She started to her feet, roused to a frenzy of rage by her own recollections. Standing at the window, she looked down at the pavement of the courtyard—it was far enough below to kill her instantly if she fell on it. Through the heat of her anger there crept the chill and stealthy prompting of despair. She leaned over the window-sill—she was not afraid—she might have done it, but for a trifling interruption. Somebody spoke outside.

It was the parlour-maid. Instead of entering the room, she spoke through the open door. The woman was one of Miss Minerva's many enemies in the house. "Mrs. Gallilee wishes to see you," she said—and shut the door again, the instant the words were out of her mouth.

Mrs. Gallilee!

The very name was full of promise at that moment. It suggested hope—merciless hope.

She left the window, and consulted her looking-glass. Even to herself, her haggard face was terrible to see. She poured eau-de-cologne and water into her basin, and bathed her burning head and eyes. Her shaggy black hair stood in need of attention next. She took almost as much pains with it as if she had been going into the presence of Ovid himself. "I must make a calm appearance," she thought, still as far as ever from suspecting that her employer had guessed her secret, "or his mother may find me out." Her knees trembled under her. She sat down for a minute to rest.

Was she merely wanted for some ordinary domestic consultation? or was there really a chance of hearing the question of Ovid and Carmina brought forward at the coming interview?

She believed what she hoped: she believed that the time had come when Mrs. Gallilee had need of an ally—perhaps of an accomplice. Only let her object be the separation of the two cousins—and Miss Minerva was eager to help her, in either capacity. Suppose she was too cautious to mention her object? Miss Minerva was equally ready for her employer, in that case. The doubt which had prompted her fruitless suggestions to Carmina, when they were alone in the young girl's room—the doubt whether a clue to the discovery of Mrs. Gallilee's motives might not be found, in that latter part of the Will which she had failed to overhear—was as present as ever in the governess's mind. "The learned lady is not infallible," she thought as she entered Mrs. Gallilee's room. "If one unwary word trips over her tongue, I shall pick it up!"

Mrs. Gallilee's manner was encouraging at the outset. She had left her writing-table; and she now presented herself, reclining in an easy chair, weary and discouraged—the picture of a woman in want of a helpful friend.

"My head aches with adding up figures, and writing letters," she said. "I wish you would finish my correspondence for me."

Miss Minerva took her place at the desk. She at once discovered the unfinished correspondence to be a false pretence. Three cheques for charitable subscriptions, due at that date, were waiting to be sent to three secretaries, with the customary letters. In five minutes, the letters were ready for the post. "Anything more?" Miss Minerva asked.

"Not that I remember. Do you mind giving me my fan? I feel perfectly helpless—I am wretchedly depressed to-day."

"The heat, perhaps?"

"No. The expenses. Every year, the demands on our resources seem to increase. On principle, I dislike living up to our income—and I am obliged to do it."

Here, plainly revealed to the governess's experienced eyes, was another false pretence—used to introduce the true object of the interview, as something which might accidentally suggest itself in the course of conversation. Miss Minerva expressed the necessary regret with innocent readiness. "Might I suggest economy?" she asked with impenetrable gravity.

"Admirably advised," Mrs. Gallilee admitted; "but how is it to be done? Those subscriptions, for instance, are more than I ought to give. And what happens if I lower the amount? I expose myself to unfavourable comparison with other people of our rank in society."

Miss Minerva still patiently played the part expected of her. "You might perhaps do with only one carriage-horse," she remarked.

"My good creature, look at the people who have only one carriage-horse! Situated as I am, can I descend to that level? Don't suppose I care two straws about such things, myself. My one pride and pleasure in life is the pride and pleasure of improving my mind. But I have Lady Northlake for a sister; and I must not be entirely unworthy of my family connections. I have two daughters; and I must think of their interests. In a few years, Maria will be presented at Court. Thanks to you, she will be one of the most accomplished girls in England. Think of Maria's mother in a one-horse chaise. Dear child! tell me all about her lessons. Is she getting on as well as ever?"

"Examine her yourself, Mrs. Gallilee. I can answer for the result."

"No, Miss Minerva! I have too much confidence in you to do anything of the kind. Besides, in one of the most important of Maria's accomplishments, I am entirely dependent on yourself. I know nothing of music. You are not responsible for her progress in that direction. Still, I should like to know if you are satisfied with Maria's music?"

"Quite satisfied."

"You don't think she is getting—how can I express it?—shall I say beyond the reach of Mr. Le Frank's teaching?"

"Certainly not."

"Perhaps you would consider Mr. Le Frank equal to the instruction of an older and more advanced pupil than Maria?"

Thus far, Miss Minerva had answered the questions submitted to her with well-concealed indifference. This last inquiry roused her attention. Why did Mrs. Gallilee show an interest, for the first time, in Mr. Le Frank's capacity as a teacher? Who was this "older and more advanced pupil," for whose appearance in the conversation the previous questions had so smoothly prepared the way? Feeling delicate ground under her, the governess advanced cautiously.

"I have always thought Mr. Le Frank an excellent teacher," she said.

"Can you give me no more definite answer than that?" Mrs. Gallilee asked.

"I am quite unacquainted, madam, with the musical proficiency of the pupil to whom you refer. I don't even know (which adds to my perplexity) whether you are speaking of a lady or a gentleman."

"I am speaking," said Mrs. Gallilee quietly, "of my niece, Carmina."

Those words set all further doubt at rest in Miss Minerva's mind. Introduced by such elaborate preparation, the allusion to Carmina's name could only lead, in due course, to the subject of Carmina's marriage. By indirect methods of approach, Mrs. Gallilee had at last reached the object that she had in view.



CHAPTER XXII.

There was an interval of silence between the two ladies.

Mrs. Gallilee waited for Miss Minerva to speak next. Miss Minerva waited to be taken into Mrs. Gallilee's confidence. The sparrows twittered in the garden; and, far away in the schoolroom, the notes of the piano announced that the music lesson had begun.

"The birds are noisy," said Mrs. Gallilee.

"And the piano sounds out of tune," Miss Minerva remarked.

There was no help for it. Either Mrs. Gallilee must return to the matter in hand—-or the matter in hand must drop.

"I am afraid I have not made myself understood," she resumed.

"I am afraid I have been very stupid," Miss Minerva confessed.

Resigning herself to circumstances, Mrs. Gallilee put the adjourned question under a new form. "We were speaking of Mr. Le Frank as a teacher, and of my niece as a pupil," she said. "Have you been able to form any opinion of Carmina's musical abilities?"

Miss Minerva remained as prudent as ever. She answered, "I have had no opportunity of forming an opinion."

Mrs. Gallilee met this cautious reply by playing her trump card. She handed a letter to Miss Minerva. "I have received a proposal from Mr. Le Frank," she said. "Will you tell me what you think of it?"

The letter was short and servile. Mr. Le Frank presented his best respects. If Mrs. Gallilee's charming niece stood in need of musical instruction, he ventured to hope that he might have the honour and happiness of superintending her studies. Looking back to the top of the letter, the governess discovered that this modest request bore a date of eight days since. "Have you written to Mr. Le Frank?" she asked.

"Only to say that I will take his request into consideration," Mrs. Gallilee replied.

Had she waited for her son's departure, before she committed herself to a decision? On the chance that this might be the case, Miss Minerva consulted her memory. When Mrs. Gallilee first decided on engaging a music-master to teach the children, her son had disapproved of employing Mr. Le Frank. This circumstance might possibly be worth bearing in mind. "Do you see any objection to accepting Mr. Le Frank's proposal?" Mrs. Gallilee asked. Miss Minerva saw an objection forthwith, and, thanks to her effort of memory, discovered an especially mischievous way of stating it. "I feel a certain delicacy in offering an opinion," she said modestly.

Mrs. Gallilee was surprised. "Do you allude to Mr. Le Frank?" she inquired.

"No. I don't doubt that his instructions would be of service to any young lady."

"Are you thinking of my niece?"

"No, Mrs. Gallilee. I am thinking of your son."

"In what way, if you please?"

"In this way. I believe your son would object to employing Mr. Le Frank as Miss Carmina's teacher."

"On musical grounds?"

"No; on personal grounds."

"What do you mean?"

Miss Minerva explained her meaning. "I think you have forgotten what happened, when you first employed Mr. Le Frank to teach Maria and Zoe. His personal appearance produced an unfavourable impression on your son; and Mr. Ovid made certain inquiries which you had not thought necessary. Pardon me if I persist in mentioning the circumstances. I owe it to myself to justify my opinion—an opinion, you will please to remember, that I did not volunteer. Mr. Ovid's investigations brought to light a very unpleasant report, relating to Mr. Le Frank and a young lady who had been one of his pupils."

"An abominable slander, Miss Minerva! I am surprised that you should refer to it."

"I am referring, madam, to the view of the matter taken by Mr. Ovid. If Mr. Le Frank had failed to defend himself successfully, he would of course not have been received into this house. But your son had his own opinion of the defence. I was present at the time, and I heard him say that, if Maria and Zoe had been older, he should have advised employing a music-master who had no false reports against him to contradict. As they were only children, he would say nothing more. That is what I had in my mind, when I gave my opinion. I think Mr. Ovid will be annoyed when he hears that Mr. Le Frank is his cousin's music-master. And, if any foolish gossip reaches him in his absence, I fear it might lead to mischievous results—I mean, to misunderstandings not easily set right by correspondence, and quite likely therefore to lead, in the end, to distrust and jealousy."

