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diff --git a/1975-0.txt b/1975-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f7ebab --- /dev/null +++ b/1975-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13838 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Legacy of Cain, by Wilkie Collins + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Legacy of Cain + +Author: Wilkie Collins + +Posting Date: October 15, 2008 [EBook #1975] +Release Date: November, 1999 +Last Updated: September 13, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGACY OF CAIN *** + + + + +Produced by James Rusk + + + + + +THE LEGACY OF CAIN + +By Wilkie Collins + + +To + +MRS. HENRY POWELL BARTLEY: + +Permit me to add your name to my name, in publishing this novel. The +pen which has written my books cannot be more agreeably employed than in +acknowledging what I owe to the pen which has skillfully and patiently +helped me, by copying my manuscripts for the printer. + +WILKIE COLLINS. + +Wimpole Street, 6th December, 1888. + + + + + +THE LEGACY OF CAIN. + + + + +First Period: 1858-1859. EVENTS IN THE PRISON, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR. + + + +CHAPTER I. THE GOVERNOR EXPLAINS. + +At the request of a person who has claims on me that I must not disown, +I consent to look back through a long interval of years and to describe +events which took place within the walls of an English prison during the +earlier period of my appointment as Governor. + +Viewing my task by the light which later experience casts on it, I think +I shall act wisely by exercising some control over the freedom of my +pen. + +I propose to pass over in silence the name of the town in which is +situated the prison once confided to my care. I shall observe a similar +discretion in alluding to individuals--some dead, some living, at the +present time. + +Being obliged to write of a woman who deservedly suffered the extreme +penalty of the law, I think she will be sufficiently identified if I +call her The Prisoner. Of the four persons present on the evening before +her execution three may be distinguished one from the other by allusion +to their vocations in life. I here introduce them as The Chaplain, The +Minister, and The Doctor. The fourth was a young woman. She has no claim +on my consideration; and, when she is mentioned, her name may appear. +If these reserves excite suspicion, I declare beforehand that they +influence in no way the sense of responsibility which commands an honest +man to speak the truth. + + + +CHAPTER II. THE MURDERESS ASKS QUESTIONS. + +The first of the events which I must now relate was the conviction of +The Prisoner for the murder of her husband. + +They had lived together in matrimony for little more than two years. The +husband, a gentleman by birth and education, had mortally offended his +relations in marrying a woman of an inferior rank of life. He was +fast declining into a state of poverty, through his own reckless +extravagance, at the time when he met with his death at his wife’s hand. + +Without attempting to excuse him, he deserved, to my mind, some tribute +of regret. It is not to be denied that he was profligate in his +habits and violent in his temper. But it is equally true that he was +affectionate in the domestic circle, and, when moved by wisely applied +remonstrance, sincerely penitent for sins committed under temptation +that overpowered him. If his wife had killed him in a fit of jealous +rage--under provocation, be it remembered, which the witnesses +proved--she might have been convicted of manslaughter, and might have +received a light sentence. But the evidence so undeniably revealed +deliberate and merciless premeditation, that the only defense attempted +by her counsel was madness, and the only alternative left to a righteous +jury was a verdict which condemned the woman to death. Those mischievous +members of the community, whose topsy-turvy sympathies feel for the +living criminal and forget the dead victim, attempted to save her by +means of high-flown petitions and contemptible correspondence in the +newspapers. But the Judge held firm; and the Home Secretary held firm. +They were entirely right; and the public were scandalously wrong. + +Our Chaplain endeavored to offer the consolations of religion to the +condemned wretch. She refused to accept his ministrations in language +which filled him with grief and horror. + +On the evening before the execution, the reverend gentleman laid on my +table his own written report of a conversation which had passed between +the Prisoner and himself. + +“I see some hope, sir,” he said, “of inclining the heart of this woman +to religious belief, before it is too late. Will you read my report, and +say if you agree with me?” + +I read it, of course. It was called “A Memorandum,” and was thus +written: + +“At his last interview with the Prisoner, the Chaplain asked her if she +had ever entered a place of public worship. She replied that she had +occasionally attended the services at a Congregational Church in this +town; attracted by the reputation of the Minister as a preacher. ‘He +entirely failed to make a Christian of me,’ she said; ‘but I was struck +by his eloquence. Besides, he interested me personally--he was a fine +man.’ + +“In the dreadful situation in which the woman was placed, such language +as this shocked the Chaplain; he appealed in vain to the Prisoner’s +sense of propriety. ‘You don’t understand women,’ she answered. ‘The +greatest saint of my sex that ever lived likes to look at a preacher as +well as to hear him. If he is an agreeable man, he has all the greater +effect on her. This preacher’s voice told me he was kind-hearted; and +I had only to look at his beautiful eyes to see that he was trustworthy +and true.’ + +“It was useless to repeat a protest which had already failed. Recklessly +and flippantly as she had described it, an impression had been produced +on her. It occurred to the Chaplain that he might at least make the +attempt to turn this result to her own religious advantage. He asked +whether she would receive the Minister, if the reverend gentleman came +to the prison. ‘That will depend,’ she said, ‘on whether you answer some +questions which I want to put to you first.’ The Chaplain consented; +provided always that he could reply with propriety to what she asked of +him. Her first question only related to himself. + +“She said: ‘The women who watch me tell me that you are a widower, and +have a family of children. Is that true?’ + +“The Chaplain answered that it was quite true. + +“She alluded next to a report, current in the town, that the Minister +had resigned the pastorate. Being personally acquainted with him, the +Chaplain was able to inform her that his resignation had not yet been +accepted. On hearing this, she seemed to gather confidence. Her next +inquiries succeeded each other rapidly, as follows: + +“‘Is my handsome preacher married?’ + +“‘Yes.’ + +“‘Has he got any children?’ + +“‘He has never had any children.’ + +“‘How long has he been married?’ + +“‘As well as I know, about seven or eight years. + +“‘What sort of woman is his wife?’ + +“‘A lady universally respected.’ + +“‘I don’t care whether she is respected or not. Is she kind?’ + +“‘Certainly!’ + +“‘Is her husband well off?’ + +“‘He has a sufficient income.’ + +“After that reply, the Prisoner’s curiosity appeared to be satisfied. +She said, ‘Bring your friend the preacher to me, if you like’--and there +it ended. + +“What her object could have been in putting these questions, it seems to +be impossible to guess. Having accurately reported all that took place, +the Chaplain declares, with heartfelt regret, that he can exert no +religious influence over this obdurate woman. He leaves it to the +Governor to decide whether the Minister of the Congregational Church may +not succeed, where the Chaplain of the Jail has failed. Herein is the +one last hope of saving the soul of the Prisoner, now under sentence of +death!” + +In those serious words the Memorandum ended. Although not personally +acquainted with the Minister I had heard of him, on all sides, as an +excellent man. In the emergency that confronted us he had, as it seemed +to me, his own sacred right to enter the prison; assuming that he +was willing to accept, what I myself felt to be, a very serious +responsibility. The first necessity was to discover whether we might +hope to obtain his services. With my full approval the Chaplain left me, +to state the circumstances to his reverend colleague. + + + +CHAPTER III. THE CHILD APPEARS. + +During my friend’s absence, my attention was claimed by a sad +incident--not unforeseen. + +It is, I suppose, generally known that near relatives are admitted to +take their leave of criminals condemned to death. In the case of the +Prisoner now waiting for execution, no person applied to the authorities +for permission to see her. I myself inquired if she had any relations +living, and if she would like to see them. She answered: “None that +I care to see, or that care to see me--except the nearest relation of +all.” + +In those last words the miserable creature alluded to her only child, a +little girl (an infant, I should say), who had passed her first year’s +birthday by a few months. The farewell interview was to take place on +the mother’s last evening on earth; and the child was now brought into +my rooms, in charge of her nurse. + +I had seldom seen a brighter or prettier little girl. She was just able +to walk alone, and to enjoy the first delight of moving from one place +to another. Quite of her own accord she came to me, attracted I daresay +by the glitter of my watch-chain. Helping her to climb on my knee, I +showed the wonders of the watch, and held it to her ear. At that past +time, death had taken my good wife from me; my two boys were away at +Harrow School; my domestic life was the life of a lonely man. Whether +I was reminded of the bygone days when my sons were infants on my knee, +listening to the ticking of my watch--or whether the friendless position +of the poor little creature, who had lost one parent and was soon to +lose the other by a violent death, moved me in depths of pity not easily +reached in my later experience--I am not able to say. This only I know: +my heart ached for the child while she was laughing and listening; and +something fell from me on the watch which I don’t deny might have been +a tear. A few of the toys, mostly broken now, which my two children +used to play with are still in my possession; kept, like my poor wife’s +favorite jewels, for old remembrance’ sake. These I took from their +repository when the attraction of my watch showed signs of failing. The +child pounced on them with her chubby hands, and screamed with pleasure. +And the hangman was waiting for her mother--and, more horrid still, the +mother deserved it! + +My duty required me to let the Prisoner know that her little daughter +had arrived. Did that heart of iron melt at last? It might have been so, +or it might not; the message sent back kept her secret. All that it said +to me was: “Let the child wait till I send for her.” + +The Minister had consented to help us. On his arrival at the prison, I +received him privately in my study. + +I had only to look at his face--pitiably pale and agitated--to see +that he was a sensitive man, not always able to control his nerves on +occasions which tried his moral courage. A kind, I might almost say a +noble face, and a voice unaffectedly persuasive, at once prepossessed +me in his favor. The few words of welcome that I spoke were intended +to compose him. They failed to produce the impression on which I had +counted. + +“My experience,” he said, “has included many melancholy duties, and has +tried my composure in terrible scenes; but I have never yet found myself +in the presence of an unrepentant criminal, sentenced to death--and +that criminal a woman and a mother. I own, sir, that I am shaken by the +prospect before me.” + +I suggested that he should wait a while, in the hope that time and quiet +might help him. He thanked me, and refused. + +“If I have any knowledge of myself,” he said, “terrors of anticipation +lose their hold when I am face to face with a serious call on me. The +longer I remain here, the less worthy I shall appear of the trust that +has been placed in me--the trust which, please God, I mean to deserve.” + +My own observation of human nature told me that this was wisely said. I +led the way at once to the cell. + +CHAPTER IV. THE MINISTER SAYS YES. + +The Prisoner was seated on her bed, quietly talking with the woman +appointed to watch her. When she rose to receive us, I saw the Minister +start. The face that confronted him would, in my opinion, have taken any +man by surprise, if he had first happened to see it within the walls of +a prison. + +Visitors to the picture-galleries of Italy, growing weary of Holy +Families in endless succession, observe that the idea of the Madonna, +among the rank and file of Italian Painters, is limited to one +changeless and familiar type. I can hardly hope to be believed when I +say that the personal appearance of the murderess recalled that type. +She presented the delicate light hair, the quiet eyes, the finely-shaped +lower features and the correctly oval form of face, repeated in hundreds +on hundreds of the conventional works of Art to which I have ventured to +allude. To those who doubt me, I can only declare that what I have +here written is undisguised and absolute truth. Let me add that daily +observation of all classes of criminals, extending over many years, has +considerably diminished my faith in physiognomy as a safe guide to the +discovery of character. Nervous trepidation looks like guilt. Guilt, +firmly sustained by insensibility, looks like innocence. One of the +vilest wretches ever placed under my charge won the sympathies (while he +was waiting for his trial) of every person who saw him, including even +the persons employed in the prison. Only the other day, ladies and +gentlemen coming to visit me passed a body of men at work on the road. +Judges of physiognomy among them were horrified at the criminal atrocity +betrayed in every face that they noticed. They condoled with me on the +near neighborhood of so many convicts to my official place of residence. +I looked out of the window and saw a group of honest laborers (whose +only crime was poverty) employed by the parish! + +Having instructed the female warder to leave the room--but to take care +that she waited within call--I looked again at the Minister. + +Confronted by the serious responsibility that he had undertaken, he +justified what he had said to me. Still pale, still distressed, he was +now nevertheless master of himself. I turned to the door to leave him +alone with the Prisoner. She called me back. + +“Before this gentleman tries to convert me,” she said, “I want you to +wait here and be a witness.” + +Finding that we were both willing to comply with this request, she +addressed herself directly to the Minister. “Suppose I promise to listen +to your exhortations,” she began, “what do you promise to do for me in +return?” + +The voice in which she spoke to him was steady and clear; a marked +contrast to the tremulous earnestness with which he answered her. + +“I promise to urge you to repentance and the confession of your crime. I +promise to implore the divine blessing on me in the effort to save your +poor guilty soul.” + +She looked at him, and listened to him, as if he was speaking to her in +an unknown tongue, and went on with what she had to say as quietly as +ever. + +“When I am hanged to-morrow, suppose I die without confessing, without +repenting--are you one of those who believe I shall be doomed to eternal +punishment in another life?” + +“I believe in the mercy of God.” + +“Answer my question, if you please. Is an impenitent sinner eternally +punished? Do you believe that?” + +“My Bible leaves me no other alternative.” + +She paused for a while, evidently considering with special attention +what she was about to say next. + +“As a religious man,” she resumed, “would you be willing to make some +sacrifice, rather than let a fellow-creature go--after a disgraceful +death--to everlasting torment?” + +“I know of no sacrifice in my power,” he said, fervently, “to which I +would not rather submit than let you die in the present dreadful state +of your mind.” + +The Prisoner turned to me. “Is the person who watches me waiting +outside?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you be so kind as to call her in? I have a message for her.” + +It was plain that she had been leading the way to the delivery of +that message, whatever it might be, in all that she had said up to the +present time. So far my poor powers of penetration helped me, and no +further. + +The warder appeared, and received her message. “Tell the woman who has +come here with my little girl that I want to see the child.” + +Taken completely by surprise, I signed to the attendant to wait for +further instructions. + +In a moment more I had sufficiently recovered myself to see the +impropriety of permitting any obstacle to interpose between the Minister +and his errand of mercy. I gently reminded the Prisoner that she would +have a later opportunity of seeing her child. “Your first duty,” I told +her, “is to hear and to take to heart what the clergyman has to say to +you.” + +For the second time I attempted to leave the cell. For the second time +this impenetrable woman called me back. + +“Take the parson away with you,” she said. “I refuse to listen to him.” + +The patient Minister yielded, and appealed to me to follow his example. +I reluctantly sanctioned the delivery of the message. + +After a brief interval the child was brought to us, tired and sleepy. +For a while the nurse roused her by setting her on her feet. She +happened to notice the Minister first. Her bright eyes rested on him, +gravely wondering. He kissed her, and, after a momentary hesitation, +gave her to her mother. The horror of the situation overpowered him: +he turned his face away from us. I understood what he felt; he almost +overthrew my own self-command. + +The Prisoner spoke to the nurse in no friendly tone: “You can go.” + +The nurse turned to me, ostentatiously ignoring the words that had been +addressed to her. “Am I to go, sir, or to stay?” I suggested that she +should return to the waiting-room. She returned at once in silence. The +Prisoner looked after her as she went out, with such an expression of +hatred in her eyes that the Minister noticed it. + +“What has that person done to offend you?” he asked. + +“She is the last person in the whole world whom I should have chosen +to take care of my child, if the power of choosing had been mine. But +I have been in prison, without a living creature to represent me or to +take my part. No more of that; my troubles will be over in a few hours +more. I want you to look at my little girl, whose troubles are all to +come. Do you call her pretty? Do you feel interested in her?” + +The sorrow and pity in his face answered for him. + +Quietly sleeping, the poor baby rested on her mother’s bosom. Was the +heart of the murderess softened by the divine influence of maternal +love? The hands that held the child trembled a little. For the first +time it seemed to cost her an effort to compose herself, before she +could speak to the Minister again. + +“When I die to-morrow,” she said, “I leave my child helpless and +friendless--disgraced by her mother’s shameful death. The workhouse +may take her--or a charitable asylum may take her.” She paused; a first +tinge of color rose on her pale face; she broke into an outburst of +rage. “Think of _my_ daughter being brought up by charity! She may +suffer poverty, she may be treated with contempt, she may be employed by +brutal people in menial work. I can’t endure it; it maddens me. If she +is not saved from that wretched fate, I shall die despairing, I shall +die cursing--” + +The Minister sternly stopped her before she could say the next word. +To my astonishment she appeared to be humbled, to be even ashamed: she +asked his pardon: “Forgive me; I won’t forget myself again. They tell +me you have no children of your own. Is that a sorrow to you and your +wife?” + +Her altered tone touched him. He answered sadly and kindly: “It is the +one sorrow of our lives.” + +The purpose which she had been keeping in view from the moment when +the Minister entered her cell was no mystery now. Ought I to have +interfered? Let me confess a weakness, unworthy perhaps of my office. I +was so sorry for the child--I hesitated. + +My silence encouraged the mother. She advanced to the Minister with the +sleeping infant in her arms. + +“I daresay you have sometimes thought of adopting a child?” she said. +“Perhaps you can guess now what I had in my mind, when I asked if you +would consent to a sacrifice? Will you take this wretched innocent +little creature home with you?” She lost her self-possession once more. +“A motherless creature to-morrow,” she burst out. “Think of that.” + +God knows how I still shrunk from it! But there was no alternative now; +I was bound to remember my duty to the excellent man, whose critical +position at that moment was, in some degree at least, due to my +hesitation in asserting my authority. Could I allow the Prisoner to +presume on his compassionate nature, and to hurry him into a decision +which, in his calmer moments, he might find reason to regret? I spoke +to _him_. Does the man live who--having to say what I had to say--could +have spoken to the doomed mother? + +“I am sorry to have allowed this to go on,” I said. “In justice to +yourself, sir, don’t answer!” + +She turned on me with a look of fury. + +“He shall answer,” she cried. + +I saw, or thought I saw, signs of yielding in his face. “Take time,” I +persisted--“take time to consider before you decide.” + +She stepped up to me. + +“Take time?” she repeated. “Are you inhuman enough to talk of time, in +my presence?” + +She laid the sleeping child on her bed, and fell on her knees before the +Minister: “I promise to hear your exhortations--I promise to do all +a woman can to believe and repent. Oh, I know myself! My heart, once +hardened, is a heart that no human creature can touch. The one way to +my better nature--if I have a better nature--is through that poor babe. +Save her from the workhouse! Don’t let them make a pauper of her!” She +sank prostrate at his feet, and beat her hands in frenzy on the floor. +“You want to save my guilty soul,” she reminded him furiously. “There’s +but one way of doing it. Save my child!” + +He raised her. Her fierce tearless eyes questioned his face in a mute +expectation dreadful to see. Suddenly, a foretaste of death--the death +that was so near now!--struck her with a shivering fit: her head dropped +on the Minister’s shoulder. Other men might have shrunk from the contact +of it. That true Christian let it rest. + +Under the maddening sting of suspense, her sinking energies rallied for +an instant. In a whisper, she was just able to put the supreme question +to him. + +“Yes? or No?” + +He answered: “Yes.” + +A faint breath of relief, just audible in the silence, told me that she +had heard him. It was her last effort. He laid her, insensible, on the +bed, by the side of her sleeping child. “Look at them,” was all he said +to me; “how could I refuse?” + + + +CHAPTER V. MISS CHANCE ASSERTS HERSELF. + +The services of our medical officer were required, in order to hasten +the recovery of the Prisoner’s senses. + +When the Doctor and I left the cell together, she was composed, and +ready (in the performance of her promise) to listen to the exhortations +of the Minister. The sleeping child was left undisturbed, by the +mother’s desire. If the Minister felt tempted to regret what he had +done, there was the artless influence which would check him! As we +stepped into the corridor, I gave the female warder her instructions to +remain on the watch, and to return to her post when she saw the Minister +come out. + +In the meantime, my companion had walked on a little way. + +Possessed of ability and experience within the limits of his profession, +he was in other respects a man with a crotchety mind; bold to the verge +of recklessness in the expression of his opinion; and possessed of a +command of language that carried everything before it. Let me add that +he was just and merciful in his intercourse with others, and I shall +have summed him up fairly enough. When I joined him he seemed to be +absorbed in reflection. + +“Thinking of the Prisoner?” I said. + +“Thinking of what is going on, at this moment, in the condemned cell,” + he answered, “and wondering if any good will come of it.” + +I was not without hope of a good result, and I said so. + +The Doctor disagreed with me. “I don’t believe in that woman’s +penitence,” he remarked; “and I look upon the parson as a poor weak +creature. What is to become of the child?” + +There was no reason for concealing from one of my colleagues the +benevolent decision, on the part of the good Minister, of which I had +been a witness. The Doctor listened to me with the first appearance of +downright astonishment that I had ever observed in his face. When I had +done, he made an extraordinary reply: + +“Governor, I retract what I said of the parson just now. He is one of +the boldest men that ever stepped into a pulpit.” + +Was the doctor in earnest? Strongly in earnest; there could be no doubt +of it. Before I could ask him what he meant, he was called away to a +patient on the other side of the prison. When we parted at the door of +my room, I made it a request that my medical friend would return to me +and explain what he had just said. + +“Considering that you are the governor of a prison,” he replied, “you +are a singularly rash man. If I come back, how do you know I shall not +bore you?” + +“My rashness runs the risk of that,” I rejoined. + +“Tell me something, before I allow you to run your risk,” he said. +“Are you one of those people who think that the tempers of children are +formed by the accidental influences which happen to be about them? Or do +you agree with me that the tempers of children are inherited from their +parents?” + +The Doctor (as I concluded) was still strongly impressed by the +Minister’s resolution to adopt a child whose wicked mother had committed +the most atrocious of all crimes. Was some serious foreboding in secret +possession of his mind? My curiosity to hear him was now increased +tenfold. I replied without hesitation: + +“I agree with you.” + +He looked at me with his sense of humor twinkling in his eyes. “Do you +know I rather expected that answer?” he said, slyly. “All right. I’ll +come back.” + +Left by myself, I took up the day’s newspaper. + +My attention wandered; my thoughts were in the cell with the Minister +and the Prisoner. How would it end? Sometimes, I was inclined to doubt +with the Doctor. Sometimes, I took refuge in my own more hopeful view. +These idle reflections were agreeably interrupted by the appearance of +my friend, the Chaplain. + +“You are always welcome,” I said; “and doubly welcome just now. I am +feeling a little worried and anxious.” + +“And you are naturally,” the Chaplain added, “not at all disposed to +receive a stranger?” + +“Is the stranger a friend of yours?” I asked. + +“Oh, no! Having occasion, just now, to go into the waiting-room, I found +a young woman there, who asked me if she could see you. She thinks you +have forgotten her, and she is tired of waiting. I merely undertook, of +course, to mention what she had said to me.” + +The nurse having been in this way recalled to my memory, I felt some +little interest in seeing her, after what had passed in the cell. In +plainer words, I was desirous of judging for myself whether she deserved +the hostile feeling which the Prisoner had shown toward her. I thanked +the Chaplain before he left me, and gave the servant the necessary +instructions. When she entered the room, I looked at the woman +attentively for the first time. + +Youth and a fine complexion, a well-made figure and a natural grace of +movement--these were her personal attractions, so far as I could +see. Her defects were, to my mind, equally noticeable. Under a heavy +forehead, her piercing eyes looked out at persons and things with an +expression which was not to my taste. Her large mouth--another defect, +in my opinion--would have been recommended to mercy, in the estimation +of many men, by her magnificent teeth; white, well-shaped, cruelly +regular. Believers in physiognomy might perhaps have seen the betrayal +of an obstinate nature in the lengthy firmness of her chin. While I am +trying to describe her, let me not forget her dress. A woman’s dress +is the mirror in which we may see the reflection of a woman’s nature. +Bearing in mind the melancholy and impressive circumstances under which +she had brought the child to the prison, the gayety of color in her gown +and her bonnet implied either a total want of feeling, or a total want +of tact. As to her position in life, let me confess that I felt, after +a closer examination, at a loss to determine it. She was certainly not +a lady. The Prisoner had spoken of her as if she was a domestic servant +who had forfeited her right to consideration and respect. And she had +entered the prison, as a nurse might have entered it, in charge of a +child. I did what we all do when we are not clever enough to find the +answer to a riddle--I gave it up. + +“What can I do for you?” I asked. + +“Perhaps you can tell me,” she answered, “how much longer I am to be +kept waiting in this prison.” + +“The decision,” I reminded her, “doesn’t depend on me.” + +“Then who does it depend on?” + +The Minister had undoubtedly acquired the sole right of deciding. It +was for him to say whether this woman should, or should not, remain +in attendance on the child whom he had adopted. In the meanwhile, the +feeling of distrust which was gaining on my mind warned me to remember +the value of reserve in holding intercourse with a stranger. + +She seemed to be irritated by my silence. “If the decision doesn’t rest +with you,” she asked, “why did you tell me to stay in the waiting-room?” + +“You brought the little girl into the prison,” I said; “was it not +natural to suppose that your mistress might want you--” + +“Stop, sir!” + +I had evidently given offense; I stopped directly. + +“No person on the face of the earth,” she declared, loftily, “has ever +had the right to call herself my mistress. Of my own free will, sir, I +took charge of the child.” + +“Because you are fond of her?” I suggested. + +“I hate her.” + +It was unwise on my part--I protested. “Hate a baby little more than a +year old!” I said. + +“_Her_ baby!” + +She said it with the air of a woman who had produced an unanswerable +reason. “I am accountable to nobody,” she went on. “If I consented +to trouble myself with the child, it was in remembrance of my +friendship--notice, if you please, that I say friendship--with the +unhappy father.” + +Putting together what I had just heard, and what I had seen in the cell, +I drew the right conclusion at last. The woman, whose position in life +had been thus far an impenetrable mystery to me, now stood revealed +as one, among other objects of the Prisoner’s jealousy, during her +disastrous married life. A serious doubt occurred to me as to the +authority under which the husband’s mistress might be acting, after the +husband’s death. I instantly put it to the test. + +“Do I understand you to assert any claim to the child?” I asked. + +“Claim?” she repeated. “I know no more of the child than you do. I +heard for the first time that such a creature was in existence, when +her murdered father sent for me in his dying moments. At his entreaty I +promised to take care of her, while her vile mother was out of the house +and in the hands of the law. My promise has been performed. If I am +expected (having brought her to the prison) to take her away again, +understand this: I am under no obligation (even if I could afford it) +to burden myself with that child; I shall hand her over to the workhouse +authorities.” + +I forgot myself once more--I lost my temper. + +“Leave the room,” I said. “Your unworthy hands will not touch the poor +baby again. She is provided for.” + +“I don’t believe you!” the wretch burst out. “Who has taken the child?” + +A quiet voice answered: “_I_ have taken her.” + +We both looked round and saw the Minister standing in the open doorway, +with the child in his arms. The ordeal that he had gone through in the +condemned cell was visible in his face; he looked miserably haggard and +broken. I was eager to know if his merciful interest in the Prisoner had +purified her guilty soul--but at the same time I was afraid, after what +he had but too plainly suffered, to ask him to enter into details. + +“Only one word,” I said. “Are your anxieties at rest?” + +“God’s mercy has helped me,” he answered. “I have not spoken in vain. +She believes; she repents; she has confessed the crime.” + +After handing the written and signed confession to me, he approached +the venomous creature, still lingering in the room to hear what passed +between us. Before I could stop him, he spoke to her, under a natural +impression that he was addressing the Prisoner’s servant. + +“I am afraid you will be disappointed,” he said, “when I tell you that +your services will no longer be required. I have reasons for placing the +child under the care of a nurse of my own choosing.” + +She listened with an evil smile. + +“I know who furnished you with your reasons,” she answered. “Apologies +are quite needless, so far as I am concerned. If you had proposed to me +to look after the new member of your family there, I should have felt it +my duty to myself to have refused. I am not a nurse--I am an independent +single lady. I see by your dress that you are a clergyman. Allow me to +present myself as a mark of respect to your cloth. I am Miss Elizabeth +Chance. May I ask the favor of your name?” + +Too weary and too preoccupied to notice the insolence of her manner, the +Minister mentioned his name. “I am anxious,” he said, “to know if the +child has been baptized. Perhaps you can enlighten me?” + +Still insolent, Miss Elizabeth Chance shook her head carelessly. “I +never heard--and, to tell you the truth, I never cared to hear--whether +she was christened or not. Call her by what name you like, I can tell +you this--you will find your adopted daughter a heavy handful.” + +The Minister turned to me. “What does she mean?” + +“I will try to tell you,” Miss Chance interposed. “Being a clergyman, +you know who Deborah was? Very well. I am Deborah now; and _I_ +prophesy.” She pointed to the child. “Remember what I say, reverend sir! +You will find the tigress-cub take after its mother.” + +With those parting words, she favored us with a low curtsey, and left +the room. + + + +CHAPTER VI. THE DOCTOR DOUBTS. + +The Minister looked at me in an absent manner; his attention seemed to +have been wandering. “What was it Miss Chance said?” he asked. + +Before I could speak, a friend’s voice at the door interrupted us. The +Doctor, returning to me as he had promised, answered the Minister’s +question in these words: + +“I must have passed the person you mean, sir, as I was coming in here; +and I heard her say: ‘You will find the tigress-cub take after its +mother.’ If she had known how to put her meaning into good English, Miss +Chance--that is the name you mentioned, I think--might have told you +that the vices of the parents are inherited by the children. And the +one particular parent she had in her mind,” the Doctor continued, gently +patting the child’s cheek, “was no doubt the mother of this unfortunate +little creature--who may, or may not, live to show you that she comes of +a bad stock and inherits a wicked nature.” + +I was on the point of protesting against my friend’s interpretation, +when the Minister stopped me. + +“Let me thank you, sir, for your explanation,” he said to the Doctor. +“As soon as my mind is free, I will reflect on what you have said. +Forgive me, Mr. Governor,” he went on, “if I leave you, now that I have +placed the Prisoner’s confession in your hands. It has been an effort to +me to say the little I have said, since I first entered this room. I can +think of nothing but that unhappy criminal, and the death that she must +die to-morrow.” + +“Does she wish you to be present?” I asked. + +“She positively forbids it. ‘After what you have done for me,’ she +said, ‘the least I can do in return is to prevent your being needlessly +distressed.’ She took leave of me; she kissed the little girl for the +last time--oh, don’t ask me to tell you about it! I shall break down +if I try. Come, my darling!” He kissed the child tenderly, and took her +away with him. + +“That man is a strange compound of strength and weakness,” the Doctor +remarked. “Did you notice his face, just now? Nine men out of ten, +suffering as he suffered, would have failed to control themselves. Such +resolution as his _may_ conquer the difficulties that are in store for +him yet.” + +It was a trial of my temper to hear my clever colleague justifying, in +this way, the ignorant prediction of an insolent woman. + +“There are exceptions to all rules,” I insisted. “And why are the +virtues of the parents not just as likely to descend to the children as +the vices? There was a fund of good, I can tell you, in that poor baby’s +father--though I don’t deny that he was a profligate man. And even the +horrible mother--as you heard just now--has virtue enough left in her +to feel grateful to the man who has taken care of her child. These are +facts; you can’t dispute them.” + +The Doctor took out his pipe. “Do you mind my smoking?” he asked. +“Tobacco helps me to arrange my ideas.” + +I gave him the means of arranging his ideas; that is to say, I gave +him the match-box. He blew some preliminary clouds of smoke and then he +answered me: + +“For twenty years past, my friend, I have been studying the question +of hereditary transmission of qualities; and I have found vices and +diseases descending more frequently to children than virtue and health. +I don’t stop to ask why: there is no end to that sort of curiosity. What +I have observed is what I tell you; no more and no less. You will say +this is a horribly discouraging result of experience, for it tends to +show that children come into the world at a disadvantage on the day of +their birth. Of course they do. Children are born deformed; children are +born deaf, dumb, or blind; children are born with the seeds in them of +deadly diseases. Who can account for the cruelties of creation? Why are +we endowed with life--only to end in death? And does it ever strike you, +when you are cutting your mutton at dinner, and your cat is catching its +mouse, and your spider is suffocating its fly, that we are all, big +and little together, born to one certain inheritance--the privilege of +eating each other?” + +“Very sad,” I admitted. “But it will all be set right in another world.” + +“Are you quite sure of that?” the Doctor asked. + +“Quite sure, thank God! And it would be better for you if you felt about +it as I do.” + +“We won’t dispute, my dear Governor. I don’t scoff at comforting hopes; +I don’t deny the existence of occasional compensations. But I do see, +nevertheless, that Evil has got the upper hand among us, on this curious +little planet. Judging by my observation and experience, that ill-fated +baby’s chance of inheriting the virtues of her parents is not to be +compared with her chances of inheriting their vices; especially if she +happens to take after her mother. _There_ the virtue is not conspicuous, +and the vice is one enormous fact. When I think of the growth of that +poisonous hereditary taint, which may come with time--when I think of +passions let loose and temptations lying in ambush--I see the smooth +surface of the Minister’s domestic life with dangers lurking under it +which make me shake in my shoes. God! what a life I should lead, if I +happened to be in his place, some years hence. Suppose I said or did +something (in the just exercise of my parental authority) which offended +my adopted daughter. What figure would rise from the dead in my memory, +when the girl bounced out of the room in a rage? The image of her mother +would be the image I should see. I should remember what her mother did +when _she_ was provoked; I should lock my bedroom door, in my own house, +at night. I should come down to breakfast with suspicions in my cup of +tea, if I discovered that my adopted daughter had poured it out. Oh, +yes; it’s quite true that I might be doing the girl a cruel injustice +all the time; but how am I to be sure of that? I am only sure that her +mother was hanged for one of the most merciless murders committed in our +time. Pass the match-box. My pipe’s out, and my confession of faith has +come to an end.” + +It was useless to dispute with a man who possessed his command of +language. At the same time, there was a bright side to the poor +Minister’s prospects which the Doctor had failed to see. It was barely +possible that I might succeed in putting my positive friend in the +wrong. I tried the experiment, at any rate. + +“You seem to have forgotten,” I reminded him, “that the child will have +every advantage that education can offer to her, and will be accustomed +from her earliest years to restraining and purifying influences, in a +clergyman’s household.” + +Now that he was enjoying the fumes of tobacco, the Doctor was as placid +and sweet-tempered as a man could be. + +“Quite true,” he said. + +“Do you doubt the influence of religion?” I asked sternly. + +He answered, sweetly: “Not at all” + +“Or the influence of kindness?” + +“Oh, dear, no!” + +“Or the force of example?” + +“I wouldn’t deny it for the world.” + +I had not expected this extraordinary docility. The Doctor had got the +upper hand of me again--a state of things that I might have found it +hard to endure, but for a call of duty which put an end to our sitting. +One of the female warders appeared with a message from the condemned +cell. The Prisoner wished to see the Governor and the Medical Officer. + +“Is she ill?” the Doctor inquired. + +“No, sir.” + +“Hysterical? or agitated, perhaps?” + +“As easy and composed, sir, as a person can be.” + +We set forth together for the condemned cell. + +CHAPTER VII. THE MURDERESS CONSULTS THE AUTHORITIES. + +There was a considerate side to my friend’s character, which showed +itself when the warder had left us. + +He was especially anxious to be careful of what he said to a woman in +the Prisoner’s terrible situation; especially in the event of her having +been really subjected to the influence of religious belief. On the +Minister’s own authority, I declared that there was every reason to +adopt this conclusion; and in support of what I had said I showed him +the confession. It only contained a few lines, acknowledging that she +had committed the murder and that she deserved her sentence. “From the +planning of the crime to the commission of the crime, I was in my +right senses throughout. I knew what I was doing.” With that remarkable +disavowal of the defense set up by her advocate, the confession ended. + +My colleague read the paper, and handed it back to me without making any +remark. I asked if he suspected the Prisoner of feigning conversion to +please the Minister. + +“She shall not discover it,” he answered, gravely, “if I do.” + +It would not be true to say that the Doctor’s obstinacy had shaken +my belief in the good result of the Minister’s interference. I may, +however, acknowledge that I felt some misgivings, which were not +dispelled when I found myself in the presence of the Prisoner. + +I had expected to see her employed in reading the Bible. The good book +was closed and was not even placed within her reach. The occupation to +which she was devoting herself astonished and repelled me. + +Some carelessness on the part of the attendant had left on the table the +writing materials that had been needed for her confession. She was using +them now--when death on the scaffold was literally within a few hours +of her--to sketch a portrait of the female warder, who was on the watch! +The Doctor and I looked at each other; and now the sincerity of her +repentance was something that I began to question, too. + +She laid down the pen, and proceeded quietly to explain herself. + +“Even the little time that is left to me proves to be a weary time +to get through,” she said. “I am making a last use of the talent for +drawing and catching a likeness, which has been one of my gifts since I +was a girl. You look as if you didn’t approve of such employment as this +for a woman who is going to be hanged. Well, sir, I have no doubt you +are right.” She paused, and tore up the portrait. “If I have misbehaved +myself,” she resumed, “I make amends. To find you in an indulgent frame +of mind is of importance to me just now. I have a favor to ask of you. +May the warder leave the cell for a few minutes?” + +Giving the woman permission to withdraw for a while, I waited with some +anxiety to hear what the Prisoner wanted of me. + +“I have something to say to you,” she proceeded, “on the subject of +executions. The face of a person who is going to be hanged is hidden, as +I have been told, by a white cap drawn over it. Is that true?” + +How another man might have felt, in my place, I cannot, of course, +say. To my mind, such a question--on _her_ lips--was too shocking to be +answered in words. I bowed. + +“And the body is buried,” she went on, “in the prison?” + +I could remain silent no longer. “Is there no human feeling left in +you?” I burst out. “What do these horrid questions mean?” + +“Don’t be angry with me, sir; you shall hear directly. I want to know +first if I am to be buried in the prison?” + +I replied as before, by a bow. + +“Now,” she said, “I may tell you what I mean. In the autumn of last +year I was taken to see some waxworks. Portraits of criminals were +among them. There was one portrait--” She hesitated; her infernal +self-possession failed her at last. The color left her face; she was no +longer able to look at me firmly. “There was one portrait,” she resumed, +“that had been taken after the execution. The face was so hideous; it +was swollen to such a size in its frightful deformity--oh, sir, don’t +let me be seen in that state, even by the strangers who bury me! Use +your influence--forbid them to take the cap off my face when I am +dead--order them to bury me in it, and I swear to you I’ll meet death +tomorrow as coolly as the boldest man that ever mounted the scaffold!” + Before I could stop her, she seized me by the hand, and wrung it with +a furious power that left the mark of her grasp on me, in a bruise, for +days afterward. “Will you do it?” she cried. “You’re an honorable man; +you will keep your word. Give me your promise!” + +I gave her my promise. + +The relief to her tortured spirit expressed itself horribly in a burst +of frantic laughter. “I can’t help it,” she gasped; “I’m so happy.” + +My enemies said of me, when I got my appointment, that I was too +excitable a man to be governor of a prison. Perhaps they were not +altogether wrong. Anyhow, the quick-witted Doctor saw some change in me, +which I was not aware of myself. He took my arm and led me out of the +cell. “Leave her to me,” he whispered. “The fine edge of my nerves was +worn off long ago in the hospital.” + +When we met again, I asked what had passed between the Prisoner and +himself. + +“I gave her time to recover,” he told me; “and, except that she looked a +little paler than usual, there was no trace left of the frenzy that you +remember. ‘I ought to apologize for troubling you,’ she said; ‘but it is +perhaps natural that I should think, now and then, of what is to happen +to me to-morrow morning. As a medical man, you will be able to enlighten +me. Is death by hanging a painful death?’ She had put it so politely +that I felt bound to answer her. ‘If the neck happens to be broken,’ I +said, ‘hanging is a sudden death; fright and pain (if there is any pain) +are both over in an instant. As to the other form of death which is also +possible (I mean death by suffocation), I must own as an honest man that +I know no more about it than you do.’ After considering a little, she +made a sensible remark, and followed it by an embarrassing request. ‘A +great deal,’ she said, ‘must depend on the executioner. I am not afraid +of death, Doctor. Why should I be? My anxiety about my little girl is +set at rest; I have nothing left to live for. But I don’t like pain. +Would you mind telling the executioner to be careful? Or would it be +better if I spoke to him myself?’ I said I thought it would come with +a better grace from herself. She understood me directly; and we dropped +the subject. Are you surprised at her coolness, after your experience of +her?” + +I confessed that I was surprised. + +“Think a little,” the Doctor said. “The one sensitive place in that +woman’s nature is the place occupied by her self-esteem.” + +I objected to this that she had shown fondness for her child. + +My friend disposed of the objection with his customary readiness. + +“The maternal instinct,” he said. “A cat is fond of her kittens; a cow +is fond of her calf. No, sir, the one cause of that outbreak of passion +which so shocked you--a genuine outbreak, beyond all doubt--is to be +found in the vanity of a fine feminine creature, overpowered by a horror +of looking hideous, even after her death. Do you know I rather like that +woman?” + +“Is it possible that you are in earnest?” I asked. + +“I know as well as you do,” he answered, “that this is neither a time +nor a place for jesting. The fact is, the Prisoner carries out an idea +of mine. It is my positive conviction that the worst murders--I mean +murders deliberately planned--are committed by persons absolutely +deficient in that part of the moral organization which _feels_. The +night before they are hanged they sleep. On their last morning they +eat a breakfast. Incapable of realizing the horror of murder, they are +incapable of realizing the horror of death. Do you remember the last +murderer who was hanged here--a gentleman’s coachman who killed his +wife? He had but two anxieties while he was waiting for execution. One +was to get his allowance of beer doubled, and the other was to be hanged +in his coachman’s livery. No! no! these wretches are all alike; they are +human creatures born with the temperaments of tigers. Take my word for +it, we need feel no anxiety about to-morrow. The Prisoner will face the +crowd round the scaffold with composure; and the people will say, ‘She +died game.’” + + + +CHAPTER VIII. THE MINISTER SAYS GOOD-BY. + +The Capital Punishment of the Prisoner is in no respect connected with +my purpose in writing the present narrative. Neither do I desire +to darken these pages by describing in detail an act of righteous +retribution which must present, by the nature of it, a scene of horror. +For these reasons I ask to be excused, if I limit what I must needs say +of the execution within the compass of a few words--and pass on. + +The one self-possessed person among us was the miserable woman who +suffered the penalty of death. + +Not very discreetly, as I think, the Chaplain asked her if she had truly +repented. She answered: “I have confessed the crime, sir. What more do +you want?” To my mind--still hesitating between the view that believes +with the Minister, and the view that doubts with the Doctor--this reply +leaves a way open to hope of her salvation. Her last words to me, as she +mounted the steps of the scaffold, were: “Remember your promise.” It was +easy for me to be true to my word. At that bygone time, no difficulties +were placed in my way by such precautions as are now observed in the +conduct of executions within the walls of the prison. From the time of +her death to the time of her burial, no living creature saw her face. +She rests, veiled in her prison grave. + +Let me now turn to living interests, and to scenes removed from the +thunder-clouds of crime. + +....... + +On the next day I received a visit from the Minister. + +His first words entreated me not to allude to the terrible event of +the previous day. “I cannot escape thinking of it,” he said, “but I may +avoid speaking of it.” This seemed to me to be the misplaced confidence +of a weak man in the refuge of silence. By way of changing the subject, +I spoke of the child. There would be serious difficulties to contend +with (as I ventured to suggest), if he remained in the town, and allowed +his new responsibilities to become the subject of public talk. + +His reply to this agreeably surprised me. There were no difficulties to +be feared. + +The state of his wife’s health had obliged him (acting under medical +advice) to try the influence of her native air. An interval of +some months might elapse before the good effect of the change had +sufficiently declared itself; and a return to the peculiar climate +of the town might bring on a relapse. There had consequently been no +alternative to but resign his charge. Only on that day the resignation +had been accepted--with expressions of regret sincerely reciprocated +by himself. He proposed to leave the town immediately; and one of the +objects of his visit was to bid me good-by. + +“The next place I live in,” he said, “will be more than a hundred miles +away. At that distance I may hope to keep events concealed which must +be known only to ourselves. So far as I can see, there are no risks of +discovery lurking in this place. My servants (only two in number) have +both been born here, and have both told my wife that they have no wish +to go away. As to the person who introduced herself to me by the name of +Miss Chance, she was traced to the railway station yesterday afternoon, +and took her ticket for London.” + +I congratulated the Minister on the good fortune which had befriended +him, so far. + +“You will understand how carefully I have provided against being +deceived,” he continued, “when I tell you what my plans are. The persons +among whom my future lot is cast--and the child herself, of course--must +never suspect that the new member of my family is other than my own +daughter. This is deceit, I admit; but it is deceit that injures no one. +I hope you see the necessity for it, as I do.” + +There could be no doubt of the necessity. + +If the child was described as adopted, there would be curiosity about +the circumstances, and inquiries relating to the parents. Prevaricating +replies lead to suspicion, and suspicion to discovery. But for the wise +course which the Minister had decided on taking, the poor child’s life +might have been darkened by the horror of the mother’s crime, and the +infamy of the mother’s death. + +Having quieted my friend’s needless scruples by this perfectly sincere +expression of opinion, I ventured to approach the central figure in his +domestic circle, by means of a question relating to his wife. How had +that lady received the unfortunate little creature, for whose appearance +on the home-scene she must have been entirely unprepared? + +The Minister’s manner showed some embarrassment; he prefaced what he had +to tell me with praises of his wife, equally creditable no doubt to both +of them. The beauty of the child, the pretty ways of the child, he said, +fascinated the admirable woman at first sight. It was not to be denied +that she had felt, and had expressed, misgivings, on being informed +of the circumstances under which the Minister’s act of mercy had been +performed. But her mind was too well balanced to incline to this +state of feeling, when her husband had addressed her in defense of +his conduct. She then understood that the true merit of a good action +consisted in patiently facing the sacrifices involved. Her interest in +the new daughter being, in this way, ennobled by a sense of Christian +duty, there had been no further difference of opinion between the +married pair. + +I listened to this plausible explanation with interest, but, at the +same time, with doubts of the lasting nature of the lady’s submission to +circumstances; suggested, perhaps, by the constraint in the Minister’s +manner. It was well for both of us when we changed the subject. He +reminded me of the discouraging view which the Doctor had taken of the +prospect before him. + +“I will not attempt to decide whether your friend is right or wrong,” + he said. “Trusting, as I do, in the mercy of God, I look hopefully to +a future time when all that is brightest and best in the nature of +my adopted child will be developed under my fostering care. If evil +tendencies show themselves, my reliance will be confidently placed on +pious example, on religious instruction, and, above all, on intercession +by prayer. Repeat to your friend,” he concluded, “what you have just +heard me say. Let him ask himself if he could confront the uncertain +future with my cheerful submission and my steadfast hope.” + +He intrusted me with that message, and gave me his hand. So we parted. + +I agreed with him, I admired him; but my faith seemed to want sustaining +power, as compared with his faith. On his own showing (as it appeared +to me), there would be two forces in a state of conflict in the child’s +nature as she grew up--inherited evil against inculcated good. Try as I +might, I failed to feel the Minister’s comforting conviction as to which +of the two would win. + + + +CHAPTER IX. THE GOVERNOR RECEIVES A VISIT. + +A few days after the good man had left us, I met with a serious +accident, caused by a false step on the stone stairs of the prison. + +The long illness which followed this misfortune, and my removal +afterward (in the interests of my recovery) to a milder climate than the +climate of England, obliged me to confide the duties of governor of the +prison to a representative. I was absent from my post for rather more +than a year. During this interval no news reached me from my reverend +friend. + +Having returned to the duties of my office, I thought of writing to the +Minister. While the proposed letter was still in contemplation, I was +informed that a lady wished to see me. She sent in her card. My visitor +proved to be the Minister’s wife. + +I observed her with no ordinary attention when she entered the room. + +Her dress was simple; her scanty light hair, so far as I could see it +under her bonnet, was dressed with taste. The paleness of her lips, and +the faded color in her face, suggested that she was certainly not in +good health. Two peculiarities struck me in her personal appearance. +I never remembered having seen any other person with such a singularly +narrow and slanting forehead as this lady presented; and I was +impressed, not at all agreeably, by the flashing shifting expression in +her eyes. On the other hand, let me own that I was powerfully attracted +and interested by the beauty of her voice. Its fine variety of compass, +and its musical resonance of tone, fell with such enchantment on the +ear, that I should have liked to put a book of poetry into her hand, and +to have heard her read it in summer-time, accompanied by the music of a +rocky stream. + +The object of her visit--so far as she explained it at the +outset--appeared to be to offer her congratulations on my recovery, +and to tell me that her husband had assumed the charge of a church in a +large town not far from her birthplace. + +Even those commonplace words were made interesting by her delicious +voice. But however sensitive to sweet sounds a man may be, there are +limits to his capacity for deceiving himself--especially when he happens +to be enlightened by experience of humanity within the walls of a +prison. I had, it may be remembered, already doubted the lady’s good +temper, judging from her husband’s over-wrought description of her +virtues. Her eyes looked at me furtively; and her manner, gracefully +self-possessed as it was, suggested that she had something of a +delicate, or disagreeable, nature to say to me, and that she was at a +loss how to approach the subject so as to produce the right impression +on my mind at the outset. There was a momentary silence between us. For +the sake of saying something, I asked how she and the Minister liked +their new place of residence. + +“Our new place of residence,” she answered, “has been made interesting +by a very unexpected event--an event (how shall I describe it?) which +has increased our happiness and enlarged our family circle.” + +There she stopped: expecting me, as I fancied, to guess what she +meant. A woman, and that woman a mother, might have fulfilled her +anticipations. A man, and that man not listening attentively, was simply +puzzled. + +“Pray excuse my stupidity,” I said; “I don’t quite understand you.” + +The lady’s temper looked at me out of the lady’s shifting eyes, and +hid itself again in a moment. She set herself right in my estimation +by taking the whole blame of our little misunderstanding on her own +innocent shoulders. + +“I ought to have spoken more plainly,” she said. “Let me try what I can +do now. After many years of disappointment in my married life, it has +pleased Providence to bestow on me the happiness--the inexpressible +happiness--of being a mother. My baby is a sweet little girl; and my one +regret is that I cannot nurse her myself.” + +My languid interest in the Minister’s wife was not stimulated by the +announcement of this domestic event. + +I felt no wish to see the “sweet little girl”; I was not even reminded +of another example of long-deferred maternity, which had occurred +within the limits of my own family circle. All my sympathies attached +themselves to the sad little figure of the adopted child. I remembered +the poor baby on my knee, enchanted by the ticking of my watch--I +thought of her, peacefully and prettily asleep under the horrid shelter +of the condemned cell--and it is hardly too much to say that my heart +was heavy, when I compared her prospects with the prospects of her +baby-rival. Kind as he was, conscientious as he was, could the Minister +be expected to admit to an equal share in his love the child endeared +to him as a father, and the child who merely reminded him of an act of +mercy? As for his wife, it seemed the merest waste of time to put +her state of feeling (placed between the two children) to the test of +inquiry. I tried the useless experiment, nevertheless. + +“It is pleasant to think,” I began, “that your other daughter--” + +She interrupted me, with the utmost gentleness: “Do you mean the child +that my husband was foolish enough to adopt?” + +“Say rather fortunate enough to adopt,” I persisted. “As your own +little girl grows up, she will want a playfellow. And she will find a +playfellow in that other child, whom the good Minister has taken for his +own.” + +“No, my dear sir--not if I can prevent it.” + +The contrast between the cruelty of her intention, and the musical +beauty of the voice which politely expressed it in those words, really +startled me. I was at a loss how to answer her, at the very time when I +ought to have been most ready to speak. + +“You must surely understand,” she went on, “that we don’t want another +person’s child, now we have a little darling of our own?” + +“Does your husband agree with you in that view?” I asked. + +“Oh dear, no! He said what you said just now, and (oddly enough) almost +in the same words. But I don’t at all despair of persuading him to +change his mind--and you can help me.” + +She made that audacious assertion with such an appearance of feeling +perfectly sure of me, that my politeness gave way under the strain laid +on it. “What do you mean?” I asked sharply. + +Not in the least impressed by my change of manner, she took from the +pocket of her dress a printed paper. “You will find what I mean there,” + she replied--and put the paper into my hand. + +It was an appeal to the charitable public, occasioned by the enlargement +of an orphan-asylum, with which I had been connected for many years. +What she meant was plain enough now. I said nothing: I only looked at +her. + +Pleased to find that I was clever enough to guess what she meant, on +this occasion, the Minister’s wife informed me that the circumstances +were all in our favor. She still persisted in taking me into +partnership--the circumstances were in _our_ favor. + +“In two years more,” she explained, “the child of that detestable +creature who was hanged--do you know, I cannot even look at the little +wretch without thinking of the gallows?