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Updated: May 26, 2025
"Mustn't I speak of him," Zo asked, "when I want him to tickle me?" Ovid beckoned to her father. "Take her away now," he whispered "and never let her see that man again." The warning was needless. The man's destiny had decreed that he and Zo were never more to meet. Benjulia's servants had but a dull time of it, poor souls, in the lonely house.
The spots of blood which Ovid had once seen on Benjulia's stick, were on his hands now. With unruffled composure he looked at the horrid stains, silently telling their tale of torture. "What's the use of washing my hands," he answered, "when I am going back to my work?" He wiped his finger and thumb on the tail of his coat.
She had not driven all the way to Benjulia's house to be sent back again without gaining her object: she had her questions to put to him, and she persisted in pressing them as only a woman can. He was left with the education of a gentleman against him between the two vulgar alternatives of turning her out by main force, or of yielding, and getting rid of her decently in that way.
In one word, all that sympathy and indulgence could do to invite Ovid's confidence, was unobtrusively and modestly done. Never had the mistress of domestic diplomacy reached her ends with finer art. In the afternoon, a messenger delivered Benjulia's reply to Mrs. Gallilee's announcement of her son's contemplated journey despatched by the morning's post.
She said to herself, as her kitchen-maid might have said, We will see what comes of it, the third time! Benjulia's letter was among the other letters waiting on the table. She took it up, and read it again. In her present frame of mind, to find her thoughts occupied by the doctor, was to be reminded of Ovid's strange allusion to his professional colleague, on the day of his departure.
There were some curious things said here especially about a melancholy deathbed at a place called Montreal which made the Preface almost as interesting as a story. But what was there in this to hurry the master out of the house, as if the devil had been at his heels? Doctor Benjulia's nearest neighbour was a small farmer named Gregg.
"Some nervous prostration, sir, in my interesting patient, as you no doubt perceive," he began. "Not such rapid progress towards recovery as I had hoped. I think of recommending the air of the seaside." Benjulia's dreary eyes turned on him slowly, and estimated his mental calibre at its exact value, in a moment. Mr. Null felt that look in the very marrow of his bones.
The shopman knew him by reputation, and sold him the book. He was in such a hurry to read it, that he actually began in the shop. It was necessary to tell him that business hours were over. Hearing this, he ran out, and told the cabman to drive as fast as possible to Pall Mall. The library waiter at Doctor Benjulia's Club found him in the library, busy with a book.
If you cannot do me this favour, I ask your pardon for putting you to inconvenience, and leave some other person, whose mind is at ease, to occupy the place which I am for the present unfit to fill." Having completed her letter in those terms, she waited Benjulia's return. There was sadness in her face, but no agitation, as she looked patiently towards the bedroom door.
There he was, enjoying his cigar in comfort, with his coat off and his feet on a chair. She opened the door. "I want you, this evening," she said and shut the door again; leaving Mr. Gallilee suffocated by a mouthful of his own smoke. Benjulia's humour was essentially an uncertain humour. It might be necessary to fascinate the doctor.
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