There she paused, and crossed her hands on her lap, and waited for what was to come next.

If Mrs. Gallilee could have looked into her mind at that moment as well as into her face, she would have read Miss Minerva's thoughts in these plain terms: "All this time, madam, you have been keeping up appearances in the face of detection. You are going to use Mr. Le Frank as a means of making mischief between Ovid and Carmina. If you had taken me into your confidence, I might have been willing to help you. As it is, please observe that I am not caught in the trap you have set for me. If Mr. Ovid discovers your little plot, you can't lay the blame on your governess's advice."

Mrs. Gallilee felt that she had again measured herself with Miss Minerva, and had again been beaten. She had confidently reckoned on the governess's secret feeling towards her son to encourage, without hesitation or distrust, any project for promoting the estrangement of Ovid and Carmina. There was no alternative now but to put her first obstacle in the way of the marriage, on her own sole responsibility.

"I don't doubt that you have spoken sincerely," she said; "but you have failed to do justice to my son's good sense; and you are—naturally enough, in your position—incapable of estimating his devoted attachment to Carmina." Having planted that sting, she paused to observe the effect. Not the slightest visible result rewarded her. She went on. "Almost the last words he said to me expressed his confidence—his affectionate confidence—in my niece. The bare idea of his being jealous of anybody, and especially of such a person as Mr. Le Frank, is simply ridiculous. I am astonished that you don't see it in that light."

"I should see it in that light as plainly as you do," Miss Minerva quietly replied, "if Mr. Ovid was at home."

"What difference does that make?"

"Excuse me—it makes a great difference, as I think. He has gone away on a long journey, and gone away in bad health. He will have his hours of depression. At such times, trifles are serious things; and even well-meant words—in letters—are sometimes misunderstood. I can offer no better apology for what I have said; and I can only regret that I have made so unsatisfactory a return for your flattering confidence in me."

Having planted her sting, she rose to retire.

"Have you any further commands for me?" she asked.

"I should like to be quite sure that I have not misunderstood you," said Mrs. Gallilee. "You consider Mr. Le Frank to be competent, as director of any young lady's musical studies? Thank you. On the one point on which I wished to consult you, my mind is at ease. Do you know where Carmina is?"

"In her room, I believe."

"Will you have the goodness to send her here?"

"With the greatest pleasure. Good-evening!"

So ended Mrs. Gallilee's first attempt to make use of Miss Minerva, without trusting her.



CHAPTER XXIII.

The mistress of the house, and the governess of the house, had their own special reasons for retiring to their own rooms. Carmina was in solitude as a matter of necessity. The only friends that the poor girl could gather round her now, were the absent and the dead.

She had written to Ovid—merely for the pleasure of thinking that her letter would accompany him, in the mail-steamer which took him to Quebec. She had written to Teresa. She had opened her piano, and had played the divinely beautiful music of Mozart, until its tenderness saddened her, and she closed the instrument with an aching heart. For a while she sat by the window, thinking of Ovid. The decline of day has its melancholy affinities with the decline of life. As the evening wore on, her loneliness had become harder and harder to endure. She rang for the maid, and asked if Miss Minerva was at leisure. Miss Minerva had been sent for by Mrs. Gallilee. Where was Zo? In the schoolroom, waiting until Mr. Le Frank had done with Maria, to take her turn at the piano. Left alone again, Carmina opened her locket, and put Ovid's portrait by it on the table. Her sad fancy revived her dead parents—imagined her lover being presented to them—saw him winning their hearts by his genial voice, his sweet smile, his wise and kindly words. Miss Minerva, entering the room, found her still absorbed in her own little melancholy daydream; recalling the absent, reviving the dead—as if she had been nearing the close of life. And only seventeen years old. Alas for Carmina, only seventeen!

"Mrs. Gallilee wishes to see you."

She started. "Is there anything wrong?" she asked.

"No. What makes you think so?"

"You speak in such a strange way. Oh, Frances, I have been longing for you to keep me company! And now you are here, you look at me as coldly as if I had offended you. Perhaps you are not well?"

"That's it. I am not well."

"Have some of my lavender water! Let me bathe your forehead, and then blow on it to cool you this hot weather. No? Sit down, dear, at any rate. What does my aunt want with me?"

"I think I had better not tell you."

"Why?"

"Your aunt is sure to ask you what I have said. I have tried her temper; you know what her temper is! She has sent me here instead of sending a maid, on the chance that I may commit some imprudence. I give you her message exactly as the servant might have given it—and you can tell her so with a safe conscience. No more questions!"

"One more, please. Is it anything about Ovid?"

"No."

"Then my aunt can wait a little. Do sit down! I want to speak to you."

"About what?"

"About Ovid, of course!"

Carmina's look and tone at once set Miss Minerva's mind at ease. Her conduct, on the day of Ovid's departure, had aroused no jealous suspicion in her innocent rival. She refused to take the offered chair.

"I have already told you your aunt is out of temper," she said. "Go to her at once."

Carmina rose unwillingly. "There were so many things I wanted to say to you," she began—and was interrupted by a rapid little series of knocks at the door. Was the person in a hurry? The person proved to be the discreet and accomplished Maria. She made her excuses to Carmina with sweetness, and turned to Miss Minerva with sorrow.

"I regret to say that you are wanted in the schoolroom. Mr. Le Frank can do nothing with Zoe. Oh, dear!" She sighed over her sister's wickedness, and waited for instructions.

To be called away, under any circumstances, was a relief to Miss Minerva. Carmina's affectionate welcome had irritated her in the most incomprehensible manner. She was angry with herself for being irritated; she felt inclined to abuse the girl for believing her. "You fool, why don't you see through me? Why don't you write to that other fool who is in love with you, and tell him how I hate you both?" But for her self-command, she might have burst out with such mad words as those. Maria's appearance was inexpressibly welcome. "Say I will follow you directly," she answered.

Maria, in the language of the stage, made a capital exit. With a few hurried words of apology, Miss Minerva prepared to follow. Carmina stopped her at the door.

"Don't be hard on Zo!" she said.

"I must do my duty," Miss Minerva answered sternly.

"We were sometimes naughty ourselves when we were children," Carmina pleaded. "And only the other day she had bread and water for tea. I am so fond of Zo! And besides—" she looked doubtfully at Miss Minerva—"I don't think Mr. Le Frank is the sort of man to get on with children."

After what had just passed between Mrs. Gallilee and herself, this expression of opinion excited the governess's curiosity. "What makes you say that?" she asked.

"Well, my dear, for one thing Mr. Le Frank is so ugly. Don't you agree with me?"

"I think you had better keep your opinion to yourself. If he heard of it—"

"Is he vain? My poor father used to say that all bad musicians were vain."

"You don't call Mr. Le Frank a bad musician?"

"Oh, but I do! I heard him at his concert. Mere execution of the most mechanical kind. A musical box is as good as that man's playing. This is how he does it!"

Her girlish good spirits had revived in her friend's company. She turned gaily to the piano, and amused herself by imitating Mr. Le Frank.

Another knock at the door—a single peremptory knock this time—stopped the performance.

Miss Minerva had left the door ajar, when Carmina had prevented her from quitting the room. She looked through the open space, and discovered—Mr. Le Frank.

His bald head trembled, his florid complexion was livid with suppressed rage. "That little devil has run away!" he said—and hurried down the stairs again, as if he dare not trust himself to utter a word more.

"Has he heard me?" Carmina asked in dismay.

"He may only have heard you playing."

Offering this hopeful suggestion, Miss Minerva felt no doubt, in her own mind, that Mr. Le Frank was perfectly well acquainted with Carmina's opinion of him. It was easy enough to understand that he should himself inform the governess of an incident, so entirely beyond the reach of his own interference as the flight of Zo. But it was impossible to assume that the furious anger which his face betrayed, could have been excited by a child who had run away from a lesson. No: the vainest of men and musicians had heard that he was ugly, and that his pianoforte-playing resembled the performance of a musical box.

They left the room together—Carmina, ill at ease, to attend on her aunt; Miss Minerva, pondering on what had happened, to find the fugitive Zo.

The footman had already spared her the trouble of searching the house. He had seen Zo running out bare-headed into the Square, and had immediately followed her. The young rebel was locked up. "I don't care," said Zo; "I hate Mr. Le Frank!" Miss Minerva's mind was too seriously preoccupied to notice this aggravation of her pupil's offence. One subject absorbed her attention—the interview then in progress between Carmina and her aunt.

How would Mrs. Gallilee's scheme prosper now? Mr. Le Frank might, or might not, consent to be Carmina's teacher. Another result, however, was certain. Miss Minerva thoroughly well knew the vindictive nature of the man. He neither forgave nor forgot—he was Carmina's enemy for life.



CHAPTER XXIV.

The month of July was near its end.

On the morning of the twenty-eighth, Carmina was engaged in replying to a letter received from Teresa. Her answer contained a record of domestic events, during an interval of serious importance in her life under Mrs. Gallilee's roof. Translated from the Italian, the letter was expressed in these terms:

"Are you vexed with me, dearest, for this late reply to your sad news from Italy? I have but one excuse to offer.

