCIENCE.

)lUi

rorjrot it, if you havci carelessly ro))oatfi(l a i'al.sn report ? Won't
yoii liclp me to clear the pour in >tlier'a memory of this horrid
stain ! '

Reiijulia smoked in silence. Had that simple and touching
appeal found its way to him ? Me began very strangely, when
he consented at last to open his li])S.

* You're what they call, a middloagcMl man,' he said. ' I sup-
pose you have had some experience of women 1 '

Mr. Mool blutihed. ' I am a marri d man, sir,' he replied
gravely.

* Vary well ; that's experience — of one kind. When a
man',) out of temper, and a woman wants something of him,
do you know how cleverly shecan take advantage of her privilege
to aggravate him till there's nothing he won't do to get h(!r to
leave him in peace 1 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 laugliing 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 cur-
tain, 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 1 * Mr. Mool asked eagerly.

* 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 Gray well 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

► (

■■"- 'i l W W l

I* ft 1

"lU

ITEAIIT AND SCIENCE.

figure, when I saw her again in tlie

So 1 paid

remember the name of the naan who ref'ised to

student's room,
the hot.'

*Do you
payr

* His name was Egisto Baccani.'

*Have you hoard anything of hira 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. lie sent me his prospeo
tus— that's how I came to kn()<v about it.'

* Have you got the prosixjctus 1 '
' 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 t
Are you likely to see Mrs. Gallilee soon? '

* Yes — if I find Baccani '

* Do you ever play will Udren 1 *

' I have five of my own .- play with,' Mr. Mool answered.

' Very well. Ask for the youngest child when you go to Mra.
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 musn't wait any longer.*

The woman's uneasiness was reflected in Mr. Mool'a 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 T day one little word to you, Mr. Mool 1 '

He took her into his study. She was shy and confused, but
certainly neither angry nor distressed.

* My ftUQt sends me out every day, when it's fine, for ft driYe»*

HEART AND SCIENCE.

245

•be said.* As the carriage passed close by, I thought 1 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 1 '

* Quite true.'

For how long is she my guardian 1 *
Until you are twenty -one years old.'

The faint colour faded from Carmina's face. More than three
years perhaps to suffer I ' she said sadly,

' To suffer 1 What do you mean, my dear 1 '

She turned paler still, and made no reply. ' I want to ask
one thing more) ' she resumed in sinking tones. ' VVwuld my
aunt still be my guardian — 8U[)posing 1 was married 1 '

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, Car-
olina. Won't you take me into your confidence 1 '

In sudden agitation she seized his hand and kissed \^>. ' I
must go,' she said. ' I have kept the carriage waiting too long
already.'

She rftn gutj without once looking back.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

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 ^t home,' she said.

* It's my fault, Jane. Tell your mistress the truth, if she
questions you. I shall not think th( 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. As they now drove
briskly on the road home, she looked at her * young lady' with
an anxious interest which proved the sincerity of the feeling that
she had just expressed.

Instead of talking pleasantly as usual, Carmina was silent and
sad. Had this change in her spirits been caused by the visit to
Mr. Mooll It was even so. The lawyer had innocently de-
cided her on taking the desperate course winch 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 incori act,
Carmina was prepared to propose a compromise of her own de-
vising. She would have engaged to remain at her aunt's dis-
posal until Ovid returned, on condition of being allowed, when
Teresa arrived in London, to live in retirement \^ith her old
nurse. This change of abode would jirevent any collision be-
tween Mrs. Gallilee and Teresa, and would make Carmina's
life as peaceful, and even as ha^ py, as she could wish.

But now that the lawyer had confirmed aer aunt's statement
of the position in which they stood towards one another, all hope
oi carrying out such an arrangement as this — to any person ac-
quainted with Mrs. Gallilee's temper — was at an end. Instant

HEART AND SCIENCE.

247

^naa

lent
[hope
ac-
itaut

flight to Ovid's love and protection was the one choice left —
unless Carmina could resign herself to a life of merciless perse-
cution 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.
Glosetted with Carmina on the Sunday morning, she had pro-
posed a scheme of escape, which would even set Mrs. Gallilee's
vigilance and cunning at defiance. No pecuniary obstacle stood
in the way. Tlie first quarterly payment of Carraina's allow-
ance of five hundred a year had been already made, by Mr.
Mool's advice. Enough was left — even without the assistance
which the nurse's resources would render — to purchase the ne-
cessary 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. Galiilee. On the coming Tuesday afternoon, an event
of the deepest scientific importance was to take place. A new
Professor had undertaken to deliver himself, by means of a lec-
ture, of subversive opinions on * Matter.' A general discussion
was to follow ; and in that discussion (upon certain conditions)
Mrs. Galiilee 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 assum-
ing 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. Galiilee, ris-
ing excitedly to her feet, ' wo dispense with the idea of atoms ! '

The friend looked infinitely relieved by the prospect of dis-
pensing with atoms.

• Now observe ! ' Mrs. Galiilee proceeded. * In connection
with this pait of the sul)ject, I shall wait to see if the Pro-
fessor adopts Thomson's theory. You are acquainted with

■ 1,

I I.

I i

248

HEART IND SCIENCE.

Thompon's theory 1 No 1 Let roe put it briefly. Mere het-
erogt niety, together with gravitation, is sufficient to explain
all the apparently discordant laws of molecular action. Yuu
understand] Very well. If the Professor passes over Thom-
son, then^ I rise in the body of the Hall, and take my stand ou
these grounds.'

While Mrs. Galiilee's grounds were being laid out for the
benefit of her friend, the coachman took the carriage back to the
stables ; the maid went down stairs to tea ; and Carmina joined
Miss Minerva in the schoolroom — all three being protected
from discovery, by Mrs. Galiilee's reliearsal of her performance
in the Comedy of Atoms.

The Monday morning brought with it news from Rome — ser-
ious 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 at the end. Her correspondent was the old priest
— Father Patrizio. He wrote in these words :

»!

* My dear child, — Our r .od Teresa leaves us today, on her
journey to London. She Lsa 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. 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 hould 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 1

fiEARt AND SCIENCE.

249

ehet-
:i>laia
You
ihom-
nd ou

)r the
to the
joined
•tectt d
mance

B — ser-

*k, but
)ked to
i priest

on her
>e legal
ig died
way of

little
id died,

Offer

[ght and
jreature
night
ill get
nurse,

having
jpear to

lid you
llled the
^t years,
truth 1

Vou 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 combatted — 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 Teresea ? — of
which perhaps you are not yourself aware. Use your power
discreetly ; and, with the blessing of God and His Sainti, 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 hav» felt,
was at an end when she read this letter. Good Father Patrizio,
like good Mr. Mool, had innocently urged her to set her guar-
dian's authority at defianrc.

CHAPTER XL.

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 1 ' 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 1 '

'Very likely.'

She spoke in faint weary tones — listlessly leaning back in her
chair. Carmina asked if she had passed another sleepless ni,j;ht.

'Yes,* she said, 'another bad night, and the usual martyr-
dom 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 con-
tempt. In the silence that ensued, she looked up, and saw Car-
mina's eyes resting on her anxiously and kindly.

' Any other human being but yon,' 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

flEART AND SCIENCE.

Sol

even

in lier
ni,j;lit.
lartyr-
;\ists
L-able

jn her
usual
|e con-
Car-

id me

10. I

]usual.
kuch a

deligtliful dream. I could almost wish that I had never awak-
ened from it/

' Who did you dream of 1 ' She put the question mechani-
cally—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 some-
times 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 falling over her white dressing gown
to the waiafc. She stooped over me, and kissed me ; and she
looked surprised. She said, " My little angel, why are you here
in a strange house 1 I have come to take you back to your
own cot, by my bedside." I wasn't suprised or frightened; I
put my arms round her neck ; and we floated away together
through the cool starry night ; and were at home again. I
saw my cot, with its pretty white curtains and pink ribbons,
I heard my mother *ell 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 ? *

*I1 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 ex-
penses. 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. Bed-time wss hor time for beating me. Talk of your
mother — not of mine ! You were very young, were you not,
when she died)'

ip|l

■

! \

1 1

! i

255

Heart aj^d sciENctl.

* Too young to feel my misfortune — but old enough to re-
member 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 ftie was ? There was some charm in her
that all children felt. I can just remember some of my play-
fellows who used to come to our garden. Other good mothers
were with us — but the children all crowded around 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 I have bitter
thoughts sometimes, Frances, like you. I have read in poetry
that death is a fearful thing. To md, 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 ! 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 re-
membrances 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 £ngers irritably platted and
unplatted the edge of her blsek apron.

Carmina was too deeply absorbed in her thcnghts, too
eagerly bent on giving them expression, to notice these warn-
ing signs.

* I have all my mother's letters to my father,* she went on,
* when he was away from her on his sketching excursiona You
have still a little time to spare — I should so like to read some
of them to yon. I was reading one, last night — which per-
haps accounts for my dream 1 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 1 There is some-
thing I want to say to you first.*

* About yourself 1 ' Miss Minerva asked.

* About Ovid. I want your advice.'

Miss Minerva was silent. Carmina went on. 'It's about
writing to Ovid/ she explained.

show
ietell
Q her

play-
jthers
other,
places
[1, and

away

bitter
poetry
iing—
since I
', what

would

of true
of her
the re-
p more,
She
:ed and

bs, too
warn-

rent on,
You
id some
ch per-
nterests
d of his
lis wife
Lb Bome-

,'8 about

HEART AND SCIENCE

253

* Write, of course ! *

The reply was suddenly and sharply given. * Surely, I have
aot offended you 1 ' 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.' Sho drew
her chair closer to Miss Minerva. * I want t ) T,hifiper — 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 banker's
at Quebec, and then write when I kneyr 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 deli-
cate 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 des-
perate step. In my place, wouldn't you feel that you could do
it more delicately in writing 1 '

*Yes!'

* 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 ar-
riva I should shut myself up in a 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 1 '

The governess left her chair, and pointed to the clock.
Carmina looked at her — and rose in alarm, * Are you in
pain 1 ' she asked.

* Yes — neuralgia, I think. I have the remedy in my room.
Don't keep me, my dear. Mrs. Gallilee musn't find me here
again.'

The paroxysm of pain which Carmina had noticed, passed
QY^r her face opcei She subdued it, tmd left the room* Tl^Q

(

! !■

S54>

BEART AND SCIENCE.

pain mastered her again ; a low cry broke from Iier wlien sha
closed the dor. Cnrmina ran out ; < Frances I what is it 1 '
Frances looked over ner shoulder, whilst she slowly ascended
tie stairs. 'Never mindl' she said gently. 'Never miudi'

Carmina advanced a step to follow her, and drew back.

Was that expression of suffering really caused by pain of the
body 1 or was it attributable to anything that she had rashly
said 1 She tried to recall what had passed between Frances
and herself. The effort wearied lier. Her thoughts turned
Bolf-reproachf ully to Ovid. If ht had been speaking to a friend
whose secret sorrow was known to him, would he have men-
tioned the name of the woman whom they both loved ? She
looked at his portrait, and reviled herself as a selfish, insensi-
ble wretch. ' Will Ovid improve me 1 ' she wondered. * Shall
I be a little worthier of him, when I am his wife 1 '

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 *^^o pitch
into. 1 don't know him ; but — how do you feel about it your-
self, Carmina 1 — 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 per-
haps you tkink as I do ? — I'm sick of cock and bacon, my-
self.'

Mr. Null's medical orders still prescribed fresh air. The
carriage came to the duor at the regular hour ; and Mr. Gal-
lilee, with equal regularity, withdrew to his clmb.

Carmina was too uneasy to leave the house without seeing
Miss Minerva first. She went up to the school-room.

Thoie was no sound of voices, when she opened the door,
Miss Mii:erva was writing, and silence had been proclaimed,
TUe girls vere read^ dressed for their walk. Industrious Tfi,m%

HEART AND SCIENCE.

255

The
Gal-

had her book. Idle Zo, perched on a high chair, sat hicTting
her legs. ' If you aay a word,' she whispered, as Carinina
passed her, 'you'll bo called an Imp, and stuck up on a chair.
I shall go to the boy.'

•A re you better, Frances V

* Much butter, ray 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 — pndyou 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 Car-
mina. ' The air would do you so much good.'

* Impossible ! But you may soothe my irritable nerves in
another way, if you like.'

* How 1 '

* Relieve me of these girls. Take them out with you. Do
you mind 1 '

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 1 '

* 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 another successful exit.
• I am sorry, dear Miss Minerva, if / 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
•ihe Italian boy's dance on the landing. * For shame ! ' said
Maria. Zo burst into singing. * Yah yahyah-hellah-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 ] *

250

TIEART AND SCIENCE.

Miss Minerva answered sadly and kindly. *The best thing
you could do whs to leave me by myself.'

Oarmina's mind was still not quite at ease. * Yes— but you
were in pnin,' she said.

' You curious child ! I am not in pain now.*

* Will you n ake me comfbrtal)li', Fiances 1 Givo mo u liss.*
•Two my dear — if you lik<'.*

She kissed Carmina on one cheek and on the other. *Now,
leave me to write,' slie said.

Carmina loft her.

The drive ought to have been a pleasant one, with Zo in the
carriage. To the maid, it was a time of the heartiest enjoy-
ment. Maria' herself condescended to smile, now and then.
There was only one dull person in the carriage. * Miss Car-
mina 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 respon-
sible for what you have done will mi.slejid you no mere.* With
those words she entered the library, and closed the door.

Maria and Zo, at the sight of their mother, had hurried up-
stairs. Carmina stood alone in the hall. Mrs Gallilee hud
turned her cold. After awhile, she followed the children as
far as her own room. There, her resolution failed her. She
called faintly up-stairs — * 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 little 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 th(i
loan of twenty pounds.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

257

l/f J J • ^^«^^«^,?««« '^ «»e, on which Mrs. Gaililee calcu-

ated may be m me stilL' And, again : ' Even now, when you
have found me out, I love him. Don't trust me.' ^

JNever had Carmina trusted her more faithfully than she
trusted her at that bitter moment I ^ "'un sne

CHAPTEK XLT.

I m

The Oi'Jiuary a&pect of the schoolroom was seen no more.

Installed in a position of temporary authority, the parlour-
maid sat silently at her needlework. Maria stood by the win-
dow, in the new character of an idle girl — with her handker-
chief in her hand, and her everlasting book dropped unnoticed
on the floor Zo lay flat on her back, on the hearth rug, hug-
ging the dog in her arms. At intervals, she rolled herself over
slowly from side to aide, and stared at the ceiling with wonder-
ing eyes. Miss Minerva's departure had struck the parlour-
maid dumb, and had petrified the ])upils.

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 Inn- 1 '

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 was still rolling slowly
from one side to the other ; trying perhaps instinctively to set
the inert weight of thought in her moving in that manner. The
dog on her breast, lulled by the regular motion, slept profound-
ly ; not even troubled by a dream of fleas 1

While Maria was still considering what it might be best to
do, Carmina entered the room. She looked, as the servant after-
wards described it, *like a person who had lost her way.* Maria
exhibited the feeling of the school- room, by raising her handker-
chief 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, MisB.'

* Wbi^t message 1 '

to
ter-
aria
ker-

of
and

HEART ANQ SCIENCE.

259

' The message, saying she wished to see my mistreus for a fovr
minutes.'

' 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 live 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 rouml the
corner.'

* Have the boxes been sent for 1 '

* Yes, Miss.'

Carmina lifted her head, and ^poke in steadier tones.

* Where liave they been taken to 1 *

* To the flower-shop at the back — to bo kept till called for.*
' No other address ) '

' None.'

The last faint hope of tracing Frances was at an end. Carmi-
na turned wearily to leave the room. Zo called to her from the
hearthrug. Always kind to the child, she retraced her steps.

* What is it ] ' she asked.

Zo got on her logs before she spoke, like a member of parlia-
ment. * 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 1 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
I'rances had addressed to her, still o|)pressed her mud, "^here

.Vi

2G0

HEART AND SCIENCE.

were moments when she vaguely understood, and bitterly la-
mented, 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 Fran-
ces to take leave of her, on the morning of the escapa 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 Be-
wildered 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 surrep-
titious 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, Carmina, 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 1 You would rather not ? Just my feel-
ing ! Remarkable similarity in our opinions — don't you think
so yourself ? I'm sorry for poor Miss Minerva. Suppose you
go to bed ^ '

Carmina wat, in no mood to profit by this excelLnt advice.
She was walking restlessly up and down her room, when the
time came for shutting up the house. With the sound of clos-
ing 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 vfifh champagne and the
club! He presented a telegram to Carmine^— and, when he

HEART AND SCIENCE.

261

idvice.
Bn the
f clos-
ing at
allilee
is fat
,ble of
Ind the
en h«

spoke, tLcre wore thrills of agitation in tho tones of his piping
voice.

* My dear, something rcry unpleasant has happened. I met
Joseph taking this to my wife. Highly improper, in my
opinion — what do you say yourself 1 — to take it to Mrs. Galli-
lee, 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 a ':ed anxiously,
when Garmina opened the telegram.

* Good news I the best of good new - 1 ' she answered impetu-
ously.

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 again. He said — he actually
said, without appealing to anybody — * Damn Joseph ! *

The telegram was from Teresa. It had been despatched from
Paris that evening ; and the message was thus expressed : —
* Too tired to get onto 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. Her thoughts never adverted to Mrs. G.illilee's
attempt at surprising some suspected communication between
Miss Minerva and herself — so plainly revealed by the order to
the footman. For that night, it was enough to know tha'. she
was not quite friendless yet. No fear of what might follow
Teresa's return troubled her, when she laid her head on the
pillow. Her courage had revived : she felt equal again (with
the dear old nurse's help) to confront the risk of the meditated
flight. In her steadier flow of spirits, she could now see all
that was worthiest of sympathy and admiration, all that
claimed loving submission and allowance from herself, in the
sacrifice to which Frances had submitted. How bravely the
poor governess had controlled the jealous misery that tortured
her I How nobly she had renounced Carmina's friendship for
Carmina's sake 1

262

HEAllT AND SCIENCE.

The next day — the important Tuesday •£ the lectwrt on
Matter; the delightful Tuesday of Teresa's arrival— brought
with it special demands on Carmina's pen.

Her first letter was addressed to Frances. It was frankly
and earnestly written ; entreating Miss Minerva to appoint a
place at which they might meet, and assuring her, in the most
affectionate terms, that she was still loved, trusted, and ad-
mired by her faithful friend. The parlour-maid took the let-
ter immediately to the flower shop, and placed it herself under
the cord of one of the boxes — still waiting to be claimed.

The second letter filled many pages, and occupied ♦' o re-
mainder of the morning.

With the utmost delicacy, but with perfect truthfulness at
the same time, Carmina revealed to her betrothed husband the
serious reasons which had forced her to withdraw herself from
his mother's care. Bound to speak at last in her own defence,
the felt that concealments and compromises would be alike
unworthy of Ovid and of herself. What she had already writ-
sen to Teresa, she now wrote again — with but one modification.
She expressed herself forbearingly towards Ovid's mother.
The closing words of the letter were worthy of Carmina's g«n-
tle, just, and generous nature.

' You will perhaps say. Why do I only hear now of all that
you have suffered 1 My love, 1 have longed to tell you of it !
I have even taken up my pen to begin. But I thought of you^
and put it down again. How selfish, how cruel, to hinder
your recovery by causing you sorrow and suspense — to bring
you back perhaps to England before your health was restored !
1 don't regret the eflfort that it has cost me to keep silence. My
only sorrow in writing to you is, i-hat I must speak of your
mother in terms which may lower her in her son's estimation.'

The servant brought the liinchoon up to Carmina's room.
The mistress was still at her studios ; the master had gone to
his club. As for the girls, their only teacher for the present
was the teacher of music. When the ordeal of the lecture and
the discussion had been passed, Mrs. Gallilee threatened to take
Miss Minerva's place herself, until a new governess could be
found. Fur once, Maria and Zo showed a sisterly similarity
la their feelings. It was hard to say which of the two looked

BEART AND SClEKCi:.

203

r* on

3Ught

ankly
oint a
I most
id ad-
le let-
under
I.
the re-

less at
nd the
If from
efence,
Q alike
y writ-
Ication.
nother.
I's g«n-

,11 that
of it !

of yoUf

hinder
bring

tored !

■ your

ation.'

room.

jone to
[present

ire and
take

kid be
lilarity
looked

je.

forward to her learned mother's instruction with the greatest
terror.

Carmina heard the pupils at the piano, while she was eating
her luncheon. The profanation of music ceased, when she
went into the bedroom to get ready for her daily drive. She
took her letter, duly closed and stamped, downstairs with her
— to be sent to the post with the other letters of the day,
collected in the basket. In the weakened state of her nerves,
the effort she had made in writing to Ovid had shaken her.
Her heart beat uneasily ; htr knees trembled, as she descebded
the stairs.

Arrived in sight of the hall, she discovered a man walking
slowly to and fro. He turned towards her as she advanced,
and disclosed the detestable face of Mr. Le Frank.

The music-master's last reserves of patience had come to an
end. Watch for them as he might, no opportunities had pre
sented themselves of renewing his investigation in Carmina's
room. In the interval that had passed, his hungry suspicion of
her had been left to feed on itself. The motives for that incom-
prehensible attempt to make a friend of him, so strangely ac-
companied by a sinister invitation to shake hands, remained
hidden in as thick a darkness as ever. Victim of adverse cir-
cuixistances, Mr. Le Frank had determined (with the greatest
reluctance) to take the straightforward course. Instead of se-
cretly getting his information from Carmina's journals and let-
ters, he was now reduced to openly applying for onlightenment
to Carmina herself.

Occupying, for the time being, the position of an honourable
man, he presented himself at cruel disadvantage. He was not
master of his own glorious voice ; he was without the self-
possession indispensable to the perfect performance of his mag-
nificent bow. ' I have waited to have a word with you,* he be-
gan abruptly, * before you go out for your drive.*

Already unnerved, even before she had seen him — painfully
conscious that she had committed a serious error, on the last
occasion when they had met, in speaking at all — Carmina
neither answereO him nor looked at him. She bent her head
confusedly, and advanced a little nearer to the house door.

He at once moved so as to place himself in her way.

*I must request you to call to mind what passed between

\ ,/-

264

HEART AND SCfENCC.

us/ he resumed, ' when we met bf aucidcut some little timd
since.'

He had speculated on frightening her. His insolence stirred
her spirit into asserting itself. ' Let me by, if you please,' she
said ; * the carriage is waiting for me.'

' The carriage can wait a little longer,' he answered coarsely.

* On the occasion to which I have referred, you were so good
as to make advances, to which I cannjt consider myself as hav-
ing any claim. Perhaps you will favour mt by stating your
motives.'

' I don't understand you, Sir.*

* Oh, yes — you do ! '

She stepped back, and laid her hand on the bell which rang
below stairs, in the pantry. * Must I ring 1 ' she said.

It was plain that she would do it, if he moved a step nearer to
her. He drew aside — with a look which made her tremble. On
passing the hall table, she placed her letter in the post-basket.
His eye followed it, as it left her hand : he became suddenly
penitent and polite. ' I am sorry if I have alarmed you,' he
said, and opened tl e house door for her — without showing him
self to the coachman or the maid outside.

The carnage having been driven away, he softly closed the
door again, and returned to the hall table. He looked into the
post-basket.

Was there any danger of discovery by the servants t The
footman was absent, attending his mistress on her way to the
lecture. None of the female servants were on the staira He
took up Oarmina's letter and looked at the address : J'o Doctor
Ovid Vere.

His eyes twinkled furtively ; his excellent memory for in-
juries reminded him that Doctor Ovid Vere had endeavoured
(without even caring to conceal it) to prevent Mrs. Gallileefrom
engaging him as music teacher. By subtle links of his own
forging, his vindictive nature now connected his hatred of the
person to whom the letter was addressed, with his interest in
stealing the letter itself for the discovery of Oarmina's secrets.
The clock told him that there was plenty of time to open theen«
velope, and (if the contents proved to be of no importance to
him)j to close it again, and take it himself to the post. After fit

;h rang

HEART AND SCIENCE.

2G5

B timd

stirred
»,* she

►arsely.
K) good
as hav-
g your

last look round, lie withdrew undiscovered, with the letter in
his pocket.

Keturning to the house, the carriage was passed by a cab,
with a man in it, driven at such a furious rate that there was a
narrow escape of collision. The maid screamed ; Carmina
turned pale ; the coachman wondered why the man in the cab
was in ench a hurry. The man was Mr. Mool's head clerk, on
his way to Doctor Benjulia.

earer to
)le. On
rbasket.
uddenly
you,* he
ling him

3sed the
into the

i'i The
y to the
rs. He
Doctor

for in-

javoured

ilee from

lis own

of the
iterest in
s secrets.
-»n the en-
rtance to

After «k

I li

i'ti

l< |;.

i !

jteB^'

CHAPTER XLII.

TuE mind of the clerk's master had been troubled by serious
doubts, after Carmiua left his house on Sunday.

Her agitated manner, her strange questions, and her abrupt
departure, all suggested to Mr. Mool's mind some rash project
in contemplation — perhaps even the i)lan of an elo{)enient. To
most other men, the obvious course to take would have been to
communicate with Mrs. Gallilee. But the lawyer preserved a
vivid remembrance of the interview which had taken place at his
office. The detestable pleasure which Mrs. Gallilee had betrayed
in profaning the memory of Carmina's mother, had so shocked
and disgusted him, that he recoiled from the idea of holding any
further intercourse with her, no matter how pressing the emer-
gency might be. It was possible, after what had passed, that
Carmina might feel the propriety of making some explanation
by letter. He decided to wait until the next morning, on the
chance of hearing from her.

On the Monday, no letter arrived. Proceeding to the office,
Mr. Mool found, in his business -correspondence, enough to oc-
cupy every moment of his time. He had purposed writing io
Carmina, but the idea was now inevitably pressed out of his
mind. It was only at the close of the day's work that he had
leisure to think of a matter of greater importance — that is to
say, of the necessity of discovering Benjulia's friend of other
days, the Italian teacher Baccani. He left instructions with
one of his clerks to make enquiries the next morning at the
shops of foreign booksellers. There, and there only, the ques-
tion might be answered, whether Baccani was still living, and
living in London.

The inquiries proved successful. On Tuesday afternoon, Bao-
cani's address was in Mr. Mool's hands.

ly senous

3r abrupt
ih project
ent. To
e been to
^served a
ace at his
betrayed
) shocked
Iding any
the emer-
3sed, that
planation
g, on the

bhe office,
gh to oc-
'riting io
ut of his
t he had
hat is to
of other
ions with
ig at the
the ques-
ang, and

oon, Bao-

liEAM' ANb SWEN-CE. ^^.^

Z^ "»f»™ed that tho Itt«8„„„e m "« ■ '^""wni's lougin™ he
l^f -1 * "<"« 'o Baccani In t^l'^^K""^ «' "le iodmnai

^7 ^;— « app J^ tt »uavrsi

j.asrr^'icurr"' "•>■". .-.,11

rth some difficultv, he m-n:!. r'""^ ^P^^^d the ruttl 1 i!

We appeared to feel such Pn.K ^"^ ^ ^'^'"e by it ' ^
"■fai.tr' ^/- "^ i^rrotr"""""' - "PP-oWng the
oumsCci'rthiTtr'' '^'''■"''' '-"• -.e of the •

sr - - -^ ^St, Tat itii tS?- -"

B— ».ate..^.„,.,,_^^^J--

2()B

bei vc.

HEART AND SClEKCfi.

* I feel your kindness,* he said, * as keenly as 1 feel my
own disgraceful conduct, in permitting a woman's reputation to
be made the subject of a wager. From whom did you obtain
your information 1 '

' From the person who mentioned your name to me — Doctor
Benjulia.'

Baccani lifted his hand with a gesture of angry protest

* Don't speak of him again, sir, in my presence ! ' he burst
out. ' That man has insulted me. When I took refuge from
political persecution in this country, I sent him my prospectus.
From my ow" humble position as a teacher of languages, I
looked up without envy to his celebrity among doctors ; I
thought I might remind him, not unfavourably, of our early
friendship, — I, who had done him a hundred kindnesses in
those past days. He has never taken the slightest notice of
me ; he has not even acknowledged the receipt of my prospec-
tus. Desp' cable wretch ! Let me hear no more of him.'

* Pray forgive me if I refer to him again — for the last time,
Mr. Mool pleaded. * Did your acquaintance with him con-
tinue after the question of the wager had been settled 1 '

* No, sir ! ' Baccani answered sternly. * When I was at lei-
sure a few days afterwards, to go to the club at which we were
accustomed to meet, he had left Kome. Fro\n that time to
this — I rejoice to say it — I have never set eyes on hira.'

The obstacles which had prevented the refutation of the
calumny from reaching Benjulia were now revealed. Mr. Mool
had only to hear, next, how that refutation had been obtained.
* Shall we return,' he suggested, * to the manuscript which you
permit me to read ? '

' Willingly,' said Baccani. * The position I took in the matter
is easily described. I was determined to see the woman's face,
before I allowed myself to believe that an estimable married
lady cculd have compromised herself with a scoundrel, who
had boasted that she was his mistress I waited in the street
until the woman came out. I followed her, and saw her meet
a man The two went together to a theatre. I took my place
near them. She lifted her veil aa a matter of course. My
suspicion of foul play was instantly confirmed. When the
performance was over, I traced her back to Mr. Robert Gray-
well's house. He and his wife were both absent at a party. X

a to
tain

)ctor

burst
from

3CtU8.

res, I

b; 1

early
ses in
tice of
rospec-

b time,
m con-

at lei-
e were
,ime to

of the
Mool
)tained.
|ich you

I matter

I's face,

larried

rel, who
street

^er meet
ly place
30. My

Ihen the
rt Gray-
>arty. X

HEART AND SCIENCE.

200

was too iudignant to wait till they came back. Under the
threat of charging tlie wretch with stealing her mistress's
clothes, I extorted from her the signed confession which you
have in your hand. She was under notice to leavo lier place
for insolent behaviour to her mistress. The personation which
had been intendod to deceive me, was an act of revenge ; plan-
ned between herself and the blackguard who had employed her
to make his lie look like truth. There is one thing more to add,
before you read thf^ confession. Mrs. Robert Gray well did im-
])rudently send him some money — in answer to a begging letter
artfully enough written to excite her pity. A second applica-
tion was refused-by her husband — and what followed on that,
you know already.'

Having read the confession, Mr. Mool was permitted to take
a copy, and to make any use of it which he might think desir-
able. His one remaining anxiety was to hear what had become
of the man who had planned the deception. * Surely,' he suid,
* that villain has not escaped punishment ? *

Baccani answered this in his own bitter way.

' My dear sir ! how can you ask such a simple question 1 That
sort of man always escapes punishment. In the last extreme
of poverty his luck provides him with somebody to cheat. Com-
mon respect for Mrs. Robert Gray well closed my lips; and I
was the only pei'son ac(|uainted with the circumstances, I wrote
to our club declaring the fellow to be a cheat — and leaving it to
be inferred that he cheated at cards. He knew better than to
insist on my explaining myself — he resigned and disappeared.
I dare say he is living still —living in clover on some unfortu-
nate woman. The beautiful and the good die untimely deaths.
He, and his kind, last and live.*

Mr. Mool had neither time nor inclination to plead in favour
of the more hopeful view, which believes in the agreeable fic-
tion, called * poetical justice.' Ho tried to express his sense of
obligation at parting. Baccani refused to listen.

* The obligation is all on my side,' he said. * As I have al-
ready told you, your visit has added a bright day to my calen-
dar. In our pilgrimage, my friend, through this world of
rogues and fools, we may never meet again. Let us remember
gratefully that we have met, Farewell,'

^0 they parted*

270

BEART AND SCIENCE.

Returning to his office, Mr, Mool attached to the copy of the
<:!onfes8ion a brief Htacement of the circumstances under which
the Italian had become possessed of it. Ho then added these
lines addressed to Benjulia : — *You set the false report afloat.
I leave it to your flense of duty to decide, whether you ought
not to go at once to Mrs. Gallilee, and tell her that the slander
which you repeated is now proved to be a lie. If you don't
agree with rae, I must go to Mrs. Gallilee myself. In that case,
please return, by the bearer, the papers which are enclosed.*

The clerk instructed to deliver these documents, within the
shortest possible space of time, found Mr. Mcol waiting at the
office, on his return. He answered his master's inquiries, by
producing Benjulia's reply.

