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

“I was thinking about you last night,” she abruptly resumed. “You are a gentle little creature—but I have seen you show some spirit, when your aunt’s cold-blooded insolence roused you. Do you know what I would do, if I were in your place? I wouldn’t wait tamely till he came back to me—I would go to him. Carmina! Carmina! leave this horrible house!” She stopped, close by the sofa. “Let me look at you. Ha! I believe you have thought of it yourself?”

“I have thought of it.”

“What did I say? You poor little prisoner, you have the right spirit in you! I wish I could give you some of my strength.” The half-mocking tone in which she spoke, suddenly failed her. Her piercing eyes grew dim; the hard lines in her face softened. She dropped on her knees, and wound her lithe arms round Carmina, and kissed her. “You sweet child!” she said—and burst passionately into tears.

Even then, the woman’s fiercely self-dependent nature asserted itself. She pushed Carmina back on the sofa. “Don’t look at me! don’t speak to me!” she gasped. “Leave me to get over it.”

She stifled the sobs that broke from her. Still on her knees, she looked up, shuddering. A ghastly smile distorted her lips. “Ah, what fools we are!” she said. “Where is that lavender water, my dear—your favourite remedy for a burning head?” She found the bottle before Carmina could help her, and soaked her handkerchief in the lavender water, and tied it round her head. “Yes,” she went on, as if they had been gossiping on the most commonplace subjects, “I think you’re right: this is the best of all perfumes.” She looked at the clock. “The children’s dinner will be ready in ten minutes. I must, and will, say what I have to say to you. It may be the last poor return I can make, Carmina, for all your kindness.”

She returned to her chair.

“I can’t help it if I frighten you,” she resumed; “I must tell you plainly that I don’t like the prospect. In the first place, the sooner we two are parted—oh, only for a while!—the better for you. After what I went through, last night—no, I am not going to enter into any particulars; I am only going to repeat, what I have said already—don’t trust me. I mean it, Carmina! Your generous nature shall not mislead you, if I can help it. When you are a happy married woman—when he is farther removed from me than he is even now—remember your ugly, ill-tempered friend, and let me come to you. Enough of this! I have other misgivings that are waiting to be confessed. You know that old nurse of yours intimately—while I only speak from a day or two’s experience of her. To my judgment, she is a woman whose fondness for you might be turned into a tigerish fondness, on very small provocation. You write to her constantly. Does she know what you have suffered? Have you told her the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Without reserve?”

“Entirely without reserve.”

“When that old woman comes to London, Carmina—and sees you, and sees Mrs. Gallilee—don’t you think the consequences may be serious? and your position between them something (if you were ten times stronger than you are) that no fortitude can endure?”

Carmina started up on the sofa. She was not able to speak. Miss Minerva gave her time to recover herself—after another look at the clock.

“I am not alarming you for nothing,” she proceeded; “I have something hopeful to propose. Your friend Teresa has energies—wild energies. Make a good use of them. She will do anything you ask or her. Take her with you to Canada!”

“Oh, Frances!”

Miss Minerva pointed to the letter on the desk. “Does he tell you when he will be back?”

“No. He feels the importance of completely restoring his health—he is going farther and farther away—he has sent to Quebec for his letters.”

“Then there is no fear of your crossing each other on the voyage. Go to Quebec, and wait for him there.”

“I should frighten him.”

“Not you!”

“What can I say to him?”

“What you must say, if you are weak enough to wait for him here. Do you think his mother will consider his feelings, when he comes back to marry you? I tell you again I am not talking at random. I have thought it all out: I know how you can make your escape, and defy pursuit. You have plenty of money; you have Teresa to take care of you. Go! For your own sake, for his sake, go!”

The clock struck the hour. She rose and removed the handkerchief from her head. “Hush!” she said, “Do I hear the rustling of a dress on the landing below?” She snatched up a bottle of Mr. Null’s medicine—as a reason for being in the room. The sound of the rustling dress came nearer and nearer. Mrs. Gallilee (on her way to the schoolroom dinner) opened the door. She instantly understood the purpose which the bottle was intended to answer.

“It is my business to give Carmina her medicine,” she said. “Your business is at the schoolroom table.”

She took possession of the bottle, and advanced to Carmina. There were two looking-glasses in the room. One, in the usual position, over the fireplace; the other opposite, on the wall behind the sofa. Turning back, before she left the room, Miss Minerva saw Mrs. Gallilee’s face, when she and Carmina looked at each other, reflected in the glass.

The girls were waiting for their dinner. Maria received the unpunctual governess with her ready smile, and her appropriate speech. “Dear Miss Minerva, we were really almost getting alarmed about you. Pardon me for noticing it, you look—” She caught the eye of the governess, and stopped confusedly.

“Well?” said Miss Minerva. “How do I look?”

Maria still hesitated. Zo spoke out as usual. “You look as if somebody had frightened you.”

After two days of rain, the weather cleared again.

It was a calm, sunshiny Sunday morning. The flat country round Benjulia’s house wore its brightest aspect on that clear autumn day. Even the doctor’s gloomy domestic establishment reflected in some degree the change for the better. When he rose that morning, Benjulia presented himself to his household in a character which they were little accustomed to see—the character of a good-humoured master. He astonished his silent servant by attempting to whistle a tune. “If you ever looked cheerful in your life,” he said to the man, “look cheerful now. I’m going to take a holiday!”

After working incessantly—never leaving his laboratory; eating at his dreadful table; snatching an hour’s rest occasionally on the floor—he had completed a series of experiments, with results on which he could absolutely rely. He had advanced by one step nearer towards solving that occult problem in brain disease, which had thus far baffled the investigations of medical men throughout the civilised world. If his present rate of progress continued, the lapse of another month might add his name to the names that remain immortal among physicians, in the Annals of Discovery.

So completely had his labours absorbed his mind that he only remembered the letters which Mrs. Gallilee had left with him, when he finished his breakfast on Sunday morning. Upon examination, there appeared no allusion in Ovid’s correspondence to the mysterious case of illness which he had attended at Montreal. The one method now left, by which Benjulia could relieve the doubt that still troubled him, was to communicate directly with his friend in Canada. He decided to celebrate his holiday by taking a walk; his destination being the central telegraph office in London.

But, before he left the house, his domestic duties claimed attention. He issued his orders to the cook.