Having rashly placed himself in this dilemma, Ovid unwisely escaped from it by the easiest way. "I don't think Benjulia a fit person," he said, "to be in the company of a young girl."
Mrs. Gallilee accepted this expression of opinion with a readiness, which would have told a more suspicious man that he had made a mistake. Ovid had roused the curiosity--perhaps awakened the distrust--of his clever mother.
"You know best," Mrs. Gallilee replied; "I will bear in mind what you say." She rang the bell for Carmina, and left the room. Ovid found the minutes passing slowly, for the first time since the day had been fixed for his departure. He attributed this impression to his natural impatience for the appearance of his cousin--until the plain evidence of the clock pointed to a delay of five endless minutes, and more. As he approached the door to make inquiries, it opened at last. Hurrying to meet Carmina, he found himself face to face with Miss Minerva!
She came in hastily, and held out her hand without looking at him.
"Forgive me for intruding on you," she said, with a rapidity of utterance and a timidity of manner strangely unlike herself. "I'm obliged to prepare the children's lessons for to-morrow; and this is my only opportunity of bidding you good-bye. You have my best wishes--my heartfelt wishes--for your safety and your health, and--and your enjoyment of the journey. Good-bye! good-bye!"
After holding his hand for a moment, she hastened back to the door. There she stopped, turned towards him again, and looked at him for the first time. "I have one thing more to say," she broke out. "I will do all I can to make Carmina's life pleasant in your absence." Before he could thank her, she was gone.
In another minute Carmina came in, and found Ovid looking perplexed and annoyed. She had passed Frances on the stairs--had there been any misunderstanding between Ovid and the governess?
"Have you seen Miss Minerva?" she asked.
He put his arm round her, and seated her by him on the sofa. "I don't understand Miss Minerva," he said. "How is it that she came here, when I was expecting You?"
"She asked me, as a favour, to let her see you first; and she seemed to be so anxious about it that I gave way. I didn't do wrong, Ovid--did I?"
"My darling, you are always kind, and always right! But why couldn't she say good-bye (with the others) downstairs? Do you understand this curious woman?"
"I think I do." She paused, and toyed with the hair over Ovid's forehead. "Miss Minerva is fond of you, poor thing," she said innocently.
"Fond of me?"
The surprise which his tone expressed, failed to attract her attention. She quietly varied the phrase that she had just used.
"Miss Minerva has a true regard for you--and knows that you don't return it," she explained, still playing with Ovid's hair. "I want to see how it looks," she went on, "when it's parted in the middle. No! it looks better as you always wear it. How handsome you are, Ovid! Don't you wish I was beautiful, too? Everybody in the house loves you; and everybody is sorry you are going away. I like Miss Minerva, I like everybody, for being so fond of my dear, dear hero. Oh, what shall I do when day after day passes, and only takes you farther and farther away from me? No! I won't cry. You shan't go away with a heavy heart, my dear one, if I can help it. Where is your photograph? You promised me your photograph. Let me look at it. Yes! it's like you, and yet not like you. It will do to think over, when I am alone. My love, it has copied your eyes, but it has not copied the divine kindness and goodness that I see in them!" She paused, and laid her head on his bosom. "I shall cry, in spite of my resolution, if I look at you any longer. We won't look--we won't talk--I can feel your arm round me--I can hear your heart. Silence is best. I have been told of people dying happily; and I never understood it before. I think I could die happily now." She put her hand over his lips before he could reprove her, and nestled closer to him. "Hush!" she said softly; "hush!"
They neither moved nor spoke: that silent happiness was the best happiness, while it lasted. Mrs. Gallilee broke the charm. She suddenly opened the door, pointed to the clock, and went away again.
The cruel time had come. They made their last promises; shared their last kisses; held each other in the last embrace. She threw herself on the sofa, as he left her--with a gesture which entreated him to go, while she could still control herself. Once, he looked round, when he reached the door--and then it was over.
Alone on the landing, he dashed the tears away from his eyes. Suffering and sorrow tried hard to get the better of his manhood: they had shaken, but had not conquered him. He was calm, when he joined the members of the family, waiting in the library.
Perpetually setting an example, Mrs. Gallilee ascended her domestic pedestal as usual. She favoured her son with one more kiss, and reminded him of the railway. "We understand each other, Ovid--you have only five minutes to spare. Write, when you get to Quebec. Now, Maria! say good-bye."
Maria presented herself to her brother with a grace which did honour to the family dancing-master. Her short farewell speech was a model of its kind.
"Dear Ovid, I am only a child; but I feel truly anxious for the recovery of your health. At this favourable season you may look forward to a pleasant voyage. Please accept my best wishes." She offered her cheek to be kissed--and looked like a young person who had done her duty, and knew it.
Mr. Gallilee--modestly secluded behind the window curtains--appeared, at a sign from his wife. One of his plump red hands held a bundle of cigars. The other clutched an enormous new travelling-flask--the giant of its tribe.
"My dear boy, it's possible there may be good brandy and cigars on board; but that's not my experience of steamers--is it yours?" He stopped to consult his wife. "My dear, is it yours?" Mrs. Gallilee held up the "Railway Guide," and shook it significantly. Mr. Gallilee went on in a hurry. "There's some of the right stuff in this flask, Ovid, if you will accept it. Five-and-forty years old--would you like to taste it? Would you like to taste it, my dear?" Mrs. Gallilee seized the "Railway Guide" again, with a terrible look. Her husband crammed the big flask into one of Ovid's pockets, and the cigars into the other. "You'll find them a comfort when you're away from us. God bless you, my son! You don't mind my calling you my son? I couldn't be fonder of you, if I really was your father. Let's part as cheerfully as we can," said poor Mr. Gallilee, with the tears rolling undisguisedly over his fat cheeks. "We can write to each other--can't we? Oh dear! dear! I wish I could take it as easy as Maria does. Zo! come and give him a kiss, poor fellow. Where's Zo?"
Mrs. Gallilee made the discovery--she dragged Zo into view, from under the table. Ovid took his little sister on his knee, and asked why she had hidden herself.