"Can I hear of your anxiety about your husband, and not feel the wish to help you to bear your burden by writing cheerfully of myself? Over and over again, I have thought of you and have opened my desk. My spirits have failed me, and I have shut it up again. Am I now in a happier frame of mind? Yes, my good old nurse, I am happier. I have had a letter from Ovid.

"He has arrived safely at Quebec, and he is beginning to feel better already, after the voyage. You cannot imagine how beautifully, how tenderly he writes! I am almost reconciled to his absence, when I read his letter. Will that give you some idea of the happiness and the consolation that I owe to this best and dearest of men?

"Ah, my old granny, I see you start, and make that favourite mark with your thumb-nail under the word 'consolation'! I hear you say to yourself, 'Is she unhappy in her English home? And is Aunt Gallilee to blame for it?' Yes! it is even so. What I would not for the whole world write to Ovid, I may confess to you. Aunt Gallilee is indeed a hard, hard woman.

"Do you remember telling me, in your dear downright way, that Mr. Le Frank looked like a rogue? I don't know whether he is a rogue—but I do know that it is through his conduct that my aunt is offended with me.

"It happened three weeks ago.

"She sent for me, and said that my education must be completed, and that my music in particular must be attended to. I was quite willing to obey her, and I said so with all needful readiness and respect. She answered that she had already chosen a music-master for me—and then, to my astonishment, she mentioned his name. Mr. Le Frank, who taught her children, was also to teach me! I have plenty of faults, but I really think vanity is not one of them. It is only due to my excellent master in Italy to say, that I am a better pianoforte player than Mr. Le Frank.

"I never breathed a word of this, mind, to my aunt. It would have been ungrateful and useless. She knows and cares nothing about music.

"So we parted good friends, and she wrote the same evening to engage my master. The next day she got his reply. Mr. Le Frank refused to be my professor of music—and this, after he had himself proposed to teach me, in a letter addressed to my aunt! Being asked for his reasons, he made an excuse. The spare time at his disposal, when he had written, had been since occupied by another pupil. The true reason for his conduct is, that he heard me speak of him—rashly enough, I don't deny it—as an ugly man and a bad player. Miss Minerva sounded him on the subject, at my request, for the purpose of course of making my apologies. He affected not to understand what she meant—with what motive I am sure I don't know. False and revengeful, you may say, and perhaps you may be right. But the serious part of it, so far as I am concerned, is my aunt's behaviour to me. If I had thwarted her in the dearest wish of her life, she could hardly treat me with greater coldness and severity. She has not stirred again, in the matter of my education. We only meet at meal-times; and she receives me, when I sit down at table, as she might receive a perfect stranger. Her icy civility is unendurable. And this woman is my darling Ovid's mother!

"Have I done with my troubles now? No, Teresa; not even yet. Oh, how I wish I was with you in Italy!

"Your letters persist in telling me that I am deluded in believing Miss Minerva to be truly my friend. Do pray remember—even if I am wrong—what a solitary position mine is, in Mrs. Gallilee's house! I can play with dear little Zo; but whom can I talk to, whom can I confide in, if it turns out that Miss Minerva has been deceiving me?

"When I wrote to you, I refused to acknowledge that any such dreadful discovery as this could be possible; I resented the bare idea of it as a cruel insult to my friend. Since that time—my face burns with shame while I write it—I am a little, just a little, shaken in my own opinion.

"Shall I tell you how it began? Yes; I will.

"My good old friend, you have your prejudices. But you speak your mind truly—and whom else can I consult? Not Ovid! The one effort of my life is to prevent him from feeling anxious about me. And, besides, I have contended against his opinion of Miss Minerva, and have brought him to think of her more kindly. Has he been right, notwithstanding? and are you right? And am I alone wrong? You shall judge for yourself.

"Miss Minerva began to change towards me, after I had done the thing of all others which ought to have brought us closer together than ever. She is very poorly paid by my aunt, and she has been worried by little debts. When she owned this, I most willingly lent her the money to pay her bills—a mere trifle, only thirty pounds. What do you think she did? She crushed up the bank-notes in her hand, and left the room in the strangest headlong manner—as if I had insulted her instead of helping her! All the next day, she avoided me. The day after, I myself went to her room, and asked what was the matter. She gave me a most extraordinary answer. She said, 'I don't know which of us two I most detest—myself or you. Myself for borrowing your money, or you for lending it.' I left her; not feeling offended, only bewildered and distressed. More than an hour passed before she made her excuses. 'I am ill and miserable'—that was all she said. She did indeed look so wretched that I forgave her directly. Would you not have done so too, in my place?

"This happened a fortnight since. Only yesterday, she broke out again, and put my affection for her to a far more severe trial. I have not got over it yet.

"There was a message for her in Ovid's letter—expressed in the friendliest terms. He remembered with gratitude her kind promise, on saying good-bye; he believed she would do all that lay in her power to make my life happy in his absence; and he only regretted her leaving him in such haste that he had no time to thank her personally. Such was the substance of the message. I was proud and pleased to go to her room myself, and read it to her.

"Can you guess how she received me? Nobody—I say it positively—nobody could guess.

"She actually flew into a rage! Not only with me (which I might have pardoned), but with Ovid (which is perfectly inexcusable). 'How dare he write to you,' she burst out, 'of what I said to him when we took leave of each other? And how dare you come here, and read it to me? What do I care about your life, in his absence? Of what earthly consequence are his remembrance and his gratitude to Me!' She spoke of him, with such fury and such contempt, that she roused me at last. I said to her, 'You abominable woman, there is but one excuse for you—you're mad!' I left the room—and didn't I bang the door! We have not met since. Let me hear your opinion, Teresa. I was in a passion when I told her she was mad; but was I altogether wrong? Do you really think the poor creature is in her right senses?

"Looking back at your letter, I see that you ask if I have made any new acquaintances.

"I have been introduced to one of the sweetest women I ever met with. And who do you think she is? My other aunt—Mrs. Gallilee's younger sister, Lady Northlake! They say she was not so handsome as Mrs. Gallilee, when they were both young. For my part, I can only declare that no such comparison is possible between them now. In look, in voice, in manner there is something so charming in Lady Northlake that I quite despair of describing it. My father used to say that she was amiable and weak; led by her husband, and easily imposed upon. I am not clever enough to have his eye for character: and perhaps I am weak and easily imposed upon too. Before I had been ten minutes in Lady Northlake's company, I would have given everything I possess in the world to have had her for my guardian.

"She had called to say good-bye, on leaving London; and my aunt was not at home. We had a long delightful talk together. She asked me so kindly to visit her in Scotland, and be introduced to Lord Northlake, that I accepted the invitation with a glad heart.

"When my aunt returned, I quite forgot that we were on bad terms. I gave her an enthusiastic account of all that had passed between her sister and myself. How do you think she met this little advance on my part? She positively refused to let me go to Scotland.

"As soon as I had in some degree got over my disappointment, I asked for her reasons. 'I am your guardian,' she said; 'and I am acting in the exercise of my own discretion. I think it better you should stay with me.' I made no further remark. My aunt's cruelty made me think of my dead father's kindness. It was as much as I could do to keep from crying.

"Thinking over it afterwards, I supposed (as this is the season when everybody leaves town) that she had arranged to take me into the country with her. Mr. Gallilee, who is always good to me, thought so too, and promised me some sailing at the sea-side. To the astonishment of everybody, she has not shown any intention of going away from London! Even the servants ask what it means.

"This is a letter of complaints. Am I adding to your anxieties instead of relieving them? My kind old nurse, there is no need to be anxious. At the worst of my little troubles, I have only to think of Ovid—and his mother's ice melts away from me directly; I feel brave enough to endure anything.

"Take my heart's best love, dear—no, next best love, after Ovid!—and give some of it to your poor suffering husband. May I ask one little favour? The English gentleman who has taken our old house at Rome, will not object to give you a few flowers out of what was once my garden. Send them to me in your next letter."



CHAPTER XXV.

On the twelfth of August, Carmina heard from Ovid again. He wrote from Montreal; describing the presentation of that letter of introduction which he had once been tempted to destroy. In the consequences that followed the presentation—apparently harmless consequences at the time—the destinies of Ovid, of Carmina, and of Benjulia proved to be seriously involved.

Ovid's letter was thus expressed:

"I want to know, my love, if there is any other man in the world who is as fond of his darling as I am of you? If such a person exists, and if adverse circumstances compel him to travel, I should like to ask a question. Is he perpetually calling to mind forgotten things, which he ought to have said to his sweetheart before he left her?

"This is my case. Let me give you an instance.

"I have made a new friend here—one Mr. Morphew. Last night, he was so kind as to invite me to a musical entertainment at his house. He is a medical man; and he amuses himself in his leisure hours by playing on that big and dreary member of the family of fiddles, whose name is Violoncello. Assisted by friends, he hospitably cools his guests, in the hot season, by the amateur performance of quartets. My dear, I passed a delightful evening. Listening to the music? Not listening to a single note of it. Thinking of You.

"Have I roused your curiosity? I fancy I can see your eyes brighten; I fancy I can hear you telling me to go on!