The doctor's amiable humour was still in the ascendent. His
success in torturing his unfortunate cook had been followed by
the receipt of a telegram from his friend at Montreal, contain-
in this satisfactory answer to his question: — 'Not brain ul-
seaae.' With his mind now set completely at ease, his instincts
as a gentleman were at full liberty to control him. ' I entirely
agree with you,' he wrote to Mr. Mool. ' I go back with your
clerk; the cab will drop me at Mrs. Gallilee's house.'

Mr. Mool turned to the clerk.

* Did you wait to hear if Mrs. Gallilee was at home 1 * he
asked.

* Mrs. Gallilee was absent, sir— attending a lecture.'

* What did Dr. Benjulia do 1'

* Went into the house, to wait her return.*

CHAPTER XLIII.

Mrs. Gaililee's pap;e (ntteiK^ingto the house door, in the foot
man's absence) had just showi Berijnlia into the library, when
there was another ring at the bell. The new visitor was Mr.
Le Frank. He appeared to be in a hurry. Without any pre-
liminary questions, he said, * Take my card to Mrs. Gallilee.*

* INIy mistress is out, sir.'

The music-master looked impatiently at the hall-clock. Tho
hall-clock answered him by striking the half hour after five.

• Do ^ ou expect Mrs. Gallilee back soon ? '

' We don't know, sir. The footman had his orders to be in
waiting with the carriage at five.*

After a moment of irritable reflection, Le Frank took a let-
ter from his pocket. * Say that T have an appointment, and am
not able to wait. Give Mrs, Gallilee that letter the moment
she comes in.' With those directions he left the house.

The page looked at the letter. It was sealed ; and, over
the address, two underlined words were written ; — * Private.
Immediate.' Mindful of visits from tradespeople, anxious to
see his mistress, and provided beforehand with letters to be de-
livered immediately, the boy took a pecuniary view of Mr. Le
Frank's errand at the house. * Another of them,' he thought,
' wanting his money.'

As he placed the letters on the hall table, the library door
opened, and Benjulia appeared — weary already of waiting, with-
out occupation, for Mrs. Gallilee's retuni.

' Is smoking allowed in the library ? * he asked.

The page looked up at the giant towering over him, with the
enyious admiration of a short boy. He replied with a discre-
tion beyond his years ; * Would you please step into the aiuok-
ing-room, sir 1 '

HEART AND SCIENCI

: '

u ■

JUttte—^

BTnoking-

And I

He tried a third

upper regions.

* Anybody tlkoro t *

* My master, sir.'
I3enjulia at onco doclin«d the invitaMon to the

room, * Anyhody elsts at home 1 * he iij«iuired.

Miss Carniina waa upstiiirs — the page answered,
think,' he added, • Mr. Null is with her.'

'Who's Mr. Null?'

•The doctor, sir.'

Benjulia declined to disturb the doctor,
and la»t question.

' Where's Zo 1 '

* Here ! * cried a shrill voice from the
* Who are you ? '

To the page's astonishment, the giant-gentleman with the
resonant bass voice answered this quite gravely. 'I'm Ben-
Julia,' he said.

*Corae upl' cried Zo.

Benjulia ascended the stairs.

* Stop ! ' shouted the voice from above.
Benjulia stopped.

* Have you got your big stick 1 '
'Yes.'

' Bring it up with you.' Benjulia retraced his steps into the
haW. The page respectfully handed him his stick. Zo became
im))atient. * Look sharp 1 ' she called out.

Benjulia obediently quickened his pace. Zo left the school-
room (in spite of the faintly-heard protest of the maid in charge)
to receive him on the stairs. They met on the landing, outside
Carmina's room. Zo possessed herself of the bamboo cane, and
led the way in. * Carmina ! here's the big stick, I told you
about,' she announced. * Whose stick, dear ? ' Zo returned to
the landing. * Come in, Benjulia,' she said — and seized him
by the coat-tails. Mr. Null rose instinctively. Was this his
celebrated colleague? With some reluctance, Carmina ap-
peared at the door ; thinking of the day when Ovid had fainted,
and when the great man had treated her so harshly. In fear of
more rudeness, she asked him confusedly to come in.

Still immovable on the landing, he looked at her in silence.

The serious question occurred to him which had already pre-
sented itself tu Mr. Mool. Had Mrs. OalUlee reoeatedj U\

HEART AND <?CTENCK

273

lcin»-

Lni

1 I

third

igions.

bh the
1 Bea-

nto the
ecame

Ischool-
;hari,'e)
tutside
le, and

you
■ned to
id him

8 his
la ap-
lainted,
Ifear of

silence,
ly pre-
bed, ift

Carm5na*8 prosonco, the Ho which slandered her mother's
memory — tlie lie which he was tlion in the house to expose 1

Watching IJtmjulia respectfully, Mr. Null saw, in that grave
scrutiny, an opportunity of presenting himself under a favour-
able light. He waved his hand persuasively towanls Carmina.
' Some nervous prostration, sir, in my interesting patient, as
you no douht perceive,' he began. 'Not such rapid progress
towards recovery as I had hoped. I think of recommending the
air of the seusido.' Bunjulia's dreary grey eyes turned on him
slowly, and estimated his mental calibre at its exact value, in
a moment. Mr. Null felt that look in the very marrow of
his bones. Ho bowed reverontiiilly and took his leave.

In the meantime, Bi^njulia had satisfied himself that the em-
barrassment in Ciirmina's manner was merely attributable to
shyness. She was now no longer an object even of momentary
interest to him. Ho was ready to play with Zo — but not on
condition of amusin*:; himself with the child, in her presence.

* I am waiting till Mrs. Glallilee returns,' he said to Carmina
in his quietly indifferent way. ' If you will excuse me, I'll go
downstairs again ; I won't intrude.'

Her pale face flushed as she listened to him. Innocently sup-
posing that she had made her little offer of hospitality in too
cold a manner, she lookcv! at Benjulia with a timid and trou-
bled smile. * Pray wait here till my aunt comes back,' she said.

• Zo will amuse you, I'm sure.* Zo seconded the invitation by
hiding the stick, and laying hold again on her big friend's
coat-tails.

He let the child drag him into the room, without noticing her.
The silent questioning of his eyes had been again directed to
Carmina, at the moment when she smiled. His long and ter-
rible experience made its own merciless discoveries, in the ner-
vous movement of her eyelids and her lips. The poor girl,
pleasing herself with the idea of having produced the right im-
pression on him at last, had only succeeded in becoming an ob-
ject of medical inquiry, pursued in secret. When he com-
panionably took a chair by her side, and let Zo cLjab on liis
knee, he was privately regretting his cold reception of Mr. Null.
Under certain conditions of nervous excitement, Carmina might
furnish an interesting case. ' If I had been commonly civil tp

n J^"

.,' c

mv^

'i. I

274

HEART AND SCIENCE.

that fawning idiot/ he thought * I might have been called into
consultation/

They were all three seated —but there was no talk. Zo set
the example.

' You haven't tickled me yet,* she said. * Show Carmina
how you do it'

He gravely operated on the back of Zo's neck ; and his pa-
tient acknowledged the process with a wriggle and a scream.
The performance being so far at an end, Zo called to the dog.
and issued her orders once more.

* Now make Tinker kick his leg ! '

Benjulia obeyed once again. The young tyrant was not
satisfied yet.

* Now tickle Carmina ! ' she said.

He heard this without laughing ; his fleshless lip« never re-
laxed into a smile. To Carminia's unutterable embarrassment,
he looked at her, when she laughed, with steadier attention
than ever. Those coldly-inquiring eyes exercised some inscru-
table influence over her. Now tliey made her angry ; and now
they frightened her. The silence that had fallen on them
again, became an unendurable infliction, fehe burst into talk ;
she was loud and familiar — ashamed of fior own boldness, and
quite unable to control it. * Ycu are very fond of Zo*?' she
said suddenly.

It was a perfectly commonplace remark- -and ^et, it seemed
to perplex him.

* Am I ? ' he answered.

She went on. Against her own will, she persisted in speak-
ing to him, * And I'm snre Zo is fond of you.'

He looked ut Zo. * Are you fond of me ? ' he asked.

Zo, staring hard at him, got off his knee ; retired to a little
distance to think ; and stood staring at him again.

He quietly repeated the question. Zo answered this time —
as she had formerly answered Teresa in the Gardens. * I don't
know. '

He turned again to Carmina, in a slow puzzled way. * I
don't know either,' he said.

Hearing the big man own that he was no wiser than herself,
Zo returned to him — without, however, getting on his knee
aga'.a, She clasped her chubby hands under the inspiration of

HEART AND SCIENCE.

275

ttle

(UOf

a new idea. * Let's play at something,' she said to Benjulia.
* Do you know any { imes 1 ',

He shook his heart.

' Didn't you know any games, when you were only as big as
me?'

' I have forgotten them.'

* Haven't you got children ? '
*No.'

' Haven't you got a wife ? '
*No.'

* Haven't you got a friend 1 '
*No.'

* Well, you are a miserable chap !

Thanks to Zo, Carmina's sense of nervous oppression burst
its way into relief. She laughed loudly and wildly — she was
on the verge of hysterics, when Benjulia's eyes, sii-^'ntly ques-
tioning her again, controlled her at the critical moment. Her
laughter died away. But the exciting influence still possessed
her ; still forced her into the other alternative of saying some-
thing — she neither knew nor cared what.

* I couldn't live such a lonely life as yours,' she said to him
— so loudly and so confidently that even Zo noticed it.

* I couldn't live such a life either,' he admitted, * but for one
thing.*

' And what is that 1 '

* Why are you so loud 1 ' Zo interposed. * Do you think
he's deaf r

Benjulia made a sign, commanding the child to be silent —
without turning towards her. Still observing Carmina, he
answered as if there had been no interruption.

* My medical studios/ he said, ' reconcile me to my life.*
' Suppose you got tired of your studies ? ' she asked. ■

* I should never get tired of them.'

' Suppose you couldn't study any more 1 '

* In that case, I shouldn't live any more.'

* Do you mean that it would kill you to leave offV
'No/

' Then what do you mean 1 *

tie If^id his great soft fingers on her pulse. She shrank from

270

HEART AND SCIENCE.

his touch ; he deliberately held her by the arm. ' You're get-
tin{:j excited,' he said. * Never mind what I mean.'

Zo, left unnoticed and not liking it, saw a chance of assert-
ing herself. * I know why Carniina s excited,' she said. • The
old woman's coming at six o'clock.'

He paid no attention to the child ; he persisted in keeping
watch on Carmina. * Who is the woman ) ' he asked.

' The most lovable woman in the world,' she cried ; * my dear
old nurse ! ' She started up from the sofa, and pointed with
theatrical exaggeration of gesture to the clock on the mantel-
piece. * Look ! it's only ten minutes to six. In ten minutes, I
shall have my arms round Teresa's neck. Don't look at me in
that way ! It's your fault if I'm excited. It's you*- dreadful
eyes that do it. Come here, Zo ! I want to give you a kiss.*
She seized on Zo with a roughness that startled the child, and
looked wiluly at Benjulia. * IJa I you don't understand loving
and kissing, do you 1 What's the use of speaking to i/ou about
my old nurse ? '

He pointed to the sofa. ' Sit down ag.iin.'

She obeyed him — but he had not quite composed her yet.
Her eyes sparkled ; ^he went on talking. * Ah, you're a hanl
man ! a miserable man ! a man that will end badly ! You never

loved anybody. You don't know what love is.'

' What is it ? '

That icy question cooled her in an instant ; her head sank on
her bosom : she suddenly became indifferent to persons aiid
things about her. * When will Teresa come 1 ' she whispered
to herself. * Oh, when will Teresa come ! '

Any other man, whether he really felt for her or not, would,
as a mere matter of instinct, have said a kind word to her at
that moment. Not the vestige of a change appeared in I3en-
julia's impenetrable composure. She might have been a man
— or a baby — or the picture of a girl instead of the girl her-
self, so far as he was concerned. He quietly returned to his
question.

' Well,' he resumed — ' and what is love 1'

Not a word, not a movement escaped her.

* I want to know,' he persisted, waiting for what luight hap-
neo. Nothing happened. He was uot perplexed by the sudde]^

HEART AND SCIENCE.

'lit

get-

jsert-
'The

eping

\f dear
I with
lantel-
iites, I
, me in
readful
a kiss.'
Id, and
I loving
u about

her yet.
a hard
never

sank on
ions aud
lispered

,, would,
her at

in Ben-
in a man

girl her-
id to his

ighthap-

ctiangfe. * This is the reaction,' he thought. * We stiall see
wli at comes of it.'

Zo had been listeninfr ; Zo saw her way to getting noticed
again. Not quite sure of herself this time, she appealed to
Carmina. * Didn't he say, just now, he wanted to know 1
Shall I tell him ? '

Carmiha neither heard nor heeded her. She tried Benjulia
next. ' Shall I tell you what we do in the school-room, wiicn
we want to know ? ' His attention, like Carmina's attention,
seemed to be far away from her. ' Are you listening . j me 1 '
ishe ^sked — and laid her hand on his knee.'

It was only tht hand of a child — an idle, quaint, perverse
child — but it touched, ignorantly touched, the one tender place
in his nature, unprofaned by the infernal cruelties which made
his life endurable to him ; the one tender place, hidden so deep
from the man himself, that even his far-reaching intellect,
groped in vain to find it out, There, nevertheless, was the
feeling which drew him to Zo, contending successfully with his
medical interest in a case of nervous derangement ! That un-
intelligible sympathy with a child looked dimly out of his eyes,
spoke faintly in his voice, when h© replied to her. * Fm listen-
ing to you,' he said. ' What do you do in the school room 1 '

* We look in the dictionary,' Zo answered. * Carmina's got
a dictionary. I'll get it'

She climbed on a chair, and found the book^ and laid it on
Benjulia's lap. 'Now look,' she said.

He humoured her silently 3nd mechanically — just as he had
humoured her in the matter of the stick, and in the matter of
the tickling. Having opened the dictionary, he looked again
at Carmina. She had not moved ; she seemed to be weary
enough to fall asleep. The reaction — nothing but the reac-
tion. It might last for hours, or it might be at an end in ano-
ther minute. An interesting temperament, whichever way it
ended. He opened the dictionary.

* Love,* he muttered grimly to himself. ' It seems I'm an
object of compassion, because I know nothing about love. Well,
what does the book say about it 'i '

He found the word, and ran his finger down the paragraphs
of explanation which followed. * Seven meanings to Love,' he
remarked. ' First : An affection of the mind excited by beauty

' 5

278

Heart and science.

and worth of any kind, or by the qualitios of an object wliich
communicate pleasure. Second : Courtship. Third : Patriot-
ism, as the love of country. Fourth : Benevolence. Fifth :
The object beloved. Sixth : A word of endearment. Seventh :
Cupid, the god of love.'

He paused, and reflected a little. Zo, hearing nothing to
amuse her, strayed away to the window, and looked out. He
glanced at Carmina. * Which of those meanings makes the
pleasure of her life ? ' he wondered. * Which of them might
have made the pleasure of mine ? ' He closed the dictionary
in contempt. ' The very man whose business is to explain it,
tries seven different ways, and doesn't explain it after all. And
yet, there is such a thing.' He reached that conclusion unwil-
lingly and angrily. For the first time, a doubt about himself
forced its way into his mind. Might he have looked higher
than his torture-table and his knify ? Had he gained from his
life all that his life might have given to him ?

Left by herself, Zo began to grow tired of it. She tried to
get Carmina for a companion. ' Como and look out of window,'
she said.

Carmina gently refused ; she was unwilling to be disturbed.
Since she had spoken to Benjulia, her thoughts had been dwell-
ing restfully on Ovid. In another day she might be on her way
to him. When would Teresa come 1

Benjulia was too pre-occupied to notice her. Tlie weak doubt
that had got the better of his strong reason still held him in
thrall. * Love ! ' he broke out, in the bitterness of his heart.
* It isn't a question of sentiment : it's a question of use. Who
is the better for love 1 '

She heard the last words, and answered him, * Everybody is
the better for it.' She looked at him with sorrowful eyes, and
laid her hand on his arm. * Everybody ' she added, * but you.*

He smiled scornfully. * Everybody is the better for it/ he
repeated. ' And who knows what it is ? '

She drew away her hand, and looked towards the heavenly
tranquillity of the evening 8k3^

* Who knows what it isl ' he reiterated.

* God,' she said.
Benjulia was sil Jut-,

vlnch
itriot-
rifth :
enth :

ng to
. He

;es the
might
ionary
lain it,
1. And
unwil-
hiuiself
higher
fom his

tried to
indow,'

itnrbed.
dwell-
[ler way

i,k doubt
him in

is heart.
Who

^body is
^es, and
)ut you.*
^r it; he

leavenly

CHAPTER XLIV.

TuE clock on the mantel-piece struck six. Zo, turning sud-
denly from the window, ran to the sofa. ' Here's the carriage ! '
she cried.

* Teresa ! ' Carmina exclaimed.

* No ; Mamma.' She crossed the room, on tiptoe, to the door
of the bed-chamber. ' Don't tell ! ' she said. * I'm going to
bide.'

'Why, dear r

Zo explained in a whisper. * Mamma said I wasn't to come to
you. She's a quick one on her legs — she might catch me on
the stairs.' With thai explanation, Zo slipped into the bed-
room, and held the door ajar.

The minutes passed, and Mrs. Gallilee failed to justify the
opinion expressed by her daughter. Not a sound was audible on
the stairs. Not a word more was uttered in the room. Benjulia
had taken the child's place at the window. He sat there thinking.
Carmina had suggested to him some new ideas, relating to the
intricate connection between human faith and human happi-
ness. Slowly, slowly, the clock recorded the lapse of the min-
utes, Carmina's nervous anxiety began to forecast disaster to
the absent nurse. She took Teresa's telegram from her pocket
and consulted it again. There was no mistake ; six o'clock was
the time named for the traveller's arrival — and it was close on
ten minutes past the hour. In her ignorance of railway ar-
rangements, she took it for granted that trains were punctual.
But her reading had told her that trains were subject to acci-
dent. • I suppose delays occur,' she said to Benjulia, * without
danger to the passengers.'

Before he could answer, Mrs. Gallilee suddenly entered the
room.

I 'I

ril

tlEAKT AND SCIENCE.

vi i t *

H -I

She hftd opened tlie doors so softly, that she took them Ibotli
by surprise. To Cannina's excited imagination, she glided in-
to their presence like a ghost. Her look and manner showed
serious agitation, desperately 8U[)pressed. In certain places, the
paint and powder on her face had cracked, and revealed the
furrows and wrinkles beneath. Indifferent to all demonstra-
tions of emotion which did not scientifically concern him, Ben-
julia quietly rose and advanced towards her. She seemed to
be unconscious of his presence. He spoke — allowing her to ig-
nore him without troubling himself to notice her temper.
' When you are able to attend to me, I want to speak to you.
Shall I wait downstairs 1 ' She warned him, by a sign, to say
no more. He took his hat and stick — to leave the room ;
looked at Garmina as he passed her ; and at once went back to
his place at the window. Her aunt's silent and sinister en-
trance had frightened her. Benjulia waited, in the interests of
physiology, to see how the new nervous excitement would end.

Thus far, Mrs. Gallilee had kept one of her hands hidden be-
hind her. She advanced close to Carniina, and allowed her hand
to be seen. It held an open letter. She shook the letter in her
niece's face.

In the position which she now occupied, Carmina was hidden
from Ben Julia's view. Biding bis time at the window, until
Mrs. Gallilee moved, he looked out.

A cab, with luggage on it, had just drarvn up at the house.

Was this the old nurse who hud been expected to arrive at
six o'clock ? The footman came out to open the cab-door. He
was followed by Mr. Gallilee, eager to help the person inside to
alight. The traveller proved to be a grey-headed woman, shab-
bily dressed. Mr. Gallilee cordially shook hands with her —
patted her on the shoulder — gave her his arm — led her into the
house. The cab with the luggage on it remained at the door.
The nurse had evidently not reached the end of her journey
yet.

Carmina shrank back on the sofa, when the leaves of the let-
ter touched her face. Mrs. Gallilee's first words were now
spoken, in a whisper. The inner fury of her anger, struggling
for a vent, began to get the better of her — she gasped for
breath and speech.

* Do you know this letter 1' she said.

1 ■ i

ir l:\UT AND SCIF.NCE.

^^\

1 !

m iboln
ded in-
showed
,ce8, the
lied the
Qonstra-
m, Ben-
3ined to
ler to ig-
temper.
: to you.
1, to say
e room ;
b back to
lister en-
teresta of
ould end.
lidden be-
her hand
;er in her

as hidden
w, until

house,
[arrive at
loor. He

inside to

lan, shab-
Ith her —
|r into the

the door,
journey

the let-
re re now
[truggling
isped for

Ciivmina iookod at tl»o writing. It wan tlft letfor which f^lie
had wntLeii lu Ovid, ilua moining; the letter which revealod
his mother's sordid treachery, his mother's coldblooded cun-
ning and cruelty ; the letter which declared that she could en-
dure it no longer, and that she only waited Teresa's arrival to
ju;n him at Quebec.

After one dreadful moment of confusion, her mind realized
the outrage implied in the stealing and reading of her letter.

In the earlier time of Camiina'.s sojnurn in the house, Mrs.
Gallilee had accused her of deliberate deceit. She liad in-
stantly resented the insult by leaving the room. The same
spirit in her — the finely-strung spirit that vibrates unfelt in
gentle natures, while they live in peace — steadied those quiver-
ing nerves, roused that failing courage. She met Lhe furious
eyes fixed on her, without shrinking ; she spoke gravely and
firmly. 'The letter is mine.' she said. ' llow do you come
by it r

* How dare you ask me 'i *

* How dare you steal my letter 1 '

Mrs. Gallilee tore open the fastening 'of her dress at the
throat to get breath. *You impudent bastard!' she burst
out, in a frenzy of rage.

Waiting patiently at the window, Benjulia heard her, and
started to his feet. ' Hold your damned tongue 1 ' he cried.
* She's your niece.'

Mrs. Gallilee turned on him : her fury broke into a scream-
ing laugh. * My niece r she repeated. 'You lie — and you
kuow it. She's the child of an adulteress I She's the child of
her mother's lover ! *

The door opened as those horrible words passed her lips.
The nurse and her husband entered the room.

She was in no position to see thera : she was incapable of
hearing them. The demon in her urged her on : she at-
tempted to reiterate the detestable lie. Her first word died
away in silence. Tlje lean brown fingers of the Italian wo-
man hid her by the throat — held her as the claws of a tigress
might have held her. Her eyes rolled in the mute agony of
an api)eal for help. In vain "J in vain! Not a cry, not a
sound, had drawn attention to the attack. Her husband's
eyes were fixed, horror-struck, on the victim of her rage.
11

282

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Benjulia had crossed the room to the sofa, when Carmina
heard the words spoken of her mother. From that moment
he was watching the case. He never even looked round —
when the nurse tightened her hold in a last murderous grasp ;
dashed the insensible woman on the floor j and, turning back,
fell on her knees at her darling's feet.

She looked up in Carmina's face.

A ghastly stare through half-closed eyes, showed death in
life, blankly returning her look. The shock had struck Car-
mina with a stony calm. She had not started, she had not
swooned. Kigid, immovable, there she sat ; voiceless and
tearless ; insensible even to touch ; her arms hanging down ;
her clenched hands resting on either side of her.

Teresa grovelled and groaned at her feet. Those merciless
hands that had laid the slanderer prostrate on the floor, feebly
beat her bosom and her grey head. * Oh, Saints beloved of
God ! Oh, blessed Virgin, mother of Christ, spare my child,
my sweet child !' She rose in wild despair — she seized Ben-
julia, and madly shook him. * Who are you? How dare you
touch her ? Give her to me, or I'll be the death of you. Oh,
my Carmina, is it sleep that holds you 1 Wake ! wake !
wake ! '

' Listen to me,' said Benjulia, sternly.

She dropped on the sofa by Carmina's side, and lifted one,
of the cold clenched hands to her lips. The tears fell slowly
over her hagg-ard face. * I'm very fond of her, sir,* she said
humbly. * I'm only an old woman. See what a dreadful wel-
come my child gives to me. It's hard on an old woman — hard
on an old woman ! '

His self-possession was not disturbed — even by this.

* Do you know what I am ? ' he asked. ' I am a doctor.
Leave her to me.'

* He's a doctor. That's good. A doctor's good. Yes, yes,
Does the old man know this doctor — the kind old man 1 '
She looked vacantly for Mr. Gallilee. The sound of the fall
had roused him. He had hurried to his wife; he was now
bending over her, watching for the first return of life.

Teresa got on her feet, and pointed to Mrs. Gallilee. * The
breath of that She-Devil poisons the air,' she said. ' I must

i! )i

HEART AND SCIENCE.

2sn

armina
aoment
ound —
grasp ;
ig back.

aeath in
ick Car-
had not

less and
5 down ;

merciless
)r, feebly
eloved of
my child,
ized Ben-
dare you
rou. Oh,
wake 1

lifted one,

fell slowly

she said

ladful wel-

lan— hard

Is.

a doctor.

Yes, yes,
lid man 1 '
lof the tall

was now

lee. 'The
' 1 must

talce my child out of it. To my place, sir, if you pleasa Only
to my place.*

She attempted to take Carmina in her arms — and drew back,
trembling. The rigid face faintly relaxed ; the eyelids closed,
and quivered. The old nurse breathlessly watched her.

Mr. Gallilee looked up from his wife. ' Will you help me 1 '
he asked. His tone struck Benjulia. Neither weak nor fal-
tering, it was the tone of quiet sorrow — no more.

' I'll see to it directly.' With that reply, Benjulia turned
to Teresa. * Where is your place ? ' he said. * Far or near 1 '

* The message,' she answered confusedly. ' The message
aayg.' She. signed > him to look in her hand bag — dropped
on the floor

He found Carmina's telegram, containing the address of the
lodgings. The house was close by. After some consideration,
he sent the nurse into the bedroom, with instructions to bring
him the blankets off" the bed. In the minuLe that followed, he
examined Mrs. Gallilee. ' There's nothing to be frightened
about. Let her maid attend to her.'

Mr. Gallilee again surprised Benjulia. Ho turned from his
wife, and looked at Carmina. She had sunk back on the sofa.
Otherwise there was no change. ' For God's sake, don't leave
her here ! ' he broke out. * After what she has heard, this house
is no place for her. Give her to her old nurse ! '

Benjulia only answered, as he had answered already — * I'll
see to it. ' Mr. Gallilee persisted. * Is there any risk in mov-
ing her '? ' he asked.

* It's the least of two risks. No more questions ! Look to
your wife.'

Mr. Gallilee obeyed in silence. When he lifted his head
again, and rose to ring the bell for the maid, the room was si-
lent and lonely. A little pale frightened face peeped out
through the bedroom door. Zo ventured in. Her father caught
her in his arms, and kissed her as he had never kissed her yet.
His eyes were wet with tears. Zo noticed that he never said
a word about Mamma. The child saw the change in her father,
and Benjulia had seen it. She shared one human feeling with
her big fri§u<i-rlji®i *oo, was surprised.

I:)

*;; ■■:

CHAPTER XLV.

The first signa of reviving life had begun to appear, when the
maid answered the bell. In a few minutes more, it was pos-
sible to raise Mrs. Gallilee, and to place her on the sofa. Hav-
ing so far assisted the servai»t, Mr. Gallilee took Zo by the
hand, and drew back. Daunted by the terrible scene which
she had witnessed from her hiding-place, the child stood by her
father's side in silence. The two waited together, watching
Mrs. Galilee.

She looked wildly round the room. Discovering that she
was alone with the members of her family, she became com-
posed : her mind slowly recovered its balance. Her first
thought was for herself.

'Has that woman disfigured me 1 * she said to the maid,
Knowing nothing of what had happened, the woman was at
a loss to understand her. * Bring me a glass,' she said. The
maid found a hand-glass in the bedroom and presented it to
her. She looked at herself— and drew a long breath of relief.
That first anxiety at an end, she spoke to her husband,

* Where is Carmina 1 '

* Out of the house — thank God ! '

The answer seemed to bewilder her : she appealed to the
maid.

* Did he say, thank God 1 '
*Yes, ma'am.'

* Can you tell me nothing 1 Who knof^s where Carmina has
gone? *

♦Joseph knows, ma'am. He heard Doctor Benjulia give the
address to the cabman.'

* Send Joseph up here.*

* No ! ' said Mr. Gallilee.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

2^5

k^hen the
was pos-
\. Hav-
by the
le which
»d by her
watching

that she
[me corn-
ier first

laid

,n was at

The

ed it to

of relief.

id.

d to the

nina has
jive the

Ilia wife oycd him with astonishment. • Why not 1 ' she
asked.

He said quietly, * I forbid it.'

Mrs. Gallilee turned to the servant. * Go to my room, and
bring me another bonnet and a veil. Stop ! ' islio tried to rise,
and sunk back. ' I must have something to strengthen mo.
Get the sal volatile.*

The maid left the room. Mr. Gallilee followed her as far as
the door — still leading his little daughter.

' Go back, my dear, to your sister in the school-room,' he
said. * I am distressed, Z" ; be a good girl, and you will con-
sole me. Say the same to Maria. It will be dull for you, I
am afraid. Be patient my child, and try to bear it for a while.'

' May I whisper something 1 ' said Zo. * Will Carmina
die ] '

' God forbid 1 '

* Will they bring her back here 1 '

In her eagerness, the child spoke above a whisper. Mrs.
Gallilee heard the question, and answered it.

'They will bring Carmina back,* she said, 'the moment I
can get out.*

Zo looked at her father. ' Do you say that ? ' she asked.

He shook his head gravely, and told her again to go to the
schoolroom. On the first landing she stopped, and looked
back. ' I'll be good, papa,' she said — and went on up the
stairs. Having reached the schoolroom, she became the object
of many questions — not one of which she answered. Followed
by the dog, she sat down in a corner. * What are you think-
ing about ?' her sister inquired. This time she was willing to
reply. * I'm thinking about Carmina.*

Mr. Galilee closed the door when Zo left him. He took a
chair, without speaking to his wife or looking at her.

* What are you here for ? * she asked.

* I want to see what you do.'

The servant returned, and administered a strong dose of sal
volatile. Strengthened by the stimulant, Mrs. Gallilee was
able to rise. * My head is giddy,* she said, as she took the
maid's arm ; * but I think I can get downstairs with your help.'

Mr. Gallilee silently followed them out. At the head of
the atftirs the giddiness iacreased. Firm aa her resolution

tf-l

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286

HEART AND SCIENCE.

might be, it gave way before the bodily injury which Mrs.
Gaililee had received. Her husband's help was again needed
to take her to her bedroom. She stopped them at the ante-
chamber ; still obstinately bent on following her own designs.

* I shall be better directly,' she said ; 'put me on the sofa.' The
maid relieved her of her bonnet and veil, and asked respectfully
if there was any other service required. She looked defiantly
at her husband, and reiterated the order — ' Send for Joseph.'
Intelligent resolution is sometimes shaken : the inert obstinacy
of a weak creature — man or animal — is immovable. Mr. Gai-
lilee dismissed the maid with these words : * I will speak to
Joseph myself downstairs.' His wife heard him with amaze-
ment and contempt.

* Are you in your right senses 1 ' she asked.

He paused on his way out * You were always hard and
headstrong,' he said sadly ; ' I knew that. A cleverer man
than I am might have found out how wicked you are.' She
lay, thinking ; indifferent to anything he could say to her.

* Are you not ashamed 1 ' he asked wonderingly. * Are you
not even sorry 1 ' She paid no heed to him. He left her.

Descending to the hull, he was met by Joseph. ' Doctor
Benjulia has come back, sir. He wishes to see you.'
' Where is he 1 "

* In the library.'

* Wait, Joseph ; I have something to say to you. If your
mistress asks you to what pJace Miss Carmina has been remov-
ed, I forbid you to tell her. If you have mentioned it to any
of the other servants — it's quite likely they may have asked
you, isn't itl' he said, falling iuto his old habit for a moment.

* If you have mentioned it to the others,* he resumed, ' I
forbid tJiem to tell her. That's all, my good man ; that's all.'

To his own surprise, Joseph regarded his master with a
feeling of sincere respect. Mr. Gaililee entered the library.

* How is she 1 ' he asked, eager for news of Carmina.

*Tho worse for being moved,' Benjulia replied. *What
about your wife 1 '

Answering that question, Mr. Gaililee mentioned the pre.
cautions that he had taken to keep the secret of Teresa's address.

* You need be under no anxiety about that,' said Benjulia.
' I hare left orders that Mrs. Gaililee is uot to be admitted.

HEABT AND SCIENCE.

