When the footman opened the door, Benjulia handed in the packet of letters. After his latest experience of Mrs. Gallilee, he had no intention of returning her visit. He walked away without uttering a word.
The cable took his message to Mr. Morphew in these terms:--"Ovid's patient at Montreal. Was the complaint brain disease? Yes or no." Having made arrangements for the forwarding of the reply from his club, he set forth on the walk back to his house.
At five minutes to three, he was at home again. As the clock struck the hour, he rang the bell. The man-servant appeared, without the dinner. Benjulia's astonishing amiability--on his holiday--was even equal to this demand on its resources.
"I ordered roast mutton at three," he said, with terrifying tranquillity. "Where is it?"
"The dinner will be ready in ten minutes, sir."
"Why is it not ready now?"
"The cook hopes you will excuse her, sir. She is a little behindhand to-day."
"What has hindered her, if you please?"
The silent servant--on all other occasions the most impenetrable of human beings--began to tremble. The doctor had, literally, kicked a man out of the house who had tried to look through the laboratory skylight. He had turned away a female servant at half an hour's notice, for forgetting to shut the door, a second time in one day. But what were these highhanded proceedings, compared with the awful composure which, being kept waiting for dinner, only asked what had hindered the cook, and put the question politely, by saying, "if you please"?
"Perhaps you were making love to her?" the doctor suggested, as gently as ever.
This outrageous insinuation stung the silent servant into speech. "I'm incapable of the action, sir!" he answered indignantly; "the woman was reading a story."
Benjulia bent his head, as if in acknowledgment of a highly satisfactory explanation. "Oh? reading a story? People who read stories are said to have excitable brains. Should you call the cook excitable?"
"I should, sir! Most cooks are excitable. They say it's the kitchen fire."
"Do they? You can go now. Don't hurry the cook--I'll wait."
He waited, apparently following some new train of thought which highly diverted him. Ten minutes passed--then a quarter of an hour then another five minutes. When the servant returned with the dinner, the master's private reflections continued to amuse him: his thin lips were still widening grimly, distended by his formidable smile.
On being carved, the mutton proved to be underdone. At other times, this was an unpardonable crime in Benjulia's domestic code of laws. All he said now was, "Take it away." He dined on potatoes, and bread and cheese. When he had done, he was rather more amiable than ever. He said, "Ask the cook to come and see me!"
The cook presented herself, with one hand on her palpitating heart, and the other holding her handkerchief to her eyes.
"What are you crying about?" Benjulia inquired; "I haven't scolded you, have I?" The cook began an apology; the doctor pointed to a chair. "Sit down, and recover yourself." The cook sat down, faintly smiling through her tears. This otherwise incomprehensible reception of a person who had kept the dinner waiting twenty minutes, and who had not done the mutton properly even then (taken in connection with the master's complimentary inquiries, reported downstairs by the footman), could bear but one interpretation. It wasn't every woman who had her beautiful hair, and her rosy complexion. Why had she not thought of going upstairs first, just to see whether she looked her best in the glass? Would he begin by making a confession? or would he begin by kissing her?
He began by lighting his pipe. For a while he smoked placidly with his eye on the cook. "I hear you have been reading a story," he resumed. "What is the name of it?"
"'Pamela; or Virtue Rewarded,' sir."
Benjulia went on with his smoking. The cook, thus far demure and downcast, lifted her eyes experimentally. He was still looking at her. Did he want encouragement? The cook cautiously offered a little literary information,
"The author's name is on the book, sir. Name of Richardson."
The information was graciously received, "Yes; I've heard of the name, and heard of the book. Is it interesting?"
"Oh, sir, it's a beautiful story! My only excuse for being late with the dinner--"
"Who's Pamela?"
"A young person in service, sir. I'm sure I wish I was more like her! I felt quite broken-hearted when you sent the mutton down again; and you so kind as to overlook the error in the roasting--"
Benjulia stopped the apology once more. He pursued his own ends with a penitent cook, just as he pursued his own ends with a vivisected animal. Nothing moved him out of his appointed course, in the one or in the other. He returned to Pamela.
"And what becomes of her at the end of the story?" he asked.
The cook simpered. "It's Pamela who is the virtuous young person, sir. And so the story comes true--Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded."
"Who rewards her?"
Was there ever anything so lucky as this? Pamela's situation was fast becoming the cook's situation. The bosom of the vigourous little woman began to show signs of tender agitation--distributed over a large surface. She rolled her eyes amorously. Benjulia puffed out another mouthful of smoke. "Well," he repeated, "who rewards Pamela?"
"Her master, sir."
"What does he do?"
The cook's eyes sank modestly to her lap. The cook's complexion became brighter than ever.
"Her master marries her, sir."
"Oh?"
That was all he said. He was not astonished, or confused, or encouraged--he simply intimated that he now knew how Pamela's master had rewarded Pamela. And, more dispiriting still, he took the opportunity of knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and filled it, and lit it again. If the cook had been one of the few miserable wretches who never read novels, she might have felt her fondly founded hopes already sinking from under her. As it was, Richardson sustained her faith in herself; Richardson reminded her that Pamela's master had hesitated, and that Pamela's Virtue had not earned its reward on easy terms. She stole another look at the doctor. The eloquence of women's eyes, so widely and justly celebrated in poetry and prose, now spoke in the cook's eyes. They said, "Marry me, dear sir, and you shall never have underdone mutton again." The hearts of other savages have been known to soften under sufficient influences--why should the scientific savage, under similar pressure, not melt a little too? The doctor took up the talk again: he made a kind allusion to the cook's family circumstances.
"When you first came here, I think you told me you had no relations?"
"I am an orphan, sir."
"And you had been some time out of a situation, when I engaged you?"
"Yes, sir; my poor little savings were nearly at an end!" Could he resist that pathetic picture of the orphan's little savings--framed, as it were, in a delicately-designed reference to her fellow-servant in the story? "I was as poor as Pamela," she suggested softly.