"My thoughts reminded me that music is one of the enjoyments of your life. Before I went away, I ought to have remembered this, and to have told you that the manager of the autumn concerts at the opera-house is an old friend of mine. He will be only too glad to place a box at your disposal, on any night when his programme attracts your notice; I have already made amends for my forgetfulness, by writing to him by this mail. Miss Minerva will be your companion at the theatre. If Mr. Le Frank (who is sure to be on the free list) pays you a visit in your box, tell him from me to put a wig on his bald head, and to try if that will make him look like an honest man!

"Did I forget anything else before my departure? Did I tell you how precious you are to me? how beautiful you are to me? how entirely worthless my life is without you? I dare say I did; but I tell it all over again—and, when you are tired of the repetition, you have only to let me know.

"In the meanwhile, have I nothing else to say? have I no travelling adventures to relate? You insist on hearing of everything that happens to me; and you are to have your own way before we are married, as well as after. My sweet Carmina, your willing slave has something more serious than common travelling adventures to relate—he has a confession to make. In plain words, I have been practising my profession again, in the city of Montreal!

"I wonder whether you will forgive me, when you are informed of the circumstances? It is a sad little story; but I am vain enough to think that my part in it will interest you. I have been a vain man, since that brightest and best of all possible days when you first made your confession—when you said that you loved me.

"Look back in my letter, and you will see Mr. Morphew mentioned as a new friend of mine, in Canada. I became acquainted with him through a letter of introduction, given to me by Benjulia.

"Say nothing to anybody of what I am now going to tell you—and be especially careful, if you happen to see him, to keep Benjulia in the dark. I sincerely hope you will not see him. He is a hard-hearted man—and he might say something which would distress you, if he knew of the result which has followed his opening to me the door of his friend's house.

"Mr. Morphew is a worthy busy old gentleman, who follows his professional routine, and whose medical practice consists principally in bringing infant Canadians into the world. His services happened to be specially in request, at the time when I made his acquaintance. He was called away from his table, on the day after the musical party, when I dined with him. I was the only guest—and his wife was left to entertain me.

"The good lady began by speaking of Benjulia. She roundly declared him to be a brute—and she produced my letter of introduction (closed by the doctor's own hand, before he gave it to me) as a proof. Would you like to read the letter, too? Here is a copy:—'The man who brings this is an overworked surgeon, named Ovid Vere. He wants rest and good air. Don't encourage him to use his brains; and give him information enough to take him, by the shortest way, to the biggest desert in Canada.' You will now understand that I am indebted to myself for the hospitable reception which has detained me at Montreal.

"To return to my story. Mr. Morphew's services were again in request, ten minutes after he had left the house. This time the patient was a man—and the messenger declared that he was at the point of death.

"Mrs. Morphew seemed to be at a loss what to do. 'In this dreadful case,' she said, 'death is a mercy. What I cannot bear to think of is the poor man's lonely position. In his last moments, there will not be a living creature at his bedside.'

"Hearing this, I ventured to make some inquiries. The answers painted such a melancholy picture of poverty and suffering, and so vividly reminded me of a similar case in my own experience, that I forgot I was an invalid myself, and volunteered to visit the dying man in Mr. Morphew's place.

"The messenger led me to the poorest quarter of the city and to a garret in one of the wretchedest houses in the street. There he lay, without anyone to nurse him, on a mattress on the floor. What his malady was, you will not ask to know. I will only say that any man but a doctor would have run out of the room, the moment he entered it. To save the poor creature was impossible. For a few days longer, I could keep pain in subjection, and could make death easy when it came.

"At my next visit he was able to speak.

"I discovered that he was a member of my own profession—a mulatto from the Southern States of America, by birth. The one fatal event of his life had been his marriage. Every worst offence of which a bad woman can be guilty, his vile wife had committed—and his infatuated love clung to her through it all. She had disgraced and ruined him. Not once, but again and again he had forgiven her, under circumstances which degraded him in his own estimation, and in the estimation of his best friends. On the last occasion when she left him, he had followed her to Montreal. In a fit of drunken frenzy, she had freed him from her at last by self-destruction. Her death affected his reason. When he was discharged from the asylum, he spent his last miserable savings in placing a monument over her grave. As long as his strength held out, he made daily pilgrimages to the cemetery. And now, when the shadow of death was darkening over him, his one motive for clinging to life, his one reason for vainly entreating me to cure him, still centred in devotion to the memory of his wife. 'Nobody will take care of her grave,' he said, 'when I am gone.'

"My love, I have always thought fondly of you. After hearing this miserable story, my heart overflowed with gratitude to God for giving me Carmina.

"He died yesterday. His last words implored me to have him buried in the same grave with the woman who had dishonoured him. Who am I that I should judge him? Besides, I shall fulfil his last wishes as a thank-offering for You.

"There is still something more to tell.

"On the day before his death he asked me to open an old portmanteau—literally, the one thing that he possessed. He had no money left, and no clothes. In a corner of the portmanteau there was a roll of papers, tied with a piece of string—and that was all.

"I can make you but one return,' he said; 'I give you my book.'

"He was too weak to tell me what the book was about, or to express any wish relative to its publication. I am ashamed to say I set no sort of value on the manuscript presented to me—except as a memorial of a sad incident in my life. Waking earlier than usual this morning, I opened and examined my gift for the first time.

"To my amazement, I found myself rewarded a hundredfold for the little that I had been able to do. This unhappy man must have been possessed of abilities which (under favouring circumstances) would, I don't hesitate to say, have ranked him among the greatest physicians of our time. The language in which he writes is obscure, and sometimes grammatically incorrect. But he, and he alone, has solved a problem in the treatment of disease, which has thus far been the despair of medical men throughout the whole civilised world.

"If a stranger was looking over my shoulder, he would be inclined to say, This curious lover writes to his young lady as if she was a medical colleague! We understand each other, Carmina, don't we? My future career is an object of interest to my future wife. This poor fellow's gratitude has opened new prospects to me; and who will be so glad to hear of it as you?

"Before I close my letter, you will expect me to say a word more about my health. Sometimes I feel well enough to take my cabin in the next vessel that sails for Liverpool. But there are other occasions, particularly when I happen to over-exert myself in walking or riding, which warn me to be careful and patient. My next journey will take me inland, to the mighty plains and forest of this grand country. When I have breathed the health-giving air of those regions, I shall be able to write definitely of the blessed future day which is to unite us once more.

"My mother has, I suppose, given her usual conversazione at the end of the season. Let me hear how you like the scientific people at close quarters, and let me give you a useful hint. When you meet in society with a particularly positive man, who looks as if he was sitting for his photograph, you may safely set that man down as a Professor.

"Seriously, I do hope that you and my mother get on well together. You say too little of each other in your letters to me, and I am sometimes troubled by misgivings. There is another odd circumstance, connected with our correspondence, which sets me wondering. I always send messages to Miss Minerva; and Miss Minerva never sends any messages back to me. Do you forget? or am I an object of perfect indifference to your friend?

"My latest news of you all is from Zo. She has sent me a letter, in one of the envelopes that I directed for her when I went away. Miss Minerva's hair would stand on end if she could see the blots and the spelling. Zo's account of the family circle (turned into intelligible English), will I think personally interest you. Here it is, in its own Roman brevity—with your pretty name shortened to two syllables: 'Except Pa and Car, we are a bad lot at home.' After that, I can add nothing that is worth reading.

"Take the kisses, my angel, that I leave for you on the blank morsel of paper below, and love me as I love you. There is a world of meaning, Carmina, even in those commonplace words. Oh, if I could only go to you by the mail steamer, in the place of my letter!"



CHAPTER XXVI.

The answers to Ovid's questions were not to be found in Carmina's reply. She had reasons for not mentioning the conversazione; and she shrank from writing to him of his mother. Her true position in Mrs. Gallilee's house—growing, day by day, harder and harder to endure; threatening, more and more plainly, complications and perils to come—was revealed in her next letter to her old friend in Italy. She wrote to Teresa in these words:

"If you love me, forget the inhuman manner in which I have spoken of Miss Minerva!

"After I had written to you, I would have recalled my letter, if it could have been done. I began, that evening, to feel ashamed of what I had said in my anger. As the hours went on, and bedtime approached, I became so wretched that I ran the risk of another harsh reception, by intruding on her once more. It was a circumstance in my favour that she was, to all appearance, in bad spirits too. There was something in her voice, when she asked what I wanted, which made me think—though she looks like the last person in the world to be guilty of such weakness—that she had been crying.

"I gave the best expression I could to my feelings of repentance and regret. What I actually said to her, has slipped out of my memory; I was frightened and upset—and I am always stupid in that condition. My attempt at reconciliation may have been clumsy enough; but she might surely have seen that I had no intention to mystify and distress her. And yet, what else could she have imagined?—to judge by her own actions and words.

"Her bedroom candle was on the table behind me. She snatched it up and held it before my face, and looked at me as if I was some extraordinary object that she had never seen or heard of before! 'You are little better than a child,' she said; 'I have ten times your strength of will—what is there in you that I can't resist? Go away from me! Be on your guard against me! I am false; I am suspicious; I am cruel. You simpleton, have you no instincts to protect you? Is there nothing in you that shrinks from me?'