287

lich Mrs.
I needed
he ante-
designs,
ofa.' The
ipectfuUy
defiantly
Joseph.'
obstinacy
Mr. Gal-
speak to
^h amaze-

bard and
erer man
.re.' She
f to her.
Are you
:t her.
* Doctor

If your
m remov-
it to any
ve asked
moment,
imed, ' I
hat's all.'
with a
brary.

' ' What

the pre.
address.
Benjulia.
admitted.

There is a serious nece£t»lty for keeping her out. In these cases
of partial catalepsy, there is no saying when the change may
come. "When it does come, I won't answer for her niece's rea-
son, if those two see each other again. Send for your own
medical man. The girl is his patient, and he is the person on
whom the responsibility rests. Let the servant take that
card to him directly. We can meet in consultation at the
house.'

He wrote a line on one of his visiting cards. It was at once
sent to Mr. Null.

* There's another matte;' to be settled before I go,'
Benjulia proceeded. 'Here aio some papers, which I have
received from your lawyer, Mr. Mool. They relate to a slan-
der, which your wife unfortunately repeated *

Mr. Gallilee got up from his chair. ' Don't take my mind
back to that — pray don't ! ' he pleaded earnestly. ' I can't
bear it. Doctor Benjulia — I can't bear it ! Please to excuse
my rudeness : it isn't intentional — I don't know myself what's
the matter with me. I've always led a quiet life, sir ; I'm not
fit for such things as these. Don't suppose I speak selfishly. I'll
do what I can, if you will kindly spare me.'

He might as well have appealed to the sympathy of the table
at which they were sitting. IBenjulia was absolutely incapable
of understanding the state of mind which those words revealed.

' Can you take these papers to your wife 1 ' he asked. ' I
called here this evening — being the person to blame — to set
the matter right. As it is, I leave her to make the discovery
for herself. I desire to hold no more communication with your
wife. Have you anything to say to me before I gol '

* Only one thing. Is there any harm in my cabling at the
house, to ask how Carmina goes on ) '

'Ask as often as you like — provided Mrs Gallilee doesn't ac-
company you. If she's obstinate, it may not be amiss to give
your wife a word of warning. In my opinion, the old nurse is
not likely to let her off, next time, with her life. I've had a
little talk with that curious foreign savage. I said, " You have
committed, what we consider in England, a murderous assault.
If Mrs. Gallilee doesn't mind the public exposure, you may
find yourself in a prison." She snapped her fingers in my face.
*< Suppose I find myself with the hangman's rope round my

J-'

I I
1 I

! !

288

HE A TIT AND SCIENCE.

Mr. Gallilee's presump-

woiild weigh, at a post
Didn't I tell you that

neck," she said, " what do I care, so long as Carmina is doliv-
ered from her aunt ? " After that pretty answer, she sat down
by the girl's bedside, and burst out crying.'

Mr. Gallilee listened absently : his mind still dwelt on Car-
mina.

' I meant well,' he said, * when I asked you to take her out
of this house. It's no wonder if / was wrong. The strange
part of it is, that you seem to have been mistaken in allowing
her to be moved.'

Benjulia listened with a grim smi'o
tion amused him.

* I wonder how much your brain
mortem examination,' he remarked.

moving her was the least of two risks 1 If you want to know
what the other risk was, haven't you had my opinion ? I have
plainly pointed out what the danger is, if Miss Carmina sees
your wife on the recovery of her senses. Could we have kept
them apart if they had been both in the same house ? When
I do a thing at my time of life, Mr. Gallilee — don't thiak me
conceited — I know why I do it.'

While he was speaking cf himself in these terms, he might
have said something more.

He might have added, that his dread of the loss of Carmina's
reason reaily meant his dread of a commonplace termination to
an exceptionally interesting (,ase. He might also have acknow-
ledged, that he was not yielding obedience to the rules of pro-
fessional etiquette, in confi'iing the patient to her regular med-
ical attendant, but following the suggestions of his own critical
judgment. His experience, brief as it had been, had satisfied
him that stupid Mr. Null's course of treatment could be trusted
to let the instructive progn ss of the malady proceed. Mr.
Null would treat the symptoms in perfect good faith — without
a suspicion of the nervous hysteria which, in such a constitution
as Carmina's, threatened to establish itself, in course of time,
as the hidden cause. These motives of action — not only ex-
cused, but ennobled, by their scientific connection with the
interests of Medical Research — he might readily have avowed
under more favourable oircumstanoes. With his grand disoov*
tiiy atili bar«ly wiiUia icach, Di\ Benjulia stuod comoiitted,

HEART AND SCIENCE.

IS fl oliv-
et down

on Car-

her out

strange

blowing

iresump-

b a post
ou that
to know
I I have
ina sees
ave kept
When
hiuk me

|ie might

armina's
nation to
acknow-
s of pro-
Ur med-
n critical
satisfied
e trusted
3d. Mr.
-without
stitution
of time,
only ex-
irith the
avowed
d discov-
uiitted,

the halL
You will

You

eVeh with simple Mr. Gallilee, to a system of diplomatic
reserve.

He took his hat and stick, and walked out into
* Can I be of any further use ] ' he asked carelessly,
hear about the patient from Mr. Null.'

* You won't desert poor Carmina 1 ' said Mr. Gallilee.
will see her yourself, from time to time — won't you 1 *

' Don't be afraid ; I'll look after her.' He spoke earnestly,
in saying this. Carmina's case had already suggested new
ideas. Even the civilised savage of modern physiology can
sometimes be a, grateful man.

Mr Gallilee opened the door for him.

' By-the-bye,' he added as he stepped out, * what's become of
ZoV

* She's up stairs, in the schoolroom.'

' Tell her, when she wants to be tickled again, to let me know.
Good evening.'

Mr. Gallilee returned to the upper part of the house, with
the papers left by Benjulia in his hand. Arrived at the dress-
ing-room door, he hesitated. TLe papers were enclosed in a
sealed envelope, addressed to his wife. Secured in this way
from inquisitive eyes, there was lo necessity for personally pre-
senting them. He went on to the schoolroom, and beckoned
to the parlour-maid to come out, and speak to him on the
landing.

Having instructed her to deliver the papers — telling her mis-
tress that they had been left at the house by Dr. Benjulia— he
dismissed the woman from duty. * You needn't return,* he
said ; ' I'll look after the children myself.'

Maria was busy with her book ; and even idle Zo was em-
ployed !

She was writing at the schoolroom desk ; and she looked up
in confusion, when her father appeared. Unsuspicious Mr.
Gallilee took it for granted ihat his favourite daughter was em-
ployed on a writing lesson — following Maria's industrious ex-
ample for once. ' Good children 1 ' he said, looking affection-
ately from one to the other. ' I won't disturb you ; go on. He
took a chair, satisfied^ comforted, eveu^to be iu the same
room with the girls*

290

HEART AND SCIENCE.

1 I

If he had ])laced himself nearer to the desk, ho niij^ht have
seen thai Zo had been thinking of Cannina to some purpose.

Of the two directed enveh)pe8 which Ovid had left for the
child on the day of his departure, one still remained. Now
and then, she had thought of writing to him again, but her re-
luctance to encounter the exertion of spelling had prevailed.
Zo had been long since reported to be beyond the reach of
hope, in this particular. Words of one syllable she had con-
trived to learn — and there she had stopped. In writing the
longer words, she got as far as the first syllable, and left them
in a state of abridgment. Ovid, on this peculiar system, be-
came ' Ov.' Miss Minerva shorn of one * s' appeared as * Mis
Min.' As for stops and capital letters, she left them to the
correcting hand of the governess — admitted, under compulsion,
that such things did exist when they were shown to her — and
then consigned them to oblivion as soon as the copy-book was
closed.

The effect produced on the mind of the child, by the events
which had followed Teresa's arrival, resembled the effect pro-
duced on the mind of her father.

Out of her first confusion and terror, one Sistinct idea emerged
— she pitied Carmina with all her heart. By natural associa-
tion, the desire to help Carmina made itself felt next. Dwell
ing on these results, Zu's slowly working mental process, in
search of some superior person who might help her — some
special and delightful person, who would not say, ' My dear, this?
is too serious a matter for a child like you' — arrived at the re
membrance of Ovid, and recognised in that good friend and
brother the ally of whom she stood in need. With a child's
sensitiveness to ridicule, she remembered that 'the others had
laughed at her, when she first talked of writing to Ovid. She
might perhaps have confided her design to her father, if her
small experience had seen him occupying a masterful position
in the tiouse. But she had seen him, as everybody else had
seen him, ' afraid of Mamma.' The doubt whether he might not
* tell Mamma' decided her on keepng her secret. As the event
proved, the one person who informed Ovid of the terrible
necessity that existed for his return, was the little sister whom
it had been his last kind e£fort to console when he left £ng-
land

-) -

•^ht have
purpose.

for tlie
i Now
it her re-
revailed,

reauh of
had con-
iting the
eft them
item, be-
as *Mis
a to the
apulsion,
ler — and
)ook was

le events
flfect pro-
emerged
I associa-

Dwell
3cess, in
r — some
ear, this-

the re
end and

child's
icrs had
d. She

if her
position
else had
ight not
le event
terrible
r whom
ft £ng-

HEART AND SCIENCE!.

2.')1

When Mr. Gallilee entered the room, Zo had just reached
the end of her letter.

• dear ov you come back car is ill she wants you he quick be quick
don't say i writ this mis min is gone I hate booh I like you zo. '

With the pen still in her hand the wary writer looked
round at her father. She had her directed envelope (sadly
crumpled) in her pocket ; but she was afraid to take it out.
Maria, she thought, would know what to do in my place.
Horrid Maria !

Fortune, using the affairs of the household as an instrument,
befriended Zo. In a minute more her opportunity arrived.
The parlour-maid unexpectedly returned. She addressed Mr.
Gallilee with the air of mystery in which English servants, in
possession of a message, especially delight. ' If you please, sir,
Joseph wishes to speak to you.'

' Where is he 1'

' Outside, sir.*

*Tell him to come in.'

Thanks to the etiquette of the servants' hall — which did not
permit Joseph to present himself, voluntarily, in the regions
above the drawing-room, without being first represented by an
ambassadress — attention was now diverted from the children.
Zo folded her letter, enclosed it in an envelope, and hid it in
her pocket.

Joseph appeared. ' I beg your pardon, sir, I don't quite
know whether I ought to disturb my mistress. Mr. Le Frank
has called, and asked if he can see her.'

Mr. Gallilee consulted the parlour-maid. < Was your mis-
tress asleep when I sent you to her 1 '

' No, sir. She told me to light the reading-lamp, and to
bring her a cup of tea.'

On those rare former occasions, when Mrs. Gallilee was ill,
her attentive husband never left it to the servants to consult
her wishes. That time had gone by for ever.

< You can tell your mistress, Joseph,, that Mr. Le Frank is
here.'

—4,

■:

riAPTER XLVI.

iHE slunder on which Mrs. Gallilee had reckoned, as a means
of separating; Ovid and Carrjina, was now a slander refuted by
unanswerable proof. And the man whose exertions had
achieved this result was her own lawyer — the agent whom she
had designed to employ, in asserting that claim of the guardian
over the ward which Tere.«5a had defied.

The relations between Mr. Mool and herself wore at an end.
There she lay helpless — her authority set at naught ; her per-
son outraged by a brutal attack — there she lay, urged to action
by evMry reason that a resolute woman could have for assert-
ing her power, and avenging her wrong, without a creature to
take her part, without an accomplice to serve her purpose.

She got on her feet, with the resolution of despair. Her
heart sank — the room whirled round her — she dropped back on
the sofa. In a recumbent position, the giddiness subsided.
She could ring the hand-bell on the table at her side. ' Send
instantly for Mr. Null,' she said to the maid. ' If he is out,
let the messenger follow him, wherever he may be.'

The messenger came back with a note. Mr. Null would call
on Mrs. Gallilee as soon as possible. He was then engaged in
attendance on Miss Carmina.

At that discovery, Mrs. Gallilee's last lescrves of indepen-
dent resolution gave way. The services of her own medical
attendant were only at her disposal, when Carmina had done
wiih him I The address, which she had thus far tried vainly
to discover, stared her in the face at the top of the letter: the
house was within five minutes* walk — and she was not even
able to cross the room I For the first time in her life, Mrs.
QulUloe's imperious spirit acknowledged defeat* For the firs^

ii!

HEART AND SCIENCE.

298

|[lepen-

ledical
done

[vainly
: the
even
Mrs.

le first

time in her life, she asked herself the despicable question :
Who can I find to help me 1
Some one knocked at the door.

* Who is it 1 ' she cried.

Joseph's voice answered her. ' Mr. Le Frank has called,
ma'am — and wishes to know if you can see him.'

She never stopped to think. She never even sent for the
maid to see to her personal appearnnce. The horror of her own
helplessness drove her on. Here was the man, whose liiuely
betrayal of Carmina had stopped her on her way to Ovid, in
the nick of time ! Here wa.s the self devoted instrument
waiting for the passive hand.

* I'll see Mr. Le Frank,' she said. * Show him up.'

The music-master looked round the obscurely lit room, and
bowed to the recumbent figure on the sofa.

* I fear I disturb you, madam, at an inconvenient time.'

' I am suffering from illness, Mr. Le Frank ; but I am able
to receive you — as you see.'

She stopped there. Now, when she saw him, and heard him,
some perverse hesitation in her began to doubt him. Nov,
when it was too late, she weakly tried to put herself on her
guard. What a decay of energy (she felt it herself) in the
ready and resolute woman, equal to any emergency at other
times ! ' To what am I to attribute the favour of your visit t '
she resumed.

Even her voice failed her : it faltered in spite of her efforts
to steady it. Mr Le Frank's mind was already set at ease.
His vanity drew its own encouraging conclusiou — Mrs. Galliiee
was afraid of him.

* I am anxious to know how I stand in your estimation,' he
replied. * Early this evening, I left a few lines here, enclosing
a letter, — with my compliments. Have you received the
letter 1 '

'Yes'

* Have you read it 1 '

Mrs. Galliiee hesitated. Mr. Le Frank smiled.

*I won't trouble you, madam, for any more direct reply,* he
said ; ' I will speak plainly. Be so good as to tell me ph.inly,
on your side, which I am — a man who has disgraced himself
by stealing a letter ? or a man who has distinguished himself
by doing you a service * '

1 1

• 1

>! ;

'pi

204

HEART AND SCIENr-E.

An unpleasant alternatiyfi, neatly defined ! To disavow Mr.
Le Frank or to use Mr. Le Frank — there was the case for Mrs.
Gallilee's consideration. She was incapable of pronouncing
judgment ; the mere fact of decision fatigued and irritated her.
She could see the position in w hich she had placed herself— and
she could see submission as the easiest way out of it. A mean
villain had been admitted to a private interview with her, of
her own free will. Why make an enemy of him after that t
Why n make use of him ? Once more, the intolerable sense
of her own helplessness decided her. ' I can't deny,' she said,
with weary resignation, ' that you have done me a service.'

He rose, and made a generous return for the confidence that
had been placed in him. In other words, he repeated his
magnificent bow.

' We understand each other,' he said — and sat down again.
* If I can be of any further service, madam, in keeping an eye
on your niece, trust me.'

* Is that said, Mr. Le Frank, out of devotion to me 1 '

' My devotion to you might wear out,' he answered auda*
ciously. * You may trust my feeling toward your niece to last
— I never forget an injury. Is it indiscreet to enquire how you
mean to keep Miss Carmina from joining her lover at Quebecl
Does a guardian's authority extend to locking a young lady up
in her room 1 '

Mrs Gallilee felt the underlying familiarity in these questions
—elaborately concealed as it was under an assumption of re-
spect.

* My niece is no longer in my house,' she answered coldly.

* Gone I ' cried Mr. Le Frank.

She corrected the expression. 'Bemoved/ she said, and
dropped the subject there.

Mr. Le Frank took the subject up again. * Removed, I pre-
sume, under the care of her nurse 1 ' he rejoined.

The nurse 1 What did he know about the nurse ? * May I
ask ? ' Mrs. Gallilee began.

He smiled ind ^gently, and stopped her there. * You are
not quite yourself to-night,' he said. ' Permit me to remind
you that your niece's letter to Mr. Ovid Vere is explicit, and
that I took the liberty of reading it before I left it at your
house.'

HEART ANT) SCTEXCE.

205

and

pre-

|ay I

are
lind
and
lyour

Mrs. Gallilee listened in silence, conscious that she had com'
mitted another error. She had carefully excluded from her
confidence a man who was already in possession of her secrets !
Mr. Le Frank's courteous sympathy forbade him to take advan-
tage of the position of superiority which he now held.

' I will do myself the honour of calling again/ he said, ' when
you are better able to place the right estimate on my humble
offers of service. I wouldn't fatigue yon, Mrs. Gallilee, for
the world ! At the same time, permit me to put one last ques-
tion which ought not to be delayed. When Miss Carmina left
you, did she take away her writing-desk and her keys ) '

«No.'

' Allow me to suggest that she may send for them at any mo-
ment'

Before it was possible to ask for an explanation, Joseph pre-
sented himself again. Mr. Null was waiting downstairs. Mrs.
'raililee arranged that he should be admitted when she rang her
)elL Mr. Le Frank approached the sofa, when they were
alone, and returned to his suggestion in a whisper.

' Mrs. Gallilee t there may be discoveries to be made, among
your niece's papers, of the last importance to your interests.
We don't know what correspondence may have been going on,
in which the nurse and the governess have been concerned.
After we have already intercepted a letter, hesitation is absurd I
You are not equal to the effort yourself. I know the room.
Don't be afraid of discovery; I have a naturally soft footfall —
and my excuse is ready, if somebody else has a soft footfall too.
Leave it to me.*

He lit a candle as he spoke. But for that allusion to the nurse,
Mrs. Gallilee might have ordered him to blow it out again. 'I'll
call to-morrow,' he said, without troubling her to reply — and
slipped out of the room.

At the moment when Mr. Null was announced, Mrs. Gallilee
pushed up the shade over the globe of the lamp. She had her
own reasons for wanting a Utile more light.

His timid look, his confused manner, when he made the con-
ventional apologies, told her at once that Teresa had spoken,
and that he knew what had happened. Even he had never
before been so soothing and so attentive. But he forgot, or he
was afraid to consult appearances by asking what was the mat-

ill

i ■■

>^v

29C

IlEAUT AND BCIENCiL

ter, before he felt the pulse, and took the temperature, and
wrote his prescription. Nut a word was uttired by Mrs. Oai-
lilee, until the medical formalities came to an end. ' Is there
anything more that T can do 1' he asked.

* You can tell me,* she said, • wlion T shall be well a^ain.'
Mr. Null was polite; Mr Null was sympathetic. Mrs. GaU

lilee might be herself a^alu in a day ur two — or Mrs. Gallilee
might be unhappily contined to her room for some little time.
He had hope in his preset iption, and hope in perfect quiet and
repose — he would suggest the proj)riety of going to bed at once,
and would not fail to call early the next morning.

' Sit down again,' said Mrs. Gallilee.

Mr. Null turned pale, and obeyed. He foresaw what was
coming.

' You have been in attendance on Miss Carmina. I wish to
know what her illness is.'

Mr. Null began to prevaricate at the outset. 'The case
causes us serious anxiety. The complications are formidable.
Doctor Uenjulia himself '

'In plain words, Mr. Null, can she be moved V

This produced a definite answer. ' Quite impossible '

She only ventured to put her next question after waiting a
little to control herself

* Is that foreign woman, the nurse — the only nurse — in at-
tendance 1 '

' Don't speak of her, Mrs. Gallilee I A dreadful woman ;
coarse, furious, a perfect savage. When 1 suggested a second
'lurse *

' I understand. You asked just now if you could do any-
thing for me. You can do me a great service — you can recom-
mend me a trustworthy lawyer.'

Mr. Null was surprised. As the old medical attendant of
the family, he was not unacquainted with the legal adviser. He
mentioned Mr. Mool's name.

< Mr. Mool has forfeited my confidence,' Mrs. Gallilee an-
nounced. 'Can you, or can you not, recommend a lawyer 1 '

'Oh, certainly ! My own lawyer.'

' You will find writing materials on the table behird me. I
won't keep you more than five minutes. I want you to write
fiom my dictation.'

' My dear lady, in your present condition '

HEART AyD SCIENCE,

207

any-
^com-

mt of

k He

|e an-

' Do as I toll yo« ! My head is quiet while I lie down. Even
a woman in my condition can say what she means to do. I
shall not close my eyes to-night, unless I can feel that I have
put that wretcL in her right place. Who are your lawyers 1 '

Mr. Null mentioned the names, and took up his pen.

' Introduce me in the customary form,' Mrs. Gallilee pro-
ceeded ; * and then refer the lawyers either to Mr. Mool, or to
the will of the late Mr. Robert Gray well, if I must prove that
I am the guardian. Is it done ? '

In due time it was done.

' Tell them next, how my niece has been taken away from
me, and where she has been taken to.'

To the best of his ability, Mr. Null complied.

* Now,' said Mrs. Gallilee, ' write what I mean to do ! '
The prospect of being revenged on Teresa revived her. For

th^ moment at least, she looked, she spoke, like herself again.
Mr. Null turned over to a new leaf, with a hand that trem-
bled a little. The dictating voice pronounced these words : — ■

* In the exercise of my authority, I forbid the woman Teresa
to act in the capacity of nurse to Miss Carmina, and even to
enter the room in which that young lady is now lying ill. I
further warn this person, that my niece will bo r stored to my
care, the moment her medical attendants allow her to bo re-
moved. And I desire ray legal advisers to act on these instruc-
tions to-morrow morning.'

Mr. Null finished his task in silent dismay. He took crit
his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

* Is there any very terrible elTort required in saying those
few words — even to a shattered creature like me 1 ' Mrs. Gal-
lilee asked bitterly. • Let rae hear that tl;o lawyers have got
their instructions, when you come to-morrow morning. Good
night'

At last, Mr. Null got away. As he softly closed the dress-
ing-room door, the serious question still dwelt on his mind :
What would Teresa do 1

rrite

'I !

!!',

ifi:

CHAPTER XLVIL

Even in the welcome retirement of the schoolroom, Mr. Galli-
lee's mind was not at ease. He was troubled by a question
entirely new to him — the question of himself, in the character
of husband and father. Accustomed through long years of con-
jugal association to look up to his wife as a superior creature,
he was now conscious that her place in his estimation had been
lost, beyond recovery. If he considered next what ought to
be done with Maria and Zo, he only renewed his perplexity
and distress. To leave them (as he had hitherto left them)
absolutely submitted to their mother's authority, was to resign
his children to the influence of a woman, who had ceased to be
the object of his confidence, and respect. He poadered over it
in the school-room. He pondered over it when he went to
bed. On the next morning he arrived at a conclusion in the
nature of a compromise. He decided on applying to his good
friend, Mr. Mool, for a word of advice.

His first proceeding was to call at Teresa's lodgings, in the
hope of hearing better news of Carmina. The melancholy re-
port of her was expressed in two words : No change. He was
so distressed that he asked to see the landlady ; and tried in
his own helpless kindhearted way, to get a little hopeful infor-
mation by asking questions — useless questions — repeated over
and over again in futile changes of words. The landlady was
patient ; she respected the undisguised grief of the gentle,
modest old man but she held to the hard truth. The one
possible answer was the answer which her servant had already
given. When she followed him out, to open the door, Mr.
Gallilee requested permission to wait a moment in the hall.
* If you will allow me, ma'am, I'll wipe my eyes before I g;^
into the street.'

ME Ant AND SCIENCE.

2f)n

im the
)ly re-
te was
ied in
linfor-
over
was
jntle,
one
ready
I, Mr.
hall.

Arriving at the office without an appointmont, he found Mr.
Mool engaged. A clerk presented to him a slip of paper, with
a line written by Mr. Mool : * Is it anything of importance 1 '
Simple Mr. Gallilee wrote back : ' Oh, dear no ; it's only me :
I'll call again.' Besides his critical judgment in the matter of
champagne, this excellent man possessed another accomplish-
ment — a beautiful handwriting. Mr. Mool, discovering a
crooked line and some ill-formed letters in the reply, drew his
own conclusions. He sent word to his old friend to wait.

In ten minutes more, they were together, and the lawyer
was informed of the events that had followed the visit of Ben-
julia on the previous day.

For a while, the two men sat silently meditating— daunted
by the prospect before them. When the time came for ppoak-
ing, they exercised an influence over each other, of which both
were alike unconscious. Out of their common horror of Mrs.
Gallilee's conduct, and their common interest in Carmina, they
innocently achieved between them the creation of one resolute
man.

' My dear Gallilee, this is a very serious thing.'

* My dear Mool, I feel it so — or I shouldn't have disturbed
you.'

* Don't talk of disturbing me ! I see so many complications
ahead of us, I hardly know where to begin.'

' Just my case ! It's a comfort to me that you feel it as I do.'
Mr. Mool rose and tried w.i Iking up and down his room, as
a means of stimulating his ingenuity.

* There's this poor young lady,' he resumed. ' If she gets
better '

* Don't put it in that way ! * Mr. Gallilee interposed. ' It
sounds as if you doubted her ever getting well- -you see it your-
self in that light, don't you 1 Be a little more positive, Mool,
in mercy to me.'

* By all means,' Mr. Mool agreed. * Let us say, ivhen she gets
better. But the difficulty meets us, all the same. If Mrs.
Gallilee claims her right, what are we to do 1 '

Mr. Gallilee rose in his turn, and took a walk up and down
the room. That well-meaut experiment only leit him feebler
than ever.

:ioo

MxM And sclENc'!?;.

' What possessed her brother to make her Carmina's guar-
dian ' he asked — with the nearest approach to irritability of
which he was capable.

The lawyer was busy with his own thoughts. He only en-
lightened Mr. Gallilee after the question had been repeated.

* I had the sincerest regard for Mr. Robert Graywell,' he
said. ' A better husband and father — an(Ldon't let me forget
it, a more charming artist — never lived. But,' said Mr. Mool,
with the air of one strong-minded man appealing to anothe. ;
' weak, sadly weak. If you will allow me to say so, your wife's
self-asserting way — well ! it was so unlike her brother's way,
that it had its effect on him. If Lady Northlake had been a
little less quiet and retiring, the matter might have ended in a
very different manner. As it was (I don't wish to put the
case offensively), Mrs. Gallilee imposed on him — and there
she is, in authority, under the Will. Let that be. We must
protect this poor girl. We must act ! ' cried Mr. Mool with
a burst of energy.

' We must act ! ' Mr. Gallilee repeated — and feebly clenched
his fist and softly struck the table.

* I think 1 have an idea,' the lawyer resumed ; * suggested
by something said to me by Miss Carmina herself. May I ask
if you are in her confidence ? '

Mr. Gallilee's face bri{:htened at this, * Certainly,' hs answer-
ed. * I always kiss her when we say good-night, and kiss her
again when we say good morning.'

This proof of his friend's claims as Carmina's chosen adviser,
seemed rather to puzzle Mr. Mool. * Did she ever hint at an
idea of hastening her marriage ] ' he inquired.

Plainly as the question was put, it thoroughly puzzled Mr.
Gallilee. His honest face answered for him — he was not in
Carmina's confidence.

* The one thing that we can do,' Mr. Mool proceeded, * is to
hasten Mr Ovid's return. There is my idea.'

* Let's do it at once ! * cried Mr. Gallilee. *

* But tell me/ Mr. Mool insisted, greedy for encouragement
— * does my sn ^gestion relieve your mind ? '

It's the first happy moment I've had to-day ! ' Mr. Gallilee's
weak voice piped high : he was getting firmer and firmer with
every word he uttered.

,8 guar-
jility of

only en-
sated,
veil,' he
e forget
r. Mod,
inothe. ;
tir wife's
»r'8 way,
been a
ded in a
put the
id there
Ve must
ool with

clenched

iggested
ay I ask

answer-
ciss her

adviser,
nt at an

sled Mr.
s 7iot in

1, <is to

igement

allilee's
ler with

HEART AND SCIENCE.

noi

One of them produced a telegraph-form ; the other siiz d a
pen. ' Shall we send the message in your name ) * Mr. Mool
asked.

If Mr. Gallilee had possessed a hundred names he would
have sent them (and paid for them) all. 'John Gallilee, 14

Fairfield Gardens, Tjondon, To , There the pen stopped.

Ovid was still in the wilds of Canada. The one way of com-
municating with him was through the medium of the bankers
at Quebec. To the bankers, accordingly, the message was sent.

* Please telegraph Mr. Ovid Vere's address, the moment you
know it.*

When the telegram had been sent to the office, an interval
of inaction followed. Mr. Gallilee's fortitude suffered a re-
lapse. * It's a long time to wait,' he said.

His friend agreed with him. Morally speaking, Mr. Mool's
strength lay in points of law. No point of law appeared to be
involved in the present conference ; he shared Mr. Gallilee's
depression of spirits. * We are quite helpless,' he remarked,

* till Mr. Ovid comes back. In the interval, I see no choice for

Miss Carmina but to submit to her guardian ; unless ' He

looked hard at Mr. Gallilee, before he finished his sentence.
' Unless,' he resumed, * you can get over your present feeling
about your wife.'

' Get over it ] ' Mr. Gallilee repeated.

' It seems quite impossible now, I dare say,' the worthy law-
yer admitted. * A very painful impression has been produced
on you. Naturally ! naturally ! But the force of habit — a
married life of many years — your own kind feeling '

* What do you mean 1 ' asked Mr. Gallilee, bewildered, im-
patient, almost angry.

* A little persuasion on your part, my good friend — at the
interesting moment of rpronciliation — might be followed by
excellent results. Mrs. Gallilee might not object to waive her
claims, until time has softened existing asperities. Surely, a
compromise is possible, if you could only prevail on yourself to
forgive your wife.'

* Forgive her f I should be only too glad to forgive her ! *
cried Mr. Gallilee, bursting into violent agitation. ' How am
I to do it 1 Good God, Mool, how am I to do it ! You didn't
liear those infamous words, You didn'^ see that dregful

302

HEART AND SCIENCE.

death-struck look of the poor girl. I declare to you I turn cold
when I think of my wife ! I have sent the servants into her
room, when I ought to have gone to her myself. My children,
too, my dear good children — I'm heart-broken when I think of
their being brought up by a mother who could say what she has
said, and do — What will they see, I ask you what will they see,
if she gets Carmina back in the house, and treats that sweet
young creature as she will treat her ) There were times last
night, when I thought of going away forever — Lord knows
where — and taking the girls with m% What am I talking
about ? I had something to say, and I don't know what it is ;
T don't know my own self ! There, there ; I'll keep quiet.
It's my poor stupid head, I suppose — hot, Mool, burning hot.
Let's be reasonable. Yes, yes, yes ; let's be reasonable. You're
a lawyer. I said to myself, when I came here, " I want Mool's
advice." Be a dear good fellow — set my mind at ease. What
can I do for my children 1 '

Amazed and distressed — utterly at a loss how to interfere to
any good purpose — Mr. Mool recovered his presence of mind,
the moment his friend appealed to him in his legal capacity.
He took the right means of quieting Mr. Gallilee, by instinct.

* Don't distress yourself about your children,' he said kindly.

* Thank God, we stand on firm ground, there.'

' Do you mean it, Mool 1 '

* I mean it. Where your daughters are concerned, the author-
ity is yours. Be firm, Gallilee ! be firm 1 '

*I will I You set me the example — don't you 1 You're firm
— ehr

< Firm as a rock. I agree with you. For the present at
least, the children must be removed.'

* At once, Mool ! '

* At once I ' the lawyer repeated.

They had wrought each other up to the right pitch of reso-
lution, by this time. They were almost loud enough for the
clerks to hear them in the ofiice.

* No matter what my wife may say ! ' Mr. Gallilee stipulated.

* No mutter what she may say,' Mr. Mool rejoined, * the fa-
ther is master.'

* And you know the "aw.*

* ^ud I know the law. You have only to assert yourqelf,'

HEART iND SCIENCE.

S03

hot.

* And you have only to back me.'

' For your children's sake, Gallilee ! '

' Under my lawyer's advice, Mool ! '

The one resolute Man was produced at last — without a flaw
in him anywhere. They were both exhausted by the effort.
Mr. Mool suggested a glass of wine.

Mr. Gallilee ventured on a hint. * You don't happen tc have
a drop of champagne handy 1 ' he said.

