Уилки Коллинз - Heart and Science - A Story of the Present Time

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.

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.”