"She put down the candle, and burst into a wretched mocking laugh. 'There she stands,' cried this strange creature, 'and looks at me with the eyes of a baby that sees something new! I can't frighten her. I can't disgust her. What does it mean?' She dropped into a chair; her voice sank almost to a whisper—I should have thought she was afraid of me, if such a thing had been possible. 'What do you know of me, that I don't know of myself?' she asked.

"It was quite beyond me to understand what she meant. I took a chair, and sat down by her. 'I only know what you said to me yesterday,' I answered.

"'What did I say?'

"'You told me you were miserable.'

"'I told you a lie! Believe what I have said to you to-day. In your own interests, believe it to be the truth!'

"Nothing would induce me to believe it. 'No,' I said. 'You were miserable yesterday, and you are miserable to-day. That is the truth!'

"What put my next bold words into my head, I don't know. It doesn't matter; the thought was in me—and out it came.

"'I think you have some burden on your mind,' I went on. 'If I can't relieve you of it, perhaps I can help you bear it. Come! tell me what it is.' I waited; but it was of no use—she never even looked at me. Because I am in love myself, do I think everybody else is like me? I thought she blushed. I don't know what else I thought. 'Are you in love?' I asked.

"She jumped up from her chair, so suddenly and so violently that she threw it on the floor. Still, not a word passed her lips. I found courage enough to go on—but not courage enough to look at her.

"'I love Ovid, and Ovid loves me,' I said. 'There is my consolation, whatever my troubles may be. Are you not so fortunate?' A dreadful expression of pain passed over her face. How could I see it, and not feel the wish to sympathise with her? I ran the risk, and said, 'Do you love somebody, who doesn't love you?'

"She turned her back on me, and went to the toilet-table. I think she looked at herself in the glass. 'Well,' she said, speaking to me at last, 'what else?'

"'Nothing else,' I answered—'except that I hope I have not offended you.'

"She left the glass as suddenly as she had approached it, and took up the candle again. Once more she held it so that it lit my face.

"'Guess who he is,' she said.

"'How can I do that?' I asked.

"She quietly put down the candle again. In some way, quite incomprehensible to myself, I seemed to have relieved her. She spoke to me in a changed voice, gently and sadly.

"You are the best of good girls, and you mean kindly. It's of no use—you can do nothing. Forgive my insolence yesterday; I was mad with envy of your happy marriage engagement. You don't understand such a nature as mine. So much the better! ah, so much the better! Good-night!'

"There was such hopeless submission, such patient suffering, in those words, that I could not find it in my heart to leave her. I thought of how I might have behaved, of the wild things I might have said, if Ovid had cared nothing for me. Had some cruel man forsaken her? That was her secret. I asked myself what I could do to encourage her. Your last letter, with our old priest's enclosure, was in my pocket. I took it out.

"'Would you mind reading a short letter,' I said, 'before we wish each other goodnight?' I held out the priest's letter.

"She drew back with a dark look; she appeared to have some suspicion of it. 'Who is the writer?' she inquired sharply.

"'A person who is a stranger to you.'

"Her face cleared directly. She took the letter from me, and waited to hear what I had to say next. 'The person,' I told her, 'is a wise and good old man—the priest who married my father and mother, and baptised me. We all of us used to consult Father Patrizio, when we wanted advice. My nurse Teresa felt anxious about me in Ovid's absence; she spoke to him about my marriage engagement, and of my exile—forgive me for using the word!—in this house. He said he would consider, before he gave her his opinion. The next day, he sent her the letter which you have got in your hand.'

"There, I came to a full stop; having something yet to say, but not knowing how to express myself with the necessary delicacy.

"'Why do you wish me to read the letter?' she asked, quietly.

"I think there is something in it which might—.'

"There, like a fool, I came to another full stop. She was as patient as ever; she only made a little sign to me to go on.

"'I think Father Patrizio's letter might put you in a better frame of mind,' I said; 'it might keep you from despising yourself.'

"She went back to her chair, and read the letter. You have permitted me to keep the comforting words of the good Father, among my other treasures. I copy his letter for you in this place—so that you may read it again, and see what I had in my mind, and understand how it affected poor Miss Minerva.

"'Teresa, my well-beloved friend,—I have considered the anxieties that trouble you, with this result: that I can do my best, conscientiously, to quiet your mind. I have had the experience of forty years in the duties of the priesthood. In that long time, the innermost secrets of thousands of men and women have been confided to me. From such means of observation, I have drawn many useful conclusions; and some of them may be also useful to you. I will put what I have to say, in the plainest and fewest words: consider them carefully, on your side. The growth of the better nature, in women, is perfected by one influence—and that influence is Love. Are you surprised that a priest should write in this way? Did you expect me to say, Religion? Love, my sister, is Religion, in women. It opens their hearts to all that is good for them; and it acts independently of the conditions of human happiness. A miserable woman, tormented by hopeless love, is still the better and the nobler for that love; and a time will surely come when she will show it. You have fears for Carmina—cast away, poor soul, among strangers with hard hearts! I tell you to have no fears. She may suffer under trials; she may sink under trials. But the strength to rise again is in her—and that strength is Love.'

"Having read our old friend's letter, Miss Minerva turned back, and read it again—and waited a little, repeating some part of it to herself.

"'Does it encourage you?' I asked.

"She handed the letter back to me. 'I have got one sentence in it by heart,' she said.

"You will know what that sentence is, without my telling you. I felt so relieved, when I saw the change in her for the better—I was so inexpressibly happy in the conviction that we were as good friends again as ever—that I bent down to kiss her, on saying goodnight.

"She put up her hand and stopped me. 'No,' she said, 'not till I have done something to deserve it. You are more in need of help than you think. Stay here a little longer; I have a word to say to you about your aunt.'

"I returned to my chair, feeling a little startled. Her eyes rested on me absently—she was, as I imagined, considering with herself, before she spoke. I refrained from interrupting her thoughts. The night was still and dark. Not a sound reached our ears from without. In the house, the silence was softly broken by a rustling movement on the stairs. It came nearer. The door was opened suddenly. Mrs. Gallilee entered the room.

"What folly possessed me? Why was I frightened? I really could not help it—I screamed. My aunt walked straight up to me, without taking the smallest notice of Miss Minerva. 'What are you doing here, when you ought to be in your bed?' she asked.

"She spoke in such an imperative manner—with such authority and such contempt—that I looked at her in astonishment. Some suspicion seemed to be roused in her by finding me and Miss Minerva together.

"No more gossip!' she called out sternly. 'Do you hear me? Go to bed!'

"Was it not enough to rouse anybody? I felt my pride burning in my face. 'Am I a child, or a servant?' I said. 'I shall go to bed early or late as I please.'

"She took one step forward; she seized me by the arm, and forced me to my feet. Think of it, Teresa! In all my life I have never had a hand laid on me except in kindness. Who knows it better than you! I tried vainly to speak—I saw Miss Minerva rise to interfere—I heard her say, 'Mrs. Gallilee, you forget yourself!' Somehow, I got out of the room. On the landing, a dreadful fit of trembling shook me from head to foot. I sank down on the stairs. At first, I thought I was going to faint. No; I shook and shivered, but I kept my senses. I could hear their voices in the room.

"Mrs. Gallilee began. 'Did you tell me just now that I had forgotten myself?'

"Miss Minerva answered, 'Certainly, madam. You did forget yourself.'

"The next words escaped me. After that, they grew louder; and I heard them again—my aunt first.

"'I am dissatisfied with your manner to me, Miss Minerva. It has latterly altered very much for the worse.'

"'In what respect, Mrs. Gallilee?'

"'In this respect. Your way of speaking to me implies an assertion of equality—'

"'Stop a minute, madam! I am not so rich as you are. But I am at a loss to know in what other way I am not your equal. Did you assert your superiority—may I ask—when you came into my room without first knocking at the door?'

"'Miss Minerva! Do you wish to remain in my service?'

"'Say employment, Mrs. Gallilee—if you please. I am quite indifferent in the matter. I am equally ready, at your entire convenience, to stay or to go.'

"Mrs. Gallilee's voice sounded nearer, as if she was approaching the door. 'I think we arranged,' she said, 'that there was to be a month's notice on either side, when I first engaged you?'

"'Yes—at my suggestion.'

"'Take your month's notice, if you please.'

"'Dating from to-morrow?'

"'Of course!'

"My aunt came out, and found me on the stairs. I tried to rise. It was not to be done. My head turned giddy. She must have seen that I was quite prostrate—and yet she took no notice of the state I was in. Cruel, cruel creature! she accused me of listening.

"'Can't you see that the poor girl is ill?'

"It was Miss Minerva's voice. I looked round at her, feeling fainter and fainter. She stooped; I felt her strong sinewy arms round me; she lifted me gently. 'I'll take care of you,' she whispered—and carried me downstairs to my room, as easily as if I had been a child.

"I must rest, Teresa. The remembrance of that dreadful night brings it all back again. Don't be anxious about me, my old dear! You shall hear more to-morrow."



CHAPTER XXVII.

On the next day events happened, the influence of which upon Carmina's excitable nature urged her to complete her unfinished letter, without taking the rest that she needed. Once more—and, as the result proved, for the last time—she wrote to her faithful old friend in these words:

"Don't ask me to tell you how the night passed! Miss Minerva was the first person who came to me in the morning.