The lawyer rang for his housekeeper. In five minutes, they
were pledging each other in foaming tumblers. In five minutes
more, they plunged back into business. The question of the
best place to which the children could be removed, was easily
settled. Mr. Mool offered his own house ; acknowledging mo-
destly that it perhaps had one drawback — it was within easy
reach of Mrs. Gallilee. The statement of this objection stimu-
lated his friend's memory. Lady ^orthlake was in Scotland.
Lady Northlake had invited Maria and Zo, over and over again,
to pass the autumn with their cousins -, but Mrs. Gallilee's
jealousy had always contrived to find some plausible reason for
refusal, * Write at once,' Mr. Mool advised. * You may do it
in two lines. Y'our wife is ill ; Miss Carmina is ill ; you are
not able to leave London — and the children are pining for
fresh air.' In this sense, Mr. Gallilee wrote. He insisted on
having the letter sent to the post immediately. * I know it's
long before post- time,' he explained. * But I want to compose
my mind.'

The lawyer paused, with his glass of wine at his lips. ' I say !
You're not hesitating already ? '

' No mere than you are,' Mr. Gallilee answered.

' You will really send the girls away 1 '

* The girls shall go, on the day when Lady Northlake invites
them.'

* I'll make a note of that,' said Mr. Mool.

He made the note ; and they rose to say good-bye. Faithful
Mr, Gallilee still thought of Carmina. ' Do consider it again !'
he said at parting. * Are you sure the law won't help her 1 '

* I might look at her father's Will,' Mr. Mool replied.

Mr. Gallil'e saw the hopeful side of this suggestion, in the
brightest coLurs. ' Why didn't you think of it before ] ' he

304

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Mr. JIool gently i«^monstrated. ' Don't forget how many
things I have on my mind,' he said. ' It only occurs to me
now, that the Will may give us a remedy — if there is any open
opposition to the ward's marriage engagement, on the guardian's
part.'

There he stopped ; knowing Mrs. Gallilee's methods of op-
position too well to reckon hopefully on such a result as this.
But he was a merciful man — and he kept his misgivings to
himself.

On the way home, Mr. Gallilee encountered his wife's maid.
She was dropping a letter into the pillar-post-box at the corner
of the square ; and she changed colour, on seeing her master.
* Corresponding with her sweetheart,* Mr. Gallilee concluded.

Entering the house with an unfinished cigar in his mouth, he
made straight for the smoking-room — and passed his youngest
daughter, below him, waiting out of sight on the kitchen stairs.

' Have you done it ? ' Zo whispered, when the maid returned
by the servants' entrance.

* It's safe in the post, dear.' She looked into the pantry-
satisfied herself that it was empty at the time —and beckoned
to Zo. * Now tell me what you saw yesterday,' she said, * when
you were hidden in Miss Carmina's bedroom.'

The tone in which she spoke implied a confidential agree-
ment. Burning with curiosity to know what had happened, on
the previous evening, Mrs. Gallilee's maid had secured the
goodwill of the only available witness. She had served Zo's
epistolary interests in the strictest secrecy ; paying for a forei;j;u
postage stamp out of her own pocket. With honourable
prompitude, Zo perched on her friend's kaee, exerted her me-
mory, and returned the obligation.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

tlie

It was past the middle of the day, before Mr. Le Frank paiJ
his promised visit to Mrs. Gallilee. He entered the room with
gloomy looks ; and made his polite inquiries, as became a de-
pressed musician, in the minor key.

' I am sorry, madam, to find you still on the sofa. Is there no
improvement ia your health 1 '

'None whatever.*

* Does your medical attendant give you any hope 1 '

' He does what they all do — he preaches patience. No more
of myself ! You appear to be in depressed spirits.'

Mr. Le Frank admitted with a sigh that appearances had
not misrepresented him. ' I have been bitterly disappointed,'
he said. • My feelings as an artist are wounded to the
quick. But why do I trouble you with my poor little per-
sonal affairs? I humbly beg your pardon.'

His eyes accompanied this modest apology with a look of
uneasy anticipation : he eviaently expected to be asked to ex-
plain himself. Earlier in the day, events had happened,
which left Mrs. Gallilee in need of employing Mr. Le Frank's
servicer She felt the necessity of exerting herself ; and did it
— with an effort.

* You have no reason, I hope, to complain of your pupils 1 '
she said.

* At this time of year, madam, I have no pupils. They are
all out of town.'

She was too deeply preH}ccupied by her own affairs to trouble
herself any further. The direct way was the easy way. She
said, wearily, ' Well, what is it 1 '

He answered in plain terms, this time.

* A bitter humiliation, Mra Gallilee ! I have been made to
regret that I asked ^ou to honour me by accepting the dedica-

> VI

ill

30G

II K ART AND SCIENCE.

tion of my Song. The miisic-sollora, on whom the sales depend,
have not takoii a tenth part of the nuiiilxu'of copies for which
we oxpocbed thmn to suh»cril>o. Ilius Hoiut^ cxtraoniinary
chan^^o come over the puhlic taHto ? My coiiipoHiiittn has been
carefully huHcdou fashionahlo princi|il(>B — that is to say, on tlie
princi()les of the modoru (iorninn Hchool. As little tune as
possible ; and that little strictly conliucd to the accompani-
mcnt. And what is the result 1 Loss confrontsMue, iiiHttW of
profit — my agrettment mak(>s mo liable for half the expenses of
puy)lication. And, what is far more serious in my estimation,
your honoured name is associated with a failure ! Don't notice
me — the artist naturo — 1 shall be better i'.> a minute.' He
took out a profusely scented handkerchief, and Imried his face
in it with a groan.

Mrs. Gallilee's hard common sense understood the heart-
broken corai)oser to perfection.

♦ Stupid of me not to have offered him money yesterday,*
she thotight : ' this waste of time need never have happened.*
She set her mistake right with admirable brevity and direct-
ness. * Don't distress yourself, Mr. Le Frank. Now my name
is on it, the Song is mine. If your publisher's account is not
satisf ictory — be so good as to send it to ine.' Mr. Le Frank
dropped his dry handkerchief, and sjuang theatrically to hi«
feet His indulgent patroness refused to hear him : to this
admirable woman, the dignity of Art was a sacred thing.
' Not a word more on that subject,* she said. * Tell me how
you prospered last night. Your investigations cannot have
been interrupted, or I should have heard of it. Come to the
result I Have you found anything of importance in my niece's
room '? '

Mr. Le Frank understood the situation ; and made himself
the hero of it, in three words. * Judge for yourself,* he said —
Riid presented a letter to Mrs. Gallilee.

It was the warning from Father Patrizio.

In silence, Mrs. Gallilee read the words which informed Car-
mina of the serious necessity of controlling the nurse. In
silence, she dropped the letter on her lap,

' Does it alarm you 1 ' Mr. Le Frank asked.

* It stuns me/ she said faintly. * Give me time to think,'

HEART AND SCIKNCE.

307

self

lln

Mr. Le Frank went hack to IiIh chair. He had reason to
congratulate himself already ; ho haduhifted tootlur shouldei'S
the pecuniary roHponHihility, involvod in the failure of his
Song. Observing Mrs. Cjlulliloe, ho hogan to see possibilities of
a brighter prospect still. Thus far Hh<! had kopt him at a cer-
tain distance. Was the change of mind coming, which would
admit him to the position of a confidential friend ?

She suddenly took up the letter, and showed it to him.

'What impression does it produce on you,' she asked,

* knowing no more than you know now?'

'The priest's cautious language, madam, 8i)€aks for itself.
You have an enemy who will stick at nothing.*
She still hesitated to trust him.

* You see me here,' she wont on, ' confined to my room ;
likely, perhaps, to be in this helpless condition for sumo time
to come. How would you protect yourself uuaiust that woman,
iu my place 1 '

' I should wait.'
' For what purpose 1 '

' H you will allow me to use the language of the card-table,
[ should wait till the woman shows her hand.'

* She has shown it.*

* May I ask when 1 '
'This morning.'

Mr. Lo Frank said no more. If he was really wanted, Mrs.
Gallilee had only to speak. After a last moment of hesitation,
the pitiless necessities of her position decided her once more.

* You see me too ill to move,' she said, * the first thing to do,
is to tell you why.'

She related the plain f&cts ; without a word of comment,
without a sign ofemotion. But her husband's horror of her
had left an impression, which neither pride nor contempt had
been strong enough to resist She allowed the music-master
to infer that contending claims to authority over Carmina had
led to a quarrel which provoked the assault. The secret of the
words that she had spoken, was the one secret she kept from
Mr. Le Frank.

* While I was insensible,' she proceeded, * my niece was taken
away from me. She has been suffering iiom nervous illness ;
8)ie was naturally terrified — and she is no r at the nurse's lodg-

308

HEART AND SOTENCE.

iags, too ill to he moved. Thoro yoii have tho state of afiairs
up to last night.'

• Some people niiglit think,' Mr. Le Frank remarked, 'that
the easiest way out of it, ho far, would })e to summon the nurso
for the assault.'

' The easiest way compels mo to face a public exposure,' Mrs.
Qallilee answered. * In my position that is impossible.'

Mr. Le Frank accepted this view of the case as a matter of
course. ' Under the circumstimces,' he said, * it's not easy to
advise you. How can you make the woman submit to your au-
thOi'ity while you are lying here ] '

' My lawyers huvo made her submit this morning.'

In the extremity of 1 1 is surprise, Mr. Le Frank forgot him-
self. * The devil they have ! ' he exclaimed.

'They have for)iiddou her, in my name,' Mrs. Gallilee con-
tinued, ' to act as nur.se to my niece. They have informed her
that Miss Carminii will bn restored to my care, the moment she
can be moved. And they have sent me her unconditional sub-
mission in writing, .signed by herself.'

Sho took it from the desk at her side, and read it to him, in
these words :

♦ I humbly ask pardon of Mrs. Gallilee for the violent and
unlawful acts of which I have been guilty. I acknowledge, and
submit to, her authority as guardian of Miss Carmina Gruy-
well. And I apjieal to her mercy (which I own I have not de-
served) to spare me the misery of separation from Miss 0:vr-
mina, on any conditions which it may be her good will and
pleasure to impose.'

' Now,' Mrs, Gallilee concluded, * what do you say 1 '

Speaking sincerely for once, Mr. Le Frank made a startling
reply.

' Submit on your side,' he said. * Do what she asks of you.
\.nd when you are well enough to go to her lodgings, decline
with thanks if she oft'ers you anything to eat or drink.'

Mrs. Gallilee raised herself on the sofa. * Are you insulting
me, sir/ she asked, ' by making this serious emergency the sub-
ject of a joke 1 '

* I never was more in earnest, madam, in mj life.'

' You think — you really think — that she is capt^blQ of try-
ing to poison me 9 '

♦ Most assuredly I do,'

I I

ftEAUT AND SCIENCE.

309

)f you.
lecline

[lilting
le sub-

k tr^-

Mrs. Gallilee sank back on the i)illow. Mr. Le Frank stated
LiH reasons, ohecking them off one by one on his fingers.

' Who is she 1 ' he began. < She is an Italian woman of the
lower ordera. The virtues of the poople among whom she has
boon born and bred are not generally considered to include re-
spect for the sanctity of human life. Wiiat do we know already
that she has done f She has alarmed the priest, who keeps her
conscience, and knows her well ; and she has attacked you with
such murderous fercrity that it is a wonder you have escaped
with your life. Wha\i sort of message have you sent to her,
after this experience of her temper ? You have told the tigress
that you have the power to separate her from her cub, and that
you mean to use it. On those plain facts, as they stare us in the
face, which is the soundest conclusion ? To believe that she sub-
mits, now you have brought her to bay — or to believe that she
is only gaining time, and is capable (if she sees no other alter-
native) of trying to poison you ? '

' What am I to do 1 ' In those words Mi«. Gallilee owned
that Bound reasoning was not thrown away on her.

' Keop a wary eye on the enemy,' Mr, Le Fiank answered.
* Have all her movements privately watciu /I — and search the
room she lives in, as I searched Miss Caimiua's room last
night.'

'Welir said Mrs. Gallilee.

' Well 1 ' Mr. Le Frank repeated.

She angrily gave way. ' Say at once tliat you are the man
to do it for me ! * she answered. ' And say next — if you can —
how it is to be done.'

Mr. Le Frank's manner softened to an air of gentle gallantry.

* Pray compose youi*self I ' ho said. * I am so glad to be of
service to you, and it is so easily done ! '

' Easily 1 '

' Dear madam, quite easily. Isn't the house a lodging-house ;
and, at this time of year, have I anything to do ? * He rose,
and took his hat ' Surely, you see rae in my new character
now. A single gentleman wants a bedroom. His habits are
quiet, and he gives excellent references. The address, Mi's.
Gallilee — may I trouble you for the address 1 '

CHAPTER XLIX

Towards seven o'clock on the evening of Thursday, Carmina
recognised Teresa for the first time.

Her half-closed eyes opened, as if from a long sleep : they
rested on the old nurse withou^ any appearance of surprise. ' I
am so glad to see you, ray dear,' she said faintly. ' Are you very
tired after your journey 1 ' None of the inquiries which might
have been anticipated followed those first words. Not the
slightest allusion to Mrs. Gallilee escaped her ; she expressed
no anxiety about'Miss Minerva ; no sign of uneasiness at find-
ing herself in a strange room, disturbed her quiet face. Con-
tentedly reposing, she looked at Teresa from time to time and
said, ' You will stay with me, won't you ? ' Now and then,
she confessed * that her head felt dull and heavy, and asked
Teresa to take her hand. * I feel as if I was sinking away
from you,' she said ; ' keep hold of my hand, and I shan't be
afraic' to go to sleep.' The words were hardly spoken, before
she sank into slumber. Occasionally, Teresa felt her hand
tremble, and kissed it. She seemed to be conscious of the kiss,
without waking — she smiled in her sleep.

But, when the first hours of the morning came, this state of
passive repose was disturbed. A violent attack of sickness
came on. It was repeated again and again. Teresa sent for
Mr. Null. He did what he could to relieve the new symptom^}
and he dispatched a messenger to his illustrious collea.gue.

Benjulia lost no time in answering personally the appeal that
had been made to him.

Mr. Null said, ' Serious derangement of the stomach, sir.'
Benjulia agreed with him. Mr Null showed his prescription.
Benjulia sanctioned the prescription. Mr Null said, ' Is there
anything you wish to suggest, sir 1 ' Benjulia had nothing to
suggest.

(MdMvlill'^ -^t*)^*!

•r

thoy

iway
'the
jfore
land
ciss,

piess
for

hat

ilEAUT AND SCIENCE!.

iiil

He waited, nevertheless, until Carmina was able to speak to
him. Teresa and Mr. Null wondered what he would say to
her. He only said, ' Do you remember when you last saw
me 1 ' After a little consideration, she answered, ' Yes, Zo wao

with us ; Zo brought in your bij; stick ; and we talked '

she tried to rouse her memory. ' What did we talk about 1 ' she
asked. A momentary agitation brought a flush to her face. ' I
can't remember it,' she said ; • I can't remember when you
went away : does it matter 1 ' Benjulia replied, < Not the least
in the world. Go to sleep.'

But he still remained in the room — watching her as she
grew drowsy. ' Great weakness,' Mr Null whispered. And
£enjulia answered, ' Yes ; I'll call again.'

On his way out, he took Teresa aside.

' No more questions,' he said — * and don't help her memory
if she asks you.'

* Will she remember, when she gets better 1 ' Teresa in>
quired.

* Impossible to say, yet. Wait and see.'

He was in a hurry to get home again : his experiments were
waiting for him. * A puzzling case — so far,' he concluded,
thinking of Carmina. 'Not at all like the dog,' he reminded
himself, thinking of his experiments. He was so uneasy about
the dog, that he ran to the laboratory on reaching his housa
Nothing had gone wrong on the operating table in his ab-
sence. The poor suftering creature feebly moved its tail, feebly
tried to lick the cruel hand that had so cleverly injured its
brain. Benjulia held up the dog's face, studied it intently, and
laid it back on the table. His mind reverted to Carmina's
case. Some hidden process was at work there : give it time —
and it would show itself. < I hope that ass won't want me,' he
said, thinking of liis medical colleague, * for at least a week to
come.'

The week passed — and the physiologist was not disturbed.

During that interval, Mr. Null succeeded in partially over-
coming the attacks of sickness : they were less violent, and
they were succeeded by longer intervals of repose. In other
respects, there seemed (as Teresa penisted in thinking) to be
some little promise of impfuvement. A certain mental advaucQ

312

Meart and science.

\ ,

was unquestldhably noticeable in Carmina. It first showed
itself in an interesting way : she began to speak of Ovid.

Her great anxiety v/as, that he should know nothing of her
illness. She forbade Teresa to write to him ; she sent mes-
sages to Mr. and Mrs. Gallilee, and ever to Mr. Mool, entreat-
ing them to preserve silence.

The nurse engaged to deliver the messages — and failed to
keep her word. This breach of promise (as events had order-
ed it) proved to be harmless. Mrs. Gallilee had good reasons
for not writing. Her husband and Mr. Mool had decided on
sending their telegram to the bankers. As for Teresa herself,
she had no desire to communicate with Ovid. Uis absence —
no matter how imperatively it had been forced upon him by the
state of his health — remained inexcusable, from her poir^i of
view. Well or ill, with or without reason, it was the nurse's
opinion that he ought to have remained at home, in Carmina's
interests. No other persons were in the least likely to write
to Ovid — nobody thought of Zo as a correspondent — Carmina
was pacified.

Once or twice at this later time, the languid efforts of her
memory took a wider range.

She ' ondered why Mrs. Gallilee never came near her ; own-
ing that her aunt's absence was a relief to her. but not feeling
interest enough in the subject to ask for information. She
also mentioned Miss Minerva. ' Do you know wiiere she has
gone ] Don't you think she ought to write to me ? ' Teresa
offered to make inquiries. She turned her head wearily on the
pillow and said, * Never mind ! ' On another occasion, she
asked for Zo, and sa'd it would be pleasant if Mr. Gallilee
would call and bring her with him. But she soon dropped tho
subject, not to return to it again.

The only remembrance which seemed to dwell on her mind
for more than a few minutes, was her remembrance of the last
letter which she had written to Ovid,

She pleased herself with imagining his surprise, when he re-
ceived it ; she grew impatient under her continued illness, be-
<5ause it delayed her in escaping to Canada , she talked to
Teresa of the clever manner in v/hich the flight had been
planned — with this strange failure of memory, that she attri-
•1t)uted the vaiiou'i arrungemeuts for setting discovery at defi-

, showed
vid.

ng of her
ent mes-
i, entreat-

failed to
lad order-
>d reasons
tecided on
sa herself,
absence —
lim by the
• poir*. of
he nurse's
Carmina's
y to write
— Carmina

[orts of her

her ; own-
lot feeling
tion. She
'le she has
' Teresa
A\y on the
asion, she
k Gallilee
lopped tht>

her mind
)f the last

hen he re-
dness, be-
balked to
Ihad been
Ishe attri-
at defi-

irEAUT AND SCIENCE.

Si:j

Anco, ni>t to Miss Miuprvahnt to the nnrse. Her<»t for the first
time, her mind was appiuachitig dangeruus ground. The steal-
ing of the letter, and the events that had followed it, stood
next in the order of remembrance — if she was capable of a con-
tinued effort. Her weakness saved her. Beyond the writing
of the letter, her recollections were unable to advance. Not
the faintest allusion to any later circumstances escaped her.
The poor stricken brain still sought its rest in fiequent inter-
vals of sleep. Sometimes, she drifted back into partial uncon-
sciousness; sometimes the attacks of sickness returned. Mr.
Null set an excellent example of patience and resignation. He
believed as devoutly as ever in his prescriptions ; he placed
the greatest reliance on time and care. The derangement of
the stomach (as he called it) presented something positive and
tangible to treat : he had got over the doubts and anxieties
that troubled him, when Carmina was first removed to the
lodgings. Looking confidently at the surface — without an idea
of what was going on below it — he could tell Teresa, with a
safe conscience, that he understood the case. He was always
ready to comfort her, when her excitable Italian nature pab&ed
from the extreme of hope to the extreme of despair. ' My
good woman, we see our way now : it's a great point gained, I
assure you, to see our way ] '

' Wiiat do you mean by seeing your way 1 ' said the down-
right nurse. * Tell me when Carmina will be well again.*

Mr. Null's medical knowledge was not yet equal to this de-
mand on it. ' The progress is slow,' he admitted, * still Car-
mina is getting on.'

* Is her aunt getting on,' Teresa asked abruptly. ' When is
Mistress Gallilee likely to come here ? '

* In a few days ' Mr. Null was about to add *I hope ; '

but he thought of what might happen when the two women
met. As it was, Teresa's face showed sij^ns of serious distur-
bance ; her mind was plainly not prepared for this speedy pros-
pect of a visit from Mrs. Gallilee. She took a letter out of
hr" pocket.

' I find a good deal of sly prudence in you,* she said to Mr.
Null. * You must have seen something in your time, of the
ways of deceitful EngUsh women. What does that palaver
mean in plain words) ' She handed the letter to him.

HEAUT AND SCIENCE.

;> SM^\

With some reluctance he read it.

* Mrs. Gallilee declines to contract any engagement with the
person formerly employed as nurse, in the household of the
late Mr. Robert Gray well. Mrs. Gallilee so far recognises the
apology and submission offered to her, as to abstain from tak-
ing immediate proceedings. In arriving at this decision, she
is also influenced by the necessity of sparing her niece any agi-
tation wliich might interfere with the medical treatment.
When the circumstances appear to require it, she will not hesi-
tate to exert her authority.'

The handwriting told Mr. Null that this manifesto had not
been written by Mrs. Gallilee herself. The person who had
succeeded him in the capacity of that lady's amanuensis, had
been also a person capable of giving sound advice. Little
did he suspect that this mysterious secretary was identical with
an enterprising pianist, who had once prevailed on him to take
a seat at a concert ; price five shillings.

'Well?' said Teresa.

Mr. Null hesitated.

The nurse stamped impatiently on the floor. * Tell me this !
"When she does come here, will she part me from Carmina 1 Is
that what she means ] '

* Possibly,' said prudt ' Mr. Null

Teresa pointed to the door. * Good morning. I want noth-
ing more of you. Oh, man, man, leave me by myself ! '

The moment she was alone, she fell on her knees, Fiercely
whispering, she repeated over and over again the words of
The Lord's Prayer : * Lead us not into temptation, but deliver
us from evil. Christ hear me ! Mother of Christ, hear me !
Oh, Carmina ! Carmina 1 '

She rose and opened the door which communicated with the
bedroom. Trembling pitiably, she looked for a while at Carmina,
peacefully asleep — then turned away to a corner of the room,
in which stood a wooden box. She took it up ; and, returning
with it to the sitting-room, softly closed the bedroom door
again.

After some hesitation, she proceeded to open the box. In
the terror and confusion that possessed her, she tried the wrong
key. Setting this mistake right, she disclosed — strangely
mingled with the lighter articles of her own dress — a heap of

HEART AND SCIENCE.

315

, with the
Id of the
ynises the
from tak-
ision, she
le any agi-
treatment.
.1 not hesi-

to had not
I who had
lensis, had
ice. Little
ntical with
aim to take

'ell me this t
rmina 1 Is

want noth-

lelf I '

Is, Fiercely
le words of
, but deliver
[st, hear me !

Ited with the
J at Cavraina,
[of the room,
id, returning
Jedroom door

the box. lu
led the wrong
b—strangely
Is— a heap of

papers ; some of them letters and bil's ; some of them faded in-
structions in writing for the preparation of artists' colours.

She recoiled from the open box. Why had she not taken
Father Patrizio's advice ? If she had only waited another day ;
if she had only sorted her husband's papers, before she threw
the things that her trunk was too full to hold into that half-
empty box, what torment might have been spared to lie»* ! Her
eyes turned mournfully to the bedroom door. * Oh my darling,
I was in such a hurry to get to You ! '

At last, she controlled herself, and put her hand into the box.
Searching it to the bottom, she produced a little tin canister.
A dirty label was' pasted on the canister, bearing this quaint
inscription in the Italian language :

* If there is any of the powder we employ in making some of
our prettiest colours, left in here, I request my good wife, or
any other trustworthy person in her place, to put a seal on it,
and take it directly to the manufactory, with the late foreman's
best respects. It looks like nice sugar. Beware of looks —
or you may taste poison.'

On the point of opening the canister she hesitated. Under
some strange impulse, she did what a child might have done :
she shook it, and listened.

The rustle of the rising and falling powder — renewing her
terror — seemed to exercise some irresistible fascination over her.

* The devil's dance,' she said to herself, with a ghastly smile.

* Softly up — and softly down — and tempting me to take off the
cover all the time ! Why don't I get rid of it 1 '

That question set her .hinking of Carmina's guardian. If
Mr. Null was right, in a day or two Mrs. Gallilee might come
to the house. After the lawyers had threatened Teresa with the
dreadful prospect of separation from Carmina, she had examin-
ed the box for the first time — seeking the nearest means of re-
lief from her own thoughts — and had discovered the canister.
The sight of the deadly powder had tempted her. There
were the horrid means of setting Mrs. Galliiee's authority
at defiance 1 Some women in her place, would use them.
Though she was not looking into the canister now, she felt that
thought stealing back into her mind. There was but one hope
for her : she resolved to get rid of the poison. How ?

At that period of the year, there was no fire in the grate.

ii!:

•?

*■

iii

310

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Within the limits cf the room, the means of certain destruction
were slow to present themselves. Her own morbid horror of
the canister made her suspicious of the curiosity of other people,
who might see it in her hand if she showed herself on the stairs.
But she was determined, if she lit a fire for the purpose, to find
the way to her end. The firmness of her resolution expressed
itself by locking the box again, without restoring the canister
to its hiding-place.

Providing herself next with a knife, she sat down in a corner
— between the bedroom door on one side, and a cupboard in an
angle of the wall on the other — and began the work of destruc-
tion by scraping off" the paj er label. The fragments might be
burnt, and the powder (if she made a vow to the Virgin to do
it) might be thrown into the fire next — and then the empty
canister would be harmless.

She had made but little progress in the work of scraping,
when it occurred to her that the lighting of a fire, on that
warm autumn day, might look suspicious if the landlady or Mr.
Null happened to come in. It would be safer to wait till night-
time, when everybody would be in bed.

Arriving at this conclusion, she mechanically suspended the
use of her knife. In the moment of silence that followed, she
heard some one enter the bedroom by the door which opened
on the stairs. Immediately afterwards, the person turned the
handle of the second door at her side. She had b?rdly time
enough to open the cupboard, and hide the canister in it — when
the landlady came in.

Teresa looked at her wildly. The landlady looked at the cup-
board : she was proud of her cupboard.

* Plenty of room there,' she said boastfully ; ' not another
house in the neighbourhood could offer you such accommoda-
tion as that I Yes — the lock is out of order ; I don't deny it.
The last lodger's doings ! She spoilt my table-cloth, and put
the ink-stand over it to hide the place. Beast I there's her
character in one word. You didn't hear me knock at the bed-
room door ? I am so glad to see her sleeping nicely, poor dear.
Her chicken broth is ready when she wakes. I'm late today
in making my inquiries after our young lady. You see we
have been hard at work upstairs, getting the bedroom ready
for a new lodger. Such a contrast to the person who has just

i' ! E

estruction
horror of
er people,
the stairs.
>se, to find
expressed
le canister

in a corner
loard in an
of destruc-
s might be
irgin to do
the empty

)f scraping,
e, on that
lady or Mr.
it till night-

ended the
lowed, she
lich opened

turned the
)pr<jly time
n it — when

at the cup-

)t another
Iccommoda-
I't deny it.
Lh, and put
(there's her
lat the bed-
poor dear,
[late today
''ou see we
loom ready
10 has just

HEART AND SCIENCE.

317

left. A perfect gentleman, this time — and so kind in waiting
a week till I was able to accommodate him. My ground floor
rooms were vacant, as you know— but he said the terras were
too high for him. Oh, I didn't forget to mention that we had
an invalid in the house ! Quiet habits (I said) are indeed an
essential qualification of any new inmate, at such a time as
this. He understood. "I've been an invalid myself" (he
said); " and the very reason I am leaving my present lodg-
ings is that they are not quiet enough." Isn't that just the
sort of man we want 1 And, let me tell you, a handsome man
too. With a drawback, I must own, in the shape of a ^ald
head. But such a beard, and such a thrilling voice. Hush I
Did I hear her calling ? '

At last, the landlady permitted other sounds to be audible,
besides the sound of her own voice. It became possible to
discover that Oarmina was now awake. Teresa hurried into
the bedroom.

Lett by herself in the sitting-room, the landlady — ' purely
out of juriosity,' as she afterwards said, in conversation with
her new lodger — opened the cupboard, and looked in. The
canister stood straight before her, on an upper shelf. Did Miss
Carmina's nurse take snuff ? She examined the canister. The
Italian inscription spoke in an unknown tongue. She looked
at the powder — wetted her finger — tasted the powder — and
spat into her handkerchief. The effect on her tongue was of
a disagreeably burning sort. She put the canister back, and
closed the cupboard. ' Medicine, undoubtedly,* the landlady
said to herself. ♦ Why should she hurry to put it away, when
I came in ) '

'I I «

I i

CHAPTER L.

In eight days from the date of his second interview with Mrs.
Gallilee, Mr. Le Frank took possession of his new bedroom.

He had arranged to report his first proceedings to Mrs.
Gallilee, in writing. Personal communication with her (if it
was accidentally discovered) might, as he feared, arouse Tere-
sa's suspicions —for this sufficient reason, that she knew him
by sight. They had met more than once, at the time of Car-
mina's arrival in England, when the nurse was in the house.

He employed the next day in collecting materials for his first
report. In the evening, he wrote to Mrs. Gallilee — under cover
to a friend, who was instructed to forward the letter.

' Private and confidential. Dear Madam, — I have not wasted
my time and my opportunities, as you will presently see.

* My bedroom is immediately above the floor of the house
which is occupied by Misa;,Carmina and her nurse. Having
some little matters of my own to settle, I was late in taking
possession of my room. Before the lights on the staircase were
put out, I took the liberty of looking down at the next land-
ing. It was on my conscience vot to go to bed until I had at
least attempted to make some tirst discoveries.

* Do you remember, when you were a child learning to write,
that one of the lines in your copy-book was, " Virtue is its own
reward " ? This ridiculous assertion was actually verified in
my case i Before I had been five minutes at my post, I saw
the nurse open her door. She looked up the staircase (with-
out discovering me, it is needless to say), and she looked down
the staircase — anJ, seeing nobody about, returned to her
rooms.

' Waiting till I heard her lock the door, I stole downstairs
and listened outside.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

310

with Mrs.
jdroom.

to Mrs.
her (if it
ause Tere-
knew him
ne of Car-
B house,
•or his first
nder cover
r.
aot wasted

see.
the house
Having
in taking
pcase were
next land-

I had at

g to write,
is its own

verified in

ist, I saw
ase (with-
ked down

)d to her

ownstaira

* One of my two fellow-lodgnrs (you know that I don't be-
lieve in Miss Carmina's illness) was liglitins^ a fire — on such a
warm autumn night, that the staircase window was left open I
I am absolutely sure of what I say ; I heard the crackle of
burning wood — I smelt coal smoke. Tho motive of this secret
proceeding it seems impossible to guess at. If they were burn-
ing documents of a dangerous and compromising kind, a candle
would have answered their purpose. If they wanted hot wa-
ter, surely a tin kettle and a spirit lamp must have been at
hand in an invalid's bedroom. Perhaps, your superior pene-
tration may be able to read the riddle which bailies my inge-
nuity.

' So much for the
* This afternoon, I

first night.

had some talk with the landlady. My
professional avocations having trained me in the art of making
myself ?j^;reeable to the fair sex, I may say without vanity that
I produced a highly favourable impression. The young lady's
illness had been already mentioned to me (as an apology for
asking if my habits were quiet) when I presented myself as a
lodger. It was only natural that a kind-hearted stranger, like
myself, should ask how she was going on, and whether she had
a devoted mother to take care of her. This wab enough to set
the landlady talking.

* Out of the flow of words poured on me, one fuot of very
serious importance has risen to the surface.

* Only yesterday, my landlady discovered her foreign lodger,
in the act of hiding something in the sitting room cupboard.
At the first favourable opportunity, she looked in, and found a
small canister on the shelf — bearing a label on it written in a
language unknown to her. Opening the canister, she >.i\v a
white powder inside, and ventured to taste it. It piuduced
such a nasty burning sensation that she spat it out again. The
powder, as she supposes, is some strong medicine intended to
be taken in water. But why the nurse should have been in a
hurry to hide the canister is more than she can say.

* I might have been no wiser than the landlady, but for a
circumstance of which I now beg leave to remind you.

