“In my absence, you will be under my mother’s care. And you don’t like my mother.”
Few words and plain words—and they sorely troubled her.
If she owned that he was right, what would the consequence be? He might refuse to leave her. Even assuming that he controlled himself, he would take his departure harassed by anxieties, which might exercise the worst possible influence over the good effect of the journey. To prevaricate with herself or with him was out of the question. That very evening she had quarrelled with his mother; and she had yet to discover whether Mrs. Gallilee had forgiven her. In her heart of hearts she hated deceit—and in her heart of hearts she longed to set his mind at ease. In that embarrassing position, which was the right way out? Satan persuaded Eve; and Love persuaded Carmina. Love asked if she was cruel enough to make her heart’s darling miserable when he was so fond of her? Before she could realise it, she had begun to deceive him. Poor humanity! poor Carmina!
“You are almost as hard on me as if you were Doctor Benjulia himself!” she said. “I feel your mother’s superiority—and you tell me I don’t like her. Haven’t you seen how good she has been to me?”
She thought this way of putting it irresistible. Ovid resisted, nevertheless. Carmina plunged into lower depths of deceit immediately.
“Haven’t you seen my pretty rooms—my piano—my pictures—my china—my flowers? I should be the most insensible creature living if I didn’t feel grateful to your mother.”
“And yet, you are afraid of her.”
She shook his arm impatiently. “I say, No!”
He was as obstinate as ever. “I say, Yes! If you’re not afraid, why do you wish to keep our engagement from my mother’s knowledge?”
His reasoning was unanswerable. But where is the woman to be found who is not supple enough to slip through the stiff fingers of Reason? She sheltered herself from his logic behind his language.