--will be old enough (with your +interest to help us) to be received into the asylum. What a relief +it will be to get rid of that child! And how hard I shall work at +canvassing for subscribers’ votes! Your name will be a tower of +strength when I use it as a reference. Pardon me--you are not looking so +pleasantly as usual. Do you see some obstacles in our way?” + +“I see two obstacles.” + +“What can they possibly be?” + +For the second time, my politeness gave way under the strain laid on it. +“You know perfectly well,” I said, “what one of the obstacles is.” + +“Am I to understand that you contemplate any serious resistance on the +part of my husband?” + +“Certainly!” + +She was unaffectedly amused by my simplicity. + +“Are you a single man?” she asked. + +“I am a widower.” + +“Then your experience ought to tell you that I know every weak point in +the Minister’s character. I can tell him, on your authority, that the +hateful child will be placed in competent and kindly hands--and I have +my own sweet baby to plead for me. With these advantages in my favor, do +you actually suppose I can fail to make _my_ way of thinking _his_ way +of thinking? You must have forgotten your own married life! Suppose +we go on to the second of your two obstacles. I hope it will be better +worth considering than the first.” + +“The second obstacle will not disappoint you,” I answered; “I am the +obstacle, this time.” + +“You refuse to help me?” + +“Positively.” + +“Perhaps reflection may alter your resolution?” + +“Reflection will do nothing of the kind.” + +“You are rude, sir!” + +“In speaking to you, madam, I have no alternative but to speak plainly.” + +She rose. Her shifting eyes, for once, looked at me steadily. + +“What sort of enemy have I made of you?” she asked. “A passive enemy who +is content with refusing to help me? Or an active enemy who will write +to my husband?” + +“It depends entirely,” I told her, “on what your husband does. If he +questions me about you, I shall tell him the truth.” + +“And if not?” + +“In that case, I shall hope to forget that you ever favored me with a +visit.” + +In making this reply I was guiltless of any malicious intention. What +evil interpretation she placed on my words it is impossible for me to +say; I can only declare that some intolerable sense of injury hurried +her into an outbreak of rage. Her voice, strained for the first time, +lost its tuneful beauty of tone. + +“Come and see us in two years’ time,” she burst out--“and discover the +orphan of the gallows in our house if you can! If your Asylum won’t +take her, some other Charity will. Ha, Mr. Governor, I deserve my +disappointment! I ought to have remembered that you are only a jailer +after all. And what is a jailer? Proverbially a brute. Do you hear that? +A brute!” + +Her strength suddenly failed her. She dropped back into the chair from +which she had risen, with a faint cry of pain. A ghastly pallor stole +over her face. There was wine on the sideboard; I filled a glass. +She refused to take it. At that time in the day, the Doctor’s duties +required his attendance in the prison. I instantly sent for him. After +a moment’s look at her, he took the wine out of my hand, and held the +glass to her lips. + +“Drink it,” he said. She still refused. “Drink it,” he reiterated, “or +you will die.” + +That frightened her; she drank the wine. The Doctor waited for a while +with his fingers on her pulse. “She will do now,” he said. + +“Can I go?” she asked. + +“Go wherever you please, madam--so long as you don’t go upstairs in a +hurry.” + +She smiled: “I understand you, sir--and thank you for your advice.” + +I asked the Doctor, when we were alone, what made him tell her not to go +upstairs in a hurry. + +“What I felt,” he answered, “when I had my fingers on her pulse. You +heard her say that she understood me.” + +“Yes; but I don’t know what she meant.” + +“She meant, probably, that her own doctor had warned her as I did.” + +“Something seriously wrong with her health?” + +“Yes.” + +“What is it?” + +“Heart.” + + + +CHAPTER X. MISS CHANCE REAPPEARS. + +A week had passed, since the Minister’s wife had left me, when I +received a letter from the Minister himself. + +After surprising me, as he innocently supposed, by announcing the birth +of his child, he mentioned some circumstances connected with that event, +which I now heard for the first time. + +“Within an easy journey of the populous scene of my present labors,” he +wrote, “there is a secluded country village called Low Lanes. The rector +of the place is my wife’s brother. Before the birth of our infant, he +had asked his sister to stay for a while at his house; and the doctor +thought she might safely be allowed to accept the invitation. Through +some error in the customary calculations, as I suppose, the child +was born unexpectedly at the rectory; and the ceremony of baptism was +performed at the church, under circumstances which I am not able to +relate within the limits of a letter: Let me only say that I allude to +this incident without any sectarian bitterness of feeling--for I am +no enemy to the Church of England. You have no idea what treasures of +virtue and treasures of beauty maternity has revealed in my wife’s sweet +nature. Other mothers, in her proud position, might find their love +cooling toward the poor child whom we have adopted. But my household is +irradiated by the presence of an angel, who gives an equal share in her +affections to the two little ones alike.” + +In this semi-hysterical style of writing, the poor man unconsciously +told me how cunningly and how cruelly his wife was deceiving him. + +I longed to exhibit that wicked woman in her true character--but what +could I do? She must have been so favored by circumstances as to be able +to account for her absence from home, without exciting the slightest +suspicion of the journey which she had really taken, if I declared in my +reply to the Minister’s letter that I had received her in my rooms, +and if I repeated the conversation that had taken place, what would +the result be? She would find an easy refuge in positive denial of +the truth--and, in that case, which of us would her infatuated husband +believe? + +The one part of the letter which I read with some satisfaction was the +end of it. + +I was here informed that the Minister’s plans for concealing the +parentage of his adopted daughter had proved to be entirely successful. +The members of the new domestic household believed the two children to +be infant-sisters. Neither was there any danger of the adopted child +being identified (as the oldest child of the two) by consultation of the +registers. + +Before he left our town, the Minister had seen for himself that no +baptismal name had been added, after the birth of the daughter of the +murderess had been registered, and that no entry of baptism existed in +the registers kept in places of worship. He drew the inference--in +all probability a true inference, considering the characters of the +parents--that the child had never been baptized; and he performed the +ceremony privately, abstaining, for obvious reasons, from adding her +Christian name to the imperfect register of her birth. “I am not aware,” + he wrote, “whether I have, or have not, committed an offense against the +Law. In any case, I may hope to have made atonement by obedience to the +Gospel.” + +Six weeks passed, and I heard from my reverend friend once more. + +His second letter presented a marked contrast to the first. It was +written in sorrow and anxiety, to inform me of an alarming change +for the worse in his wife’s health. I showed the letter to my medical +colleague. After reading it he predicted the event that might be +expected, in two words:--Sudden death. + +On the next occasion when I heard from the Minister, the Doctor’s grim +reply proved to be a prophecy fulfilled. + +When we address expressions of condolence to bereaved friends, the +principles of popular hypocrisy sanction indiscriminate lying as a +duty which we owe to the dead--no matter what their lives may have +been--because they are dead. Within my own little sphere, I have always +been silent, when I could not offer to afflicted persons expressions of +sympathy which I honestly felt. To have condoled with the Minister on +the loss that he had sustained by the death of a woman, self-betrayed to +me as shamelessly deceitful, and pitilessly determined to reach her own +cruel ends, would have been to degrade myself by telling a deliberate +lie. I expressed in my answer all that an honest man naturally feels, +when he is writing to a friend in distress; carefully abstaining from +any allusion to the memory of his wife, or to the place which her +death had left vacant in his household. My letter, I am sorry to say, +disappointed and offended him. He wrote to me no more, until years had +passed, and time had exerted its influence in producing a more indulgent +frame of mind. These letters of a later date have been preserved, and +will probably be used, at the right time, for purposes of explanation +with which I may be connected in the future. + +....... + +The correspondent whom I had now lost was succeeded by a gentleman +entirely unknown to me. + +Those reasons which induced me to conceal the names of persons, while I +was relating events in the prison, do not apply to correspondence with a +stranger writing from another place. I may, therefore, mention that Mr. +Dunboyne, of Fairmount, on the west coast of Ireland, was the writer of +the letter now addressed to me. He proved, to my surprise, to be one of +the relations whom the Prisoner under sentence of death had not cared to +see, when I offered her the opportunity of saying farewell. Mr. Dunboyne +was a brother-in-law of the murderess. He had married her sister. + +His wife, he informed me, had died in childbirth, leaving him but one +consolation--a boy, who already recalled all that was brightest and best +in his lost mother. The father was naturally anxious that the son should +never become acquainted with the disgrace that had befallen the family. + +The letter then proceeded in these terms: + +“I heard yesterday, for the first time, by means of an old +newspaper-cutting sent to me by a friend, that the miserable woman who +suffered the ignominy of public execution has left an infant child. Can +you tell me what has become of the orphan? If this little girl is, as I +fear, not well provided for, I only do what my wife would have done if +she had lived, by offering to make the child’s welfare my especial care. +I am willing to place her in an establishment well known to me, in which +she will be kindly treated, well educated, and fitted to earn her own +living honorably in later life. + +“If you feel some surprise at finding that my good intentions toward +this ill-fated niece of mine do not go to the length of receiving her as +a member of my own family, I beg to submit some considerations which may +perhaps weigh with you as they have weighed with me. + +“In the first place, there is at least a possibility--however carefully +I might try to conceal it--that the child’s parentage would sooner +or later be discovered. In the second place (and assuming that the +parentage had been successfully concealed), if this girl and my boy +grew up together, there is another possibility to be reckoned with: +they might become attached to each other. Does the father live who would +allow his son ignorantly to marry the daughter of a convicted murderess? +I should have no alternative but to part them cruelly by revealing the +truth.” The letter ended with some complimentary expressions addressed +to myself. And the question was: how ought I to answer it? + +My correspondent had strongly impressed me in his favor; I could not +doubt that he was an honorable man. But the interest of the Minister +in keeping his own benevolent action secure from the risk of +discovery--increased as that interest was by the filial relations of the +two children toward him, now publicly established--had, as I could not +doubt, the paramount claim on me. The absolutely safe course to take +was to admit no one, friend or stranger, to our confidence. I replied, +expressing sincere admiration of Mr. Dunboyne’s motives, and merely +informing him that the child was already provided for. + +After that, I heard no more of the Irish gentleman. + +It is perhaps hardly necessary to add that I kept the Minister in +ignorance of my correspondence with Mr. Dunboyne. I was too well +acquainted with my friend’s sensitive and self-tormenting nature to let +him know that a relative of the murderess was living, and was aware that +she had left a child. + +A last event remains to be related, before I close these pages. + +During the year of which I am now writing, our Chaplain added one more +to the many examples that I have seen of his generous readiness to serve +his friends. He had arranged to devote his annual leave of absence to a +tour among the English Lakes, when he received a letter from a clergyman +resident in London, whom he had known from the time when they had +been school-fellows. This old friend wrote under circumstances of the +severest domestic distress, which made it absolutely necessary that he +should leave London for a while. Having failed to find a representative +who could relieve him of his clerical duties, he applied to the Chaplain +to recommend a clergyman who might be in a position to help him. My +excellent colleague gave up his holiday-plans without hesitation, and +went to London himself. + +On his return, I asked if he had seen anything of some acquaintances +of his and of mine, who were then visitors to the metropolis. He smiled +significantly when he answered me. + +“I have a card to deliver from an acquaintance whom you have not +mentioned,” he said; “and I rather think it will astonish you.” + +It simply puzzled me. When he gave me the card, this is what I found +printed on it: + +“MRS. TENBRUGGEN (OF SOUTH BEVELAND).” + +“Well?” said the Chaplain. + +“Well,” I answered; “I never even heard of Mrs. Tenbruggen, of South +Beveland. Who is she?” + +“I married the lady to a foreign gentleman, only last week, at my +friend’s church,” the Chaplain replied. “Perhaps you may remember her +maiden name?” + +He mentioned the name of the dangerous creature who had first presented +herself to me, in charge of the Prisoner’s child--otherwise Miss +Elizabeth Chance. The reappearance of this woman on the scene--although +she was only represented by her card--caused me a feeling of vague +uneasiness, so contemptibly superstitious in its nature that I now +remember it with shame. I asked a stupid question: + +“How did it happen?” + +“In the ordinary course of such things,” my friend said. “They were +married by license, in their parish church. The bridegroom was a +fine tall man, with a bold eye and a dashing manner. The bride and +I recognized each other directly. When Miss Chance had become Mrs. +Tenbruggen, she took me aside, and gave me her card. ‘Ask the Governor +to accept it,’ she said, ‘in remembrance of the time when he took me for +a nursemaid. Tell him I am married to a Dutch gentleman of high +family. If he ever comes to Holland, we shall be glad to see him in our +residence at South Beveland.’ There is her message to you, repeated word +for word.” + +“I am glad she is going to live out of England.” + +“Why? Surely you have no reason to fear her?” + +“None whatever.” + +“You are thinking, perhaps, of somebody else?” + +I was thinking of the Minister; but it seemed to be safest not to say +so. ---- + +My pen is laid aside, and my many pages of writing have been sent +to their destination. What I undertook to do, is now done. To take a +metaphor from the stage--the curtain falls here on the Governor and the +Prison. + + + + +Second Period: 1875. THE GIRLS AND THE JOURNALS. + + + +CHAPTER XI. HELENA’S DIARY. + +We both said good-night, and went up to our room with a new object in +view. By our father’s advice we had resolved on keeping diaries, for the +first time in our lives, and had pledged ourselves to begin before we +went to bed. + +Slowly and silently and lazily, my sister sauntered to her end of the +room and seated herself at her writing-table. On the desk lay a nicely +bound book, full of blank pages. The word “Journal” was printed on it in +gold letters, and there was fitted to the covers a bright brass lock and +key. A second journal, exactly similar in every respect to the first, +was placed on the writing-table at my end of the room. I opened my book. +The sight of the blank leaves irritated me; they were so smooth, so +spotless, so entirely ready to do _their_ duty. I took too deep a dip +of ink, and began the first entry in my diary by making a blot. This was +discouraging. I got up, and looked out of window. + +“Helena!” + +My sister’s voice could hardly have addressed me in a more weary tone, +if her pen had been at work all night, relating domestic events. “Well!” + I said. “What is it?” + +“Have you done already?” she asked. + +I showed her the blot. My sister Eunice (the strangest as well as the +dearest of girls) always blurts out what she has in her mind at the +time. She fixed her eyes gravely on my spoiled page, and said: “That +comforts me.” I crossed the room, and looked at her book. She had not +even summoned energy enough to make a blot. “What will papa think of +us,” she said, “if we don’t begin to-night?” + +“Why not begin,” I suggested, “by writing down what he said, when he +gave us our journals? Those wise words of advice will be in their proper +place on the first page of the new books.” + +Not at all a demonstrative girl naturally; not ready with her tears, not +liberal with her caresses, not fluent in her talk, Eunice was affected +by my proposal in a manner wonderful to see. She suddenly developed into +an excitable person--I declare she kissed me. “Oh,” she burst out, “how +clever you are! The very thing to write about; I’ll do it directly.” + +She really did it directly; without once stopping to consider, without +once waiting to ask my advice. Line after line, I heard her noisy pen +hurrying to the bottom of a first page, and getting three-parts of the +way toward the end of a second page, before she closed her diary. I +reminded her that she had not turned the key, in the lock which was +intended to keep her writing private. + +“It’s not worth while,” she answered. “Anybody who cares to do it may +read what I write. Good-night.” + +The singular change which I had noticed in her began to disappear, when +she set about her preparations for bed. I noticed the old easy indolent +movements again, and that regular and deliberate method of brushing +her hair, which I can never contemplate without feeling a stupefying +influence that has helped me to many a delicious night’s sleep. She said +her prayers in her favorite corner of the room, and laid her head on +the pillow with the luxurious little sigh which announces that she +is falling asleep. This reappearance of her usual habits was really a +relief to me. Eunice in a state of excitement is Eunice exhibiting an +unnatural spectacle. + +The next thing I did was to take the liberty which she had already +sanctioned--I mean the liberty of reading what she had written. Here it +is, copied exactly: + +“I am not half so fond of anybody as I am of papa. He is always kind, he +is always right. I love him, I love him, I love him. + +“But this is not how I meant to begin. I must tell how he talked to us; +I wish he was here to tell it himself. + +“He said to me: ‘You are getting lazier than ever, Eunice.’ He said to +Helena: ‘You are feeling the influence of Eunice’s example.’ He said to +both of us: ‘You are too ready, my dear children, to sit with your hands +on your laps, looking at nothing and thinking of nothing; I want to try +a new way of employing your leisure time.’ + +“He opened a parcel on the table. He made each of us a present of a +beautiful book, called ‘Journal.’ He said: ‘When you have nothing to do, +my dears, in the evening, employ yourselves in keeping a diary of the +events of the day. It will be a useful record in many ways, and a good +moral discipline for young girls.’ Helena said: ‘Oh, thank you!’ I said +the same, but not so cheerfully. + +“The truth is, I feel out of spirits now if I think of papa; I am not +easy in my mind about him. When he is very much interested, there is a +quivering in his face which I don’t remember in past times. He seems to +have got older and thinner, all on a sudden. He shouts (which he never +used to do) when he threatens sinners at sermon-time. Being in dreadful +earnest about our souls, he is of course obliged to speak of the devil; +but he never used to hit the harmless pulpit cushion with his fist as he +does now. Nobody seems to have seen these things but me; and now I have +noticed them what ought I to do? I don’t know; I am certain of nothing, +except what I have put in at the top of page one: I love him, I love +him, I love him.” + +....... + +There this very curious entry ended. It was easy enough to discover the +influence which had made my slow-minded sister so ready with her memory +and her pen--so ready, in short, to do anything and everything, provided +her heart was in it, and her father was in it. + +But Eunice is wrong, let me tell her, in what she says of myself. + +I, too, have seen the sad change in my father; but I happen to know +that he dislikes having it spoken of at home, and I have kept my painful +discoveries to myself. Unhappily, the best medical advice is beyond our +reach. The one really competent doctor in this place is known to be an +infidel. But for that shocking obstacle I might have persuaded my father +to see him. As for the other two doctors whom he has consulted, at +different times, one talked about suppressed gout, and the other told +him to take a year’s holiday and enjoy himself on the Continent. + +The clock has just struck twelve. I have been writing and copying till +my eyes are heavy, and I want to follow Eunice’s example and sleep +as soundly as she does. We have made a strange beginning of this +journalizing experiment. I wonder how long it will go on, and what will +come of it. + + +SECOND DAY. + +I begin to be afraid that I am as stupid--no; that is not a nice word to +use--let me say as simple as dear Eunice. A diary means a record of the +events of the day; and not one of the events of yesterday appears in my +sister’s journal or in mine. Well, it is easy to set that mistake right. +Our lives are so dull (but I would not say so in my father’s hearing +for the world) that the record of one day will be much the same as +the record of another. After family prayers and breakfast I suffer my +customary persecution at the hands of the cook. That is to say, I am +obliged, being the housekeeper, to order what we have to eat. Oh, how I +hate inventing dinners! and how I admire the enviable slowness of +mind and laziness of body which have saved Eunice from undertaking the +worries of housekeeping in her turn! She can go and work in her garden, +while I am racking my invention to discover variety in dishes without +overstepping the limits of economy. I suppose I may confess it privately +to myself--how sorry I am not to have been born a man! + +My next employment leads me to my father’s study, to write under his +dictation. I don’t complain of this; it flatters my pride to feel that I +am helping so great a man. At the same time, I do notice that here again +Eunice’s little defects have relieved her of another responsibility. +She can neither keep dictated words in her memory, nor has she ever been +able to learn how to put in her stops. + +After the dictation, I have an hour’s time left for practicing music. +My sister comes in from the garden, with her pencil and paint-box, and +practices drawing. Then we go out for a walk--a delightful walk, if my +father goes too. He has something always new to tell us, suggested by +what we pass on the way. Then, dinner-time comes--not always a pleasant +part of the day to me. Sometimes I hear paternal complaints (always +gentle complaints) of my housekeeping; sometimes my sister (I won’t say +the greedy sister) tells me I have not given her enough to eat. Poor +father! Dear Eunice! + +Dinner having reached its end, we stroll in the garden when the weather +is fine. When it rains, we make flannel petticoats for poor old women. +What a horrid thing old age is to look at! To be ugly, to be helpless, +to be miserably unfit for all the pleasures of life--I hope I shall not +live to be an old woman. What would my father say if he saw this? For +his sake, to say nothing of my own feelings, I shall do well if I make +it a custom to use the lock of my journal. Our next occupation is to +join the Scripture class for girls, and to help the teacher. This is a +good discipline for Eunice’s temper, and--oh, I don’t deny it!--for my +temper, too. I may long to box the ears of the whole class, but it is +my duty to keep a smiling face and to be a model of patience. From the +Scripture class we sometimes go to my father’s lecture. At other times, +we may amuse ourselves as well as we can till the tea is ready. After +tea, we read books which instruct us, poetry and novels being forbidden. +When we are tired of the books we talk. When supper is over, we have +prayers again, and we go to bed. There is our day. Oh, dear me! there is +our day. + +....... + +And how has Eunice succeeded in her second attempt at keeping a diary? +Here is what she has written. It has one merit that nobody can deny--it +is soon read: + +“I hope papa will excuse me; I have nothing to write about to-day.” + +Over and over again I have tried to point out to my sister the absurdity +of calling her father by the infantile nickname of papa. I have reminded +her that she is (in years, at least) no longer a child. “Why don’t you +call him father, as I do?” I asked only the other day. + +She made an absurd reply: “I used to call him papa when I was a little +girl.” + +“That,” I reminded her, “doesn’t justify you in calling him papa now.” + +And she actually answered: “Yes it does.” What a strange state of mind! +And what a charming girl, in spite of her mind! + + +THIRD DAY. + +The morning post has brought with it a promise of some little variety in +our lives--or, to speak more correctly, in the life of my sister. + +Our new and nice friends, the Staveleys, have written to invite Eunice +to pay them a visit at their house in London. I don’t complain at being +left at home. It would be unfilial, indeed, if we both of us forsook our +father; and last year it was my turn to receive the first invitation, +and to enjoy the change of scene. The Staveleys are excellent +people--strictly pious members of the Methodist Connection--and +exceedingly kind to my sister and me. But it was just as well for my +moral welfare that I ended my visit to our friends when I did. With my +fondness for music, I felt the temptation of the Evil One trying me, +when I saw placards in the street announcing that the Italian Opera was +open. I had no wish to be a witness of the shameful and sinful dancing +which goes on (I am told) at the opera; but I did feel my principles +shaken when I thought of the wonderful singers and the entrancing music. +And this, when I knew what an atmosphere of wickedness people breathe +who enter a theater! I reflect with horror on what _might_ have happened +if I had remained a little longer in London. + +Helping Eunice to pack up, I put her journal into the box. “You +will find something to write about now,” I told her. “While I record +everything that happens at home, you will keep your diary of all that +you do in London, and when you come back we will show each other what we +have written.” My sister is a dear creature. “I don’t feel sure of being +able to do it,” she answered; “but I promise to try.” Good Eunice! + + + +CHAPTER XII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +The air of London feels very heavy. There is a nasty smell of smoke +in London. There are too many people in London. They seem to be mostly +people in a hurry. The head of a country girl, when she goes into the +streets, turns giddy--I suppose through not being used to the noise. + +I do hope that it is London that has put me out of temper. Otherwise, it +must be I myself who am ill-tempered. I have not yet been one whole day +in the Staveleys’ house, and they have offended me already. I don’t +want Helena to hear of this from other people, and then to ask me why I +concealed it from her. We are to read each other’s journals when we are +both at home again. Let her see what I have to say for myself here. + +There are seven Staveleys in all: Mr. and Mrs. (two); three young +Masters (five); two young Misses (seven). An eldest miss and the second +young Master are the only ones at home at the present time. + +Mr., Mrs., and Miss kissed me when I arrived. Young Master only shook +hands. He looked as if he would have liked to kiss me too. Why shouldn’t +he? It wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t myself like kissing. What is the +use of it? Where is the pleasure of it? + +Mrs. was so glad to see me; she took hold of me by both hands. She said: +“My dear child, you are improving. You were wretchedly thin when I saw +you last. Now you are almost as well-developed as your sister. I think +you are prettier than your sister.” Mr. didn’t agree to that. He and +his wife began to dispute about me before my face. I do call that an +aggravating thing to endure. + +Mr. said: “She hasn’t got her sister’s pretty gray eyes.” + +Mrs. said; “She has got pretty brown eyes, which are just as good.” + +Mr. said: “You can’t compare her complexion with Helena’s.” + +Mrs. said: “I like Eunice’s pale complexion. So delicate.” + +Young Miss struck in: “I admire Helena’s hair--light brown.” + +Young Master took his turn: “I prefer Eunice’s hair--dark brown.” + +Mr. opened his great big mouth, and asked a question: “Which of you two +sisters is the oldest? I forget.” + +Mrs. answered for me: “Helena is the oldest; she told us so when she was +here last.” + +I really could _not_ stand that. “You must be mistaken,” I burst out. + +“Certainly not, my dear.” + +“Then Helena was mistaken.” I was unwilling to say of my sister that she +had been deceiving them, though it did seem only too likely. + +Mr. and Mrs. looked at each other. Mrs. said: “You seem to be very +positive, Eunice. Surely, Helena ought to know.” + +I said: “Helena knows a good deal; but she doesn’t know which of us is +the oldest of the two.” + +Mr. put in another question: “Do _you_ know?” + +“No more than Helena does.” + +Mrs. said: “Don’t you keep birthdays?” + +I said: “Yes; we keep both our birthdays on the same day.” + +“On what day?” + +“The first day of the New Year.” + +Mr. tried again: “You can’t possibly be twins?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Perhaps Helena knows?” + +“Not she!” + +Mrs. took the next question out of her husband’s mouth: “Come, come, my +dear! you must know how old you are.” + +“Yes; I do know that. I’m eighteen.” + +“And how old is Helena?” + +“Helena’s eighteen.” + +Mrs. turned round to Mr.: “Do you hear that?” + +Mr. said: “I shall write to her father, and ask what it means.” + +I said: “Papa will only tell you what he told us--years ago.” + +“What did your father say?” + +“He said he had added our two ages together, and he meant to divide +the product between us. It’s so long since, I don’t remember what the +product was then. But I’ll tell you what the product is now. Our two +ages come to thirty-six. Half thirty-six is eighteen. I get one half, +and Helena gets the other. When we ask what it means, and when friends +ask what it means, papa has got the same answer for everybody, ‘I have +my reasons.’ That’s all he says--and that’s all I say.” + +I had no intention of making Mr. angry, but he did get angry. He left +off speaking to me by my Christian name; he called me by my surname. He +said: “Let me tell you, Miss Gracedieu, it is not becoming in a young +lady to mystify her elders.” + +I had heard that it was respectful in a young lady to call an old +gentleman, Sir, and to say, If you please. I took care to be respectful +now. “If you please, sir, write to papa. You will find that I have +spoken the truth.” + +A woman opened the door, and said to Mrs. Staveley: “Dinner, ma’am.” + That stopped this nasty exhibition of our tempers. We had a very good +dinner. + +....... + +The next day I wrote to Helena, asking her what she had really said to +the Staveleys about her age and mine, and telling her what I had said. +I found it too great a trial of my patience to wait till she could see +what I had written about the dispute in my journal. The days, since +then, have passed, and I have been too lazy and stupid to keep my diary. + +To-day it is different. My head is like a dark room with the light let +into it. I remember things; I think I can go on again. + +We have religious exercises in this house, morning and evening, just as +we do at home. (Not to be compared with papa’s religious exercises.) Two +days ago his answer came to Mr. Staveley’s letter. He did just what I +had expected--said I had spoken truly, and disappointed the family by +asking to be excused if he refrained from entering into explanations. +Mr. said: “Very odd;” and Mrs. agreed with him. Young Miss is not quite +as friendly now as she was at first. And young Master was impudent +enough to ask me if “I had got religion.” To conclude the list of +my worries, I received an angry answer from Helena. “Nobody but a +simpleton,” she wrote, “would have contradicted me as you did. Who but +you could have failed to see that papa’s strange objection to let it be +known which of us is the elder makes us ridiculous before other people? +My presence of mind prevented that. You ought to have been grateful, and +held your tongue.” Perhaps Helena is right--but I don’t feel it so. + +On Sunday we went to chapel twice. We also had a sermon read at home, +and a cold dinner. In the evening, a hot dispute on religion between Mr. +Staveley and his son. I don’t blame them. After being pious all day long +on Sunday, I have myself felt my piety give way toward evening. + +There is something pleasant in prospect for to-morrow. All London is +going just now to the exhibition of pictures. We are going with all +London. + +....... + +I don’t know what is the matter with me tonight. I have positively been +to bed, without going to sleep! After tossing and twisting and trying +all sorts of positions, I am so angry with myself that I have got up +again. Rather than do nothing, I have opened my ink-bottle, and I mean +to go on with my journal. Now I think of it, it seems likely that the +exhibition of works of art may have upset me. + +I found a dreadfully large number of pictures, matched by a dreadfully +large number of people to look at them. It is not possible for me to +write about what I saw: there was too much of it. Besides, the show +disappointed me. I would rather write about a disagreement (oh, dear, +another dispute!) I had with Mrs. Staveley. The cause of it was a famous +artist; not himself, but his works. He exhibited four pictures--what +they call figure subjects. Mrs. Staveley had a pencil. At every one of +the great man’s four pictures, she made a big mark of admiration on her +catalogue. At the fourth one, she spoke to me: “Perfectly beautiful, +Eunice, isn’t it?” + +I said I didn’t know. She said: “You strange girl, what do you mean by +that?” + +It would have been rude not to have given the best answer I could find. +I said: “I never saw the flesh of any person’s face like the flesh in +the faces which that man paints. He reminds me of wax-work. Why does he +paint the same waxy flesh in all four of his pictures? I don’t see the +same colored flesh in all the faces about us.” Mrs. Staveley held up her +hand, by way of stopping me. She said: “Don’t speak so loud, Eunice; you +are only exposing your own ignorance.” + +A voice behind us joined in. The voice said: “Excuse me, Mrs. Staveley, +if I expose _my_ ignorance. I entirely agree with the young lady.” + +I felt grateful to the person who took my part, just when I was at a +loss what to say for myself, and I looked round. The person was a young +gentleman. + +He wore a beautiful blue frock-coat, buttoned up. I like a frock-coat +to be buttoned up. He had light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a +pretty cane. I like light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a pretty +cane. What color his eyes were is more than I can say; I only know they +made me hot when they looked at me. Not that I mind being made hot; it +is surely better than being made cold. He and Mrs. Staveley shook hands. + +They seemed to be old friends. I wished I had been an old friend--not +for any bad reason, I hope. I only wanted to shake hands, too. What Mrs. +Staveley said to him escaped me, somehow. I think the picture escaped +me also; I don’t remember noticing anything except the young gentleman, +especially when he took off his hat to me. He looked at me twice before +he went away. I got hot again. I said to Mrs. Staveley: “Who is he?” + +She laughed at me. I said again: “Who is he?” She said: “He is young Mr. +Dunboyne.” I said: “Does he live in London?” She laughed again. I said +again: “Does he live in London?” She said: “He is here for a holiday; he +lives with his father at Fairmount, in Ireland.” + +Young Mr. Dunboyne--here for a holiday--lives with his father at +Fairmount, in Ireland. I have said that to myself fifty times over. And +here it is, saying itself for the fifty-first time in my Journal. I must +indeed be a simpleton, as Helena says. I had better go to bed again. + + + +CHAPTER XIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +Not long before I left home, I heard one of our two servants telling the +other about a person who had been “bewitched.” Are you bewitched when +you don’t understand your own self? That has been my curious case, +since I returned from the picture show. This morning I took my drawing +materials out of my box, and tried to make a portrait of young Mr. +Dunboyne from recollection. I succeeded pretty well with his frock-coat +and cane; but, try as I might, his face was beyond me. I have never +drawn anything so badly since I was a little girl; I almost felt ready +to cry. What a fool I am! + +This morning I received a letter from papa--it was in reply to a letter +that I had written to him--so kind, so beautifully expressed, so like +himself, that I felt inclined to send him a confession of the strange +state of feeling that has come over me, and to ask him to comfort and +advise me. On second thoughts, I was afraid to do it. Afraid of papa! I +am further away from understanding myself than ever. + +Mr. Dunboyne paid us a visit in the afternoon. Fortunately, before we +went out. + +I thought I would have a good look at him; so as to know his face better +than I had known it yet. Another disappointment was in store for me. +Without intending it, I am sure, he did what no other young man has ever +done--he made me feel confused. Instead of looking at him, I sat with +my head down, and listened to his talk. His voice--this is high +praise--reminded me of papa’s voice. It seemed to persuade me as papa +persuades his congregation. I felt quite at ease again. When he went +away, we shook hands. He gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave him back +the squeeze--without knowing why. When he was gone, I wished I had not +done it--without knowing why, either. + +I heard his Christian name for the first time to-day. Mrs. Staveley +said to me: “We are going to have a dinner-party. Shall I ask Philip +Dunboyne?” I said to Mrs. Staveley: “Oh, do!” + +She is an old woman; her eyes are dim. At times, she can look +mischievous. She looked at me mischievously now. I wished I had not been +so eager to have Mr. Dunboyne asked to dinner. + +A fear has come to me that I may have degraded myself. My spirits are +depressed. This, as papa tells us in his sermons, is a miserable world. +I am sorry I accepted the Staveleys’ invitation. I am sorry I went to +see the pictures. When that young man comes to dinner, I shall say I +have got a headache, and shall stop upstairs by myself. I don’t think I +like his Christian name. I hate London. I hate everybody. + +What I wrote up above, yesterday, is nonsense. I think his Christian +name is perfect. I like London. I love everybody. + +He came to dinner to-day. I sat next to him. How beautiful a dress-coat +is, and a white cravat! We talked. He wanted to know what my Christian +name was. I was so pleased when I found he was one of the few people who +like it. His hair curls naturally. In color, it is something between my +hair and Helena’s. He wears his beard. How manly! It curls naturally, +like his hair; it smells deliciously of some perfume which is new to me. +He has white hands; his nails look as if he polished them; I should like +to polish my nails if I knew how. Whatever I said, he agreed with me; I +felt satisfied with my own conversation, for the first time in my life. +Helena won’t find me a simpleton when I go home. What exquisite things +dinner-parties are! + + +My sister told me (when we said good-by) to be particular in writing +down my true opinion of the Staveleys. Helena wishes to compare what she +thinks of them with what I think of them. + +My opinion of Mr. Staveley is--I don’t like him. My opinion of Miss +Staveley is--I can’t endure her. As for Master Staveley, my clever +sister will understand that _he_ is beneath notice. But, oh, what a +wonderful woman Mrs. Staveley is! We went out together, after luncheon +today, for a walk in Kensington Gardens. Never have I heard any +conversation to compare with Mrs. Staveley’s. Helena shall enjoy it +here, at second hand. I am quite changed in two things. First: I think +more of myself than I ever did before. Second: writing is no longer a +difficulty to me. I could fill a hundred journals, without once stopping +to think. + +Mrs. Staveley began nicely; “I suppose, Eunice, you have often been told +that you have a good figure, and that you walk well?” + +I said: “Helena thinks my figure is better than my face. But do I really +walk well? Nobody ever told me that.” + +She answered: “Philip Dunboyne thinks so. He said to me, ‘I resist the +temptation because I might be wanting in respect if I gave way to +it. But I should like to follow her when she goes out--merely for the +pleasure of seeing her walk.’” + +I stood stockstill. I said nothing. When you are as proud as a peacock +(which never happened to me before), I find you can’t move and can’t +talk. You can only enjoy yourself. + +Kind Mrs. Staveley had more things to tell me. She said: “I am +interested in Philip. I lived near Fairmount in the time before I +was married; and in those days he was a child. I want him to marry a +charming girl, and be happy.” + +What made me think directly of Miss Staveley? What made me mad to know +if she was the charming girl? I was bold enough to ask the question. +Mrs. Staveley turned to me with that mischievous look which I have +noticed already. I felt as if I had been running at the top of my speed, +and had not got my breath again, yet. + +But this good motherly friend set me at my ease. She explained herself: +“Philip is not much liked, poor fellow, in our house. My husband +considers him to be weak and vain and fickle. And my daughter agrees +with her father. There are times when she is barely civil to Philip. He +is too good-natured to complain, but _I_ see it. Tell me, my dear, do +you like Philip?” + +“Of course I do!” Out it came in those words, before I could stop it. +Was there something unbecoming to a young lady in saying what I had just +said? Mrs. Staveley seemed to be more amused than angry with me. She +took my arm kindly, and led me along with her. “My dear, you are as +clear as crystal, and as true as steel. You are a favorite of mine +already.” + +What a delightful woman! as I said just now. I asked if she really liked +me as well as she liked my sister. + +She said: “Better.” + +I didn’t expect that, and didn’t want it. Helena is my superior. She is +prettier than I am, cleverer than I am, better worth liking than I am. +Mrs. Staveley shifted the talk back to Philip. I ought to have said Mr. +Philip. No, I won’t; I shall call him Philip. If I had a heart of stone, +I should feel interested in him, after what Mrs. Staveley has told me. + +Such a sad story, in some respects. Mother dead; no brothers or sisters. +Only the father left; he lives a dismal life on a lonely stormy coast. +Not a severe old gentleman, for all that. His reasons for taking to +retirement are reasons (so Mrs. Staveley says) which nobody knows. He +buries himself among his books, in an immense library; and he appears +to like it. His son has not been brought up like other young men, +at school and college. He is a great scholar, educated at home by his +father. To hear this account of his learning depressed me. It seemed to +put such a distance between us. I asked Mrs. Staveley if he thought me +ignorant. As long as I live I shall remember the reply: “He thinks you +charming.” + +Any other girl would have been satisfied with this. I am the miserable +creature who is always making mistakes. My stupid curiosity spoiled +the charm of Mrs. Staveley’s conversation. And yet it seemed to be a +harmless question; I only said I should like to know what profession +Philip belonged to. + +Mrs. Staveley answered: “No profession.” + +I foolishly put a wrong meaning on this. I said: “Is he idle?” + +Mrs. Staveley laughed. “My dear, he is an only son--and his father is a +rich man.” + +That stopped me--at last. + +We have enough to live on in comfort at home--no more. Papa has told us +himself that he is not (and can never hope to be) a rich man. This is +not the worst of it. Last year, he refused to marry a young couple, both +belonging to our congregation. This was very unlike his usual kind self. +Helena and I asked him for his reasons. They were reasons that did not +take long to give. The young gentleman’s father was a rich man. He had +forbidden his son to marry a sweet girl--because she had no fortune. + +I have no fortune. And Philip’s father is a rich man. + +The best thing I can do is to wipe my pen, and shut up my Journal, and +go home by the next train. + +....... + +I have a great mind to burn my Journal. It tells me that I had better +not think of Philip any more. + +On second thoughts, I won’t destroy my Journal; I will only put it away. +If I live to be an old woman, it may amuse me to open my book again, and +see how foolish the poor wretch was when she was young. + +What is this aching pain in my heart? + +I don’t remember it at any other time in my life. Is it trouble? How can +I tell?--I have had so little trouble. It must be many years since I was +wretched enough to cry. I don’t even understand why I am crying now. My +last sorrow, so far as I can remember, was the toothache. Other +girls’ mothers comfort them when they are wretched. If my mother had +lived--it’s useless to think about that. We lost her, while I and my +sister were too young to understand our misfortune. + +I wish I had never seen Philip. + +This seems an ungrateful wish. Seeing him at the picture-show was a new +enjoyment. Sitting next to him at dinner was a happiness that I don’t +recollect feeling, even when Papa has been most sweet and kind to me. +I ought to be ashamed of myself to confess this. Shall I write to my +sister? But how should she know what is the matter with me, when I don’t +know it myself? Besides, Helena is angry; she wrote unkindly to me when +she answered my last letter. + +There is a dreadful loneliness in this great house at night. I had +better say my prayers, and try to sleep. If it doesn’t make me feel +happier, it will prevent me spoiling my Journal by dropping tears on it. + +....... + +What an evening of evenings this has been! Last night it was crying that +kept me awake. To-night I can’t sleep for joy. + +Philip called on us again to-day. He brought with him tickets for the +performance of an Oratorio. Sacred music is not forbidden music among +our people. Mrs. Staveley and Miss Staveley went to the concert with us. +Philip and I sat next to each other. + +My sister is a musician--I am nothing. That sounds bitter; but I don’t +mean it so. All I mean is, that I like simple little songs, which I +can sing to myself by remembering the tune. There, my musical enjoyment +ends. When voices and instruments burst out together by hundreds, I feel +bewildered. I also get attacked by fidgets. This last misfortune is sure +to overtake me when choruses are being performed. The unfortunate people +employed are made to keep singing the same words, over and over and over +again, till I find it a perfect misery to listen to them. The choruses +were unendurable in the performance to-night. This is one of them: “Here +we are all alone in the wilderness--alone in the wilderness--in the +wilderness alone, alone, alone--here we are in the wilderness--alone in +the wilderness--all all alone in the wilderness,” and soon, till I felt +inclined to call for the learned person who writes Oratorios, and beg +him to give the poor music a more generous allowance of words. + +Whenever I looked at Philip, I found him looking at me. Perhaps he saw +from the first that the music was wearying music to my ignorant ears. +With his usual delicacy he said nothing for some time. But when he +caught me yawning (though I did my best to hide it, for it looked like +being ungrateful for the tickets), then he could restrain himself no +longer. He whispered in my ear: + +“You are getting tired of this. And so am I.” + +“I am trying to like it,” I whispered back. + +“Don’t try,” he answered. “Let’s talk.” + +He meant, of course, talk in whispers. We were a good deal +annoyed--especially when the characters were all alone in the +wilderness--by bursts of singing and playing which interrupted us at the +most interesting moments. Philip persevered with a manly firmness. What +could I do but follow his example--at a distance? + +He said: “Is it really true that your visit to Mrs. Staveley is coming +to an end?” + +I answered: “It comes to an end the day after to-morrow.” + +“Are you sorry to be leaving your friends in London?” + +What I might have said if he had made that inquiry a day earlier, when I +was the most miserable creature living, I would rather not try to guess. +Being quite happy as things were, I could honestly tell him I was sorry. + +“You can’t possibly be as sorry as I am, Eunice. May I call you by your +pretty name?” + +“Yes, if you please.” + +“Eunice!” + +“Yes.” + +“You will leave a blank in my life when you go away--” + +There another chorus stopped him, just as I was eager for more. It was +such a delightfully new sensation to hear a young gentleman telling me +that I had left a blank in his life. The next change in the Oratorio +brought up a young lady, singing alone. Some people behind us grumbled +at the smallness of her voice. We thought her voice perfect. It seemed +to lend itself so nicely to our whispers. + +He said: “Will you help me to think of you while you are away? I want +to imagine what your life is at home. Do you live in a town or in the +country?” + +I told him the name of our town. When we give a person information, I +have always heard that we ought to make it complete. So I mentioned our +address in the town. But I was troubled by a doubt. Perhaps he preferred +the country. Being anxious about this, I said: “Would you rather have +heard that I live in the country?” + +“Live where you may, Eunice, the place will be a favorite place of mine. +Besides, your town is famous. It has a public attraction which brings +visitors to it.” + +I made another of those mistakes which no sensible girl, in my position, +would have committed. I asked if he alluded to our new market-place. + +He set me right in the sweetest manner: “I alluded to a building +hundreds of years older than your market-place--your beautiful +cathedral.” + +Fancy my not having thought of the cathedral! This is what comes of +being a Congregationalist. If I had belonged to the Church of England, +I should have forgotten the market-place, and remembered the cathedral. +Not that I want to belong to the Church of England. Papa’s chapel is +good enough for me. + +The song sung by the lady with the small voice was so pretty that the +audience encored it. Didn’t Philip and I help them! With the sweetest +smiles the lady sang it all over again. The people behind us left the +concert. + +He said: “Do you know, I take the greatest interest in cathedrals. I +propose to enjoy the privilege and pleasure of seeing _your_ cathedral +early next week.” + +I had only to look at him to see that I was the cathedral. It was no +surprise to hear next that he thought of “paying his respects to Mr. +Gracedieu.” He begged me to tell him what sort of reception he might +hope to meet with when he called at our house. I got so excited in doing +justice to papa that I quite forgot to whisper when the next question +came. Philip wanted to know if Mr. Gracedieu disliked strangers. When +I answered, “Oh dear, no!” I said it out loud, so that the people heard +me. Cruel, cruel people! They all turned round and stared. One hideous +old woman actually said, “Silence!” Miss Staveley looked disgusted. Even +kind Mrs. Staveley lifted her eyebrows in astonishment. + +Philip, dear Philip, protected and composed me. + +He held my hand devotedly till the end of the performance. When he put +us into the carriage, I was last. He whispered in my ear: “Expect me +next week.” Miss Staveley might be as ill-natured as she pleased, on the +way home. It didn’t matter what she said. The Eunice of yesterday might +have been mortified and offended. The Eunice of to-day was indifferent +to the sharpest things that could be said to her. + +....... + +All through yesterday’s delightful evening, I never once thought of +Philip’s father. When I woke this morning, I remembered that old Mr. +Dunboyne was a rich man. I could eat no breakfast for thinking of the +poor girl who was not allowed to marry her young gentleman, because she +had no money. + +Mrs. Staveley waited to speak to me till the rest of them had left us +together. I had expected her to notice that I looked dull and dismal. +No! her cleverness got at my secret in quite another way. + +She said: “How do you feel after the concert? You must be hard to please +indeed if you were not satisfied with the accompaniments last night.” + +“The accompaniments of the Oratorio?” + +“No, my dear. The accompaniments of Philip.” + +I suppose I ought to have laughed. In my miserable state of mind, it was +not to be done. I said: “I hope Mr. Dunboyne’s father will not hear how +kind he was to me.” + +Mrs. Staveley asked why. + +My bitterness overflowed at my tongue. I said: “Because papa is a poor +man.” + +“And Philip’s papa is a rich man,” says Mrs. Staveley, putting my +own thought into words for me. “Where do you get these ideas, Eunice? +Surely, you are not allowed to read novels?” + +“Oh no!” + +“And you have certainly never seen a play?” + +“Never.” + +“Clear your head, child, of the nonsense that has got into it--I can’t +think how. Rich Mr. Dunboyne has taught his heir to despise the base act +of marrying for money. He knows that Philip will meet young ladies at my +house; and he has written to me on the subject of his son’s choice of a +wife. ‘Let Philip find good principles, good temper, and good looks; and +I promise beforehand to find the money.’ There is what he says. Are you +satisfied with Philip’s father, now?” + +I jumped up in a state of ecstasy. Just as I had thrown my arms round +Mrs. Staveley’s neck, the servant came in with a letter, and handed it +to me. + +Helena had written again, on this last day of my visit. Her letter was +full of instructions for buying things that she wants, before I leave +London. I read on quietly enough until I came to the postscript. The +effect of it on me may be told in two words: I screamed. Mrs. Staveley +was naturally alarmed. “Bad news?” she asked. Being quite unable to +offer an opinion, I read the postscript out loud, and left her to judge +for herself. + +This was Helena’s news from home: + +“I must prepare you for a surprise, before your return. You will find a +strange lady established at home. Don’t suppose there is any prospect +of her bidding us good-by, if we only wait long enough. She is already +(with father’s full approval) as much a member of the family as we +are. You shall form your own unbiased opinion of her, Eunice. For the +present, I say no more.” + +I asked Mrs. Staveley what she thought of my news from home. She said: +“Your father approves of the lady, my dear. I suppose it’s good news.” + +But Mrs. Staveley did not look as if she believed in the good news, for +all that. + + + +CHAPTER XIV. HELENA’S DIARY. + +To-day I went as usual to the Scripture-class for girls. It was harder +work than ever, teaching without Eunice to help me. Indeed, I felt +lonely all day without my sister. When I got home, I rather hoped that +some friend might have come to see us, and have been asked to stay to +tea. The housemaid opened the door to me. I asked Maria if anybody had +called. + +“Yes, miss; a lady, to see the master.” + +“A stranger?” + +“Never saw her before, miss, in all my life.” I put no more questions. +Many ladies visit my father. They call it consulting the Minister. +He advises them in their troubles, and guides them in their religious +difficulties, and so on. They come and go in a sort of secrecy. So far +as I know, they are mostly old maids, and they waste the Minister’s +time. + +When my father came in to tea, I began to feel some curiosity about the +lady who had called on him. Visitors of that sort, in general, never +appear to dwell on his mind after they have gone away; he sees too many +of them, and is too well accustomed to what they have to say. On +this particular evening, however, I perceived appearances that set me +thinking; he looked worried and anxious. + +“Has anything happened, father, to vex you?” I said. + +“Yes.” + +“Is the lady concerned in it?” + +“What lady, my dear?” + +“The lady who called on you while I was out.” + +“Who told you she had called on me?” + +“I asked Maria--” + +“That will do, Helena, for the present.” + +He drank his tea and went back to his study, instead of staying a while, +and talking pleasantly as usual. My respect submitted to his want of +confidence in me; but my curiosity was in a state of revolt. I sent for +Maria, and proceeded to make my own discoveries, with this result: + +No other person had called at the house. Nothing had happened, except +the visit of the mysterious lady. “She looked between young and old. +And, oh dear me, she was certainly not pretty. Not dressed nicely, to my +mind; but they do say dress is a matter of taste.” + +Try as I might, I could get no more than that out of our stupid young +housemaid. + +Later in the evening, the cook had occasion to consult me about supper. +This was a person possessing the advantages of age and experience. I +asked if she had seen the lady. The cook’s reply promised something new: +“I can’t say I saw the lady; but I heard her.” + +“Do you mean that you heard her speaking?” + +“No, miss--crying.” + +“Where was she crying?” + +“In the master’s study.” + +“How did you come to hear her?” + +“Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect me of listening?” + +Is a lie told by a look as bad as a lie told by words? I looked shocked +at the bare idea of suspecting a respectable person of listening. The +cook’s sense of honor was satisfied; she readily explained herself: “I +was passing the door, miss, on my way upstairs.” + +Here my discoveries came to an end. It was certainly possible that an +afflicted member of my father’s congregation might have called on him +to be comforted. But he sees plenty of afflicted ladies, without looking +worried and anxious after they leave him. Still suspecting something +out of the ordinary course of events, I waited hopefully for our next +meeting at supper-time. Nothing came of it. My father left me by myself +again, when the meal was over. He is always courteous to his daughters; +and he made an apology: “Excuse me, Helena, I want to think.” + +....... + +I went to bed in a vile humor, and slept badly; wondering, in the long +wakeful hours, what new rebuff I should meet with on the next day. + +At breakfast this morning I was agreeably surprised. No signs of anxiety +showed themselves in my father’s face. Instead of retiring to his study +when we rose from the table, he proposed taking a turn in the garden: +“You are looking pale, Helena, and you will be the better for a little +fresh air. Besides, I have something to say to you.” + +Excitement, I am sure, is good for young women. I saw in his face, I +heard in his last words, that the mystery of the lady was at last to be +revealed. The sensation of languor and fatigue which follows a disturbed +night left me directly. + +My father gave me his arm, and we walked slowly up and down the lawn. + +“When that lady called on me yesterday,” he began, “you wanted to know +who she was, and you were surprised and disappointed when I refused to +gratify your curiosity. My silence was not a selfish silence, Helena. I +was thinking of you and your sister; and I was at a loss how to act for +the best. You shall hear why my children were in my mind, presently. +I must tell you first that I have arrived at a decision; I hope and +believe on reasonable grounds. Ask me any questions you please; my +silence will be no longer an obstacle in your way.” + +This was so very encouraging that I said at once: “I should like to know +who the lady is.” + +“The lady is related to me,” he answered. “We are cousins.” + +Here was a disclosure that I had not anticipated. In the little that I +have seen of the world, I have observed that cousins--when they happen +to be brought together under interesting circumstances--can remember +their relationship, and forget their relationship, just as it suits +them. “Is your cousin a married lady?” I ventured to inquire. + +“No.” + +Short as it was, that reply might perhaps mean more than appeared on +the surface. The cook had heard the lady crying. What sort of tender +agitation was answerable for those tears? Was it possible, barely +possible, that Eunice and I might go to bed, one night, a widower’s +daughters, and wake up the next day to discover a stepmother? + +“Have I or my sister ever seen the lady?” I asked. + +“Never. She has been living abroad; and I have not seen her myself since +we were both young people.” + +My excellent innocent father! Not the faintest idea of what I had been +thinking of was in his mind. Little did he suspect how welcome was the +relief that he had afforded to his daughter’s wicked doubts of him. But +he had not said a word yet about his cousin’s personal appearance. There +might be remains of good looks which the housemaid was too stupid to +discover. + +“After the long interval that has passed since you met,” I said, “I +suppose she has become an old woman?” + +“No, my dear. Let us say, a middle-aged woman.” + +“Perhaps she is still an attractive person?” + +He smiled. “I am afraid, Helena, that would never have been a very +accurate description of her.” + +I now knew all that I wanted to know about this alarming person, +excepting one last morsel of information which my father had strangely +forgotten. + +“We have been talking about the lady for some time,” I said; “and you +have not yet told me her name.” + +Father looked a little embarrassed “It’s not a very pretty name,” he +answered. “My cousin, my unfortunate cousin, is--Miss Jillgall.” + +I burst out with such a loud “Oh!” that he laughed. I caught the +infection, and laughed louder still. Bless Miss Jillgall! The interview +promised to become an easy one for both of us, thanks to her name. I was +in good spirits, and I made no attempt to restrain them. “The next time +Miss Jillgall honors you with a visit,” I said, “you must give me an +opportunity of being presented to her.” + +He made a strange reply: “You may find your opportunity, Helena, sooner +than you anticipate.” + +Did this mean that she was going to call again in a day or two? I am +afraid I spoke flippantly. I said: “Oh, father, another lady fascinated +by the popular preacher?” + +The garden chairs were near us. He signed to me gravely to be seated by +his side, and said to himself: “This is my fault.” + +“What is your fault?” I asked. + +“I have left you in ignorance, my dear, of my cousin’s sad story. It +is soon told; and, if it checks your merriment, it will make amends by +deserving your sympathy. I was indebted to her father, when I was a boy, +for acts of kindness which I can never forget. He was twice married. The +death of his first wife left him with one child--once my playfellow; now +the lady whose visit has excited your curiosity. His second wife was a +Belgian. She persuaded him to sell his business in London, and to invest +the money in a partnership with a brother of hers, established as a +sugar-refiner at Antwerp. The little daughter accompanied her father to +Belgium. Are you attending to me, Helena?” + +I was waiting for the interesting part of the story, and was wondering +when he would get to it. + +“As time went on,” he resumed, “the new partner found that the value +of the business at Antwerp had been greatly overrated. After a long +struggle with adverse circumstances, he decided on withdrawing from +the partnership before the whole of his capital was lost in a failing +commercial speculation. The end of it was that he retired, with his +daughter, to a small town in East Flanders; the wreck of his property +having left him with an income of no more than two hundred pounds a +year.” + +I showed my father that I was attending to him now, by inquiring what +had become of the Belgian wife. Those nervous quiverings, which Eunice +has mentioned in her diary, began to appear in his face. + +“It is too shameful a story,” he said, “to be told to a young girl. The +marriage was dissolved by law; and the wife was the person to blame. I +am sure, Helena, you don’t wish to hear any more of _this_ part of the +story.” + +I did wish. But I saw that he expected me to say No--so I said it. + +“The father and daughter,” he went on, “never so much as thought of +returning to their own country. They were too poor to live comfortably +in England. In Belgium their income was sufficient for their wants. On +the father’s death, the daughter remained in the town. She had friends +there, and friends nowhere else; and she might have lived abroad to the +end of her days, but for a calamity to which we are all liable. A +long and serious illness completely prostrated her. Skilled medical +attendance, costing large sums of money for the doctors’ traveling +expenses, was imperatively required. Experienced nurses, summoned from a +distant hospital, were in attendance night and day. Luxuries, far beyond +the reach of her little income, were absolutely required to support her +wasted strength at the time of her tedious recovery. In one word, her +resources were sadly diminished, when the poor creature had paid her +debts, and had regained her hold on life. At that time, she unhappily +met with the man who has ruined her.” + +It was getting interesting at last. “Ruined her?” I repeated. “Do you +mean that he robbed her?” + +“That, Helena, is exactly what I mean--and many and many a helpless +woman has been robbed in the same way. The man of whom I am now speaking +was a lawyer in large practice. He bore an excellent character, and +was highly respected for his exemplary life. My cousin (not at all a +discreet person, I am bound to admit) was induced to consult him on her +pecuniary affairs. He expressed the most generous sympathy--offered to +employ her little capital in his business--and pledged himself to pay +her double the interest for her money, which she had been in the habit +of receiving from the sound investment chosen by her father.” + +“And of course he got the money, and never paid the interest?” Eager to +hear the end, I interrupted the story in those inconsiderate words. My +father’s answer quietly reproved me. + +“He paid the interest regularly as long as he lived.” + +“And what happened when he died?” + +“He died a bankrupt; the secret profligacy of his life was at last +exposed. Nothing, actually nothing, was left for his creditors. The +unfortunate creature, whose ugly name has amused you, must get help +somewhere, or must go to the workhouse.” + +If I had been in a state of mind to attend to trifles, this would have +explained the reason why the cook had heard Miss Jillgall crying. But +the prospect before me--the unendurable prospect of having a strange +woman in the house--had showed itself too plainly to be mistaken. +I could think of nothing else. With infinite difficulty I assumed a +momentary appearance of composure, and suggested that Miss Jillgall’s +foreign friends might have done something to help her. + +My father defended her foreign friends. “My dear, they were poor people, +and did all they could afford to do. But for their kindness, my cousin +might not have been able to return to England.” + +“And to cast herself on your mercy,” I added, “in the character of a +helpless woman.” + +“No, Helena! Not to cast herself on my mercy--but to find my house open +to her, as her father’s house was open to me in the bygone time. I +am her only surviving relative; and, while I live, she shall not be a +helpless woman.” + +I began to wish that I had not spoken out so plainly. My father’s sweet +temper--I do so sincerely wish I had inherited it!