* During the week of delay which elapsed, before the lodger
iu possession vacated my room, you kindly admitted me to an
interview. My conviction that the Italian woman is capable^

1 I

t 1

S I

■ 'i

n2()

HEART AND SCIENCE.

if you drive her to extremities, of attempting to poison you,
formed the principal subject of our conversation. Among
other things, I said that Teresa's antecedents might, quite
possibly, justify my opinion ; and I ventured to put some ques-
tions, relating to her life in Italy and to the persons with whom
she associated. Do you remember telling me, when I asked
what you knew of her husband, that he was foreman in a
manufactory of artists' colours ? and that you had your infor-
mation from Miss Carmina herself, after she had shown you
the telegram announcing his death I

' A lady, possessed of your 8cienti6c knowledge, does not re-
quire to be told that poisons are employed in the manufacture
of artists' colours. Remember what the priest's letter says of
Teresa's feeling toward you, and then say — Is it so very un-
likely that she has brought with her to England one of the
poisons used by her husband in his trade 1 and is it quite un-
reasonable to suppose that she might have been thinking of
you, when she concealed the canister from the landlady's no-
tice ?

* On the other hand, it is equally possible (I pride myself on
seeing both sides of a question) that the white powder may be
quinine, instead of arsenic. I intend to settle that question
by personal investigation. The landlady has a grievance
against a former lodger who hai damaged her furniture. In
alluding to the cupboard she mentioned as part of this griev-
ance that the lock was out of order. My next report shall tell
you that I have contrived to provide myself with a small
sample of the white powder — leaving the canister undisturbed.
The sample shall be tested by a chemist. If he pronouLces it
to be poison, I have a bold course of action to propose.

* As soon as you are well enough to go to the house, give the
nurse her chance of poisoning you.

* Pray, dear madam, don't be alarmed ! I will accompany
you ; and I answer for the result. We will pay our visit at
teatime. Let her offer you a cup — and let me (under pretence
of handing it) get possession of the poisoned drink. Before
she can cry stop ! — I shall be on my way to the chemist. The
penalty for attempted murder is penal servitude. If you still
object to a public exposure, we have the chemist's report, tc«
guther with uur own evidence, ready for your sou on his return,

HEART AND SCIENCE.

821

on you,
Among
t, quite
ne ques-
;h whom
I asked
an in a
ur infor-
iwn you

s not re-
lufacture
r says of
very un-
le of the
quite un-
nking of
Eidy's no-

myself on
sr may be

question
grievance
ture. In
lis griev-

ahalltell
a small
urbed.

luiices it

list!

L give the

[company

visit at

pretence

Before

list. The

lyou still

Iport, tc-

U return*

How will ho feel about his marriage-engagement, wlicn he finds
that Miss Carmina's dearest friend and companion has tried —
perhaps^ with Iter young lady's knoivledge — to poison his mother.

* Before concluding my report, I may mention that 1 iiad a
narrow escape, only two hours since, of being seen by Teresa
on the stairs. I was of course prepared for this sort of meet-
ing when I engaged my room ; and I have therefore not been
foolish enough to enter the house under an assumed name. On
tho contrary, I propose (in your inte^-ests) to establish a
neighbourly acquaintance — with time to help me. But tlie
matter of the poison admits of no delay. My chance of geLling
at the cupboard unobserved may be seriously compromised
(you know how suspicious foreigners are) if the nurse is on her
guard. The sight of me may, in the mind of such a woman,
have that eflfect. To-night or to-^aorrow, I must find my way
to the canister — Your devoted servant, L. F.*

Having completed his letter, he rang for the servant, and
gave it to her to post.

On her way downstairs, she was stopped on the next land-
ing by 'Ir. Null. He too had a letter ready: addressed to
Dr. Benjulia. The fierce old nurse followed him out, and
said, 'Post it instantly!' The civil servant asked if Miss
Carmina was better. • Worse ! * — was all the rude foreigner
said. She looked at poor Mr. Null, as n it was his fault.

Left in the retirement of his room, Mr. Le Frank sat at the
writing table, frowning and biting his nails.

Were these evidences of a troubled mind connected with the
infamous proposal which he had addressed to Mrs. GalHleel
Nothing of the sort I Having done with his report, he was
now at leisure to let his personal anxieties absorb him. without
restraint. He was thinking of Carmina.

In ofi*ering his services to Mrs. Gallilee, the foremost among
the motives that animated him was a sense of bitter disappoint-
ment. He had failed to find the smallest confirmation of his
own private suspicions, in searching Carmina's room. He had
now followed her to Teresa's lodgings, with his own interests,
as well as Mrs. Gallilee's interests, in view — resolute as ever
to discover Lhe secret of Carmina's behaviour to him. For the
Uundredih time he said to bimseli, ' Her clev Ji^h ma.ice revilca

ni22

«EAUT AND SCIENCr.

me behind my back, anrl asks meboforomy face to sluikc lianfla
auii bo friends.' '1 he more outrageoutily unreasonable his sus-
picions became, under the exasperating influence of suspense,
tl)emore inveterately his mean and vindictive nature held to
its delusion. Atter h*s meeting with her in the hall, he really
believed Carmina's illness to have been assumed as a means of
keeping out of his way. As for Teresa he seriously distrusted
her, as her young mistress's accomplice. He was even prepar-
ed to discover that the unfavourable reception, accorded by the
music-sellers to his Song, was due to the intriguing influence of
the two women. If a friend had said to him, * But what rea-
son have you to think so 1 ' — he would have smiled compassion-
ately, and have given that fr'md up for a shallow-minded
man.

tie stole out again, and listened, undf^tected, at their door.
Carmina was speaking ; but the words, in those faint tones,
were inaudible. Teresa's stronger voice tasily reached his ears.
' My darling, talking is not good for you ; I'll light the night-
Jamp — try to sleep.'

Hearing this, he went back to his bedroom to wait a little.
Teresa's vigilance might relax if Carmina fell asleep. She might
go downstairs for a gossip with the landlady.

After smoking a cigar, he tried again. The lights on the
Btaii case were now put out : it was eleven o'clock.

She was not asleep : the nurse was reading to her from some
devotional book. He gave it up, for that night. liis head
ached ; the ferment of his own abominable thoughts had fevered
him. A cowardly dread of the slightest signs of illness was one
of his special weaknesses. The whole day, to-morrow, was be-
fore him. He felt his own pulse, and determined, in justice to
himself, to go to bed.

Ten minutes later, the landlady, on her way to bed, ascended
the stairs. She, too, heard the voice, still reading aloud — and
tapped softly at the door. Teresa opened it.

' Is the poor thing not asleep yet 1*

* No.'

* Has she been disturbed in any way 1 '

' Somebody has been walking about, overhead/ Teresa an-
swered.

HEAHT AND SCIENCE.

kc I)anf?8
I hiii sua-
uspense,
held to
he really
neans of
strusted
\ prepar-
d by the
uence of
liat rea*
passion-
-minded

iir door,
t tones,
his ears,
e night-

a little.
16 might

I on the

m some
lis head
fevered
vt^as one
ivas be-
iBtice to

scended
d — and

* That's the now lodger ! ' exclaimed the landlady.' I'll sneak
to Mr. Le Frank.'

On the point of closing the door, and saying goodnight,
Teresa stopped, and considered for a moment.

* Is he your new lodger 1 ' she said.

* Yea Do you know him 1 '

* I saw him when I was last in Encland.'
'Weill' ^

* l^othing more/ Teresa answered. ' Good night.*

1151

I ^ i

esa an«

iii»i

,/■

1 1:^*

CII AFTER U,

Watciiino tVironi»h the ui<ilit by Carmina's bedbide, Ttrcsa
found herseit' thinking of Mr. Lo Frank. It was one way of
getting through the weary time, to guess at the motive whi«'h
had led him to become a lodger in the house.

Ordinary probabilities pointed to the inference that he might
have reasons for changing his residence, which only concerned
himself. In that case, a common coincidence would account
for his having become Teresa's fellow-lodger. She would have
found little difficulty iu adopting this view, but for certain re-
collections which made her hesitate. She had first met Mr.
Le Frank at Mrs. Gallilee's house ; and she had been so disa-
j;reeably impressed by his personal appearance, that she had
'ven told Oarmina ' the music-master looked like a rogue.'
With her former prejudice against him now revived, and with
her serious present reasons for distrusting Mrs. Gallilee, she
' f'jected the idea of his accidental presence under her land-
idy's I'oof. Other women, in her position and animated by
iier feeling of distrust, might have asked themselves, if he had
!i purpose of his own, or 4 purpose of Mrs. Gal li lee's to serve.
Teresa's vehement and impulsive mature, incapable of deliber-
ately considering such questions Wy these, rushed blindfold to
the right conclusion — that the music-master was employed as
Mrs. Gallilee's spy. While Mr. Le Frank was warily laying
Ids plans for the next day, he had himself become an object of
suspicion to the very woman whose secrets he was plotting to
^urprise.

This was the longest and saddest night which the faithful
dd nurse had passed at her darling's bedside.

For the first time, Carmina was fretful, and hard to please :
ntient persuasion was needed to induce her to take her medi*

HEART AND SCIENCE,

f^25

lilhful

llease :
medi-

cine. E"m when she was t.liirsty, »l«e ha*l an irritable obj^'C-
tion to being disturbed, if the Lemonade was offered tu iier
which she relished at other times. Once or twice, when she
drowsily stirred in her bed, she showed symptoms of delusion.
The poor girl supposed it was the eve of her wedding day, and
eagerly asked wliut Teresa had done with her new dresp. A
little later, when she had perhaps been dreaming, she fancied
that her mother was still alive, ajid repeatetl the long forgotten
talk of her childhood. ' What have I said to distress you I ' she
asked wonderingly, when she found Teresa crying.

Soon after sunrise, there came a long interval of repose. At
the latter time when Benjulia arrived, she was quiet and un>
complaining. The unfavourable syiiiptoms which had induced
Teresa to insist on sending for him, were all perversely absmt.
Mr. Null expected to be roughly rebuked for having disturbed
the great man by a false alarm. Ho attempted to explain :
and Teresa attempted to explain. Benjuliapaid not the slight-
est attention to either of them. He made no angry n mat ks
— and he showed, in his own impenetrable way, as gratifying
an interest in the case as ever.

* Draw up the blind,* he said ; * I want to have a good look
at her.*

Mr. Null waited respectfully, and imposed strict silence on
Teresa, while the investigation was going on. It Iaste«l so
long that he ventured to say, * Do you see anything particu-
lar, sir 1 '

Benjulia saw his doubts cleared up : time (as he had antici-
pated) had brought development with it, and had enabled him
to arrive at a conclusion The shock that had struck Carmina
had produced complicated hysterical disturbance, which was
now beginning to simulate paralysis. Benjulia's profound and
practised observation detected a trifling inequality in the size
oi the pupils oi the eyes, and a slightly unequal action on
cither side of the face — delicately presented in the eyelids, the
nostrils and the lips. Here was no common aft»'Ction of the
brain, which even Mr. Null could understand ! Here, at last,
was Benjulia's reward for sacrificing the precious hours which
might otherwise have been employed in the lalioratory ! From
that day, Carmina was destined to receive unknown honour:

320

HEART AND SCIENCE.

she was to take her place, along with the other animals, in his
note-book of experiments.

He turned quietly to Mr Null, and finished the consultation
in two word&

'AH right I'

'Have you nothing to sngji^ost, sirl' Mr. Null inquired.

' Go on with the treatment— and draw down the blind, if she
complains of the light. Good day.'

' Are you sure he's a great doctor 1 ' said Teresa, when the
door had closed on him.

' The greatest wo have ! ' cried Mr. Null with enthusiasm.

' Is he a good man 1 '

* Why do you ask ? '

< I want to know if we can trust him to tdll us the truth f '

* Not a doubt ot it ! ' (who could doubt it, indeed, aftei* he
had approved of Mr. Null's medical treatment 1 '

'There's one thing you have forgotten,' Teresa persisted.
You haven't asked him when Carminacan be moved.'

* My good woman, if I had put such a question, he would
have set me down as a fool. Nobody can say when she will
be well enough to be moved.'

He took his hat. The nurse followed him out.
' Are you going to Mrs. Gallilee, sir 1 '
« Not to-day '

Is she better ? '

She IS almost well agaiu«*

I] \

<lf

s, in his
ultatioQ

ed.

id, if she

hen the

msiasm.

truth 1 *
aftei' he

Braisted.

e would
she will

CHAPTER LIT.

Left by herself, Teresa went into the sitting room ; she W8fl
afraid to let Carmina see her. Mr Null had destroj'ed the one
hope which had supported her thus far — the hope of escaping
with Carmina before Mrs. Gallilee could interfera Looking
steadfastly at that inspiriting prospect, she had forced herself
to sign the humble apology and submission which the lawyers
had dictated to her. What was the prospect now 1 Heavily
had the merciless hand of calamity fallen on that brave old
soul — and, at last, it had beaten her down ! While she stood
at the window, meclianieally looking out, the dreary view of
the back street trembled and disappeared. Teresa was crying.
Happily for herself, she was unable to control her own weak*
ness : the tears lightened her heavy heart. She waited a little^
in the fear that her eyes might betray her, before she returned
to Carmina. In that interval, she heard the sound of a closing
door, on the floor above.

* The music-master ! ' she said to herself.
Tn an instant, she was at the lutting-room door, looking
through the key -hole. It was the one safe way of watching
him — and that was enough for Teresa. His figure appeared
suddenly within Lei- narrow range of view — on the mat outside
the door. If her distrust of hun was without foundation, he
would go on down stairs. No ! He stopped on the mat to
listen — he stooped — his eye would have been at the key-
hole in another moment. She seized a chair, and moved it.
The sound instantly drove him away. He went on, down the
stairs.

Teresa considered with herself what safest means of protec-
tion — and, if possible, of puniahment as well — lay within her
reach. I" /, and where, could the trap be set that mighl
catch bim i

• •

S28

HEABT AND SCIENCE.

She was Blill puzzled by that qupntion, when the landlnrly
made her appearance— politely anxious to hear what the doctors
thought of their patient. Satisfied so far, the wearisome
woman had her apologies to make next, for not having yet cau-
tioned Mr. Le Frank.

' Thinking over it, since last night/ she said confidentially,
* 1 cannot imagine how you heard him walking about overhead.
He has such a soft step that he positively takes me by surprise
when he comes into my room. He has gone out for an hour ;
and I have done him a little favour which I am not in the
habit of conferring on ordinary lodgers — I have lent him my
umbrella, as it threatens rain. In his absence, I will ask you
to listen while I walk about in his room. One can't be too
particular, when rest is of such importance to your young lady
— and it has struck me as just possible, that the floor of his
room may be in fault. My dear, the boards may creak ! I am
a sad fidget, I know ; but, if the carpenter can set things right
— without any horrid hammering, of course ! — the sooner he is
sent for, the more relieved I shall feel.'

Through this Jonj; harangue, Teresa had waited, with a
patience far from characteristic of her, for an opportunity ot
saying a timely word. By some tortuous mental process that
she was quite unable to trace, the landlady's allusion to Mr. Le
Frank had suggested the very idea of which, in her undisturbed
solitude, she had been vainly in search. Never before had the
mistress of the house appealed to Teresa in such a favourable
light.

* You needn't trouble yourself ma'am,' she said, as soon as
she could make herself heard ; ' it wns the creaking of the
boards that told me somebody was moving overhead.'

' Then I'm not a fidget after all 1 Oh, how you relieve me !
Whatever the servants may have to do, one of them shall be
sent instantly to the carpenter. So glad to be of any service
to that sweet youi.^, creature I *

Teresa consulted her watch before she returned to the bed-
room.

The improvement in Carmina still continued ; she was able
to take some of the light nourishment that was waiting for her.
As Benjulia had anticipated, she asked to have the blind
lowered a little. Teresa drew it completely over the window •

HEART AND SCIENCE,

32D

able
rher.
blind
dow

she had her own reasons for tempting Carmina to repose. In
half-an-hour more, the weary girl was sleeping, and the nurso
was at liberty to set her trap for Mr. Le Frank.

Her first proceeding was to dip the end of a quill pen into
her bottle of salad oil, and to lubricate the lock and key of the
door that gave access to the jed-room from the stairs. Having
satisfied herself that the key could now be used without making
the slightest sound, she turned to the door of communicntion
with the sitting-room next.

This door was covered with green baize. It had handles but
no lock : and it swung inwards, so as to allow the door of the
cupboard (situated in the angle of the sitting-room wall) to
open towards the bedroom freely. Teresa oiled the hinges and the
brass bolt and staple which protected the baize door on the side
of the bedroom. That done, she looked again at her watch.

Mr. Le Frank's absence was expected to last for an hour. In
five minutes more, the hour would expire.

After bolting the door of communication, she paused in the
bedroom, and wafted a kiss to Carmina, still at rest. She then
left the room, by the door which opened on the stairs, and
locked it, taking away the key with her.

Having gone down the first flight of stairs, she stopped and
went back. The one unsecured door was the door which led
into the sitting-room from the staircase. She opened it and
left it invitingly ajar. * Now,' she said to herself, * I've got
him!'

The hall clock struck the hour when she entered the land-
lady's room.

The woman of many words was at once charmed and an-
rvyed. Charmed to hear that the dear invalid was resting, and
to receive a visit from the nurse : annoyed by the absence of
the carpenter, at work somewhere else for the whole of the day.
* If my dear husband had been alive, we should have been inde-
pendent of carpenters ; he could turn his hand to anything.
Now do sit down — I want you to taste some cherry brandy of
my own making.'

As Teresa took a chair, Mr. Le Frank returned. The two
secret adversaries met, face to face.

' Surely I remember this lady 1 ' he said.

\i\

330

HEART ANb SOIEKCE.

Teresa encountered him, on his own ground. She made her
best curtsey, and reminded him ol the circumstances under
which they had formerly met. The hospitable landlady pro-
duced her cherry brandy. ' We stte going to have a nice little
chat ; do sit down, sir, and join us. Mr. Le Frank made his
apologies. The umbrella which had been so kindly lent to him
had not protected his shoes ; his feet were wet ; and he was so
sadly liable to take cold that he must beg permission to put on
bis dry things imm'cdiately. Having bowed himself out, he
stopped in the paeaage, and, standing on tiptoe, peeped through
a window in tb« wall, by which light was conveyed to the land-
lady's little :oom. The two women were comfortably seated
together with the cherry brandy and a plate of biscuits on a
table between them. * In for a good long gossip,' thought Mr.
Le Frank. * Now is my time ! *

Not five minutes more had passed before Teresa made an ex-
cuse for running upstairs again. She had forgotten to leave the
bell rope, in case Carmina woke, within reach of her hand. Tlye
excellent heart of the hostess made allowance for natural
anxiety. * Do it, you good soul,' she said, ' and come back di-
rectly ! ' Left by herself, she filled her glass again, and smiled.
Sweetness of temper (encouraged by cherry brandy) can even
smile at a glass — unless it happens to be empty.

Approaching her own rooms, Teresa waited, and listened, be-
fore rfie showed herself. No sound reached her through the
half open sitting-room door. She noiselessly entered the bed-
room, and then locked the door again. Once more she list-
ened ; and once more there was nothing to be heard. Had he
seen her 1

As the doubt crossed her mind, she heard the boards creak on
the floor above. Mr. Le Frank was in his room.

Did this mean that her well-laid plan had failed 1 Or did it
mean that he was really changing his shoes and stockings 1 The
last inference was the right one.

Le Frank had made no mere excuse downstairs. The serious
interests that he had at stake were not important enough to make
him forget his precious health. His chest was delicate ; a cold
might settle on his lungs. The temptation of the half open door
had its due effect on Mr. Le Frank ; but H failed to make him
forget that his feet were wet.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

331

did it
1 The

lerious
»make
a cold
door
:e him

The boards creaked again ; the door of his rootn was softly
closed — then there was silence. Teresa only knew when he had
entered the sitting room by hearing him try the bolted baize
door. After that he must have stepped out again. He nezt
tried the door of the bed chamber, from the stairs.

There was a quiet interval once more. Teresa noiselessly
drew back the bolt, and, opening the door by a mere hair's-
breath, admitted sound from the sitting-room. She heard him
turn the key in a chiffonier, which only contained tradesmen's
circulars, receipted bills, and a fe'v books.

(Even with the cupboard before him, waiting to be searched,
his uppermost idea was to find in Carmina's papers the proof of
Carmina's intrigues ! )

The contents of the chiffonier disappointed him— judging by
the tone in which he muttered to himself. The next sound
startled Teresa : it was a tap against the lintel of the door be-
hind which she was standing. He had thrown open the cup-
board.

The rasping of the cover, as he took it off, told her tha* he had
begun by examining the canister. She had put it back in the
cupboard, a harmless thing now — the poison and the label
having been both destroyed by fire. Nevertheless, his choosing
the canister, from dozens of other things scattered about it on
the shelf, inspired her with a feeling of distiustful surprise.
She was no longer content to find out what he was doing by
means of her eaiu Determined to see him, and to catch him
in the fact, she pulled open the baize door — at the moment vhen
he must have discovered that the canister was empty. A faint
thump told her he had thrown it on the floor.

She had forgotten the cupboard door.

Now that it was wide open, it covered the entrance to the
bedroom, and completely screened them one from the other.
For the moment she was startled, and hesitated whether to show
herself or not. His voice stopped her.

' Perhaps, there's another ? ' he said to himself. * The dirty

old savage may have hidden it ' She heard no more. * The

dirty old savage ' was an insult not to be endured ! She forgot
her intention of stealing on him unobserved . she forgot her
resolution to do nothing that could awaken Carraina. Her fierce
taui|jer urged her into furious action. With both hands oat-

^^^

Ji32

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Rltread, she flew at the cupboard door, and banged it to in all
instanU

A shriek of agony rang through the house. The swiftly
closing door had caught, and crushed, the fingers of Le Frank's
right hand, at the moment he was putting it into the cupboard
again.

Without stopping to help him, without even looking at him,
she ran back to Carmina. The swinging baize door fell to, ani
closed of itself. No second cry was heard. Nothing happened
to falsify her desperate assertion that the shriek was the delusion
of a vivid dream. She took Carmina in her arms, and patted
and fondled her like a child. ' See, my darling, I'm with you
as usual ; and / have heard nothing. Don't, oh don't tremble
in that way ! There — I'll wrap you up in my shawl, and read
to you. No ! let's talk of Ovid.'

Her efforts to compose Carmina were interrupted by a muffled
sound of men's footsteps and women's voices in the next room.
She hurriedly opened the door, and entreated them to whisper
and be quiet. In the instant before she closed it again, she saw
and heard. Le Frank lay in a swoon on the floor. The land-
lady was kneeling by him, looking at his injured hand ; and the
lodgers were saying, ' Send him to the hospital.*

CHAPTER LTII.

On Monday morning, the strain on Mrs. Gallilee's powers of
patient endurance came to an end. With the help of Mr. Null's
arm, she was able to get down stairs to the library. Having
rested awhile, she could rise, and walk to and fro l)y herself.
Opening a book, she read the pages easily ; the lines were no
longer all blurred and mingled together. On Tuesday, there
would be no objection to her going out for a drive. Mr. Null
left her, restored to her equable flow of spirits. He had asked
if she wished to have somebody to keep her company — and she
had answered briskly, * Not on any account ! I prefer being
alone.'

On the morning of Saturday, she had received Mr. Le Frank's
report ; but she had not then recovered sufficiently to be able to
read it through. She could now take it up again, and get to the
end.

Other women might have been alarmed by the atrocious
wickedness of the conspiracy which the music master had planned.
Mrs. Gallilee was only offended. That he should think her
capable — in her social positior — of favouring such a plot as he
had suggested, was an insult which she was determined neither
to forgive nor forget. She bitterly acknowledged to herself the
disastrous weakness on her part which had trusted him. Now
that she was a free agent again, she had her sufficient reason for
dispensing with his further services. Fortunately, she had not
committed herself in writing ; he could produce no proof of the
relations that had existed between them. It had been arranged
that he should resume his music-lessons to the girls, as soon as
he could feel sure that his presence in the lodging house excited
no suspicion of the purpose that had brought him there. The^i
Yrould be the tin^e to |)ay his expenses, and dismiss him,

; ti

534

HEATIT AND SCH^NCE.

In the meanwhile, the man's insolence had left its revolting
impression on her mind. She felt the necessity of finding some
agreeable occupation for her thoughts.

Look at your library table, learned lady ; and see Modem
Science, under all forms of public expression, ready and eager
to interest you. There is scientific progress, in its present state
of advancement, blowing its own trumpet ; dead to all modest
sense of mortallfallibility, in asserting its claims on the gratitude
of mankind. There is scientific inquiry, in too great a hurry
to let its results pass the test of experience, rushing into print
to proclaim its own importance, and to declare any human be-
ing who ventures to doubt or differ a fanatic or a fool. There
are the leaders of public opinion, writing notices of professors,
who have made discoveries not yet tried by time, not yet uni-
versally accepted even by their brethren, in terms which would
be exaggerated if they were applied to Newton or to Bacon.
There are lectures and addresses by dozens which if they prove
nothing else, prove that what was scientific knowledge some
years since, is scientific ignorance now — and that what is
scientific knowledge now, may be scientific ignorance in some
years more. There, in magazines and reviews, are the contro-
versies and discussions, in which Mr, Always Right and Mr.
Never "Wrong exhibit the natural tendency of man to believe
in himself, in the most rampant stage of development that the
world has yet seen. And there, last not least, is all that the
gentle wisdom of Faraday saw and deplored, when he said the
words which should live for ever : * The first and last step in
the education of the scientific judgment is — Humility.*

The library table was at Mrs. Gallilee's side. She applied
to it for interesting occupation, and gained her object within
certain limits.

Unhappily for herself, she too had opened the wings of scien-
tific discovery, and had contemplated blowing her own trum-
pet (with eulogistic echoes), in print. The professors, whose
self-advertisements she was reading, failed in making them-
selves completely masters of her attention. Now and then, her
thoughts wandered away sadly to the neglected frogs and tad-
poles, in her own domestic laboratory. For how many days
had those pets been deprived — perhaps at the critical moment
9f hatching — of her materntti care I Not » creature in the

Bt ViMr^ ar ww 'i J ta*' ; w^' m e BiL iw rn waa

HEART AND SCIENCB.

835

3cien-
irum-
/hose
hem-
,her
tad-
lays
lent
the!

house under8tood|the physico chemical conditions of groups, the
regulation of temperature and light, and the varieties of food
which did, or did not, succeed in artificially transforming a
tadpole into a frog. For all she knew to the contrary, the un*
guarded frogs might be wandering about the house ; the tender
tadpoles might be dead ; their carefully prepared diet of fresh
water weeds and coagulated albumen of eggs might be stink-
ing. And to whom, in the first instance, were the disastrous
events due which had produced these results 1 To Mrs. Galli-
lee's detested niece !

* . . . Such, sir, is my friend's discovery ; opening up a
new era in science, superseding all pre-conceived ideas, and
promising advantages to humanity the scope of which it is sim-
ply impossible to calculate. Subscriptions to the testimonial
by which we propose, in some small degree, to express our
sense of obligation to this great man, may be paid to your

obedient servant, .' Reaching this conclusion of a ' letter

to the Editor,' Mrs. Gallilee took another turn up and down
the room, before she went on with her reading.

The sky had cleared again, after two days of rain. A golden
gleam of sunlight drew her to the window. While she was
still looking out, her husband appeared ; leaving the house on
foot, and carrying a large brown paper parcel under his arm.

With servants at his disposal, why was he carrying the par-
cel himself 1

The time had been, when Mrs. Gallilee would have tapped at
the window, and would have insisted on his instantly returning
and answering that question. But his conduct, since the
catastrophe in Carmina's room, had produced complete es-
trangement between the married pair. All his inquiries after
his wife's health had been made by deputy. When he was not
in the schoolroom with the children, he was at his club. Until
he came to his senses, and made humble apology, no earthly
consideration would induce Mrs. Gallilee to take the slightest
notice of him.

She returned to her reading. The footman came in, with
two letters ; one arriving by post ; the other having been drop-
ped into the box by private messenger. Communications of
this latter sort proceeded, not infrequently, from creditors. Mrs.
Gallilee opened tho stamped letter first.

330

HEART AND SCIENCE.

It contained nothing more important than a few lines from
a daily governess, v/hom she had engaged until a successor to
Miss Minerva could be found. In obedience to Mrs. Galiilee's
instructions, the governess would begin her attendance at ten
o'clock on the next morning.

The second letter was of a very different kind. It related
the disaster which had befallen Mr. lie I"' rank.

Mr. Null was the writer. As Miss Carmina's medical at-
tendant, it was his duty to inform her guardian that her health
had been unfavourably affected by an alarm in the house.
Having described the nature of the alarm, he proceeded in
these words : * You will, I fear, lose the services of your present
music-master. Inquiries made this morning at the hospital,
and reported to me, appear to suggest serious results. The
wounded man's constitution is in an unhealthy state ; the sur-
geons are not sure of being able to save two of the fingers. I
will do myself the honour of calling to-morrow before you go
out for your drive.'

The impression produced by this intelligence on the lady to
whom it was addressed, can only be reported in her own words.
She — who knew, on the best possible authority, that the world
had created itself — completely lost her head, and actually said,
« Thank God ! '

For weeks to come — perhaps for months if the surgeon's
forebodings were fulfilled — Mrs. Gallilee had got rid of Mr.
Le Frank. In that moment of infinite . relief, if her husband
had presented himself, it is even possible that he might have
been forgiven. As it was, he returned late in the afternoon ;
entered his own domain of the smoking-room, and left the
house again five minutes afterwards. Joseph officiously opened
the door for him ; and Joseph was surprised, precisely as his
mistress had been surprised. Mr. Gallilee had a large brown
paper parcel under his arm — the second which he had taken
out of the house with his own hands I Moreover, be looked
excessively confused when the footman discovered him. That
night, he was late in returning from the club. Joseph (now on
the watch) observed that he was not steady on his legs — and
drew his own conclusions accordingly.

Punctual to her time, on the next morning, the new gov-
erness arrived. Mrs. Gallilee received her, and sent for the
children.

ines from
jcessor to
Gallilee's
ice at ten

[t related

)dical at-
er health
le house,
seeded in
T present
hospital,
Its. The
; the sur-
ngers. I
•e you go

e lady to
irn words.
,he world
Eiliy said,

lurgeon's
of Mr.

husband
ht have

ternoon ;

ileft the

opened

as his

brown

1 taken

looked

That

[now on

18 — and

|w gov-
Ifui ihe

HEART AND Sf'TEXCE.

337

The maid in charge of them appeared alone. She had no
doubt that the young ladies would be back directly. The mas-
ter had taken them out for a little walk, before they began their
lessons. He had been informed that the lady who had been
appointed to teach them would arrive at ten o'clock. And
what had he said 1 He had said, ' Very good.'

The half hour struck — eleven o'clock struck — and neither
the father nor the children returned. Ten minutes later, some-
one rang the door-bell. The door being duly opened, nobody
appeared on the house-step. Joseph looked into the letter-box,
and found a note addressed to his mistress, in his master's
handwriting. He immediately delivered i*;. Hitherto, Mrs.
Gallilee had only been anxious. Joseph, -liscreetly waiting
for events outside the door, heard the bell rung furiously ; and
found his mistress in a passion. Not without reason — to do
her justice. Mr. Gallilee's method of relieving his wife's anxi-
ety was remarkable by its brevity. In one sentence, he assured
her that there was no need to feel alarmed. In another, he
mentioned that he had taken the girls away with him for change
of air. And then signed his initials — J. G.

Every servant in the house was summoned to the library,
when Mrs. Gallilee had in some degree recovered herself.

One after another they were strictly examined ; and one af-
ter another they had no evidence to give — excepting the maid
who had been present when the master took the young ladies
away. The little that she had to tell, pointed to the inference
that he had not admitted the girls to his confidence before they
left the house. Maria submitted, without appearing to be par-
ticularly pleased at the prospect of so early a walk. Zo (never
ready to exert either her intelligence or her legs) had openly
declared that she had rather stay at home. To this the master
had answered, 'Get your things on directly !' — and had said
it so sharply, that Miss Zoe stared at him in astonishment.
Had they taken anything with them — a travelling bag for in-
stance 1 They had taken nothing, except Mr. Gallilee's um-
brella. Who had seen Mr. Gallilee last, on the previous night ?
Joseph had seen him last. The lower classes in England have
one, and but one, true feeling of sympathy with the higher
classes. The man above them appeals to their hearts, and
merits their true service, when he is unsteady ou bis legs.