"She had barely said a few kind words, when Maria interrupted us, reminding her governess of the morning's lessons. 'Mrs. Gallilee has sent her,' Miss Minerva whispered; 'I will return to you in the hour before the children's dinner.'

"The next person who appeared was, as we had both anticipated, Mrs. Gallilee herself.

"She brought me a cup of tea; and the first words she spoke were words of apology for her conduct on the previous night. Her excuse was that she had been 'harassed by anxieties which completely upset her.' And—can you believe it?—she implored me not to mention 'the little misunderstanding between us when I next wrote to her son!' Is this woman made of iron and stone, instead of flesh and blood? Does she really think me such a wretch as to cause Ovid, under any provocation, a moment's anxiety while he is away? The fewest words that would satisfy her, and so send her out of my room, were the only words I said.

"After this, an agreeable surprise was in store for me. The familiar voice of good Mr. Gallilee applied for admission—through the keyhole!

"'Are you asleep, my dear? May I come in?' His kind, fat old face peeped round the door when I said Yes—and reminded me of Zo, at dinner, when she asks for more pudding, and doesn't think she will get it. Mr. Gallilee had something to ask for, and some doubt of getting it, which accounted for the resemblance. 'I've taken the liberty, Carmina, of sending for our doctor. You're a delicate plant, my dear—' (Here, his face disappeared and he spoke to somebody outside)—'You think so yourself, don't you, Mr. Null? And you have a family of daughters, haven't you?' (His face appeared again; more like Zo than ever.) 'Do please see him, my child; I'm not easy about you. I was on the stairs last night—nobody ever notices me, do they, Mr. Null?—and I saw Miss Minerva—good creature, and, Lord, how strong!—carrying you to your bed. Mr. Null's waiting outside. Don't distress me by saying No!'

"Is there anybody cruel enough to distress Mr. Gallilee? The doctor came in—looking like a clergyman; dressed all in black, with a beautiful frill to his shirt, and a spotless white cravat. He stared hard at me; he produced a little glass-tube; he gave it a shake, and put it under my arm; he took it away again, and consulted it; he said, 'Aha!' he approved of my tongue; he disliked my pulse; he gave his opinion at last. 'Perfect quiet. I must see Mrs. Gallilee.' And there was an end of it.

"Mr. Gallilee observed the medical proceedings with awe. 'Mr. Null is a wonderful man,' he whispered, before he followed the doctor out. Ill and wretched as I was, this little interruption amused me. I wonder why I write about it here? There are serious things waiting to be told—am I weakly putting them off?

"Miss Minerva came back to me as she had promised. 'It is well,' she said gravely, 'that the doctor has been to see you.'

"I asked if the doctor thought me very ill.

"He thinks you have narrowly escaped a nervous fever; and he has given some positive orders. One of them is that your slightest wishes are to be humoured. If he had not said that, Mrs. Gallilee would have prevented me from seeing you. She has been obliged to give way; and she hates me—almost as bitterly, Carmina, as she hates you.'

"This called to my mind the interruption of the previous night, when Miss Minerva had something important to tell me. When I asked what it was, she shook her head, and said painful subjects of conversation were not fit subjects in my present state.

"Need I add that I insisted on hearing what she had to say? Oh, how completely my poor father must have been deceived, when he made his horrible sister my guardian! If I had not fortunately offended the music-master, she would have used Mr. Le Frank as a means of making Ovid jealous, and of sowing the seeds of dissension between us. Having failed so far, she is (as Miss Minerva thinks) at a loss to discover any other means of gaining her wicked ends. Her rage at finding herself baffled seems to account for her furious conduct, when she discovered me in Miss Minerva's room.

"You will ask, as I did, what has she to gain by this wicked plotting and contriving, with its shocking accompaniments of malice and anger?

"Miss Minerva answered, 'I still believe that money is the motive. Her son is mistaken about her; her friends are mistaken; they think she is fond of money—the truer conclusion is, she is short of money. There is the secret of the hard bargains she drives, and the mercenary opinions she holds. I don't doubt that her income would be enough for most other women in her position. It is not enough for a woman who is jealous of her rich sister's place in the world. Wait a little, and you will see that I am not talking at random. You were present at the grand party she gave some week's since?'

"'I wish I had stayed in my own room,' I said. 'Mrs. Gallilee was offended with me for not admiring her scientific friends. With one or two exceptions, they talked of nothing but themselves and their discoveries—and, oh, dear, how ugly they were!'

"'Never mind that now, Carmina. Did you notice the profusion of splendid flowers, in the hall and on the staircase, as well as in the reception-rooms?'

"'Yes.'

"'Did you observe—no, you are a young girl—did you hear any of the gentlemen, in the supper-room, expressing their admiration of the luxuries provided for the guests, the exquisite French cookery and the delicious wine? Why was all the money which these things cost spent in one evening? Because Lady Northlake's parties must be matched by Mrs. Gallilee's parties. Lady Northlake lives in a fashionable neighbourhood in London, and has splendid carriages and horses. This is a fashionable neighbourhood. Judge what this house costs, and the carriages and horses, when I tell you that the rent of the stables alone is over a hundred pounds a year. Lady Northlake has a superb place in Scotland. Mrs. Gallilee is not able to rival her sister in that respect—but she has her marine villa in the Isle of Wight. When Mr. Gallilee said you should have some sailing this autumn, did you think he meant that he would hire a boat? He referred to the yacht, which is part of the establishment at the sea-side. Lady Northlake goes yachting with her husband; and Mrs. Gallilee goes yachting with her husband. Do you know what it costs, when the first milliner in Paris supplies English ladies with dresses? That milliner's lowest charge for a dress which Mrs. Gallilee would despise—ordinary material, my dear, and imitation lace—is forty pounds. Think a little—and even your inexperience will see that the mistress of this house is spending more than she can afford, and is likely (unless she has resources that we know nothing about) to be, sooner or later, in serious need of money.'

"This was a new revelation to me, and it altered my opinion of course. But I still failed to see what Mrs. Gallilee's extravagances had to do with her wicked resolution to prevent Ovid from marrying me. Miss Minerva's only answer to this was to tell me to write to Mr. Mool, while I had the chance, and ask for a copy of my father's Will. 'I will take the letter to him,' she said, 'and bring the reply myself. It will save time, if it does nothing else.' The letter was written in a minute. Just as she took it from me, the parlour-maid announced that the early dinner was ready.

"Two hours later, the reply was in my hands. The old father had taken Maria and Zo for their walk; and Miss Minerva had left the house by herself—sending word to Mrs. Gallilee that she was obliged to go out on business of her own.

"'Did Mrs. Gallilee see you come in?' I asked.

"'Yes. She was watching for me, no doubt.'

"Did she see you go upstairs to my room?'

"'Yes.'

"'And said nothing?'

"'Nothing.'

"We looked at each other; both of us feeling the same doubt of how the day would end. Miss Minerva pointed impatiently to the lawyer's reply. I opened it.

"Mr. Mool's letter was very kind, but quite incomprehensible in the latter part of it. After referring me to his private residence, in case I wished to consult him personally later in the day, he mentioned some proceeding, called 'proving the Will,' and some strange place called 'Doctors' Commons.' However, there was the copy of the Will, and that was all we wanted.

"I began reading it. How I pitied the unfortunate men who have to learn the law! My dear Teresa, I might as well have tried to read an unknown tongue. The strange words, the perpetual repetitions, the absence of stops, utterly bewildered me. I handed the copy to Miss Minerva. Instead of beginning on the first page, as I had done, she turned to the last. With what breathless interest I watched her face! First, I saw that she understood what she was reading. Then, after a while, she turned pale. And then, she lifted her eyes to me. 'Don't be frightened,' she said.

"But I was frightened. My ignorant imagination pictured some dreadful unknown power given to Mrs. Gallilee by the Will. 'What can my aunt do to me?' I asked.

"Miss Minerva composed me—without concealing the truth. 'In her position, Carmina, and with her intensely cold and selfish nature, there is no fear of her attempting to reach her ends by violent means. Your happiness may be in danger—and that prospect, God knows, is bad enough.'

"When she talked of my happiness, I naturally thought of Ovid. I asked if there was anything about him in the Will.

"It was no doubt a stupid thing to say at such a time; and it seemed to annoy her. 'You are the only person concerned,' she answered sharply. 'It is Mrs. Gallilee's interest that you shall never be her son's wife, or any man's wife. If she can have her way, you will live and die an unmarried woman.'

"This did me good: it made me angry. I began to feel like myself again. I said, 'Please let me hear the rest of it.'

"Miss Minerva first patiently explained to me what she had read in the Will. She then returned to the subject of my aunt's extravagance; speaking from experience of what had happened in her own family. 'If Mrs. Gallilee borrows money,' she said, 'her husband will, in all probability, have to repay the loan. And, if borrowings go on in that way, Maria and Zoe will be left wretchedly provided for, in comparison with Lady Northlake's daughters. A fine large fortune would wonderfully improve these doubtful prospects—can you guess, Carmina, where it is to come from?' I could easily guess, now I understood the Will. My good Teresa, if I die without leaving children, the fine large fortune comes from Me.

"You see it all now—don't you? After I had thanked Miss Minerva, turned away my head on the pillow overpowered by disgust.

