In a few minutes more, the governess herself confirmed this maternal forewarning of the truth. Zo had declined to commit to memory “the political consequences of the granting of Magna Charta”—and now stood reserved for punishment, when her mother “had time to attend to it.” Mrs. Gallilee at once disposed of this little responsibility. “Bread and water for tea,” she said, and proceeded to the business of the evening.
“I wish to speak to you both,” she began, “on the subject of my son.”
The two persons addressed waited in silence to hear more. Carmina’s head drooped: she looked down. Miss Minerva attentively observed Mrs. Gallilee. “Why am I invited to hear what she has to say about her son?” was the question which occurred to the governess. “Is she afraid that Carmina might tell me about it, if I was not let into the family secrets?”
Admirably reasoned, and correctly guessed!
Mrs. Gallilee had latterly observed that the governess was insinuating herself into the confidence of her niece—that is to say, into the confidence of a young lady, whose father was generally reported to have died in possession of a handsome fortune. Personal influence, once obtained over an heiress, is not infrequently misused. To check the further growth of a friendship of this sort (without openly offending Miss Minerva) was an imperative duty. Mrs. Gallilee saw her way to the discreet accomplishment of that object. Her niece and her governess were interested—diversely interested—in Ovid. If she invited them both together, to consult with her on the delicate subject of her son, there would be every chance of exciting some difference of opinion, sufficiently irritating to begin the process of estrangement, by keeping them apart when they had left the tea-table.
“It is most important that there should be no misunderstanding among us,” Mrs. Gallilee proceeded. “Let me set the example of speaking without reserve. We all three know that Ovid persists in remaining in London—”
She paused, on the point of finishing the sentence. Although she had converted a Professor, Mrs. Gallilee was still only a woman. There did enter into her other calculations, the possibility of exciting some accidental betrayal of her governess’s passion for her son. On alluding to Ovid, she turned suddenly to Miss Minerva. “I am sure you will excuse my troubling you with family anxieties,” she said—“especially when they are connected with the health of my son.”
It was cleverly done, but it laboured under one disadvantage. Miss Minerva had no idea of what the needless apology meant, having no suspicion of the discovery of her secret by her employer. But to feel herself baffled in trying to penetrate Mrs. Gallilee’s motives was enough, of itself, to put Mrs. Gallilee’s governess on her guard for the rest of the evening.
“You honour me, madam, by admitting me to your confidence”—was what she said. “Trip me up, you cat, if you can!”—was what she thought.
Mrs. Gallilee resumed.