338

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Joseph nobly confined his evidence to what he had observed
Bonae hours previously : he mentioned the parcel. Mrs. Galli-
lee's keen perception, quickened by her own experience at the
window, arrived at the truth. Those two bulky packages must
have contained clotjies — left, in anticipation of the journey,
under the care of an accomplice. It was impossible that Mr.
GalUlee could have got at tho girl's dresses and linen, and have
made the necessary selections from them, without a woman's
assistance. The female servants were examined again. Each
one of them positively asserted her innocence. Mrs. Gallilee
threatened to send for the police. The indignant women all
cried in chorus, ' Search our boxes ! ' Mrs. Gallilee took a
wiser course. She sent to the lawyers who had been recom-
mended to her by Mr. Null. The messenger had just been
despatched, when Mr. Null himself, in performance of yester-
day's engagement, called at the house.

He, too, was agitated. It was impossible that he could
have heard what bad happened. Was he the bearer of bad
news 1 Mrs. Gallilee thought of Carmina first, and then of Mi
Le Frank.

* Prepare for a surprise,' Mr. Null began, * a joyful surprise,
Mrs. Gallilee I • I have received a telegram from your son.'

He handed it to her as he spoke.

* September 6th. Arrived at Quebec, and received informa-
tion of Carmina's illness. Sail to-morrow for Liverpool.
Break the news gently to C. For God's sake send telegram to
meet me at Qneenstown.'

It was then the 7th of September. If all went well, Ovid
would be in Loudon in ten days more.

H?i.ffr/<'':i-iiiirv«~^:.i'--:^ ■^-'i-'^^'^wV-.^ i

J^ifSHPj^fWWSW**

>'-'»a««*»'^!WW*K»P-i«'«tW

observed
rs. Galli-
ce at the
ges must
journey,
that Mr.
ftud have
woman's
1. Each

Gallilee
Dmen all

took a
1 recom-
ist been
f y ester-
he could
r of bad
in of Ml

surprise,
son.'

linforma-
Lverpool.
kgram to

11, Ovid

CHAPTER LIV.

Mrs. Gallilee read the telegram — paused — and read it again.
She let it drop on her lap ; but her eyes still rested mechani-
cally on the slip of paper. When she spoke, her voice startled
Mr. Null. Usually loud and hard, her tones were strangely
subdued. If his back had been turned towards her, he would
hardly have known who was speaking to him.

' I must ask you to make allowances lor me,' she began ab-
ruptly ; * I hardly know what to say. This surprise comes at a
time when I am badly prepared for it. I am getting well ;
but, you see, I am not quite so strong as I was before that
woman attacked me. My husband has gone away — I don't
know where — and has taken my children with him. Read his
note ; but don't say anything. You must let me be quiet, or I
can't think.'

She handed the letter to Mr. Null. He looked at her — read
the few words submitted to him — and looked at her again. Who
could have supposed that she would have been affected in this
way, by the return of her son 1

Mrs. Gallilee drew a long heavy breath. * I have got it now,*
she said — and turned to Mr. Null. * My son is coming home in
a hurry, because of Oarmina's illness. Has Carmina written
to him?'

* Impossible, Mrs. Gallilee — in her present'state of health.*

'In her present state of health 1 I forgot that. There
was something else ) Oh, yes. Has Carmina seen the tele-
gram ) *

Mr. Null explained. He had just come from Carmina. In
his medical capacity, he had thought it judicious to try the
moral effect on his patient of a first allusion to the good news.
^e liad Pnly veutured to say that Mr. Ovid's agents in Canada

>\i

340

HEART AND SCIENCE.

\ {

uKm

had heard from him on his travels, and had reason to believe
that he would shortly return to Quebec. Upon the whole, the

impression produced on the young lady '

It was uselesr to go on. Mrs. Gallilee was pursuing her own
thoughts, without even a pretence of listening to him.

* I want to know who wrote to my son,* she persisted. * Was
it the nurse ? '

Mr. Null considered this to be in the last degree unlikely.
The nurse's language showed a hostile feeling towards Mr.
Ovid, in consequence of his absence.

Mra Gallilee again repeated his last words. * " In conse-
quence of his absence." Yes, Just so. I suppose I may keep
the telegram ? '

Prudent Mr. Null offered a copy — and made the copy, then
and there. The original (he explained) was his authority for
acting on Mr. Ovid's behalf, and he must therefore beg leave
to keep it. Mrs. Gallilee permitted him to exchange the two
papers. * Is there anything more ? ' she asked, ' Your time is
valuable, of course. Don't let me detain you.'

* May I feel your pulse before I go ? ' said Mr. Null.
She held out her arm to him in silence.

The carriage came to the

door while he was counting the

'Send

beat of the pulse. She glanced at the window, and said,
it away.' Mr Null remonstrated. * My dear lady, the air
will do you good.' She answered obstinately and quietly,
'No' — and once uiore became absorbed in thought. It had
been her intention to combine her first day of carriage exercise
with a visit to Teresa's lodgings, and a personal exertion of her
authority. The news of Ovid's impending return made it a
matter of serious importance to consider this resolution under a
a new light. She had now, not only to reckon with Teresa, but
with her son. With this burden on her mind — already heavily
laden by the sense of injury which her husband's flight had
aroused — she had not even reserves enough of energy to spare
for the trifling efibrt of dressing to go out. Shd broke into
irritability, for the first time. ' I am trying to find out who has
written to my son. How can I do it when you are worrying
me about the carriage? Have you ever held afull glass in your
hand, and been afraid of letting it overflow ? That's what I'm
ftCraid of — in my mind — J dpn't mean that mj mijid is a ^lasQ

v./

n to believe
e whole, the

ling her own

im.

isfced. * Was

;ree unlikely,
towards Mr.

' " In conse-
e I may keep

le copy, thor
authority for
ore beg leave
iange the two
Your time is

Null.

counting the
1 said, * Send
lady, the air
and quietly,
ght. It had
Hage exercise
certion of her
made it a
ition under a
Teresa, but
ready heavily
f's flight had
BFgy to spare
iaroke into
. out who has
ire worrying
|lass in your
b's what I'm
[pd is a glasQ

JjfeAM AND SClENci!.

341

—1 mean ' Her forehead turned red. * Will you leave

me 1 ' she cried.

He left her instantly. The change in her manner, the
difficulty she found in expressing her thoughts, had produced
some uneasiness of feeling even in Mr. Null's mind.

In the hall he spoke to Joseph. * Do you know about your
master and the children ) ' he said.

' Yes, sir.'

* I wish you had told me of it, when you let me in.'

* Have I done any harm, sir 1 '

' I don't know yet. If you want me, I shall be at home to
dinner at seven.

The next visitor was one of the partners in the legal firm, to
which Mrs. Gallilee had applied for advice. After what Mr.
Null had said, Joseph hesitated to conduct this gentleman into
the presence of her mistress. He left the lawyer in the wait-
ing-room, and took his card.

Mrs. Gallilee's attitude had not changed. She sat looking
down at the copied telegram and the letter from her husband,
lying together on her lap. Joseph was obliged to speak twice,
before he could rouse her.

* To-morrow,' was all she said.

* What time shall I say, ma'am ? '

She put her hand to her head — and broke into anger against
Joseph. • Settle it yourself, you wretch ! ' Her head drooped
again o^'er the papera Joseph returned to the lawyer. ' My
mistresFi is not very well, sir. She will be obliged ii you will
call to-morrow, at your own time.'

About an. hour later, she rang her bell — rang it uninter-
mittingly, until Joseph appeared. ' I'm famished,' she said.
* Something to eat ! I never was so hungry in my life. At
once — I can't wait.'

The cook sent up a cold fowl and a ham. Her eyes devoured
the food, while the footman was carving it for her. Her bad
temper seemed to have completely disappeared. She said,
' What a delicious dinner ! J ubt the very things I like.* She
lifted the first morsel to her mouth — and laid the fork down
again with a weary sigh. ' No : I can't eat ; what has come to
me 1 * With those words, she pushed her chair away from the
table, and looked slowly all round her. ' I want the telegram

fe-o.

342

HEART AND SCIENCE.

and the letter.' Joseph found them. ' Cftfi lyowlielp mel ' she
said. * I am trying to find out who wrote to my son. Say yes
or no, at once j I hate waiting.'

Joseph left her in her old posture, with her head down and
the papers on her lap.

The appearance of the uneaten dinner in the kitchen pro-
duced a discussion, followed by a quarrel.

Joseph was of opinion that the mistress had got more upon
her mind than her mind could well bear. It was useless to
send for Mr. Null; he had already mentioned that he would
not be at home until seven o'clock. There was no superior
person in the house to consult. It was not for the servants to
take responsibility on themselves. * Fetch the nearest doctor,
and let )dm be answerable, if anything serious happens.' Such
was Joseph's advice.

The women (angrily remembering that Mrs. Gallilee had
spoken of sending for the police) ridiculed the footman's cau-
tious proposal — with one exception. When the others ironically
asked him if he was not accustomed to the mistress's temper
yet, Mrs. Gallilee's own servant (Jane) said, 'What do we
know about it? Joseph's the only one of us who has seen her,
since the morning.' This perfectly sensible remark had the
effect of a breath of wind on a smouldering fire. The female
servants, all equally suspected of having assisted Mr. Gallilee
in making up his parcels, were all equally assured f;hat there
was a traitress among them ; the lady's maid being the sus-
pected woman. Hitherto suppressed, this feeling now openly
found its way to expression. Jane lost her temper j and be-
trayed herself as the guilty confederate.

* I'm a mean mongrel— am 1 1 ' cried the angry maid, re-
peating the cook's allusion to her birthplace in the Channel Is-
lands. ' The mistress shall know, this minute, that I'm the
woman who did it ! '

* Why didn't you say so before ? ' the cook retorted.

' Because I promised my master not to tell on him, till he got
to his journey's end.*

* Who'll lay a wager 1 ' asked the cook. ' I bet half-a-crown
she changes her mind before she gets to the top of the stairs.'

' Perhaps she thinks the mistress will forgive her,' the par*
lour miid suggested ironically.

meV she
Say yes

down and

tcben pro-

aiore upon
useless to
t he would
superior
servants to
■est doctor,
jns.' Such

allilee had
;man's cau-
•s ironically
iss's temper
^hat do we
IS seen her,
rk had the
The female
^r. Gallilee
that there
g the sus-
now openly
r 3 and be-

ly maid, re-
L/hannel Is-
lat I'm ihe

id.
, till he got

[alf-a-crown
^e stairs.'
br,' the par*

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Ji43

* Or perhaps/ the housemaid added, * she means to give the
Inistress notice to leave.'

* That's exactly what I'm going to do ! ' said Jane.

The women all declined to believe her. She appealed to
Joseph. ' What did I tell you, when the mistress first sent me
out in the carriage with poor Miss Carmina ) Didn't I say
that I was no spy, and that I wouldn't submit to be made one?
I woiijd have left the house — I would ! — but for Miss Car-
mina's kindnesa Any ot^er young lady would have made me
feel my mean position. She treated me like a friend — and I
don't forget it. I'll go straight from this place, and help to
nurse her ! '

"With that declaration, Jane left the kitchen.

Arrived at the library door, she paused. Not as the cook
had suggested, to * change her mind ' ; but to consider before-
hand how much she should confess to her mistress, and how
much she should hold in reserve.

Zo's narrative of what had happened, on the evening of
Teresa's arrival, had produced its inevitable effect on the
maid's mind. Strengthening, by the sympathy which it excited,
her grateful attachment to Carmina, it had necessarily intensi-
fied her dislike of Mra Gallilee — and Mrs. Gallilee's innocent
husband had profited by that circumstance I Jane had dis-
covered her master, standing in a state of bewildered contem-
plation before the open wardrobe of his daughters, and had
asked slyly if she could be of any use. Never remarkable
for presence of mind in emergencies, Mr. Gallile« had help-
lessly admitted to his confidence the last person in the house,
whom anyone else (in his position) would have trusted. * My
good soul, I want to take the girls away quietly for change of
air — you have got little secrets of your own, like me, haven't
youl* There, he checked himself; conscious when it wa« too
late, that he was asking his wife's maid to help hiir in deceiving
his wife. Jane's ready wit helped him through the difficulty.
* I understand, sir : you don't want my mistress to know of it.'
Mr. Gallilee, at a loss for any other answer, instantly pulled
out his purse. * My mistress pays me, sir ; I serve you for noth-
ing.' In those words, she would have informed any other man
of the place whiich Mrs. Gallilee held in her estimation. Her
master simply considtred her to be the most disinterested

84.4

llEAUl' AND SCIENCE!.

« i

l-i

I;*

h w

woman he had ovor met with. If she losther situation through
helping him, he engaged to pay her wages until she found
another place. The maid set his mind at rest on that subject
* A woman who understands hairdressing as I do, sir, can refer
to other ladies besides Mrs. Oallilee, an<l can get a place when-
ever she wants it.'

Having decided on what she should confess, and on what she
should conceal, Jane knocked at the library door, lleceiving
no answer she went in.

Mrs. Gallilee was leaning back in her chair : her hands hung
down on either side of her : her eyes looked up drowsily at the
ceiling. Prepared to see a person with an overburdened mind,
the maid (without sympathy, to quicken her perceptions), saw
nothing but a person on the [mint of taking a nap.

• Can I speak a word, ma'am 1 '

Mrs. Oallilee's eyes remained fixed on the coiling. * Is that
my maid 1 ' she asked.

Treated — to all appearance— with marked contempt, Jane
no longer cared to asaumo the forma of respect either in lan-
guage or manner. * 1 wish to give you notice to leave,* she
saiu abruptly : • I find I can't get on with my fellow servanta*

Mrs. Gallilee slowly raised her head, and looked at her maid
— and said nothing.

* And while I'm about it,' the angry woman proceeded, * I may
as well own the truth. You suspect one of us of helping my
master to take away the young ladies' things — I mean some
few of their thinga Well I you needn't blame innocent people.
I'm the person.*

Mrs. Gallilee laid her head back again on the chair — and burst
out laughing.

For one moment, Jane looked at her mistress in blank sur-
prisa Then the terrible truth burst on her. She ran into the
hall, and called for Joseph.

He hurried up the staira The instant he presented himself
at the open door, Mrs. Gallilee rose to her feet. ' My medical
attendant,* she said, with an assumption of dignity ; ' I must ex-
plain myself.' She held up one hand, outstretched ; and counted
her fingers with the other. ' First my husband. Then my son.
Now my maid. One, two, three. Mr. Null, do you know the
proverb 1 " It's the last hair that breaks the camel's back," '

HKAIIT AND SCIKNCE.

on through
she found
lat subject
can refer
laco when-

1 what she
lleceiving

ands hung
sily at the
ined mind,
ions), saw

045

She Ruddonly dropped on hor knona • Will ^otnebodv nvay fo.

Z' Whrt'tdr' 'I^'oa'tknowhowtop.a/for'.;.

Bmrheadod as l,o wan, Joseph ran out. The nrarest docV.r

o mo. When he reached tl.o house, the wouum servants wen
lioiding their mistress down by uiain stren^'th.

* Is that

inpt, Jane
er in Ian-
save,' she
servanta'
i her maid

id, ' I may
elping my
lean some
nt people.

-and burst

lank sur-
1 into the

d himself
y medical
must ex-
1 counted
n my son.
know the
sback."'

i|i!

) ■ I

\ !

I !

CHAPTER LV.

On the next day, Mr. Mool — returning from a legal con'Siilta-
tion to an appointmen!) at his ottice — found a gentleman, whom
he knew by sight, walking uj) and dovn before his door; ap-
parently bent on intercepting him * Mr. Null, I believt V he
SMiid, with his cMistomary politeness.

Mr. Null answered to his name, and asked for a moment of
Mr. Mool's time. Mr. Mool looked grive, and said he was
late for an appoittment already, Mr. Null admitted that the
clerks in the office had told him so, and said at last, what he
ought to have said j.t first : * I am Mrs. Gallilee's medical at-
tPiidant — there is serious necessity of commuuicatiug with her
hubband.'

Mr. Mool instantly led the way into the office.

The chief clerk approached his employer, with some severity
of manner. * The parties have been waiting, sir, for more than
a quarter of an hour.* Mr. Mool's attention wandered : he was
thinking of Mi-s. Gallilee. * Is she dying 1 ' he asked. ' She is
out of her miud,' Mr. Null answered. Those words petrified
the lawyer : he looked helplessly at the clerk — who, in his
turn, looked indignantly at the office clock. Mr. Mool recovered
himself. ' Say I am detained by a most distressing circum-
stance ; I will call on the parties later in the day, at their own
hour.* Giving those directions to the clerk, hn hurried Mi*.
Null up stairs into a private room. ' Tell me about it ; pray
tell me about it. Stop ! Perhaps, there is not time enough.
"What can I do?'

Mr. Null put the question, which he ought to have aaked
when they met at the house door. * Can you tell me Mr. Gall-
ilee's address ? '

' Certainly ! Care of the Earl of Northlake *

* Will you please write it in my pocket-book 1 I am so up-
set by this dreadful affair that I can't trust my memory.'

5gal con'Biilta-
leman, whom
hifc door ; ap-
[ belie vt V he

a moment of
I said he was
litted that the
last, what he
i's medical at-
ttiug with her

isome severity
Ifor more than

ered : he was
Iked. ' She is

ords petrified
who, in his

col recovered

sssing circum'
at their own

[h hurried Mr.

.bout it ; pray

time enough.

to have asked
me Mr. Gall-

I am so up'
lemory.'

HEART AND SCIENCE.

347

Such a confession of helpneosness as this, was all that was
wanted to rouse Mr. Mool. Ho rejected the pocket-book, and
wrote the address on a telegram. ' Return directly : your
wife is seriously ill.' In five minutes more, the message was on
its way to Scotland ; and Mr. Null was at liberty to tell his
melancholy stoiy — if he could.

With assir.tanc'j from Mr. Mool, he got through it. 'This
morning,' he proceeded, ' I have had the two beht opinions in
London. Assuming that there is no hereditary taint, the doc-
tors think favourably of Mrs. Gallilee's chances of recovery.'

' Is it violent madness 1 ' Mr. Mool asked.

Mr. Null admitted that two nuraes were required. * The
doctors don't look on her violence as a discouraging symptom,'
he tsaid. ' They ai e inclined to attribute it to the strength of
her constitution. I felt it my duty to place my own knowledge
of the case before them. Without mentioning painful family
circumstances *

* I happen to be acquainted with the circumstances,' Mr. Mool
Intel posed. * Are they in any way connected with this dreadful
state of things ) '

He put that question eagerly, as if he had some strong per-
sonal interest in hoaring the reply.

Mr. Null blundered on steadily with his story. * I thought
it right (with vll due resei ve) to mention that Mrs. Gallilee had
been subjected to — I won't trouble you with medical language
— let us say, to severe trial (mental and bodily trial), before her
reason gave way.*

* And they considered that to be the cause 1 *

Mr. Null asserted his dignity. * The doctors agreed with Me,
that it had shaken her power of self-control.'

* You relieve me, Mr. Null — you infinitely relieve me ! If
our way of removing the children had done the mischief, I
should never have forgiven myself.'

He blushed, and said no more. Had Mr. Null noticed the
slip of the tongue into which his agitation had betrayed him ?
Mr. Null did certainly look as if he was going to put a ques-
tion. The lawyer desperately forestalled him,

* May I ask how you came to apply to me for Mr, Gallilee's
address ? Did you think of it yourself t '

Mr. Null had never had an idea of his own, from the day of
of his birth, downward. ' A very intelligent man,' he answered|

348

HEART AND SCIENCE.

' reminded me that you were an old friend of Mr. Gali'Iee. In
short, it was Joseph — the footiUcan at Fairfield hardens.'

Joseph's good opinion was of no importance to Mr. Mool'a
professional interests. He conld gratify Mr. Null's curiosity
without lowering himself in the estimation of a client.

' I had better, perhaps, explain that chance allusion of mine
to the children,' he begaUc • My good friend, Mr. Gallilee, had
his own reasons for removing his daughters from home for a
time — reasons, 1 am bound to add, in which I concur. The
children were to be placed under the care of their aunt. Lady
Northlake. Unfortunalaly, her ladyship was away with my
lord, cruising in their yacht. They were not able to receive
Maria and Zoe at orice. In the interval that elapsed — you
know our excellent f-iend ? — Mr. Gallilee's resolution to make
his authority felt (in plain words, to meet his wife's expectei'
resistance) shelved signs of failing him. I regret to say, that I
suggested the — the sort of clandestine departure which did in
fact take place. I also permitted some — in short, some of the
necessary clothing to be privately deposited here, and called for
on the way to the station. Very unprofessional, I am aware.
I did it for the best ; and allowed my friendly feeling to mis
lead me. Can I be of any further use? Mr. Ovid will hear
dreadful news, when he comes home. Can't we prepare him
for it, in any way 1 '

* He asks me to telegraph to him, at Queenstown.*

* Is there no friend who can mee: him there ? I have clients
depending on me — cases, in which property is concerned, and
reputation is at stake — or I would gladly go myself. You, with
your patients, are as little at liberty as I am. Can't you think
of some other friend 1 '

Mr. Null could think of nobody, and had nothing to propose.
Of the three weak men, now brought into association by the
influence of domestic calamity, he was the feeblest, beyond all
doubt. Mr Mool had knowledge of law, aad could on occasion
be incited to energy. Mr. Gallilee had warm affections, which,
being stimulated, could at least assert themselves. Mr. Null,
professionally and personally, was incapable of stepping beyond
his own narrow limits, under any provoc-'tion whatever. He
submitted to the force of events, as a cabbage-leaf submits to
the teeth of a rabbit.

all'lee. In
dens.*
Mr. Mool's
'a curiosity
snt.

>iou of mine
irallilee, had
home for a
»ncur. The
aunt, Lady
liy with my
i to receive
lapsed — you
ion to make
e*s expectei'
• say, that I
vhich did in
some of the
ud called for
I am aware,
jling to mis
id will bear
repare him

[have clients
jerned, and
You, with
It you think

to propose,
lion by the
] beyond all
)n occasion
ms, which,
Mr. Null,
ling beyond
Itever. He
submits to

CHAPTER LVI.

After leaving the office, Mr. Null had his patients to see. He
went to Carmina first. Since the unfortunate alarm in the
house, he had begun to feel doubtful and anxious about her
again.

In the sitting-room, he found Teresa and the landlady in
consultation. In her own abrupt way, the nurse made him
acquainted with the nature of the conference.

' We have two worries to bother us,' she said ; and the
music iiian is the worst of the two. There's a notion at the
hospital (set ageing, I don't doubt, by the man himself), that I
crushed his fingers on purpose. That's a lie ! With the open
cupboard door between us, how could I see him, or he see me !
When I gave it a push-to, I no more knew where his hand was
w than you do. If I mei,nt anything, I meant to slap his face for

I prying about in my room. Here's our friend going to ask

how he is, and willing to take my defence of myself along with
her. We've made out a writing between us, to show to the
doctors. Just look at it, and say if it's short enough to trou-
ble nobody, and plain enough to tell the truth.'

Incapable Mr. Null showed sad ignorance of the first i)rinci-
pies of criticism. He not only read the composition submitted
to him from beginning to er 1, but expressed himself politely
in speaking of the authors.

* Now about the other matter,' Teresa resumed. 'You tell
me I shall fall ill myself, if I don't get a person to help me
with Carmina. Well ! the person has come.'

* Where is she 1 '
Teresa pointed to the bedroom.

* Recommended by me ? * Mr. Null inquired.
' Recommended by herself. And we don't like her. That'i

the other worry,*

I*' t

350

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Mr. Null settled the que8tion with a due regard to his uwn
importance. 'No nurse has any business hero, without my
sanction I I'll send her away directly.'

He pushed open the bai.^e door, A lady was sitting by Car-
mina's bedstead. Even in the dim light, there was no mistaking
ifiat face. Mr. Null recognised — Miss Minerva.

She rose, and bowed to him, He returned the bow stiffly.
Nature's protecting care of fools supplies them with an instinct
which distrusts ability. Mr. Null had never liked Miss Minerva.
At the same time, he was a little afraid of her. This was not
the sort of nurse who could be ordered to retire at a moment's
notice.

* I have been waiting anxiously to see you,* she said — and
led the way to the farther end of the room. ' Carmina terrifies
me,' she added in a whisper. * I have been here for an hour.
When I entered the room her faoe, poor dear, seemed to come
to life again ; she was able to express her joy at seeing me.
Even the jealous old nurse noticed the change for the better.
Why didn't it last ? Look at her — oh I look at her ! '

The melancholy relapse that had followed the short interval
of excitement was visible to anyone now.

There was the * simulated paralysis ' showing itself plainly
in every part of the face. She lay still as death, looking
vacantly at the foot of the bed. Mr. Null was inclined to re-
sent the interference of a meddling woman, in the discharge of
his duty. He felt Carmina's pulse, in sulky silence. Her eyes
never moved : her hand showed no consciousness of his touch.
Teresa opened the door, and looked in — impatiently eager to see
the intruding nurse sent away. Miss Minerva invited her to
return to her place at the bedsida * I only ask to occupy
it,' she said considerately, * when you want rest* Teresa was
ready with an ungracious reply, but found no opportunity of
putting it into words. Miss Minerva turned quickly to Mr.
Null. * I must ask you to let me say a few words more/ she
continued ; * I will wait for you in the sitting-room.'

Her look reminded him of his experience, on certain past
occasions. She was only a woman ; but there was a resolution
in her that no resistance could shake. He followed her into
the sitting-room, and waited in sullen submission to hear what
she had to sa/.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

351

id to his own
, without my

itting by Car-
) no mistaking

le bow stiffly,
ith an instinct
Miss Minerva.
This was not
%t a moment's

he said — and
rniina terrifies
e for an hour,
emed to come
at seeing me.
for the better,
er!'
short interval

itself plainly

Bath, looking

inclined to re-

e discharge of

e. Her eyes

of his touch.

y eager to see

invited her to

sk to occupy

Teresa was

pportunity of

aickly to Mr,

ds more,' she

m.'

certain past

a resolution

wed her into

to hear what

* I must not trouble you by entering into my own affairs/ she
began. * I will only say that I have obtained an engngement
much sooner than I had anticipated, and that the convenience
of my employers made it necessary for me to meet them in Paris.
I owed Carmina a letter ; but I had reasons for not writing until
I knew whether she had, or had not, left London. With that
object, I called this morning at her aunt's house. You now
see me here — after what I have heard from the servants. I make
no comment, and I ask for no explanations. One thing only, I
must know. Teresa refers me to you. Is Carmina attended by
any other medical man 1 '

Mr. Null answered stiffly, * I am in consultation with Doctor
Benjulia; and I expect him to-day.*

The reply startled her. * Dr. Benjiilial' she repeated.

* The greatest man we have !* Mr. Null asserted in his most
positive manner.

She silently determined to wait until Doctor Benjulia ar-
rived.

' What is the last news of Mr. Ovid 1 ' she said to him, after
an intervfd of consideration.

He told her the news, in the fewest words possible. Even
he observed that it seemed to excite her.

* Oh, Mr. Null ! who is to prepare him for what he will see
in that room 1 Who is to tell him what he must heai* of his
mother 1 '

Mr. Null stood on his dignity. ' The matter is left in my
hands,' he announced. ' J shall telegraph to him at Queens-
town.'

The obstinate insensibility of his tone stopped her on the
point of saying, what Mr. Mool had said already. She, ino,
felt for Ovid, when she thought of the cruel brevity of a tele-
gram. * At what date will the vessel reach Queenstown '* ' she
asked.

* By way of making sure,' said Mr. Null, *I shall telegraph
in eight days' time.'

She troubled him with no more inquiries. He had purpose-
ly remained standing, in the expectation that she would take
the hint, and go j and he now walked to the window, and
looked o\x%. She remained in her ohairj thinking. In a few

1 1

n:)2

llEAUT AND SCIKNC'E.

minutes more, there was a heavy atoi) on the stairs. JieMJuHa
had arrived.

He looked hard at Miss Minerva, in unconcealed surprise at
finding her in the house. She rose, and made an ellbrt to pro-
pitiate him by shaking hands. < 1 am very anxious,' she said
gently, • to hear your opinion.'

' Your hand tells me that,' ho answered. * It's a cold hand,
on a warm day. You're an excitable woman.'

He looked at Mr. Null, and led the way into the bedroom.

Left by herself. Miss Minerva discovered writing materials
(placed ready for Mr. Null's next prescription) on a side table.
She made use of them at once to write to her employer. * A
dear friend of mine is seriously ill, and in urgent need of all
that my devotion can do for her. Jf you are willing to release
me from my duties for a short time, your sympathy and in-
dulgence will not be thrown away on an ungrateful woman. If
you cannot do me this favour, I ask your pardon for putting
you to inconvenience, and leave some other person, whose mind
is at ease, to occupy the place which I am for the present unfit
to fill.' Having completed her letter in those terms, she waited
Benjulia's return.

There was sadness in her face, but no agitation, as she look-
ed patiently towards the bedroom door. At last, in her in-
most heart, she knew it— the victory over herself was a victory
won. Carmina could trust her li v j and Ovid himself should
see it !

Mr. Null returned to the sitting-room alone. Doctor Benjulia
had no time to spare : he had left the bedroom by the other
door.

' I may say (as you seem anxious) that my colleague approves
of every suggestion that I have made ; we recognise the new
symptoms, without feeling alarm.' Having issued this bulletin,
Mr. Null sat down to write his prescription.

When he looked up again, the room was empty. Had she
left the house 1 No : her travelling hat and her gloves were
on the other table. Had she boldly confronted Teresa on her
own ground 9 He took his prescription into the bedroom.
There she was, and there sat the implacable nurse, already per-
suaded into listening to her I What conceivable subject could
there bej which offered two such women neutral ground to

HtMijulia

surprise at
ort to pro-
/ she said

iold hand,

bedroom.

materials
side table,
oyer. * A
eed of all
5 to release
y and in-
woman. If
ur putting
'hose mind
esent unfit
she waited

she look-

1 her in-

a victory

lelf should

r Benjulia
(the other

approves
the new
bulletin,

Had she
j)ves were
|sa on her
Ibedroom.
jeady per-
lect could
Iroumd to

itEAIlT AND SCIENCE.

355

meet on 1 Mr. Null left the house without the faintest suspi-
cion that Carmina might be the subject. ^.

' May I try to rouse her 1 *

Teresa answered by silently resigning her place at the bed-
side. Miss Minerva touched Carmina's hand, and spoke. 'J lave
you heard the good news, dear? Ovid is coming back in little
more than a week.'

Carmina looked — reluctantly looked— at her friend. She
said, with an elfort, ' I am glad.*

'You will be better,' Miss Minerva continued, ' the moment
you 3ee him.'

Her face became faintly animated. ' I shall be able to say
goodbye,' she answered.'

' Not goodbye, darling. He is returning to you after a long
journey.'

'I am going, Frances, on a longer journey still.' She closed
her eyes, too weary or too indifferent to say more.

Miss Minerva drew back, desperately struggling against the
tears that fell fast over her face. The jealous old nurse quietly
moved newer to her, and kissed her hand. ' I've been a brute
and a fool,' said Teresa ; ' You're almost as fond of her as I
am.'

A week later, Miss Minerva left London, to wait for Ovid at
Queenstown,

AT'

h i

'I I

hn ■

•i : f I"

CHAPTER LVIT.

Mr. Mool was waiting at Fairfield Gardens, when his old
friend arrived from Scotland, to tell him what the cautiously
expressed message in the telegram really meant. But one idea
seemed to be impressed on Mr. Gallilee's mind — the idea of
reconciliation. He insisted on seeing his wife. It was in vain
to tell him that she was utterly incapal le of reciprocating or
even of understanding his wishes. Absolute resistance was the
one alternative left — and it was followed by distressing results.
The kind-hearted old man burst into a fit of crying, which even
shook the resolution of the doctors. One of them went up-
stairs to '.rarn the nurses. The other said, * Let him see her.'

The i islant he showed himself in the room, Mrs. Gallilee re-
cognised him with a shriek of fury. The nurses held her back
— while Mr. Mool dragged him out again, and shut the doo.".
The object of the doctors had been gained. His own eyes haH
convinced him of the terrible necessity of placing his wife t i-
der restraint. With his consent she was removed to a private
asylum.

