Heart and Science | Page 7

the regular teeth, the
well-developed mouth, and the promising bosom which form altogether
the average type of beauty found in the purely bred English maiden,
were not among the noticeable charms of the small creature in gloomy
black, shrinking into a corner of the big room. She had very little
colour of any sort to boast of. Her hair was of so light a brown that it
just escaped being flaxen; but it had the negative merit of not being
forced down to her eyebrows, and twisted into the hideous curly-wig
which exhibits a liberal equality of ugliness on the heads of women in
the present day. There was a delicacy of finish in her features--in the
nose and the lips especially--a sensitive changefulness in the expression
of her eyes (too dark in themselves to be quite in harmony with her
light hair), and a subtle yet simple witchery in her rare smile, which
atoned, in some degree at least, for want of complexion in the face and
of flesh in the figure. Men might dispute her claims to beauty--but no
one could deny that she was, in the common phrase, an interesting
person. Grace and refinement; a quickness of apprehension and a
vivacity of movement, suggestive of some foreign origin; a childish
readiness of wonder, in the presence of new objects--and perhaps,
under happier circumstances, a childish playfulness with persons whom
she loved--were all characteristic attractions of the modest stranger who
was in the charge of the ugly old woman, and who was palpably the
object of that wrinkled duenna's devoted love.
A travelling writing-case stood open on a table near them. In an interval
of silence the girl looked at it reluctantly. They had been talking of
family affairs--and had spoken in Italian, so as to keep their domestic
secrets from the ears of the strangers about them. The old woman was
the first to resume the conversation.
"My Carmina, you really ought to write that letter," she said; "the
illustrious Mrs. Gallilee is waiting to hear of our arrival in London."
Carmina took up the pen, and put it down again with a sigh. "We only
arrived last night," she pleaded. "Dear old Teresa, let us have one day
in London by ourselves!"
Teresa received this proposal with undisguised amazement and alarm,

"Jesu Maria! a day in London--and your aunt waiting for you all the
time! She is your second mother, my dear, by appointment; and her
house is your new home. And you propose to stop a whole day at an
hotel, instead of going home. Impossible! Write, my Carmina--write.
See, here is the address on a card:--'Fairfield Gardens.' What a pretty
place it must be to live in, with such a name as that! And a sweet lady,
no doubt. Come! Come!"
But Carmina still resisted. "I have never even seen my aunt," she said.
"It is dreadful to pass my life with a stranger. Remember, I was only a
child when you came to us after my mother's death. It is hardly six
months yet since I lost my father. I have no one but you, and, when I go
to this new home, you will leave me. I only ask for one more day to be
together, before we part."
The poor old duenna drew back out of sight, in the shadow of a
curtain--and began to cry. Carmina took her hand, under cover of a
tablecloth; Carmina knew how to console her. "We will go and see
sights," she whispered "and, when dinner-time comes, you shall have a
glass of the Porto-porto-wine."
Teresa looked round out of the shadow, as easily comforted as a child.
"Sights!" she exclaimed--and dried her tears. "Porto-porto-wine!" she
repeated--and smacked her withered lips at the relishing words. "Ah,
my child, you have not forgotten the consolations I told you of, when I
lived in London in my young days. To think of you, with an English
father, and never in London till now! I used to go to museums and
concerts sometimes, when my English mistress was pleased with me.
That gracious lady often gave me a glass of the fine strong purple wine.
The Holy Virgin grant that Aunt Gallilee may be as kind a woman!
Such a head of hair as the other one she cannot hope to have. It was a
joy to dress it. Do you think I wouldn't stay here in England with you if
I could? What is to become of my old man in Italy, with his cursed
asthma, and nobody to nurse him? Oh, but those were dull years in
London! The black endless streets--the dreadful Sundays--the hundreds
of thousands of people, always in a hurry; always with grim faces set
on business, business, business! I was glad to go