--made the kindest +allowances for me. + +“I understand the momentary bitterness of feeling that has escaped you,” + he said; “I may almost say that I expected it. My only hesitation in +this matter has been caused by my sense of what I owe to my children. It +was putting your endurance, and your sister’s endurance, to a trial to +expect you to receive a stranger (and that stranger not a young girl +like yourselves) as one of the household, living with you in the closest +intimacy of family life. The consideration which has decided me does +justice, I hope, to you and Eunice, as well as to myself. I think that +some allowance is due from my daughters to the father who has always +made loving allowance for _them_. Am I wrong in believing that my good +children have not forgotten this, and have only waited for the occasion +to feel the pleasure of rewarding me?” + +It was beautifully put. There was but one thing to be done--I kissed +him. And there was but one thing to be said. I asked at what time we +might expect to receive Miss Jillgall. “She is staying, Helena, at a +small hotel in the town. I have already sent to say that we are waiting +to see her. Perhaps you will look at the spare bedroom?” + +“It shall be got ready, father, directly.” + +I ran into the house; I rushed upstairs into the room that is Eunice’s +and mine; I locked the door, and then I gave way to my rage, before it +stifled me. I stamped on the floor, I clinched my fists, I cast myself +on the bed, I reviled that hateful woman by every hard word that I could +throw at her. Oh, the luxury of it! the luxury of it! + +Cold water and my hairbrush soon made me fit to be seen again. + +As for the spare room, it looked a great deal too comfortable for an +incubus from foreign parts. The one improvement that I could have +made, if a friend of mine had been expected, was suggested by the +window-curtains. I was looking at a torn place in one of them, and +determined to leave it unrepaired, when I felt an arm slipped round +my waist from behind. A voice, so close that it tickled my neck, said: +“Dear girl, what friends we shall be!” I turned round, and confronted +Miss Jillgall. + +CHAPTER XV. HELENA’S DIARY. + +If I am not a good girl, where is a good girl to be found? This is in +Eunice’s style. It sometimes amuses me to mimic my simple sister. + +I have just torn three pages out of my diary, in deference to the +expression of my father’s wishes. He took the first opportunity which +his cousin permitted him to enjoy of speaking to me privately; and his +object was to caution me against hastily relying on first impressions of +anybody--especially of Miss Jillgall. “Wait for a day or two,” he said; +“and then form your estimate of the new member of our household.” + +The stormy state of my temper had passed away, and had left my +atmosphere calm again. I could feel that I had received good advice; but +unluckily it reached me too late. + +I had formed my estimate of Miss Jillgall, and had put it in writing for +my own satisfaction, at least an hour before my father found himself +at liberty to speak to me. I don’t agree with him in distrusting first +impressions; and I had proposed to put my opinion to the test, by +referring to what I had written about his cousin at a later time. +However, after what he had said to me, I felt bound in filial duty +to take the pages out of my book, and to let two days pass before I +presumed to enjoy the luxury of hating Miss Jillgall. On one thing I +am determined: Eunice shall not form a hasty opinion, either. She shall +undergo the same severe discipline of self-restraint to which her sister +is obliged to submit. Let us be just, as somebody says, before we are +generous. No more for to-day. + +....... + +I open my diary again--after the prescribed interval has elapsed. The +first impression produced on me by the new member of our household +remains entirely unchanged. + +Have I already made the remark that, when one removes a page from +a book, it does not necessarily follow that one destroys the page +afterward? or did I leave this to be inferred? In either case, my course +of proceeding was the same. I ordered some paste to be made. Then I +unlocked a drawer, and found my poor ill-used leaves, and put them back +in my Journal. An act of justice is surely not the less praiseworthy +because it is an act of justice done to one’s self. + +My father has often told me that he revises his writings on religious +subjects. I may harmlessly imitate that good example, by revising my +restored entry. It is now a sufficiently remarkable performance to be +distinguished by a title. Let me call it: + +Impressions of Miss Jillgall. My first impression was a strong one--it +was produced by the state of this lady’s breath. In other words, I was +obliged to let her kiss me. It is a duty to be considerate toward human +infirmity. I will only say that I thought I should have fainted. + +My second impression draws a portrait, and produces a striking likeness. + +Figure, little and lean--hair of a dirty drab color which we see in +string--small light gray eyes, sly and restless, and deeply sunk in +the head--prominent cheekbones, and a florid complexion--an +inquisitive nose, turning up at the end--a large mouth and a servile +smile--raw-looking hands, decorated with black mittens--a misfitting +white jacket and a limp skirt--manners familiar--temper cleverly +hidden--voice too irritating to be mentioned. Whose portrait is this? It +is the portrait of Miss Jillgall, taken in words. + +Her true character is not easy to discover; I suspect that it will +only show itself little by little. That she is a born meddler in other +people’s affairs, I think I can see already. I also found out that she +trusted to flattery as the easiest means of making herself agreeable. +She tried her first experiment on myself. + +“You charming girl,” she began, “your bright face encourages me to ask +a favor. Pray make me useful! The one aspiration of my life is to be +useful. Unless you employ me in that way, I have no right to intrude +myself into your family circle. Yes, yes, I know that your father +has opened his house and his heart to me. But I dare not found any +claim--your name is Helena, isn’t it? Dear Helena, I dare not found any +claim on what I owe to your father’s kindness.” + +“Why not?” I inquired. + +“Because your father is not a man--” + +I was rude enough to interrupt her: “What is he, then?” + +“An angel,” Miss Jillgall answered, solemnly. “A destitute earthly +creature like me must not look up as high as your father. I might be +dazzled.” + +This was rather more than I could endure patiently. “Let us try,” I +suggested, “if we can’t understand each other, at starting.” + +Miss Jillgall’s little eyes twinkled in their bony caverns. “The very +thing I was going to propose!” she burst out. + +“Very well,” I went on; “then, let me tell you plainly that flattery is +not relished in this house.” + +“Flattery?” She put her hand to her head as she repeated the word, and +looked quite bewildered. “Dear Helena, I have lived all my life in East +Flanders, and my own language is occasionally strange to me. Can you +tell me what flattery is in Flemish?” + +“I don’t understand Flemish.” + +“How very provoking! You don’t understand Flemish, and I don’t +understand Flattery. I should so like to know what it means. Ah, I see +books in this lovely room. Is there a dictionary among them?” She darted +to the bookcase, and discovered a dictionary. “Now I shall understand +Flattery,” she remarked--“and then we shall understand each other. +Oh, let me find it for myself!” She ran her raw red finger along the +alphabetical headings at the top of each page. “‘FAD.’ That won’t do. +‘FIE.’ Further on still. ‘FLE.’ Too far the other way. ‘FLA.’ Here we +are! ‘Flattery: False praise. Commendation bestowed for the purpose of +gaining favor and influence.’ Oh, Helena, how cruel of you!” She dropped +the book, and sank into a chair--the picture, if such a thing can be, of +a broken-hearted old maid. + +I should most assuredly have taken the opportunity of leaving her to her +own devices, if I had been free to act as I pleased. But my interests +as a daughter forbade me to make an enemy of my father’s cousin, on the +first day when she had entered the house. I made an apology, very neatly +expressed. + +She jumped up--let me do her justice; Miss Jillgall is as nimble as a +monkey--and (Faugh!) she kissed me for the second time. If I had been a +man, I am afraid I should have called for that deadly poison (we are all +temperance people in this house) known by the name of Brandy. + +“If you will make me love you,” Miss Jillgall explained, “you must +expect to be kissed. Dear girl, let us go back to my poor little +petition. Oh, do make me useful! There are so many things I can do: you +will find me a treasure in the house. I write a good hand; I understand +polishing furniture; I can dress hair (look at my own hair); I play and +sing a little when people want to be amused; I can mix a salad and knit +stockings--who is this?” The cook came in, at the moment, to consult +me; I introduced her. “And, oh,” cried Miss Jillgall, in ecstasy, “I can +cook! Do, please, let me see the kitchen.” + +The cook’s face turned red. She had come to me to make a confession; +and she had not (as she afterward said) bargained for the presence of +a stranger. For the first time in her life she took the liberty +of whispering to me: “I must ask you, miss, to let me send up the +cauliflower plain boiled; I don’t understand the directions in the book +for doing it in the foreign way.” + +Miss Jillgall’s ears--perhaps because they are so large--possess a +quickness of hearing quite unparalleled in my experience. Not one word +of the cook’s whispered confession had escaped her. + +“Here,” she declared, “is an opportunity of making myself useful! What +is the cook’s name? Hannah? Take me downstairs, Hannah, and I’ll show +you how to do the cauliflower in the foreign way. She seems to hesitate. +Is it possible that she doesn’t believe me? Listen, Hannah, and judge +for yourself if I am deceiving you. Have you boiled the cauliflower? +Very well; this is what you must do next. Take four ounces of grated +cheese, two ounces of best butter, the yolks of four eggs, a little bit +of glaze, lemon-juice, nutmeg--dear, dear, how black she looks. What +have I said to offend her?” + +The cook passed over the lady who had presumed to instruct her, as if no +such person had been present, and addressed herself to me: “If I am +to be interfered with in my own kitchen, miss, I will ask you to suit +yourself at a month’s notice.” + +Miss Jillgall wrung her hands in despair. + +“I meant so kindly,” she said; “and I seem to have made mischief. +With the best intentions, Helena, I have set you and your servant at +variance. I really didn’t know you had such a temper, Hannah,” she +declared, following the cook to the door. “I’m sure there’s nothing I +am not ready to do to make it up with you. Perhaps you have not got the +cheese downstairs? I’m ready to go out and buy it for you. I could +show you how to keep eggs sweet and fresh for weeks together. Your gown +doesn’t fit very well; I shall be glad to improve it, if you will leave +it out for me after you have gone to bed. There!” cried Miss Jillgall, +as the cook majestically left the room, without even looking at her, +“I have done my best to make it up, and you see how my advances are +received. What more could I have done? I really ask you, dear, as a +friend, what more _could_ I have done?” + +I had it on the tip of my tongue to say: “The cook doesn’t ask you to +buy cheese for her, or to teach her how to keep eggs, or to improve the +fit of her gown; all she wants is to have her kitchen to herself.” But +here again it was necessary to remember that this odious person was my +father’s guest. + +“Pray don’t distress yourself,” I began; “I am sure you are not to +blame, Miss Jillgall--” + +“Oh, don’t!” + +“Don’t--what?” + +“Don’t call me Miss Jillgall. I call you Helena. Call me Selina.” + +I had really not supposed it possible that she could be more unendurable +than ever. When she mentioned her Christian name, she succeeded +nevertheless in producing that result. In the whole list of women’s +names, is there any one to be found so absolutely sickening as “Selina”? +I forced myself to pronounce it; I made another neatly-expressed +apology; I said English servants were so very peculiar. Selina was more +than satisfied; she was quite delighted. + +“Is that it, indeed? An explanation was all I wanted. How good of you! +And now tell me--is there no chance, in the house or out of the house, +of my making myself useful? Oh, what’s that? Do I see a chance? I do! I +do!” + +Miss Jillgall’s eyes are more than mortal. At one time, they are +microscopes. At another time, they are telescopes. She discovered (right +across the room) the torn place in the window-curtain. In an instant, +she snatched a dirty little leather case out of her pocket, threaded her +needle and began darning the curtain. She sang over her work. “My heart +is light, my will is free--” I can repeat no more of it. When I heard +her singing voice, I became reckless of consequences, and ran out of the +room with my hands over my ears. + + + +CHAPTER XVI. HELENA’S DIARY. + +When I reached the foot of the stairs, my father called me into his +study. + +I found him at his writing-table, with such a heap of torn-up paper in +his waste-basket that it overflowed on to the floor. He explained to me +that he had been destroying a large accumulation of old letters, and +had ended (when his employment began to grow wearisome) in examining his +correspondence rather carelessly. The result was that he had torn up a +letter, and a copy of the reply, which ought to have been set aside as +worthy of preservation. After collecting the fragments, he had heaped +them on the table. If I could contrive to put them together again on +fair sheets of paper, and fasten them in their right places with gum, I +should be doing him a service, at a time when he was too busy to set his +mistake right for himself. + +Here was the best excuse that I could desire for keeping out of Miss +Jillgall’s way. I cheerfully set to work on the restoration of the +letters, while my father went on with his writing. + +Having put the fragments together--excepting a few gaps caused by +morsels that had been lost--I was unwilling to fasten them down with +gum, until I could feel sure of not having made any mistakes; especially +in regard to some of the lost words which I had been obliged to restore +by guess-work. So I copied the letters, and submitted them, in the first +place, to my father’s approval. He praised me in the prettiest +manner for the care that I had taken. But, when he began, after some +hesitation, to read my copy, I noticed a change. The smile left his +face, and the nervous quiverings showed themselves again. + +“Quite right, my child,” he said, in low sad tones. + +On returning to my side of the table, I expected to see him resume his +writing. He crossed the room to the window and stood (with his back to +me) looking out. + +When I had first discovered the sense of the letters, they failed +to interest me. A tiresome woman, presuming on the kindness of a +good-natured man to beg a favor which she had no right to ask, and +receiving a refusal which she had richly deserved, was no remarkable +event in my experience as my father’s secretary and copyist. But the +change in his face, while he read the correspondence, altered my opinion +of the letters. There was more in them evidently than I had discovered. +I kept my manuscript copy--here it is: + + +From Miss Elizabeth Chance to the Rev. Abel Gracedieu. + +(Date of year, 1859. Date of month, missing.) + + +“DEAR SIR--You have, I hope, not quite forgotten the interesting +conversation that we had last year in the Governor’s rooms. I am afraid +I spoke a little flippantly at the time; but I am sure you will believe +me when I say that this was out of no want of respect to yourself. My +pecuniary position being far from prosperous, I am endeavoring to +obtain the vacant situation of housekeeper in a public institution the +prospectus of which I inclose. You will see it is a rule of the place +that a candidate must be a single woman (which I am), and must be +recommended by a clergyman. You are the only reverend gentleman whom it +is my good fortune to know, and the thing is of course a mere formality. +Pray excuse this application, and oblige me by acting as my reference. + +“Sincerely yours, + +“ELIZABETH CHANCE.” + + +“P. S.--Please address: Miss E. Chance, Poste Restante, St. +Martin’s-le-Grand, London.” + + +“From the Rev. Abel Gracedieu to Miss Chance. + +(Copy.) + + +“MADAM--The brief conversation to which your letter alludes, took place +at an accidental meeting between us. I then saw you for the first time, +and I have not seen you since. It is impossible for me to assert the +claim of a perfect stranger, like yourself, to fill a situation of +trust. I must beg to decline acting as your reference. + +“Your obedient servant, + +“ABEL GRACEDIEU.” + +....... + +My father was still at the window. + +In that idle position he could hardly complain of me for interrupting +him, if I ventured to talk about the letters which I had put together. +If my curiosity displeased him, he had only to say so, and there would +be an end to any allusions of mine to the subject. My first idea was to +join him at the window. On reflection, and still perceiving that he kept +his back turned on me, I thought it might be more prudent to remain at +the table. + +“This Miss Chance seems to be an impudent person?” I said. + +“Yes.” + +“Was she a young woman, when you met with her?” + +“Yes.” + +“What sort of a woman to look at? Ugly?” + +“No.” + +Here were three answers which Eunice herself would have been quick +enough to interpret as three warnings to say no more. I felt a little +hurt by his keeping his back turned on me. At the same time, and +naturally, I think, I found my interest in Miss Chance (I don’t say my +friendly interest) considerably increased by my father’s unusually rude +behavior. I was also animated by an irresistible desire to make him turn +round and look at me. + +“Miss Chance’s letter was written many years ago,” I resumed. “I wonder +what has become of her since she wrote to you.” + +“I know nothing about her.” + +“Not even whether she is alive or dead?” + +“Not even that. What do these questions mean, Helena?” + +“Nothing, father.” + +I declare he looked as if he suspected me! + +“Why don’t you speak out?” he said. “Have I ever taught you to conceal +your thoughts? Have I ever been a hard father, who discouraged you when +you wished to confide in him? What are you thinking about? Do _you_ know +anything of this woman?” + +“Oh, father, what a question! I never even heard of her till I put the +torn letters together. I begin to wish you had not asked me to do it.” + +“So do I. It never struck me that you would feel such extraordinary--I +had almost said, such vulgar--curiosity about a worthless letter.” + +This roused my temper. When a young lady is told that she is vulgar, +if she has any self-conceit--I mean self-respect--she feels insulted. I +said something sharp in my turn. It was in the way of argument. I do +not know how it may be with other young persons, I never reason so well +myself as when I am angry. + +“You call it a worthless letter,” I said, “and yet you think it worth +preserving.” + +“Have you nothing more to say to me than that?” he asked. + +“Nothing more,” I answered. + +He changed again. After having looked unaccountably angry, he now looked +unaccountably relieved. + +“I will soon satisfy you,” he said, “that I have a good reason for +preserving a worthless letter. Miss Chance, my dear, is not a woman to +be trusted. If she saw her advantage in making a bad use of my reply, +I am afraid she would not hesitate to do it. Even if she is no longer +living, I don’t know into what vile hands my letter may not have fallen, +or how it might be falsified for some wicked purpose. Do you see now how +a correspondence may become accidentally important, though it is of no +value in itself?” + +I could say “Yes” to this with a safe conscience. + +But there were some perplexities still left in my mind. It seemed +strange that Miss Chance should (apparently) have submitted to the +severity of my father’s reply. “I should have thought,” I said to him, +“that she would have sent you another impudent letter--or perhaps have +insisted on seeing you, and using her tongue instead of her pen.” + +“She could do neither the one nor the other, Helena. Miss Chance will +never find out my address again; I have taken good care of that.” + +He spoke in a loud voice, with a flushed face--as if it was quite a +triumph to have prevented this woman from discovering his address. What +reason could he have for being so anxious to keep her away from him? +Could I venture to conclude that there was a mystery in the life of a +man so blameless, so truly pious? It shocked one even to think of it. + +There was a silence between us, to which the housemaid offered a welcome +interruption. Dinner was ready. + +He kissed me before we left the room. “One word more, Helena,” he said, +“and I have done. Let there be no more talk between us about Elizabeth +Chance.” + + + +CHAPTER XVII. HELENA’S DIARY. + +Miss Jillgall joined us at the dinner-table, in a state of excitement, +carrying a book in her hand. + +I am inclined, on reflection, to suspect that she is quite clever enough +to have discovered that I hate her--and that many of the aggravating +things she says and does are assumed, out of retaliation, for the +purpose of making me angry. That ugly face is a double face, or I am +much mistaken. + +To return to the dinner-table, Miss Jillgall addressed herself, with an +air of playful penitence, to my father. + +“Dear cousin, I hope I have not done wrong. Helena left me all by +myself. When I had finished darning the curtain, I really didn’t know +what to do. So I opened all the bedroom doors upstairs and looked into +the rooms. In the big room with two beds--oh, I am so ashamed--I found +this book. Please look at the first page.” + +My father looked at the title-page: “Doctor Watts’s Hymns. Well, Selina, +what is there to be ashamed of in this?” + +“Oh, no! no! It’s the wrong page. Do look at the other page--the one +that comes first before that one.” + +My patient father turned to the blank page. + +“Ah,” he said quietly, “my other daughter’s name is written in it--the +daughter whom you have not seen. Well?” + +Miss Jillgall clasped her hands distractedly. “It’s my ignorance I’m so +ashamed of. Dear cousin, forgive me, enlighten me. I don’t know how to +pronounce your other daughter’s name. Do you call her Euneece?” + +The dinner was getting cold. I was provoked into saying: “No, we don’t.” + +She had evidently not forgiven me for leaving her by herself. “Pardon +me, Helena, when I want information I don’t apply to you: I sit, as it +were, at the feet of your learned father. Dear cousin, is it--” + +Even my father declined to wait for his dinner any longer. “Pronounce it +as you like, Selina. Here we say Euni’ce--with the accent on the ‘i’ and +with the final ‘e’ sounded: Eu-ni’-see. Let me give you some soup.” + +Miss Jillgall groaned. “Oh, how difficult it seems to be! Quite beyond +my poor brains! I shall ask the dear girl’s leave to call her Euneece. +What very strong soup! Isn’t it rather a waste of meat? Give me a little +more, please.” + +I discovered another of Miss Jillgall’s peculiarities. Her appetite +was enormous, and her ways were greedy. You heard her eat her soup. She +devoured the food on her plate with her eyes before she put it into +her mouth; and she criticised our English cookery in the most impudent +manner, under pretense of asking humbly how it was done. There was, +however, some temporary compensation for this. We had less of her talk +while she was eating her dinner. + +With the removal of the cloth, she recovered the use of her tongue; and +she hit on the one subject of all others which proves to be the sorest +trial to my father’s patience. + +“And now, dear cousin, let us talk of your other daughter, our absent +Euneece. I do so long to see her. When is she coming back?” + +“In a few days more.” + +“How glad I am! And do tell me--which is she? Your oldest girl or your +youngest?” + +“Neither the one nor the other, Selina.” + +“Oh, my head! my head! This is even worse than the accent on the ‘i’ and +the final ‘e.’ Stop! I am cleverer than I thought I was. You mean that +the girls are twins. Are they both so exactly like each other that I +shan’t know which is which? What fun!” + +When the subject of our ages was unluckily started at Mrs. Staveley’s, +I had slipped out of the difficulty easily by assuming the character of +the eldest sister--an example of ready tact which my dear stupid Eunice +doesn’t understand. In my father’s presence, it is needless to say that +I kept silence, and left it to him. I was sorry to be obliged to +do this. Owing to his sad state of health, he is easily +irritated--especially by inquisitive strangers. + +“I must leave you,” he answered, without taking the slightest notice of +what Miss Jillgall had said to him. “My work is waiting for me.” + +She stopped him on his way to the door. “Oh, tell me--can’t I help you?” + +“Thank you; no.” + +“Well--but tell me one thing. Am I right about the twins?” + +“You are wrong.” + +Miss Jillgall’s demonstrative hands flew up into the air again, and +expressed the climax of astonishment by quivering over her head. “This +is positively maddening,” she declared. “What does it mean?” + +“Take my advice, cousin. Don’t attempt to find out what it means.” + +He left the room. Miss Jillgall appealed to me. I imitated my father’s +wise brevity of expression: “Sorry to disappoint you, Selina; I know no +more about it than you do. Come upstairs.” + +Every step of the way up to the drawing-room was marked by a protest or +an inquiry. Did I expect her to believe that I couldn’t say which of +us was the elder of the two? that I didn’t really know what my father’s +motive was for this extraordinary mystification? that my sister and I +had submitted to be robbed, as it were, of our own ages, and had not +insisted on discovering which of us had come into the world first? that +our friends had not put an end to this sort of thing by comparing us +personally, and discovering which was the elder sister by investigation +of our faces? To all this I replied: First, that I did certainly expect +her to believe whatever I might say: Secondly, that what she was pleased +to call the “mystification” had begun when we were both children; that +habit had made it familiar to us in the course of years; and above all, +that we were too fond of our good father to ask for explanations which +we knew by experience would distress him: Thirdly, that friends did try +to discover, by personal examination, which was the elder sister, and +differed perpetually in their conclusions; also that we had amused +ourselves by trying the same experiment before our looking-glasses, and +that Eunice thought Helena was the oldest, and Helena thought Eunice was +the oldest: Fourthly (and finally), that the Reverend Mr. Gracedieu’s +cousin had better drop the subject, unless she was bent on making her +presence in the house unendurable to the Reverend Mr. Gracedieu himself. + +I write it with a sense of humiliation; Miss Jillgall listened +attentively to all I had to say--and then took me completely by +surprise. This inquisitive, meddlesome, restless, impudent woman +suddenly transformed herself into a perfect model of amiability and +decorum. She actually said she agreed with me, and was much obliged for +my good advice! + +A stupid young woman, in my place, would have discovered that this was +not natural, and that Miss Jillgall was presenting herself to me in +disguise, to reach some secret end of her own. I am not a stupid young +woman; I ought to have had at my service penetration enough to +see through and through Cousin Selina. Well! Cousin Selina was an +impenetrable mystery to me. + +The one thing to be done was to watch her. I was at least sly enough to +take up a book, and pretend to be reading it. How contemptible! + +She looked round the room, and discovered our pretty writing-table; +a present to my father from his congregation. After a little +consideration, she sat down to write a letter. + +“When does the post go out?” she asked. + +I mentioned the hour; and she began her letter. Before she could have +written more than the first two or three lines, she turned round on her +seat, and began talking to me. + +“Do you like writing letters, my dear?” + +“Yes--but then I have not many letters to write.” + +“Only a few friends, Helena, but those few worthy to be loved? My own +case exactly. Has your father told you of my troubles? Ah, I am glad of +that. It spares me the sad necessity of confessing what I have suffered. +Oh, how good my friends, my new friends, were to me in that dull little +Belgian town! One of them was generosity personified--ah, she had +suffered, too! A vile husband who had deceived and deserted her. Oh, +the men! When she heard of the loss of my little fortune, that noble +creature got up a subscription for me, and went round herself to +collect. Think of what I owe to her! Ought I to let another day pass +without writing to my benefactress? Am I not bound in gratitude to make +her happy in the knowledge of _my_ happiness--I mean the refuge opened +to me in this hospitable house?” + +She twisted herself back again to the writing-table, and went on with +her letter. + +I have not attempted to conceal my stupidity. Let me now record a +partial recovery of my intelligence. + +It was not to be denied that Miss Jillgall had discovered a good reason +for writing to her friend; but I was at a loss to understand why +she should have been so anxious to mention the reason. Was it +possible--after the talk which had passed between us--that she had +something mischievous to say in her letter, relating to my father or +to me? Was she afraid I might suspect this? And had she been so +communicative for the purpose of leading my suspicions astray? These +were vague guesses; but, try as I might, I could arrive at no clearer +view of what was passing in Miss Jillgall’s mind. What would I not have +given to be able to look over her shoulder, without discovery! + +She finished her letter, and put the address, and closed the envelope. +Then she turned round toward me again. + +“Have you got a foreign postage stamp, dear?” + +If I could look at nothing else, I was resolved to look at her envelope. +It was only necessary to go to the study, and to apply to my father. I +returned with the foreign stamp, and I stuck it on the envelope with my +own hand. + +There was nothing to interest _me_ in the address, as I ought to have +foreseen, if I had not been too much excited for the exercise of +a little common sense. Miss Jillgall’s wonderful friend was only +remarkable by her ugly foreign name--MRS. TENBRUGGEN. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +Here I am, writing my history of myself, once more, by my own bedside. +Some unexpected events have happened while I have been away. One of them +is the absence of my sister. + +Helena has left home on a visit to a northern town by the seaside. She +is staying in the house of a minister (one of papa’s friends), and is +occupying a position of dignity in which I should certainly lose my +head. The minister and his wife and daughters propose to set up a Girls’ +Scripture Class, on the plan devised by papa; and they are at a loss, +poor helpless people, to know how to begin. Helena has volunteered to +set the thing going. And there she is now, advising everybody, governing +everybody, encouraging everybody--issuing directions, finding fault, +rewarding merit--oh, dear, let me put it all in one word, and say: +thoroughly enjoying herself. + +Another event has happened, relating to papa. It so distressed me that I +even forgot to think of Philip--for a little while. + +Traveling by railway (I suppose because I am not used to it) gives me +the headache. When I got to our station here, I thought it would do +me more good to walk home than to ride in the noisy omnibus. Half-way +between the railway and the town, I met one of the doctors. He is a +member of our congregation; and he it was who recommended papa, some +time since, to give up his work as a minister and take a long holiday in +foreign parts. + +“I am glad to have met with you,” the doctor said. “Your sister, I +find, is away on a visit; and I want to speak to one of you about your +father.” + +It seemed that he had been observing papa, in chapel, from what he +called his own medical point of view. He did not conceal from me that he +had drawn conclusions which made him feel uneasy. “It may be anxiety,” + he said, “or it may be overwork. In either case, your father is in +a state of nervous derangement, which is likely to lead to serious +results--unless he takes the advice that I gave him when he last +consulted me. There must be no more hesitation about it. Be careful not +to irritate him--but remember that he must rest. You and your sister +have some influence over him; he won’t listen to me.” + +Poor dear papa! I did see a change in him for the worse--though I had +only been away for so short a time. + +When I put my arms round his neck, and kissed him, he turned pale, and +then flushed up suddenly: the tears came into his eyes. Oh, it was hard +to follow the doctor’s advice, and not to cry, too; but I succeeded in +controlling myself. I sat on his knee, and made him tell me all that I +have written here about Helena. This led to our talking next of the new +lady, who is to live with us as a member of the family. I began to feel +less uneasy at the prospect of being introduced to this stranger, when +I heard that she was papa’s cousin. And when he mentioned her name, and +saw how it amused me, his poor worn face brightened into a smile. “Go +and find her,” he said, “and introduce yourself. I want to hear, Eunice, +if you and my cousin are likely to get on well together.” + +The servants told me that Miss Jillgall was in the garden. + +I searched here, there, and everywhere, and failed to find her. The +place was so quiet, it looked so deliciously pure and bright, after +smoky dreary London, that I sat down at the further end of the garden +and let my mind take me back to Philip. What was he doing at that +moment, while I was thinking of him? Perhaps he was in the company of +other young ladies, who drew all his thoughts away to themselves? Or +perhaps he was writing to his father in Ireland, and saying something +kindly and prettily about me? Or perhaps he was looking forward, as +anxiously as I do, to our meeting next week. + +I have had my plans, and I have changed my plans. + +On the railway journey, I thought I would tell papa at once of the new +happiness which seems to have put a new life into me. It would have been +delightful to make my confession to that first and best and dearest of +friends; but my meeting with the doctor spoiled it all. After what he +had said to me, I discovered a risk. If I ventured to tell papa that my +heart was set on a young gentleman who was a stranger to him, could I be +sure that he would receive my confession favorably? There was a chance +that it might irritate him--and the fault would then be mine of doing +what I had been warned to avoid. It might be safer in every way to wait +till Philip paid his visit, and he and papa had been introduced to each +other and charmed with each other. Could Helena herself have arrived at +a wiser conclusion? I declare I felt proud of my own discretion. + +In this enjoyable frame of mind I was disturbed by a woman’s voice. The +tone was a tone of distress, and the words reached my ears from the end +of the garden: “Please, miss, let me in.” + +A shrubbery marks the limit of our little bit of pleasure-ground. On the +other side of it there is a cottage standing on the edge of the +common. The most good-natured woman in the world lives here. She is our +laundress--married to a stupid young fellow named Molly, and blessed +with a plump baby as sweet-tempered at herself. Thinking it likely that +the piteous voice which had disturbed me might be the voice of Mrs. +Molly, I was astonished to hear her appealing to anybody (perhaps to +me?) to “let her in.” So I passed through the shrubbery, wondering +whether the gate had been locked during my absence in London. No; it was +as easy to open as ever. + +The cottage door was not closed. + +I saw our amiable laundress in the passage, on her knees, trying to open +an inner door which seemed to be locked. She had her eye at the keyhole; +and, once again, she called out: “Please, miss, let me in.” I waited to +see if the door would be opened--nothing happened. I waited again, to +hear if some person inside would answer--nobody spoke. But somebody, +or something, made a sound of splashing water on the other side of the +door. + +I showed myself, and asked what was the matter. + +Mrs. Molly looked at me helplessly. She said: “Miss Eunice, it’s the +baby.” + +“What has the baby done?” I inquired. + +Mrs. Molly got on her feet, and whispered in my ear: “You know he’s a +fine child?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, miss, he’s bewitched a lady.” + +“What lady?” + +“Miss Jillgall.” + +The very person I had been trying to find! I asked where she was. + +The laundress pointed dolefully to the locked door: “In there.” + +“And where is your baby?” + +The poor woman still pointed to the door: “I’m beginning to doubt, miss, +whether it is my baby.” + +“Nonsense, Mrs. Molly. If it isn’t yours, whose baby can it be?” + +“Miss Jillgall’s.” + +Her puzzled face made this singular reply more funny still. The +splashing of water on the other side of the door began again. “What is +Miss Jillgall doing now?” I said. + +“Washing the baby, miss. A week ago, she came in here, one morning; +very pleasant and kind, I must own. She found me putting on the baby’s +things. She says: ‘What a cherub!’ which I took as a compliment. She +says: ‘I shall call again to-morrow.’ She called again so early that +she found the baby in his crib. ‘You be a good soul,’ she says, ‘and +go about your work, and leave the child to me.’ I says: ‘Yes, miss, but +please to wait till I’ve made him fit to be seen.’ She says: ‘That’s +just what I mean to do myself.’ I stared; and I think any other person +would have done the same in my place. ‘If there’s one thing more than +another I enjoy,’ she says, ‘it’s making myself useful. Mrs. Molly, I’ve +taken a fancy to your boy-baby,’ she says, ‘and I mean to make myself +useful to _him_.’ If you will believe me, Miss Jillgall has only let +me have one opportunity of putting my own child tidy. She was late +this morning, and I got my chance, and had the boy on my lap, drying +him--when in she burst like a blast of wind, and snatched the baby away +from me. ‘This is your nasty temper,’ she says; ‘I declare I’m ashamed +of you!’ And there she is, with the door locked against me, washing the +child all over again herself. Twice I’ve knocked, and asked her to let +me in, and can’t even get an answer. They do say there’s luck in odd +numbers; suppose I try again?” Mrs. Molly knocked, and the proverb +proved to be true; she got an answer from Miss Jillgall at last: “If you +don’t be quiet and go away, you shan’t have the baby back at all.” Who +could help it?--I burst out laughing. Miss Jillgall (as I supposed from +the tone of her voice) took severe notice of this act of impropriety. +“Who’s that laughing?” she called out; “give yourself a name.” I gave +my name. The door was instantly thrown open with a bang. Papa’s cousin +appeared, in a disheveled state, with splashes of soap and water all +over her. She held the child in one arm, and she threw the other arm +round my neck. “Dearest Euneece, I have been longing to see you. How do +you like Our baby?” + +To the curious story of my introduction to Miss Jillgall, I ought +perhaps to add that I have got to be friends with her already. I am the +friend of anybody who amuses me. What will Helena say when she reads +this? + + + +CHAPTER XIX. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +When people are interested in some event that is coming, do they find +the dull days, passed in waiting for it, days which they are not able to +remember when they look back? This is my unfortunate case. Night after +night, I have gone to bed without so much as opening my Journal. There +was nothing worth writing about, nothing that I could recollect, until +the postman came to-day. I ran downstairs, when I heard his ring at the +bell, and stopped Maria on her way to the study. There, among papa’s +usual handful of letters, was a letter for me. + +“DEAR MISS EUNICE: + +....... + +“Yours ever truly.” + +I quote the passages in Philip’s letter which most deeply interested +me--I am his dear miss; and he is mine ever truly. The other part of the +letter told me that he had been detained in London, and he lamented it. +At the end was a delightful announcement that he was coming to me by the +afternoon train. I ran upstairs to see how I looked in the glass. + +My first feeling was regret. For the thousandth time, I was obliged to +acknowledge that I was not as pretty as Helena. But this passed off. A +cheering reflection occurred to me. Philip would not have found, in my +sister’s face, what seems to have interested him in my face. Besides, +there is my figure. + +The pity of it is that I am so ignorant about some things. If I had been +allowed to read novels, I might (judging by what papa said against them +in one of his sermons) have felt sure of my own attractions; I might +even have understood what Philip really thought of me. However, my mind +was quite unexpectedly set at ease on the subject of my figure. The +manner in which it happened was so amusing--at least, so amusing to +me--that I cannot resist mentioning it. + +My sister and I are forbidden to read newspapers, as well as novels. But +the teachers at the Girls’ Scripture Class are too old to be treated in +this way. When the morning lessons were over, one of them was reading +the newspaper to the other, in the empty schoolroom; I being in the +passage outside, putting on my cloak. + +It was a report of “an application made to the magistrates by the lady +of his worship the Mayor.” Hearing this, I stopped to listen. The +lady of his worship (what a funny way of describing a man’s wife!) is +reported to be a little too fond of notoriety, and to like hearing the +sound of her own voice on public occasions. But this is only my writing; +I had better get back to the report. “In her address to the magistrates, +the Mayoress stated that she had seen a disgusting photograph in the +shop window of a stationer, lately established in the town. She desired +to bring this person within reach of the law, and to have all his +copies of the shameless photograph destroyed. The usher of the court +was thereupon sent to purchase the photograph.”--On second thoughts, +I prefer going back to my own writing again; it is so uninteresting to +copy other people’s writing. Two of the magistrates were doing justice. +They looked at the photograph--and what did it represent? The famous +statue called the Venus de’ Medici! One of the magistrates took this +discovery indignantly. He was shocked at the gross ignorance which could +call the classic ideal of beauty and grace a disgusting work. The other +one made polite allowances. He thought the lady was much to be pitied; +she was evidently the innocent victim of a neglected education. Mrs. +Mayor left the court in a rage, telling the justices she knew where to +get law. “I shall expose Venus,” she said, “to the Lord Chancellor.” + +When the Scripture Class had broken up for the day, duty ought to +have taken me home. Curiosity led me astray--I mean, led me to the +stationer’s window. + +There I found our two teachers, absorbed in the photograph; having got +to the shop first by a short cut. They seemed to think I had taken a +liberty whom I joined them. “We are here,” they were careful to explain, +“to get a lesson in the ideal of beauty and grace.” There was quite +a little crowd of townsfolk collected before the window. Some of them +giggled; and some of them wondered whether it was taken from the life. +For my own part, gratitude to Venus obliges me to own that she effected +a great improvement in the state of my mind. She encouraged me. If +that stumpy little creature--with no waist, and oh, such uncertain +legs!--represented the ideal of beauty and grace, I had reason indeed to +be satisfied with my own figure, and to think it quite possible that my +sweetheart’s favorable opinion of me was not ill-bestowed. + +I was at the bedroom window when the time approached for Philip’s +arrival. Quite at the far end of the road, I discovered him. He was on +foot; he walked like a king. Not that I ever saw a king, but I have my +ideal. Ah, what a smile he gave me, when I made him look up by waving +my handkerchief out of the window! “Ask for papa,” I whispered as he +ascended the house-steps. + +The next thing to do was to wait, as patiently as I could, to be sent +for downstairs. Maria came to me in a state of excitement. “Oh, miss, +what a handsome young gentleman, and how beautifully dressed! Is he--?” + Instead of finishing what she had to say, she looked at me with a sly +smile. I looked at her with a sly smile. We were certainly a couple of +fools. But, dear me, how happy sometimes a fool can be! + +My enjoyment of that delightful time was checked when I went into the +drawing-room. + +I had expected to see papa’s face made beautiful by his winning smile. +He was not only serious; he actually seemed to be ill at ease when he +looked at me. At the same time, I saw nothing to make me conclude that +Philip had produced an unfavorable impression. The truth is, we were all +three on our best behavior, and we showed it. Philip had brought with +him a letter from Mrs. Staveley, introducing him to papa. We spoke of +the Staveleys, of the weather, of the Cathedral--and then there seemed +to be nothing more left to talk about. + +In the silence that followed--what a dreadful thing silence is!--papa +was sent for to see somebody who had called on business. He made his +excuses in the sweetest manner, but still seriously. When he and Philip +had shaken hands, would he leave us together? No; he waited. Poor Philip +had no choice but to take leave of me. Papa then went out by the door +that led into his study, and I was left alone. + +Can any words say how wretched I felt? + +I had hoped so much from that first meeting--and where were my hopes +now? A profane wish that I had never been born was finding its way into +my mind, when the door of the room was opened softly, from the side of +the passage. Maria, dear Maria, the best friend I have, peeped in. She +whispered: “Go into the garden, miss, and you will find somebody there +who is dying to see you. Mind you let him out by the shrubbery gate.” + I squeezed her hand; I asked if she had tried the shrubbery gate with a +sweetheart of her own. “Hundreds of times, miss.” + +Was it wrong for me to go to Philip, in the garden? Oh, there is no end +to objections! Perhaps I did it _because_ it was wrong. Perhaps I had +been kept on my best behavior too long for human endurance. + +How sadly disappointed he looked! And how rashly he had placed himself +just where he could be seen from the back windows! I took his arm and +led him to the end of the garden. There we were out of the reach of +inquisitive eyes; and there we sat down together, under the big mulberry +tree. + +“Oh, Eunice, your father doesn’t like me!” + +Those were his first words. In justice to papa (and a little for my +own sake too) I told him he was quite wrong. I said: “Trust my father’s +goodness, trust his kindness, as I do.” + +He made no reply. His silence was sufficiently expressive; he looked at +me fondly. + +I may be wrong, but fond looks surely require an acknowledgment of some +kind? Is a young woman guilty of boldness who only follows her impulses? +I slipped my hand into his hand. Philip seemed to like it. We returned +to our conversation. + +He began: “Tell me, dear, is Mr. Gracedieu always as serious as he is +to-day?” + +“Oh no!” + +“When he takes exercise, does he ride? or does he walk?” + +“Papa always walks.” + +“By himself?” + +“Sometimes by himself. Sometimes with me. Do you want to meet him when +he goes out?” + +“Yes.” + +“When he is out with me?” + +“No. When he is out by himself.” + +Was it possible to tell me more plainly that I was not wanted? I did my +best to express indignation by snatching my hand away from him. He was +completely taken by surprise. + +“Eunice! don’t you understand me?” + +I was as stupid and as disagreeable as I could possibly be: “No; I +don’t!” + +“Then let me help you,” he said, with a patience which I had not +deserved. + +Up to that moment I had been leaning against the back of a garden +chair. Something else now got between me and my chair. It stole round +my waist--it held me gently--it strengthened its hold--it improved my +temper--it made me fit to understand him. All done by what? Only an arm! + +Philip went on: + +“I want to ask your father to do me the greatest of all favors--and +there is no time to lose. Every day, I expect to get a letter which may +recall me to Ireland.” + +My heart sank at this horrid prospect; and in some mysterious way my +head must have felt it too. I mean that I found my head resting on his +shoulder. He went on: + +“How am I to get my opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gracedieu? I mustn’t +call on him again as soon as to-morrow or next day. But I might meet +him, out walking alone, if you will tell me how to do it. A note to my +hotel is all I want. Don’t tremble, my sweet. If you are not present at +the time, do you see any objection to my owning to your father that I +love you?” + +I felt his delicate consideration for me--I did indeed feel it +gratefully. If he only spoke first, how well I should get on with papa +afterward! The prospect before me was exquisitely encouraging. I agreed +with Philip in everything; and I waited (how eagerly was only known to +myself) to hear what he would say to me next. He prophesied next: + +“When I have told your father that I love you, he will expect me to tell +him something else. Can you guess what it is?” + +If I had not been confused, perhaps I might have found the answer to +this. As it was, I left him to reply to himself. He did it, in words +which I shall remember as long as I live. + +“Dearest Eunice, when your father has heard my confession, he will +suspect that there is another confession to follow it--he will want to +know if you love me. My angel, will my hopes be your hopes too, when I +answer him?” + +What there was in this to make my heart beat so violently that I felt as +if I was being stifled, is more than I can tell. He leaned so close to +me, so tenderly, so delightfully close, that our faces nearly touched. +He whispered: “Say you love me, in a kiss!” + +His lips touched my lips, pressed them, dwelt on them--oh, how can I +tell of it! Some new enchantment of feeling ran deliciously through +and through me. I forgot my own self; I only knew of one person in the +world. He was master of my lips; he was master of my heart. When he +whispered, “kiss me,” I kissed. What a moment it was! A faintness stole +over me; I felt as if I was going to die some exquisite death; I laid +myself back away from him--I was not able to speak. There was no need +for it; my thoughts and his thoughts were one--he knew that I was +quite overcome; he saw that he must leave me to recover myself alone. I +pointed to the shrubbery gate. We took one long last look at each other +for that day; the trees hid him; I was left by myself. + + + +CHAPTER XX. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +How long a time passed before my composure came back to me, I cannot +remember now. It seemed as if I was waiting through some interval of my +life that was a mystery to myself. I was content to wait, and feel the +light evening air in the garden wafting happiness over me. And all this +had come from a kiss! I can call the time to mind when I used to wonder +why people made such a fuss about kissing. + +I had been indebted to Maria for my first taste of Paradise. I was +recalled by Maria to the world that I had been accustomed to live in; +the world that was beginning to fade away in my memory already. She had +been sent to the garden in search of me; and she had a word of advice +to offer, after noticing my face when I stepped out of the shadow of the +tree: “Try to look more like yourself, miss, before you let them see you +at the tea-table.” + + +Papa and Miss Jillgall were sitting together talking, when I opened the +door. They left off when they saw me; and I supposed, quite correctly +as it turned out, that I had been one of the subjects in their course +of conversation. My poor father seemed to be sadly anxious and out of +sorts. Miss Jillgall, if I had been in the humor to enjoy it, would have +been more amusing than ever. One of her funny little eyes persisted in +winking at me; and her heavy foot had something to say to my foot, under +the table, which meant a great deal perhaps, but which only succeeded in +hurting me. + +My father left us; and Miss Jillgall explained herself. + +“I know, dearest Euneece, that we have only been acquainted for a day or +two and that I ought not perhaps to have expected you to confide in +me so soon. Can I trust you not to betray me if I set an example of +confidence? Ah, I see I can trust you! And, my dear, I do so enjoy +telling secrets to a friend. Hush! Your father, your excellent father, +has been talking to me about young Mr. Dunboyne.” + +She provokingly stopped there. I entreated her to go on. She invited +me to sit on her knee. “I want to whisper,” she said. It was too +ridiculous--but I did it. Miss Jillgall’s whisper told me serious news. + +“The minister has some reason, Euneece, for disapproving of Mr. +Dunboyne; but, mind this, I don’t think he has a bad opinion of the +young man himself. He is going to return Mr. Dunboyne’s call. Oh, I do +so hate formality; I really can’t go on talking of _Mr._ Dunboyne. Tell +me his Christian name. Ah, what a noble name! How I long to be useful +to him! Tomorrow, my dear, after the one o’clock dinner, your papa will +call on Philip, at his hotel. I hope he won’t be out, just at the wrong +time.” + +I resolved to prevent that unlucky accident by writing to Philip. If +Miss Jillgall would have allowed it, I should have begun my letter at +once. But she had more to say; and she was stronger than I was, and +still kept me on her knee. + +“It all looks bright enough so far, doesn’t it, dear sister? Will you +let me be your second sister? I do so love you, Euneece. Thank you! +thank you! But the gloomy side of the picture is to come next! The +minister--no! now I am your sister I must call him papa; it makes me +feel so young again! Well, then, papa has asked me to be your companion +whenever you go out. ‘Euneece is too young and too attractive to be +walking about this great town (in Helena’s absence) by herself.’ That +was how he put it. Slyly enough, if one may say so of so good a man. And +he used your sister (didn’t he?) as a kind of excuse. I wish your sister +was as nice as you are. However, the point is, why am I to be your +companion? Because, dear child, you and your young gentleman are not to +make appointments and to meet each other alone. Oh, yes--that’s it! +Your father is quite willing to return Philip’s call; he proposes (as a +matter of civility to Mrs. Staveley) to ask Philip to dinner; but, mark +my words, he doesn’t mean to let Philip have you for his wife.” + +I jumped off her lap; it was horrible to hear her. “Oh,” I said, “_can_ +you be right about it?” Miss Jillgall jumped up too. She has foreign +ways of shrugging her shoulders and making signs with her hands. On this +occasion she laid both hands on the upper part of her dress, just below +her throat, and mysteriously shook her head. + +“When my views are directed by my affections,” she assured me, “I never +see wrong. My bosom is my strong point.” + +She has no bosom, poor soul--but I understood what she meant. It failed +to have any soothing effect on my feelings. I felt grieved and angry and +puzzled, all in one. Miss Jillgall stood looking at me, with her hands +still on the place where her bosom was supposed to be. She made my +temper hotter than ever. + +“I mean to marry Philip,” I said. + +“Certainly, my dear Euneece. But please don’t be so fierce about it.” + +“If my father does really object to my marriage,” I went on, “it must be +because he dislikes Philip. There can be no other reason.” + +“Oh, yes, dear--there can.” + +“What is the reason, then?” + +“That, my sweet girl, is one of the things that we have got to find +out.” + +....... + +The post of this morning brought a letter from my sister. We were to +expect her return by the next day’s train. This was good news. Philip +and I might stand in need of clever Helena’s help, and we might be sure +of getting it now. + +In writing to Philip, I had asked him to let me hear how papa and he had +got on at the hotel. I won’t say how often I consulted my watch, or how +often I looked out of the window for a man with a letter in his hand. It +will be better to get on at once to the discouraging end of it, when the +report of the interview reached me at last. Twice Philip had attempted +to ask for my hand in marriage--and twice my father had “deliberately, +obstinately” (Philip’s own words) changed the subject. Even this was not +all. As if he was determined to show that Miss Jillgall was perfectly +right, and I perfectly wrong, papa (civil to Philip as long as he did +not talk of Me) had asked him to dine with us, and Philip had accepted +the invitation! + +What were we to think of it? What were we to do? + +I wrote back to my dear love (so cruelly used) to tell him that Helena +was expected to return on the next day, and that her opinion would be of +the greatest value to both of us. In a postscript I mentioned the hour +at which we were going to the station to meet my sister. When I say +“we,” I mean Miss Jillgall as well as myself. + +....... + +We found him waiting for us at the railway. I am afraid he resented +papa’s incomprehensible resolution not to give him a hearing. He was +silent and sullen. I could not conceal that to see this state of feeling +distressed me. He showed how truly he deserved to be loved--he begged +my pardon, and he became his own sweet self again directly. I am more +determined to marry him than ever. + +When the train entered the station, all the carriages were full. I went +one way, thinking I had seen Helena. Miss Jillgall went the other way, +under the same impression. Philip was a little way behind me. + +Not seeing my sister, I had just turned back, when a young man jumped +out of a carriage, opposite Philip, and recognized and shook hands with +him. I was just near enough to hear the stranger say, “Look at the girl +in our carriage.” Philip looked. “What a charming creature!” he said, +and then checked himself for fear the young lady should hear him. She +had just handed her traveling bag and wraps to a porter, and was getting +out. Philip politely offered his hand to help her. She looked my way. +The charming creature of my sweetheart’s admiration was, to my infinite +amusement, Helena herself. + + + +CHAPTER XXI. HELENA’S DIARY. + +The day of my return marks an occasion which I am not likely to forget. +Hours have passed since I came home--and my agitation still forbids the +thought of repose. + +As I sit at my desk I see Eunice in bed, sleeping peacefully, except +when she is murmuring enjoyment in some happy dream. To what end has my +sister been advancing blindfold, and (who knows?) dragging me with her, +since that disastrous visit to our friends in London? Strange that there +should be a leaven of superstition in _my_ nature! Strange that I should +feel fear of something--I hardly know what! + +I have met somewhere (perhaps in my historical reading) with the +expression: “A chain of events.” Was I at the beginning of that chain, +when I entered the railway carriage on my journey home? + +Among the other passengers there was a young gentleman, accompanied by +a lady who proved to be his sister. They were both well-bred people. +The brother evidently admired me, and did his best to make himself +agreeable. Time passed quickly in pleasant talk, and my vanity was +flattered--and that was all. My fellow-travelers were going on to +London. When the train reached our station the young lady sent +her brother to buy some fruit, which she saw in the window of the +refreshment-room. The first man whom he encountered on the platform was +one of his friends; to whom he said something which I failed to hear. +When I handed my traveling bag and my wraps to the porter, and showed +myself at the carriage door, I heard the friend say: “What a charming +creature!” Having nothing to conceal in a journal which I protect by a +lock, I may own that the stranger’s personal appearance struck me, +and that what I felt this time was not flattered vanity, but +gratified pride. He was young, he was remarkably handsome, he was a +distinguished-looking man. + +All this happened in one moment. In the moment that followed, I found +myself in Eunice’s arms. That odious person, Miss Jillgall, insisted on +embracing me next. And then I was conscious of an indescribable feeling +of surprise. Eunice presented the distinguished-looking gentleman to me +as a friend of hers--Mr. Philip Dunboyne. + +“I had the honor of meeting your sister,” he said, “in London, at Mr. +Staveley’s house.” He went on to speak easily and gracefully of the +journey I had taken, and of his friend who had been my fellow-traveler; +and he attended us to the railway omnibus before he took his leave. I +observed that Eunice had something to say to him confidentially, before +they parted. This was another example of my sister’s childish character; +she is instantly familiar with new acquaintances, if she happens to like +them. I anticipated some amusement from hearing how she had contrived to +establish confidential relations with a highly-cultivated man like Mr. +Dunboyne. But, while Miss Jillgall was with us, it was just as well to +keep within the limits of commonplace conversation. + +Before we got out of the omnibus I had, however, observed one +undesirable result of my absence from home. Eunice and Miss +Jillgall--the latter having, no doubt, finely flattered the +former--appeared to have taken a strong liking to each other. + +Two curious circumstances also caught my attention. I saw a change to, +what I call self-assertion, in my sister’s manner; something seemed to +have raised her in her own estimation. Then, again, Miss Jillgall was +not like her customary self. She had delightful moments of silence; and +when Eunice asked how I liked Mr. Dunboyne, she listened to my reply +with an appearance of interest in her ugly face which was quite a new +revelation in my experience of my father’s cousin. + +These little discoveries (after what I had already observed at the +railway-station) ought perhaps to have prepared me for what was to come, +when my sister and I were alone in our room. But Eunice, whether she +meant to do it or not, baffled my customary penetration. She looked as +if she had plenty of news to tell me--with some obstacle in the way of +doing it, which appeared to amuse instead of annoying her. If there is +one thing more than another that I hate, it is being puzzled. I asked +at once if anything remarkable had happened during Eunice’s visit to +London. + +She smiled mischievously. “I have got a delicious surprise for you, my +dear; and I do so enjoy prolonging it. Tell me, Helena, what did you +propose we should both do when we found ourselves at home again?” + +My memory was at fault. Eunice’s good spirits became absolutely +boisterous. She called out: “Catch!” and tossed her journal into my +hands, across the whole length of the room. “We were to read each +other’s diaries,” she said. “There is mine to begin with.” + +Innocent of any suspicion of the true state of affairs, I began the +reading of Eunice’s journal. If I had not seen the familiar handwriting, +nothing would have induced me to believe that a girl brought up in +a pious household, the well-beloved daughter of a distinguished +Congregational Minister, could have written that shameless record of +passions unknown to young ladies in respectable English life. What to +say, what to do, when I had closed the book, was more than I felt myself +equal to decide. My wretched sister spared me the anxiety which I might +otherwise have felt. It was she who first opened her lips, after the +silence that had fallen on us while I was reading. These were literally +the words that she said: + +“My darling, why don’t you congratulate me?” + +No argument could have persuaded me, as this persuaded me, that all +sisterly remonstrance on my part would be completely thrown away. + +“My dear Eunice,” I said, “let me beg you to excuse me. I am waiting--” + +There she interrupted me--and, oh, in what an impudent manner! She took +my chin between her finger and thumb, and lifted my downcast face, and +looked at me with an appearance of eager expectation which I was quite +at a loss to understand. + +“You have been away from home, too,” she said. “Do I see in this serious +face some astonishing news waiting to overpower me? Have _you_ found a +sweetheart? Are _you_ engaged to be married?” + +I only put her hand away from me, and advised her to return to her +chair. This perfectly harmless proceeding seemed absolutely to frighten +her. + +“Oh, my dear,” she burst out, “surely you are not jealous of me?” + +There was but one possible reply to this: I laughed at it. Is Eunice’s +head turned? She kissed me! + +“Now you laugh,” she said, “I begin to understand you again; I ought to +have known that you are superior to jealousy. But, do tell me, would it +be so very wonderful if other girls found something to envy in my good +luck? Just think of it! Such a handsome man, such an agreeable man, +such a clever man, such a rich man--and, not the least of his merits, +by-the-by, a man who admires You. Come! if you won’t congratulate me, +congratulate yourself on having such a brother-in-law in prospect!” + +Her head _was_ turned. I drew the poor soul’s attention compassionately +to what I had said a moment since. + +“Pardon me, dear, for reminding you that I have not yet refused to offer +my congratulations. I only told you I was waiting.” + +“For what?” + +“Waiting, of course, to hear what my father thinks of your wonderful +good luck.” + +This explanation, offered with the kindest intentions, produced another +change in my very variable sister. I had extinguished her good spirits +as I might have extinguished a light. She sat down by me, and sighed in +the saddest manner. The heart must be hard indeed which can resist the +distress of a person who is dear to us. I put my arm round her; she was +becoming once more the Eunice whom I so dearly loved. + +“My poor child,” I said, “don’t distress yourself by speaking of it; I +understand. Your father objects to your marrying Mr. Dunboyne.” + +She shook her head. “I can’t exactly say, Helena, that papa does that. +He only behaves very strangely.” + +“Am I indiscreet, dear, if I ask in what way father’s behavior has +surprised you?” + +She was quite willing to enlighten me. It was a simple little story +which, to my mind, sufficiently explained the strange behavior that had +puzzled my unfortunate sister. + +There could indeed be no doubt that my father considered Eunice far too +childish in character, as yet, to undertake the duties of matrimony. +But, with his customary delicacy, and dread of causing distress to +others, he had deferred the disagreeable duty of communicating his +opinion to Mr. Dunboyne. The adverse decision must, however, be sooner +or later announced; and he had arranged to inflict disappointment, as +tenderly as might be, at his own table. + +Considerately leaving Eunice in the enjoyment of any vain hopes which +she may have founded on the event of the dinner-party, I passed the +evening until supper-time came in the study with my father. + +Our talk was mainly devoted to the worthy people with whom I had been +staying, and whose new schools I had helped to found. Not a word was +said relating to my sister, or to Mr. Dunboyne. Poor father looked so +sadly weary and ill that I ventured, after what the doctor had said +to Eunice, to hint at the value of rest and change of scene to an +overworked man. Oh, dear me, he frowned, and waved the subject away from +him impatiently, with a wan, pale hand. + +After supper, I made an unpleasant discovery. Not having completely +finished the unpacking of my boxes, I left Miss Jillgall and Eunice in +the drawing-room, and went upstairs. In half an hour I returned, and +found the room empty. What had become of them? It was a fine moonlight +night; I stepped into the back drawing-room, and looked out of the +window. There they were, walking arm-in-arm with their heads close +together, deep in talk. With my knowledge of Miss Jillgall, I call this +a bad sign. + +An odd thought has just come to me. I wonder what might have happened, +if I had been visiting at Mrs. Staveley’s, instead of Eunice, and if Mr. +Dunboyne had seen me first. + +Absurd! if I was not too tired to do anything more, those last lines +should be scratched out. + + + +CHAPTER XXII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +I said so to Miss Jillgall, and I say it again here. Nothing will induce +me to think ill of Helena. + +My sister is a good deal tired, and a little out of temper after the +railway journey. This is exactly what happened to me when I went to +London. I attribute her refusal to let me read her journal, after she +had read mine, entirely to the disagreeable consequences of traveling +by railway. Miss Jillgall accounted for it otherwise, in her own funny +manner: “My sweet child, your sister’s diary is full of abuse of poor +me.” I humored the joke: “Dearest Selina, keep a diary of your own, and +fill it with abuse of my sister.” This seemed to be a droll saying at +the time. But it doesn’t look particularly amusing, now it is written +down. We had ginger wine at supper, to celebrate Helena’s return. +Although I only drank one glass, I daresay it may have got into my head. + +However that may be, when the lovely moonlight tempted us into the +garden, there was an end to our jokes. We had something to talk about +which still dwells disagreeably on my mind. + +Miss Jillgall began it. + +“If I trust you, dearest Euneece, with my own precious secrets, shall I +never, never, never live to repent it?” + +I told my good little friend that she might depend on me, provided her +secrets did no harm to any person whom I loved. + +She clasped her hands and looked up at the moon--I can only suppose that +her sentiments overpowered her. She said, very prettily, that her heart +and my heart beat together in heavenly harmony. It is needless to add +that this satisfied me. + +Miss Jillgall’s generous confidence in my discretion was, I am afraid, +not rewarded as it ought to have been. I found her tiresome at first. + +She spoke of an excellent friend (a lady), who had helped her, at +the time when she lost her little fortune, by raising a subscription +privately to pay the expenses of her return to England. Her friend’s +name--not very attractive to English ears--was Mrs. Tenbruggen; they had +first become acquainted under interesting circumstances. Miss Jillgall +happened to mention that my father was her only living relative; and +it turned out that Mrs. Tenbruggen was familiar with his name, and +reverenced his fame as a preacher. When he had generously received his +poor helpless cousin under his own roof, Miss Jillgall’s gratitude and +sense of duty impelled her to write and tell Mrs. Tenbruggen how happy +she was as a member of our family. + +Let me confess that I began to listen more attentively when the +narrative reached this point. + +“I drew a little picture of our domestic circle here,” Miss Jillgall +said, describing her letter; “and I mentioned the mystery in which +Mr. Gracedieu conceals the ages of you two dear girls. Mrs. +Tenbruggen--shall we shorten her ugly name and call her Mrs. T.? Very +well--Mrs. T. is a remarkably clever woman, and I looked for interesting +results, if she would give her opinion of the mysterious circumstance +mentioned in my letter.” + +By this time, I was all eagerness to hear more. + +“Has she written to you?” I asked. + +Miss Jillgall looked at me affectionately, and took the reply out of her +pocket. + +“Listen, Euneece; and you shall hear her own words. Thus she writes: + +“‘Your letter, dear Selina, especially interests me by what it says +about the _two_ Miss Gracedieus. ‘--Look, dear; she underlines the word +Two. Why, I can’t explain. Can you? Ah, I thought not. Well, let us get +back to the letter. My accomplished friend continues in these terms: + +“‘I can understand the surprise which you have felt at the strange +course taken by their father, as a means of concealing the difference +which there must be in the ages of these young ladies. Many years since, +I happened to discover a romantic incident in the life of your popular +preacher, which he has his reasons, as I suspect, for keeping strictly +to himself. If I may venture on a bold guess, I should say that any +person who could discover which was the oldest of the two daughters, +would be also likely to discover the true nature of the romance in Mr. +Gracedieu’s life.’--Isn’t that very remarkable, Euneece? You don’t seem +to see it--you funny child! Pray pay particular attention to what comes +next. These are the closing sentences in my friend’s letter: + +“‘If you find anything new to tell me which relates to this interesting +subject, direct your letter as before--provided you write within a week +from the present time. Afterward, my letters will be received by the +English physician whose card I inclose. You will be pleased to hear that +my professional interests call me to London at the earliest moment that +I can spare.’--There, dear child, the letter comes to an end. I daresay +you wonder what Mrs. T. means, when she alludes to her professional +interests?” + +No: I was not wondering about anything. It hurt me to hear of a strange +woman exercising her ingenuity in guessing at mysteries in papa’s life. + +But Miss Jillgall was too eagerly bent on setting forth the merits +of her friend to notice this. I now heard that Mrs. T.’s marriage had +turned out badly, and that she had been reduced to earn her own bread. +Her manner of doing this was something quite new to me. She went +about, from one place to another, curing people of all sorts of painful +maladies, by a way she had of rubbing them with her hands. In Belgium +she was called a “Masseuse.” When I asked what this meant in English, +I was told, “Medical Rubber,” and that the fame of Mrs. T.’s wonderful +cures had reached some of the medical newspapers published in London. + +After listening (I must say for myself) very patiently, I was bold +enough to own that my interest in what I had just heard was not quite so +plain to me as I could have wished it to be. + +Miss Jillgall looked shocked at my stupidity. She reminded me that +there was a mystery in Mrs. Tenbruggen’s letter and a mystery in papa’s +strange conduct toward Philip. “Put two and two together, darling,” she +said; “and, one of these days, they may make four.” + +If this meant anything, it meant that the reason which made papa keep +Helena’s age and my age unknown to everybody but himself, was also the +reason why he seemed to be so strangely unwilling to let me be Philip’s +wife. I really could not endure to take such a view of it as that, and +begged Miss Jillgall to drop the subject. She was as kind as ever. + +“With all my heart, dear. But don’t deceive yourself--the subject will +turn up again when we least expect it.” + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +Only two days now, before we give our little dinner-party, and Philip +finds his opportunity of speaking to papa. Oh, how I wish that day had +come and gone! + +I try not to take gloomy views of things; but I am not quite so happy as +I had expected to be when my dear was in the same town with me. If papa +had encouraged him to call again, we might have had some precious time +to ourselves. As it is, we can only meet in the different show-places +in the town--with Helena on one side, and Miss Jillgall on the other, +to take care of us. I do call it cruel not to let two young people love +each other, without setting third persons to watch them. If I was Queen +of England, I would have pretty private bowers made for lovers, in the +summer, and nice warm little rooms to hold two, in the winter. Why not? +What harm could come of it, I should like to know? + +The cathedral is the place of meeting which we find most convenient, +under the circumstances. There are delightful nooks and corners about +this celebrated building in which lovers can lag behind. If we had been +in papa’s chapel I should have hesitated to turn it to such a profane +use as this; the cathedral doesn’t so much matter. + +Shall I own that I felt my inferiority to Helena a little keenly? She +could tell Philip so many things that I should have liked to tell him +first. My clever sister taught him how to pronounce the name of the +bishop who began building the cathedral; she led him over the crypt, and +told him how old it was. He was interested in the crypt; he talked +to Helena (not to me) of his ambition to write a work on cathedral +architecture in England; he made a rough little sketch in his book of +our famous tomb of some king. Helena knew the late royal personage’s +name, and Philip showed his sketch to her before he showed it to me. How +can I blame him, when I stood there the picture of stupidity, trying +to recollect something that I might tell him, if it was only the Dean’s +name? Helena might have whispered it to me, I think. She remembered it, +not I--and mentioned it to Philip, of course. I kept close by him all +the time, and now and then he gave me a look which raised my spirits. He +might have given me something better than that--I mean a kiss--when we +had left the cathedral, and were by ourselves for a moment in a corner +of the Dean’s garden. But he missed the opportunity. Perhaps he was +afraid of the Dean himself coming that way, and happening to see us. +However, I am far from thinking the worse of Philip. I gave his arm a +little squeeze--and that was better than nothing. + +....... + +He and I took a walk along the bank of the river to-day; my sister and +Miss Jillgall looking after us as usual. On our way through the town, +Helena stopped to give an order at a shop. She asked us to wait for her. +That best of good creatures, Miss Jillgall, whispered in my ear: “Go on +by yourselves, and leave me to wait for her.” Philip interpreted this +act of kindness in a manner which would have vexed me, if I had not +understood that it was one of his jokes. He said to me: “Miss Jillgall +sees a chance of annoying your sister, and enjoys the prospect.” + +Well, away we went together; it was just what I wanted; it gave me an +opportunity of saying something to Philip, between ourselves. + +I could now beg of him, in his interests and mine, to make the best of +himself when he came to dinner. Clever people, I told him, were people +whom papa liked and admired. I said: “Let him see, dear, how clever +_you_ are, and how many things you know--and you can’t imagine what a +high place you will have in his opinion. I hope you don’t think I am +taking too much on myself in telling you how to behave.” + +He relieved that doubt in a manner which I despair of describing. His +eyes rested on me with such a look of exquisite sweetness and love that +I was obliged to hold by his arm, I trembled so with the pleasure of +feeling it. + +“I do sincerely believe,” he said, “that you are the most innocent girl, +the sweetest, truest girl that ever lived. I wish I was a better man, +Eunice; I wish I was good enough to be worthy of you!” + +To hear him speak of himself in that way jarred on me. If such words had +fallen from any other man’s lips, I should have been afraid that he had +done something, or thought something, of which he had reason to feel +ashamed. With Philip this was impossible. + +He was eager to walk on rapidly, and to turn a corner in the path, +before we could be seen. “I want to be alone with you,” he said. + +I looked back. We were too late; Helena and Miss Jillgall had nearly +overtaken us. My sister was on the point of speaking to Philip, when she +seemed to change her mind, and only looked at him. Instead of looking +at her in return, he kept his eyes cast down and drew figures on the +pathway with his stick. I think Helena was out of temper; she suddenly +turned my way. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” she asked. + +Philip took her up sharply. “If Eunice likes seeing the river better +than waiting in the street,” he said, “isn’t she free to do as she +pleases?” + +Helena said nothing more; Philip walked on slowly by himself. Not +knowing what to make of it, I turned to Miss Jillgall. “Surely Philip +can’t have quarreled with Helena?” I said. + +Miss Jillgall answered in an odd off-hand manner: “Not he! He is a great +deal more likely to have quarreled with himself.” + +“Why?” + +“Suppose you ask him why?” + +It was not to be thought of; it would have looked like prying into his +thoughts. “Selina!” I said, “there is something odd about you to-day. +What is the matter? I don’t understand you.” + +“My poor dear, you will find yourself understanding me before long.” I +thought I saw something like pity in her face when she said that. + +“My poor dear?” I repeated. “What makes you speak to me in that way?” + +“I don’t know--I’m tired; I’m an old fool--I’ll go back to the house.” + +Without another word, she left me. I turned to look for Philip, and +saw that my sister had joined him while I had been speaking to Miss +Jillgall. It pleased me to find that they were talking in a friendly way +when I joined them. A quarrel between Helena and my husband that is to +be--no, my husband that _shall_ be--would have been too distressing, too +unnatural I might almost call it. + +Philip looked along the backward path, and asked what had become of Miss +Jillgall. “Have you any objection to follow her example?” he said to me, +when I told him that Selina had returned to the town. “I don’t care for +the banks of this river.” + +Helena, who used to like the river at other times, was as ready as +Philip to leave it now. I fancy they had both been kindly waiting to +change our walk, till I came to them, and they could study my wishes +too. Of course I was ready to go where they pleased. I asked Philip if +there was anything he would like to see, when we got into the streets +again. + +Clever Helena suggested what seemed to be a strange amusement to offer +to Philip. “Let’s take him to the Girls’ School,” she said. + +It appeared to be a matter of perfect indifference to him; he was, what +they call, ironical. “Oh, yes, of course. Deeply interesting! deeply +interesting!” He suddenly broke into the wildest good spirits, and +tucked my hand under his arm with a gayety which it was impossible +to resist. “What a boy you are!” Helena said, enjoying his delightful +hilarity as I did. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +On entering the schoolroom we lost our gayety, all in a moment. +Something unpleasant had evidently happened. + +Two of the eldest girls were sitting together in a corner, separated +from the rest, and looking most wickedly sulky. The teachers were at the +other end of the room, appearing to be ill at ease. And there, standing +in the midst of them, with his face flushed and his eyes angry--there +was papa, sadly unlike his gentle self in the days of his health and +happiness. On former occasions, when the exercise of his authority was +required in the school, his forbearing temper always set things right. +When I saw him now, I thought of what the doctor had said of his health, +on my way home from the station. + +Papa advanced to us the moment we showed ourselves at the door. + +He shook hands--cordially shook hands--with Philip. It was delightful to +see him, delightful to hear him say: “Pray don’t suppose, Mr. Dunboyne, +that you are intruding; remain with us by all means if you like.” Then +he spoke to Helena and to me, still excited, still not like himself: +“You couldn’t have come here, my dears, at a time when your presence +was more urgently needed.” He turned to the teachers. “Tell my +daughters what has happened; tell them why they see me here--shocked and +distressed, I don’t deny it.” + +We now heard that the two girls in disgrace had broken the rules, and in +such a manner as to deserve severe punishment. + +One of them had been discovered hiding a novel in her desk. The other +had misbehaved herself more seriously still--she had gone to the +theater. Instead of expressing any regret, they had actually dared to +complain of having to learn papa’s improved catechism. They had even +accused him of treating them with severity, because they were poor +girls brought up on charity. “If we had been young ladies,” they were +audacious enough to say, “more indulgence would have been shown to us; +we should have been allowed to read stories and to see plays.” + +All this time I had been asking myself what papa meant, when he told us +we could not have come to the schoolroom at a better time. His meaning +now appeared. When he spoke to the offending girls, he pointed to Helena +and to me. + +“Here are my daughters,” he said. “You will not deny that they are young +ladies. Now listen. They shall tell you themselves whether my rules make +any difference between them and you. Helena! Eunice! do I allow you to +read novels? do I allow you to go to the play?” + +We said, “No”--and hoped it was over. But he had not done yet. He turned +to Helena. + +“Answer some of the questions,” he went on, “from my Manual of Christian +Obligation, which the girls call my catechism.” He asked one of the +questions: “If you are told to do unto others as you would they should +do unto you, and if you find a difficulty in obeying that Divine +Precept, what does your duty require?” + +It is my belief that Helena has the materials in her for making another +Joan of Arc. She rose, and answered without the slightest sign of +timidity: “My duty requires me to go to the minister, and to seek for +advice and encouragement.” + +“And if these fail?” + +“Then I am to remember that my pastor is my friend. He claims no +priestly authority or priestly infallibility. He is my fellow-Christian +who loves me. He will tell me how he has himself failed; how he has +struggled against himself; and what a blessed reward has followed his +victory--a purified heart, a peaceful mind.” + +Then papa released my sister, after she had only repeated two out of all +the answers in Christian Obligation, which we first began to learn when +we were children. He then addressed himself again to the girls. + +“Is what you have just heard a part of my catechism? Has my daughter +been excused from repeating it because she is a young lady? Where is +the difference between the religious education which is given to my own +child, and that given to you?” + +The wretched girls still sat silent and obstinate, with their heads +down. I tremble again as I write of what happened next. Papa fixed his +eyes on me. He said, out loud: “Eunice!”--and waited for me to rise and +answer, as my sister had done. + +It was entirely beyond my power to get on my feet. + +Philip had (innocently, I am sure) discouraged me; I saw displeasure, +I saw contempt in his face. There was a dead silence in the room. +Everybody looked at me. My heart beat furiously, my hands turned cold, +the questions and answers in Christian Obligation all left my memory +together. I looked imploringly at papa. + +For the first time in his life, he was hard on me. His eyes were as +angry as ever; they showed me no mercy. Oh, what had come to me? +what evil spirit possessed me? I felt resentment; horrid, undutiful +resentment, at being treated in this cruel way. My fists clinched +themselves in my lap, my face felt as hot as fire. Instead of asking my +father to excuse me, I said: “I can’t do it.” He was astounded, as well +he might be. I went on from bad to worse. I said: “I won’t do it.” + +He stooped over me; he whispered: “I am going to ask you something; +I insist on your answering, Yes or No.” He raised his voice, and drew +himself back so that they could all see me. + +“Have you been taught like your sister?” he asked. “Has the catechism +that has been her religious lesson, for all her life, been your +religious lesson, for all your life, too?” + +I said: “Yes”--and I was in such a rage that I said it out loud. If +Philip had handed me his cane, and had advised me to give the young +hussies who were answerable for this dreadful state of things a good +beating, I believe I should have done it. Papa turned his back on me and +offered the girls a last chance: “Do you feel sorry for what you have +done? Do you ask to be forgiven?” + +Neither the one nor the other answered him. He called across the room to +the teachers: “Those two pupils are expelled the school.” + +Both the women looked horrified. The elder of the two approached him, +and tried to plead for a milder sentence. He answered in one stern +word: “Silence!”--and left the schoolroom, without even a passing bow to +Philip. And this, after he had cordially shaken hands with my poor dear, +not half an hour before. + +I ought to have made affectionate allowance for his nervous miseries; +I ought to have run after him, and begged his pardon. There must be +something wrong, I am afraid, in girls loving anybody but their fathers. +When Helena led the way out by another door, I ran after Philip; and I +asked _him_ to forgive me. + +I don’t know what I said; it was all confusion. The fear of having +forfeited his fondness must, I suppose, have shaken my mind. I remember +entreating Helena to say a kind word for me. She was so clever, she +had behaved so well, she had deserved that Philip should listen to her. +“Oh,” I cried out to him desperately, “what must you think of me?” + +“I will tell you what I think of you,” he said. “It is your father who +is in fault, Eunice--not you. Nothing could have been in worse taste +than his management of that trumpery affair in the schoolroom; it was +a complete mistake from beginning to end. Make your mind easy; I don’t +blame You.” + +“Are you, really and truly, as fond of me as ever?” + +“Yes, to be sure!” + +Helena seemed to be hardly as much interested in this happy ending of my +anxieties as I might have anticipated. She walked on by herself. Perhaps +she was thinking of poor papa’s strange outbreak of excitement, and +grieving over it. + +We had only a little way to walk, before we passed the door of Philip’s +hotel. He had not yet received the expected letter from his father--the +cruel letter which might recall him to Ireland. It was then the hour of +delivery by our second post; he went to look at the letter-rack in the +hall. Helena saw that I was anxious. She was as kind again as ever; she +consented to wait with me for Philip, at the door. + +He came out to us with an open letter in his hand. + +“From my father, at last,” he said--and gave me the letter to read. It +only contained these few lines: + +“Do not be alarmed, my dear boy, at the change for the worse in my +handwriting. I am suffering for my devotion to the studious habits of a +lifetime: my right hand is attacked by the malady called Writer’s Cramp. +The doctor here can do nothing. He tells me of some foreign woman, +mentioned in his newspaper, who cures nervous derangements of all kinds +by hand-rubbing, and who is coming to London. When you next hear from +me, I may be in London too.”--There the letter ended. + +Of course I knew who the foreign woman, mentioned in the newspaper, was. + +But what does Miss Jillgall’s friend matter to me? The one important +thing is, that Philip has not been called back to Ireland. Here is a +fortunate circumstance, which perhaps means more good luck. I may be +Mrs. Philip Dunboyne before the year is out. + + + +CHAPTER XXV. HELENA’S DIARY. + +They all notice at home that I am looking worn and haggard. That hideous +old maid, Miss Jillgall, had her malicious welcome ready for me when +we met at breakfast this morning: “Dear Helena, what has become of your +beauty? One would think you had left it in your room!” Poor deluded +Eunice showed her sisterly sympathy: “Don’t joke about it, Selina: can’t +you see that Helena is ill?” + +I _have_ been ill; ill of my own wickedness. + +But the recovery to my tranquillity will bring with it the recovery +of my good looks. My fatal passion for Philip promises to be the utter +destruction of everything that is good in me. Well! what is good in +me may not be worth keeping. There is a fate in these things. If I am +destined to rob Eunice of the one dear object of her love and hope--how +can I resist? The one kind thing I can do is to keep her in ignorance of +what is coming, by acts of affectionate deceit. + +Besides, if she suffers, I suffer too. In the length and breadth of +England, I doubt if there is a much more wicked young woman to be found +than myself. Is it nothing to feel that, and to endure it as I do? + +Upon my word, there is no excuse for me! + +Is this sheer impudence? No; it is the bent of my nature. I have a +tendency to self-examination, accompanied by one merit--I don’t spare +myself. + +There are excuses for Eunice. She lives in a fools’ paradise; and she +sees in her lover a radiant creature, shining in the halo thrown over +him by her own self-delusion, Nothing of this sort is to be said for me. +I see Philip as he is. My penetration looks into the lowest depths +of his character--when I am not in his company. There seems to be a +foundation of good, somewhere in his nature. He despises and hates +himself (he has confessed it to me), when Eunice is with him--still +believing in her false sweetheart. But how long do these better +influences last? I have only to show myself, in my sister’s absence, +and Philip is mine body and soul. His vanity and his weakness take +possession of him the moment he sees my face. He is one of those +men--even in my little experience I have met with them--who are born to +be led by women. If Eunice had possessed my strength of character, he +would have been true to her for life. + +Ought I not, in justice to myself, to have lifted my heart high above +the reach of such a creature as this? Certainly I ought! I know it, I +feel it. And yet, there is some fascination in having him which I am +absolutely unable to resist. + +What, I ask myself, has fed the new flame which is burning in me? Did it +begin with gratified pride? I might well feel proud when I found +myself admired by a man of his beauty, set off by such manners and such +accomplishments as his. Or, has the growth of this masterful feeling +been encouraged by the envy and jealousy stirred in me, when I found +Eunice (my inferior in every respect) distinguished by the devotion of +a handsome lover, and having a brilliant marriage in view--while I was +left neglected, with no prospect of changing my title from Miss to Mrs.? +Vain inquiries! My wicked heart seems to have secrets of its own, and to +keep them a mystery to me. + +What has become of my excellent education? I don’t care to inquire; I +have got beyond the reach of good books and religious examples. Among +my other blamable actions there may now be reckoned disobedience to my +father. I have been reading novels in secret. + +At first I tried some of the famous English works, published at a price +within the reach of small purses. Very well written, no doubt--but with +one unpardonable drawback, so far as I am concerned. Our celebrated +native authors address themselves to good people, or to penitent people +who want to be made good; not to wicked readers like me. + +Arriving at this conclusion, I tried another experiment. In a small +bookseller’s shop I discovered some cheap translations of French novels. +Here, I found what I wanted--sympathy with sin. Here, there was +opened to me a new world inhabited entirely by unrepentant people; the +magnificent women diabolically beautiful; the satanic men dead to +every sense of virtue, and alive--perhaps rather dirtily alive--to the +splendid fascinations of crime. I know now that Love is above everything +but itself. Love is the one law that we are bound to obey. How deep! +how consoling! how admirably true! The novelists of England have reason +indeed to hide their heads before the novelists of France. All that +I have felt, and have written here, is inspired by these wonderful +authors. + + +I have relieved my mind, and may now return to the business of my +diary--the record of domestic events. + +An overwhelming disappointment has fallen on Eunice. Our dinner-party +has been put off. + +The state of father’s health is answerable for this change in our +arrangements. That wretched scene at the school, complicated by my +sister’s undutiful behavior at the time, so seriously excited him that +he passed a sleepless night, and kept his bedroom throughout the day. +Eunice’s total want of discretion added, no doubt, to his sufferings: +she rudely intruded on him to express her regret and to ask his pardon. +Having carried her point, she was at leisure to come to me, and to ask +(how amazingly simple of her!) what she and Philip were to do next. + +“We had arranged it all so nicely,” the poor wretch began. “Philip was +to have been so clever and agreeable at dinner, and was to have chosen +his time so very discreetly, that papa would have been ready to listen +to anything he said. Oh, we should have succeeded; I haven’t a doubt of +it! Our only hope, Helena, is in you. What are we to do now?” + +“Wait,” I answered. + +“Wait?” she repeated, hotly. “Is my heart to be broken? and, what is +more cruel still, is Philip to be disappointed? I expected something +more sensible, my dear, from you. What possible reason can there be for +waiting?” + +The reason--if I could only have mentioned it--was beyond dispute. I +wanted time to quiet Philip’s uneasy conscience, and to harden his +weak mind against outbursts of violence, on Eunice’s part, which would +certainly exhibit themselves when she found that she had lost her lover, +and lost him to me. In the meanwhile, I had to produce my reason +for advising her to wait. It was easily done. I reminded her of the +irritable condition of our father’s nerves, and gave it as my opinion +that he would certainly say No, if she was unwise enough to excite him +on the subject of Philip, in his present frame of mind. + +These unanswerable considerations seemed to produce the right effect on +her. “I suppose you know best,” was all she said. And then she left me. + +I let her go without feeling any distrust of this act of submission on +her part; it was such a common experience, in my life, to find my +sister guiding herself by my advice. But experience is not always to +be trusted. Events soon showed that I had failed to estimate Eunice’s +resources of obstinacy and cunning at their true value. + +Half an hour later I heard the street door closed, and looked out of +the window. Miss Jillgall was leaving the house; no one was with her. +My dislike of this person led me astray once more. I ought to have +suspected her of being bent on some mischievous errand, and to have +devised some means of putting my suspicions to the test. I did nothing +of the kind. In the moment when I turned my head away from the window, +Miss Jillgall was a person forgotten--and I was a person who had made a +serious mistake. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. HELENA’S DIARY. + +The event of to-day began with the delivery of a message summoning me to +my father’s study. He had decided--too hastily, as I feared--that he was +sufficiently recovered to resume his usual employments. I was writing +to his dictation, when we were interrupted. Maria announced a visit from +Mr. Dunboyne. + +Hitherto Philip had been content to send one of the servants of the +hotel to make inquiry after Mr. Gracedieu’s health. Why had he now +called personally? Noticing that father seemed to be annoyed, I tried +to make an opportunity of receiving Philip myself. “Let me see him,” I +suggested; “I can easily say you are engaged.” + +Very unwillingly, as it was easy to see, my father declined to allow +this. “Mr. Dunboyne’s visit pays me a compliment,” he said; “and I must +receive him.” I made a show of leaving the room, and was called back to +my chair. “This is not a private interview, Helena; stay where you are.” + +Philip came in--handsomer than ever, beautifully dressed--and paid his +respects to my father with his customary grace. He was too well-bred +to allow any visible signs of embarrassment to escape him. But when he +shook hands with me, I felt a little trembling in his fingers, through +the delicate gloves which fitted him like a second skin. Was it the +true object of his visit to try the experiment designed by Eunice +and himself, and deferred by the postponement of our dinner-party? +Impossible surely that my sister could have practiced on his weakness, +and persuaded him to return to his first love! I waited, in breathless +interest, for his next words. They were not worth listening to. Oh, the +poor commonplace creature! + +“I am glad, Mr. Gracedieu, to see that you are well enough to be in your +study again,” he said. The writing materials on the table attracted his +attention. “Am I one of the idle people,” he asked, with his charming +smile, “who are always interrupting useful employment?” + +He spoke to my father, and he was answered by my father. Not once had +he addressed a word to me--no, not even when we shook hands. I was +angry enough to force him into taking some notice of me, and to make an +attempt to confuse him at the same time. + +“Have you seen my sister?” I asked. + +“No.” + +It was the shortest reply that he could choose. Having flung it at me, +he still persisted in looking at my father and speaking to my father: +“Do you think of trying change of air, Mr. Gracedieu, when you feel +strong enough to travel?” + +“My duties keep me here,” father answered; “and I cannot honestly say +that I enjoy traveling. I dislike manners and customs that are strange +to me; I don’t find that hotels reward me for giving up the comforts of +my own house. How do you find the hotel here?” + +“I submit to the hotel, sir. They are sad savages in the kitchen; they +put mushroom ketchup into their soup, and mustard and cayenne pepper +into their salads. I am half-starved at dinner-time, but I don’t +complain.” + +Every word he said was an offense to me. With or without reason, I +attacked him again. + +“I have heard you acknowledge that the landlord and landlady are very +obliging people,” I said. “Why don’t you ask them to let you make your +own soup and mix your own salad?” + +I wondered whether I should succeed in attracting his notice, after +this. Even in these private pages, my self-esteem finds it hard to +confess what happened. I succeeded in reminding Philip that he had his +reasons for requesting me to leave the room. + +“Will you excuse me, Miss Helena,” he said, “if I ask leave to speak to +Mr. Gracedieu in private?” + +The right thing for me to do was, let me hope, the thing that I did. +I rose, and waited to see if my father would interfere. He looked at +Philip with suspicion in his face, as well as surprise. “May I ask,” he +said, coldly, “what is the object of the interview?” + +“Certainly,” Philip answered, “when we are alone.” This cool reply +placed my father between two alternatives; he must either give way, or +be guilty of an act of rudeness to a guest in his own house. The choice +reserved for me was narrower still--I had to decide between being told +to go, or going of my own accord. Of course, I left them together. + +The door which communicated with the next room was pulled to, but not +closed. On the other side of it, I found Eunice. + +“Listening!” I said, in a whisper. + +“Yes,” she whispered back. “You listen, too!” + +I was so indignant with Philip, and so seriously interested in what was +going on in the study, that I yielded to temptation. We both degraded +ourselves. We both listened. + +Eunice’s base lover spoke first. Judging by the change in his voice, he +must have seen something in my father’s face that daunted him. Eunice +heard it, too. “He’s getting nervous,” she whispered; “he’ll forget to +say the right thing at the right time.” + +“Mr. Gracedieu,” Philip began, “I wish to speak to you--” + +Father interrupted him: “We are alone now, Mr. Dunboyne. I want to know +why you consult me in private?” + +“I am anxious to consult you, sir, on a subject--” + +“On what subject? Any religious difficulty?” + +“No.” + +“Anything I can do for you in the town?” + +“Not at all. If you will only allow me--” + +“I am still waiting, sir, to know what it is about.” + +Philip’s voice suddenly became an angry voice. “Once for all, Mr. +Gracedieu,” he said, “will you let me speak? It’s about your daughter--” + +“No more of it, Mr. Dunboyne!” (My father was now as loud as Philip.) “I +don’t desire to hold a private conversation with you on the subject of +my daughter.” + +“If you have any personal objection to me, sir, be so good as to state +it plainly.” + +“You have no right to ask me to do that.” + +“You refuse to do it?” + +“Positively.” + +“You are not very civil, Mr. Gracedieu.” + +“If I speak without ceremony, Mr. Dunboyne, you have yourself to thank +for it.” + +Philip replied to this in a tone of savage irony. “You are a minister +of religion, and you are an old man. Two privileges--and you presume on +them both. Good-morning.” + +I drew back into a corner, just in time to escape discovery in the +character of a listener. Eunice never moved. When Philip dashed into the +room, banging the door after him, she threw herself impulsively on his +breast: “Oh, Philip! Philip! what have you done? Why didn’t you keep +your temper?” + +“Did you hear what your father said to me?” he asked. + +“Yes, dear; but you ought to have controlled yourself--you ought, +indeed, for my sake.” + +Her arms were still round him. It struck me that he felt her influence. +“If you wish me to recover myself,” he said, gently, “you had better let +me go.” + +“Oh, how cruel, Philip, to leave me when I am so wretched! Why do you +want to go?” + +“You told me just now what I ought to do,” he answered, still +restraining himself. “If I am to get the better of my temper, I must be +left alone.” + +“I never said anything about your temper, darling.” + +“Didn’t you tell me to control myself?” + +“Oh, yes! Go back to Papa, and beg him to forgive you.” + +“I’ll see him damned first!” + +If ever a stupid girl deserved such an answer as this, the girl was +my sister. I had hitherto (with some difficulty) refrained from +interfering. But when Eunice tried to follow Philip out of the house, I +could hesitate no longer; I held her back. “You fool,” I said; “haven’t +you made mischief enough already?” + +“What am I to do?” she burst out, helplessly. + +“Do what I told you to do yesterday--wait.” + +Before she could reply, or I could say anything more, the door that led +to the landing was opened softly and slyly, and Miss Jillgall peeped +in. Eunice instantly left me, and ran to the meddling old maid. They +whispered to each other. Miss Jillgall’s skinny arm encircled my +sister’s waist; they disappeared together. + +I was only too glad to get rid of them both, and to take the opportunity +of writing to Philip. I insisted on an explanation of his conduct while +I was in the study--to be given within an hour’s time, at a place which +I appointed. “You are not to attempt to justify yourself in writing,” + I added in conclusion. “Let your reply merely inform me if you can keep +the appointment. The rest, when we meet.” + +Maria took the letter to the hotel, with instructions to wait. + +Philip’s reply reached me without delay. It pledged him to justify +himself as I had desired, and to keep the appointment. My own belief is +that the event of to-day will decide his future and mine. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +Indeed, I am a most unfortunate creature; everything turns out badly +with me. My good, true friend, my dear Selina, has become the object of +a hateful doubt in my secret mind. I am afraid she is keeping something +from me. + +Talking with her about my troubles, I heard for the first time that she +had written again to Mrs. Tenbruggen. The object of her letter was to +tell her friend of my engagement to young Mr. Dunboyne. I asked her why +she had done this. The answer informed me that there was no knowing, in +the present state of my affairs, how soon I might not want the help of a +clever woman. I ought, I suppose, to have been satisfied with this. But +there seemed to be something not fully explained yet. + +Then again, after telling Selina what I heard in the study, and how +roughly Philip had spoken to me afterward, I asked her what she thought +of it. She made an incomprehensible reply: “My sweet child, I mustn’t +think of it--I am too fond of you.” + +It was impossible to make her explain what this meant. She began to talk +of Philip; assuring me (which was quite needless) that she had done +her best to fortify and encourage him, before he called on papa. When +I asked her to help me in another way--that is to say, when I wanted to +find out where Philip was at that moment--she had no advice to give me. +I told her that I should not enjoy a moment’s ease of mind until I and +my dear one were reconciled. She only shook her head and declared that +she was sorry for me. When I hit on the idea of ringing for Maria, this +little woman, so bright, and quick and eager to help me at other times, +said “I leave it to you, dear,” and turned to the piano (close to which +I was sitting), and played softly and badly stupid little tunes. + +“Maria, did you open the door for Mr. Dunboyne when he went away just +now?” + +“No, miss.” + +Nothing but ill-luck for me! If I had been left to my own devices, I +should now have let the housemaid go. But Selina contrived to give me +a hint, on a strange plan of her own. Still at the piano, she began +to confuse talking to herself with playing to herself. The notes went +_tinkle, tinkle_--and the tongue mixed up words with the notes in this +way: “Perhaps they have been talking in the kitchen about Philip?” + +The suggestion was not lost on me. I said to Maria--who was standing at +the other end of the room, near the door--“Did you happen to hear which +way Mr. Dunboyne went when he left us?” + +“I know where he was, miss, half an hour ago.” + +“Where was he?” + +“At the hotel.” + +Selina went on with her hints in the same way as before. “How does she +know--ah, how does she know?” was the vocal part of the performance this +time. My clever inquiries followed the vocal part as before: + +“How do you know that Mr. Dunboyne was at the hotel?” + +“I was sent there with a letter for him, and waited for the answer.” + +There was no suggestion required this time. The one possible question +was: “Who sent you?” + +Maria replied, after first reserving a condition: “You won’t tell upon +me, miss?” + +I promised not to tell. Selina suddenly left off playing. + +“Well,” I repeated, “who sent you?” + +“Miss Helena.” + +Selina looked round at me. Her little eyes seemed to have suddenly +become big, they stared me so strangely in the face. I don’t know +whether she was in a state of fright or of wonder. As for myself, I +simply lost the use of my tongue. Maria, having no more questions to +answer, discreetly left us together. + +Why should Helena write to Philip at all--and especially without +mentioning it to me? Here was a riddle which was more than I could +guess. I asked Selina to help me. She might at least have tried, I +thought; but she looked uneasy, and made excuses. + +I said: “Suppose I go to Helena, and ask her why she wrote to Philip?” + And Selina said: “Suppose you do, dear.” + +I rang for Maria once more: “Do you know where my sister is?” + +“Just gone out, miss.” + +There was no help for it but to wait till she came back, and to +get through the time in the interval as I best might. But for one +circumstance, I might not have known what to do. The truth is, there was +a feeling of shame in me when I remembered having listened at the study +door. Curious notions come into one’s head--one doesn’t know how or why. +It struck me that I might make a kind of atonement for having been mean +enough to listen, if I went to papa, and offered to keep him company +in his solitude. If we fell into pleasant talk, I had a sly idea of my +own--I meant to put in a good word for poor Philip. + +When I confided my design to Selina, she shut up the piano and ran +across the room to me. But somehow she was not like her old self again, +yet. + +“You good little soul, you are always right. Look at me again, Euneece. +Are you beginning to doubt me? Oh, my darling, don’t do that! It isn’t +using me fairly. I can’t bear it--I can’t bear it!” + +I took her hand; I was on the point of speaking to her with the kindness +she deserved from me. On a sudden she snatched her hand away and ran +back to the piano. When she was seated on the music-stool, her face was +hidden from me. At that moment she broke into a strange cry--it began +like a laugh, and it ended like a sob. + +“Go away to papa! Don’t mind me--I’m a creature of impulse--ha! ha! +ha! a little hysterical--the state of the weather--I get rid of these +weaknesses, my dear, by singing to myself. I have a favorite song: +‘My heart is light, my will is free.’--Go away! oh, for God’s sake, go +away!” + +I had heard of hysterics, of course; knowing nothing about them, +however, by my own experience. What could have happened to agitate her +in this extraordinary manner? + +Had Helena’s letter anything to do with it? Was my sister indignant with +Philip for swearing in my presence; and had she written him an angry +letter, in her zeal on my behalf? But Selina could not possibly have +seen the letter--and Helena (who is often hard on me when I do stupid +things) showed little indulgence for me, when I was so unfortunate as to +irritate Philip. I gave up the hopeless attempt to get at the truth +by guessing, and went away to forget my troubles, if I could, in my +father’s society. + +After knocking twice at the door of the study, and receiving no reply, I +ventured to look in. + +The sofa in this room stood opposite the door. Papa was resting on it, +but not in comfort. There were twitching movements in his feet, and he +shifted his arms this way and that as if no restful posture could he +found for them. But what frightened me was this. His eyes, staring +straight at the door by which I had gone in, had an inquiring +expression, as if he actually did not know me! I stood midway between +the door and the sofa, doubtful about going nearer to him. + +He said: “Who is it?” This to me--to his own daughter. He said: “What do +you want?” + +I really could _not_ bear it. I went up to him. I said: “Papa, have you +forgotten Eunice?” + +My name seemed (if one may say such a thing) to bring him to himself +again. He sat upon the sofa--and laughed as he answered me. + +“My dear child, what delusion has got into that pretty little head of +yours? Fancy her thinking that I had forgotten my own daughter! I was +lost in thought, Eunice. For the moment, I was what they call an absent +man. Did I ever tell you the story of the absent man? He went to call +upon some acquaintance of his; and when the servant said, ‘What +name, sir?’ He couldn’t answer. He was obliged to confess that he had +forgotten his own name. The servant said, ‘That’s very strange.’ The +absent man at once recovered himself. ‘That’s it!’ he said: ‘my name is +Strange.’ Droll, isn’t it? If I had been calling on a friend to-day, +I daresay _I_ might have forgotten my name, too. Much to think of, +Eunice--too much to think of.” + +Leaving the sofa with a sigh, as if he was tired of it, he began walking +up and down. He seemed to be still in good spirits. “Well, my dear,” he +said, “what can I do for you?” + +“I came here, papa to see if there was anything I could do for You.” + +He looked at some sheets of paper, strung together, and laid on the +table. They were covered with writing (from his dictation) in my +sister’s hand. “I ought to get on with my work,” he said. “Where is +Helena?” + +I told him that she had gone out, and begged leave to try what I could +do to supply her place. + +The request seemed to please him; but he wanted time to think. I waited; +noticing that his face grew gradually worried and anxious. There came +a vacant look into his eyes which it grieved me to see; he appeared to +have quite lost himself again. “Read the last page,” he said, pointing +to the manuscript on the table; “I don’t remember where I left off.” + +I turned to the last page. As well as I could tell, it related to some +publication, which he was recommending to religious persons of our way +of thinking. + +Before I had read half-way through it, he began to dictate, speaking so +rapidly that my pen was not always able to follow him. My handwriting is +as bad as bad can be when I am hurried. To make matters worse still, I +was confused. What he was now saying seemed to have nothing to do with +what I had been reading. + +Let me try if I can call to mind the substance of it. + +He began in the most strangely sudden way by asking: “Why should there +be any fear of discovery, when every possible care had been taken to +prevent it? The danger from unexpected events was far more disquieting. +A man might find himself bound in honor to disclose what it had been +the chief anxiety of his life to conceal. For example, could he let an +innocent person be the victim of deliberate suppression of the truth--no +matter how justifiable that suppression might appear to be? On the other +hand, dreadful consequences might follow an honorable confession. +There might be a cruel sacrifice of tender affection; there might be a +shocking betrayal of innocent hope and trust.” + +I remember those last words, just as he dictated them, because he +suddenly stopped there; looking, poor dear, distressed and confused. He +put his hand to his head, and went back to the sofa. + +“I’m tired,” he said. “Wait for me while I rest.” + +In a few minutes he fell asleep. It was a deep repose that came to him +now; and, though I don’t think it lasted much longer than half an hour, +it produced a wonderful change in him for the better when he woke. He +spoke quietly and kindly; and when he returned to me at the table and +looked at the page on which I had been writing, he smiled. + +“Oh, my dear, what bad writing! I declare I can’t read what I myself +told you to write. No! no! don’t be downhearted about it. You are not +used to writing from dictation; and I daresay I have been too quick +for you.” He kissed me and encouraged me. “You know how fond I am of my +little girl,” he said; “I am afraid I like my Eunice just the least in +the world more than I like my Helena. Ah, you are beginning to look a +little happier now!” + +He had filled me with such confidence and such pleasure that I could +not help thinking of my sweetheart. Oh dear, when shall I learn to be +distrustful of my own feelings? The temptation to say a good word for +Philip quite mastered any little discretion that I possessed. + +I said to papa: “If you knew how to make me happier than I have ever +been in all my life before, would you do it?” + +“Of course I would.” + +“Then send for Philip, dear, and be a little kinder to him, this time.” + +His pale face turned red with anger; he pushed me away from him. + +“That man again!” he burst out. “Am I never to hear the last of him? Go +away, Eunice. You are of no use here.” He took up my unfortunate page of +writing and ridiculed it with a bitter laugh. “What is this fit for?” He +crumpled it up in his hand and tossed it into the fire. + +I ran out of the room in such a state of mortification that I hardly +knew what I was about. If some hard-hearted person had come to me with +a cup of poison, and had said: “Eunice, you are not fit to live any +longer; take this,” I do believe I should have taken it. If I thought of +anything, I thought of going back to Selina. My ill luck still pursued +me; she had disappeared. I looked about in a helpless way, completely at +a loss what to do next--so stupefied, I may even say, that it was some +time before I noticed a little three-cornered note on the table by which +I was standing. The note was addressed to me: + + +“EVER-DEAREST EUNEECE--I have tried to make myself useful to you, and +have failed. But how can I see the sad sight of your wretchedness, and +not feel the impulse to try again? I have gone to the hotel to find +Philip, and to bring him back to you a penitent and faithful man. Wait +for me, and hope for great things. A. hundred thousand kisses to my +sweet Euneece. + +“S. J.” + + +Wait for her, after reading that note! How could she expect it? I had +only to follow her, and to find Philip. In another minute, I was on my +way to the hotel. + +CHAPTER XXVIII. HELENA’S DIARY. + +Looking at the last entry in my Journal, I see myself anticipating +that the event of to-day will decide Philip’s future and mine. This has +proved prophetic. All further concealment is now at an end. + +Forced to it by fate, or helped to it by chance, Eunice has made the +discovery of her lover’s infidelity. “In all human probability” (as my +father says in his sermons), we two sisters are enemies for life. + + +I am not suspected, as Eunice is, of making appointments with a +sweetheart. So I am free to go out alone, and to go where I please. +Philip and I were punctual to our appointment this afternoon. + +Our place of meeting was in a secluded corner of the town park. We +found a rustic seat in our retirement, set up (one would suppose) as a +concession to the taste of visitors who are fond of solitude. The view +in front of us was bounded by the park wall and railings, and our seat +was prettily approached on one side by a plantation of young trees. No +entrance gate was near; no carriage road crossed the grass. A more safe +and more solitary nook for conversation, between two persons desiring to +be alone, it would be hard to find in most public parks. Lovers are said +to know it well, and to be especially fond of it toward evening. We +were there in broad daylight, and we had the seat to ourselves. + +My memory of what passed between us is, in some degree, disturbed by the +formidable interruption which brought our talk to an end. + +But among other things, I remember that I showed him no mercy at the +outset. At one time I was indignant; at another I was scornful. I +declared, in regard to my object in meeting him, that I had changed my +mind, And had decided to shorten a disagreeable interview by waiving my +right to an explanation, and bidding him farewell. Eunice, as I pointed +out, had the first claim to him; Eunice was much more likely to suit +him, as a companion for life, than I was. “In short,” I said, in +conclusion, “my inclination for once takes sides with my duty, and +leaves my sister in undisturbed possession of young Mr. Dunboyne.” With +this satirical explanation, I rose to say good-by. + +I had merely intended to irritate him. He showed a superiority to anger +for which I was not prepared. + +“Be so kind as to sit down again,” he said quietly. + +He took my letter from his pocket, and pointed to that part of it which +alluded to his conduct, when we had met in my father’s study. + +“You have offered me the opportunity of saying a word in my own +defense,” he went on. “I prize that privilege far too highly to consent +to your withdrawing it, merely because you have changed your mind. Let +me at least tell you what my errand was, when I called on your father. +Loving you, and you only, I had forced myself to make a last effort +to be true to your sister. Remember that, Helena, and then say--is it +wonderful if I was beside myself, when I found You in the study?” + +“When you tell me you were beside yourself,” I said, “do you mean, +ashamed of yourself?” + +That touched him. “I mean nothing of the kind,” he burst out. “After the +hell on earth in which I have been living between you two sisters, a man +hasn’t virtue enough left in him to be ashamed. He’s half mad--that’s +what he is. Look at my position! I had made up my mind never to see you +again; I had made up my mind (if I married Eunice) to rid myself of my +own miserable life when I could endure it no longer. In that state +of feeling, when my sense of duty depended on my speaking with Mr. +Gracedieu alone, whose was the first face I saw when I entered the room? +If I had dared to look at you, or to speak to you, what do you think +would have become of my resolution to sacrifice myself?” + +“What has become of it now?” I asked. + +“Tell me first if I am forgiven,” he said--“and you shall know.” + +“Do you deserve to be forgiven?” + +It has been discovered by wiser heads than mine that weak people are +always in extremes. So far, I had seen Philip in the vain and violent +extreme. He now shifted suddenly to the sad and submissive extreme. When +I asked him if he deserved to be forgiven, he made the humblest of all +replies--he sighed and said nothing. + +“If I did my duty to my sister,” I reminded him, “I should refuse to +forgive you, and send you back to Eunice.” + +“Your father’s language and your father’s conduct,” he answered, “have +released me from that entanglement. I can never go back to Eunice. If +you refuse to forgive me, neither you nor she will see anything more of +Philip Dunboyne; I promise you that. Are you satisfied now?” + +After holding out against him resolutely, I felt myself beginning to +yield. When a man has once taken their fancy, what helplessly weak +creatures women are! I saw through his vacillating weakness--and yet +I trusted him, with both eyes open. My looking-glass is opposite to me +while I write. It shows me a contemptible Helena. I lied, and said I was +satisfied--to please _him_. + +“Am I forgiven?” he asked. + +It is absurd to put it on record. Of course, I forgave him. What a good +Christian I am, after all! + +He took my willing hand. “My lovely darling,” he said, “our marriage +rests with you. Whether your father approves of it or not, say the word; +claim me, and I am yours for life.” + +I must have been infatuated by his voice and his look; my heart must +have been burning under the pressure of his hand on mine. Was it my +modesty or my self-control that deserted me? I let him take me in his +arms. Again, and again, and again I kissed him. We were deaf to what we +ought to have heard; we were blind to what we ought to have seen. Before +we were conscious of a movement among the trees, we were discovered. +My sister flew at me like a wild animal. Her furious hands fastened +themselves on my throat. Philip started to his feet. When he touched +her, in the act of forcing her back from me, Eunice’s raging strength +became utter weakness in an instant. Her arms fell helpless at her +sides--her head drooped--she looked at him in silence which was +dreadful, at such a moment as that. He shrank from the unendurable +reproach in those tearless eyes. Meanly, he turned away from her. +Meanly, I followed him. Looking back for an instant, I saw her step +forward; perhaps to stop him, perhaps to speak to him. The effort was +too much for her strength; she staggered back against the trunk of a +tree. Like strangers, walking separate one from the other, we left her +to her companion--the hideous traitress who was my enemy and her friend. + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. HELENA’S DIARY. + +On reaching the street which led to Philip’s hotel, we spoke to each +other for the first time. + +“What are we to do?” I said. + +“Leave this place,” he answered. + +“Together?” I asked. + +“Yes.” + +To leave us (for a while), after what had happened, might be the wisest +thing which a man, in Philip’s critical position, could do. But if I +went with him--unprovided as I was with any friend of my own sex, whose +character and presence might sanction the step I had taken--I should be +lost beyond redemption. Is any man that ever lived worth that sacrifice? +I thought of my father’s house closed to me, and of our friends ashamed +of me. I have owned, in some earlier part of my Journal, that I am not +very patient under domestic cares. But the possibility of Eunice being +appointed housekeeper, with my power, in my place, was more than I could +calmly contemplate. “No,” I said to Philip. “Your absence, at such a +time as this, may help us both; but, come what may of it, I must remain +at home.” + +He yielded, without an attempt to make me alter my mind. There was a +sullen submission in his manner which it was not pleasant to see. Was he +despairing already of himself and of me? Had Eunice aroused the watchful +demons of shame and remorse? + +“Perhaps you are right,” he said, gloomily. “Good-by.” + +My anxiety put the all-important question to him without hesitation. + +“Is it good-by forever, Philip?” + +His reply instantly relieved me: “God forbid!” + +But I wanted more: “You still love me?” I persisted. + +“More dearly than ever!” + +“And yet you leave me!” + +He turned pale. “I leave you because I am afraid.” + +“Afraid of what?” + +“Afraid to face Eunice again.” + +The only possible way out of our difficulty that I could see, now +occurred to me. “Suppose my sister can be prevailed on to give you up?” + I suggested. “Would you come back to us in that case?” + +“Certainly!” + +“And you would ask my father to consent to our marriage?” + +“On the day of my return, if you like.” + +“Suppose obstacles get in our way,” I said--“suppose time passes and +tries your patience--will you still consider yourself engaged to me?” + +“Engaged to you,” he answered, “in spite of obstacles and in spite of +time.” + +“And while you are away from me,” I ventured to add, “we shall write to +each other?” + +“Go where I may,” he said, “you shall always hear from me.” + +I could ask no more, and he could concede no more. The impression +evidently left on him by Eunice’s terrible outbreak, was far more +serious than I had anticipated. I was myself depressed and ill at +ease. No expressions of tenderness were exchanged between us. There was +something horrible in our barren farewell. We merely clasped hands, at +parting. He went his way--and I went mine. + +There are some occasions when women set an example of courage to men. I +was ready to endure whatever might happen to me, when I got home. What +a desperate wretch! some people might say, if they could look into this +diary! + +Maria opened the door; she told me that my sister had already returned, +accompanied by Miss Jillgall. There had been apparently some difference +of opinion between them, before they entered the house. Eunice +had attempted to go on to some other place; and Miss Jillgall +had remonstrated. Maria had heard her say: “No, you would degrade +yourself”--and, with that, she had led Eunice indoors. I understood, of +course, that my sister had been prevented from following Philip to the +hotel. There was probably a serious quarrel in store for me. I went +straight to the bedroom, expecting to find Eunice there, and prepared +to brave the storm that might burst on me. There was a woman at Eunice’s +end of the room, removing dresses from the wardrobe. I could only see +her back, but it was impossible to mistake _that_ figure--Miss Jillgall. +She laid the dresses on Eunice’s bed, without taking the slightest +notice of me. In significant silence I pointed to the door. She went +on as coolly with her occupation as if the room had been, not mine but +hers; I stepped up to her, and spoke plainly. + +“You oblige me to remind you,” I said, “that you are not in your own +room.” There, I waited a little, and found that I had produced no +effect. “With every disposition,” I resumed, “to make allowance for +the disagreeable peculiarities of your character, I cannot consent to +overlook an act of intrusion, committed by a Spy. Now, do you understand +me?” + +She looked round her. “I see no third person here,” she said. “May I ask +if you mean me?” + +“I mean you.” + +“Will you be so good, Miss Helena, as to explain yourself?” + +Moderation of language would have been thrown away on this woman. “You +followed me to the park,” I said. “It was you who found me with Mr. +Dunboyne, and betrayed me to my sister. You are a Spy, and you know it. +At this very moment you daren’t look me in the face.” + +Her insolence forced its way out of her at last. Let me record it--and +repay it, when the time comes. + +“Quite true,” she replied. “If I ventured to look you in the face, I am +afraid I might forget myself. I have always been brought up like a lady, +and I wish to show it even in the company of such a wretch as you are. +There is not one word of truth in what you have said of me. I went to +the hotel to find Mr. Dunboyne. Ah, you may sneer! I haven’t got your +good looks--and a vile use you have made of them. My object was to +recall that base young man to his duty to my dear charming injured +Euneece. The hotel servant told me that Mr. Dunboyne had gone out. Oh, +I had the means of persuasion in my pocket! The man directed me to the +park, as he had already directed Mr. Dunboyne. It was only when I had +found the place, that I heard some one behind me. Poor innocent Euneece +had followed me to the hotel, and had got her directions, as I had got +mine. God knows how hard I tried to persuade her to go back, and how +horribly frightened I was--No! I won’t distress myself by saying a word +more. It would be too humiliating to let _you_ see an honest woman in +tears. Your sister has a spirit of her own, thank God! She won’t inhabit +the same room with you; she never desires to see your false face again. +I take the poor soul’s dresses and things away--and as a religious +person I wait, confidently wait, for the judgment that will fall on +you!” + +She caught up the dresses all together; some of them were in her arms, +some of them fell on her shoulders, and one of them towered over her +head. Smothered in gowns, she bounced out of the room like a walking +milliner’s shop. I have to thank the wretched old creature for a moment +of genuine amusement, at a time of devouring anxiety. The meanest +insect, they say, has its use in this world--and why not Miss Jillgall? + +In half an hour more, an unexpected event raised my spirits. I heard +from Philip. + +On his return to the hotel he had found a telegram waiting for him. Mr. +Dunboyne the elder had arrived in London; and Philip had arranged to +join his father by the next train. He sent me the address, and begged +that I would write and tell him my news from home by the next day’s +post. + +Welcome, thrice welcome, to Mr. Dunboyne the elder! If Philip can +manage, under my advice, to place me favorably in the estimation of this +rich old man, his presence and authority may do for us what we cannot +do for ourselves. Here is surely an influence to which my father must +submit, no matter how unreasonable or how angry he may be when he hears +what has happened. I begin already to feel hopeful of the future. + + + +CHAPTER XXX. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +Through the day, and through the night, I feel a misery that never +leaves me--I mean the misery of fear. + +I am trying to find out some harmless means of employing myself, which +will keep evil remembrances from me. If I don’t succeed, my fear tells +me what will happen. I shall be in danger of going mad. + +I dare not confide in any living creature. I don’t know what other +persons might think of me, or how soon I might find myself perhaps in an +asylum. In this helpless condition, doubt and fright seem to be driving +me back to my Journal. I wonder whether I shall find harmless employment +here. + +I have heard of old people losing their memories. What would I not give +to be old! I remember! oh, how I remember! One day after another I see +Philip, I see Helena, as I first saw them when I was among the trees in +the park. My sweetheart’s arms, that once held me, hold my sister now. +She kisses him, kisses him, kisses him. + +Is there no way of making myself see something else? I want to get back +to remembrances that don’t burn in my head and tear at my heart. How is +it to be done? + +I have tried books--no! I have tried going out to look at the shops--no! +I have tried saying my prayers--no! And now I am making my last effort; +trying my pen. My black letters fall from it, and take their places +on the white paper. Will my black letters help me? Where can I find +something consoling to write down? Where? Where? + +Selina--poor Selina, so fond of me, so sorry for me. When I was happy, +she was happy, too. It was always amusing to hear her talk. Oh, my +memory, be good to me! Save me from Philip and Helena. I want to +remember the pleasant days when my kind little friend and I used to +gossip in the garden. + +No: the days in the garden won’t come back. What else can I think of? + +....... + +The recollections that I try to encourage keep away from me. The other +recollections that I dread, come crowding back. Still Philip! Still +Helena! + +But Selina mixes herself up with them. Let me try again if I can think +of Selina. + +How delightfully good to me and patient with me she was, on our dismal +way home from the park! And how affectionately she excused herself for +not having warned me of it, when she first suspected that my own sister +and my worst enemy were one and the same! + +“I know I was wrong, my dear, to let my love and pity close my lips. +But remember how happy you were at the time. The thought of making you +miserable was more than I could endure--I am so fond of you! Yes; I +began to suspect them, on the day when they first met at the station. +And, I am afraid, I thought it just likely that you might be as cunning +as I was, and have noticed them, too.” + +Oh, how ignorant she must have been of my true thoughts and feelings! +How strangely people seem to misunderstand their dearest friends! +knowing, as I did, that I could never love any man but Philip, could I +be wicked enough to suppose that Philip would love any woman but me? + +I explained to Selina how he had spoken to me, when we were walking +together on the bank of the river. Shall I ever forget those exquisite +words? “I wish I was a better man, Eunice; I wish I was good enough to +be worthy of you.” I asked Selina if she thought he was deceiving me +when he said that. She comforted me by owning that he must have been in +earnest, at the time--and then she distressed me by giving the reason +why. + +“My love, you must have innocently said something to him, when you +and he were alone, which touched his conscience (when he _had_ a +conscience), and made him ashamed of himself. Ah, you were too fond of +him to see how he changed for the worse, when your vile sister joined +you, and took possession of him again. It made my heart ache to see +you so unsuspicious of them. You asked me, my poor dear, if they had +quarreled--you believed they were tired of walking by the river, when it +was you they were tired of--and you wondered why Helena took him to see +the school. My child! she was the leading spirit at the school, and you +were nobody. Her vanity saw the chance of making him compare you at a +disadvantage with your clever sister. I declare, Euneece, I lose my head +if I only think of it! All the strong points in my character seem to +slip away from me. Would you believe it?--I have neglected that sweet +infant at the cottage; I have even let Mrs. Molly have her baby back +again. If I had the making of the laws, Philip Dunboyne and Helena +Gracedieu should be hanged together on the same gallows. I see I shock +you. Don’t let us talk of it! Oh, don’t let us talk of it!” + +And here am I writing of it! What I had determined not to do, is what I +have done. Am I losing my senses already? The very names that I was most +anxious to keep out of my memory stare me in the face in the lines that +I have just written. Philip again! Helena again! + +....... + +Another day, and something new that must and will be remembered, shrink +from it as I may. This afternoon, I met Helena on the stairs. + +She stopped, and eyed me with a wicked smile; she held out her hand. +“We are likely to meet often, while we are in the same house,” she said; +“hadn’t we better consult appearances, and pretend to be as fond of each +other as ever?” + +I took no notice of her hand; I took no notice of her shameless +proposal. She tried again: “After all, it isn’t my fault if Philip likes +me better than he likes you. Don’t you see that?” I still refused to +speak to her. She still persisted. “How black you look, Eunice! Are you +sorry you didn’t kill me, when you had your hands on my throat?” + +I said: “Yes.” + +She laughed, and left me. I was obliged to sit down on the stair--I +trembled so. My own reply frightened me. I tried to find out why I had +said Yes. I don’t remember being conscious of meaning anything. It was +as if somebody else had said Yes--not I. Perhaps I was provoked, and the +word escaped me before I could stop it. Could I have stopped it? I don’t +know. + +....... + +Another sleepless night. + +Did I pass the miserable hours in writing letters to Philip and then +tearing them up? Or did I only fancy that I wrote to him? I have just +looked at the fireplace. The torn paper in it tells me that I did write. +Why did I destroy my letters? I might have sent one of them to Philip. +After what has happened? Oh, no! no! + +Having been many days away from the Girls’ Scripture Class, it seemed to +be possible that going back to the school and the teaching might help me +to escape from myself. + +Nothing succeeds with me. I found it impossible to instruct the girls as +usual; their stupidity soon reached the limit of my patience--suffocated +me with rage. One of them, a poor, fat, feeble creature, began to cry +when I scolded her. I looked with envy at the tears rolling over her +big round cheeks. If I could only cry, I might perhaps bear my hard fate +with submission. + +I walked toward home by a roundabout way; feeling as if want of sleep +was killing me by inches. + +In the High Street, I saw Helena; she was posting a letter, and was +not aware that I was near her. Leaving the post-office, she crossed +the street, and narrowly escaped being run over. Suppose the threatened +accident had really taken place--how should I have felt, if it had ended +fatally? What a fool I am to be putting questions to myself about things +that have not happened! + +The walking tired me; I went straight home. + +Before I could ring the bell, the house door opened, and the doctor +came out. He stopped to speak to me. While I had been away (he said), +something had happened at home (he neither knew nor wished to know what) +which had thrown my father into a state of violent agitation. The doctor +had administered composing medicine. “My patient is asleep now,” he told +me; “but remember what I said to you the last time we met; a longer rest +than any doctor’s prescription can give him is what he wants. You are +not looking well yourself, my dear. What is the matter?” + +I told him of my wretched restless nights; and asked if I might take +some of the composing medicine which he had given to my father. He +forbade me to touch a drop of it. “What is physic for your father, you +foolish child, is not physic for a young creature like you,” he said. +“Count a thousand, if you can’t sleep to-night, or turn your pillow. I +wish you pleasant dreams.” He went away, amused at his own humor. + +I found Selina waiting to speak with me, on the subject of poor papa. + +She had been startled on hearing his voice, loud in anger. In the +fear that something serious had happened, she left her room to make +inquiries, and saw Helena on the landing of the flight of stairs +beneath, leaving the study. After waiting till my sister was out of the +way, Selina ventured to present herself at the study door, and to ask +if she could be of any use. My father, walking excitedly up and down the +room, declared that both his daughters had behaved infamously, and that +he would not suffer them to speak to him again until they had come to +their senses, on the subject of Mr. Dunboyne. He would enter into no +further explanation; and he had ordered, rather than requested, Selina +to leave him. Having obeyed, she tried next to find me, and had +just looked into the dining-room to see if I was there, when she was +frightened by the sound of a fall in the room above--that is to say, in +the study. Running upstairs again, she had found him insensible on the +floor and had sent for the doctor. + +“And mind this,” Selina continued, “the person who has done the mischief +is the person whom I saw leaving the study. What your unnatural sister +said to provoke her father--” + +“That your unnatural sister will tell you herself,” Helena’s voice +added. She had opened the door while we were too much absorbed in our +talk to hear her. + +Selina attempted to leave the room. I caught her by the hand, and held +her back. I was afraid of what I might do if she left me by myself. +Never have I felt anything like the rage that tortured me, when I saw +Helena looking at us with the same wicked smile on her lips that had +insulted me when we met on the stairs. “Have _we_ anything to be ashamed +of?” I said to Selina. “Stay where you are.” + +“You may be of some use, Miss Jillgall, if you stay,” my sister +suggested. “Eunice seems to be trembling. Is she angry, or is she ill?” + +The sting of this was in the tone of her voice. It was the hardest thing +I ever had to do in my life--but I did succeed in controlling myself. + +“Go on with what you have to say,” I answered, “and don’t notice me.” + +“You are not very polite, my dear, but I can make allowances. Oh, come! +come! putting up your hands to stop your ears is too childish. You would +do better to express regret for having misled your father. Yes! you did +mislead him. Only a few days since, you left him to suppose that you +were engaged to Philip. It became my duty, after that, to open his eyes +to the truth; and if I unhappily provoked him, it was your fault. I was +strictly careful in the language I used. I said: ‘Dear father, you have +been misinformed on a very serious subject. The only marriage engagement +for which your kind sanction is requested, is _my_ engagement. _I_ have +consented to become Mrs. Philip Dunboyne.’” + +“Stop!” I said. + +“Why am I to stop?” + +“Because I have something to say. You and I are looking at each other. +Does my face tell you what is passing in my mind?” + +“Your face seems to be paler than usual,” she answered--“that’s all.” + +“No,” I said; “that is not all. The devil that possessed me, when I +discovered you with Philip, is not cast out of me yet. Silence the +sneering devil that is in You, or we may both live to regret it.” + +Whether I did or did not frighten her, I cannot say. This only I +know--she turned away silently to the door, and went out. + +I dropped on the sofa. That horrid hungering for revenge, which I felt +for the first time when I knew how Helena had wronged me, began to +degrade and tempt me again. In the effort to get away from this new evil +self of mine, I tried to find sympathy in Selina, and called to her to +come and sit by me. She seemed to be startled when I looked at her, but +she recovered herself, and came to me, and took my hand. + +“I wish I could comfort you!” she said, in her kind simple way. + +“Keep my hand in your hand,” I told her; “I am drowning in dark +water--and I have nothing to hold by but you.” + +“Oh, my darling, don’t talk in that way!” + +“Good Selina! dear Selina! You shall talk to me. Say something +harmless--tell me a melancholy story--try to make me cry.” + +My poor little friend looked sadly bewildered. + +“I’m more likely to cry myself,” she said. “This is so heart-breaking--I +almost wish I was back in the time, before you came home, the time +when your detestable sister first showed how she hated me. I was happy, +meanly happy, in the spiteful enjoyment of provoking her. Oh, Euneece, +I shall never recover my spirits again! All the pity in the world would +not be pity enough for _you_. So hardly treated! so young! so forlorn! +Your good father too ill to help you; your poor mother--” + +I interrupted her; she had interested me in something better than my own +wretched self. I asked directly if she had known my mother. + +“My dear child, I never even saw her!” + +“Has my father never spoken to you about her?” + +“Only once, when I asked him how long she had been dead. He told me you +lost her while you were an infant, and he told me no more. I was looking +at her portrait in the study, only yesterday. I think it must be a bad +portrait; your mother’s face disappoints me.” + +I had arrived at the same conclusion years since. But I shrank from +confessing it. + +“At any rate,” Selina continued, “you are not like her. Nobody would +ever guess that you were the child of that lady, with the long slanting +forehead and the restless look in her eyes.” + +What Selina had said of me and my mother’s portrait, other friends had +said. There was nothing that I know of to interest me in hearing it +repeated--and yet it set me pondering on the want of resemblance between +my mother’s face and mine, and wondering (not for the first time) what +sort of woman my mother was. When my father speaks of her, no words of +praise that he can utter seem to be good enough for her. Oh, me, I wish +I was a little more like my mother! + +It began to get dark; Maria brought in the lamp. The sudden brightness +of the flame struck my aching eyes, as if it had been a blow from a +knife. I was obliged to hide my face in my handkerchief. Compassionate +Selina entreated me to go to bed. “Rest your poor eyes, my child, and +your weary head--and try at least to get some sleep.” She found me very +docile; I kissed her, and said good-night. I had my own idea. + +When all was quiet in the house, I stole out into the passage and +listened at the door of my father’s room. + +I heard his regular breathing, and opened the door and went in. The +composing medicine, of which I was in search, was not on the table by +his bedside. I found it in the cupboard--perhaps placed purposely out of +his reach. They say that some physic is poison, if you take too much of +it. The label on the bottle told me what the dose was. I dropped it into +the medicine glass, and swallowed it, and went back to my father. + +Very gently, so as not to wake him, I touched poor papa’s forehead with +my lips. “I must have some of your medicine,” I whispered to him; “I +want it, dear, as badly as you do.” + +Then I returned to my own room--and lay down in bed, waiting to be +composed. + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. EUNICE’S DIARY. + +My restless nights are passed in Selina’s room. + +Her bed remains near the window. My bed has been placed opposite, near +the door. Our night-light is hidden in a corner, so that the faint glow +of it is all that we see. What trifles these are to write about! But +they mix themselves up with what I am determined to set down in +my Journal, and then to close the book for good and all. I had not +disturbed my little friend’s enviable repose, either when I left our +bed-chamber, or when I returned to it. The night was quiet, and the +stars were out. Nothing moved but the throbbing at my temples. The +lights and shadows in our half-darkened room, which at other times +suggest strange resemblances to my fancy, failed to disturb me now. I +was in a darkness of my own making, having bound a handkerchief, cooled +with water, over my hot eyes. There was nothing to interfere with the +soothing influence of the dose that I had taken, if my father’s medicine +would only help me. + +I began badly. The clock in the hall struck the quarter past the +hour, the half-past, the three-quarters past, the new hour. Time was +awake--and I was awake with Time. + +It was such a trial to my patience that I thought of going back to my +father’s room, and taking a second dose of the medicine, no matter what +the risk might be. On attempting to get up, I became aware of a change +in me. There was a dull sensation in my limbs which seemed to bind them +down on the bed. It was the strangest feeling. My will said, Get up--and +my heavy limbs said, No. + +I lay quite still, thinking desperate thoughts, and getting nearer and +nearer to the end that I had been dreading for so many days past. Having +been as well educated as most girls, my lessons in history had made me +acquainted with assassination and murder. Horrors which I had recoiled +from reading in past happy days, now returned to my memory; and, this +time, they interested instead of revolting me. I counted the three +first ways of killing as I happened to remember them, in my books of +instruction:--a way by stabbing; a way by poison; a way in a bed, by +suffocation with a pillow. On that dreadful night, I never once called +to mind what I find myself remembering now--the harmless past time, +when our friends used to say: “Eunice is a good girl; we are all fond of +Eunice.” Shall I ever be the same lovable creature again? + +While I lay thinking, a strange thing happened. Philip, who had haunted +me for days and nights together, vanished out of my thoughts. My memory +of the love which had begun so brightly, and had ended so miserably, +became a blank. Nothing was left but my own horrid visions of vengeance +and death. + +For a while, the strokes of the clock still reached my ears. But it was +an effort to count them; I ended in letting them pass unheeded. Soon +afterward, the round of my thoughts began to circle slowly and more +slowly. The strokes of the clock died out. The round of my thoughts +stopped. + +All this time, my eyes were still covered by the handkerchief which I +had laid over them. + +The darkness began to weigh on my spirits, and to fill me with distrust. +I found myself suspecting that there was some change--perhaps an +unearthly change--passing over the room. To remain blindfolded any +longer was more than I could endure. I lifted my hand--without being +conscious of the heavy sensation which, some time before, had laid my +limbs helpless on the bed--I lifted my hand, and drew the handkerchief +away from my eyes. + +The faint glow of the night-light was extinguished. + +But the room was not quite dark. There was a ghastly light trembling +over it; like nothing that I have ever seen by day; like nothing that I +have ever seen by night. I dimly discerned Selina’s bed, and the frame +of the window, and the curtains on either side of it--but not the +starlight, and not the shadowy tops of the trees in the garden. + +The light grew fainter and fainter; the objects in the room faded slowly +away. Darkness came. + +It may be a saying hard to believe--but, when I declare that I was not +frightened, I am telling the truth. Whether the room was lighted by +awful light, or sunk in awful dark, I was equally interested in the +expectation of what might happen next. I listened calmly for what I +might hear: I waited calmly for what I might feel. A touch came first. +I feel it creeping on my face--like a little fluttering breeze. The +sensation pleased me for a while. Soon it grew colder, and colder, and +colder, till it froze me. + +“Oh, no more!” I cried out. “You are killing me with an icy death!” + +The dead-cold touches lingered a moment longer--and left me. + +The first sound came. + +It was the sound of a whisper on my pillow, close to my ear. My strange +insensibility to fear remained undisturbed. The whisper was welcome, it +kept me company in the dark room. + +It said to me: “Do you know who I am?” + +I answered: “No.” + +It said: “Who have you been thinking of this evening?” + +I answered: “My mother.” + +The whisper said: “I am your mother.” + +“Oh, mother, command the light to come back! Show yourself to me!” + +“No.” + +“Why not?” + +“My face was hidden when I passed from life to death. My face no mortal +creature may see.” + +“Oh, mother, touch me! Kiss me!” + +“No.” + +“Why not?” + +“My touch is poison. My kiss is death.” + +The sense of fear began to come to me now. I moved my head away on the +pillow. The whisper followed my movement. + +“Leave me,” I said. “You are an Evil Spirit.” + +The whisper answered: “I am your mother.” + +“You come to tempt me.” + +“I come to harden your heart. Daughter of mine, whose blood is cool; +daughter of mine, who tamely submits--you have loved. Is it true?” + +“It is true.” + +“The man you loved has deserted you. Is it true?” + +“It is true.” + +“A woman has lured him away to herself. A woman has had no mercy on you, +or on him. Is it true?” + +“It is true.” + +“If she lives, what crime toward you will she commit next?” + +“If she lives, she will marry him.” + +“Will you let her live?” + +“Never.” + +“Have I hardened your heart against her?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you kill her?” + +“Show me how.” + +There was a sudden silence. I was still left in the darkness; feeling +nothing, hearing nothing. Even the consciousness that I was lying on +my bed deserted me. I had no idea that I was in the bedroom; I had no +knowledge of where I was. + +The ghastly light that I had seen already dawned on me once more. I +was no longer in my bed, no longer in my room, no longer in the house. +Without wonder, without even a feeling of surprise, I looked round. The +place was familiar to me. I was alone in the Museum of our town. + +The light flowed along in front of me. I followed, from room to room in +the Museum, where the light led. + +First, through the picture-gallery, hung with the works of modern +masters; then, through the room filled with specimens of stuffed +animals. The lion and the tiger, the vulture of the Alps and the +great albatross, looked like living creatures threatening me, in the +supernatural light. I entered the third room, devoted to the exhibition +of ancient armor, and the weapons of all nations. Here the light rose +higher, and, leaving me in darkness where I stood, showed a collection +of swords, daggers, and knives arranged on the wall in imitation of the +form of a star. + +The whisper sounded again, close at my ear. It echoed my own thought, +when I called to mind the ways of killing which history had taught me. +It said: “Kill her with the knife.” + +No. My heart failed me when I thought of the blood. I hid the dreadful +weapons from my view. I cried out: “Let me go! let me go!” + +Again, I was lost in darkness. Again, I had no knowledge in me of where +I was. Again, after an interval, the light showed me the new place in +which I stood. + +I was alone in the burial-ground of our parish church. The light led me +on, among the graves, to the lonely corner in which the great yew tree +stands; and, rising higher, revealed the solemn foliage, brightened by +the fatal red fruit which hides in itself the seeds of death. + +The whisper tempted me again. It followed again the train of my own +thought. It said: “Kill her by poison.” + +No. Revenge by poison steals its way to its end. The base deceitfulness +of Helena’s crime against me seemed to call for a day of reckoning that +hid itself under no disguise. I raised my cry to be delivered from the +sight of the deadly tree. The changes which I have tried to describe +followed once more the confession of what I felt; the darkness was +dispelled for the third time. + +I was standing in Helena’s room, looking at her as she lay asleep in her +bed. + +She was quite still now; but she must have been restless at some earlier +time. The bedclothes were disordered, her head had sunk so low that the +pillow rose high and vacant above her. There, colored by a tender flush +of sleep, was the face whose beauty put my poor face to shame. There, +was the sister who had committed the worst of murders--the wretch who +had killed in me all that made life worth having. While that thought was +in my mind, I heard the whisper again. “Kill her openly,” the tempter +mother said. “Kill her daringly. Faint heart, do you still want courage? +Rouse your spirit; look! see yourself in the act!” + +The temptation took a form which now tried me for the first time. + +As if a mirror had reflected the scene, I saw myself standing by the +bedside, with the pillow that was to smother the sleeper in my hands. I +heard the whispering voice telling me how to speak the words that warned +and condemned her: “Wake! you who have taken him from me! Wake! and meet +your doom.” + +I saw her start up in bed. The sudden movement disordered the nightdress +over her bosom and showed the miniature portrait of a man, hung round +her neck. + +The man was Philip. The likeness was looking at me. + +So dear, so lovely--those eyes that had once been the light of my heart, +mourned for me and judged me now. They saw the guilty thought that +polluted me; they brought me to my knees, imploring him to help me back +to my better self: “One last mercy, dear, to comfort me under the loss +of you. Let the love that was once my life, be my good angel still. Save +me, Philip, even though you forsake me--save me from myself!” + +....... + +There was a sudden cry. + +The agony of it pierced my brain--drove away the ghastly light--silenced +the tempting whispers. I came to myself. I saw--and not in a dream. + +Helena _had_ started up in her bed. That cry of terror, at the sight +of me in her room at night, _had_ burst from her lips. The miniature of +Philip hung round her neck, a visible reality. Though my head was dizzy, +though my heart was sinking, I had not lost my senses yet. All that the +night lamp could show me, I still saw; and I heard the sound, faintly, +when the door of the bed-chamber was opened. Alarmed by that piercing +cry, my father came hurrying into the room. + +Not a word passed between us three. The whispers that I had heard were +wicked; the thoughts that had been in my mind were vile. Had they left +some poison in the air of the room, which killed the words on our lips? + +My father looked at Helena. With a trembling hand she pointed to me. He +put his arm round me and held me up. I remember his leading me away--and +I remember nothing more. + +My last words are written. I lock up this journal of misery-never, I +hope and pray, to open it again. ---- + +Second Period (continued). + +EVENTS IN THE FAMILY, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR. ---- + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. THE MIDDLE-AGED LADY. + +In the year 1870 I found myself compelled to submit to the demands of +two hard task-masters. + +Advancing age and failing health reminded the Governor of the Prison of +his duty to his successor, in one unanswerable word--Resign. + +When they have employed us and interested us, for the greater part of +our lives, we bid farewell to our duties--even to the gloomy duties of a +prison--with a sense of regret. My view of the future presented a vacant +prospect indeed, when I looked at my idle life to come, and wondered +what I should do with it. Loose on the world--at my age!--I drifted into +domestic refuge, under the care of my two dear and good sons. After a +while (never mind how long a while) I began to grow restless under +the heavy burden of idleness. Having nothing else to complain of, I +complained of my health, and consulted a doctor. That sagacious man hit +on the right way of getting rid of me--he recommended traveling. + +This was unexpected advice. After some hesitation, I accepted it +reluctantly. + +The instincts of age recoil from making new acquaintances, contemplating +new places, and adopting new habits. Besides, I hate railway traveling. +However, I contrived to get as far as Italy, and stopped to rest at +Florence. Here, I found pictures by the old masters that I could really +enjoy, a public park that I could honestly admire, and an excellent +friend and colleague of former days; once chaplain to the prison, now +clergyman in charge of the English Church. We met in the gallery of the +Pitti Palace; and he recognized me immediately. I was pleased to find +that the lapse of years had made so little difference in my personal +appearance. + +The traveler who advances as far as Florence, and does not go on to +Rome, must be regardless indeed of the opinions of his friends. Let me +not attempt to conceal it--I am that insensible traveler. Over and over +again, I said to myself: “Rome must be done”; and over and over again I +put off doing it. To own the truth, the fascinations of Florence, aided +by the society of my friend, laid so strong a hold on me that I believe +I should have ended my days in the delightful Italian city, but for the +dangerous illness of one of my sons. This misfortune hurried me back to +England, in dread, every step of the way, of finding that I had arrived +too late. The journey (thank God!) proved to have been taken without +need. My son was no longer in danger, when I reached London in the year +1875. + +At that date I was near enough to the customary limit of human life to +feel the necessity of rest and quiet. In other words, my days of travel +had come to their end. + +Having established myself in my own country, I did not forget to let old +friends know where they might find me. Among those to whom I wrote was +another colleague of past years, who still held his medical appointment +in the prison. When I received the doctor’s reply, it inclosed a letter +directed to me at my old quarters in the Governor’s rooms. Who could +possibly have sent a letter to an address which I had left five +years since? My correspondent proved to be no less a person than the +Congregational Minister--the friend whom I had estranged from me by the +tone in which I had written to him, on the long-past occasion of his +wife’s death. + +It was a distressing letter to read. I beg permission to give only the +substance of it in this place. + +Entreating me, with touching expressions of humility and sorrow, to +forgive his long silence, the writer appealed to my friendly remembrance +of him. He was in sore need of counsel, under serious difficulties; and +I was the only person to whom he could apply for help. In the disordered +state of his health at that time, he ventured to hope that I would visit +him at his present place of abode, and would let him have the +happiness of seeing me as speedily as possible. He concluded with this +extraordinary postscript: + +“When you see my daughters, say nothing to either of them which relates, +in any way, to the subject of their ages. You shall hear why when we +meet.” + +The reading of this letter naturally reminded me of the claims which my +friend’s noble conduct had established on my admiration and respect, at +the past time when we met in the prison. I could not hesitate to grant +his request--strangely as it was expressed, and doubtful as the prospect +appeared to be of my answering the expectations which he had founded +on the renewal of our intercourse. Answering his letter by telegraph, I +promised to be with him on the next day. + +On arriving at the station, I found that I was the only traveler, by a +first-class carriage, who left the train. A young lady, remarkable by +her good looks and good dressing, seemed to have noticed this trifling +circumstance. She approached me with a ready smile. “I believe I +am speaking to my father’s friend,” she said; “my name is Helena +Gracedieu.” + +Here was one of the Minister’s two “daughters”; and that one of the +two--as I discovered the moment I shook hands with her--who was my +friend’s own child. Miss Helena recalled to me her mother’s face, +infinitely improved by youth and health, and by a natural beauty which +that cruel and deceitful woman could never have possessed. The slanting +forehead and the shifting, flashing eyes, that I recollected in the +parent, were reproduced (slightly reproduced, I ought to say) in the +child. As for the other features, I had never seen a more beautiful nose +and mouth, or a more delicately-shaped outline, than was presented by +the lower part of the face. But Miss Helena somehow failed to charm me. +I doubt if I should have fallen in love with her, even in the days when +I was a foolish young man. + +The first question that I put, as we drove from the station to the +house, related naturally to her father. + +“He is very ill,” she began; “I am afraid you must prepare yourself to +see a sad change. Nerves. The mischief first showed itself, the doctor +tells us, in derangement of his nervous system. He has been, I regret +to tell you, obstinate in refusing to give up his preaching and pastoral +work. He ought to have tried rest at the seaside. Things have gone on +from bad to worse. Last Sunday, at the beginning of his sermon, he broke +down. Very, very sad, is it not? The doctor says that precious time has +been lost, and he must make up his mind to resign his charge. He won’t +hear of it. You are his old friend. Please try to persuade him.” + +Fluently spoken; the words well chosen; the melodious voice reminding +me of the late Mrs. Gracedieu’s advantages in that respect; little +sighs judiciously thrown in here and there, just at the right places; +everything, let me own, that could present a dutiful daughter as a +pattern of propriety--and nothing, let me add, that could produce an +impression on my insensible temperament. If I had not been too discreet +to rush at a hasty conclusion, I might have been inclined to say: her +mother’s child, every inch of her! + +The interest which I was still able to feel in my friend’s domestic +affairs centered in the daughter whom he had adopted. + +In her infancy I had seen the child, and liked her; I was the one person +living (since the death of Mrs. Gracedieu) who knew how the Minister had +concealed the sad secret of her parentage; and I wanted to discover if +the hereditary taint had begun to show itself in the innocent offspring +of the murderess. Just as I was considering how I might harmlessly speak +of Miss Helena’s “sister,” Miss Helena herself introduced the subject. + +“May I ask,” she resumed, “if you were disappointed when you found +nobody but me to meet you at our station?” + +Here was an opportunity of paying her a compliment, if I had been a +younger man, or if she had produced a favorable impression on me. As it +was, I hit--if I may praise myself--on an ingenious compromise. + +“What excuse could I have,” I asked, “for feeling disappointed?” + +“Well, I hear you are an official personage--I ought to say, perhaps, +a retired official personage. We might have received you more +respectfully, if _both_ my father’s daughters had been present at the +station. It’s not my fault that my sister was not with me.” + +The tone in which she said this strengthened my prejudice against her. +It told me that the two girls were living together on no very +friendly terms; and it suggested--justly or unjustly I could not then +decide--that Miss Helena was to blame. + +“My sister is away from home.” + +“Surely, Miss Helena, that is a good reason for her not coming to meet +me?” + +“I beg your pardon--it is a bad reason. She has been sent away for the +recovery of her health--and the loss of her health is entirely her own +fault.” + +What did this matter to me? I decided on dropping the subject. My memory +reverted, however, to past occasions on which the loss of _my_ health +had been entirely my own fault. There was something in these personal +recollections, which encouraged my perverse tendency to sympathize with +a young lady to whom I had not yet been introduced. The young lady’s +sister appeared to be discouraged by my silence. She said: “I hope you +don’t think the worse of me for what I have just mentioned?” + +“Certainly not.” + +“Perhaps you will fail to see any need of my speaking of my sister at +all? Will you kindly listen, if I try to explain myself?” + +“With pleasure.” + +She slyly set the best construction on my perfectly commonplace reply. + +“Thank you,” she said. “The fact is, my father (I can’t imagine why) +wishes you to see my sister as well as me. He has written to the +farmhouse at which she is now staying, to tell her to come +home to-morrow. It is possible--if your kindness offers me an +opportunity--that I may ask to be guided by your experience, in a little +matter which interests me. My sister is rash, and reckless, and has a +terrible temper. I should be very sorry indeed if you were induced to +form an unfavorable opinion of me, from anything you might notice if you +see us together. You understand me, I hope?” + +“I quite understand you.” + +To set me against her sister, in her own private interests--there, as +I felt sure, was the motive under which she was acting. As hard as +her mother, as selfish as her mother, and, judging from those two bad +qualities, probably as cruel as her mother. That was how I understood +Miss Helena Gracedieu, when our carriage drew up at her father’s house. + +A middle-aged lady was on the doorstep, when we arrived, just ringing +the bell. She looked round at us both; being evidently as complete a +stranger to my fair companion as she was to me. When the servant opened +the door, she said: + +“Is Miss Jillgall at home?” + +At the sound of that odd name, Miss Helena tossed her head disdainfully. +She took no sort of notice of the stranger-lady who was at the door +of her father’s house. This young person’s contempt for Miss Jillgall +appeared to extend to Miss Jillgall’s friends. + +In the meantime, the servant’s answer was: “Not at home.” + +The middle aged lady said: “Do you expect her back soon?” + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“I will call again, later in the day.” + +“What name, if you please?” + +The lady stole another look at me, before she replied. + +“Never mind the name,” she said--and walked away. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. THE MINISTER’S MISFORTUNE. + +“Do you know that lady?” Miss Helena asked, as we entered the house. + +“She is a perfect stranger to me,” I answered. + +“Are you sure you have not forgotten her?” + +“Why do you think I have forgotten her?” + +“Because she evidently remembered you.” + +The lady had no doubt looked at me twice. If this meant that my face was +familiar to her, I could only repeat what I have already said. Never, to +my knowledge, had I seen her before. + +Leading the way upstairs, Miss Helena apologized for taking me into her +father’s bedroom. “He is able to sit up in an armchair,” she said; “and +he might do more, as I think, if he would exert himself. He won’t exert +himself. Very sad. Would you like to look at your room, before you see +my father? It is quite ready for you. We hope”--she favored me with +a fascinating smile, devoted to winning my heart when her interests +required it--“we hope you will pay us a long visit; we look on you as +one of ourselves.” + +I thanked her, and said I would shake hands with my old friend before I +went to my room. We parted at the bedroom door. + +It is out of my power to describe the shock that overpowered me when I +first saw the Minister again, after the long interval of time that had +separated us. Nothing that his daughter said, nothing that I myself +anticipated, had prepared me for that lamentable change. For the moment, +I was not sufficiently master of myself to be able to speak to him. He +added to my embarrassment by the humility of his manner, and the formal +elaboration of his apologies. + +“I feel painfully that I have taken a liberty with you,” he said, +“after the long estrangement between us--for which my want of Christian +forbearance is to blame. Forgive it, sir, and forget it. I hope to +show that necessity justifies my presumption, in subjecting you to a +wearisome journey for my sake.” + +Beginning to recover myself, I begged that he would make no more +excuses. My interruption seemed to confuse him. + +“I wished to say,” he went on, “that you are the one man who can +understand me. There is my only reason for asking to see you, and +looking forward as I do to your advice. You remember the night--or was +it the day?--before that miserable woman was hanged? You were the only +person present when I agreed to adopt the poor little creature, stained +already (one may say) by its mother’s infamy. I think your wisdom +foresaw what a terrible responsibility I was undertaking; you tried to +prevent it. Well! well! you have been in my confidence--you only. Mind! +nobody in this house knows that one of the two girls is not really my +daughter. Pray stop me, if you find me wandering from the point. My wish +is to show that you are the only man I can open my heart to. She--” + He paused, as if in search of a lost idea, and left the sentence +uncompleted. “Yes,” he went on, “I was thinking of my adopted child. Did +I ever tell you that I baptized her myself? and by a good Scripture name +too--Eunice. Ah, sir, that little helpless baby is a grown-up girl now; +of an age to inspire love, and to feel love. I blush to acknowledge +it; I have behaved with a want of self-control, with a cowardly +weakness.--No! I am, indeed, wandering this time. I ought to have told +you first that I have been brought face to face with the possibility of +Eunice’s marriage. And, to make it worse still, I can’t help liking +the young man. He comes of a good family--excellent manners, highly +educated, plenty of money, a gentleman in every sense of the word. And +poor little Eunice is so fond of him! Isn’t it dreadful to be obliged to +check her dearly-loved Philip? The young gentleman’s name is Philip. +Do you like the name? I say I am obliged to cheek her sweetheart in +the rudest manner, when all he wants to do is to ask me modestly for +my sweet Eunice’s hand. Oh, what have I not suffered, without a word +of sympathy to comfort me, before I had courage enough to write to you! +Shall I make a dreadful confession? If my religious convictions had not +stood in my way, I believe I should have committed suicide. Put yourself +in my place. Try to see yourself shrinking from a necessary +explanation, when the happiness of a harmless girl--so dutiful, so +affectionate--depended on a word of kindness from your lips. And that +word you are afraid to speak! Don’t take offense, sir; I mean myself, +not you. Why don’t you say something?” he burst out fiercely, incapable +of perceiving that he had allowed me no opportunity of speaking to him. +“Good God! don’t you understand me, after all?” + +The signs of mental confusion in his talk had so distressed me, that I +had not been composed enough to feel sure of what he really meant, +until he described himself as “shrinking from a necessary explanation.” + Hearing those words, my knowledge of the circumstances helped me; I +realized what his situation really was. + +“Compose yourself,” I said, “I understand you at last.” + +He had suddenly become distrustful. “Prove it,” he muttered, with a +furtive look at me. “I want to be satisfied that you understand my +position.” + +“This is your position,” I told him. “You are placed between two +deplorable alternatives. If you tell this young gentleman that Miss +Eunice’s mother was a criminal hanged for murder, his family--even if he +himself doesn’t recoil from it--will unquestionably forbid the marriage; +and your adopted daughter’s happiness will be the sacrifice.” + +“True!” he said. “Frightfully true! Go on.” + +“If, on the other hand, you sanction the marriage, and conceal the +truth, you commit a deliberate act of deceit; and you leave the lives of +the young couple at the mercy of a possible discovery, which might +part husband and wife--cast a slur on their children--and break up the +household.” + +He shuddered while he listened to me. “Come to the end of it,” he cried. + +I had no more to say, and I was obliged to answer him to that effect. + +“No more to say?” he replied. “You have not told me yet what I most want +to know.” + +I did a rash thing; I asked what it was that he most wanted to know. + +“Can’t you see it for yourself?” he demanded indignantly. “Suppose you +were put between those two alternatives which you mentioned just now.” + +“Well?” + +“What would you do, sir, in my place? Would you own the disgraceful +truth--before the marriage--or run the risk, and keep the horrid story +to yourself?” + +Either way, my reply might lead to serious consequences. I hesitated. + +He threatened me with his poor feeble hand. It was only the anger of a +moment; his humor changed to supplication. He reminded me piteously of +bygone days: “You used to be a kind-hearted man. Has age hardened you? +Have you no pity left for your old friend? My poor heart is sadly in +want of a word of wisdom, spoken kindly.” + +Who could have resisted this? I took his hand: “Be at ease, dear +Minister. In your place I should run the risk, and keep that horrid +story to myself.” + +He sank back gently in his chair. “Oh, the relief of it!” he said. “How +can I thank you as I ought for quieting my mind?” + +I seized the opportunity of quieting his mind to good purpose by +suggesting a change of subject. “Let us have done with serious talk for +the present,” I proposed. “I have been an idle man for the last five +years, and I want to tell you about my travels.” + +His attention began to wander, he evidently felt no interest in my +travels. “Are you sure,” he asked anxiously, “that we have said all we +ought to say? No!” he cried, answering his own question. “I believe +I have forgotten something--I am certain I have forgotten something. +Perhaps I mentioned it in the letter I wrote to you. Have you got my +letter?” + +I showed it to him. He read the letter, and gave it back to me with a +heavy sigh. “Not there!” he said despairingly. “Not there!” + +“Is the lost remembrance connected with anybody in the house?” I asked, +trying to help him. “Does it relate, by any chance, to one of the young +ladies?” + +“You wonderful man! Nothing escapes you. Yes; the thing I have forgotten +concerns one of the girls. Stop! Let me get at it by myself. Surely +it relates to Helena?” He hesitated; his face clouded over with an +expression of anxious thought. “Yes; it relates to Helena,” he repeated +“but how?” His eyes filled with tears. “I am ashamed of my weakness,” + he said faintly. “You don’t know how dreadful it is to forget things in +this way.” + +The injury that his mind had sustained now assumed an aspect that was +serious indeed. The subtle machinery, which stimulates the memory, by +means of the association of ideas, appeared to have lost its working +power in the intellect of this unhappy man. I made the first suggestion +that occurred to me, rather than add to his distress by remaining +silent. + +“If we talk of your daughter,” I said, “the merest accident--a word +spoken at random by. you or me--may be all your memory wants to rouse +it.” + +He agreed eagerly to this: “Yes! Yes! Let me begin. Helena met you, I +think, at the station. Of course, I remember that; it only happened +a few hours since. Well?” he went on, with a change in his manner to +parental pride, which it was pleasant to see, “did you think my daughter +a fine girl? I hope Helena didn’t disappoint you?” + +“Quite the contrary.” Having made that necessary reply, I saw my way to +keeping his mind occupied by a harmless subject. “It must, however, be +owned,” I went on, “that your daughter surprised me.” + +“In what way?” + +“When she mentioned her name. Who could have supposed that you--an +inveterate enemy to the Roman Catholic Church--would have christened +your daughter by the name of a Roman Catholic Saint?” + +He listened to this with a smile. Had I happily blundered on some +association which his mind was still able to pursue? + +“You happen to be wrong this time,” he said pleasantly. “I never gave +my girl the name of Helena; and, what is more, I never baptized her. +You ought to know that. Years and years ago, I wrote to tell you that my +poor wife had made me a proud and happy father. And surely I said that +the child was born while she was on a visit to her brother’s rectory. +Do you remember the name of the place? I told you it was a remote +little village, called--Suppose we put _your_ memory to a test? Can you +remember the name?” he asked, with a momentary appearance of triumph +showing itself, poor fellow, in his face. + +After the time that had elapsed, the name had slipped my memory. When I +confessed this, he exulted over me, with an unalloyed pleasure which it +was cheering to see. + +“_Your_ memory is failing you now,” he said. “The name is Long Lanes. +And what do you think my wife did--this is so characteristic of +her!--when I presented myself at her bedside. Instead of speaking of our +own baby, she reminded me of the name that I had given to our adopted +daughter when I baptized the child. ‘You chose the ugliest name that a +girl can have,’ she said. I begged her to remember that ‘Eunice’ was +a name in Scripture. She persisted in spite of me. (What firmness of +character!) ‘I detest the name of Eunice!’ she said; ‘and now that I +have a girl of my own, it’s my turn to choose the name; I claim it as my +right.’ She was beginning to get excited; I allowed her to have her own +way, of course. ‘Only let me know,’ I said, ‘what the name is to be when +you have thought of it.’ My dear sir, she had the name ready, without +thinking about it: ‘My baby shall be called by the name that is sweetest +in my ears, the name of my dear lost mother.’ We had--what shall I call +it?--a slight difference of opinion when I heard that the name was to be +Helena. I really could _not_ reconcile it to my conscience to baptize +a child of mine by the name of a Popish saint. My wife’s brother set +things right between us. A worthy good man; he died not very long ago--I +forget the date. Not to detain you any longer, the rector of Long Lanes +baptized our daughter. That is how she comes by her un-English name; and +so it happens that her birth is registered in a village which her father +has never inhabited. I hope, sir, you think a little better of my memory +now?” + +I was afraid to tell him what I really did think. + +He was not fifty years old yet; and he had just exhibited one of the sad +symptoms which mark the broken memory of old age. Lead him back to the +events of many years ago, and (as he had just proved to me) he could +remember well and relate coherently. But let him attempt to recall +circumstances which had only taken place a short time since, and +forgetfulness and confusion presented the lamentable result, just as I +have related it. + +The effort that he had made, the agitation that he had undergone in +talking to me, had confirmed my fears that he would overtask his +wasted strength. He lay back in his chair. “Let us go on with our +conversation,” he murmured. “We haven’t recovered what I had forgotten, +yet.” His eyes closed, and opened again languidly. “There was something +I wanted to recall--” he resumed, “and you were helping me.” His weak +voice died away; his weary eyes closed again. After waiting until there +could be no doubt that he was resting peacefully in sleep, I left the +room. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LIVELY OLD MAID. + +A perfect stranger to the interior of the house (seeing that my +experience began and ended with the Minister’s bedchamber), I +descended the stairs, in the character of a guest in search of domestic +information. + +On my way down, I heard the door of a room on the ground floor opened, +and a woman’ s voice below, speaking in a hurry: “My dear, I have not a +moment to spare; my patients are waiting for me.” This was followed by a +confidential communication, judging by the tone. “Mind! not a word about +me to that old gentleman!” Her patients were waiting for her--had I +discovered a female doctor? And there was some old gentleman whom she +was not willing to trust--surely I was not that much-injured man? + +Reaching the hall just as the lady said her last words, I caught a +glimpse of her face, and discovered the middle-aged stranger who had +called on “Miss Jillgall,” and had promised to repeat her visit. A +second lady was at the door, with her back to me, taking leave of her +friend. Having said good-by, she turned round--and we confronted each +other. + +I found her to be a little person, wiry and active; past the prime of +life, and ugly enough to encourage prejudice, in persons who take a +superficial view of their fellow-creatures. Looking impartially at +the little sunken eyes which rested on me with a comical expression of +embarrassment, I saw signs that said: There is some good here, under a +disagreeable surface, if you can only find it. + +She saluted me with a carefully-performed curtsey, and threw open the +door of a room on the ground floor. + +“Pray walk in, sir, and permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr. +Gracedieu’s cousin--Miss Jillgall. Proud indeed to make the acquaintance +of a gentleman distinguished in the service of his country--or perhaps I +ought to say, in the service of the Law. The Governor offers hospitality +to prisoners. And who introduces prisoners to board and lodging with the +Governor?--the Law. Beautiful weather for the time of year, is it not? +May I ask--have you seen your room?” + +The embarrassment which I had already noticed had extended by this time +to her voice and her manner. She was evidently trying to talk herself +into a state of confidence. It seemed but too probable that I was indeed +the person mentioned by her prudent friend at the door. + +Having acknowledged that I had not seen my room yet, my politeness +attempted to add that there was no hurry. The wiry little lady was of +the contrary opinion; she jumped out of her chair as if she had been +shot out of it. “Pray let me make myself useful. The dream of my life +is to make myself useful to others; and to such a man as you--I consider +myself honored. Besides, I do enjoy running up and down stairs. This +way, dear sir; this way to your room.” + +She skipped up the stairs, and stopped on the first landing. “Do you +know, I am a timid person, though I may not look like it. Sometimes, +curiosity gets the better of me--and then I grow bold. Did you notice a +lady who was taking leave of me just now at the house door?” + +I replied that I had seen the lady for a moment, but not for the first +time. “Just as I arrived here from the station,” I said, “I found her +paying a visit when you were not at home.” + +“Yes--and do tell me one thing more.” My readiness in answering +seemed to have inspired Miss Jillgall with confidence. I heard no more +confessions of overpowering curiosity. “Am I right,” she proceeded, “in +supposing that Miss Helena accompanied you on your way here from the +station?” + +“Quite right.” + +“Did she say anything particular, when she saw the lady asking for me at +the door?” + +“Miss Helena thought,” I said, “that the lady recognized me as a person +whom she had seen before.” + +“And what did you think yourself?” + +“I thought Miss Helena was wrong.” + +“Very extraordinary!” With that remark, Miss Jillgall dropped the +subject. The meaning of her reiterated inquiries was now, as it seemed +to me, clear enough. She was eager to discover how I could have inspired +the distrust of me, expressed in the caution addressed to her by her +friend. + +When we reached the upper floor, she paused before the Minister’s room. + +“I believe many years have passed,” she said, “since you last saw Mr. +Gracedieu. I am afraid you have found him a sadly changed man? You won’t +be angry with me, I hope, for asking more questions? I owe Mr. Gracedieu +a debt of gratitude which no devotion, on my part, can ever repay. You +don’t know what a favor I shall consider it, if you will tell me what +you think of him. Did it seem to you that he was not quite himself? I +don’t mean in his looks, poor dear--I mean in his mind.” + +There was true sorrow and sympathy in her face. I believe I should +hardly have thought her ugly, if we had first met at that moment. Thus +far, she had only amused me. I began really to like Miss Jillgall now. + +“I must not conceal from you,” I replied, “that the state of Mr. +Gracedieu’s mind surprised and distressed me. But I ought also to tell +you that I saw him perhaps at his worst. The subject on which he wished +to speak with me would have agitated any man, in his state of health. He +consulted me about his daughter’s marriage.” + +Miss Jillgall suddenly turned pale. + +“His daughter’s marriage?” she repeated. “Oh, you frighten me!” + +“Why should I frighten you?” + +She seemed to find some difficulty in expressing herself. “I hardly +know how to put it, sir. You will excuse me (won’t you?) if I say what +I feel. You have influence--not the sort of influence that finds +places for people who don’t deserve them, and gets mentioned in the +newspapers--I only mean influence over Mr. Gracedieu. That’s what +frightens me. How do I know--? Oh, dear, I’m asking another question! +Allow me, for once, to be plain and positive. I’m afraid, sir, you have +encouraged the Minister to consent to Helena’s marriage.” + +“Pardon me,” I answered, “you mean Eunice’s marriage.” + +“No, sir! Helena.” + +“No, madam! Eunice.” + +“What does he mean?” said Miss Jillgall to herself. + +I heard her. “This is what I mean,” I asserted, in my most positive +manner. “The only subject on which the Minister has consulted me is Miss +Eunice’s marriage.” + +My tone left her no alternative but to believe me. She looked not only +bewildered, but alarmed. “Oh, poor man, has he lost himself in such a +dreadful way as that?” she said to herself. “I daren’t believe it!” She +turned to me. “You have been talking with him for some time. Please try +to remember. While Mr. Gracedieu was speaking of Euneece, did he say +nothing of Helena’s infamous conduct to her sister?” + +Not the slightest hint of any such thing, I assured her, had reached my +ears. + +“Then,” she cried, “I can tell you what he has forgotten! We kept as +much of that miserable story to ourselves as we could, in mercy to him. +Besides, he was always fondest of Euneece; she would live in his memory +when he had forgotten the other--the wretch, the traitress, the plotter, +the fiend!” Miss Jillgall’s good manners slipped, as it were, from +under her; she clinched her fists as a final means of expressing her +sentiments. “The wretched English language isn’t half strong enough for +me,” she declared with a look of fury. + +I took a liberty. “May I ask what Miss Helena has done?” I said. + +“_May_ you ask? Oh, Heavens! you must ask, you shall ask. Mr. Governor, +if your eyes are not opened to Helena’s true character, I can tell you +what she will do; she will deceive you into taking her part. Do you +think she went to the station out of regard for the great man? Pooh! she +went with an eye to her own interests; and she means to make the great +man useful. Thank God, I can stop that!” + +She checked herself there, and looked suspiciously at the door of Mr. +Gracedieu’s room. + +“In the interest of our conversation,” she whispered, “we have not +given a thought to the place we have been talking in. Do you think the +Minister has heard us?” + +“Not if he is asleep--as I left him.” + +Miss Jillgall shook her head ominously. “The safe way is this way,” she +said. “Come with me.