Maria and Zo had been left in Scotland — as perfectly happy
as girls could be, in the society of their cousins, and under the
affectionate care of their aunt. Mr. Gallike remained in Lon-
don ; but he was not left alone in the deserted house. The
good lawyer had a spare room at his disposal ; and Mrs. Mool
and her daughters received him with true sympathy. Coming
events helped to steady his mind. He was comforted in the
anticipation of Ovid's return, and interested in hearing of the
generous motive which had led Miss Minerva to meet b^3 step-
Bon. * I never agreed with the others when they used to abuse
our governess,' he said. * She might have been quiok tem-
pered, %nd she might have been ugly— I suppose J saw her ia

hen his old
e cautiously
}ut one idea
the idea of
was in vain
irocating or
,nce was the
E>ing results,
which even
m went up-
lim see her.'
Gallilee re-
ild her back
it the <loor.
m eyes haf^
lis wife 11-
K> a private

ctly happy
under the
led in Lon-
ouse. The
Mrs. Mool
Coming
rted in the
ring of the
et b'js step-
id to abuse
juiok tern-
saw lieria

HEART AND SCIENCE.

sorq^ other light, myself.' He had truly seen her iinch r an-
other light. In his simple affectionate nature, ihere had been
instinctive recognition of that great heart.

He was allowed to see Carmina, in the hope tliat pleasjuib
associations connected with him might have a favourable iiHti-
ence. She smiled faintly, and gave him her hand, when she
saw him at the bedside — bat that was all.

He was too deeply distressed to ask to see her again. Day
by day, he made his inquiries at the door ; and day by day
the answer was always the same.

Before she left London, Miss Minerva had taken it on her-
self to engage the vacant rooms, on the ground floor of the
lodging house, for Ovid. She knew his heart, as she knew her
own heart. Once under the same r >of with Carmina, he would
leave it no more — until life gave ner back to him, or death
took her away. Hearing of what had been done, Mr. Gallileo
removed to Ovid's rooms the writing-desk and the books, the
favourite music and the faded flowers left by Carmina at Fair-
field Gardens. ' Anything that belongs to her,' he thought,
* will surely be welcome to the poor fellow when ho comes
back.'

On one afternoon — never afterwards to be forgotten — he had
only begun to make his daily inquiry, when the door on the
ground floor was opened, and Miss Minerva beckoned to him.

Her fiice daunted Mr. Gallilee : he asked, in a whisper, if
Ovid had retu mod.

She pointed upwards, and answered, ' He is with her now.'

' How did he boar it 1 '

'We don't know; we were iTraid to follow him int- the
room.'

She turned towards the window as she spoke. Teresa was
sitting there — vacantly looking out. Mr. Gallilee spoke to her
kindly : she made no answer ; she never even moved. * Worn
mt ! ' Miss Minerva whispered to him. ' When she thinks
of Carmina now, she thinks without hope.'

He shuddered. The expression of his own fear was in those
words— and he shrank from it. Miss Minerva took his hand,
and led him to a chair. ' Ovid will know best,' she reminded
him ', * let us wait for what Ovid will any.'

^oC^

ttEAUT AND SCIENCE.

J,.'

:!-

'Did you meet him on board the vessel?' M/. Galilee
asked.
« Yes.'
' How did he look 1 '

* So well and so strong that you would hardly have known
him again.'

* Was he frightened about Carmina ? '

'Don't speak of it ! 1 had courage enough to tell him tho
truth, but not courage enough to look at him.'

' You good creature — you dear good creature i Forgive me
if I have distressed you ; I didu't mean it.'

* You have not distressed me, IVr. Gallilee. Is there any-
thing more I can tell you 1 *

Mr. Gallilee hesitated. * I don't like lo speak of it,' he said ;
' but there is one thing more. Did you tell him what had hap-
pened V

He hesitated again. Miss Minerva understood the ii per-
f.^ctly expressed question. * Yes,' she answered ; ' I spoke to
him of his mother, first.'

' Why 1 '

* I thought he might be more ready to judge her mercifnll v,
when we returned to the subject of Carmina. I mean, when I
could no longer avoid '

Mr. Gallilee stopped her. ' Don't tell ine what you mean I '
he t<aid with a look of horror. * I would give everything 1 pos-
sess in the world, if I could forget it. What did Ovid say ? '

* In mercy to his mother, he spared me — as you have spared
me. He said, " Let it be enough for me to know that she was
the person to blame. I was pn pared to hear it when I read
Zo's letter : my mother's silence could only be accounted for
in one way." — Don't you know, Mr. Gallilee, that the child
wrote to Ovid 1 '

The surprise and delight of Zo's fond old father, when he
heard the story of the letter, forced a smile from Miss Minerva,
even at the time of doubt and sorrow. He declared that he
would have returned to his daughter by the mail train of that
night, but for two considerations. He must see his stepson be-
fore he went back to Scotland ; and he must search all the
toy-shops in London for the most magnificent present that
could be offered to a young person of ten years old. ' Tell Ovid,

HEART AND SCIENCE.

357

Galilee

ive known

sH him the

forgive me

there any-

it,' he 8aid ;
at had hap-

the I'l per-
* I spoke to

merciful I V,
san, whcu I

j^ou mean 1 *
thing I pos-
>vid say 1 '
tiave spared
Ihat she was
llien I read
:ounted for
the child

when he
(s Minerva,
ed that he
lin of that
stepson be-
fch all the
lesent that
'Tell Ovid,

with my love, I'll call again to-morrow,' he said, looking at his
watch. * I have just time to write to Zo by to-day's post.* He
went to his club, for the first time since he had returned to
London. Miss Minerva thought of the old times, and wondered
if he would enjoy his champagne.

A little later Mr. Null called — anxious to know if Ovid had
arrived.

Other women, in the position of Miss Minerva and Teresa,
might have hesitated to keep the patient's room closed to the
doctor. These two were resolved. They refused to disturb
Ovid, even L^ :iending up a message. Mr. Null took offence.
' Understand, ooth of you,* he said, * when I call to-morrow
morning, I shall insist on going up-stairs — and if I find this
incivility repeated, I shall throw up the case.* He left the
room, triumphing in his fool's paradise of aggressive self-con-
ceit.

They waited for some time longer — and still no message
reached them from up-stairs. ' We may be wrong in staying
here,* Miss Minerva suggested ; ' he may want to be alone when
he leaves her — let us go.'

She rose to return to the house of her new employers. They
respected her, and felt for her ; while Garmina's illness con-
tinued she had the entire disposal of her time. The nurse ac-
companied her to the door ; resigned to take refuge in the
landlady's room. ' I'm afraid to be by myself,' Teresa said.
* Even that W' man's chatter is better for me than my own
thoughts.'

Before parting for the light they waited in the hall, looking
^40 wards the stairs, and listening anxiously, !Not a sound
reached their ears.

CHaPTER LVriT.

II
I

t <

i 1

AMONa many vain hopes, one had been realized : they had met
again.

In the darkened room, her weary eyes could hardly have seeii
the betrayal of what he suffered — even if she had looked up in
his face. She was content to see him sitting by her ; to rest
her head on his breast, to feel his arm round her. ' I am glad,
dear,' she said, * to have lived long enough for this.'

Those were her first words — after the first kisa She had
trembled and sighed, wh( n he ran to her and bent over her : ii
was the one expression left of all her joy and all her love. But
it passed away as other lesser agitations had passed away. One
last reserve of energy rallied under the gentle persuasion ot
love. Silent towards all other friends, she was able to speak
to Ovid.

* You used to breathe so lightly,' she said. * How is it that
I hear you now. Oh, Ovid, don't cry ! I couldn't bear that/

He answered her quietly. 'Don't be afraid, darling ; I won't
distress you.*

* And you will let me say what I want to say 1 *

* Oh yes ! '

This satisfied her. ' I may rest a little now,' she said.

He too was silent ; held down by the heavy hand of despair.

The time had been, in the days of his failing health, when
the solemn shadows of evening falling over the fields — the soar-
ing song of the lark in the bright heights of the midday sky —
the dear lost remembrances that the divine touch of music finds
again — brought tears into Lis eyea They were dry eyes now !
Those once tremulous nerves had gathered steady strength on
the broad prairies and in the roving life. What sympathies
that melt into tears throbbed in the new vitality that rioted in

HEART AND SCIENCE.

359

they had met

dly have seeii

looked up ill

her ; to rest

. * I am glad,

is.'

88. She had
t over her : it
her love. But
id away. One
persuasion ot
ible to speak

Low is it that
I't bear that/
ling ; I won't

^e said.

Id of despair.

[ealth, when

Is — the soar-

lidday sky —

music finds

by eyes now !

strength on

sympathies

lat rioted in

his blood, whether she lived or whether she died 1 In those
deep breathings that had alarmed her, she had indeed heard the
vain struggle of grief to find its way to the lost sources of tears,
through the health and strength that set moral weakness at
defiance. Nature had remade this man — and Nature never
pitiea

It was an effort to her to collect her thoughts — but she did
collect them. She was able to tell him what was in her mind.

* Do you think, Ovid, your mother will care much what be-
comes of me, when I die ? '

He started at those dreadful words — so softly, so patiently
spoken. * You will live,' he said. ' My Carmina, what am I
here for but to bring you back to life 1 '

She made no attempt to dispute with him. Quietly, persist-
ently, she returned to the thought that was in her.

' Say that I forgive your mother, Ovid — and that I only ask
one thing in return. I ask her to leave me to you, when the
end has come. My dear, there is a feeling in me that I can't
get over. Don't let me be buried in a great place all crowded
with the dead ! I once saw a picture — it was at home in Italy,
I think — an English picture of a quiet little churchyard in the
country. The shadows of the trees rested on the lonely graves.
And some great poet had written — oh, such beautiful words
about it. The redbreast loves to build and warble there, and little
footsteps lighthj pint the ground. Promise, Ovid, you will take
me to some place like that ! '

He promised — and she thanked him, and rested again.

'There was something p'sg,' she said, when the interval had
passed. * My head is so sleepy, I wonder whether I can think
of it.'

After a while she did think of it.

* I want to make you a little farewell present. Will you un-
do my gold chain 1 Don't cry, Ovid ! oh, don't cry ! '

He obeyed her. The gold chain had the two lockets — the
treasured portraits of her father and her mother. * Wear them
for my sake,' she murmured. * Lift me up ; I want to put them
round your neck myself.' She tried, vainly tried, to clasp the
chain. Her head fell back on his breast. * Too sleepy,' she
; ' always too sleepy now ! Say you love me, Ovid.*

He said it.

said

300

HEART AND SCIENCE.

* Kis8 me, dear.'
He kissed her.

* Now lay me down on the pillow. I'm not eighteen yet —
and I feel as old as eighty ! Rest ; all I want is rest. Look-
ing at him fondly, her eyes closed little by little — then softly
opened again. ' Don't wait in this dull room, darling ; I will
send for you, if 1 wake.*

It was the only wish of hers that he disobeyed. From time
to time his fingers touched her pulse, and felt its feeble beat.
From time to time he stooped and let the faint comin;^ and
going of her breath flutter on his cheek. The twilight fell, and
darkness began to gather over the room. Still he keot his place
by her, like a man entranced.

3en yet —
b. Look-
lieu softly
I will

igJ

rrom time
jeble beat,
lining and
it fell, and
)t his place

CHAPTER LIX.

The first trivial sound that broke the spell was the sound of a
match struck in the next room.

He rose, and groped his way to the door. Teresa had ven*
tured upstairs, and had kindled a light. Some momentary
doubt of him kept her silent when he looked at her. He stam-
mered and stared about him confusedly, when he spoke.

* Where — where 1 ' He semed to have lost his hold on his
thoughts — he gave it up, and tried again * I want to be alone,*
he burst out ; recovering, for the momeut, some power of ex-
pressing himself.

Teresa took him by the hand like a child. She led him
down-stairs to his rooms. He stood silently watching her while
she lit the candles. ' Is there anything I can do for you 1 '
she ventured to ask. lie shook his head vacantly. She found
courage in her pity for him. ' Try to pray,' she said, as she
left the room.

He fell on his knees ; but still the words failed him. He
tried to quiet his mind by holy thoughts. No ! The dumb
agony in him was powerless to find relief. Only the shadows
of thoughts crossed his mind ; his eyes ached with a burning
heat. He began to be afraid of himself. The active habits of
the life that he had left drove him out, with the iustincts of
an animal, into space and air. Neither knowing nor caring in
what direction he tinned his steps, he walked on at the top of
his sp'^ed. On and on, till the crowded houses began to grow
more rare — ti)l there were gaps of open ground on either side
of hirii — till Uie moon rose behind a plantation of trees, and
bathe*' in its melancholy light a lonely high road. He fol-
lowed the roa'l till he was tired of it, and turned aside into a
w

[■it 'I

3G2

HEART AND SCIENCE.

|iii

winding lane. The lights and shadows, alternating with each
other, soothed and pleased him. He had got the relief in exer-
cise that had been denied him while he was in repose. He could
think again, he could feel the resolution stirring in him to
save that dear one, or to die with her. Now, at last, he was
man enough to face the terrible necessity that confronted him,
and fight the battle of Art and Love against Death. Time —
he knew it now — time was precious : the speediest way back to
her was the best way. He stopped in the lane and looked
round. In the solitude, there was no hope of finding a person
to direct him. He turned, to go back to the high road.

At the same moment, he became conscious of the odour of
tobacco wafted towards him on the calm night air. Some
one was smoking in the lane.

He retraced his steps, until he reached a gate — with a bar-
ren field behind it. There was the man, whose tobacco smoke
he had sm.elt, leaning on the gate, with his pipe in his mouth.

The moonlight fell full on Ovid's face, as he approached to
ask his way. The man suddenly stood up — stared at him —
and said, * Hullo ! is it you or your ghost 1 '

His face was in shadow, but his voice answered for him.
The man was Benjulia.

' Have you come to see me ? ' he asked,

'No.'

* Won't you shake hands ] *
*No.'

* What's wrong ? '

Ovid had heard from Miss Minerva, all that Teresa could
tell of the consultations between Benjulia and Mr. Null, and
all that she had herself observed when Benjulia had come to
the house. He answered, when he had steadied his temper.

' I have seen Oarmina,' he said.

Benjulia went on with his smoking. ^ An interesting case,
isn't it 1 ' he remarked.

* You were called into consultation by Mr. Null,' OviJ con-
tinued ; ' and you approved of his ignorant treatment — you,
who knew better.'

' T should think I did ! ' Benjulia rejoined.

* You deliberately encouraged an incompetent man ; you let
that poor girl go on from bad to worse — for some vile end of
your own.*

HEART AND SCIENCE.

3G3

;ing with each
relief in exer-
(ose. He could
ing in him to
i last, he was
)nfronted hira,
Bath. Time —
at way back to
le and looked
nding a person
jh road.

' the odour of
ght air. Some

3 — with a bar-
tobacco Bmoke
9 in his mouth.
5 approached to
itared at him —

rered for him.

It Teresa could

iMr. Null, and

]a had come to

his temper.

Iteresting case,

lull,' Ovid con-
}atment — you,

[man ; you let
le vile end of

BenjuHa good naturedly corrected him. * No, no. For an
excellent end — for knowledge.'

' If I fail to remedy the mischief, which is your doing, and
youi 8 alone. '

Benjulia took his pipe out of his mouth. 'How do you
mean to cure her 1 ' he eagerly interposed. * Have you got a
pew idea 1 *

* If I fail,' Ovid repeated, * her death lies at your door. You
merciless villain — as certainly as that moon is now shining
over us, your life shall answer for hers.'

Astonishment — immeasurable astonishment — sealed Benju-
lia's lips. He looked down the lane when Ovid left him, com-
pletely stupefied. The one imaginable way of accounting for
such language as he had heard — spoken by a competent mem-
ber of his own profession ! — presented the old familiar alter-
native. * Drunk or mad ? ' he wondered while he lit his pipe
again. Walking back to his house, his old distrust of Ovid
troubled him once more. He decided to call at Teresa's lod-
gings in a day or two, and ascertain from the landlady (and
the chemist) how Carmina was being cured.

Ke turning to the high road, Ovid was passed by a trades-
man, driving his cart towards London. The man civilly
offered to take him as far as the nearest outlying cabstand.

Neither the landlady nor Teresa had gone to their beds when
he returned. Their account of Carmina, during his absence,
contained nothing to alarm him. He bade them good night —
eager to be left alone in his room.

In the house and out of the house, there was now the per-
fect silence that helps a man to think. His mind was clear ;
his memory answered, when he called on it to review that
part of his old medical practice, which might help him, by
experience, in his present need. But he shrank — with Car-
mina's life in his hands — from trusting wholly to himself. A
higher authority than his was waiting to be consulted. He
took from his portmanteau the manuscript presented to him by
the poor wretch whose last hours he soothed, in the garret at
Montreal.

The work opened with a declaration which gave it a special
value, in Ovid's estimation.

i I

SC4

HEAUT AND SCIENCE.

* If this imperfect record of experience is ever read by other
eyes than mine, I wish to make one plain statement at the out-
set. The information which is presented in these pages is
wholly derived from the resiilts of bedside practice ; pursued
under miserable obstacles and intenuptions,and spread over a
period of many years. V/^hatever faults and failings I may
have been guilty of as a man, I am innocent, in my profes-
sional capacity, of ever having perpetrated the useless and de-
testable cruelties which go by the name of Vivisection. With-
out entering into any of the disputes on either side, which this
practice has provoked, I declare my conviction that no asserted
usefulness in the end, can justify deliberate cruelty in the
means. I'he man who asserts that any pursuit in which he
can engage is independent of moral restraint, is a man in a
state of revolt against God. I refuse to hear him in his ow<i
defence, on that ground.'

Ovid turned next to the sectioj jf the work which was en-
titled • Brain Disease.' Th e writer introduced his observa-
tions in these prefatory words :

* A celebrated physiologist, plainly avowing the ignorance of
doctors in the matter of the brain and its diseases, and alluding
to appearances presented by post-mortem examinations, con-
cludes his confession thus : " Wi cannot even be sure whether
many of the changes discovered are the cause or result of the
disease, or whether the two are the conjoint results of a com-
mon cause."

' So this man writes, after experience in Vivisection. Let
my different experience be heard next. Not knowing into what
hands this manuscript may fall, or what unexpected opportuni-
ties of usefulness it may encounter after my death, I purposely
abstain from using technical language in the statement which I
have to make.

' In medical investigations, as in all other forms of human
inquiry, the result in view is not infrequently obtained by indi-
rect and unexr ected means. "What I have to say here on the
subject of br iin disease, was fii*st suggested by experience of
two cases, Wiiich seemed in the last degree unlikely to help me.
They were botL cases of young women ; each one having been
hysterically affected by a serious moral shock ; terminating,
after a longer or shorter interval, in simulated paralysis. One

HEART AND SCIENCE.

3G5

read by other
3nt at the out-
hese pages is
;tice ; pursued
spread over a
sti lings I may
in my profes-
iseless and de-
section. With-
de, which this
bat no asserted
3ruelty in the
it in which he
is a man in a
im in his ow<i

which was en-
d his observa-

le ignorance of
IS, and alluding
inations, con-
sure whether
result of the
ults of a com-

[isection. Let
nng into what
ted opportuni-
h, I purposely
iment which I

IS of human

lined by indi-

here on the

experience of

|y to help me.

having been

terminating,

[•alysis. One

of these cases I treated aucct-ssfully. While I was still in at-
tendance on the other (pursuing the same course of treatment
which events had alri Ay proved to be right), a fatal accident
terminated my patient's lift, and rendered a post-mortem exa-
mination necesHiiry From those starting points, I arrived — by
devious ways which I am now to relate — at deductions and dis-
coveries that threw a new light on the nature and treatment of
brain disease.'

Hour by hour, Ovid studied the pages that followed, until
his mind and the mind of the writer were one. He then re-
turned to certain preliminary allusions to the medical treatment
of the two girls — inexpressibly precious to him, in Carmina's
present interests. The dawn of day found him prepared at all
points, and only waiting until the lapse of the next few hours
placed the means . f action in his hands.

But theie was one anxiety still to be relieve 1, before he lay
down to rest awhile.

He took off his shoes, and stole upstairs to Carmhia's door.
The faithful Teresa was astir, earnestly persuading h«r to take
some light nourishment. The little that he could hear of her
voice, as she answered, made his heart ache — it was so faint
and so low. Still she could speak ; and still there was the old
saying to remember, which has comforted so many and deceived
so many. While there's life, there's hope

'r-r

I l.|r'

I* '

;

11 !

ii'li

CHAPTER LX.

Afi'ER a brief interview with his step-son, Mr. Gallilee returned
to his daughters in Scotland.

Touched by his fatherly interest in Carmina, Ovid engaged
to keep him informed of her progress towards recovery. If
the anticipation of saving her proved to be the sad delusion of
love and hope, silence would signify what no words could say.

In ten days' time, there was a happy end to suspense. The
slow process of recovery might extend perhaps to the end of
the yeai*. But, if no accident happened, Ovid had the best
reasons for believing that Carmina's life was safe.

Freed from the terrible anxieties that had oppressed him, he
was able to write again, in a few days later, in a cheerful
tone, and to occupy his pen at Mr. Gallilee's express request,
with such an apparently trifling subject as the conduct of Mr.
Null.

* Your old medical adviser was quite right in informing you
that I had relieved him from any further attendance on Car-
mina. But his lively imagination (or perhaps I ought to say,
his sense of his own consequence) has misled you when he also
declares that I purposely insulted him. I took the greatest
pains not to wound his self-esteem. He left me in anger, nev-
ertheless.

' A day or two afterwards, I received a note from him ; ad-
dressing me as " Sir," and asking ironically if I had any objec-
tion to his looking at the copies of my prescriptions in the
chemist's book. Though he was old enough to be my father
(he remarked) it seemed that experience counted for nothing ;
he had still something to learn from his junior, in the treat-
ment of disease — ^and so on.

illilee returned

Ovid engaged
recovery. If
jad delusion of
^rds could say.
luspense. The
3 to the end of
i had the best

ressed him, he

in a cheerful

cpress request,

ionduct of Mr.

informing you
iance on Car-
ought to say,
when he also
the greatest
m anger, nev-

rom him; ad-
lad any objec-
ptions in the
be my father
i for nothing ;
in the treat-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

307

' At that miserable time of doubt and anxiety, I could only
send a verbal reply, leaving him to do what he liked. Before
I tell you of the use that he made of his liberty of action, I
must confess something relating to the prescriptions themselves.
Don't be afraid of long and learned words, and don't suppose
that I am occupying your attention in this way, without seri-
ous reason for it which you will presently understand.

' A note in the manuscript — to my study of which, I owe,
under God, the preservation of Cartpina's life — warned me that
chemists, in the writer's country, had either refused to make up
certain prescriptions given in the work, or had taken the lib-
erty of altering the new quantities and combinations of some
of the drugs prescribed. Precisely the same thing happened
here, in the case of the first chemist to whom I sent. He re-
fused to make up the medicine, unless I first provided him
with a signed statement taking the whole responsibility on
myself.

* Having ascertained the exact nature of his objections, I dis-
missed him without his guarantee, and employed another che-
mist ; taking care to write my more important prescriptions un-
der reserve. That is to say, 1 followed the conventional rules, as
to quantities and combinations, and made the necessary addi-
tions or changes from my own private store when the medicine
was sent home. This proceeding — adopted purely to spare my
time and my temper — has had a result which I never contem-
plated. It has stopped the interested visits, paid by that
scoundrel Benjulia to the landlady of this house.

* Poor foolish Mr. Null, finding nothing to astonish him in
my course of medicine — as represented by the chemist's books
— appears, by his own confession, to have copied the prescrip-
tions, with a malicious object in view. " I have sent them, (he
informs me, in a second letter) to Doctor Benjulia ; in order
that he too may learn something in his profession from the
master who has dispensed with our servicea" This new effort
of irony means (thanks to the deceitful evidence of the che-
mist's book ! ) that I stand self-condemned of vanity in presum-
ing to rely on my own resources.

* But I am grateful to Mr. Null, notwithstanding : he has
done me a service, in meaning to do me an injury. My
imperfect prescriptions have <][uieted the mind of the man to

ill!

It I

li;'

'II!

:j(icS

HEART AND SCIENX'K.

loRg since

whom he sent them. This wretch's distrust has
falsely suspected me of some professional rivalry pursueu m
secret; the feeling showed itself again, when I met with him
by accident on the night of my return to London. Since Mr.
Null has communicated with him, we have been spared the in
suits of his visits. The landlady (the only person who consented
to see him) is no longer perplexed and offended by his ques-
tions — all relating to the course of treatment which I was
pursuing up stairs. ^

' "^ vU now understand why I have ventured to trouble you
on a purely professional ttipic. To turn to matters of more
interest — our dear Carmina is well enough to remember you,
and to send her love to you and the girls, But even this little
effort is followed by fr/igue.

* I don't mean only fatigue of body ? that is now a question
of time and care. I mean fatigue of mind — expressing itself
by defect of memory.

' On the morning when the first positive change for the bet-
ter appeared, I was at her bedside when she woke. She looked
at me in amazement. " Why didn't you warn me of your
sudden return ?" she asked, "I have only written to yoa to-
day — to your bankers at Quebec ! What does it mean ? " I
did my best to soothe her, and succeeded. There is a com-
plete lapse in her memory — I am only too sure of it ! She has
no recollection of anything that has happened, since she wrote
a last letter to rae, betweeu two and three weeks since — a let-
ter which I ought to have received before I left Quebec. This
forgetfulness of the dreadful trials through which my poor
darling has passed, is, in itst^ll, acircumst; -.icc which we must
all rejoice over for her sake. But I am discouraged by it, at
the same time ; fearing it may indicate some more serious in-
jury than I have yet discovered.

* Miss Minerva — what should I do without the help and
sympathy of that best of true women 1 Miss Minerva has
cautiously tested her memory in other directions, with encou-
raging results, so far. But I shall not feel easy until 1 have
tried further experiments by means of some person who does
not possess Miss Minerva's powe"ful influence over her, and
whose memory is natarallv occupied with what we older people
6ftU trifles. When you all leave Scotland next month, bring

tiEARt AND SCIEisX'E.

S(;d

loag since
])ur&ufcu in
b with him
Since Mr.
ared the in
.0 consented
y his qaes-
rhich. I was

trouble you
ers of more
lember you,
jn this httle

• a question
essing itself

for the bet ■
She looked
me of your
I to you to-
mean ] " I
'e is a com-
! She has
te she wrote
jince — a let-
iBbec. This
;h my poor
Ich we must
id by it, at
serious in-

help and
[inerva has
Tith. encou-
Intil 1 have

who does
^r her, and
Ider people
Intb, bring

:lo

here with you. My dear little correspondent is just the
sort of quaint child I want for the purpose. Kiss her for me
till she is out of breath — and say that is what I mean to do
when we meet.'

The return to London took place in the last week in Octo-
ber. Lord and Lady Northlake went to their town residence,
taking Maria and Zo with them. There were associations con-
nected with Fairfield Gardens, which made the prospect of
living there — without even the rociety of his children — unen-
durable to Mr. Galliiee. Ovid's house, still waiting the return
of its master, was open to his stepfather. The p„or man was
only too glad ''in his own expressive language) * to keep the
nest warm for his son.'

The latest inquiries, made at the asylum, were hopefully
answered. Thus far, the measures taken to restore Mrs. Galli-
iee to herself had succeeded beyond expectation. But one un-
favourable symptom remained. She was habitually silent.
When she did speak, her mind seemed to be occupied with
scientific subjects : she never mentioned her husband, or any
other member of the family. Time and attention would re-
move this drawback. In two months more perhaps, if all
went well, she might return to her family and her friends, as
sane a v omen as ever.

Crlang at Fairfield Gardens for any letters that might be
waiting there, Mr. Gaililee rjceived a ciicular in lithographed
writing ; accompanied by a roll of thick white paper. The
signature revealed the familiar name of Mr. Le Frank.

The circulir set forth that the writer had won renown and a
moderate income ; as pianist and teacher of music. * A terri-
ble accident, ladies and gentlemen, has injured my right hand,
and has rendered amputation of two of my fingers necessary.
Deprived for life of my professional resources, I have but one
means of subsistence left — viz : collecting sul3Scnptions for a
song of my own composition. N. B. — The mutilated musician
leaves the question of terms in the hands of the art-loving
public, and will do himself the honour of calling to morrow.'

Good-natured Mr. Gaililee left a sovereign to be given to the
victim of circumstances — and then set forth for Lord North-
lake's house. He and Ovid had arranged that Zo was to be
takeuto see Carmiaai that day, Ou his way through th«

S70

HEART AND SCIENCE.

!ji I

streets, he was met by Mr. Mool. The lawyer looked at the
song under his friend's arm. * What's that you're taking such
care of ? ' he asked. * It looks like music. A new piece for
the young ladies — eh ? '

Mr. Gallilee entered into the necessary explanation. Mr.
Mool struck his stick on the pavyment, as the nearest available
means of expressing indignation.

' Never lei another farthing of your money get into that
rascal's pocket ! It's no merit of his that the poor old Italian
iiurse has not made her appearance in the police reports.' With
this preface, Mr. Mool related the circumstances under which
Mr. Le Frank had met with his accident. * His first proceed-
ing when they discharged him from the hospital, continued
the angry lawyer, ' was to summon Teresa before a magistrate.
Fortunately she showed the summons to me. I appeared for
her, provided with a plan of the rooms which spoke for itself ;
and I put two questions to the complainant. Wliat business
had he in another person's room 1 and why was his hand iri
that other person's cupboard? The reporter kindly left the
case unrecorded : and when the fellow ended by threatening
the poor woman outside the court, we bound him over to keep
the peace. I have my eye on hira — and I'll catch him yet,
under the Vagrant Act ! '

I r

' looked at the
Te taking such
L new piece for

lanation. Mr.
jarest available

get into that
)oor old Italian

reports/ With
5S under which
IS first proceed-
ital, continued
re a magistrate.

I appeared for
poke for itself;

Wliat business
ras his hand in
kindly left the
I by threatening
im over to keep

catch him yet,

CHAPTEEl LXI.

Aided by time, care and skill, Cai-mina iiad gained strengtli
enough to pass some hours of the day in the .sitting-room ; n;-
clining in an invalid chair invented for her by Ovid. The wel-
come sight of Zo — brightened and developed by happy autumn
days passed in Scotland — brought a deep flush to her face, and
quickened the pulse which Ovid was touching, under piHtence
of holding her hand. These signs of excessive nervous sensi-
biiity warned him to limit the child's visit to a short space of
time. Neither Miss Minerva nor Teresa were in the room : Car-
mina could have Zo all to herself.

' Now, my dear,' she said, in a kiss, * tell me about Scotland.'

* Scotland,' Zo answered with dignity, * belongs to uncle
Northlake, He pays for everything ; and I'm missus.'

* It's true,' said Mr. Gallilee, l)ursting with pride. ' My lord
says it's no use having a will of your own where Zo is. When
he introduces her to anybody on the estate he says, "Here's the
Missus." *

Mr.Gallilee's youngest daughter, listening critically to the pa-
rental testimony. 'You see he knows,' she said to Ovid. * There's
nothing to laugh at. '

Carmina tried another question. ' Did you think of me, dear,
when you were far away ? '

* Think of you ? ' Zo repeated. ' You're to sleep in my bed-
room when we go back to Scotland — and I'm to be out of Ijed,
and one of *em, when you eat your first Scotch dinner. Shall I
tell you what you'll see on the table ? You'll see a big brown
steaming bag in a dish — and you'll see me slit it with a knife —
and the bag's fat inside will tumble out, all smoking hot and
Btinking. "That's a Scotch dinner. Oh ! ' she cried, losing her
dignity in the sudden interest of a new idea. * Oh, Carmina, do
you rememlsr the itaUan boy, and his song 1 '

372

HEART AND SCIENCE.

Here was one of those tests of her memory for trifles, applied
with a child's hapi)y abru[)tnes.s, for which Ovid had been wait-
ing. He listened eagerly. To his unutterable relief Carmina
laughed.

' Of course I remember it ! ' she said. * Who could forget the
boy who sings and grins, and says, gimmee haypenny ? '

' That's it ! ' cried Zo. * The boy's song was a good one in its
way. I've learnt a better m Scotland. You've heard of Donald,
haven't vqu ? *

' No.''

Zo turned indignbntlv to her father. 'Why didn't you tell
her of Donald % '

Mr. Gallilee humbly admitted that he was in fault. Carmina
asked who Donald was, and what he was like. Zo unconsci-
ously tested her memory for the second time.

' You know that day,' she said, ' when Joseph had an errand
at the grocer's, and I went along with him, and Miss Minerva
said I was a vulgar child 1 '

Carmina's memory recalled this new trifle, without an effort.
' I kno\/,' she answered ; * you told me Joseph and the grocer
weighed you in the great scales.*

Zo delighted Ovid by trying her again. ' When they put me
into the scales, Carmina, what did I weigh 1 '

' Nearly four stone, dear.'

