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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 10 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 ? ' 12 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- 1 BL.kRt AND SCIENCR. 13 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. u 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. 15 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 f\ 1 <', 16 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. 1^ 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. If 1^ i 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- i .; i HEAnr AND SClKiNCE. 10 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 20 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. 1 HEART AND SCIENCE. 21 *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 00 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. 23 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 ' >r H 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 i tiEART AND SCIENCE. 25 —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. 57 ^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. r Sho, the liece. te had not log killed. She had 'A •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 so 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. SI 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 32 HEART AND SCIENCE. in " 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. sn 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 1 \ u 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. 85 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 i 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 40 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. 41 ' ' 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 I 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. 43 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 44 I i! HEART AND SCIENCE. i !il ! ;! ! ! 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. 4o 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 ! i i ■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. 47 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 V I; " \i 50 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 V. eviving ielight- of the Jnd you tie hot- ilready turned merci- matter abrupt ^uardt Bsy fbr to let I HEART AND SCIENCE. 51 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. ti 52 HEART AND SCIENCE, IP 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 I HEART AND SCIENCE. 53 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- ' 54 HEART AND SCIENCE. P# 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. 55 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> 56 HEART AND SCIENCE. I 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 Lavvn 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 :i 58 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. a' if It 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. Gl ' 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 i: : ^" r ■it. > ■ r ll l ii l i V l i i yi i ' ii ■I ai (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. ' 11 my ies.' er'a len I 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 I tli ; :.MB.^aRK y: C4 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. C5 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; ','< f I, II II II 'I 66 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. 67 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 m V \i if i MWMW-riiiOfti «MpHw«i«|<^ . I . i'ii>jiii1illiii>1C, 68 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. dd u 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 ' I if ; ' 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. ?i 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. I ( 'II 7^^ 72 HEART AND SCIEKCE. II 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. 73 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. m .--^ 7'«nw;'-rriyj:'^*j^j'«r_" r-yr- 74 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. to 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, H i ■ r I '■; i ' i ' CHAPTER XTI. I 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. 77 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 r\\ M ill ssz I wmw^ww lliiiii ^^»l>■lf^^lHllil^^ m i J5' 78 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 tic ol( di4 h8 be B< HEART AND SCIENCE. 79 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 i 't 4 :H i ai i »*.•*«**.-;-.-■- t'MUf-i't'litteisasti : I! It 1 80 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 d| VI BKAET ANb SClEJiCE. 61 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 * I h' it , 1 ,: .: i < 'V ^S^.,^^ I 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. i s . ,r I 6i "EAliT AND SCIENCE. 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. s: 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 ? ' M i f! : I \ J: : l| ill If I f' ( SG 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 { 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 of aroi pell poif ap^ tei of I HEART AND SCIENCE. 80 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 y V i! i I I I ! 90 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. 91 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 ] ' M 11 1^ II 02 lifiAUT AND SCIENCE. it id k 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 m i- iU . u 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. 95 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„ w H I ! li I, ■i^^aes 'I '■ m 'ii on 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 ■fi f 1/ '% '■%., u " IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) //// y^ ^^ A 4io 1.0 I.I 1^ |2B 12.5 |J0 ■^™ ■■■ •^ 1^ |2.2 2.0 im 1 1.25 |U 1^ ^ 6" - ► I V] y r ^"[S ^i on /A Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MZSO (716)S72-4S03 '%%'' ) " " 08 HEART AND SCIENCE. ! « 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. 9d 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 "1 '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 M I 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 m 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. f 11% f» 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 f I, . / \ii Caruiina's eyes brighteued through her tears, the suggeation ,:Mi mi 5/ IOC HRART AND SCTENCE. !• ti 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 ' l! J jtsMmmmmmm fl HEART AND SCIKNTE. 107 J' 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>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 no —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,' f: t ) I f urn 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 " l! 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 :l % ;'.■ I I 'I' U i 1 l22 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 :li ft ^h f \ I I I '.'t E) .. V !' 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. fl ' ! »"':• m 1?0 heaut and sctencb. ■- ■ ■ . ■' ;i ; i ■ ■ ■ \ ' r 1 ?' ; 1 \ i '5 I* 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 t T1 1 i h it :| 1 • * ^ 1 1 ;i I, i t 1 ') ; 1 ''' ■ 1 ! , . ■ 1 1 ■i 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 ii 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- i ■j --■.■ * ih \ ■ i I I 1 130 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 , 1 II i