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. THE FUTURE LOOKS GLOOMY. + +My ever-helpful guide led me to my room--well out of Mr. Gracedieu’s +hearing, if he happened to be awake--at the other end of the passage. +Having opened the door, she paused on the threshold. The decrees of that +merciless English despot, Propriety, claimed her for their own. “Oh, +dear!” she said to herself, “ought I to go in?” + +My interest as a man (and, what is more, an old man) in the coming +disclosure was too serious to be trifled with in this way. I took her +arm, and led her into my room as if I was at a dinner-party, leading +her to the table. Is it the good or the evil fortune of mortals that +the comic side of life, and the serious side of life, are perpetually in +collision with each other? We burst out laughing, at a moment of grave +importance to us both. Perfectly inappropriate, and perfectly natural. +But we were neither of us philosophers, and we were ashamed of our own +merriment the moment it had ceased. + +“When you hear what I have to tell you,” Miss Jillgall began, “I hope +you will think as I do. What has slipped Mr. Gracedieu’s memory, it +may be safer to say--for he is sometimes irritable, poor dear--where he +won’t know anything about it.” + +With that she told the lamentable story of the desertion of Eunice. + +In silence I listened, from first to last. How could I trust myself +to speak, as I must have spoken, in the presence of a woman? The cruel +injury inflicted on the poor girl, who had interested and touched me in +the first innocent year of her life--who had grown to womanhood to be +the victim of two wretches, both trusted by her, both bound to her by +the sacred debt of love--so fired my temper that I longed to be within +reach of the man, with a horsewhip in my hand. Seeing in my face, as I +suppose, what was passing in my mind, Miss Jillgall expressed sympathy +and admiration in her own quaint way: “Ah, I like to see you so angry! +It’s grand to know that a man who has governed prisoners has got such +a pitying heart. Let me tell you one thing, sir. You will be more angry +than ever, when you see my sweet girl to-morrow. And mind this--it is +Helena’s devouring vanity, Helena’s wicked jealousy of her sister’s good +fortune, that has done the mischief. Don’t be too hard on Philip? I do +believe, if the truth was told, he is ashamed of himself.” + +I felt inclined to be harder on Philip than ever. “Where is he?” I +asked. + +Miss Jillgall started. “Oh, Mr. Governor, don’t show the severe side of +yourself, after the pretty compliment I have just paid to you! What a +masterful voice! and what eyes, dear sir; what terrifying eyes! I feel +as if I was one of your prisoners, and had misbehaved myself.” + +I repeated my question with improvement, I hope, in my looks and tones: +“Don’t think me obstinate, my dear lady. I only want to know if he is in +this town.” + +Miss Jillgall seemed to take a curious pleasure in disappointing me; +she had not forgotten my unfortunate abruptness of look and manner. “You +won’t find him here,” she said. + +“Perhaps he has left England?” + +“If you must know, sir, he is in London--with Mr. Dunboyne.” + +The name startled me. + +In a moment more it recalled to my memory a remarkable letter, addressed +to me many years ago, which will be found in my introductory narrative. +The writer--an Irish gentleman, named Dunboyne confided to me that +his marriage had associated him with the murderess, who had then been +recently executed, as brother-in-law to that infamous woman. This +circumstance he had naturally kept a secret from every one, including +his son, then a boy. I alone was made an exception to the general rule, +because I alone could tell him what had become of the poor little girl, +who in spite of the disgraceful end of her mother was still his niece. +If the child had not been provided for, he felt it his duty to take +charge of her education, and to watch over her prospects in the future. +Such had been his object in writing to me; and such was the substance +of his letter. I had merely informed him, in reply, that his kind +intentions had been anticipated, and that the child’s prosperous future +was assured. + +Miss Jillgall’s keen observation noticed the impression that had been +produced upon me. “Mr. Dunboyne’s name seems to surprise you.” she said. + +“This is the first time I have heard you mention it,” I answered. + +She looked as if she could hardly believe me. “Surely you must have +heard the name,” she said, “when I told you about poor Euneece?” + +“No.” + +“Well, then, Mr. Gracedieu must have mentioned it?” + +“No.” + +This second reply in the negative irritated her. + +“At any rate,” she said, sharply, “you appeared to know Mr. Dunboyne’s +name, just now.” + +“Certainly!” + +“And yet,” she persisted, “the name seemed to come upon you as a +surprise. I don’t understand it. If I have mentioned Philip’s name once, +I have mentioned it a dozen times.” + +We were completely at cross-purposes. She had taken something for +granted which was an unfathomable mystery to me. + +“Well,” I objected, “if you did mention his name a dozen times--excuse +me for asking the question---what then?” + +“Good heavens!” cried Miss Jillgall, “do you mean to say you never +guessed that Philip was Mr. Dunboyne’s son?” + +I was petrified. + +His son! Dunboyne’s son! How could I have guessed it? + +At a later time only, the good little creature who had so innocently +deceived me, remembered that the mischief might have been wrought by the +force of habit. While he had still a claim on their regard the family +had always spoken of Eunice’s unworthy lover by his Christian name; and +what had been familiar in their mouths felt the influence of custom, +before time enough had elapsed to make them think as readily of the +enemy as they had hitherto thought of the friend. + +But I was ignorant of this: and the disclosure by which I found myself +suddenly confronted was more than I could support. For the moment, +speech was beyond me. + +His son! Dunboyne’s son! + +What a position that young man had occupied, unsuspected by his father, +unknown to himself! kept in ignorance of the family disgrace, he had +been a guest in the house of the man who had consoled his infamous +aunt on the eve of her execution--who had saved his unhappy cousin from +poverty, from sorrow, from shame. And but one human being knew this. And +that human being was myself! + +Observing my agitation, Miss Jillgall placed her own construction on it. + +“Do you know anything bad of Philip?” she asked eagerly. “If it’s +something that will prevent Helena from marrying him, tell me what it +is, I beg and pray.” + +I knew no more of “Philip” (whom she still called by his Christian +name!) than she had told me herself: there was no help for it but to +disappoint her. At the same time I was unable to conceal that I was ill +at ease, and that it might be well to leave me by myself. After a look +round the bedchamber to see that nothing was wanting to my comfort, she +made her quaint curtsey, and left me with her own inimitable form of +farewell. “Oh, indeed, I have been here too long! And I’m afraid I have +been guilty, once or twice, of vulgar familiarity. You will excuse me, I +hope. This has been an exciting interview--I think I am going to cry.” + +She ran out of the room; and carried away with her some of my kindliest +feelings, short as the time of our acquaintance had been. What a wife +and what a mother was lost there--and all for want of a pretty face! + +Left alone, my thoughts inevitably reverted to Dunboyne the elder, +and to all that had happened in Mr. Gracedieu’s family since the Irish +gentleman had written to me in bygone years. + +The terrible choice of responsibilities which had preyed on the +Minister’s mind had been foreseen by Mr. Dunboyne, when he first thought +of adopting his infant niece, and had warned him to dread what might +happen in the future, if he brought her up as a member of the family +with his own boy, and if the two young people became at a later period +attached to each other. How had the wise foresight, which offered such +a contrast to the poor Minister’s impulsive act of mercy, met with its +reward? Fate or Providence (call it which we may) had brought Dunboyne’s +son and the daughter of the murderess together; had inspired those two +strangers with love; and had emboldened them to plight their troth by a +marriage engagement. Was the man’s betrayal of the trust placed in him +by the faithful girl to be esteemed a fortunate circumstance by the +two persons who knew the true story of her parentage, the Minister and +myself? Could we rejoice in an act of infidelity which had embittered +and darkened the gentle harmless life of the victim? Or could we, on the +other hand, encourage the ruthless deceit, the hateful treachery, +which had put the wicked Helena--with no exposure to dread if _she_ +married--into her wronged sister’s place? Impossible! In the one case as +in the other, impossible! + +Equally hopeless did the prospect appear, when I tried to determine what +my own individual course of action ought to be. + +In my calmer moments, the idea had occurred to my mind of going to +Dunboyne the younger, and, if he had any sense of shame left, exerting +my influence to lead him back to his betrothed wife. How could I now do +this, consistently with my duty to the young man’s father; knowing what +I knew, and not forgetting that I had myself advised Mr. Gracedieu +to keep the truth concealed, when I was equally ignorant of Philip +Dunboyne’s parentage and of Helena Gracedieu’s treachery? + +Even if events so ordered it that the marriage of Eunice might yet take +place--without any interference exerted to produce that result, one way +or the other, on my part--it would be just as impossible for me to speak +out now, as it had been in the long-past years when I had so cautiously +answered Mr. Dunboyne’s letter. But what would he think of me if +accident led, sooner or later, to the disclosure which I had felt bound +to conceal? The more I tried to forecast the chances of the future, the +darker and the darker was the view that faced me. + +To my sinking heart and wearied mind, good Dame Nature presented a more +acceptable prospect, when I happened to look out of the window of my +room. There I saw the trees and flowerbeds of a garden, tempting me +irresistibly under the cloudless sunshine of a fine day. I was on my way +out, to recover heart and hope, when a knock at the door stopped me. + +Had Miss Jillgall returned? When I said “Come in,” Mr. Gracedieu opened +the door, and entered the room. + +He was so weak that he staggered as he approached me. Leading him to +a chair, I noticed a wild look in his eyes, and a flush on his haggard +cheeks. Something had happened. + +“When you were with me in my room,” he began, “did I not tell you that I +had forgotten something?” + +“Certainly you did.” + +“Well, I have found the lost remembrance. My misfortune--I ought to call +it the punishment for my sins, is recalled to me now. The worst curse +that can fall on a father is the curse that has come to me. I have a +wicked daughter. My own child, sir! my own child!” + +Had he been awake, while Miss Jillgall and I had been talking outside +his door? Had he heard her ask me if Mr. Gracedieu had said nothing +of Helena’s infamous conduct to her sister, while he was speaking of +Eunice? The way to the lost remembrance had perhaps been found there. +In any case, after that bitter allusion to his “wicked daughter” some +result must follow. Helena Gracedieu and a day of reckoning might be +nearer to each other already than I had ventured to hope. + +I waited anxiously for what he might say to me next. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. THE WANDERING MIND. + +For the moment, the Minister disappointed me. + +Without speaking, without even looking up, he took out his pocketbook, +and began to write in it. Constantly interrupted either by a trembling +in the hand that held the pencil, or by a difficulty (as I imagined) +in expressing thoughts imperfectly realized--his patience gave way; he +dashed the book on the floor. + +“My mind is gone!” he burst out. “Oh, Father in Heaven, let death +deliver me from a body without a mind!” + +Who could hear him, and be guilty of the cruelty of preaching +self-control? I picked up the pocketbook, and offered to help him. + +“Do you think you can?” he asked. + +“I can at least try.” + +“Good fellow! What should I do without you? See now; here is my +difficulty. I have got so many things to say, I want to separate +them--or else they will all run into each other. Look at the book,” my +poor friend said mournfully; “they have run into each other in spite of +me.” + +The entries proved to be nearly incomprehensible. Here and there I +discovered some scattered words, which showed themselves more or less +distinctly in the midst of the surrounding confusion. The first word +that I could make out was “Education.” Helped by that hint, I trusted +to guess-work to guide me in speaking to him. It was necessary to be +positive, or he would have lost all faith in me. + +“Well?” he said impatiently. + +“Well,” I answered, “you have something to say to me about the education +which you have given to your daughters.” + +“Don’t put them together!” he cried. “Dear, patient, sweet Eunice must +not be confounded with that she-devil--” + +“Hush, hush, Mr. Gracedieu! Badly as Miss Helena has behaved, she is +your own child.” + +“I repudiate her, sir! Think for a moment of what she has done--and +then think of the religious education that I have given her. Heartless! +Deceitful! The most ignorant creature in the lowest dens of this town +could have done nothing more basely cruel. And this, after years on +years of patient Christian instruction on my part! What is religion? +What is education? I read a horrible book once (I forget who was the +author); it called religion superstition, and education empty form. +I don’t know; upon my word I don’t know that the book may not--Oh, my +tongue! Why don’t I keep a guard over my tongue? Are you a father, +too? Don’t interrupt me. Put yourself in my place, and think of it. +Heartless, deceitful, and _my_ daughter. Give me the pocketbook; I want +to see which memorandum comes first.” + +He had now wrought himself into a state of excitement, which relieved +his spirits of the depression that had weighed on them up to this time. +His harmless vanity, always, as I suspect, a latent quality in +his kindly nature, had already restored his confidence. With a +self-sufficient smile he consulted his own unintelligible entries, and +made his own wild discoveries. + +“Ah, yes; ‘M’ stands for Minister; I come first. Am I to blame? Am +I--God forgive me my many sins--am I heartless? Am I deceitful?” + +“My good friend, not even your enemies could say that!” + +“Thank you. Who comes next?” He consulted the book again. “Her mother, +her sainted mother, comes next. People say she is like her mother. Was +my wife heartless? Was the angel of my life deceitful?” + +(“That,” I thought to myself, “is exactly what your wife was--and +exactly what reappears in your wife’s child.”) + +“Where does her wickedness come from?” he went on. “Not from her mother; +not from me; not from a neglected education.” He suddenly stepped up +to me and laid his hands on my shoulders; his voice dropped to hoarse, +moaning, awestruck tones. “Shall I tell you what it is? A possession of +the devil.” + +It was so evidently desirable to prevent any continuation of such +a train of thought as this, that I could feel no hesitation in +interrupting him. + +“Will you hear what I have to say?” I asked bluntly. + +His humor changed again; he made me a low bow, and went back to his +chair. “I will hear you with pleasure,” he answered politely. “You +are the most eloquent man I know, with one exception--myself. Of +course--myself.” + +“It is mere waste of time,” I continued, “to regret the excellent +education which your daughter has misused.” Making that reply, I was +tempted to add another word of truth. All education is at the mercy of +two powerful counter-influences: the influence of temperament, and the +influence of circumstances. But this was philosophy. How could I expect +him to submit to philosophy? “What we know of Miss Helena,” I went on, +“must be enough for us. She has plotted, and she means to succeed. Stop +her.” + +“Just my idea!” he declared firmly. “I refuse my consent to that +abominable marriage.” + +In the popular phrase, I struck while the iron was hot. “You must do +more than that, sir,” I told him. + +His vanity suddenly took the alarm--I was leading him rather too +undisguisedly. He handed his book back to me. “You will find,” he said +loftily, “that I have put it all down there.” + +I pretended to find it, and read an imaginary entry to this effect: +“After what she has already done, Helena is capable of marrying in +defiance of my wishes and commands. This must be considered and provided +against.” So far, I had succeeded in flattering him. But when (thinking +of his paternal authority) I alluded next to his daughter’s age, his +eyes rested on me with a look of downright terror. + +“No more of that!” he said. “I won’t talk of the girls’ ages even with +you.” + +What did he mean? It was useless to ask. I went on with the matter in +hand--still deliberately speaking to him, as I might have spoken to +a man with an intellect as clear as my own. In my experience, this +practice generally stimulates a weak intelligence to do its best. We +all know how children receive talk that is lowered, or books that are +lowered, to their presumed level. “I shall take it for granted,” I +continued, “that Miss Helena is still under your lawful authority. She +can only arrive at her ends by means of a runaway marriage. In that +case, much depends on the man. You told me you couldn’t help liking him. +This was, of course, before you knew of the infamous manner in which he +has behaved. You must have changed your opinion now.” + +He seemed to be at a loss how to reply. “I am afraid,” he said, “the +young man was drawn into it by Helena.” + +Here was Miss Jillgall’s apology for Philip Dunboyne repeated in other +words. Despising and detesting the fellow as I did, I was forced to +admit to myself that he must be recommended by personal attractions +which it would be necessary to reckon with. I tried to get some more +information from Mr. Gracedieu. + +“The excuse you have just made for him,” I resumed, “implies that he is +a weak man; easily persuaded, easily led.” + +The Minister answered by nodding his head. + +“Such weakness as that,” I persisted, “is a vice in itself. It has led +already, sir, to the saddest results.” + +He admitted this by another nod. + +“I don’t wish to shock you, Mr. Gracedieu; but I must recommend +employing the means that present themselves. You must practice on this +man’s weakness, for the sake of the good that may come of it. I hear he +is in London with his father. Try the strong influence, and write to +his father. There is another reason besides for doing this. It is quite +possible that the truth has been concealed from Mr. Dunboyne the elder. +Take care that he is informed of what has really happened. Are you +looking for pen, ink, and paper? Let me offer you the writing materials +which I use in traveling.” + +I placed them before him. He took up the pen; he arranged the paper; he +was eager to begin. + +After writing a few words, he stopped--reflected--tried again--stopped +again--tore up the little that he had done--and began a new letter, +ending in the same miserable result. It was impossible to witness +his helplessness, to see how pitiably patient he was over his own +incapacity, and to let the melancholy spectacle go on. I proposed to +write the letter; authenticating it, of course, by his signature. When +he allowed me to take the pen, he turned away his face, ashamed to let +me see what he suffered. Was this the same man, whose great nature had +so nobly asserted itself in the condemned cell? Poor mortality! + +The letter was easily written. + +I had only to inform Mr. Dunboyne of his son’s conduct; repeating, in +the plainest language that I could use, what Miss Jillgall had related +to me. Arrived at the conclusion, I contrived to make Mr. Gracedieu +express himself in these strong terms: “I protest against the marriage +in justice to you, sir, as well as to myself. We can neither of us +content to be accomplices in an act of domestic treason of the basest +kind.” + +In silence, the Minister read the letter, and attached his signature to +it. In silence, he rose and took my arm. I asked if he wished to go to +his room. He only replied by a sign. I offered to sit with him, and try +to cheer him. Gratefully, he pressed my hand: gently, he put me back +from the door. Crushed by the miserable discovery of the decay of his +own faculties! What could I do? what could I say? Nothing! + + +Miss Jillgall was in the drawing-room. With the necessary explanations, +I showed her the letter. She read it with breathless interest. “It +terrifies one to think how much depends on old Mr. Dunboyne,” she said. +“You know him. What sort of man is he?” + +I could only assure her (after what I remembered of his letter to me) +that he was a man whom we could depend upon. + +Miss Jillgall possessed treasures of information to which I could lay +no claim. Mr. Dunboyne, she told me, was a scholar, and a writer, and a +rich man. His views on marriage were liberal in the extreme. Let his +son find good principles, good temper, and good looks, in a wife, and he +would promise to find the money. + +“I get these particulars,” said Miss Jillgall, “from dear Euneece. They +are surely encouraging? That Helena may carry out Mr. Dunboyne’s views +in her personal appearance is, I regret to say, what I can’t deny. +But as to the other qualifications, how hopeful is the prospect! Good +principles, and good temper? Ha! ha! Helena has the principles of +Jezebel, and the temper of Lady Macbeth.” + +After dashing off this striking sketch of character, the fair artist +asked to look at my letter again, and observed that the address was +wanting. “I can set this right for you,” she resumed, “thanks, as +before, to my sweet Euneece. And (don’t be in a hurry) I can make myself +useful in another way. Oh, how I do enjoy making myself useful! If +you trust your letter to the basket in the hall, Helena’s lovely +eyes--capable of the meanest conceivable actions--are sure to take a +peep at the address. In that case, do you think your letter would get to +London? I am afraid you detect a faint infusion of spitefulness in that +question. Oh, for shame! I’ll post the letter myself.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. THE SHAMELESS SISTER. + +For some reason, which my unassisted penetration was unable to discover, +Miss Helena Gracedieu kept out of my way. + +At dinner, on the day of my arrival, and at breakfast on the next +morning, she was present of course; ready to make herself agreeable in +a modest way, and provided with the necessary supply of cheerful +small-talk. But the meal having come to an end, she had her domestic +excuse ready, and unostentatiously disappeared like a well-bred young +lady. I never met her on the stairs, never found myself intruding on +her in the drawing-room, never caught her getting out of my way in the +garden. As much at a loss for an explanation of these mysteries as I +was, Miss Jillgall’s interest in my welfare led her to caution me in a +vague and general way. + +“Take my word for it, dear Mr. Governor, she has some design on you. +Will you allow an insignificant old maid to offer a suggestion? Oh, +thank you; I will venture to advise. Please look back at your experience +of the very worst female prisoner you ever had to deal with--and be +guided accordingly if Helena catches you at a private interview.” + +In less than half an hour afterward, Helena caught me. I was writing +in my room, when the maidservant came in with a message: “Miss +Helena’s compliments, sir, and would you please spare her half an hour, +downstairs?” + +My first excuse was of course that I was engaged. This was disposed of +by a second message, provided beforehand, no doubt, for an anticipated +refusal: “Miss Helena wished me to say, sir, that her time is your +time.” I was still obstinate; I pleaded next that my day was filled up. +A third message had evidently been prepared, even for this emergency: +“Miss Helena will regret, sir, having the pleasure deferred, but she +will leave you to make your own appointment for to-morrow.” Persistency +so inveterate as this led to a result which Mr. Gracedieu’s cautious +daughter had not perhaps contemplated: it put me on my guard. There +seemed to be a chance, to say the least of it, that I might serve +Eunice’s interests if I discovered what the enemy had to say. I locked +up my writing--declared myself incapable of putting Miss Helena to +needless inconvenience--and followed the maid to the lower floor of the +house. + +The room to which I was conducted proved to be empty. I looked round me. + +If I had been told that a man lived there who was absolutely indifferent +to appearances, I should have concluded that his views were faithfully +represented by his place of abode. The chairs and tables reminded me of +a railway waiting-room. The shabby little bookcase was the mute record +of a life indifferent to literature. The carpet was of that dreadful +drab color, still the cherished favorite of the average English mind, in +spite of every protest that can be entered against it, on behalf of Art. +The ceiling, recently whitewashed; made my eyes ache when they looked at +it. On either side of the window, flaccid green curtains hung helplessly +with nothing to loop them up. The writing-desk and the paper-case, +viewed as specimens of woodwork, recalled the ready-made bedrooms on +show in cheap shops. The books, mostly in slate-colored bindings, were +devoted to the literature which is called religious; I only discovered +three worldly publications among them--Domestic Cookery, Etiquette for +Ladies, and Hints on the Breeding of Poultry. An ugly little clock, +ticking noisily in a black case, and two candlesticks of base +metal placed on either side of it, completed the ornaments on the +chimney-piece. Neither pictures nor prints hid the barrenness of the +walls. I saw no needlework and no flowers. The one object in the place +which showed any pretensions to beauty was a looking-glass in an elegant +gilt frame--sacred to vanity, and worthy of the office that it filled. +Such was Helena Gracedieu’s sitting-room. I really could not help +thinking: How like her! + +She came in with a face perfectly adapted to the circumstances--pleased +and smiling; amiably deferential, in consideration of the claims of her +father’s guest--and, to my surprise, in some degree suggestive of one of +those incorrigible female prisoners, to whom Miss Jillgall had referred +me when she offered a word of advice. + +“How kind of you to come so soon! Excuse my receiving you in my +housekeeping-room; we shall not be interrupted here. Very plainly +furnished, is it not? I dislike ostentation and display. Ornaments are +out of place in a room devoted to domestic necessities. I hate domestic +necessities. You notice the looking-glass? It’s a present. I should +never have put such a thing up. Perhaps my vanity excuses it.” + +She pointed the last remark by a look at herself in the glass; using it, +while she despised it. Yes: there was a handsome face, paying her its +reflected compliment--but not so well matched as it might have been by +a handsome figure. Her feet were too large; her shoulders were too +high; the graceful undulations of a well-made girl were absent when she +walked; and her bosom was, to my mind, unduly developed for her time of +life. + +She sat down by me with her back to the light. Happening to be opposite +to the window, I offered her the advantage of a clear view of my face. +She waited for me, and I waited for her--and there was an awkward pause +before we spoke. She set the example. + +“Isn’t it curious?” she remarked. “When two people have something +particular to say to each other, and nothing to hinder them, they never +seem to know how to say it. You are the oldest, sir. Why don’t you +begin?” + +“Because I have nothing particular to say.” + +“In plain words, you mean that I must begin?” + +“If you please.” + +“Very well. I want to know whether I have given you (and Miss Jillgall, +of course) as much time as you want, and as many opportunities as you +could desire?” + +“Pray go on, Miss Helena.” + +“Have I not said enough already?” + +“Not enough, I regret to say, to convey your meaning to me.” + +She drew her chair a little further away from me. “I am sadly +disappointed,” she said. “I had such a high opinion of your perfect +candor. I thought to myself: There is such a striking expression of +frankness in his face. Another illusion gone! I hope you won’t think I +am offended, if I say a bold word. I am only a young girl, to be sure; +but I am not quite such a fool as you take me for. Do you really think +I don’t know that Miss Jillgall has been telling you everything that is +bad about me; putting every mistake that I have made, every fault that +I have committed, in the worst possible point of view? And you have +listened to her--quite naturally! And you are prejudiced, strongly +prejudiced, against me--what else could you be, under the circumstances? +I don’t complain; I have purposely kept out of your way, and out of Miss +Jillgall’s way; in short, I have afforded you every facility, as the +prospectuses say. I only want to know if my turn has come at last. Once +more, have I given you time enough, and opportunities enough?” + +“A great deal more than enough.” + +“Do you mean that you have made up your mind about me without stopping +to think?” + +“That is exactly what I mean. An act of treachery, Miss Helena, _is_ +an act of treachery; no honest person need hesitate to condemn it. I am +sorry you sent for me.” + +I got up to go. With an ironical gesture of remonstrance, she signed to +me to sit down again. + +“Must I remind you, dear sir, of our famous native virtue? Fair play is +surely due to a young person who has nobody to take her part. You talked +of treachery just how. I deny the treachery. Please give me a hearing.” + +I returned to my chair. + +“Or would you prefer waiting,” she went out, “till my sister comes here +later in the day, and continues what Miss Jillgall has begun, with the +great advantage of being young and nice-looking?” + +When the female mind gets into this state, no wise man answers the +female questions. + +“Am I to take silence as meaning Go on?” Miss Helena inquired. + +I begged her to interpret my silence in the sense most agreeable to +herself. + +This naturally encouraged her. She made a proposal: + +“Do you mind changing places, sir?” + +“Just as you like, Miss Helena.” + +We changed chairs; the light now fell full on her face. Had she +deliberately challenged me to look into her secret mind if I could? +Anything like the stark insensibility of that young girl to every +refinement of feeling, to every becoming doubt of herself, to every +customary timidity of her age and sex in the presence of a man who had +not disguised his unfavorable opinion of her, I never met with in all my +experience of the world and of women. + +“I wish to be quite mistress of myself,” she explained; “your face, for +some reason which I really don’t know, irritates me. The fact is, I have +great pride in keeping my temper. Please make allowances. Now about Miss +Jillgall. I suppose she told you how my sister first met with Philip +Dunboyne?” + +“Yes.” + +“She also mentioned, perhaps, that he was a highly-cultivated man?” + +“She did.” + +“Now we shall get on. When Philip came to our town here, and saw me for +the first time--Do you object to my speaking familiarly of him, by his +Christian name?” + +“In the case of any one else in your position, Miss Helena, I should +venture to call it bad taste.” + +I was provoked into saying that. It failed entirely as a well-meant +effort in the way of implied reproof. Miss Helena smiled. + +“You grant me a liberty which you would not concede to another girl.” + That was how she viewed it. “We are getting on better already. To return +to what I was saying. When Philip first saw me--I have it from himself, +mind--he felt that I should have been his choice, if he had met with me +before he met with my sister. Do you blame him?” + +“If you will take my advice,” I said, “you will not inquire too closely +into my opinion of Mr. Philip Dunboyne.” + +“Perhaps you don’t wish me to say anymore?” she suggested. + +“On the contrary, pray go on, if you like.” + +After that concession, she was amiability itself. “Oh, yes,” she assured +me, “that’s easily done.” And she went on accordingly: “Philip having +informed me of the state of his affections, I naturally followed his +example. In fact, we exchanged confessions. Our marriage engagement +followed as a matter of course. Do you blame me?” + +“I will wait till you have done.” + +“I have no more to say.” + +She made that amazing reply with such perfect composure, that I began +to fear there must have been some misunderstanding between us. “Is that +really all you have to say for yourself?” I persisted. + +Her patience with me was most exemplary. She lowered herself to my +level. Not trusting to words only on this occasion, she (so to say) beat +her meaning into my head by gesticulating on her fingers, as if she was +educating a child. + +“Philip and I,” she began, “are the victims of an accident, which kept +us apart when we ought to have met together--we are not responsible +for an accident.” She impressed this on me by touching her forefinger. +“Philip and I fell in love with each other at first sight--we are not +responsible for the feelings implanted in our natures by an all-wise +Providence.” She assisted me in understanding this by touching her +middle finger. “Philip and I owe a duty to each other, and accept a +responsibility under those circumstances--the responsibility of getting +married.” A touch on her third finger, and an indulgent bow, announced +that the lesson was ended. “I am not a clever man like you,” she +modestly acknowledged, “but I ask you to help us, when you next see my +father, with some confidence. You know exactly what to say to him, by +this time. Nothing has been forgotten.” + +“Pardon me,” I said, “a person has been forgotten.” + +“Indeed? What person?” + +“Your sister.” + +A little perplexed at first, Miss Helena reflected, and recovered +herself. + +“Ah, yes,” she said; “I was afraid I might be obliged to trouble you +for an explanation--I see it now. You are shocked (very properly) when +feelings of enmity exist between near relations; and you wish to be +assured that I bear no malice toward Eunice. She is violent, she is +sulky, she is stupid, she is selfish; and she cruelly refuses to live in +the same house with me. Make your mind easy, sir, I forgive my sister.” + +Let me not attempt to disguise it--Miss Helena Gracedieu confounded me. + +Ordinary audacity is one of those forms of insolence which mature +experience dismisses with contempt. This girl’s audacity struck down +all resistance, for one shocking reason: it was unquestionably sincere. +Strong conviction of her own virtue stared at me in her proud and daring +eyes. At that time, I was not aware of what I have learned since. The +horrid hardening of her moral sense had been accomplished by herself. +In her diary, there has been found the confession of a secret course of +reading--with supplementary reflections flowing from it, which need only +to be described as worthy of their source. + +A person capable of repentance and reform would, in her place, have +seen that she had disgusted me. Not a suspicion of this occurred to Miss +Helena. “I see you are embarrassed,” she remarked, “and I am at no loss +to account for it. You are too polite to acknowledge that I have not +made a friend of you yet. Oh, I mean to do it!” + +“No,” I said, “I think not.” + +“We shall see,” she replied. “Sooner or later, you will find yourself +saying a kind word to my father for Philip and me.” She rose, and took +a turn in the room--and stopped, eying me attentively. “Are you thinking +of Eunice?” she asked. + +“Yes.” + +“She has your sympathy, I suppose?” + +“My heart-felt sympathy.” + +“I needn’t ask how I stand in your estimation, after that. Pray express +yourself freely. Your looks confess it--you view me with a feeling of +aversion.” + +“I view you with a feeling of horror.” + +The exasperating influences of her language, her looks, and her tones +would, as I venture to think, have got to the end of another man’s +self-control before this. Anyway, she had at last irritated me into +speaking as strongly as I felt. What I said had been so plainly +(perhaps so rudely) expressed, that misinterpretation of it seemed to be +impossible. She mistook me, nevertheless. The most merciless disclosure +of the dreary side of human destiny is surely to be found in the failure +of words, spoken or written, so to answer their purpose that we can +trust them, in our attempts to communicate with each other. Even when +he seems to be connected, by the nearest and dearest relations, with his +fellow-mortals, what a solitary creature, tried by the test of sympathy, +the human being really is in the teeming world that he inhabits! +Affording one more example of the impotence of human language to speak +for itself, my misinterpreted words had found their way to the one +sensitive place in Helena Gracedieu’s impenetrable nature. She betrayed +it in the quivering and flushing of her hard face, and in the appeal to +the looking-glass which escaped her eyes the next moment. My hasty reply +had roused the idea of a covert insult addressed to her handsome face. +In other words, I had wounded her vanity. Driven by resentment, out came +the secret distrust of me which had been lurking in that cold heart, +from the moment when we first met. + +“I inspire you with horror, and Eunice inspires you with compassion,” + she said. “That, Mr. Governor, is not natural.” + +“May I ask why?” + +“You know why.” + +“No.” + +“You will have it?” + +“I want an explanation, Miss Helena, if that is what you mean.” + +“Take your explanation, then! You are not the stranger you are said +to be to my sister and to me. Your interest in Eunice is a personal +interest of some kind. I don’t pretend to guess what it is. As for +myself, it is plain that somebody else has been setting you against me, +before Miss Jillgall got possession of your private ear.” + +In alluding to Eunice, she had blundered, strangely enough, on something +like the truth. But when she spoke of herself, the headlong malignity +of her suspicions--making every allowance for the anger that had hurried +her into them--seemed to call for some little protest against a false +assertion. I told her that she was completely mistaken. + +“I am completely right,” she answered; “I saw it.” + +“Saw what?” + +“Saw you pretending to be a stranger to me.” + +“When did I do that?” + +“You did it when we met at the station.” + +The reply was too ridiculous for the preservation of any control over my +own sense of humor. It was wrong; but it was inevitable--I laughed. She +looked at me with a fury, revealing a concentration of evil passion in +her which I had not seen yet. I asked her pardon; I begged her to think +a little before she persisted in taking a view of my conduct unworthy of +her, and unjust to myself. + +“Unjust to You!” she burst out. “Who are You? A man who has driven your +trade has spies always at his command--yes! and knows how to use them. +You were primed with private information--you had, for all I know, a +stolen photograph of me in your pocket--before ever you came to our +town. Do you still deny it? Oh, sir, why degrade yourself by telling a +lie?” + +No such outrage as this had ever been inflicted on me, at any time in my +life. My forbearance must, I suppose, have been more severely tried than +I was aware of myself. With or without excuse for me, I was weak enough +to let a girl’s spiteful tongue sting me, and, worse still, to let her +see that I felt it. + +“You shall have no second opportunity, Miss Gracedieu, of insulting me.” + With that foolish reply, I opened the door violently and went out. + +She ran after me, triumphing in having roused the temper of a man old +enough to have been her grandfather, and caught me by the arm. “Your +own conduct has exposed you.” (That was literally how she expressed +herself.) “I saw it in your eyes when we met at the station. You, the +stranger--you who allowed poor ignorant me to introduce myself--you knew +me all the time, knew me by sight!” + +I shook her hand off with an inconsiderable roughness, humiliating to +remember. “It’s false!” I cried. “I knew you by your likeness to your +mother.” + +The moment the words had passed my lips, I came to my senses again; I +remembered what fatal words they might prove to be, if they reached the +Minister’s ears. + +Heard only by his daughter, my reply seemed to cool the heat of her +anger in an instant. + +“So you knew my mother?” she said. “My father never told us that, when +he spoke of your being such a very old friend of his. Strange, to say +the least of it.” + +I was wise enough--now when wisdom had come too late--not to attempt to +explain myself, and not to give her an opportunity of saying more. +“We are neither of us in a state of mind,” I answered, “to allow this +interview to continue. I must try to recover my composure; and I leave +you to do the same.” + +In the solitude of my room, I was able to look my position fairly in the +face. + +Mr. Gracedieu’s wife had come to me, in the long-past time, without her +husband’s knowledge. Tempted to a cruel resolve by the maternal triumph +of having an infant of her own, she had resolved to rid herself of the +poor little rival in her husband’s fatherly affection, by consigning the +adopted child to the keeping of a charitable asylum. She had dared to +ask me to help her. I had kept the secret of her shameful visit--I can +honestly say, for the Minister’s sake. And now, long after time had +doomed those events to oblivion, they were revived--and revived by me. +Thanks to my folly, Mr. Gracedieu’s daughter knew what I had concealed +from Mr. Gracedieu himself. + +What course did respect for my friend, and respect for myself, counsel +me to take? + +I could only see before me a choice of two evils. To wait for +events--with the too certain prospect of a vindictive betrayal of my +indiscretion by Helena Gracedieu. Or to take the initiative into my own +hands, and risk consequences which I might regret to the end of my life, +by making my confession to the Minister. + +Before I had decided, somebody knocked at the door. It was the +maid-servant again. Was it possible she had been sent by Helena? + +“Another message?” + +“Yes, sir. My master wishes to see you.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE GIRLS’ AGES. + +Had the Minister’s desire to see me been inspired by his daughter’s +betrayal of what I had unfortunately said to her? Although he would +certainly not consent to receive her personally, she would be at liberty +to adopt a written method of communication with him, and the letter +might be addressed in such a manner as to pique his curiosity. If +Helena’s vindictive purpose had been already accomplished--and if Mr. +Gracedieu left me no alternative but to present his unworthy wife in her +true character--I can honestly say that I dreaded the consequences, not +as they might affect myself, but as they might affect my unhappy friend +in his enfeebled state of body and mind. + +When I entered his room, he was still in bed. + +The bed-curtains were so drawn, on the side nearest to the window, as to +keep the light from falling too brightly on his weak eyes. In the shadow +thus thrown on him, it was not possible to see his face plainly enough, +from the open side of the bed, to arrive at any definite conclusion as +to what might be passing in his mind. After having been awake for some +hours during the earlier part of the night, he had enjoyed a long and +undisturbed sleep. “I feel stronger this morning,” he said, “and I wish +to speak to you while my mind is clear.” + +If the quiet tone of his voice was not an assumed tone, he was surely +ignorant of all that had passed between his daughter and myself. + +“Eunice will be here soon,” he proceeded, “and I ought to explain why I +have sent for her to come and meet you. I have reasons, serious reasons, +mind, for wishing you to compare her personal appearance with Helena’s +personal appearance, and then to tell me which of the two, on a fair +comparison, looks the eldest. Pray bear in mind that I attach the +greatest importance to the conclusion at which you may arrive.” + +He spoke more clearly and collectedly than I had heard him speak yet. + +Here and there I detected hesitations and repetitions, which I have +purposely passed over. The substance of what he said to me is all that I +shall present in this place. Careful as I have been to keep my record of +events within strict limits, I have written at a length which I was far +indeed from contemplating when I accepted Mr. Gracedieu’s invitation. + +Having promised to comply with the strange request which he had +addressed to me, I ventured to remind him of past occasions on which +he had pointedly abstained, when the subject presented itself, from +speaking of the girls’ ages. “You have left it to my discretion,” I +added, “to decide a question in which you are seriously interested, +relating to your daughters. Have I no excuse for regretting that I have +not been admitted to your confidence a little more freely?” + +“You have every excuse,” he answered. “But you trouble me all the same. +There was something else that I had to say to you--and your curiosity +gets in the way.” + +He said this with a sullen emphasis. In my position, the worst of evils +was suspense. I told him that my curiosity could wait; and I begged that +he would relieve his mind of what was pressing on it at the moment. + +“Let me think a little,” he said. + +I waited anxiously for the decision at which he might arrive. Nothing +came of it to justify my misgivings. “Leave what I have in my mind to +ripen in my mind,” he said. “The mystery about the girls’ ages seems to +irritate you. If I put my good friend’s temper to any further trial, he +will be of no use to me. Never mind if my head swims; I’m used to that. +Now listen!” + +Strange as the preface was, the explanation that followed was stranger +yet. I offer a shortened and simplified version, giving accurately the +substance of what I heard. + +The Minister entered without reserve on the mysterious subject of the +ages. Eunice, he informed me, was nearly two years older than Helena. If +she outwardly showed her superiority of age, any person acquainted with +the circumstances under which the adopted infant had been received into +Mr. Gracedieu’s childless household, need only compare the so-called +sisters in after-life, and would thereupon identify the eldest-looking +young lady of the two as the offspring of the woman who had been hanged +for murder. With such a misfortune as this presenting itself as a +possible prospect, the Minister was bound to prevent the girls from +ignorantly betraying each other by allusions to their ages and their +birthdays. After much thought, he had devised a desperate means of +meeting the difficulty--already made known, as I am told, for the +information of strangers who may read the pages that have gone before +mine. My friend’s plan of proceeding had, by the nature of it, exposed +him to injurious comment, to embarrassing questions, and to doubts and +misconceptions, all patiently endured in consideration of the security +that had been attained. Proud of his explanation, Mr. Gracedieu’s vanity +called upon me to acknowledge that my curiosity had been satisfied, and +my doubts completely set at rest. + +No: my obstinate common sense was not reduced to submission, even yet. +Looking back over a lapse of seventeen years, I asked what had happened, +in that long interval, to justify the anxieties which still appeared to +trouble my friend. + +This time, my harmless curiosity could be gratified by a reply expressed +in three words--nothing had happened. + +Then what, in Heaven’s name, was the Minister afraid of? + +His voice dropped to a whisper. He said: “I am afraid of the women.” + +Who were the women? + +Two of them actually proved to be the servants employed in Mr. +Gracedieu’s house, at the bygone time when he had brought the child home +with him from the prison! To point out the absurdity of the reasons +that he gave for fearing what female curiosity might yet attempt, if +circumstances happened to encourage it, would have been a mere waste of +words. Dismissing the subject, I next ascertained that the Minister’s +doubts extended even to the two female warders, who had been appointed +to watch the murderess in turn, during her last days in prison. I easily +relieved his mind in this case. One of the warders was dead. The +other had married a farmer in Australia. Had we exhausted the list of +suspected persons yet? No: there was one more left; and the Minister +declared that he had first met with her in my official residence, at the +time when I was Governor of the prison. + +“She presented herself to me by name,” he said; “and she spoke rudely. +A Miss--” He paused to consult his memory, and this time (thanks perhaps +to his night’s rest) his memory answered the appeal. “I have got it!” he +cried--“Miss Chance.” + +My friend had interested me in his imaginary perils at last. It was just +possible that he might have a formidable person to deal with now. + +During my residence at Florence, the Chaplain and I had taken many a +retrospective look (as old men will) at past events in our lives. My +former colleague spoke of the time when he had performed clerical duty +for his friend, the rector of a parish church in London. Neither he +nor I had heard again of the “Miss Chance” of our disagreeable prison +experience, whom he had married to the dashing Dutch gentleman, Mr. +Tenbruggen. We could only wonder what had become of that mysterious +married pair. + +Mr. Gracedieu being undoubtedly ignorant of the woman’s marriage, it was +not easy to say what the consequence might be, in his excitable state, +if I informed him of it. He would, in all probability, conclude that I +knew more of the woman than he did. I decided on keeping my own counsel, +for the present at least. + +Passing at once, therefore, to the one consideration of any importance, +I endeavored to find out whether Mr. Gracedieu and Mrs. Tenbruggen had +met, or had communicated with each other in any way, during the long +period of separation that had taken place between the Minister and +myself. If he had been so unlucky as to offend her, she was beyond all +doubt an enemy to be dreaded. Apart, however, from a misfortune of this +kind, she would rank, in my opinion, with the other harmless objects of +Mr. Gracedieu’s distrust. + +In making my inquiries, I found that I had an obstacle to contend with. + +While he felt the renovating influence of the repose that he enjoyed, +the Minister had been able to think and to express himself with less +difficulty than usual. But the reserves of strength, on which the useful +exercise of his memory depended, began to fail him as the interview +proceeded. He distinctly recollected that “something unpleasant had +passed between that audacious woman and himself.” But at what date--and +whether by word of mouth or by correspondence--was more than his memory +could now recall. He believed he was not mistaken in telling me that he +“had been in two minds about her.” At one time, he was satisfied that he +had taken wise measures for his own security, if she attempted to annoy +him. But there was another and a later time, when doubts and fears had +laid hold of him again. If I wanted to know how this had happened, he +fancied it was through a dream; and if I asked what the dream was, he +could only beg and pray that I would spare his poor head. + +Unwilling even yet to submit unconditionally to defeat, it occurred to +me to try a last experiment on my friend, without calling for any mental +effort on his own part. The “Miss Chance” of former days might, by a +bare possibility, have written to him. I asked accordingly if he was in +the habit of keeping his letters, and if he would allow me (when he had +rested a little) to lay them open before him, so that he could look at +the signatures. “You might find the lost recollection in that way,” I +suggested, “at the bottom of one of your letters.” + +He was in that state of weariness, poor fellow, in which a man will do +anything for the sake of peace. Pointing to a cabinet in his room, +he gave me a key taken from a little basket on his bed. “Look for +yourself,” he said. After some hesitation--for I naturally recoiled +from examining another man’s correspondence--I decided on opening the +cabinet, at any rate. + +The letters--a large collection--were, to my relief, all neatly folded, +and indorsed with the names of the writers. I could run harmlessly +through bundle after bundle in search of the one name that I wanted, +and still respect the privacy of the letters. My perseverance deserved +a reward--and failed to get it. The name I wanted steadily eluded my +search. Arriving at the upper shelf of the cabinet, I found it so high +that I could barely reach it with my hand. Instead of getting more +letters to look over, I pulled down two newspapers. + +One of them was an old copy of the _Times_, dating back as far as +the 13th December, 1858. It was carefully folded, longwise, with the +title-page uppermost. On the first column, at the left-hand side of the +sheet, appeared the customary announcements of Births. A mark with a +blue pencil, against one of the advertisements, attracted my attention. +I read these lines: + +“On the 10th inst., the wife of the Rev. Abel Gracedieu, of a daughter.” + +The second newspaper bore a later date, and contained nothing that +interested me. I naturally assumed that the advertisement in the _Times_ +had been inserted at the desire of Mrs. Gracedieu; and, after all that +I had heard, there was little difficulty in attributing the curious +omission of the place in which the child had been born to the caution of +her husband. If Mrs. Tenbruggen (then Miss Chance) had happened to see +the advertisement in the great London newspaper, Mr. Gracedieu might +yet have good reason to congratulate himself on his prudent method of +providing against mischievous curiosity. + +I turned toward the bed and looked at him. His eyes were closed. Was he +sleeping? Or was he trying to remember what he had desired to say to me, +when the demands which I made on his memory had obliged him to wait for +a later opportunity? + +Either way, there was something that quickened my sympathies, in the +spectacle of his helpless repose. It suggested to me personal reasons +for his anxieties, which he had not mentioned, and which I had not +thought of, up to this time. If the discovery that he dreaded took +place, his household would be broken up, and his position as pastor +would suffer in the estimation of the flock. His own daughter would +refuse to live under the same roof with the daughter of an infamous +woman. Popular opinion, among his congregation, judging a man who had +passed off the child of other parents as his own, would find that man +guilty of an act of deliberate deceit. + +Still oppressed by reflections which pointed to the future in this +discouraging way, I was startled by a voice outside the door--a sweet, +sad voice--saying, “May I come in?” + +The Minister’s eyes opened instantly: he raised himself in his bed. + +“Eunice, at last!” he cried. “Let her in.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. THE ADOPTED CHILD + +I opened the door. + +Eunice passed me with the suddenness almost of a flash of light. When I +turned toward the bed, her arms were round her father’s neck. “Oh, poor +papa, how ill you look!” Commonplace expressions of fondness, and no +more; but the tone gave them a charm that subdued me. Never had I felt +so indulgent toward Mr. Gracedieu’s unreasonable fears as when I saw him +in the embrace of his adopted daughter. She had already reminded me +of the bygone day when a bright little child had sat on my knee and +listened to the ticking of my watch. + +The Minister gently lifted her head from his breast. “My darling,” + he said, “you don’t see my old friend. Love him, and look up to him, +Eunice. He will be your friend, too, when I am gone.” + +She came to me and offered her cheek to be kissed. It was sadly pale, +poor soul--and I could guess why. But her heart was now full of her +father. “Do you think he is seriously ill?” she whispered. What I ought +to have said I don’t know. Her eyes, the sweetest, truest, loveliest +eyes I ever saw in a human face, were pleading with me. Let my enemies +make the worst of it, if they like--I did certainly lie. And if I +deserved my punishment, I got it; the poor child believed me! “Now I +am happier,” she said, gratefully. “Only to hear your voice seems to +encourage me. On our way here, Selina did nothing but talk of you. She +told me I shouldn’t have time to feel afraid of the great man; he would +make me fond of him directly. I said, ‘Are you fond of him?’ She said, +‘Madly in love with him, my dear.’ My little friend really thinks you +like her, and is very proud of it. There are some people who call her +ugly. I hope you don’t agree with them?” + +I believe I should have lied again, if Mr. Gracedieu had not called me +to the bedside. + +“How does she strike you?” he whispered, eagerly. “Is it too soon to ask +if she shows her age in her face?” + +“Neither in her face nor her figure,” I answered: “it astonishes me +that you can ever have doubted it. No stranger, judging by personal +appearance, could fail to make the mistake of thinking Helena the oldest +of the two.” + +He looked fondly at Eunice. “Her figure seems to bear out what you say,” + he went on. “Almost childish, isn’t it?” + +I could not agree to that. Slim, supple, simply graceful in every +movement, Eunice’s figure, in the charm of first youth, only waited its +perfect development. Most men, looking at her as she stood at the other +end of the room with her back toward us, would have guessed her age to +be sixteen. + +Finding that I failed to agree with him, Mr. Gracedieu’s misgivings +returned. “You speak very confidently,” he said, “considering that you +have not seen the girls together. Think what a dreadful blow it would be +to me if you made a mistake.” + +I declared, with perfect sincerity, that there was no fear of a mistake. +The bare idea of making the proposed comparison was hateful to me. If +Helena and I had happened to meet at that moment, I should have turned +away from her by instinct--she would have disturbed my impressions of +Eunice. + +The Minister signed to me to move a little nearer to him. “I must say +it,” he whispered, “and I am afraid of her hearing me. Is there anything +in her face that reminds you of her miserable mother?” + +I had hardly patience to answer the question: it was simply +preposterous. Her hair was by many shades darker than her mother’s hair; +her eyes were of a different color. There was an exquisite tenderness +and sincerity in their expression--made additionally beautiful, to my +mind, by a gentle, uncomplaining sadness. It was impossible even to +think of the eyes of the murderess when I looked at her child. +Eunice’s lower features, again, had none of her mother’s regularity +of proportion. Her smile, simple and sweet, and soon passing away, +was certainly not an inherited smile on the maternal side. Whether she +resembled her father, I was unable to conjecture--having never seen him. +The one thing certain was, that not the faintest trace, in feature or +expression, of Eunice’s mother was to be seen in Eunice herself. Of the +two girls, Helena--judging by something in the color of her hair, and by +something in the shade of her complexion--might possibly have suggested, +in those particulars only, a purely accidental resemblance to my +terrible prisoner of past times. + +The revival of Mr. Gracedieu’s spirits indicated a temporary change +only, and was already beginning to pass away. The eyes which had looked +lovingly at Eunice began to look languidly now: his head sank on the +pillow with a sigh of weak content. “My pleasure has been almost too +much for me,” he said. “Leave me for a while to rest, and get used to +it.” + +Eunice kissed his forehead--and we left the room. + + + +CHAPTER XL. THE BRUISED HEART. + +When we stepped out on the landing, I observed that my companion paused. +She looked at the two flights of stairs below us before she descended +them. It occurred to me that there must be somebody in the house whom +she was anxious to avoid. + +Arrived at the lower hall, she paused again, and proposed in a whisper +that we should go into the garden. As we advanced along the backward +division of the hall, I saw her eyes turn distrustfully toward the +door of the room in which Helena had received me. At last, my slow +perceptions felt with her and understood her. Eunice’s sensitive nature +recoiled from a chance meeting with the wretch who had laid waste all +that had once been happy and hopeful in that harmless young life. + +“Will you come with me to the part of the garden that I am fondest of?” + she asked. + +I offered her my arm. She led me in silence to a rustic seat, placed +under the shade of a mulberry tree. I saw a change in her face as we sat +down--a tender and beautiful change. At that moment the girl’s heart +was far away from me. There was some association with this corner of the +garden, on which I felt that I must not intrude. + +“I was once very happy here,” she said. “When the time of the heartache +came soon after, I was afraid to look at the old tree and the bench +under it. But that is all over now. I like to remember the hours that +were once dear to me, and to see the place that recalls them. Do you +know who I am thinking of? Don’t be afraid of distressing me. I never +cry now.” + +“My dear child, I have heard your sad story--but I can’t trust myself to +speak of it.” + +“Because you are so sorry for me?” + +“No words can say how sorry I am!” + +“But you are not angry with Philip?” + +“Not angry! My poor dear, I am afraid to tell you how angry I am with +him.” + +“Oh, no! You mustn’t say that. If you wish to be kind to me--and I am +sure you do wish it--don’t think bitterly of Philip.” + +When I remember that the first feeling she roused in me was nothing +worthier of a professing Christian than astonishment, I drop in my own +estimation to the level of a savage. “Do you really mean,” I was base +enough to ask, “that you have forgiven him?” + +She said, gently: “How could I help forgiving him?” + +The man who could have been blessed with such love as this, and who +could have cast it away from him, can have been nothing but an idiot. +On that ground--though I dared not confess it to Eunice--I forgave him, +too. + +“Do I surprise you?” she asked simply. “Perhaps love will bear any +humiliation. Or perhaps I am only a poor weak creature. You don’t know +what a comfort it was to me to keep the few letters that I received from +Philip. When I heard that he had gone away, I gave his letters the kiss +that bade him good-by. That was the time, I think, when my poor +bruised heart got used to the pain; I began to feel that there was one +consolation still left for me--I might end in forgiving him. Why do I +tell you all this? I think you must have bewitched me. Is this really +the first time I have seen you?” + +She put her little trembling hand into mine; I lifted it to my lips, and +kissed it. Sorely was I tempted to own that I had pitied and loved her +in her infancy. It was almost on my lips to say: “I remember you an +easily-pleased little creature, amusing yourself with the broken toys +which were once the playthings of my own children.” I believe I should +have said it, if I could have trusted myself to speak composedly to +her. This was not to be done. Old as I was, versed as I was in the hard +knowledge of how to keep the mask on in the hour of need, this was not +to be done. + +Still trying to understand that I was little better than a stranger to +her, and still bent on finding the secret of the sympathy that united +us, Eunice put a strange question to me. + +“When you were young yourself,” she said, “did you know what it was to +love, and to be loved--and then to lose it all?” + +It is not given to many men to marry the woman who has been the object +of their first love. My early life had been darkened by a sad story; +never confided to any living creature; banished resolutely from my own +thoughts. For forty years past, that part of my buried self had lain +quiet in its grave--and the chance touch of an innocent hand had raised +the dead, and set us face to face again! Did I know what it was to +love, and to be loved, and then to lose it all? “Too well, my child; too +well!” + +That was all I could say to her. In the last days of my life, I shrank +from speaking of it. When I had first felt that calamity, and had +felt it most keenly, I might have given an answer worthier of me, and +worthier of her. + +She dropped my hand, and sat by me in silence, thinking. Had I--without +meaning it, God knows!