There were associations connected with Fairfield Gardens, which made the prospect of living there--without even the society of his children--unendurable to Mr. Gallilee. Ovid's house, still waiting the return of its master, was open to his step-father. The poor man was only too glad (in his own simple language) "to keep the nest warm for his son."
The latest inquiries made at the asylum were hopefully answered. Thus far, the measures taken to restore Mrs. Gallilee to herself had succeeded beyond expectation. But one unfavourable symptom remained. She was habitually silent. When she did speak, her mind seemed to be occupied with scientific subjects: she never mentioned her husband, or any other member of the family. Time and attention would remove this drawback. In two or three months more perhaps, if all went well, she might return to her family and her friends, as sane a woman as ever.
Calling at Fairfield Gardens for any letters that might be waiting there, Mr. Gallilee received a circular in lithographed writing; accompanied by a roll of thick white paper. The signature revealed the familiar name of Mr. Le Frank.
The circular set forth that the writer had won renown and a moderate income, as pianist and teacher of music. "A terrible accident, ladies and gentlemen, has injured my right hand, and has rendered amputation of two of my fingers necessary. Deprived for life of my professional resources, I have but one means of subsistence left--viz:--- collecting subscriptions for a song of my own composition. N.B.--The mutilated musician leaves the question of terms in the hands of the art-loving public, and will do himself the honour of calling to- morrow."
Good-natured Mr. Gallilee left a sovereign to be given to the victim of circumstances--and then set forth for Lord Northlake's house. He and Ovid had arranged that Zo was to be taken to see Carmina that day.
On his way through the streets, he was met by Mr. Mool. The lawyer looked at the song under his friend's arm. "What's that you're taking such care of?" he asked. "It looks like music. A new piece for the young ladies--eh?"
Mr. Gallilee explained. Mr. Mool struck his stick on the pavement, as the nearest available means of expressing indignation.
"Never let another farthing of your money get into that rascal's pocket! It's no merit of his that the poor old Italian nurse has not made her appearance in the police reports."
With this preface, Mr. Mool related the circumstances under which Mr. Le Frank had met with his accident. "His first proceeding when they discharged him from the hospital," continued the lawyer, "was to summon Teresa before a magistrate. Fortunately she showed the summons to me. I appeared for her, provided with a plan of the rooms which spoke for itself; and I put two questions to the complainant. What business had he in another person's room? and why was his hand in that other person's cupboard? The reporter kindly left the case unrecorded; and when the fellow ended by threatening the poor woman outside the court, we bound him over to keep the peace. I have my eye on him--and I'll catch him yet, under the Vagrant Act!"
CHAPTER LXI.
Aided by time, care, and skill, Carmina had gained strength enough to pass some hours of the day in the sitting-room; reclining in an invalid-chair invented for her by Ovid. The welcome sight of Zo--brightened and developed by happy autumn days passed in Scotland--brought a deep flush to her face, and quickened the pulse which Ovid was touching, under pretence of holding her hand. These signs of excessive nervous sensibility warned him to limit the child's visit to a short space of time. Neither Miss Minerva nor Teresa were in the room: Carmina could have Zo all to herself.
"Now, my dear," she said, in a kiss, "tell me about Scotland."
"Scotland," Zo answered with dignity, "belongs to uncle Northlake. He pays for everything; and I'm Missus."
"It's true," said Mr. Gallilee, bursting with pride. "My lord says it's no use having a will of your own where Zo is. When he introduces her to anybody on the estate, he says, 'Here's the Missus.'"
Mr. Gallilee's youngest daughter listened critically to the parental testimony. "You see he knows," she said to Ovid. "There's nothing to laugh at."
Carmina tried another question. "Did you think of me, dear, when you were far away?"
"Think of you?" Zo repeated. "You're to sleep in my bedroom when we go back to Scotland--and I'm to be out of bed, and one of 'em, when you eat your first Scotch dinner. Shall I tell you what you'll see on the table? You'll see a big brown steaming bag in a dish--and you'll see me slit it with a knife--and the bag's fat inside will tumble out, all smoking hot and stinking. That's a Scotch dinner. Oh!" she cried, losing her dignity in the sudden interest of a new idea, "oh, Carmina, do you remember the Italian boy, and his song?"
Here was one of those tests of her memory for trifles, applied with a child's happy abruptness, for which Ovid had been waiting. He listened eagerly. To his unutterable relief, Carmina laughed.
"Of course I remember it!" she said. "Who could forget the boy who sings and grins and says Gimmeehaypenny?"
"That's it!" cried Zo. "The boy's song was a good one in its way. I've learnt a better in Scotland. You've heard of Donald, haven't you?"
"No."
Zo turned indignantly to her father. "Why didn't you tell her of Donald?"
Mr. Gallilee humbly admitted that he was in fault. Carmina asked who Donald was, and what he was like. Zo unconsciously tested her memory for the second time.
"You know that day," she said, "when Joseph had an errand at the grocer's and I went along with him, and Miss Minerva said I was a vulgar child?"
Carmina's memory recalled this new trifle, without an effort. "I know," she answered; "you told me Joseph and the grocer weighed you in the great scales."
Zo delighted Ovid by trying her again. "When they put me into the scales, Carmina, what did I weigh?"
"Nearly four stone, dear."
"Quite four stone. Donald weighs fourteen.' What do you think of that?"
Mr. Gallilee once more offered his testimony. "The biggest Piper on my lord's estate," he began, "comes of a Highland family, and was removed to the Lowlands by my lord's father. A great player--"
"And my friend," Zo explained, stopping her father in full career. "He takes snuff out of a cow's horn. He shovels it up his fat nose with a spoon, like this. His nose wags. He says, 'Try my sneeshin.' Sneeshin's Scotch for snuff. He boos till he's nearly double when uncle Northlake speaks to him. Boos is Scotch for bows. He skirls on the pipes--skirls means screeches. When you first hear him, he'll make your stomach ache. You'll get used to that--and you'll find you like him. He wears a purse and a petticoat; he never had a pair of trousers on in his life; there's no pride about him. Say you're my friend and he'll let you smack his legs--"
Here, Ovid was obliged to bring the biography of Donald to a close. Carmina's enjoyment of Zo was becoming too keen for her strength; her bursts of laughter grew louder and louder--the wholesome limit of excitement was being rapidly passed.