"The clock in the hall struck the hour of the children's tea. Miss Minerva would be wanted immediately. At parting, she kissed me. 'There is the kiss that you meant to give me last night,' she said. 'Don't despair of yourself. I am to be in the house for a month longer; and I am a match for Mrs. Gallilee. We will say no more now. Compose yourself, and try to sleep.'

"She went away to her duties. Sleep was out of the question. My attention wandered when I tried to read. Doing nothing meant, in other words, thinking of what had happened. If you had come into my room, I should have told you all about it. The next best thing was to talk to you in this way. You don't know what a relief it has been to me to write these lines."

"The night has come, and Mrs. Gallilee's cruelty has at last proved too much even for my endurance.

"Try not to be surprised; try not to be alarmed. If my mind to-morrow is the same as my mind to-night, I shall attempt to make my escape. I shall take refuge with Lady Northlake.

"Oh, if I could go to Ovid! But he is travelling in the deserts of Canada. Until his return to the coast, I can only write to him to the care of his bankers at Quebec. I should not know where to find him, when I arrived; and what a dreadful meeting—if I did find him—to be obliged to acknowledge that it is his mother who has driven me away! There will be nothing to alarm him, if I go to his mother's sister. If you could see Lady Northlake, you would feel as sure as I do that she will take my part.

"After writing to you, I must have fallen asleep. It was quite dark, when I was awakened by the striking of a match in my room. I looked round, expecting to see Miss Minerva. The person lighting my candle was Mrs. Gallilee.

"She poured out the composing medicine which Mr. Null had ordered for me. I took it in silence. She sat down by the bedside.

"'My child,' she began, 'we are friends again now. You bear no malice, I am sure.'

"Distrust still kept me silent. I remembered that she had watched for Miss Minerva's return, and that she had seen Miss Minerva go up to my room. The idea that she meant to be revenged on us both for having our secrets, and keeping them from her knowledge, took complete possession of my mind.

"'Are you feeling better?' she asked.

"'Yes.'

"'Is there anything I can get for you?'

"'Not now—thank you.'

"'Would you like to see Mr. Null again, before to-morrow?'

"'Oh, no!'

"These were ungraciously short replies—but it cost me an effort to speak to her at all. She showed no signs of taking offence; she proceeded as smoothly as ever.

"My dear Carmina, I have my faults of temper; and, with such pursuits as mine, I am not perhaps a sympathetic companion for a young girl. But I hope you believe that it is my duty and my pleasure to be a second mother to you?'

"Yes; she did really say that! Whether I was only angry, or whether I was getting hysterical, I don't know. I began to feel an oppression in my breathing that almost choked me. There are two windows in my room, and one of them only was open. I was obliged to ask her to open the other.

"She did it; she came back, and fanned me. I submitted as long as I could—and then I begged her not to trouble herself any longer. She put down the fan, and went on with what she had to say.

"'I wish to speak to you about Miss Minerva. You are aware that I gave her notice, last night, to leave her situation. For your sake, I regret that I did not take this step before you came to England.'

"My confidence in myself returned when I heard Miss Minerva spoken of in this way. I said at once that I considered her to be one of my best and truest friends.

"'My dear child, that is exactly what I lament! This person has insinuated herself into your confidence—and she is utterly unworthy of it.'

"Could I let those abominable words pass in silence? 'Mrs. Gallilee!' I said, 'you are cruelly wronging a woman whom I love and respect!'

"'Mrs. Gallilee?' she repeated. 'Do I owe it to Miss Minerva that you have left off calling me Aunt? Your obstinacy, Carmina, leaves me no alternative but to speak out. If I had done my duty, I ought to have said long since, what I am going to say now. You are putting your trust in the bitterest enemy you have; an enemy who secretly hates you with the unforgiving hatred of a rival!'

"Look back at my letter, describing what passed between Miss Minerva and me, when I went to her room; and you will know what I felt on hearing her spoken of as 'a rival.' My sense of justice refused to believe it. But, oh, my dear old nurse, there was some deeper sense in me that said, as if in words, It is true!

"Mrs. Gallilee went on, without mercy.

"'I know her thoroughly; I have looked into her false heart. Nobody has discovered her but me. Charge her with it, if you like; and let her deny it if she dare. Miss Minerva is secretly in love with my son.'

"She got up. Her object was gained: she was even with me, and with the woman who had befriended me, at last.

"'Lie down in your bed again,' she said, 'and think over what I have told you. In your own interests, think over it well.'

"I was left alone.

"Shall I tell you what saved me from sinking under the shock? Ovid—thousands and thousands of miles away—Ovid saved me.

"I love him with all my heart and soul; and I do firmly believe that I know him better than I know myself. If his mother had betrayed Miss Minerva to him, as she has betrayed her to me, that unhappy woman would have had his truest pity. I am as certain of this, as I am that I see the moon, while I write, shining on my bed. Ovid would have pitied her. And I pitied her.

"I wrote the lines that follow, and sent them to her by the maid. In the fear that she might mistake my motives, and think me angry and jealous, I addressed her with my former familiarity by her christian name:—"'Last night, Frances, I ventured to ask if you loved some one who did not love you. And you answered by saying to me, Guess who he is. My aunt has just told me that he is her son. Has she spoken the truth?'

"I am now waiting to receive Miss Minerva's reply.

"For the first time since I have been in the house, my door is locked. I cannot, and will not, see Mrs. Gallilee again. All her former cruelties are, as I feel it, nothing to the cruelty of her coming here when I am ill, and saying to me what she has said.

"The weary time passes, and still there is no reply. Is Frances angry? or is she hesitating how to answer me—personally or by writing? No! she has too much delicacy of feeling to answer in her own person.

"I have only done her justice. The maid has just asked me to open the door. I have got my answer. Read it."

"'Mrs. Gallilee has spoken the truth.

"'How I can have betrayed myself so that she has discovered my miserable secret is more than I can tell I will not own it to her or to any living creature but yourself. Undeserving as I am, I know that I can trust you.

"It is needless to dwell at any length on this confession. Many things in my conduct, which must have perplexed you, will explain themselves flow. There has been, however, one concealment on my part, which it is due to you that I should acknowledge.

"'If Mrs. Gallilee had taken me into her confidence, I confess that my jealousy would have degraded me into becoming her accomplice. As things were, I was too angry and too cunning to let her make use of me without trusting me.

"'There are other acts of deceit which I ought to acknowledge—if I could summon composure enough to write about them. Better to say at once—I am not worthy of your pardon, not worthy even of your pity.

"'With the same sincerity, I warn you that the wickedness in me, on which Mrs. Gallilee calculated, may be in me still. The influence of your higher and better nature—helped perhaps by that other influence of which the old priest spoke in his letter—has opened my heart to tenderness and penitence of which I never believed myself capable: has brought the burning tears into my eyes which make it a hard task to write to you. All this I know, and yet I dare not believe in myself. It is useless to deny it, Carmina—I love him. Even now, when you have found me out, I love him. Don't trust me. Oh, God, what torture it is to write it—but I do write it, I will write it—don't trust me!

"'One thing I may say for myself. I know the utter hopelessness of that love which I have acknowledged. I know that he returns your love, and will never return mine. So let it be.

"'I am not young; I have no right to comfort myself with hopes that I know to be vain. If one of us is to suffer, let it be that one who is used to suffering. I have never been the darling of my parents, like you; I have not been used at home to the kindness and the love that you remember. A life without sweetness and joy has well fitted me for a loveless future. And, besides, you are worthy of him, and I am not. Mrs. Gallilee is wrong, Carmina, if she thinks I am your rival. I am not your rival; I never can be your rival. Believe nothing else, but, for God's sake, believe that!

"'I have no more to say—at least no more that I can remember now. Perhaps, you shrink from remaining in the same house with me? Let me know it, and I shall be ready—I might almost say, glad—to go.'"

"Have you read her letter, Teresa? Am I wrong in feeling that this poor wounded heart has surely some claim on me? If I am wrong, oh, what am I to do? what am I to do?"



CHAPTER XXVIII.

The last lines addressed by Carmina to her old nurse were completed on the seventeenth of August, and were posted that night.

The day that followed was memorable to Carmina, and memorable to Mrs. Gallilee. Doctor Benjulia had his reasons also for remembering the eighteenth of August.

Still in search of a means to undermine the confidence which united Ovid and Carmina, and still calling on her invention in vain, Mrs. Gallilee had passed a sleepless night. Her maid, entering the room at the usual hour, was ordered to leave her in bed, and not to return until the bell rang. On ordinary occasions, Mrs. Gallilee was up in time to receive the letters arriving by the first delivery; the correspondence of the other members of the household being sorted by her own hands, before it was distributed by the servant. On this particular morning (after sleeping a little through sheer exhaustion), she entered the empty breakfast-room two hours later than usual. The letters waiting for her were addressed only to herself. She rang for the maid.

"Any other letters this morning?" she asked.

"Two, for my master."

"No more than that!"

"Nothing more, ma'am—except a telegram for Miss Carmina."

"When did it come?"

"Soon after the letters."

"Have you given it to her?"

"Being a telegram, ma'am, I thought I ought to take it to Miss Carmina at once."

"Quite right. You can go."