--had I disappointed her? + +“Did you expect me to tell my own sad story,” I said, “as frankly and as +trustfully as you have told yours?” + +“Oh, don’t think that! I know what an effort it was to you to answer me +at all. Yes, indeed! I wonder whether I may ask something. The sorrow +you have just told me of is not the only one--is it? You have had other +troubles?” + +“Many of them.” + +“There are times,” she went on, “when one can’t help thinking of one’s +own miserable self. I try to be cheerful, but those times come now and +then.” + +She stopped, and looked at me with a pale fear confessing itself in her +face. + +“You know who Selina is?” she resumed. “My friend! The only friend I +had, till you came here.” + +I guessed that she was speaking of the quaint, kindly little woman, +whose ugly surname had been hitherto the only name known to me. + +“Selina has, I daresay, told you that I have been ill,” she continued, +“and that I am staying in the country for the benefit of my health.” + +It was plain that she had something to say to me, far more important +than this, and that she was dwelling on trifles to gain time and +courage. Hoping to help her, I dwelt on trifles, too; asking commonplace +questions about the part of the country in which she was staying. She +answered absently--then, little by little, impatiently. The one poor +proof of kindness that I could offer, now, was to say no more. + +“Do you know what a strange creature I am?” she broke out. “Shall I make +you angry with me? or shall I make you laugh at me? What I have shrunk +from confessing to Selina--what I dare not confess to my father--I must, +and will, confess to You.” + +There was a look of horror in her face that alarmed me. I drew her to +me so that she could rest her head on my shoulder. My own agitation +threatened to get the better of me. For the first time since I had seen +this sweet girl, I found myself thinking of the blood that ran in her +veins, and of the nature of the mother who had borne her. + +“Did you notice how I behaved upstairs?” she said. “I mean when we left +my father, and came out on the landing.” + +It was easily recollected; I begged her to go on. + +“Before I went downstairs,” she proceeded, “you saw me look and listen. +Did you think I was afraid of meeting some person? and did you guess who +it was I wanted to avoid?” + +“I guessed that--and I understood you.” + +“No! You are not wicked enough to understand me. Will you do me a favor? +I want you to look at me.” + +It was said seriously. She lifted her head for a moment, so that I could +examine her face. + +“Do you see anything,” she asked, “which makes you fear that I am not in +my right mind?” + +“Good God! how can you ask such a horrible question?” + +She laid her head back on my shoulder with a sad little sigh of +resignation. “I ought to have known better,” she said; “there is no such +easy way out of it as that. Tell me--is there one kind of wickedness +more deceitful than another? Can it be hid in a person for years +together, and show itself when a time of suffering--no; I mean when a +sense of injury comes? Did you ever see that, when you were master in +the prison?” + +I had seen it--and, after a moment’s doubt, I said I had seen it. + +“Did you pity those poor wretches?” + +“Certainly! They deserved pity.” + +“I am one of them!” she said. “Pity _me_. If Helena looks at me--if +Helena speaks to me--if I only see Helena by accident--do you know what +she does? She tempts me! Tempts me to do dreadful things! Tempts me--” + The poor child threw her arms round my neck, and whispered the next +fatal words in my ear. + +The mother! Prepared as I was for the accursed discovery, the horror of +it shook me. + +She left me, and started to her feet. The inherited energy showed itself +in furious protest against the inherited evil. “What does it mean?” she +cried. “I’ll submit to anything. I’ll bear my hard lot patiently, if you +will only tell me what it means. Where does this horrid transformation +of me out of myself come from? Look at my good father. In all this world +there is no man so perfect as he is. And oh, how he has taught me! there +isn’t a single good thing that I have not learned from him since I was +a little child. Did you ever hear him speak of my mother? You must have +heard him. My mother was an angel. I could never be worthy of her at my +best--but I have tried! I have tried! The wickedest girl in the world +doesn’t have worse thoughts than the thoughts that have come to me. +Since when? Since Helena--oh, how can I call her by her name as if I +still loved her? Since my sister--can she be my sister, I ask myself +sometimes! Since my enemy--there’s the word for her--since my enemy took +Philip away from me. What does it mean? I have asked in my prayers--and +have got no answer. I ask you. What does it mean? You must tell me! You +shall tell me! What does it mean?” + +Why did I not try to calm her? I had vainly tried to calm her--I who +knew who her mother was, and what her mother had been. + +At last, she had forced the sense of my duty on me. The simplest way +of calming her was to put her back in the place by my side that she had +left. It was useless to reason with her, it was impossible to answer +her. I had my own idea of the one way in which I might charm Eunice back +to her sweeter self. + +“Let us talk of Philip,” I said. + +The fierce flush on her face softened, the swelling trouble of her bosom +began to subside, as that dearly-loved name passed my lips! But there +was some influence left in her which resisted me. + +“No,” she said; “we had better not talk of him.” + +“Why not?” + +“I have lost all my courage. If you speak of Philip, you will make me +cry.” + +I drew her nearer to me. If she had been my own child, I don’t think I +could have felt for her more truly than I felt at that moment. I only +looked at her; I only said: + +“Cry!” + +The love that was in her heart rose, and poured its tenderness into her +eyes. I had longed to see the tears that would comfort her. The tears +came. + +There was silence between us for a while. It was possible for me to +think. + +In the absence of physical resemblance between parent and child, is an +unfavorable influence exercised on the tendency to moral resemblance? +Assuming the possibility of such a result as this, Eunice (entirely +unlike her mother) must, as I concluded, have been possessed of +qualities formed to resist, as well as of qualities doomed to undergo, +the infection of evil. While, therefore, I resigned myself to recognize +the existence of the hereditary maternal taint, I firmly believed in the +counterbalancing influences for good which had been part of the girl’s +birthright. They had been derived, perhaps, from the better qualities +in her father’s nature; they had been certainly developed by the tender +care, the religious vigilance, which had guarded the adopted child so +lovingly in the Minister’s household; and they had served their purpose +until time brought with it the change, for which the tranquil domestic +influences were not prepared. With the great, the vital transformation, +which marks the ripening of the girl into the woman’s maturity of +thought and passion, a new power for Good, strong enough to resist the +latent power for Evil, sprang into being, and sheltered Eunice under +the supremacy of Love. Love ill-fated and ill-bestowed--but love that no +profanation could stain, that no hereditary evil could conquer--the +True Love that had been, and was, and would be, the guardian angel of +Eunice’s life. + +If I am asked whether I have ventured to found this opinion on what +I have observed in one instance only, I reply that I have had other +opportunities of investigation, and that my conclusions are derived from +experience which refers to more instances than one. + +No man in his senses can doubt that physical qualities are transmitted +from parents to children. But inheritance of moral qualities is less +easy to trace. Here, the exploring mind finds its progress beset by +obstacles. That those obstacles have been sometimes overcome I do not +deny. Moral resemblances have been traced between parents and children. +While, however, I admit this, I doubt the conclusion which sees, in +inheritance of moral qualities, a positive influence exercised on moral +destiny. There are inherent emotional forces in humanity to which the +inherited influences must submit; they are essentially influences under +control--influences which can be encountered and forced back. That we, +who inhabit this little planet, may be the doomed creatures of fatality, +from the cradle to the grave, I am not prepared to dispute. But I +absolutely refuse to believe that it is a fatality with no higher +origin than can be found in our accidental obligation to our fathers and +mothers. + + +Still absorbed in these speculations, I was disturbed by a touch on my +arm. + +I looked up. Eunice’s eyes were fixed on a shrubbery, at some little +distance from us, which closed the view of the garden on that side. I +noticed that she was trembling. Nothing to alarm her was visible that I +could discover. I asked what she had seen to startle her. She pointed to +the shrubbery. + +“Look again,” she said. + +This time I saw a woman’s dress among the shrubs. The woman herself +appeared in a moment more. It was Helena. She carried a small portfolio, +and she approached us with a smile. + + + +CHAPTER XLI. THE WHISPERING VOICE. + +I looked at Eunice. She had risen, startled by her first suspicion of +the person who was approaching us through the shrubbery; but she kept +her place near me, only changing her position so as to avoid confronting +Helena. Her quickened breathing was all that told me of the effort she +was making to preserve her self-control. Entirely free from unbecoming +signs of hurry and agitation, Helena opened her business with me by +means of an apology. + +“Pray excuse me for disturbing you. I am obliged to leave the house on +one of my tiresome domestic errands. If you will kindly permit it, I +wish to express, before I go, my very sincere regret for what I was rude +enough to say, when I last had the honor of seeing you. May I hope to +be forgiven? How-do-you-do, Eunice? Have you enjoyed your holiday in the +country?” + +Eunice neither moved nor answered. Having some doubt of what might +happen if the two girls remained together, I proposed to Helena to leave +the garden and to let me hear what she had to say, in the house. + +“Quite needless,” she replied; “I shall not detain you for more than a +minute. Please look at this.” + +She offered to me the portfolio that she had been carrying, and pointed +to a morsel of paper attached to it, which contained this inscription: + + +“Philip’s Letters To Me. Private. Helena Gracedieu.” + + +“I have a favor to ask,” she said, “and a proof of confidence in you +to offer. Will you be so good as to look over what you find in my +portfolio? I am unwilling to give up the hopes that I had founded on our +interview, when I asked for it. The letters will, I venture to think, +plead my cause more convincingly than I was able to plead it for myself. +I wish to forget what passed between us, to the last word. To the +last word,” she repeated emphatically--with a look which sufficiently +informed me that I had not been betrayed to her father yet. “Will you +indulge me?” she asked, and offered her portfolio for the second time. + +A more impudent bargain could not well have been proposed to me. + +I was to read, and to be favorably impressed by, Mr. Philip Dunboyne’s +letters; and Miss Helena was to say nothing of that unlucky slip of the +tongue, relating to her mother, which she had discovered to be a serious +act of self-betrayal--thanks to my confusion at the time. If I had not +thought of Eunice, and of the desolate and loveless life to which the +poor girl was so patiently resigned, I should have refused to read Miss +Gracedieu’s love-letters. + +But, as things were, I was influenced by the hope (innocently encouraged +by Eunice herself) that Philip Dunboyne might not be so wholly unworthy +of the sweet girl whom he had injured as I had hitherto been too hastily +disposed to believe. To act on this view with the purpose of promoting +a reconciliation was impossible, unless I had the means of forming a +correct estimate of the man’s character. It seemed to me that I had +found the means. A fair chance of putting his sincerity to a trustworthy +test, was surely offered by the letters (the confidential letters) which +I had been requested to read. To feel this as strongly as I felt it, +brought me at once to a decision. I consented to take the portfolio--on +my own conditions. + +“Understand, Miss Helena,” I said, “that I make no promises. I reserve +my own opinion, and my own right of action.” + +“I am not afraid of your opinions or your actions,” she answered +confidently, “if you will only read the letters. In the meantime, let me +relieve my sister, there, of my presence. I hope you will soon recover, +Eunice, in the country air.” + +If the object of the wretch was to exasperate her victim, she had +completely failed. Eunice remained as still as a statue. To all +appearance, she had not even heard what had been said to her. Helena +looked at me, and touched her forehead with a significant smile. “Sad, +isn’t it?” she said--and bowed, and went briskly away on her household +errand. + +We were alone again. + +Still, Eunice never moved. I spoke to her, and produced no impression. +Beginning to feel alarmed, I tried the effect of touching her. With +a wild cry, she started into a state of animation. Almost at the same +moment, she weakly swayed to and fro as if the pleasant breeze in the +garden moved her at its will, like the flowers. I held her up, and led +her to the seat. + +“There is nothing to be afraid of,” I said. “She has gone.” + +Eunice’s eyes rested on me in vacant surprise. “How do you know?” she +asked. “I hear her; but I never see her. Do you see her?” + +“My dear child! of what person are you speaking?” + +She answered: “Of no person. I am speaking of a Voice that whispers and +tempts me, when Helena is near.” + +“What voice, Eunice?” + +“The whispering Voice. It said to me, ‘I am your mother;’ it called +me Daughter when I first heard it. My father speaks of my mother, the +angel. That good spirit has never come to me from the better world. It +is a mock-mother who comes to me--some spirit of evil. Listen to this. +I was awake in my bed. In the dark I heard the mock-mother whispering, +close at my ear. Shall I tell you how she answered me, when I longed +for light to see her by, when I prayed to her to show herself to me? She +said: ‘My face was hidden when I passed from life to death; my face no +mortal creature may see.’ I have never seen her--how can _you_ have seen +her? But I heard her again, just now. She whispered to me when Helena +was standing there--where you are standing. She freezes the life in me. +Did she freeze the life in _you?_ Did you hear her tempting me? Don’t +speak of it, if you did. Oh, not a word! not a word!” + +A man who has governed a prison may say with Macbeth, “I have supped +full with horrors.” Hardened as I was--or ought to have been--the effect +of what I had just heard turned me cold. If I had not known it to be +absolutely impossible, I might have believed that the crime and the +death of the murderess were known to Eunice, as being the crime and the +death of her mother, and that the horrid discovery had turned her brain. +This was simply impossible. What did it mean? Good God! what did it +mean? + +My sense of my own helplessness was the first sense in me that +recovered. I thought of Eunice’s devoted little friend. A woman’s +sympathy seemed to be needed now. I rose to lead the way out of the +garden. + +“Selina will think we are lost,” I said. “Let us go and find Selina.” + +“Not for the world,” she cried. + +“Why not?” + +“Because I don’t feel sure of myself. I might tell Selina something +which she must never know; I should be so sorry to frighten her. Let me +stop here with you.” + +I resumed my place at her side. + +“Let me take your hand.” + +I gave her my hand. What composing influence this simple act may, or +may not, have exercised, it is impossible to say. She was quiet, she +was silent. After an interval, I heard her breathe a long-drawn sigh of +relief. + +“I am afraid I have surprised you,” she said. “Helena brings the +dreadful time back to me--” She stopped and shuddered. + +“Don’t speak of Helena, my dear.” + +“But I am afraid you will think--because I have said strange +things--that I have been talking at random,” she insisted. “The doctor +will say that, if you meet with him. He believes I am deluded by a +dream. I tried to think so myself. It was of no use; I am quite sure he +is wrong.” + +I privately determined to watch for the doctor’s arrival, and to consult +with him. Eunice went on: + +“I have the story of a terrible night to tell you; but I haven’t the +courage to tell it now. Why shouldn’t you come back with me to the place +that I am staying at? A pleasant farm-house, and such kind people. You +might read the account of that night in my journal. I shall not regret +the misery of having written it, if it helps you to find out how this +hateful second self of mine has come to me. Hush! I want to ask you +something. Do you think Helena is in the house?” + +“No--she has gone out.” + +“Did she say that herself? Are you sure?” + +“Quite sure.” + +She decided on going back to the farm, while Helena was out of the way. +We left the garden together. For the first time, my companion noticed +the portfolio. I happened to be carrying it in the hand that was nearest +to her, as she walked by my side. + +“Where did you get that?” she asked. + +It was needless to reply in words. My hesitation spoke for me. + +“Carry it in your other hand,” she said--“the hand that’s furthest away +from me. I don’t want to see it! Do you mind waiting a moment while I +find Selina? You will go to the farm with us, won’t you?” + +I had to look over the letters, in Eunice’s own interests; and I +begged her to let me defer my visit to the farm until the next day. She +consented, after making me promise to keep my appointment. It was of +some importance to her, she told me, that I should make acquaintance +with the farmer and his wife and children, and tell her how I liked +them. Her plans for the future depended on what those good people might +be willing to do. When she had recovered her health, it was impossible +for her to go home again while Helena remained in the house. She had +resolved to earn her own living, if she could get employment as a +governess. The farmer’s children liked her; she had already helped their +mother in teaching them; and there was reason to hope that their father +would see his way to employing her permanently. His house offered the +great advantage of being near enough to the town to enable her to hear +news of the Minister’s progress toward recovery, and to see him herself +when safe opportunities offered, from time to time. As for her salary, +what did she care about money? Anything would be acceptable, if the good +man would only realize her hopes for the future. + +It was disheartening to hear that hope, at her age, began and ended +within such narrow limits as these. No prudent man would have tried to +persuade her, as I now did, that the idea of reconciliation offered the +better hope of the two. + +“Suppose I see Mr. Philip Dunboyne when I go back to London,” I began, +“what shall I say to him?” + +“Say I have forgiven him.” + +“And suppose,” I went on, “that the blame really rests, where you all +believe it to rest, with Helena. If that young man returns to you, truly +ashamed of himself, truly penitent, will you--?” + +She resolutely interrupted me: “No!” + +“Oh, Eunice, you surely mean Yes?” + +“I mean No!” + +“Why?” + +“Don’t ask me! Good-by till to-morrow.” + + + +CHAPTER XLII. THE QUAINT PHILOSOPHER. + +No person came to my room, and nothing happened to interrupt me while I +was reading Mr. Philip Dunboyne’s letters. + +One of them, let me say at once, produced a very disagreeable impression +on me. I have unexpectedly discovered Mrs. Tenbruggen--in a postscript. +She is making a living as a Medical Rubber (or Masseuse), and is in +professional attendance on Mr. Dunboyne the elder. More of this, a +little further on. + +Having gone through the whole collection of young Dunboyne’s letters, I +set myself to review the differing conclusions which the correspondence +had produced on my mind. + +I call the papers submitted to me a correspondence, because the greater +part of Philip’s letters exhibit notes in pencil, evidently added by +Helena. These express, for the most part, the interpretation which she +had placed on passages that perplexed or displeased her; and they have, +as Philip’s rejoinders show, been employed as materials when she wrote +her replies. + +On reflection, I find myself troubled by complexities and contradictions +in the view presented of this young man’s character. To decide +positively whether I can justify to myself and to my regard for Eunice, +an attempt to reunite the lovers, requires more time for consideration +than I can reasonably expect that Helena’s patience will allow. Having +a quiet hour or two still before me, I have determined to make extracts +from the letters for my own use; with the intention of referring to +them while I am still in doubt which way my decision ought to incline. I +shall present them here, to speak for themselves. Is there any objection +to this? None that I can see. + +In the first place, those extracts have a value of their own. They add +necessary information to the present history of events. + +In the second place, I am under no obligation to Mr. Gracedieu’s +daughter which forbids me to make use of her portfolio. I told her +that I only consented to receive it, under reserve of my own right of +action--and her assent to that stipulation was expressed in the clearest +terms. + + +EXTRACTS FROM MR. PHILIP DUNBOYNE’S LETTERS. + +First Extract. + +You blame me, dear Helena, for not having paid proper attention to the +questions put to me in your last letter. I have only been waiting to +make up my mind, before I replied. + +First question: Do I think it advisable that you should write to my +father? No, my dear; I beg you will defer writing, until you hear from +me again. + +Second question: Considering that he is still a stranger to you, is +there any harm in your asking me what sort of man my father is? No +harm, my sweet one; but, as you will presently see, I am afraid you have +addressed yourself to the wrong person. + +My father is kind, in his own odd way--and learned, and rich--a more +high-minded and honorable man (as I have every reason to believe) +doesn’t live. But if you ask me which he prefers, his books or his son, +I hope I do him no injustice when I answer, his books. His reading and +his writing are obstacles between us which I have never been able to +overcome. This is the more to be regretted because he is charming, on +the few occasions when I find him disengaged. If you wish I knew more +about my father, we are in complete agreement as usual--I wish, too. + +But there is a dear friend of yours and mine, who is just the person we +want to help us. Need I say that I allude to Mrs. Staveley? + +I called on her yesterday, not long after she had paid a visit to my +father. Luck had favored her. She arrived just at the time when hunger +had obliged him to shut up his books, and ring for something to eat. +Mrs. Staveley secured a favorable reception with her customary tact and +delicacy. He had a fowl for his dinner. She knows his weakness of old; +she volunteered to carve it for him. + +If I can only repeat what this clever woman told me of their talk, +you will have a portrait of Mr. Dunboyne the elder--not perhaps a +highly-finished picture, but, as I hope and believe, a good likeness. + +Mrs. Staveley began by complaining to him of the conduct of his son. +I had promised to write to her, and I had never kept my word. She had +reasons for being especially interested in my plans and prospects, just +then; knowing me to be attached (please take notice that I am quoting +her own language) to a charming friend of hers, whom I had first met +at her house. To aggravate the disappointment that I had inflicted, the +young lady had neglected her, too. No letters, no information. Perhaps +my father would kindly enlighten her? Was the affair going on? or was it +broken off? + +My father held out his plate and asked for the other wing of the +fowl. “It isn’t a bad one for London,” he said; “won’t you have some +yourself?” + +“I don’t seem to have interested you,” Mrs. Staveley remarked. + +“What did you expect me to be interested in?” my father inquired. “I was +absorbed in the fowl. Favor me by returning to the subject.” + +Mrs. Staveley admits that she answered this rather sharply: “The +subject, sir, was your son’s admiration for a charming girl: one of the +daughters of Mr. Gracedieu, the famous preacher.” + +My father is too well-bred to speak to a lady while his attention is +absorbed by a fowl. He finished the second wing, and then he asked if +“Philip was engaged to be married.” + +“I am not quite sure,” Mrs. Staveley confessed. + +“Then, my dear friend, we will wait till we _are_ sure.” + +“But, Mr. Dunboyne, there is really no need to wait. I suppose your son +comes here, now and then, to see you?” + +“My son is most attentive. In course of time he will contrive to hit on +the right hour for his visit. At present, poor fellow, he interrupts me +every day.” + +“Suppose he hits upon the right time to-morrow?” + +“Yes?” + +“You might ask him if he is engaged?” + +“Pardon me. I think I might wait till Philip mentions it without +asking.” + +“What an extraordinary man you are!” + +“Oh, no, no--only a philosopher.” + +This tried Mrs. Staveley’s temper. You know what a perfectly candid +person our friend is. She owned to me that she felt inclined to make +herself disagreeable. “That’s thrown away upon me,” she said: “I don’t +know what a philosopher is.” + +Let me pause for a moment, dear Helena. I have inexcusably forgotten +to speak of my father’s personal appearance. It won’t take long. I need +only notice one interesting feature which, so to speak, lifts his face +out of the common. He has an eloquent nose. Persons possessing this +rare advantage are blest with powers of expression not granted to their +ordinary fellow-creatures. My father’s nose is a mine of information to +friends familiarly acquainted with it. It changes color like a modest +young lady’s cheek. It works flexibly from side to side like the rudder +of a ship. On the present occasion, Mrs. Staveley saw it shift toward +the left-hand side of his face. A sigh escaped the poor lady. Experience +told her that my father was going to hold forth. + +“You don’t know what a philosopher is!” he repeated. “Be so kind as to +look at me. I am a philosopher.” + +Mrs. Staveley bowed. + +“And a philosopher, my charming friend, is a man who has discovered a +system of life. Some systems assert themselves in volumes--_my_ system +asserts itself in two words: Never think of anything until you have +first asked yourself if there is an absolute necessity for doing it, +at that particular moment. Thinking of things, when things needn’t +be thought of, is offering an opportunity to Worry; and Worry is +the favorite agent of Death when the destroyer handles his work in a +lingering way, and achieves premature results. Never look back, and +never look forward, as long as you can possibly help it. Looking back +leads the way to sorrow. And looking forward ends in the cruelest of all +delusions: it encourages hope. The present time is the precious time. +Live for the passing day: the passing day is all that we can be sure of. +You suggested, just now, that I should ask my son if he was engaged to +be married. How do we know what wear and tear of your nervous texture I +succeeded in saving when I said. ‘Wait till Philip mentions it without +asking?’ There is the personal application of my system. I have +explained it in my time to every woman on the list of my acquaintance, +including the female servants. Not one of them has rewarded me by +adopting my system. How do you feel about it?” + +Mrs. Staveley declined to tell me whether she had offered a bright +example of gratitude to the rest of the sex. When I asked why, she +declared that it was my turn now to tell her what I had been doing. + +You will anticipate what followed. She objected to the mystery in which +my prospects seemed to be involved. In plain English, was I, or was I +not, engaged to marry her dear Eunice? I said, No. What else could I +say? If I had told Mrs. Staveley the truth, when she insisted on my +explaining myself, she would have gone back to my father, and would +have appealed to his sense of justice to forbid our marriage. Finding me +obstinately silent, she has decided on writing to Eunice. So we parted. +But don’t be disheartened. On my way out of the house, I met Mr. +Staveley coming in, and had a little talk with him. He and his wife and +his family are going to the seaside, next week. Mrs. Staveley once out +of our way, I can tell my father of our engagement without any fear +of consequences. If she writes to him, the moment he sees my name +mentioned, and finds violent language associated with it, he will hand +the letter to me. “Your business, Philip: don’t interrupt me.” He will +say that, and go back to his books. There is my father, painted to the +life! Farewell, for the present. + +....... + +Remarks by H. G.--Philip’s grace and gayety of style might be envied by +any professional Author. He amuses me, but he rouses my suspicion at the +same time. This slippery lover of mine tells me to defer writing to +his father, and gives no reason for offering that strange advice to the +young lady who is soon to be a member of the family. Is this merely one +more instance of the weakness of his character? Or, now that he is away +from my influence, is he beginning to regret Eunice already? + +Added by the Governor.--I too have my doubts. Is the flippant nonsense +which Philip has written inspired by the effervescent good spirits of a +happy young man? Or is it assumed for a purpose? In this latter case, I +should gladly conclude that he was regarding his conduct to Eunice with +becoming emotions of sorrow and shame. + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. THE MASTERFUL MASSEUSE. + +My next quotations will suffer a process of abridgment. I intend them to +present the substance of three letters, reduced as follows: + + +Second Extract. + +Weak as he may be, Mr. Philip Dunboyne shows (in his second letter) +that he can feel resentment, and that he can express his feelings, in +replying to Miss Helena. He protests against suspicions which he has not +deserved. That he does sometimes think of Eunice he sees no reason to +deny. He is conscious of errors and misdeeds, which--traceable as they +are to Helena’s irresistible fascinations--may perhaps be considered +rather his misfortune than his fault. Be that as it may, he does indeed +feel anxious to hear good accounts of Eunice’s health. If this honest +avowal excites her sister’s jealousy, he will be disappointed in Helena +for the first time. + +His third letter shows that this exhibition of spirit has had its +effect. + +The imperious young lady regrets that she has hurt his feelings, and is +rewarded for the apology by receiving news of the most gratifying kind. +Faithful Philip has told his father that he is engaged to be married +to Miss Helena Gracedieu, daughter of the celebrated Congregational +preacher--and so on, and so on. Has Mr. Dunboyne the elder expressed +any objection to the young lady? Certainly not! He knows nothing of +the other engagement to Eunice; and he merely objects, on principle, to +looking forward. “How do we know,” says the philosopher, “what accidents +may happen, or what doubts and hesitations may yet turn up? I am not +to burden my mind in this matter, till I know that I must do it. Let +me hear when she is ready to go to church, and I will be ready with +the settlements. My compliments to Miss and her papa, and let us wait a +little.” Dearest Helena--isn’t he funny? + +The next letter has been already mentioned. + +In this there occurs the first startling reference to Mrs. Tenbruggen, +by name. She is in London, finding her way to lucrative celebrity +by twisting, turning, and pinching the flesh of credulous persons, +afflicted with nervous disorders; and she has already paid a few medical +visits to old Mr. Dunboyne. He persists in poring over his books while +Mrs. Tenbruggen operates, sometimes on his cramped right hand, sometimes +(in the fear that his brain may have something to do with it) on the +back of his neck. One of them frowns over her rubbing, and the other +frowns over his reading. It would be delightfully ridiculous, but for a +drawback; Mr. Philip Dunboyne’s first impressions of Mrs. Tenbruggen do +not incline him to look at that lady from a humorous point of view. + +Helena’s remarks follow, as usual. She has seen Mrs. Tenbruggen’s name +on the address of a letter written by Miss Jillgall--which is quite +enough to condemn Mrs. Tenbruggen. As for Philip himself, she feels not +quite sure of him, even yet. No more do I. Third Extract. + +The letter that follows must be permitted to speak for itself: + +I have flown into a passion, dearest Helena; and I am afraid I shall +make you fly into a passion, too. Blame Mrs. Tenbruggen; don’t blame me. + +On the first occasion when I found my father under the hands of the +Medical Rubber, she took no notice of me. On the second occasion--when +she had been in daily attendance on him for a week, at an exorbitant +fee--she said in the coolest manner: “Who is this young gentleman?” My +father laid down his book, for a moment only: “Don’t interrupt me again, +ma’am. The young gentleman is my son Philip.” Mrs. Tenbruggen eyed me +with an appearance of interest which I was at a loss to account for. I +hate an impudent woman. My visit came suddenly to an end. + +The next time I saw my father, he was alone. + +I asked him how he got on with Mrs. Tenbruggen. As badly as possible, +it appeared. “She takes liberties with my neck; she interrupts me in +my reading; and she does me no good. I shall end, Philip, in applying a +medical rubbing to Mrs. Tenbruggen.” + +A few days later, I found the masterful “Masseuse” torturing the poor +old gentleman’s muscles again. She had the audacity to say to me: “Well, +Mr. Philip, when are you going to marry Miss Eunice Gracedieu?” My +father looked up. “Eunice?” he repeated. “When my son told me he was +engaged to Miss Gracedieu, he said ‘Helena’! Philip, what does this +mean?” Mrs. Tenbruggen was so obliging as to answer for me. “Some +mistake, sir; it’s Eunice he is engaged to.” I confess I forgot myself. +“How the devil do you know that?” I burst out. Mrs. Tenbruggen ignored +me and my language. “I am sorry to see, sir, that your son’s education +has been neglected; he seems to be grossly ignorant of the laws of +politeness.” “Never mind the laws of politeness,” says my father. “You +appear to be better acquainted with my son’s matrimonial prospects than +he is himself. How is that?” Mrs. Tenbruggen favored him with another +ready reply: “My authority is a letter, addressed to me by a relative of +Mr. Gracedieu--my dear and intimate friend, Miss Jillgall.” My father’s +keen eyes traveled backward and forward between his female surgeon and +his son. “Which am I to believe?” he inquired. “I am surprised at your +asking the question,” I said. Mrs. Tenbruggen pointed to me. “Look at +Mr. Philip, sir--and you will allow him one merit. He is capable of +showing it, when he knows he has disgraced himself.” Without intending +it, I am sure, my father infuriated me; he looked as if he believed her. +Out came one of the smallest and strongest words in the English language +before I could stop it: “Mrs. Tenbruggen, you lie!” The illustrious +Rubber dropped my father’s hand--she had been operating on him all the +time--and showed us that she could assert her dignity when circumstances +called for the exertion: “Either your son or I, sir, must leave the +room. Which is it to be?” She met her match in my father. Walking +quietly to the door, he opened it for Mrs. Tenbruggen with a low bow. +She stopped on her way out, and delivered her parting words: “Messieurs +Dunboyne, father and son, I keep my temper, and merely regard you as a +couple of blackguards.” With that pretty assertion of her opinion, she +left us. + +When we were alone, there was but one course to take; I made my +confession. It is impossible to tell you how my father received it--for +he sat down at his library table with his back to me. The first thing he +did was to ask me to help his memory. + +“Did you say that the father of these girls was a parson?” + +“Yes--a Congregational Minister.” + +“What does the Minister think of you?” + +“I don’t know, sir.” + +“Find out.” + +That was all; not another word could I extract from him. I don’t pretend +to have discovered what he really has in his mind. I only venture on +a suggestion. If there is any old friend in your town, who has some +influence over your father, leave no means untried of getting that +friend to say a kind word for us. And then ask your father to write to +mine. This is, as I see it, our only chance. + +....... + +There the letter ends. Helena’s notes on it show that her pride is +fiercely interested in securing Philip as a husband. Her victory over +poor Eunice will, as she plainly intimates, be only complete when she is +married to young Dunboyne. For the rest, her desperate resolution to win +her way to my good graces is sufficiently intelligible, now. + +My own impressions vary. Philip rather gains upon me; he appears to +have some capacity for feeling ashamed of himself. On the other hand, +I regard the discovery of an intimate friendship existing between +Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss Jillgall with the gloomiest views. Is this +formidable Masseuse likely to ply her trade in the country towns? And is +it possible that she may come to this town? God forbid! + + +Of the other letters in the collection, I need take no special notice. +I returned the whole correspondence to Helena, and waited to hear from +her. + +The one recent event in Mr. Gracedieu’s family, worthy of record, is of +a melancholy nature. After paying his visit to-day, the doctor has left +word that nobody but the nurse is to go near the Minister. This seems to +indicate, but too surely, a change for the worse. + +Helena has been away all the evening at the Girls’ School. She left a +little note, informing me of her wishes: “I shall expect to be favored +with your decision to-morrow morning, in my housekeeping room.” + +At breakfast time, the report of the poor Minister was still +discouraging. I noticed that Helena was absent from the table. Miss +Jillgall suspected that the cause was bad news from Mr. Philip Dunboyne, +arriving by that morning’s post. “If you will excuse the use of strong +language by a lady,” she said, “Helena looked perfectly devilish when +she opened the letter. She rushed away, and locked herself up in her +own shabby room. A serious obstacle, as I suspect, in the way of her +marriage. Cheering, isn’t it?” As usual, good Selina expressed her +sentiments without reserve. + +I had to keep my appointment; and the sooner Helena Gracedieu and I +understood each other the better. + +I knocked at the door. It was loudly unlocked, and violently thrown +open. Helena’s temper had risen to boiling heat; she stammered with rage +when she spoke to me. + +“I mean to come to the point at once,” she said. + +“I am glad to hear it, Miss Helena.” + +“May I count on your influence to help me? I want a positive answer.” + +I gave her what she wanted. I said: “Certainly not.” + +She took a crumpled letter from her pocket, opened it, and smoothed it +out on the table with a blow of her open hand. + +“Look at that,” she said. + +I looked. It was the letter addressed to Mr. Dunboyne the elder, which +I had written for Mr. Gracedieu--with the one object of preventing +Helena’s marriage. + +“Of course, I can depend on you to tell me the truth?” she continued. + +“Without fear or favor,” I answered, “you may depend on _that_.” + +“The signature to the letter, Mr. Governor, is written by my father. +But the letter itself is in a different hand. Do you, by any chance, +recognize the writing?” + +“I do.” + +“Whose writing is it?” + +“Mine.” + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. THE RESURRECTION OF THE PAST. + +After having identified my handwriting, I waited with some curiosity to +see whether Helena would let her anger honestly show itself, or whether +she would keep it down. She kept it down. + +“Allow me to return good for evil.” (The evil was uppermost, +nevertheless, when Miss Gracedieu expressed herself in these +self-denying terms.) “You are no doubt anxious to know if Philip’s +father has been won over to serve your purpose. Here is Philip’s own +account of it: the last of his letters that I shall trouble you to +read.” + +I looked it over. The memorandum follows which I made for my own use: + +An eccentric philosopher is as capable as the most commonplace human +being in existence of behaving like an honorable man. Mr. Dunboyne read +the letter which bore the Minister’s signature, and handed it to his +son. “Can you answer that?” was all he said. Philip’s silence confessed +that he was unable to answer it--and Philip himself, I may add, rose +accordingly in my estimation. His father pointed to the writing-desk. “I +must spare my cramped hand,” the philosopher resumed, “and I must answer +Mr. Gracedieu’s letter. Write, and leave a place for my signature.” He +began to dictate his reply. “Sir--My son Philip has seen your letter, +and has no defense to make. In this respect he has set an example of +candor which I propose to follow. There is no excuse for him. What I can +do to show that I feel for you, and agree with you, shall be done. At +the age which this young man has reached, the laws of England abolish +the authority of his father. If he is sufficiently infatuated to place +his honor and his happiness at the mercy of a lady, who has behaved +to her sister as your daughter has behaved to Miss Eunice, I warn the +married couple not to expect a farthing of my money, either during my +lifetime or after my death. Your faithful servant, DUNBOYNE, SENIOR.” + Having performed his duty as secretary, Philip received his dismissal: +“You may send my reply to the post,” his father said; “and you may keep +Mr. Gracedieu’s letter. Morally speaking, I regard that last document +as a species of mirror, in which a young gentleman like yourself may +see how ugly he looks.” This, Philip declared, was his father’s form of +farewell. I handed back the letter to Helena. Not a word passed between +us. In sinister silence she opened the door and left me alone in the +room. + +That Mrs. Gracedieu and I had met in the bygone time, and--this was the +only serious part of it--had met in secret, would now be made known to +the Minister. Was I to blame for having shrunk from distressing my good +friend, by telling him that his wife had privately consulted me on the +means of removing his adopted child from his house? And, even if I +had been cruel enough to do this, would he have believed my statement +against the positive denial with which the woman whom he loved and +trusted would have certainly met it? No! let the consequences of the +coming disclosure be what they might, I failed to see any valid reason +for regretting my conduct in the past time. + +I found Miss Jillgall waiting in the passage to see me come out. + +Before I could tell her what had happened, there was a ring at the +house-bell. The visitor proved to be Mr. Wellwood, the doctor. I was +anxious to speak to him on the subject of Mr. Gracedieu’s health. Miss +Jillgall introduced me, as an old and dear friend of the Minister, and +left us together in the dining-room. + +“What do I think of Mr. Gracedieu?” he said, repeating the first +question that I put. “Well, sir, I think badly of him.” + +Entering into details, after that ominous reply, Mr. Wellwood did not +hesitate to say that his patient’s nerves were completely shattered. +Disease of the brain had, as he feared, been already set up. “As to +the causes which have produced this lamentable break-down,” the doctor +continued, “Mr. Gracedieu has been in the habit of preaching extempore +twice a day on Sundays, and sometimes in the week as well--and has +uniformly refused to spare himself when he was in most urgent need of +rest. If you have ever attended his chapel, you have seen a man in a +state of fiery enthusiasm, feeling intensely every word that he utters. +Think of such exhaustion as that implies going on for years together, +and accumulating its wasting influences on a sensitively organized +constitution. Add that he is tormented by personal anxieties, which he +confesses to no one, not even to his own children and the sum of it +all is that a worse case of its kind, I am grieved to say, has never +occurred in my experience.” + +Before the doctor left me to go to his patient, I asked leave to occupy +a minute more of his time. My object was, of course, to speak about +Eunice. + +The change of subject seemed to be agreeable to Mr. Wellwood. He smiled +good-humoredly. + +“You need feel no alarm about the health of that interesting girl,” + he said. “When she complained to me--at her age!--of not being able to +sleep, I should have taken it more seriously if I had been told that she +too had her troubles, poor little soul. Love-troubles, most likely--but +don’t forget that my professional limits keep me in the dark! Have you +heard that she took some composing medicine, which I had prescribed for +her father? The effect (certain, in any case, to be injurious to a young +girl) was considerably aggravated by the state of her mind at the time. +A dream that frightened her, and something resembling delirium, seems to +have followed. And she made matters worse, poor child, by writing in her +diary about the visions and supernatural appearances that had terrified +her. I was afraid of fever, on the day when they first sent for me. We +escaped that complication, and I was at liberty to try the best of all +remedies--quiet and change of air. I have no fears for Miss Eunice.” + +With that cheering reply he went up to the Minister’s room. + +All that I had found perplexing in Eunice was now made clear. I +understood how her agony at the loss of her lover, and her keen sense +of the wrong that she had suffered, had been strengthened in their +disastrous influence by her experiment on the sleeping draught intended +for her father. In mind and body, both, the poor girl was in the +condition which offered its opportunity to the lurking hereditary +taint. It was terrible to think of what might have happened, if the +all-powerful counter-influence had not been present to save her. + +Before I had been long alone the servant-maid came in, and said the +doctor wanted to see me. + +Mr. Wellwood was waiting in the passage, outside the Minister’s +bedchamber. He asked if he could speak to me without interruption, and +without the fear of being overheard. I led him at once to the room which +I occupied as a guest. + +“At the very time when it is most important to keep Mr. Gracedieu +quiet,” he said, “something has happened to excite--I might almost say +to infuriate him. He has left his bed, and is walking up and down the +room; and, I don’t scruple to say, he is on the verge of madness. He +insists on seeing you. Being wholly unable to control him in any +other way, I have consented to this. But I must not allow you to place +yourself in what may be a disagreeable position, without a word of +warning. Judging by his tones and his looks, he seems to have no very +friendly motive for wishing to see you.” + +Knowing perfectly well what had happened, and being one of those +impatient people who can never endure suspense--I offered to go at once +to Mr. Gracedieu’s room. The doctor asked leave to say one word more. + +“Pray be careful that you neither say nor do anything to thwart him,” + Mr. Wellwood resumed. “If he expresses an opinion, agree with him. If +he is insolent and overbearing, don’t answer him. In the state of his +brain, the one hopeful course to take is to let him have his own way. +Pray remember that. I will be within call, in case of your wanting me.” + + + +CHAPTER XLV. THE FATAL PORTRAIT. + +I knocked at the bedroom door. + +“Who’s there?” + +Only two words--but the voice that uttered them, hoarse and peremptory, +was altered almost beyond recognition. If I had not known whose room it +was, I might have doubted whether the Minister had really spoken to me. + +At the instant when I answered him, I was allowed to pass in. Having +admitted me, he closed the door, and placed himself with his back +against it. The customary pallor of his face had darkened to a deep +red; there was an expression of ferocious mockery in his eyes. Helena’s +vengeance had hurt her unhappy father far more severely than it seemed +likely to hurt me. The doctor had said he was on the verge of madness. +To my thinking, he had already passed the boundary line. + +He received me with a boisterous affectation of cordiality. + +“My excellent friend! My admirable, honorable, welcome guest, you don’t +know how glad I am to see you. Stand a little nearer to the light; I +want to admire you.” + +Remembering the doctor’s advice, I obeyed him in silence. + +“Ah, you were a handsome fellow when I first knew you,” he said, “and +you have some remains of it still left. Do you remember the time when +you were a favorite with the ladies? Oh, don’t pretend to be modest; +don’t turn your back, now you are old, on what you were in the prime of +your life. Do you own that I am right?” + +What his object might be in saying this--if, indeed, he had an +object--it was impossible to guess. The doctor’s advice left me no +alternative; I hastened to own that he was right. As I made that answer, +I observed that he held something in his hand which was half hidden up +the sleeve of his dressing-gown. What the nature of the object was I +failed to discover. + +“And when I happened to speak of you somewhere,” he went on, “I forget +where--a member of my congregation--I don’t recollect who it was--told +me you were connected with the aristocracy. How were you connected?” + +He surprised me; but, however he had got his information, he had not +been deceived. I told him that I was connected, through my mother, with +the family to which he had alluded. + +“The aristocracy!” he repeated. “A race of people who are rich without +earning their money, and noble because their great-grandfathers were +noble before them. They live in idleness and luxury--profligates who +gratify their passions without shame and without remorse. Deny, if you +dare, that this is a true description of them.” + +It was really pitiable. Heartily sorry for him, I pacified him again. + +“And don’t suppose I forget that you are one of them. Do you hear me, my +noble friend?” + +There was no help for it--I made another conciliatory reply. + +“So far,” he resumed, “I don’t complain of you. You have not attempted +to deceive me--yet. Absolute silence is what I require next. Though you +may not suspect it, my mind is in a ferment; I must try to think.” + +To some extent at least, his thoughts betrayed themselves in his +actions. He put the object that I had half seen in his hand into the +pocket of his dressing-gown, and moved to the toilet-table. Opening one +of the drawers, he took from it a folded sheet of paper, and came back +to me. + +“A minister of the Gospel,” he said, “is a sacred man, and has a horror +of crime. You are safe, so far--provided you obey me. I have a solemn +and terrible duty to perform. This is not the right place for it. Follow +me downstairs.” + +He led the way out. The doctor, waiting in the passage, was not near the +stairs, and so escaped notice. “What is it?” Mr. Wellwood whispered. +In the same guarded way, I said: “He has not told me yet; I have been +careful not to irritate him.” When we descended the stairs, the doctor +followed us at a safe distance. He mended his pace when the Minister +opened the door of the study, and when he saw us both pass in. Before he +could follow, the door was closed and locked in his face. Mr. Gracedieu +took out the key and threw it through the open window, into the garden +below. + +Turning back into the room, he laid the folded sheet of paper on the +table. That done, he spoke to me. + +“I distrust my own weakness,” he said. “A dreadful necessity confronts +me--I might shrink from the horrid idea, and, if I could open the +door, might try to get away. Escape is impossible now. We are prisoners +together. But don’t suppose that we are alone. There is a third person +present, who will judge between you and me. Look there!” + +He pointed solemnly to the portrait of his wife. It was a small picture, +very simply framed; representing the face in a “three-quarter” view, and +part of the figure only. As a work of art it was contemptible; but, as a +likeness, it answered its purpose. My unhappy friend stood before it, in +an attitude of dejection, covering his face with his hands. + +In the interval of silence that followed, I was reminded that an unseen +friend was keeping watch outside. + +Alarmed by having heard the key turned in the lock, and realizing the +embarrassment of the position in which I was placed, the doctor had +discovered a discreet way of communicating with me. He slipped one of +his visiting-cards under the door, with these words written on it: “How +can I help you?” + +I took the pencil from my pocketbook, and wrote on the blank side of +the card: “He has thrown the key into the garden; look for it under the +window.” A glance at the Minister, before I returned my reply, showed +that his attitude was unchanged. Without being seen or suspected, I, in +my turn, slipped the card under the door. + +The slow minutes followed each other--and still nothing happened. + +My anxiety to see how the doctor’s search for the key was succeeding, +tempted me to approach the window. On my way to it, the tail of my coat +threw down a little tray containing pens and pencils, which had been +left close to the edge of the table. Slight as the noise of the fall +was, it disturbed Mr. Gracedieu. He looked round vacantly. + +“I have been comforted by prayer,” he told me. “The weakness of poor +humanity has found strength in the Lord.” He pointed to the portrait +once more: “My hands must not presume to touch it, while I am still in +doubt. Take it down.” + +I removed the picture and placed it, by his directions, on a chair that +stood midway between us. To my surprise his tones faltered; I saw tears +rising in his eyes. “You may think you see a picture there,” he said. +“You are wrong. You see my wife herself. Stand here, and look at my wife +with me.” + +We stood together, with our eyes fixed on the portrait. + +Without anything said or done on my part to irritate him, he suddenly +turned to me in a state of furious rage. “Not a sign of sorrow!” he +burst out. “Not a blush of shame! Wretch, you stand condemned by the +atrocious composure that I see in your face!” + +A first discovery of the odious suspicion of which I was the object, +dawned on my mind at that moment. My capacity for restraining myself +completely failed me. I spoke to him as if he had been an accountable +being. “Once for all,” I said, “tell me what I have a right to know. You +suspect me of something. What is it?” + +Instead of directly replying, he seized my arm and led me to the table. +“Take up that paper,” he said. “There is writing on it. Read--and let +Her judge between us. Your life depends on how you answer me.” + +Was there a weapon concealed in the room? or had he got it in the pocket +of his dressing-gown? I listened for the sound of the doctor’s returning +footsteps in the passage outside, and heard nothing. My life had once +depended, years since, on my success in heading the arrest of an escaped +prisoner. I was not conscious, then, of feeling my energies weakened by +fear. But _that_ man was not mad; and I was younger, in those days, by a +good twenty years or more. At my later time of life, I could show my old +friend that I was not afraid of him--but I was conscious of an effort in +doing it. + +I opened the paper. “Am I to read this to myself?” I asked. “Or am I to +read it aloud?” + +“Read it aloud!” + +In these terms, his daughter addressed him: + + +“I have been so unfortunate, dearest father, as to displease you, and I +dare not hope that you will consent to receive me. What it is my painful +duty to tell you, must be told in writing. + +“Grieved as I am to distress you, in your present state of health, I +must not hesitate to reveal what it has been my misfortune--I may even +say my misery, when I think of my mother--to discover. + +“But let me make sure, in such a serious matter as this is, that I am +not mistaken. + +“In those happy past days, when I was still dear to my father, you said +you thought of writing to invite a dearly-valued friend to pay a visit +to this house. You had first known him, as I understood, when my mother +was still living. Many interesting things you told me about this old +friend, but you never mentioned that he knew, or that he had even seen, +my mother. I was left to suppose that those two had remained strangers +to each other to the day of her death. + +“If there is any misinterpretation here of what you said, or perhaps of +what you meant to say, pray destroy what I have written without turning +to the next page; and forgive me for having innocently startled you by a +false alarm.” + + +Mr. Gracedieu interrupted me. + +“Put it down!” he cried; “I won’t wait till you have got to the end--I +shall question you now. Give me the paper; it will help me to keep this +mystery of iniquity clear in my own mind.” + +I gave him the paper. + +He hesitated--and looked at the portrait once more. “Turn her away from +me,” he said; “I can’t face my wife.” + +I placed the picture with its back to him. + +He consulted the paper, reading it with but little of the confusion and +hesitation which my experience of him had induced me to anticipate. Had +the mad excitement that possessed him exercised an influence in clearing +his mind, resembling in some degree the influence exercised by a storm +in clearing the air? Whatever the right explanation may be, I can only +report what I saw. I could hardly have mastered what his daughter had +written more readily, if I had been reading it myself. + +“Helena tells me,” he began, “that you said you knew her by her likeness +to her mother. Is that true?” + +“Quite true.” + +“And you made an excuse for leaving her--see! here it is, written down. +You made an excuse, and left her when she asked for an explanation.” + +“I did.” + +He consulted the paper again. + +“My daughter says--No! I won’t be hurried and I won’t be +interrupted--she says you were confused. Is that so?” + +“It is so. Let your questions wait for a moment. I wish to tell you why +I was confused.” + +“Haven’t I said I won’t be interrupted? Do you think you can shake _my_ +resolution?” He referred to the paper again. “I have lost the place. +It’s your fault--find it for me.” + +The evidence which was intended to convict me was the evidence which I +was expected to find! I pointed it out to him. + +His natural courtesy asserted itself in spite of his anger. He said +“Thank you,” and questioned me the moment after as fiercely as ever. “Go +back to the time, sir, when we met in your rooms at the prison. Did you +know my wife then?” + +“Certainly not.” + +“Did you and she see each other--ha! I’ve got it now--did you see each +other after I had left the town? No prevarication! You own to telling +Helena that you knew her by her likeness to her mother. You must have +seen her mother. Where?” + +I made another effort to defend myself. He again refused furiously to +hear me. It was useless to persist. Whatever the danger that threatened +me might be, the sooner it showed itself the easier I should feel. I +told him that Mrs. Gracedieu had called on me, after he and his wife had +left the town. + +“Do you mean to tell me,” he cried, “that she came to you?” + +“I do.” + +After that answer, he no longer required the paper to help him. He threw +it from him on the floor. + +“And you received her,” he said, “without inquiring whether I knew of +her visit or not? Guilty deception on your part--guilty deception on her +part. Oh, the hideous wickedness of it!” + +When his mad suspicion that I had been his wife’s lover betrayed itself +in this way, I made a last attempt, in the face of my own conviction +that it was hopeless, to place my conduct and his wife’s conduct before +him in the true light. + +“Mrs. Gracedieu’s object was to consult me--” Before I could say the +next words, I saw him put his hand into the pocket of his dressing-gown. + +“An innocent man,” he sternly declared, “would have told me that my wife +had been to see him--you kept it a secret. An innocent woman would have +given me a reason for wishing to go to you--she kept it a secret, when +she left my house; she kept it a secret when she came back.” + +“Mr. Gracedieu, I insist on being heard! Your wife’s motive--” + +He drew from his pocket the thing that he had hidden from me. This time, +there was no concealment; he let me see that he was opening a razor. It +was no time for asserting my innocence; I had to think of preserving my +life. When a man is without firearms, what defense can avail against a +razor in the hands of a madman? A chair was at my side; it offered the +one poor means of guarding myself that I could see. I laid my hand on +it, and kept my eye on him. + +He paused, looking backward and forward between the picture and me. + +“Which of them shall I kill first?” he said to himself. “The man who +was my trusted friend? Or the woman whom I believed to be an angel on +earth?” He stopped once more, in a state of fierce self-concentration, +debating what he should do. “The woman,” he decided. “Wretch! Fiend! +Harlot! How I loved her!!!” + +With a yell of fury, he pounced on the picture--ripped the canvas out of +the frame--and cut it malignantly into fragments. As they dropped from +the razor on the floor, he stamped on them, and ground them under his +foot. “Go, wife of my bosom,” he cried, with a dreadful mockery of voice +and look--“go, and burn everlastingly in the place of torment!” His eyes +glared at me. “Your turn now,” he said--and rushed at me with his +weapon ready in his hand. I hurled the chair at his right arm. The razor +dropped on the floor. I caught him by the wrist. Like a wild animal he +tried to bite me. With my free hand--if I had known how to defend myself +in any other way, I would have taken that way--with my free hand I +seized him by the throat; forced him back; and held him against the +wall. My grasp on his throat kept him quiet. But the dread of seriously +injuring him so completely overcame me, that I forgot I was a prisoner +in the room, and was on the point of alarming the household by a cry for +help. + +I was still struggling to preserve my self-control, when the sound of +footsteps broke the silence outside. I heard the key turn in the lock, +and saw the doctor at the open door. + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. THE CUMBERSOME LADIES. + +I cannot prevail upon