The weather, to Carmina’s infinite relief, changed for the worse the next day. Incessant rain made it impossible to send her out in the carriage again.
But it was an eventful day, nevertheless. On that rainy afternoon, Mr. Gallilee asserted himself as a free agent, in the terrible presence of his wife!
“It’s an uncommonly dull day, my dear,” he began. This passed without notice, which was a great encouragement to go on. “If you will allows me to say so, Carmina wants a little amusement.” Mrs. Gallilee looked up from her book. Fearing that he might stop altogether if he took his time as usual, Mr. Gallilee proceeded in a hurry. “There’s an afternoon performance of conjuring tricks; and, do you know, I really think I might take Carmina to see it. We shall be delighted if you will accompany us, my dear; and they do say — perhaps you have heard of it yourself?— that there’s a good deal of science in this exhibition.” His eyes rolled in uneasy expectation, as he waited to hear what his wife might decide. She waved her hand contemptuously in the direction of the door. Mr. Gallilee retired with the alacrity of a young man. “Now we shall enjoy ourselves!” he thought as he went up to Carmina’s room.
They were just leaving the house, when the music-master arrived at the door to give his lesson.
Mr. Gallilee immediately put his head out of the cab window. “We are going to see the conjuring!” he shouted cheerfully. “Carmina! don’t you see Mr. Le Frank? He is bowing to you. Do you like conjuring, Mr. Le Frank? Don’t tell the children where we are going! They would be disappointed, poor things — but they must have their lessons, mustn’t they? Good-bye! I say! stop a minute. If you ever want your umbrella mended, I know a man who will do it cheap and well. Nasty day, isn’t it? Go on! go on!”
The general opinion which ranks vanity among the lighter failings of humanity, commits a serious mistake. Vanity wants nothing but the motive power to develop into absolute wickedness. Vanity can be savagely suspicious and diabolically cruel. What are the two typical names which stand revealed in history as the names of the two vainest men that ever lived? Nero and Robespierre.
In his obscure sphere, and within his restricted means, the vanity of Mrs. Gallilee’s music-master had developed its inherent qualities, under her cunning and guarded instigation. Once set in action, his suspicion of Carmina passed beyond all limits. There could be no reason but a bad reason for that barefaced attempt to entrap him into a reconciliation. Every evil motive which it was possible to attribute to a girl of her age, no matter how monstrously improbable it might be, occurred to him when he recalled her words, her look, and her manner at their meeting on the stairs. His paltry little mind, at other times preoccupied in contemplating himself and his abilities, was now so completely absorbed in imagining every variety of conspiracy against his social and professional position, that he was not even capable of giving his customary lesson to two children. Before the appointed hour had expired, Miss Minerva remarked that his mind did not appear to be at ease, and suggested that he had better renew the lesson on the next day. After a futile attempt to assume an appearance of tranquillity — he thanked her and took his leave.
On his way downstairs, he found the door of Carmina’s room left half open.
She was absent with Mr. Gallilee. Miss Minerva remained upstairs with the children. Mrs. Gallilee was engaged in scientific research. At that hour of the afternoon, there were no duties which called the servants to the upper part of the house. He listened — he hesitated — he went into the room.
It was possible that she might keep a journal: it was certain that she wrote and received letters. If he could only find her desk unlocked and her drawers open, the inmost secrets of her life would be at his mercy.
He tried her desk; he tried the cupboard under the bookcase. They were both locked. The cabinet between the windows and the drawer of the table were left unguarded. No discovery rewarded the careful search that he pursued in these two repositories. He opened the books that she had left on the table, and shook them. No forgotten letter, no private memorandum (used as marks) dropped out. He looked all round him; he peeped into the bedroom; he listened, to make sure that nobody was outside; he entered the bedroom, and examined the toilet-table, and opened the doors of the wardrobe — and still the search was fruitless, persevere as he might.
Returning to the sitting-room, he shook his fist at the writing-desk. “You wouldn’t be locked,” he thought, “unless you had some shameful secrets to keep! I shall have other opportunities; and she may not always remember to turn the key.” He stole quietly down the stairs, and met no one on his way out.
The bad weather continued on the next day. The object of Mr. Le Frank’s suspicion remained in the house — and the second opportunity failed to offer itself as yet.