A telegram for Carmina? Was there some private correspondence going on? And were the interests involved too important to wait for the ordinary means of communication by post? Considering these questions, Mrs. Gallilee poured out a cup of tea and looked over her letters.

Only one of them especially attracted her notice in her present frame of mind. The writer was Benjulia. He dispensed as usual with the customary forms of address.

"I have had a letter about Ovid, from a friend of mine in Canada. There is an allusion to him of the complimentary sort, which I don't altogether understand. I want to ask you about it—but I can't spare the time to go a-visiting. So much the better for me—I hate conversation, and I like work. You have got your carriage—and your fine friends are out of town. If you want a drive, come to me, and bring your last letters from Ovid with you."

Mrs. Gallilee decided on considering this characteristic proposal later in the day. Her first and foremost interest took her upstairs to her niece's room.

Carmina had left her bed. Robed in her white dressing-gown, she lay on the sofa in the sitting-room. When her aunt came in, she started and shuddered Those signs of nervous aversion escaped the notice of Mrs. Gallilee. Her attention had been at once attracted by a travelling bag, opened as if in preparation for packing. The telegram lay on Carmina's lap. The significant connection between those two objects asserted itself plainly. But it was exactly the opposite of the connection suspected by Mrs. Gallilee. The telegram had prevented Carmina from leaving the house.

Mrs. Gallilee paved the way for the necessary investigation, by making a few common-place inquiries. How had Carmina passed the night? Had the maid taken care of her at breakfast-time? Was there anything that her aunt could do for her? Carmina replied with a reluctance which she was unable to conceal. Mrs. Gallilee passed over the cold reception accorded to her without remark, and pointed with a bland smile to the telegram.

"No bad news, I hope?"

Carmina handed the telegram silently to her aunt. The change of circumstances which the arrival of the message had produced, made concealment superfluous. Mrs. Gallilee opened the telegram, keeping her suspicions in reserve. It had been sent from Rome by the old foreign woman, named "Teresa," and it contained these words:

"My husband died this morning. Expect me in London from day to day."

"Why is this person coming to London?" Mrs. Gallilee inquired.

Stung by the insolent composure of that question, Carmina answered sharply, "Her name is on the telegram; you ought to know!"

"Indeed?" said Mrs. Gallilee. "Perhaps, she likes London?"

"She hates London! You have had her in the house; you have seen us together. Now she has lost her husband, do you think she can live apart from the one person in the world whom she loves best?"

"My dear, these matters of mere sentiment escape my notice," Mrs. Gallilee rejoined. "It's an expensive journey from Italy to England. What was her husband?"

"Her husband was foreman in a manufactory till his health failed him."

"And then," Mrs. Gallilee concluded, "the money failed him, of course. What did he manufacture?"

"Artists' colours."

"Oh! an artists' colourman? Not a very lucrative business, I should think. Has his widow any resources of her own?"

"My purse is hers!"

"Very generous, I am sure! Even the humblest lodgings are dear in this neighbourhood. However—with your assistance—your old servant may be able to live somewhere near you."

Having settled the question of Teresa's life in London in this way, Mrs. Gallilee returned to the prime object of her suspicion—she took possession of the travelling bag.

Carmina looked at her with the submission of utter bewilderment. Teresa had been the companion of her life; Teresa had been received as her attendant, when she was first established under her aunt's roof. She had assumed that her nurse would become a member of the household again, as a matter of course. With Teresa to encourage her, she had summoned the resolution to live with Ovid's mother, until Ovid came back. And now she had been informed, in words too plain to be mistaken, that Teresa must find a home for herself when she returned to London! Surprise, disappointment, indignation held Carmina speechless.

"This thing," Mrs. Gallilee proceeded, holding up the bag, "will only be in your way here. I will have it put with our own bags and boxes, in the lumber-room. And, by-the-bye, I fancy you don't quite understand (naturally enough, at your age) our relative positions in this house. My child, the authority of your late father is the authority which your guardian holds over you. I hope never to be obliged to exercise it—especially, if you will be good enough to remember two things. I expect you to consult me in your choice of companions; and to wait for my approval before you make arrangements which—well! let us say, which require the bag to be removed from the lumber-room."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the door. After opening it, she paused—and looked back into the room.

"Have you thought of what I told you, last night?" she asked.

Sorely as they had been tried, Carmina's energies rallied at this. "I have done my best to forget it!" she answered.

"At Miss Minerva's request?"

Carmina took no notice of the question.

Mrs. Gallilee persisted. "Have you had any communication with that person?"

There was still no reply. Preserving her temper, Mrs. Gallilee stepped out on the landing, and called to Miss Minerva. The governess answered from the upper floor.

"Please come down here," said Mrs. Galilee.

Miss Minerva obeyed. Her face was paler than usual; her eyes had lost something of their piercing brightness. She stopped outside Carmina's door. Mrs. Gallilee requested her to enter the room.

After an instant—only an instant—of hesitation, Miss Minerva crossed the threshold. She cast one quick glance at Carmina, and lowered her eyes before the look could be returned. Mrs. Gallilee discovered no mute signs of an understanding between them. She turned to the governess.

"Have you been here already this morning?" she inquired.

"No."

"Is there some coolness between you and my niece?"

"None, madam, that I know of."

"Then, why don't you speak to her when you come into the room?"

"Miss Carmina has been ill. I see her resting on the sofa—and I am unwilling to disturb her."

"Not even by saying good-morning?"

"Not even that!"

"You are exceedingly careful, Miss Minerva."

"I have had some experience of sick people, and I have learnt to be careful. May I ask if you have any particular reason for calling me downstairs?"

Mrs. Gallilee prepared to put her niece and her governess to the final test.

"I wish you to suspend the children's lesson for an hour or two," she answered.

"Certainly. Shall I tell them?"

"No; I will tell them myself."

"What do you wish me to do?" said Miss Minerva.

"I wish you to remain here with my niece."

If Mrs. Gallilee, after answering in those terms, had looked at her niece, instead of looking at her governess, she would have seen Carmina—distrustful of her own self-control—move on the sofa so as to turn her face to the wall. As it was, Miss Minerva's attitude and look silently claimed some explanation.

Mrs. Gallilee addressed her in a whisper. "Let me say a word to you at the door."

Miss Minerva followed her to the landing outside. Carmina turned again, listening anxiously.

"I am not at all satisfied with her looks, this morning," Mrs. Gallilee proceeded; "and I don't think it right she should be left alone. My household duties must be attended to. Will you take my place at the sofa, until Mr. Null comes?" ("Now," she thought, "if there is jealousy between them, I shall see it!")

She saw nothing: the governess quietly bowed to her, and went back to Carmina. She heard nothing: although the half-closed door gave her opportunities for listening. Ignorant, she had entered the room. Ignorant, she left it.

Carmina lay still and silent. With noiseless step, Miss Minerva approached the sofa, and stood by it, waiting. Neither of them lifted her eyes, the one to the other. The woman suffered her torture in secret. The girl's sweet eyes filled slowly with tears. One by one the minutes of the morning passed—not many in number, before there was a change. In silence, Carmina held out her hand. In silence, Miss Minerva took it and kissed it.



CHAPTER XXIX.

Mrs. Gallilee saw her housekeeper as usual, and gave her orders for the day. "If there is anything forgotten," she said, "I must leave it to you. For the next hour or two, don't let me be disturbed."

Some of her letters of the morning were still unread, others required immediate acknowledgment. She was not as ready for her duties as usual. For once, the most unendurably industrious of women was idle, and sat thinking.

Even her unimaginative nature began to tremble on the verge of superstition. Twice, had the subtle force of circumstances defeated her, in the attempt to meddle with the contemplated marriage of her son. By means of the music-master, she had planned to give Ovid jealous reasons for doubting Carmina—and she had failed. By means of the governess, she had planned to give Carmina jealous reasons for doubting Ovid—and she had failed. When some people talked of Fatality, were they quite such fools as she had hitherto supposed them to be? It would be a waste of time to inquire. What next step could she take?

Urged by the intolerable sense of defeat to find reasons for still looking hopefully to the future, the learned Mrs. Gallilee lowered herself to the intellectual level of the most ignorant servant in the house. The modern Muse of Science unconsciously opened her mind to the vulgar belief in luck. She said to herself, as her kitchen-maid might have said, We will see what comes of it, the third time!

Benjulia's letter was among the other letters waiting on the table. She took it up, and read it again.

In her present frame of mind, to find her thoughts occupied by the doctor, was to be reminded of Ovid's strange allusion to his professional colleague, on the day of his departure. Speaking of Carmina, he had referred to one person whom he did not wish her to see in his absence; and that person, he had himself admitted to be Benjulia. He had been asked to state his objection to the doctor—and how had he replied? He had said, "I don't think Benjulia a fit person to be in the company of a young girl."

Why?

There are many men of mature age, who are not fit persons to be in the company of young girls—but they are either men who despise, or men who admire, young girls. Benjulia belonged neither to the one nor to the other of these two classes. Girls were objects of absolute indifference to him—with the one exception of Zo, aged ten. Never yet, after meeting him in society hundreds of times, had Mrs. Gallilee seen him talk to young ladies or even notice young ladies. Ovid's alleged reason for objecting to Benjulia stood palpably revealed as a clumsy excuse.