Will she live or die?"
"Her life is safe--I hope."
"Through your new mode of treatment?"
His eyes and his voice said more than his words. Ovid instantly knew that he had seen the book; and that the book had forestalled him in the discovery to which he had devoted his life. Was it possible to pity a man whose hardened nature never pitied others? All things are possible to a large heart. Ovid shrank from answering him.
Benjulia spoke again.
"When we met that night at my garden gate," he said, "you told me my life should answer for her life, if she died. My neglect has not killed her--and you have no need to keep your word. But I don't get off, Mr. Ovid Vere, without paying the penalty. You have taken something from me, which was dearer than life, I wished to tell you that--I have no more to say."
Ovid silently offered his hand.
Benjulia's head drooped in thought. The generous protest of the man whom he had injured, spoke in that outstretched hand. He looked at Ovid.
"No!" he said--and walked away.
Leaving the street, he went round to Fairfield Gardens, and rang the bell at Mr. Gallilee's door. The bell was answered by a polite old woman--a stranger to him among the servants.
"Is Zo in the house?" he inquired.
"Nobody's in the house, sir. It's to be let, if you please, as soon as the furniture can be moved."
"Do you know where Zo is? I mean, Mr. Gallilee's youngest child."
"I'm sorry to say, sir, I'm not acquainted with the family."
He waited at the door, apparently hesitating what to do next. "I'll go upstairs," he said suddenly; "I want to look at the house. You needn't go with me; I know my way."
"Thank you kindly, sir!"
He went straight to the schoolroom.
The repellent melancholy of an uninhabited place had fallen on it already. The plain furniture was not worth taking care of: it was battered and old, and left to dust and neglect. There were two common deal writing desks, formerly used by the two girls. One of them was covered with splashes of ink: varied here and there by barbarous caricatures of faces, in which dots and strokes represented eyes, noses, and mouths. He knew whose desk this was, and opened the cover of it. In the recess beneath were soiled tables of figures, torn maps, and dogs-eared writing books. The ragged paper cover of one of these last, bore on its inner side a grotesquely imperfect inscription:--my cop book zo. He tore off the cover, and put it in the breast pocket of his coat.
"I should have liked to tickle her once more," he thought, as he went down stairs again. The polite old woman opened the door, curtsying deferentially. He gave her half a crown. "God bless you, sir!" she burst out, in a gush of gratitude.
He checked himself, on the point of stepping into the street, and looked at her with some curiosity. "Do you believe in God?" he asked.
The old woman was even capable of making a confession of faith politely. "Yes, sir," she said, "if you have no objection."
He stepped into the street. "I wonder whether she is right?" he thought. "It doesn't matter; I shall soon know."
The servants were honestly glad to see him, when he got home. They had taken it in turn to sit up through the night; knowing his regular habits, and feeling the dread that some accident had happened. Never before had they seen him so fatigued. He dropped helplessly into his chair; his gigantic body shook with shivering fits. The footman begged him to take some refreshment. "Brandy, and raw eggs," he said. These being brought to him, he told them to wait until he rang--and locked the door when they went out.
After waiting until the short winter daylight was at an end, the footman ventured to knock, and ask if the master wanted lights. He replied that he had lit the candles for himself. No smell of tobacco smoke came from the room; and he had let the day pass without going to the laboratory. These were portentous signs. The footman said to his fellow servants, "There's something wrong." The women looked at each other in vague terror. One of them said, "Hadn't we better give notice to leave?" And the other whispered a question: "Do you think he's committed a crime?"
Towards ten o'clock, the bell rang at last. Immediately afterwards they heard him calling to them from the hall. "I want you, all three, up here."
They went up together--the two women anticipating a sight of horror, and keeping close to the footman.
The master was walking quietly backwards and forwards in the room: the table had pen and ink on it, and was covered with writings. He spoke to them in his customary tones; there was not the slightest appearance of agitation in his manner.
"I mean to leave this house, and go away," he began. "You are dismissed from my service, for that reason only. Take your written characters from the table; read them, and say if there is anything to complain of." There was nothing to complain of. On another part of the table there were three little heaps of money. "A month's wages for each of you," he explained, "in place of a month's warning. I wish you good luck." One of the women (the one who had suggested giving notice to leave) began to cry. He took no notice of this demonstration, and went on. "I want two of you to do me a favour before we part. You will please witness the signature of my Will." The sensitive servant drew back directly. "No!" she said, "I couldn't do it. I never heard the Death-Watch before in winter time--I heard it all last night."
The other two witnessed the signature. They observed that the Will was a very short one. It was impossible not to notice the only legacy left; the words crossed the paper, just above the signatures, and only occupied two lines: "I leave to Zoe, youngest daughter of Mr. John Gallilee, of Fairfield Gardens, London, everything absolutely of which I die possessed." Excepting the formal introductory phrases, and the statement relating to the witnesses--both copied from a handy book of law, lying open on the table--this was the Will.
The female servants were allowed to go downstairs; after having been informed that they were to leave the next morning. The footman was detained in the dining-room.
"I am going to the laboratory," the master said; "and I want a few things carried to the door."
The big basket for waste paper, three times filled with letters and manuscripts; the books; the medicine chest; and the stone jar of oil from the kitchen--these, the master and the man removed together; setting them down at the laboratory door. It was a still cold starlight winter's night. The intermittent shriek of a railway whistle in the distance, was the only sound that disturbed the quiet of the time.
"Good night!" said the master.
The man returned the salute, and walked back to the house, closing the front door. He was now more firmly persuaded than ever that something was wrong. In the hall, the women were waiting for him. "What does it mean?" they asked. "Keep quiet," he said; "I'm going to see."
In another minute he was posted at the back of the house, behind the edge of the wall.