The visit to the exhibition of conjuring had done Carmina harm instead of good. Her head ached, in the close atmosphere — she was too fatigued to be able to stay in the room until the performance came to an end. Poor Mr. Gallilee retired in disgrace to the shelter of his club. At dinner, even his perfect temper failed him for the moment. He found fault with the champagne — and then apologised to the waiter. “I’m sorry I was a little hard on you just now. The fact is, I’m out of sorts — you have felt in that way yourself, haven’t you? The wine’s first-rate; and, really the weather is so discouraging, I think I’ll try another pint.”
But Carmina’s buoyant heart defied the languor of illness and the gloomy day. The post had brought her a letter from Ovid — enclosing a photograph, taken at Montreal, which presented him in his travelling costume.
He wrote in a tone of cheerfulness, which revived Carmina’s sinking courage, and renewed for a time at least the happiness of other days. The air of the plains of Canada he declared to be literally intoxicating. Every hour seemed to be giving him back the vital energy that he had lost in his London life. He slept on the ground, in the open air, more soundly than he had ever slept in a bed. But one anxiety troubled his mind. In the roving life which he now enjoyed, it was impossible that his letters could follow him — and yet, every day that passed made him more unreasonably eager to hear that Carmina was not weary of waiting for him, and that all was well at home.
“And how have these vain aspirations of mine ended?”— the letter went on. “They have ended, my darling, in a journey for one of my guides — an Indian, whose fidelity I have put to the proof, and whose zeal I have stimulated by a promise of reward.
“The Indian takes these lines to be posted at Quebec. He is also provided with an order, authorising my bankers to trust him with the letters that are waiting for me. I begin a canoe voyage to-morrow; and, after due consultation with the crew, we have arranged a date and a place at which my messenger will find me on his return. Shall I confess my own amiable weakness? or do you know me well enough already to suspect the truth? My love, I am sorely tempted to be false to my plans and arrangements to go back with the Indian to Quebec — and to take a berth in the first steamer that returns to England.
“Don’t suppose that I am troubled by any misgivings about what is going on in my absence! It is one of the good signs of my returning health that I take the brightest view of our present lives, and of our lives to come. I feel tempted to go back, for the same reason that makes me anxious for letters. I want to hear from you, because I love you — I want to return at once, because I love you. There is longing, unutterable longing, in my heart. No doubts, my sweet one, and no fears!
“But I was a doctor, before I became a lover. My medical knowledge tells me that this is an opportunity of thoroughly fortifying my constitution, and (with God’s blessing) of securing to myself reserves of health and strength which will take us together happily on the way to old age. Dear love, you must be my wife — not my nurse! There is the thought that gives me self-denial enough to let the Indian go away by himself.”
Carmina answered this letter as soon as she had read it.
Before the mail could carry her reply to its destination, she well knew that the Indian messenger would be on the way back to his master. But Ovid had made her so happy that she felt the impulse to write to him at once, as she might have felt the impulse to answer him at once if he had been present and speaking to her. When the pages were filled, and the letter had been closed and addressed, the effort produced its depressing effect on her spirits.
There now appeared to her a certain wisdom in the loving rapidity of her reply.
Even in the fullness of her joy, she was conscious of an underlying distrust of herself. Although he refused to admit it, Mr. Null had betrayed a want of faith in the remedy from which he had anticipated such speedy results, by writing another prescription. He had also added a glass to the daily allowance of wine, which he had thought sufficient thus far. Without despairing of herself, Carmina felt that she had done wisely in writing her answer, while she was still well enough to rival the cheerful tone of Ovid’s letter.
She laid down to rest on the sofa, with the photograph in her hand. No sense of loneliness oppressed her now; the portrait was the best of all companions. Outside, the heavy rain pattered; in the room, the busy clock ticked. She listened lazily, and looked at her lover, and kissed the faithful image of him — peacefully happy.
The opening of the door was the first little event that disturbed her. Zo peeped in. Her face was red, her hair was tousled, her fingers presented inky signs of a recent writing lesson.
“I’m in a rage,” she announced; “and so is the Other One.”
Carmina called her to the sofa, and tried to find out who this se............