Heart and Science by Wilkie Collins (read with me TXT) 📕
The conditions under which the old doctor was willing to assume the character of a prophet never occurred. Ovid remembered that he was go
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“Poor foolish Mr. Null, finding nothing to astonish him in my course of medicine—as represented by the chemist—appears by his own confession, to have copied the prescriptions with a malicious object in view. ‘I have sent them, (he informs me, in a second letter) to Doctor Benjulia; in order that he too may learn something in his profession from the master who has dispensed with our services.’ This new effort of irony means that I stand self-condemned of vanity, in presuming to rely on my own commonplace resources—represented by the deceitful evidence of the chemist’s book!
“But I am grateful to Mr. Null, notwithstanding: he has done me a service, in meaning to do me an injury.
“My imperfect prescriptions have quieted the mind of the man to whom he sent them. This wretch’s distrust has long since falsely suspected me of some professional rivalry pursued in secret; the feeling showed itself again, when I met with him by accident on the night of my return to London. Since Mr. Null has communicated with him, the landlady is no longer insulted by his visits, and offended by his questions—all relating to the course of treatment which I was pursuing upstairs.
“You now understand why I have ventured to trouble you on a purely professional topic. To turn to matters of more interest—our dear Carmina is well enough to remember you, and to send her love to you and the girls. But even this little effort is followed by fatigue.
“I don’t mean only fatigue of body: that is now a question of time and care. I mean fatigue of mind—expressing itself by defect of memory.
“On the morning when the first positive change for the better appeared, I was at her bedside when she woke. She looked at me in amazement. ‘Why didn’t you warn me of your sudden return?’ she asked, ‘I have only written to you to-day—to your bankers at Quebec! What does it mean?’
“I did my best to soothe her, and succeeded. There is a complete lapse in her memory—I am only too sure of it! She has no recollection of anything that has happened since she wrote her last letter to me—a letter which must have been lost (perhaps intercepted?), or I should have received it before I left Quebec. This forgetfulness of the dreadful trials through which my poor darling has passed, is, in itself, a circumstance which we must all rejoice over for her sake. But I am discouraged by it, at the same time; fearing it may indicate some more serious injury than I have yet discovered.
“Miss Minerva—what should I do without the help and sympathy of that best of true women?—Miss Minerva has cautiously tested her memory in other directions, with encouraging results, so far. But I shall not feel easy until I have tried further experiments, by means of some person who does not exercise a powerful influence over her, and whose memory is naturally occupied with what we older people call trifles.
“When you all leave Scotland next month, bring Zo here with you. My dear little correspondent is just the sort of quaint child I want for the purpose. Kiss her for me till she is out of breath—and say that is what I mean to do when we meet.”
The return to London took place in the last week in October.
Lord and Lady Northlake went to their town residence, taking Maria and Zo with them. 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. “Tell us about your cousins,” he said, by way of effecting a diversion.
“The big ones?” Zo asked.
“No; the little ones, like you.”
“Nice girls—they play at everything I tell ‘em. Jolly boys—when they knock a girl down, they pick her up again, and clean her.”
Carmina was once more in danger of passing the limit. Ovid made another attempt to effect a diversion. Singing would be comparatively harmless in its effect—as he rashly supposed. “What’s that song you learnt in Scotland?” he asked.
“It’s Donald’s song,” Zo replied. “He taught me.”
At the sound of Donald’s dreadful name, Ovid looked at his watch, and said there was no time for the song. Mr. Gallilee suddenly and seriously sided with his step-son. “How she got among the men after dinner,” he said, “nobody knows. Lady Northlake has forbidden Donald to teach her any more songs; and I have requested him, as a favour to me, not to let her smack his legs. Come, my dear, it’s time we were home again.”
Well intended by both gentlemen—but too late. Zo was ready for the performance; her hat was cocked on one side; her plump little arms were set akimbo; her round eyes opened and closed
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