* Quite four stone. Donald weighs fourteen. What do you
think of that 1 '

Mr. Gallilee once more offered his testimony. * The biggest
Piper on my lord's estate,' he began. * Comes of a Highland
family, and was removed to the Lowlands by my lord's father.
A great player '

* And mi/ friend,' Zo explained, stopping her father in full
career. * He takes snuff' out of a cow's horn. He shovels it up
his fat nose with a spoon, like this. His nose wags. He says,
" Try my sneeshin." Sneeshin's Scotch for snuff! He boos till
he's nearly double when uncle Northlake speaks to him. Boos
is Scotch for bows. He skirls on the pipes — skirls means
screeches. When you first hear him, he'll make your stomach
ache. You'll get used to that — and you'll find you like ' 'T! Ko
wears a purse and a petticoat i he never had a pal', ^f trowssijiip

1- t

HEART AND SCIENCE,

373

irifles, apnlied
ad been wait-
?lief Carmina

mid forget the
nny f '

;ood one in its
ird of Donald,

didn't you tell

ault. Carmina
Zo uncou.sci-

had an evrand
Miss Minerva

hout an effort,
nd the grocer

they put me

What do you

' The biggest
a Highland
lord's father.

lather in full
[shovels it up
j8. He says,
He boos till
him. Boos
skirls means
[our stomach
like^''" Hd

on In his life ; there's no pride about him ; he'll let you pull

his nose, and smack his legs '

Here, Ovid was obliged to bring uie biography of Donald to
a close. Caimina's enjoyment of Zo was becoming too keen for
her strength ; her bursts of laughter grew lowder and louder —
the wholesome limit of excitement was being rapidly passed.
' Tell us about your cousins,' he said, by way of effecting a
diversion.

* The big ones 1 ' Zo asked.

' No ; the little ones, like you.'

* Nice girls — they play at everything I tell 'em. Jolly boys
— when they knock a girl down, they pick her up again, and
clean her.'

Carmina was once more in danger of passing the limit. Ovid
made another attempt to effect a diversion. Singing would be
comparatively harmLas in its effect — as he rashly su^)posed.

* What's that song you learnt in Scotland 1 ' he asked.

* It's Donald's song,' Zo replied. ' JJe taught me.'

At the sound of Donald's dreadful name, Ovid looked at his
watch, and said there was no time for the song. Mr. Uallilee
suddenly and seriously sided with his stepson. ' How she got
among the men after dinner,' he said, * nobody knows. Lady
Northlake has forbidden Donald to teach her any more songs ;
and I have requested him, as a favour to me, not to let her
smack his legs. Come, my dear, it's time we were home again.'

Well intended by both gentlemen — but too late. Zo was
ready for the performance ; her hat was cocked on one sidi' ;
her plnmp little arras were set akimbo ; her rotind eyes opened
and closed facetiously in winks worthy of a low comedian.
*• I'm Donald,' she announced; and burst out with the song.

* WeWe gayly yet, loe're gayly yd ; We're not very foti, bat we're
gayly yet : Then sit ye awhile, and tipple a bit ; For we're nut very
foUy but we're gayly yet.' She snatched up Carmina's medicine
glass, and waved it over her head with a Bacchanalian screech.
'Fill a brimmer, Tamniie! Here's to Redshanks ! '

* And pray who is lledshanks » ' asked a lady, standing in
the doorway.

Zo turned round — and instantly collapsed. A teirible figure,
associated with lessons and punishments, stood before her.
The convivial friend of Donald, the established Missus of Lord
Northlake, disappeared — and a polite pupil took their place.

WttfeilBia^Mtff ^X^-r-.^ ..hf ■;- ^^. ^, .. . j ^

H:!

I.W'r.l

I fl

111

Hi
1 1'

' 1
I I

11 III

374.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

' If you please, Miss Minerva, Redshanks is nick-name for a
Highlander.' Who would have recognised the singer of ' We're
gayly yet,' in the subdued young person who made that reply ?

The door opened again. Another disastrous intrusion 1
Yes another ! Teresa appeared this time — caught Zo up in her
arms — and gave the child a kiss that was heard all over the
room. * Ah, mia Giocosa ! ' cried the old nurse — too happy to
speak in any language but her own. * What does that mean ? '
Zo asked, settling her rutHed ])etticoats. ' It means,' said
Teresa, who prided herself on her English, * ah, my Jolly.'
This to a young lady who could slit a haggis ! This to the only
person in Scotland, privileged to smack Donald's legs ! Zo
turned to her father, and recovered her dignity. Maria herself
could hardly have 8{)oken with more severe propriety. ' I wish
to go home,' said Zo,

Ovid had only to look at Carmina, and to see the necessity
of immediate coDapliance with his 'iutie sister's wishes. No
more laughing, no more excitement, for that day. He led Zo
out himself, and resigned her to her father at the door of his
rooms on the ground floor.

Cheered already by having got away from Miss Minerva and
the nurse, Zo desired to know who lived downstairs ; and hear-
ing that these were Ovid's rooms, insisted on seeing them.
The three went in together.

Ovid drew Mr. Gallilee into a comer. * I'm easy about Car-
mina now,' he said. ' The failure of her memory doesn't ex-
tend backwards. It begins with the shock to her brain, on the
day when Teresa removed lier to this house — and it will end, I
feel confident, with the end of : sr ilLiess.'

Mr. Gallilee's attention suddenly wandered. * Zo ! ' he called
out, 'don't touch your brother's papers.*

The one object that had excited the child's curiosity was the
writing-table. Dozens of sheets of paper were scattered over it,
covered with writing, blotted and interlined. Some of these
leaves had overflowed the table, and found a resting-place on
the floor. Zo was amusing herself by picking them up.
* Well ! ' she said, handing them obediently to Ovid, ' I've had
many a rap on the knuckles for writing not half as bad as
yours.'

Hearing his daughter's remark, Mr. Gallilee became inter-
ested in looking at the fragments of manuscript. * What an

[•name for a
er of * We're
} that reply ]
1 intrusion 1
Zo \x\) in her
all over the
too happy to
that mean 1 '
means,' said
1, my Jolly.'
lis to the only
i's legs ! Zo
Maria herself
ety. ' 1 wish

I the necessity

wishes. No

r. He led Zo

he door of his

} Minerva and
irs; andhear-
seeing

them.

Lgy about Car-
y doesn't ex-
brain, on the
it will end, I

Zo r he called

iosity was the
ttered over it,
iome of these
iting- place on
ng them up.
dd, ' I've had
ilf as bad as

\ became inter-
' What an

HEART AND SCIENCE.

375

awful mess ! ' he exclaimed. ' May I try if I can read a bit 1 '
Ovid smiled. * Try by all means ; you will make one useful
discovery at least — you will see that the most patient men on
the face of the civilised earth are Printers ! '

Mr. Gallilee tried a page — and gave it up before he turned
giddy. * Is it fair to ask what this is ? ' he said.

' Something easy to feel, and hard to express,' Ovid answered.
' These ill written lines are my offering of gratitude to the mem-
ory of an unknown and unhappy man.'

' The man you told me of, who died at Montreal ? '

'Yes.'

* You never mentioned his name.'

' His last wishes forbade me to mention it to any living crea-
ture. God knows there were pitiable, most pitiable, reasons
for his dying unknown ! The stone over his grave only bears
his initials, and the date of his death. But,' said Ovid, kind-
ling with enthusiasm, as he laid his hand on his manuscript,
' the discoveries of this great physician shall benefit humanity !
And my debt to him shall be acknowledged, with the admira-
tion and the devotion that I truly feel ! '

* In a bock ? ' asked Mr. Gallilee.

* In a book that is now being printed. You will see it be-
fore the New Year.'

Finding nothing to amuse her in the sitting-room, Zo had
tried the bedroom next. She now returned to Ovid, dragging
after her a long white stafl' that looked like an Alpenstock.
' What's this ? * she asked. ' A broomstick 1 '

* A specimen of rare Canadian wood, my dear. Would you
like to have it "? '

Zo took the offer quite seriously. She looked with longing
eyes at the specimen, three times as tall as herself — and shook
her head. * I'm not big enough for it, yet, ] ' she said. * Look
at it Papa ! Benjulia's stick is nothing to this.'

That name — on his sister's lips — had a sound revolting to
Ovid. * Don't speak of him ! ' he said irritably.

* Mustn't I speak of him 1 ' Zo asked, * when I want him
to tickle me 1 '

Ovid beckoned to her father. * Take her away now/ he whis-
pered — * and never let her see thai man again.'

The warning was needless. The man's destiny had decreed
that he and Zo were never more to meet,

! !

CHAPTER LXIT.

Benjulia's servants had but a dull time of it, poor souls, in
the lonely house. Towards the end of the year, they subscribed
among themselves to buy one of those wonderful Christmas
Numbers — presenting regularly the same lovely ladies, long-
legged lovers, and corpulent children, flaming with festive
colours — which have become a national institution : say, the
pictorial plum puddings of the English nation.

The servants had [)lenty of time to enjoy their genial news-
pa[)er, before the dining-room bell disturbed them.

For some weeks past, the master had begun to spend the
•whole of his time in the mysterious laboratory. On the rare
occasions when he returned to the house, he was always out of
temper. If the servants knew nothing else, they knew what
these signs meant — the great man was harder at work than
ever ; and in spite of his industry, he was not getting on so
well as usual.

On this particular evening, the bell rang at the customary
time— and the cook hasteixed to get the dinner ready. The
footman turned to the dresser, and took from it a little heap of
newspapers ; carefully counting them before he ventured to
carry them upstairs. This was Doctor Benjulia's regular
weekly supply of medical literature ; and here, again, the mys-
terious man presented an incomprehensible problem to his fel-
low-creatures. He subscribed to every medical publication in
London — and he never read one of thtm ! The footman cut
the leaves ; and the master, with his forefinger to help him, ran
his eye up and down the pages ; apparently in search ot some
announcement that he never found — and, still more extraordin-
ary, without showing the faintest sign of disappointment when
he had done. Every week, he briskly shoved his unread periodi-

HEAKT AND SCIENCE.

877

poor souls, in

ley subscribed

:ul Christmas

ladies, lotig-

with festive

ion : say,

the

r genial news-

I to spend the

On the rare
always out of

J knew what
it work than
getting on so

ine customary
ready. The
little heap of
ventured to
lia's regular
;ain, the mys-
m to his fel-
ublication in
footman cut
lelp him, ran
rch ot some
i extraordin-
tment when
read periodi-

cals into a huge basket, and sent them down stairs as waste
paper.

The footman took up the niswspapers and the dinner toge-
ther — and was received with frowns and curses. lie was
abused for everything that he did in his own department, and
for everything that the cook had done besides. * Wliatever the
master's working at,' he announced, on rt>lurning to the kitchen,
* he's farther away from hitting the right nail d.i the head than
ever. Upon my soul, I think X shall have to give warning 1
Let's relieve our minds. Where's the Christmas Num-cr ? '

Half an hour later, the servants were startU^d by a tremen-
dous bang of the house-door which shook the v»'hole building.
The footman ran upstairs j the dining-room was empty ; the
master's hat was not on its peg ij. the hall ; and the medical
newspapers were scattered about in the wildest confusion.
Close to the fender lay a crumpled leaf, torn out. Its position
suggested that it had narrowly missed being thrown into the
fire. The footman smoothed it out, and looked at it.

One side of the leaf contained a report of a lecture. This was
dry reading. The footman tried the other side, and found a
review of a new medical work.

This would have been dull reading, too, but for an Extract
from a Preface, stating how the book came to be published, and
what wonderful discoveries, relating to peoph^s' brains, it con-
tained. There were some curious things said hore — especially
about a melancholy deathbed at a place called Montreal — which
made the preface almost as interesting as a story. But what was
there in this to hurry'the master out of the house, as if the devil
had been at his heels 1

Dr. Benjulia's nearest neighbour was a small farmer named
Gregg. He was taking a nap that evening, when his wife bounced
into the room, and said, ' Here's the big doctor gone mad ! ' And
there he was truly, at Mrs. Gregg's heels, clamouring to have
the horse put to in tho gig, and to be driven to London instantly.
He said, * Pay yourself what you please ' — and opened his poc-
ket-book, full of bank-notes, Mr. Gregg said, ' It seems, sir,
this is a matter of life and death.' Whereupon he looked at
Mr. Gregg — and considered a little — and, becoming (j[uiet on a
sudden, answered, * Yes, it is.'

!■

f '

.Si i

IH-

I fl'

I !

^78

HEAUT AND SCIENCE.

On the road to London, hu never onuc spoke — except to him-
self — and then only from iinui to time. It seemed, judging by
what fell from him now and then, that he was troubled about a
man and a letter. Ho had suspected the man all along ; but he
had nevertheless given hini the letter — and now it had ended
in the letter turning out badly for Doctor Benjulia himself.
Where he went to in London, it was not possible to say. Mr.
Gregg's horse was not fast enough for him. As aoon as he could
find one, hv took a cab.

The shopman of Mr. Barrable, the famous publisher of medi-
cal works, had just put up the shutters, and was going down
stairs to his tea, when he heard a knocking at the shop door.
The person proved to be a very tall man, in a violent hurry to
buy Doctor Ovid Vere's new book. He said, by way of apology,
that he was in that line himself, and that his name was Benju-
lia. The shopman knew him by reputation, and sold him the
book. He was in such a hurry to read it, that he actually be-
gan in the shop. It was necessary to tell him that business
hours were over. Hearing this, he ran out, and told the cab-
man to drive as fast as possible to the Parthenon Club.

The library waiter at the Club found Doctor Benjulia in the
library, busy with a book. He was quite alone ; the members,
at that hour of the evening, being generally at dinner, or in the
smoking-room. The man whose business it was to attend to the
fires, went in during the night, from time to time, and always
found him still in the same corner. It began to get late. He
finished his reading ; but it seemed to make no difference. There
he sat — wide awake-— holding his closed book on his knee,
seemingly lost in his own thoughts. This went on till it was
time to close the club. They were obliged to disturb him. He
said nothing ; and went slowly down into the hall, leaving his
book behind him. It was an awful night, raining and sleeting
— but he took no notice of the weather. When they fetched a
cab, the driver refused to take him to where he lived, on such
a night as that. He only said, * Very well ; go to the nearest
hotel'

The night porter at the hotel let in a tall gentleman, and
showed him into one of the bedrooms kept ready for persons
arriving late. Having no luggage, he paid the charges before-

hand. About

eight

o'clock in the morning, he rang for thQ

HiJil

except to him-
ed, judging by
)ubied about a
along ; but he
' it had ended
njulia himself.
B to say. Mr.
)on as he could

>libher of medi-
s going down
the shop door,
iolent hurry to
vay of apology,
me was Benju-
l sold him the
he actually be-
that business
I told the cab-
^Club.

Benjulia in the
the members,
inner, or in the
,0 attend to the
e, and always
I get late. He
■erence. There
on his knee,
on till it was
urb him. He
,11, leaving his
Ig and sleeting
jthey fetched a
ived, on such
lo the nearest

itleman, and
for persons

larges before-
rang for thQ

tlKAUl AND SCIENCK

.•{7!)

Walter — who observed that his bed had not been 8loj)t in. All
he wanted for breakfast was the strongest cofl'ee that could be
made. It was not strong enough to please him when he tasted
it ; and he had some brandy put in. He paid, and was liberal
to the waiter, and went away.

The policeman on duty, that day, whose beat included the
streets at the back of Fairfield Gardens, notice<l in one of them,
a tall gentleman walking backwards and forwards, and looking
from time to time at one particular house. When he passed
that way again, there was the gentleman still patrolling the
street, and still looking towards the same ho'ise. He waited a
little, and watched. The place was a respectable lodging house,
and the stranger was cr tainly a gentleman, though a queer one
to look at. It was not the policeman's business to interfere on
suspicion, except in the case of notoriously bad characters. So,
though he did think it odd, he went on again.

Between twelve and one o'clock in the afternoon, Ovid left
his lodgings, to go to the neighbouring livery stables, and choose
an o[)en carriage. The sun was shining and the air was brisk
and dry, after the stormy night. It was just the day when he
might venture to take Carmina out for a drive.

On his way down the street, he heard footsteps behind him,
and felt himself touched on the shoulder. He turned — and dis-
covered Benjulia. On the point of speaking resentfully, he re-
strained himself. There was something in the wretch's face
that struck him with horror.

Benjulia said, * I won't keep you long ; I want to know one
thing. Will she live or die 1 '

* Her life is safe — I hope.'

' Through your new mode of treatment 1 '

His eyes and his voice said more than his words. Ovid in-
stantly knew that he had seen the book ; and that the book had
forestalled him in the discovery to which he had devoted his life.
Was it possible to pity a man whose hardened nature never pitied
others 1 All things are possible to a large heart. Ovid shrank
from answering him.

Benjulia spoke again.

* When we met that night at my garden gate,' he said, * you
told me my life should answer for her life, if she died. My
neglect hfis not killed her — and you have no need to keep jout

..■».->.

iVif.5,

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

1^128 |2.5
12.2

^ i;£ 11" 2.0

1.8

1.25 J^ 1 1.6

^ 6"

►

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

33 WIST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) S72-4503

,.^.

^^4^

Ill,

kEAllT AND SCIENCE.

M:.i::l

;

i' '<

^ ord. Buh 1 don't get ofl', Mr. Ovid Vere, without paying tlie
l>enalty. You have taken something from me, which was
dearer than life. I wished to tell you that — I have no more to
say.'

Ovid silently offered his hand.

Benjulia's head drooped in thought The one generous pro-
test of the man whom he had injured, spoke in that outstretched
hand. He looked at Ovid.

* No I ' he said — and walked away.

Leaving the street, he went round to Fairfield Gardens, and
rang the bell at Mr. Gallilee's door. The bell was answered by
a polite old woman — a stranger to him among the servants.

' Is Zo in the house t ' he inquired.

' Nobody's in the house, sir. It's to be let, if you please, as
soon as the furniture can be moved.'

* Do you know where Zo is 1 1 mean, Mr. Gallilee's young-
est child.' t

* I'm sorry to say, sir, I'm not acquainted with t!ie family.'
He waited at the door, apparently hesitating what to do

next. ' I'll go upstairs,' he said suddenly ; ' 1 want to look at
the house. You needn't go with me ; I know my way.'

' Thank, you kindly, sir ! '

He went straight to the schoolroom. The repellent melan-
choly of an uninhabited place had fallen on it already. The
plain furniture was not worth taking care of : it was battered
and old, and left to dust and neglect. There were two com-
jion deal writing desks, formerly used by the two girls. One
of them was covered with splashes of ink : varied here and there
by barbarous caricatures of faces, in which dots and strokes re-
presented eyes, noses, and mouths. He knew whose desk this
was, and opened the cover of it. In the recess beneath were
soiled tables of figures, torn maps, and dogseared writing books.
The ragged paper cover of one of these last, bore on its inner
side a grotesquely imperfect inscription : — my cop book zo. He
tore off the cover, and put it in the breast pocket of his coat.

< I should have liked to tickle her once more,' he thought, as
he went down stairs again. The polite old woman opened the
door, curtseying deferentially. He gave her half a crown.
'God bless you, sir 1 ' she burst out, in a gush of gratitude.

HEART AND SCTENCE.

381

it paying tlie

which was

e no more to

generous pro-
b outstretched

Gardens, and
3 answered by
) servants.

you please, as

llilee's young-

,h t'ae family.'
5 what to do
ant to look at
ly way.*

pellent melan-
iready. The
was battered
^ere two com-
iro girls. One
here and there
md strokes re-
hose desk this
Deneath were
writing books,
e on its inner
p book zo. He
Bt of his coat
he thought, as
lan opened the
half a crown,
gratitude.

He checked himself, on the point of stepping into the street
and looked at her with some curiosity. ' Do you believe in
God 1 ' he asked.

The old woman was even capable of making a confession of
faith politely. ' Yes, sir,' she said, ' if you have no objection.'

He stepped into the street. ' I wonder whether she's right 1 '
he thought. * It doesn't matter ; I shall soon know.'

The servants were honestly glad to see him, when he got
home. They had taken it in turn to sit up through the night;
knowing his regular habits, and feeling the dread that some ac<
cident had happened. Never before had they seen him so
fatigued. He dropped helplessly into his chair ; his gigantic
body shook with shivering fits. The foo >man begged him to
take some refreshment. * Brandy, and raw eggs,' he said.
These being brought to him, he told them to wait until he rang
— and locked the door when they went /out.

After waiting until the short winter da/light was at an end,
the footman ventured to knock, and ask if ihe master wanted
lights. He replied that he had lit the candles for himself. No
smell of tobacco smoke came from the room ; and he had let
the day pass without going to the laboratory. These were
portentous signs. The footman said to his fellow servants,
' There's something wrong.' The servants looked at each other
in vague terror. One of them said, * Hadn't we better give
notice to leave 1 ' And the other whispered a question : * Do
you think he's committed a crime 1 '

Towards ten o'clock, the bell rang at last. Immediately
afterwards they heard him calling to them from the hall. ' I
want you all three up here.*

They went up together— the two women anticipating a sight
of horror, and keeping close to the footman. The master was
walking quietly backwards and forwards in the room : the table
had pen and ink on it, and was covered with writinga He
spoke to them in his customary tones; there was not the
slightest appearance of agitation in his manner.

' I mean to leave this house, and go away,' he began. ' You
are dismissed from my service, for that reason only. Take
your written characters from the table ; read them, and say if
there is anything to complain of.' There was nothing to com-
plaia of. On another ^art of the table there wer^ three littlQ

''I 'ill

i';

P,i

ill

i !

I I

582

HEART AND SCIENCE.

' A month's wages for each of you/ he ex*
of a month's warning. I wish you good

heaps of money,
plained^ *in place

luck.' One of the women (the one who^had suggested giving
notice to leave) began to cry. He took no notice of this
demonstration, and went on. ' I want two of you to do me a
favour before we part. You will please witness the signature
of my Will.' The sensitive servant drew back directly. ' No i *
she said, * I couldn't do it. I never heard the Death-Watch
before in winter time — I heard it all last night.'

The other two witnessed the signature. They observed that
the Will was a very short one. It war 'mpossible not to notice
the only legacy left ; the words crossed the paper, just above
the signatures, and only occupied owo lines : ' I leave to Zoe,
youngest daughter of Mr. John Gallilee, of Fairfield Gardens,
London, everything of which I die possessed.' Excepting the
formal introductory phrases, and the statement relating to the
witnesses —both copied from a handy book of law, lying open
on the table — this was the Will.

The female servants were allowed to go downstairs ; after
having been informed that they were to leave the next morn-
ing. The footman was detained in the dining-room.

' I am going to the laboratory,' the master said ; * and I want
a few things carried to the door.'

The big basket for waste paper, three times filled with letters
and manuscripts ; the books ; the medicine chest ; and the
stone jar of oil from the kitchen- -these, the master and the
man removed together ; setting them down at the laboratory
door. It was a still cold starlight winter's night. The inter-
mittent shriek of a railway whistle in the distance, was the only
sound that disturbed the quiet of the time.

* Good night ! ' said the master.

The mau returned the salute, and walked back to the house,
closing the front door. He was now more firmly persuaded
than ever that something was wrong. In the hall, the women
were waiting for hin. 'What does it meani' they asked.
* Keep quiet,' he said, * I'm going to see.'

In anothpr minute, he was posted at the back of the house,
behind the edge of the wall Looking out from this place, he
could see the light of the lamps in the laboratory streaming
through the open door, and the dark figure of the master com-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

383

you/ he ex-
;h you good
;ested giving
»tice of this
1 to do me a
he signature
jtly. *Noi»
)eath-Watch

bserved that
not to notice
r, just above
leave to Zoe,
eld Gardens,
Ixcepting the
ilating to the
V, lying open

istairs ; after
e next moin-
[)m.
< and I want

38t ;
ter

with letters
and the
and the
le laboratory
The inter-
was the only

to the house,
ly persuaded
the women
they asked.

{ the house,
lis place, he
y streaming
master com-

*Tlg and going, as he removed the objocts left outside iuto the
building. Then the door was sluit, and nothing was visible
but the dim glow that found its way to the skylight, through
the white blind inside.

Ho boldly crossed the open space of ground, resolved to trj
what hia ears might discover, now that his eyes were uselesa
He posted himself at the back of the laboratory, close to one o£
the side walls.

Now and then, he heard — what had reached his ears when he
had been listening on former occasions — the faint whining cries
of animals. These were followed by new sounds. Three smoth-
ered shrieks, succeed:;.^ each other at irregular intervals, made
his blood run cold. Had three death-strokes been dealt on
some suffering creatures, with the same sudden and terrible
certainty 1 Silence, horrible silence, was all that answered. In
the distant railway there was an interval of peace.

The door was opened a^ain ; the flood of light streamed out
on the darkness. Suddenly, the yellow glow was sjwtted by
the black figures of small, swiftly-running creatures — ))erha{)s
cats, perhaps rabbits — escaping from the laboratory. The tall
form of the master followed slowly, and ^tood revealed watch-
ing the flight of the animals. In a moment more, the last of
the liberated creatures came out — a large dog, limping as if one
of its legs was injured. It sto])ped as it passed the master, and
tried to fawn on him. He threatened it with his hand. * Be
off" with you, like the rest ! ' he said. The dog slowly crossed
the flow of light, and was swallowed up in darkness.

The last of them that could move wa.s gone. The death
shrieks of the others had told their fate.

But still, there stx)od the master alone — a grand black figure,
with its head turned up to the stars. The minutes followed
one another : the servant waited, and watched him. The soli-
tary man had a habit, well known to those about him, of siHjak-
ing to himself ; not a word esc \ped him now ; his upturned
head never moved ; the bright wintry heaven held him spell-
bound.

At last, the change came. Once more the silence was broken
by the scream of the railway whistle.

He started like a peraon suddenly roused from deep sleep,
and went back into the laboratory. The last sound then fol-
lowed — the locking and bolting of the door.

ns4

HEART AND SCIENCE.

The servant left his hiding-place : his master's secret was no
secret now. He hated himself for eating that master's bread,
and earning that master's money. One of the ignorant masses,
this man ! Mere sentiment had a stinng liold on his stupid
mind ; the remembrance of the poor wounded dog, com-
panionable and forgiving under cruel injuries, cut into his
his heart like a knife. His thought, at that moment, was an
act of treason to the royalty of KnowU'dge, — * 1 wish to God I
could lame him, as he has lamed the dug !' Another fanatic I
another fool ! Oh, science ! be merciful to the fanatics and the
fools I

When he got back to the house, the women were still on the
look-out for him. ' Don't speak to me now,' he said. ' Get to
your beds. And, mind this — let's be oil' to-morrow morning
before Ae can see us.*

There was no sleep for him when he went to his own bed.

The remembrance of the dog tormented him. The other
lesser animals were pctive ; capable of enjoying their liberty
and finding shelter for themselves. Where had the maimed
creature found a refuge, on that bitter night ? Again, and
again, and again, the question forced its way into his mind. He
could endure it no longer. Cautiously and quickly — in dread
of his extraordinary conduct being perhaps discovered by the
women — he dressed himself and opened the house door to look
for the dog.

Out of the darkness on the step, there rose something dark.
He put out his hand. A persuasive tongue, gently licking it,
pleaded for a woi'd of welcome. The crippled animal could
only have got to the door in one way ; the gate which protected
the enclosure must have been left open. First giving the dog
a refuge in the kitchen, the footman — rigidly performing his
last duties — went out to close the gate.

At his first step into the enclosure he stopped, panic-stricken.
The starlit sky over the laboratory was veiled in murky red.
Roaring flamb, and spouting showers of sparks, poured through
the broken skylight. Voices from the farm raised the first cry
— ' Fire ! fire ! '

At the inquest, the evidence suggested the suspicion of in-
cendiarism and suicide. The papers, the books, the oil betray-

HEART AND SCIENCE.

385

ed themselves as combustible materials, carried into the place
for a purpose. The medicine chest was known (by its use in
cases of illness among the servants) to contain opium. Ad-
journed inquiry elicited that the laboratory was not insured,
and that the deceased was in comfortable circumstances. Where
were the motives ! One intelligent man, who had drifted into
the jury, was satisfied wiih the evidence. He held that the
desperate wretch had some motive of his own for first poisoning
himself, and then setting fire to the scene of his labours. Hav-
ing a majority of eleven against him he gave way, and consent-
ed to a merciful verdict of death by misadventure. The hideous
remains of what had once been Benjulia, found Christian buri-
al. His brethren of the torture-table attended the funeral iu
large numbers. Vivisection had been beaten on its own field
of discovery. They honoured the martyr who had fallen in
their cause.

' IV

I >

CHAPTER LXIII.

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 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 con-
sider her to be well again 1 '

* As well as she will ever be,' Ovid answered. * There has
been time lost which no care and no devotion can regain. 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 were waiting to go to church, until one
other eagerly expected person joined them. There was a gen-
eral inquiry for Miss Minerva. Carmina astonished everybody,
from the bridegroom downwards, by announcing that circum-
stances prevented her best and dearest friend from being pres-
ent. She smiled and blushed as she took Ovid's arm. ' When
we are man and wife, and I am quite sure of you,' she whisper-
ed, " I will tell you, what no body 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 our
best friend.*

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. For-
give me if I am not with you today. You know that you can
trust me now. But we are all humftn — ^Don't tell your bus-
baw4,'

i 1

f I

HEART AND SCIENCE.

387

red by weeks,
-without the
[1 the church,

ing away the
e house. ' She
1 really con-

' There has
regain. I will

I and Zo were
reh, until one
was a gen-
d everybody,
that circum-
D being pres-
rm. * When

she whisper-
low. In the

best place in
jstice to our

le she said
r marriage :
la, I shall be
to you. For-
hat you can
your bu8-

li was her last weakness. Carmina never had to make ex-
cuses for Miss Minerva again.

There might have been a moment's sadness, when the mar-
ried pair went away to their happy new life, but for 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 1 ' 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 I And who may he be ? '
' Donald 1 '

' 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 1 ' 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 ju.itice to yourself, con-
sent to an amicable separation, and I will arrange it.'

* Have you seen her 1 '

* I insisted on it, before]! met her lawyers. She declares her-
self 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 comi)letes the round of ingrati-
tude by marr^ ing 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 the girl's
mother ) It's acknowledged that the man made love to her —
the rest is a matter of opinion. Was I wrong to lose my tem-
per, and «ay what I did say to this so called niece of mine 1
Yes, I was wrong, there — it's the only case in which there is a
fault to find with me. Bui had I no provocation ? Have I not
suffered ? I will have nothing more to do with the members of
my heartless family. The rest of my life is devoted to ints '

38?

HEART AND SCIENCE,

rlii

lectual society, and the ennobling pursuits of science. Let me
hear no more, sir, of you and your employers." She rose like a
queen, and bowed rne out of the room. I declare to you, my
tle«h 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 best man in the world has offered me a blank che<pie to till

in for he -and his name is Ovid Vere.*

As the season advanced, two social entertainments which
ofl'ered the most complete contrast to each other, were given in
London on the same evening.

Mr. and Mra Ovid Vere had a pleasant little dinner pai*ty
to celebrate their return. Teresa (advanced to the dignity of
housekeeper) insisted en stuffing the tomatoes and cooking the
macaroni with her owu 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 ho
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 news-
paper 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 repre-
sented. Those three superhuman men, who had each had a
peep behind the Veil of creation, »nd discovered the mystery of
life, attended the ^.«rty and became centres of three THrcles —
the circle that believed in ' protoplasm,' the circle that believed
in ' bioplasm,' and the circle that believed in * atomised charges
of electricity, conducted into the system by the oxygen of re-
spiration.' Lectures and demonstratioivi wei^t oq aU through

IIKAIIT AND SCIENCE.

nS!)

once. Let me
She rose like a
•e to you, my

e her in debt.'

ion what I am

needs money,

: che([uo to till

nments which
were given in

B dinner paii^y

the dignity of

nd cooking the

Lord and Lady

[r. MooL Mr.

1. While ho

er Ovid's roof.

cottage of his

rthlake's park.

r. The father

ayly yet.'

ty which filled

i in the news-

the evening, all over the magnificent room engaged for the occa-
sion. In one corner, a fair philoRophor in blue velvet and point
lace, took the Sun in hand. ' 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 con-
verted into stmorous 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 gratiHed intelligent curiosity by ex-
plorations on the staira Within the space of one remarkable
evening, three hundred illustrious people were charmed, sur-
prised, instructed, and amused ; and when Hcience went home,
it left a conversazione (for once) with its stomach will filled.
At tw ' in the morning, Mra Gallilee sat down in the empty
room t nd said to the learned friend who lived with her.
' At last, I'm a happj^ woman ! '

THE END,

Frofeftsors of
ind. France,
ervants with a
andly repre-
each had a
he mystery of
ree iSircles —
that believed
mised charges
oxygen of re-
in aU through