myself to dwell at any length on the events that +followed. + +We secured my unhappy friend, and carried him to his bed. It was +necessary to have men in attendance who could perform the duty of +watching him. The doctor sent for them, while I went downstairs to make +the best I could of the miserable news which it was impossible entirely +to conceal. All that I could do to spare Miss Jillgall, I did. I was +obliged to acknowledge that there had been an outbreak of violence, +and that the portrait of the Minister’s wife had been destroyed by the +Minister himself. Of Helena’s revenge on me I said nothing. It had +led to consequences which even her merciless malice could not have +contemplated. There were no obstacles in the way of keeping secret the +attempt on my life. But I was compelled to own that Mr. Gracedieu had +taken a dislike to me, which rendered it necessary that my visit should +be brought to an end. I hastened to add that I should go to the hotel, +and should wait there until the next day, in the hope of hearing better +news. + +Of the multitude of questions with which poor Miss Jillgall overwhelmed +me--of the wild words of sorrow and alarm that escaped her--of the +desperate manner in which she held by my arm, and implored me not to +go away, when I must see for myself that “she was a person entirely +destitute of presence of mind”--I shall say nothing. The undeserved +suffering that is inflicted on innocent persons by the sins of others +demands silent sympathy; and, to that extent at least, I can say that I +honestly felt for my quaint and pleasant little friend. + +In the evening the doctor called on me at the hotel. The medical +treatment of his patient had succeeded in calming the maddened brain +under the influence of sleep. If the night passed quietly, better news +might be hoped for in the morning. + +On the next day I had arranged to drive to the farm, being resolved +not to disappoint Eunice. But I shrank from the prospect of having +to distress her as I had already distressed Miss Jillgall. The only +alternative left was to repeat the sad story in writing, subject to +the concealments which I had already observed. This I did, and sent the +letter by messenger, overnight, so that Eunice might know when to expect +me. + +The medical report, in the morning, justified some hope. Mr. Gracedieu +had slept well, and there had been no reappearance of insane violence +on his waking. But the doctor’s opinion was far from encouraging when +we spoke of the future. He did not anticipate the cruel necessity of +placing the Minister under restraint--unless some new provocation led to +a new outbreak. The misfortune to be feared was imbecility. + +I was just leaving the hotel to keep my appointment with Eunice, when +the waiter announced the arrival of a young lady who wished to speak +with me. Before I could ask if she had mentioned her name, the young +lady herself walked in--Helena Gracedieu. + +She explained her object in calling on me, with the exasperating +composure which was peculiarly her own. No parallel to it occurs to me +in my official experience of shameless women. + +“I don’t wish to speak of what happened yesterday, so far as I know +anything about it,” she began. “It is quite enough for me that you have +been obliged to leave the house and to take refuge in this hotel. I +have come to say a word about the future. Are you honoring me with your +attention?” + +I signed to her to go on. If I had answered in words, I should have told +her to leave the room. + +“At first,” she resumed, “I thought of writing; but it occurred to me +that you might keep my letter, and show it to Philip, by way of lowering +me in his good opinion, as you have lowered me in the good opinion of +his father. My object in coming here is to give you a word of warning. +If you attempt to make mischief next between Philip and myself, I shall +hear of it--and you know what to expect, when you have me for an enemy. +It is not worth while to say any more. We understand each other, I +hope?” + +She was determined to have a reply--and she got it. + +“Not quite yet,” I said. “I have been hitherto, as becomes a gentleman, +always mindful of a woman’s claims to forbearance. You will do well not +to tempt me into forgetting that _you_ are a woman, by prolonging your +visit. Now, Miss Helena Gracedieu, we understand each other.” She made +me a low curtsey, and answered in her finest tone of irony: “I only +desire to wish you a pleasant journey home.” + +I rang for the waiter. “Show this lady out,” I said. + +Even this failed to have the slightest effect on her. She sauntered to +the door, as perfectly at her ease as if the room had been hers--not +mine. + +I had thought of driving to the farm. Shall I confess it? My temper was +so completely upset that active movement of some kind offered the one +means of relief in which I could find refuge. The farm was not more +than five miles distant, and I had been a good walker all my life. After +making the needful inquiries, I set forth to visit Eunice on foot. + +My way through the town led me past the Minister’s house. I had left the +door some fifty yards behind me, when I saw two ladies approaching. +They were walking, in the friendliest manner, arm in arm. As they came +nearer, I discovered Miss Jillgall. Her companion was the middle-aged +lady who had declined to give her name, when we met accidentally at Mr. +Gracedieu’s door. + +Hysterically impulsive, Miss Jillgall seized both my hands, and +overwhelmed me with entreaties that I would go back with her to the +house. I listened rather absently. The middle-aged lady happened to be +nearer to me now than on either of the former occasions on which I had +seen her. There was something in the expression of her eyes which seemed +to be familiar to me. But the effort of my memory was not helped by what +I observed in the other parts of her face. The iron-gray hair, the baggy +lower eyelids, the fat cheeks, the coarse complexion, and the double +chin, were features, and very disagreeable features, too, which I had +never seen at any former time. + +“Do pray come back with us,” Miss Jillgall pleaded. “We were just +talking of you. I and my friend--” There she stopped, evidently on the +point of blurting out the name which she had been forbidden to utter in +my hearing. + +The lady smiled; her provokingly familiar eyes rested on me with a +humorous enjoyment of the scene. + +“My dear,” she said to Miss Jillgall, “caution ceases to be a virtue +when it ceases to be of any use. The Governor is beginning to +remember me, and the inevitable recognition--with _his_ quickness of +perception--is likely to be a matter of minutes now.” She turned to me. +“In more ways than one, sir, women are hardly used by Nature. As they +advance in years they lose more in personal appearance than the men do. +You are white-haired, and (pray excuse me) you are too fat; and (allow +me to take another liberty) you stoop at the shoulders--but you have not +entirely lost your good looks. _I_ am no longer recognizable. Allow me +to prompt you, as they say on the stage. I am Mrs. Tenbruggen.” + +As a man of the world, I ought to have been capable of concealing my +astonishment and dismay. She struck me dumb. + +Mrs. Tenbruggen in the town! The one woman whose appearance Mr. +Gracedieu had dreaded, and justly dreaded, stood before me--free, as a +friend of his kinswoman, to enter his house, at the very time when he +was a helpless man, guarded by watchers at his bedside. My first clear +idea was to get away from both the women, and consider what was to be +done next. I bowed--and begged to be excused--and said I was in a hurry, +all in a breath. + +Hearing this, the best of genial old maids was unable to restrain her +curiosity. “Where are you going?” she asked. + +Too confused to think of an excuse, I said I was going to the farm. + +“To see my dear Euneece?” Miss Jillgall burst out. “Oh, we will go with +you!” Mrs. Tenbruggen’s politeness added immediately, “With the greatest +pleasure.” + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. THE JOURNEY TO THE FARM. + +My first ungrateful impulse was to get rid of the two cumbersome ladies +who had offered to be my companions. It was needless to call upon my +invention for an excuse; the truth, as I gladly perceived, would serve +my purpose. I had only to tell them that I had arranged to walk to the +farm. + +Lean, wiry, and impetuous, Miss Jillgall received my excuse with +the sincerest approval of it, as a new idea. “Nothing could be more +agreeable to me,” she declared; “I have been a wonderful walker all my +life.” She turned to her friend. “We will go with him, my dear, won’t +we?” + +Mrs. Tenbruggen’s reception of this proposal inspired me with hope; she +asked how far it was to the farm. “Five miles!” she repeated. “And five +miles back again, unless the farmer lends us a cart. My dear Selina, you +might as well ask me to walk to the North Pole. You have got rid of one +of us, Mr. Governor,” she added, pleasantly; “and the other, if you only +walk fast enough, you will leave behind you on the road. If I believed +in luck--which I don’t--I should call you a fortunate man.” + +But companionable Selina would not hear of a separation. She asked, +in her most irresistible manner, if I objected to driving instead of +walking. Her heart’s dearest wish, she said, was to make her bosom +friend and myself better acquainted with each other. To conclude, she +reminded me that there was a cab-stand in the next street. + +Perhaps I might have been influenced by my distrust of Mrs. Tenbruggen, +or perhaps by my anxiety to protect Eunice. It struck me that I might +warn the defenseless girl to be on her guard with Mrs. Tenbruggen to +better purpose, if Eunice was in a position to recognize her in any +future emergency that might occur. To my mind, this dangerous woman was +doubly formidable--and for a good reason; she was the bosom friend of +that innocent and unwary person, Miss Jillgall. So I amiably consented +to forego my walk, yielding to the superior attraction of Mrs. +Tenbruggen’s company. On that day the sunshine was tempered by a +delightful breeze. If we had been in the biggest and worst-governed city +on the civilised earth, we should have found no public vehicle, open to +the air, which could offer accommodation to three people. Being only in +a country town, we had a light four-wheeled chaise at our disposal, as a +matter of course. + +No wise man expects to be mercifully treated, when he is shut into a +carriage with a mature single lady, inflamed by curiosity. I was not +unprepared for Miss Jillgall when she alluded, for the second time, to +the sad events which had happened in the house on the previous day--and +especially to the destruction by Mr. Gracedieu of the portrait of his +wife. + +“Why didn’t he destroy something else?” she pleaded, piteously. “It +is such a disappointment to Me. I never liked that picture myself. +Of course I ought to have admired the portrait of the wife of my +benefactor. But no--that disagreeable painted face was too much for me. +I should have felt inexpressibly relieved, if I could have shown it to +Elizabeth, and heard her say that she agreed with me.” + +“Perhaps I saw it when I called on you,” Mrs. Tenbruggen suggested. +“Where did the picture hang?” + +“My dear! I received you in the dining-room, and the portrait hung in +Mr. Gracedieu’s study.” + +What they said to each other next escaped my attention. Quite +unconsciously, Miss Jillgall had revealed to me a danger which +neither the Minister nor I had discovered, though it had conspicuously +threatened us both on the wall of the study. The act of mad destruction +which, if I had possessed the means of safely interfering, I should +certainly have endeavored to prevent, now assumed a new and startling +aspect. If Mrs. Tenbruggen really had some motive of her own for +endeavoring to identify the adopted child, the preservation of the +picture must have led her straight to the end in view. The most casual +opportunity of comparing Helena with the portrait of Mrs. Gracedieu +would have revealed the likeness between mother and daughter--and, that +result attained, the identification of Eunice with the infant whom the +“Miss Chance” of those days had brought to the prison must inevitably +have followed. It was perhaps natural that Mr. Gracedieu’s infatuated +devotion to the memory of his wife should have blinded him to the +betrayal of Helena’s parentage, which met his eyes every time he entered +his study. But that I should have been too stupid to discover what he +had failed to see, was a wound dealt to my self-esteem which I was vain +enough to feel acutely. + +Mrs. Tenbruggen’s voice, cheery and humorous, broke in on my +reflections, with an odd question: + +“Mr. Governor, do you ever condescend to read novels?” + +“It’s not easy to say, Mrs. Tenbruggen, how grateful I am to the writers +of novels.” + +“Ah! I read novels, too. But I blush to confess--do I blush?--that I +never thought of feeling grateful till you mentioned it. Selina and I +don’t complain of your preferring your own reflections to our company. +On the contrary, you have reminded us agreeably of the heroes of +fiction, when the author describes them as being ‘absorbed in thought.’ +For some minutes, Mr. Governor, you have been a hero; absorbed, as I +venture to guess, in unpleasant remembrances of the time when I was +a single lady. You have not forgotten how badly I behaved, and what +shocking things I said, in those bygone days. Am I right?” + +“You are entirely wrong.” + +It is possible that I may have spoken a little too sharply. Anyway, +faithful Selina interceded for her friend. “Oh, dear sir, don’t be hard +on Elizabeth! She always means well.” Mrs. Tenbruggen, as facetious as +ever, made a grateful return for a small compliment. She chucked Miss +Jillgall under the chin, with the air of an amorous old gentleman +expressing his approval of a pretty servant-girl. It was impossible to +look at the two, in their relative situations, without laughing. But +Mrs. Tenbruggen failed to cheat me into altering my opinion of her. +Innocent Miss Jillgall clapped her ugly hands, and said: “Isn’t she good +company?” + +Mrs. Tenbruggen’s social resources were not exhausted yet. She suddenly +shifted to the serious side of her character. + +“Perhaps I have improved a little,” she said, “as I have advanced in +years. The sorrows of an unhappy married life may have had a purifying +influence on my nature. My husband and I began badly. Mr. Tenbruggen +thought I had money; and I thought Mr. Tenbruggen had money. He was +taken in by me; and I was taken in by him. When he repeated the words +of the marriage service (most impressively read by your friend the +Chaplain): ‘With all my worldly goods I thee endow’--his eloquent voice +suggested one of the largest incomes in Europe. When I promised and +vowed, in my turn, the delightful prospect of squandering my rich +husband’s money made quite a new woman of me. I declare solemnly, when I +said I would love, honor, and obey Mr. T., I looked as if I really +meant it. Wherever he is now, poor dear, he is cheating somebody. Such +a handsome, gentleman-like man, Selina! And, oh, Mr. Governor, such a +blackguard!” + +Having described her husband in those terms, she got tired of the +subject. We were now favored with another view of this many-sided woman. +She appeared in her professional character. + +“Ah, what a delicious breeze is blowing, out here in the country!” she +said. “Will you excuse me if I take off my gloves? I want to air my +hands.” She held up her hands to the breeze; firm, muscular, deadly +white hands. “In my professional occupation,” she explained, “I am +always rubbing, tickling, squeezing, tapping, kneading, rolling, +striking the muscles of patients. Selina, do you know the movements of +your own joints? Flexion, extension, abduction, adduction, rotation, +circumduction, pronation, supination, and the lateral movements. Be +proud of those accomplishments, my dear, but beware of attempting +to become a Masseuse. There are drawbacks in that vocation--and I am +conscious of one of them at this moment.” She lifted her hands to +her nose. “Pah! my hands smell of other people’s flesh. The delicious +country air will blow it away--the luxury of purification!” Her fingers +twisted and quivered, and got crooked at one moment and straight again +at another, and showed themselves in succession singly, and flew into +each other fiercely interlaced, and then spread out again like the +sticks of a fan, until it really made me giddy to look at them. As for +Miss Jillgall, she lifted her poor little sunken eyes rapturously to the +sky, as if she called the homiest sunlight to witness that this was the +most lovable woman on the face of the earth. + +But elderly female fascination offers its allurements in vain to +the rough animal, man. Suspicion of Mrs. Tenbruggen’s motives had +established itself firmly in my mind. Why had the Popular Masseuse +abandoned her brilliant career in London, and plunged into the obscurity +of a country town? An opportunity of clearing up the doubt thus +suggested seemed to have presented itself now. “Is it indiscreet to +ask,” I said, “if you are here in your professional capacity?” + +Her cunning seized its advantage and put a sly question to me. “Do you +wish to be one of my patients yourself?” + +“That is, unfortunately, impossible,” I replied “I have arranged to +return to London.” + +“Immediately?” + +“To-morrow at the latest.” + +Artful as she was, Mrs. Tenbruggen failed to conceal a momentary +expression of relief which betrayed itself, partly in her manner, partly +in her face. She had ascertained, to her own complete satisfaction, that +my speedy departure was an event which might be relied on. + +“But I have not yet answered you,” she resumed. “To tell the truth, I am +eager to try my hands on you. Massage, as I practice it, would lighten +your weight, and restore your figure; I may even say would lengthen +your life. You will think of me, one of these days, won’t you? In +the meanwhile--yes! I am here in my professional capacity. Several +interesting cases; and one very remarkable person, brought to death’s +door by the doctors; a rich man who is liberal in paying his fees. There +is my quarrel with London and Londoners. Some of their papers, medical +newspapers, of course, declare that my fees are exorbitant; and there +is a tendency among the patients--I mean the patients who are rolling in +riches--to follow the lead of the newspapers. I am no worm to be trodden +on, in that way. The London people shall wait for me, until they miss +me--and, when I do go back, they will find the fees increased. _My_ +fingers and thumbs, Mr. Governor, are not to be insulted with impunity.” + +Miss Jillgall nodded her head at me. It was an eloquent nod. “Admire my +spirited friend,” was the interpretation I put on it. + +At the same time, my private sentiments suggested that Mrs. Tenbruggen’s +reply was too perfectly satisfactory, viewed as an explanation. My +suspicions were by no means set at rest; and I was resolved not to let +the subject drop yet. “Speaking of Mr. Gracedieu, and of the chances of +his partial recovery,” I said, “do you think the Minister would benefit +by Massage?” + +“I haven’t a doubt of it, if you can get rid of the doctor.” + +“You think he would be an obstacle in the way?” + +“There are some medical men who are honorable exceptions to the general +rule; and he may be one of them,” Mrs. Tenbruggen admitted. “Don’t be +too hopeful. As a doctor, he belongs to the most tyrannical trades-union +in existence. May I make a personal remark?” + +“Certainly.” + +“I find something in your manner--pray don’t suppose that I am +angry--which looks like distrust; I mean, distrust of me.” + +Miss Jillgall’s ever ready kindness interfered in my defense: “Oh, no, +Elizabeth! You are not often mistaken; but indeed you are wrong now. +Look at my distinguished friend. I remember my copy book, when I was +a small creature learning to write, in England. There were first lines +that we copied, in big letters, and one of them said, ‘Distrust Is +Mean.’ I know a young person, whose name begins with H, who is one mass +of meanness. But”--excellent Selina paused, and pointed to me with a +gesture of triumph--“no meanness there!” + +Mrs. Tenbruggen waited to hear what I had to say, scornfully insensible +to Miss Jillgall’s well-meant interruption. + +“You are not altogether mistaken,” I told her. “I can’t say that my mind +is in a state of distrust, but I own that you puzzle me.” + +“How, if you please?” + +“May I presume that you remember the occasion when we met at Mr. +Gracedieu’s house-door? You saw that I failed to recognize you, and +you refused to give your name when the servant asked for it. A few days +afterward, I heard you (quite accidentally) forbid Miss Jillgall to +mention your name in my hearing. I am at a loss to understand it.” + +Before she could answer me, the chaise drew up at the gate of the +farmhouse. Mrs. Tenbruggen carefully promised to explain what had +puzzled me, at the first opportunity. “If it escapes my memory,” she +said, “pray remind me of it.” + +I determined to remind her of it. Whether I could depend on her to tell +me the truth, might be quite another thing. + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DECISION OF EUNICE. + +Eunice ran out to meet us, and opened the gate. She was instantly folded +in Miss Jillgall’s arms. On her release, she came to me, eager for news +of her father’s health. When I had communicated all that I thought +it right to tell her of the doctor’s last report, she noticed Mrs. +Tenbruggen. The appearance of a stranger seemed to embarrass her. I left +Miss Jillgall to introduce them to each other. + +“Darling Euneece, you remember Mrs. Tenbruggen’s name, I am sure? +Elizabeth, this is my sweet girl; I mentioned her in my letters to you.” + +“I hope she will be _my_ sweet girl, when we know each other a little +better. May I kiss you, dear? You have lovely eyes; but I am sorry to +see that they don’t look like happy eyes. You want Mamma Tenbruggen to +cheer you. What a charming old house!” + +She put her arm round Eunice’s waist and led her to the house door. Her +enjoyment of the creepers that twined their way up the pillars of the +porch was simply perfection as a piece of acting. When the farmer’s wife +presented herself, Mrs. Tenbruggen was so irresistibly amiable, and took +such flattering notice of the children, that the harmless British matron +actually blushed with pleasure. “I’m sure, ma’am, you must have children +of your own,” she said. Mrs. Tenbruggen cast her eyes on the floor, and +sighed with pathetic resignation. A sweet little family, and all cruelly +swept away by death. If the performance meant anything, it did most +assuredly mean that. + +“What wonderful self-possession!” somebody whispered in my ear. The +children in the room were healthy, well-behaved little creatures--but +the name of the innocent one among them was Selina. + +Before dinner we were shown over the farm. + +The good woman of the house led the way, and Miss Jillgall and I +accompanied her. The children ran on in front of us. Still keeping +possession of Eunice, Mrs. Tenbruggen followed at some distance behind. +I looked back, after no very long interval, and saw that a separation +had taken place. Mrs. Tenbruggen passed me, not looking so pleasantly as +usual, joined the children, and walked with two of them, hand in hand, a +pattern of maternal amiability. I dropped back a little, and gave Eunice +an opportunity of joining me; having purposely left her to form her own +opinion, without any adverse influence exercised on my part. + +“Is that lady a friend of yours?” she asked. “No; only an acquaintance. +What do you think of her?” + +“I thought I should like her at first; she was so kind, and seemed to +take such an interest in me. But she said such strange things--asked if +I was reckoned like my mother, and which of us was the eldest, my sister +or myself, and whether we were my father’s only two children, and if one +of us was more his favorite than the other. What I could tell her, I did +tell. But when I said I didn’t know which of us was the oldest, she gave +me an impudent tap on the cheek, and said, ‘I don’t believe you, child,’ +and left me. How can Selina be so fond of her? Don’t mention it to any +one else; I hope I shall never see her again.” + +“I will keep your secret, Eunice; and you must keep mine. I entirely +agree with you.” + +“You agree with me in disliking her?” + +“Heartily.” + +We could say no more at that time. Our friends in advance were waiting +for us. We joined them at once. + +If I had felt any doubt of the purpose which had really induced Mrs. +Tenbruggen to leave London, all further uncertainty on my part was at an +end. She had some vile interest of her own to serve by identifying Mr. +Gracedieu’s adopted child--but what the nature of that interest might +be, it was impossible to guess. The future, when I thought of it now, +filled me with dismay. A more utterly helpless position than mine it +was not easy to conceive. To warn the Minister, in his present critical +state of health, was simply impossible. My relations with Helena forbade +me even to approach her. And, as for Selina, she was little less than a +mere tool in the hands of her well-beloved friend. What, in God’s name, +was I to do? + +At dinner-time we found the master of the house waiting to bid us +welcome. + +Personally speaking, he presented a remarkable contrast to the typical +British farmer. He was neither big nor burly; he spoke English as well +as I did; and there was nothing in his dress which would have made him a +fit subject for a picture of rustic life. When he spoke, he was able to +talk on subjects unconnected with agricultural pursuits; nor did I hear +him grumble about the weather and the crops. It was pleasant to see that +his wife was proud of him, and that he was, what all fathers ought to +be, his children’s best and dearest friend. Why do I dwell on these +details, relating to a man whom I was not destined to see again? Only +because I had reason to feel grateful to him. When my spirits were +depressed by anxiety, he made my mind easy about Eunice, as long as she +remained in his house. + +The social arrangements, when our meal was over, fell of themselves into +the right train. + +Miss Jillgall went upstairs, with the mother and the children, to see +the nursery and the bedrooms. Mrs. Tenbruggen discovered a bond of +union between the farmer and herself; they were both skilled players at +backgammon, and they sat down to try conclusions at their favorite game. +Without any wearisome necessity for excuses or stratagems, Eunice took +my arm and led me to the welcome retirement of her own sitting-room. + +I could honestly congratulate her, when I heard that she was established +at the farm as a member of the family. While she was governess to the +children, she was safe from dangers that might have threatened her, +if she had been compelled by circumstances to return to the Minister’s +house. + +The entry in her Journal, which she was anxious that I should read, was +placed before me next. + +I followed the poor child’s account of the fearful night that she had +passed, with an interest that held me breathless to the end. A terrible +dream, which had impressed a sense of its reality on the sleeper by +reaching its climax in somnambulism--this was the obvious explanation, +no doubt; and a rational mind would not hesitate to accept it. But a +rational mind is not a universal gift, even in a country which prides +itself on the idol-worship of Fact. Those good friends who are always +better acquainted with our faults, failings, and weaknesses than we can +pretend to be ourselves, had long since discovered that my nature was +superstitious, and my imagination likely to mislead me in the presence +of events which encouraged it. Well! I was weak enough to recoil from +the purely rational view of all that Eunice had suffered, and heard, and +seen, on the fateful night recorded in her Journal. Good and Evil walk +the ways of this unintelligible world, on the same free conditions. +If we cling, as many of us do, to the comforting belief that departed +spirits can minister to earthly creatures for good--can be felt moving +in us, in a train of thought, and seen as visible manifestations, in a +dream--with what pretense of reason can we deny that the same freedom of +supernatural influence which is conceded to the departed spirit, working +for good, is also permitted to the departed spirit, working for evil? +If the grave cannot wholly part mother and child, when the mother’s +life has been good, does eternal annihilation separate them, when the +mother’s life has been wicked? No! If the departed spirit can bring with +it a blessing, the departed spirit can bring with it a curse. I dared +not confess to Eunice that the influence of her murderess-mother might, +as I thought possible, have been supernaturally present when she heard +temptation whispering in her ear; but I dared not deny it to myself. +All that I could say to satisfy and sustain her, I did say. And when I +declared--with my whole heart declared--that the noble passion which had +elevated her whole being, and had triumphed over the sorest trials that +desertion could inflict, would still triumph to the end, I saw hope, in +that brave and true heart, showing its bright promise for the future in +Eunice’s eyes. + +She closed and locked her Journal. By common consent we sought the +relief of changing the subject. Eunice asked me if it was really +necessary that I should return to London. + +I shrank from telling her that I could be of no further use to her +father, while he regarded me with an enmity which I had not deserved. +But I saw no reason for concealing that it was my purpose to see Philip +Dunboyne. + +“You told me yesterday,” I reminded her, “that I was to say you had +forgiven him. Do you still wish me to do that?” + +“Indeed I do!” + +“Have you thought of it seriously? Are you sure of not having been +hurried by a generous impulse into saying more than you mean?” + +“I have been thinking of it,” she said, “through the wakeful hours of +last night--and many things are plain to me, which I was not sure of in +the time when I was so happy. He has caused me the bitterest sorrow of +my life, but he can’t undo the good that I owe to him. He has made a +better girl of me, in the time when his love was mine. I don’t forget +that. Miserably as it has ended, I don’t forget that.” + +Her voice trembled; the tears rose in her eyes. It was impossible for +me to conceal the distress that I felt. The noble creature saw it. “No,” + she said faintly; “I am not going to cry. Don’t look so sorry for me.” + Her hand pressed my hand gently--_she_ pitied _me_. When I saw how she +struggled to control herself, and did control herself, I declare to God +I could have gone down on my knees before her. + +She asked to be allowed to speak of Philip again, and for the last time. + +“When you meet with him in London, he may perhaps ask if you have seen +Eunice.” + +“My child! he is sure to ask.” + +“Break it to him gently--but don’t let him deceive himself. In this +world, he must never hope to see me again.” + +I tried--very gently--to remonstrate. “At your age, and at his age,” I +said, “surely there is hope?” + +“There is no hope.” She pressed her hand on her heart. “I know it, I +feel it, here.” + +“Oh, Eunice, it’s hard for me to say that!” + +“I will try to make it easier for you. Say that I have forgiven him--and +say no more.” + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. THE GOVERNOR ON HIS GUARD. + +After leaving Eunice, my one desire was to be alone. I had much to think +of, and I wanted an opportunity of recovering myself. On my way out of +the house, in search of the first solitary place that I could discover, +I passed the room in which we had dined. The door was ajar. Before I +could get by it, Mrs. Tenbruggen stepped out and stopped me. + +“Will you come in here for a moment?” she said. “The farmer has been +called away, and I want to speak to you.” + +Very unwillingly--but how could I have refused without giving +offense?--I entered the room. + +“When you noticed my keeping my name from you,” Mrs. Tenbruggen began, +“while Selina was with us, you placed me in an awkward position. Our +little friend is an excellent creature, but her tongue runs away with +her sometimes; I am obliged to be careful of taking her too readily +into my confidence. For instance, I have never told her what my name was +before I married. Won’t you sit down?” + +I had purposely remained standing as a hint to her not to prolong the +interview. The hint was thrown away; I took a chair. + +“Selina’s letters had informed me,” she resumed, “that Mr. Gracedieu +was a nervous invalid. When I came to England, I had hoped to try what +massage might do to relieve him. The cure of their popular preacher +might have advertised me through the whole of the Congregational +sect. It was essential to my success that I should present myself as a +stranger. I could trust time and change, and my married name (certainly +not known to Mr. Gracedieu) to keep up my incognito. He would have +refused to see me if he had known that I was once Miss Chance.” + +I began to be interested. + +Here was an opportunity, perhaps, of discovering what the Minister had +failed to remember when he had been speaking of this woman, and when +I had asked if he had ever offended her. I was especially careful in +making my inquiries. + +“I remember how you spoke to Mr. Gracedieu,” I said, “when you and he +met, long ago, in my rooms. But surely you don’t think him capable +of vindictively remembering some thoughtless words, which escaped you +sixteen or seventeen years since?” + +“I am not quite such a fool as that, Mr. Governor. What I was thinking +of was an unpleasant correspondence between the Minister and myself. +Before I was so unfortunate as to meet with Mr. Tenbruggen, I obtained +a chance of employment in a public Institution, on condition that I +included a clergyman among my references. Knowing nobody else whom I +could apply to, I rashly wrote to Mr. Gracedieu, and received one +of those cold and cruel refusals which only the strictest religious +principle can produce. I was mortally offended at the time; and if your +friend the Minister had been within my reach--” She paused, and finished +the sentence by a significant gesture. + +“Well,” I said, “he is within your reach now.” + +“And out of his mind,” she added. “Besides, one’s sense of injury +doesn’t last (except in novels and plays) through a series of years. I +don’t pity him--and if an opportunity of shaking his high position among +his admiring congregation presented itself, I daresay I might make a +mischievous return for his letter to me. In the meanwhile, we may drop +the subject. I suppose you understand, now, why I concealed my name from +you, and why I kept out of the house while you were in it.” + +It was plain enough, of course. If I had known her again, or had heard +her name, I might have told the Minister that Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss +Chance were one and the same. And if I had seen her and talked with her +in the house, my memory might have shown itself capable of improvement. +Having politely presented the expression of my thanks, I rose to go. + +She stopped me at the door. + +“One word more,” she said, “while Selina is out of the way. I need +hardly tell you that I have not trusted her with the Minister’s secret. +You and I are, as I take it, the only people now living who know the +truth about these two girls. And we keep our advantage.” + +“What advantage?” I asked. + +“Don’t you know?” + +“I don’t indeed.” + +“No more do I. Female folly, and a slip of the tongue; I am old and +ugly, but I am still a woman. About Miss Eunice. Somebody has told the +pretty little fool never to trust strangers. You would have been amused, +if you had heard that sly young person prevaricating with me. In one +respect, her appearance strikes me. She is not like either the wretch +who was hanged, or the poor victim who was murdered. Can she be the +adopted child? Or is it the other sister, whom I have not seen yet? Oh, +come! come! Don’t try to look as if you didn’t know. That is really too +ridiculous.” + +“You alluded just now,” I answered, “to our ‘advantage’ in being +the only persons who know the truth about the two girls. Well, Mrs. +Tenbruggen, I keep _my_ advantage.” + +“In other words,” she rejoined, “you leave me to make the discovery +myself. Well, my friend, I mean to do it!” + +....... + +In the evening, my hotel offered to me the refuge of which I stood in +need. I could think, for the first time that day, without interruption. + +Being resolved to see Philip, I prepared myself for the interview by +consulting my extracts once more. The letter, in which Mrs. Tenbruggen +figures, inspired me with the hope of protection for Mr. Gracedieu, +attainable through no less a person than Helena herself. + +To begin with, she would certainly share Philip’s aversion to the +Masseuse, and her dislike of Miss Jillgall would, just as possibly, +extend to Miss Jillgall’s friend. The hostile feeling thus set up +might be trusted to keep watch on Mrs. Tenbruggen’s proceedings, with +a vigilance not attainable by the coarser observation of a man. In the +event, of an improvement in the Minister’s health, I should hear of it +both from the doctor and from Miss Jillgall, and in that case I should +instantly return to my unhappy friend and put him on his guard. + +I started for London by the early train in the morning. + +My way home from the terminus took me past the hotel at which the +elder Mr. Dunboyne was staying. I called on him. He was reported to be +engaged; that is to say, immersed in his books. The address on one of +Philip’s letters had informed me that he was staying at another +hotel. Pursuing my inquiries in this direction, I met with a severe +disappointment. Mr. Philip Dunboyne had left the hotel that morning; for +what destination neither the landlord nor the waiter could tell me. + +The next day’s post brought with it the information which I had failed +to obtain. Miss Jillgall wrote, informing me in her strongest language +that Philip Dunboyne had returned to Helena. Indignant Selina added: +“Helena means to make him marry her; and I promise you she shall fail, +if I can stop it.” + +In taking leave of Eunice, I had given her my address; had warned her to +be careful, if she and Mrs. Tenbruggen happened to meet again, and had +begged her to write to me, or to come to me, if anything happened to +alarm her in my absence. + +In two days more, I received a line from Eunice, written evidently in +the greatest agitation. + +“Philip has discovered me. He has been here, and has insisted on seeing +me. I have refused. The good farmer has so kindly taken my part. I can +write no more.” + + + +CHAPTER L. THE NEWS FROM THE FARM. + +When I next heard from Miss Jillgall, the introductory part of her +letter merely reminded me that Philip Dunboyne was established in the +town, and that Helena was in daily communication with him. I shall do +Selina no injustice if my extract begins with her second page. + +“You will sympathize, I am sure” (she writes), “with the indignation +which urged me to call on Philip, and tell him the way to the farmhouse. +Think of Helena being determined to marry him, whether he wants to or +not! I am afraid this is bad grammar. But there are occasions when even +a cultivated lady fails in her grammar, and almost envies the men their +privilege of swearing when they are in a rage. My state of mind is truly +indescribable. Grief mingles with anger, when I tell you that my +sweet Euneece has disappointed me, for the first time since I had the +happiness of knowing and admiring her. What can have been the motive of +her refusal to receive her penitent lover? Is it pride? We are told that +Satan fell through pride. Euneece satanic? Impossible! I feel inclined +to go and ask her what has hardened her heart against a poor young man +who bitterly regrets his own folly. Do you think it was bad advice from +the farmer or his wife? In that case, I shall exert my influence, and +take her away. You would do the same, wouldn’t you? + +“I am ashamed to mention the poor dear Minister in a postscript. The +truth is, I don’t very well know what I am about. Mr. Gracedieu is +quiet, sleeps better than he did, eats with a keener appetite, gives no +trouble. But, alas, that glorious intellect is in a state of eclipse! Do +not suppose, because I write figuratively, that I am not sorry for him. +He understands nothing; he remembers nothing; he has my prayers. + +“You might come to us again, if you would only be so kind. It would make +no difference now; the poor man is so sadly altered. I must add, most +reluctantly, that the doctor recommends your staying at home. Between +ourselves, he is little better than a coward. Fancy his saying; ‘No; we +must not run that risk yet.’ I am barely civil to him, and no more. + +“In any other affair (excuse me for troubling you with a second +postscript), my sympathy with Euneece would have penetrated her motives; +I should have felt with her feelings. But I have never been in love; +no gentleman gave me the opportunity when I was young. Now I am +middle-aged, neglect has done its dreary work--my heart is an extinct +crater. Figurative again! I had better put my pen away, and say farewell +for the present.” + +Miss Jillgall may now give place to Eunice. The same day’s post brought +me both letters. + +I should be unworthy indeed of the trust which this affectionate girl +has placed in me, if I failed to receive her explanation of her conduct +toward Philip Dunboyne, as a sacred secret confided to my fatherly +regard. In those later portions of her letter, which are not addressed +to me confidentially, Eunice writes as follows: + + +“I get news--and what heartbreaking news!--of my father, by sending +a messenger to Selina. It is more than ever impossible that I can put +myself in the way of seeing Helena again. She has written to me +about Philip, in a tone so shockingly insolent and cruel, that I have +destroyed her letter. Philip’s visit to the farm, discovered I don’t +know how, seems to have infuriated her. She accuses me of doing all +that she might herself have done in my place, and threatens me--No! I am +afraid of the wicked whisperings of that second self of mine if I think +of it. They were near to tempting me when I read Helena’s letter. But +I thought of what you said, after I had shown you my Journal; and your +words took my memory back to the days when I was happy with Philip. The +trial and the terror passed away. + +“Consolation has come to me from the best of good women. Mrs. Staveley +writes as lovingly as my mother might have written, if death had spared +her. I have replied with all the gratitude that I really feel, but +without taking advantage of the services which she offers. Mrs. Staveley +has it in her mind, as you had it in your mind, to bring Philip back to +me. Does she forget, do you forget, that Helena claims him? But you both +mean kindly, and I love you both for the interest that you feel in me. + +“The farmer’s wife--dear good soul!--hardly understands me so well as +her husband does. She confesses to pitying Philip. ‘He is so wretched,’ +she says. ‘And, dear heart, how handsome, and what nice, winning +manners! I don’t think I should have had your courage, in your place. To +tell the truth, I should have jumped for joy when I saw him at the door; +and I should have run down to let him in--and perhaps been sorry for it +afterward. If you really wish to forget him, my dear, I will do all I +can to help you.’ + +“These are trifling things to mention, but I am afraid you may think I +am unhappy--and I want to prevent that. + +“I have so much to be thankful for, and the children are so fond of me. +Whether I teach them as well as I might have done, if I had been a more +learned girl, may perhaps be doubtful. They do more for their governess, +I am afraid, than their governess does for them. When they come into my +room in the morning, and rouse me with their kisses, the hour of waking, +which used to be so hard to endure after Philip left me, is now the +happiest hour of my day.” + + +With that reassuring view of her life as a governess, the poor child’s +letter comes to an end. + + + +CHAPTER LI. THE TRIUMPH OF MRS. TENBRUGGEN. + +Miss Jillgall appears again, after an interval, on the field of my +extracts. My pleasant friend deserves this time a serious reception. She +informs me that Mrs. Tenbruggen has begun the inquiries which I have the +best reason to dread--for I alone know the end which they are designed +to reach. + +The arrival of this news affected me in two different ways. + +It was discouraging to find that circumstances had not justified my +reliance on Helena’s enmity as a counter-influence to Mrs. Tenbruggen. +On the other hand, it was a relief to be assured that my return to +London would serve, rather than compromise, the interests which it was +my chief anxiety to defend. I had foreseen that Mrs. Tenbruggen would +wait to set her enterprise on foot, until I was out of her way; and I +had calculated on my absence as an event which would at least put an end +to suspense by encouraging her to begin. + +The first sentences in Miss Jillgall’s letter explain the nature of her +interest in the proceedings of her friend, and are, on that account, +worth reading. + +“Things are sadly changed for the worse” (Selina writes); “but I don’t +forget that Philip was once engaged to Euneece, and that Mr. Gracedieu’s +extraordinary conduct toward him puzzled us all. The mode of discovery +which dear Elizabeth suggested by letter, at that time, appears to be +the mode which she is following now. When I asked why, she said: ‘Philip +may return to Euneece; the Minister may recover--and will be all the +more likely to do so if he tries Massage. In that case, he will probably +repeat the conduct which surprised you; and your natural curiosity will +ask me again to find out what it means. Am I your friend, Selina, or am +I not?’ This was so delightfully kind, and so irresistibly conclusive, +that I kissed her in a transport of gratitude. With what breathless +interest I have watched her progress toward penetrating the mystery of +the girls’ ages, it is quite needless to tell you.” + +....... + +Mrs. Tenbruggen’s method of keeping Miss Jillgall in ignorance of what +she was really about, and Miss Jillgall’s admirable confidence in the +integrity of Mrs. Tenbruggen, being now set forth on the best authority, +an exact presentation of the state of affairs will be completed if I +add a word more, relating to the positions actually occupied toward Mrs. +Tenbruggen’s enterprise, by my correspondent and myself. + +On her side, Miss Jillgall was entirely ignorant that one of the two +girls was not Mr. Gracedieu’s daughter, but his adopted child. On +my side, I was entirely ignorant of Mrs. Tenbruggen’s purpose in +endeavoring to identify the daughter of the murderess. Speaking of +myself, individually, let me add that I only waited the event to protect +the helpless ones--my poor demented friend, and the orphan whom his +mercy received into his heart and his home. + +Miss Jillgall goes on with her curious story, as follows: + +....... + +“Always desirous of making myself useful, I thought I would give my dear +Elizabeth a hint which might save time and trouble. ‘Why not begin,’ I +suggested, ‘by asking the Governor to help you?’ That wonderful woman +never forgets anything. She had already applied to you, without success. + +“In my next attempt to be useful, I did violence to my most cherished +convictions, by presenting the wretch Helena to the admirable Elizabeth. +That the former would be cold as ice, in her reception of any friend +of mine, was nothing wonderful. Mrs. Tenbruggen passed it over with +the graceful composure of a woman of the world. In the course of +conversation with Helena, she slipped in a question: ‘Might I ask if you +are older than your sister?’ The answer was, of course: ‘I don’t know.’ +And here, for once, the most deceitful girl in existence spoke the +truth. + +“When we were alone again, Elizabeth made a remark: ‘If personal +appearance could decide the question,’ she said, ‘the disagreeable young +woman is the oldest of the two. The next thing to be done is to discover +if looks are to be trusted in this case.’ + +“My friend’s lawyer received confidential instructions (not shown to me, +which seems rather hard) to trace the two Miss Gracedieus’ registers of +birth. Elizabeth described this proceeding (not very intelligibly to my +mind) as a means of finding out which of the girls could be identified +by name as the elder of the two. + +“The report arrived this morning. I was only informed that the result, +in one case, had entirely defeated the inquiries. In the other case, +Elizabeth had helped her agent by referring him to a Birth, advertised +in the customary columns of the _Times_ newspaper. Even here, there +was a fatal obstacle. The name of the place in which Mr. Gracedieu’s +daughter had been born was not added, as usual. I still tried to be +useful. Had my friend known the Minister’s wife? My friend had never +even seen the Minister’s wife. And, as if by a fatality, her portrait +was no longer in existence. I could only mention that Helena was like +her mother. But Elizabeth seemed to attach very little importance to my +evidence, if I may call it by so grand a name. ‘People have such strange +ideas about likenesses,’ she said, ‘and arrive at such contradictory +conclusions. One can only trust one’s own eyes in a matter of that +kind.’ + +“My friend next asked me about our domestic establishment. We had only a +cook and a housemaid. If they were old servants who had known the girls +as children, they might be made of some use. Our luck was as steadily +against us as ever. They had both been engaged when Mr. Gracedieu +assumed his new pastoral duties, after having resided with his wife at +her native place. + +“I asked Elizabeth what she proposed to do next. + +“She deferred her answer, until I had first told her whether the visit +of the doctor might be expected on that day. I could reply to this in +the negative. Elizabeth, thereupon, made a startling request; she begged +me to introduce her to Mr. Gracedieu. + +“I said: ‘Surely, you have forgotten the sad state of his mind?’ No; +she knew perfectly well that he was imbecile. ‘I want to try,’ she +explained, ‘if I can rouse him for a few minutes.’ + +“‘By Massage?’ I inquired. + +“She burst out laughing. ‘Massage, my dear, doesn’t act in that way. It +is an elaborate process, pursued patiently for weeks together. But my +hands have more than one accomplishment at their finger-ends. Oh, make +your mind easy! I shall do no harm, if I do no good. Take me, Selina, to +the Minister.’ + +“We went to his room. Don’t blame me for giving way; I am too fond of +Elizabeth to be able to disappoint her. + +“It was a sad sight when we went in. He was quite happy, playing like +a child, at cup-and-ball. The attendant retired at my request. I +introduced Mrs. Tenbruggen. He smiled and shook hands with her. He said: +‘Are you a Christian or a Pagan? You are very pretty. How many times can +you catch the ball in the cup?’ The effort to talk to her ended there. +He went on with his game, and seemed to forget that there was anybody in +the room. It made my heart ache to remember what he was--and to see him +now. + +“Elizabeth whispered: ‘Leave me alone with him.’ + +“I don’t know why I did such a rude thing--I hesitated. + +“Elizabeth asked me if I had no confidence in her. I was ashamed of +myself; I left them together. + +“A long half-hour passed. Feeling a little uneasy, I went upstairs +again and looked into the room. He was leaning back in his chair; his +plaything was on the floor, and he was looking vacantly at the light +that came in through the window. I found Mrs. Tenbruggen at the other +end of the room, in the act of ringing the bell. Nothing in the least +out of the ordinary way seemed to have happened. When the attendant +had answered the bell, we left the room together. Mr. Gracedieu took no +notice of us. + +“‘Well,’ I said, ‘how has it ended?’ + +“Quite calmly my noble Elizabeth answered: ‘In total failure.’ + +“‘What did you say to him after you sent me away?’ + +“‘I tried, in every possible way, to get him to tell me which of his two +daughters was the oldest.’ + +“‘Did he refuse to answer?’ + +“‘He was only too ready to answer. First, he said Helena was the +oldest--then he corrected himself, and declared that Eunice was the +oldest--then he said they were twins--then he went back to Helena and +Eunice. Now one was the oldest, and now the other. He rang the changes +on those two names, I can’t tell you how often, and seemed to think it a +better game than cup-and-ball.’ + +“‘What is to be done?’ + +“‘Nothing is to be done, Selina.’ + +“‘What!’ I cried, ‘you give it up?’ + +“My heroic friend answered: ‘I know when I am beaten, my dear--I give it +up.’ She looked at her watch; it was time to operate on the muscles of +one of her patients. Away she went, on her glorious mission of Massage, +without a murmur of regret. What strength of mind! But, oh, dear, what +a disappointment for poor little me! On one thing I am determined. If +I find myself getting puzzled or frightened, I shall instantly write to +you.” + +With that expression of confidence in me, Selina’s narrative came to an +end. I wish I could have believed, as she did, that the object of her +admiration had been telling her the truth. + +A few days later, Mrs. Tenbruggen honored me with a visit at my house +in the neighborhood of London. Thanks to this circumstance, I am able to +add a postscript which will complete the revelations in Miss Jillgall’s +letter. + +The illustrious Masseuse, having much to conceal from her faithful +Selina, was well aware that she had only one thing to keep hidden from +me; namely, the advantage which she would have gained if her inquiries +had met with success. + +“I thought I might have got at what I wanted,” she told me, “by +mesmerizing our reverend friend. He is as weak as a woman; I threw him +into hysterics, and had to give it up, and quiet him, or he would have +alarmed the house. You look as if you don’t believe in mesmerism.” + +“My looks, Mrs. Tenbruggen, exactly express my opinion. Mesmerism is a +humbug!” + +“You amusing old Tory! Shall I throw you into a state of trance? No! +I’ll give you a shock of another kind--a shock of surprise. I know as +much as you do about Mr. Gracedieu’s daughters. What do you think of +that?” + +“I think I should like to hear you tell me, which is the adopted child.” + +“Helena, to be sure!” + +Her manner was defiant, her tone was positive; I doubted both. Under the +surface of her assumed confidence, I saw something which told me that +she was trying to read my thoughts in my face. Many other women had +tried to do that. They succeeded when I was young. When I had reached +the wrong side of fifty, my face had learned discretion, and they +failed. + +“How did you arrive at your discovery?” I asked. “I know of nobody who +could have helped you.” + +“I helped myself, sir! I reasoned it out. A wonderful thing for a woman +to do, isn’t it? I wonder whether you could follow the process?” + +My reply to this was made by a bow. I was sure of my command over my +face; but perfect control of the voice is a rare power. Here and there, +a great actor or a great criminal possesses it. + +Mrs. Tenbruggen’s vanity took me into her confidence. “In the first +place,” she said, “Helena is plainly the wicked one of the two. I was +not prejudiced by what Selina had told me of her: I saw it, and felt +it, before I had been five minutes in her company. If lying tongues ever +provoke her as lying tongues provoked her mother, she will follow her +mother’s example. Very well. Now--in the second place--though it is +very slight, there is a certain something in her hair and her complexion +which reminds me of the murderess: there is no other resemblance, +I admit. In the third place, the girls’ names point to the same +conclusion. Mr. Gracedieu is a Protestant and a Dissenter. Would he call +a child of his own by the name of a Roman Catholic saint? No! he would +prefer a name in the Bible; Eunice is _his_ child. And Helena was once +the baby whom I carried into the prison. Do you deny that?” + +“I don’t deny it.” + +Only four words! But they were deceitfully spoken, and the +deceit--practiced in Eunice’s interest, it is needless to +say--succeeded. Mrs. Tenbruggen’s object in visiting me was attained; +I had confirmed her belief in the delusion that Helena was the adopted +child. + +She got up to take her leave. I asked if she proposed remaining in +London. No; she was returning to her country patients that night. + +As I attended her to the house-door, she turned to me with her +mischievous smile. “I have taken some trouble in finding the clew to the +Minister’s mystery,” she said. “Don’t you wonder why?” + +“If I did wonder,” I answered, “would you tell me why?” + +She laughed at the bare idea of it. “Another lesson,” she said, “to +assist a helpless man in studying the weaker sex. I have already shown +you that a woman can reason. Learn next that a woman can keep a secret. +Good-by. God bless you!” + +Of the events which followed Mrs. Tenbruggen’s visit it is not possible +for me, I am thankful to say, to speak from personal experience. Ought I +to conclude with an expression of repentance for the act of deception +to which I have already pleaded guilty? I don’t know. Yes! the force of +circumstances does really compel me to say it, and say it seriously--I +declare, on my word of honor, I don’t know. + + + + +Third period: 1876. _HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED._ + + + +CHAPTER LII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + +While my father remains in his present helpless condition, somebody must +assume a position of command in this house. There cannot be a moment’s +doubt that I am the person to do it. + +In my agitated state of mind, sometimes doubtful of Philip, sometimes +hopeful of him, I find Mrs. Tenbruggen simply unendurable. A female +doctor is, under any circumstances, a creature whom I detest. She is, +at her very best, a bad imitation of a man. The Medical Rubber is +worse than this; she is a bad imitation of a mountebank. Her grinning +good-humor, adopted no doubt to please the fools who are her patients, +and her impudent enjoyment of hearing herself talk, make me regret for +the first time in my life that I am a young lady. If I belonged to the +lowest order of the population, I might take the first stick I could +find, and enjoy the luxury of giving Mrs. Tenbruggen a good beating. + +She literally haunts the house, encouraged, of course, by her wretched +little dupe, Miss Jillgall. Only this morning, I tried what a broad hint +would do toward suggesting that her visits had better come to an end. + +“Really, Mrs. Tenbruggen,” I said, “I must request Miss Jillgall to +moderate her selfish enjoyment of your company, for your own sake. Your +time is too valuable, in a professional sense, to be wasted on an +idle woman who has no sympathy with your patients, waiting for relief +perhaps, and waiting in vain.” + +She listened to this, all smiles and good-humor: “My dear, do you know +how I might answer you, if I was an ill-natured woman?” + +“I have no curiosity to hear it, Mrs. Tenbruggen.” + +“I might ask you,” she persisted, “to allow me to mind my own business. +But I am incapable of making an ungrateful return for the interest which +you take in my medical welfare. Let me venture to ask if you understand +the value of time.” + +“Are you going to say much more, Mrs. Tenbruggen?” + +“I am going to make a sensible remark, my child. If you feel tired, +permit me--here is a chair. Father Time, dear Miss Gracedieu, has always +been a good friend of mine, because I know how to make the best use +of him. The author of the famous saying _Tempus fugit_ (you understand +Latin, of course) was, I take leave to think, an idle man. The more I +have to do, the readier Time is to wait for me. Let me impress this on +your mind by some interesting examples. The greatest conqueror of the +century--Napoleon--had time enough for everything. The greatest novelist +of the century--Sir Walter Scott--had time enough for everything. At my +humble distance, I imitate those illustrious men, and my patients never +complain of me.” + +“Have you done?” I asked. + +“Yes, dear--for the present.” + +“You are a clever woman, Mrs. Tenbruggen and you know it. You have an +eloquent tongue, and you know it. But you are something else, which you +don’t seem to be aware of. You are a Bore.” + +She burst out laughing, with the air of a woman who thoroughly enjoyed +a good joke. I looked back when I left the room, and saw the friend of +Father Time in the easy chair opening our newspaper. + +This is a specimen of the customary encounter of our wits. I place it on +record in my Journal, to excuse myself _to_ myself. When she left us +at last, later in the day, I sent a letter after her to the hotel. Not +having kept a copy of it, let me present the substance, like a sermon, +under three heads: I begged to be excused for speaking plainly; I +declared that there was a total want of sympathy between us, on my side; +and I proposed that she should deprive me of future opportunities of +receiving her in this house. The reply arrived immediately in these +terms: “Your letter received, dear girl. I am not in the least angry; +partly because I am very fond of you, partly because I know that you +will ask me to come back again. P. S.: Philip sends his love.” + +This last piece of insolence was unquestionably a lie. Philip detests +her. They are both staying at the same hotel. But I happen to know that +he won’t even look at her, if they meet by accident on the stairs. + +People who can enjoy the melancholy spectacle of human nature in a state +of degradation would be at a loss which exhibition to prefer--an +ugly old maid in a rage, or an ugly old maid in tears. Miss Jillgall +presented herself in both characters when she heard what had happened. +To my mind, Mrs. Tenbruggen’s bosom-friend is a creature not fit to be +seen or heard when she loses her temper. I only told her to leave +the room. To my great amusement, she shook her bony fist at me, and +expressed a frantic wish: “Oh, if I was rich enough to leave this wicked +house!” I wonder whether there is insanity (as well as poverty) in Miss +Jillgall’s family? + + +Last night my mind was in a harassed state. Philip was, as usual, the +cause of it. + +Perhaps I acted indiscreetly when I insisted on his leaving London, and +returning to this place. But what else could I have done? It was not +merely my interest, it was an act of downright necessity, to withdraw +him from the influence of his hateful father--whom I now regard as the +one serious obstacle to my marriage. There is no prospect of being rid +of Mr. Dunboyne the elder by his returning to Ireland. He is trying a +new remedy for his crippled hand--electricity. I wish it was lightning, +to kill him! If I had given that wicked old man the chance, I am firmly +convinced he would not have let a day pass without doing his best to +depreciate me in his son’s estimation. Besides, there was the risk, if +I had allowed Philip to remain long away from me, of losing--no, while +I keep my beauty I cannot be in such danger as that--let me say, of +permitting time and absence to weaken my hold on him. However sullen and +silent he may be, when we meet--and I find him in that condition far too +often--I can, sooner or later, recall him to his brighter self. My eyes +preserve their charm, my talk can still amuse him, and, better even than +that, I feel the answering thrill in him, which tells me how precious my +kisses are--not too lavishly bestowed! But the time when I am obliged +to leave him to himself is the time that I dread. How do I know that +his thoughts are not wandering away to Eunice? He denies it; he declares +that he only went to the farmhouse to express his regret for his own +thoughtless conduct, and to offer her the brotherly regard due to the +sister of his promised wife. Can I believe it? Oh, what would I not give +to be able to believe it! How can I feel sure that her refusal to see +him was not a cunning device to make him long for another interview, and +plan perhaps in private to go back and try again. Marriage! Nothing will +quiet these frightful doubts of mine, nothing will reward me for all +that I have suffered, nothing will warm my heart with the delightful +sense of triumph over Eunice, but my marriage to Philip. And what does +he say, when I urge it on him?--yes, I have fallen as low as that, in +the despair which sometimes possesses me. He has his answer, always the +same, and always ready: “How are we to live? where is the money?” The +maddening part of it is that I cannot accuse him of raising objections +that don’t exist. We are poorer than ever here, since my father’s +illness--and Philip’s allowance is barely enough to suffice him as a +single man. Oh, how I hate the rich! + +It was useless to think of going to bed. How could I hope to sleep, with +my head throbbing, and my thoughts in this disturbed state? I put on my +comfortable dressing-gown, and sat down to try what reading would do to +quiet my mind. + +I had borrowed the book from the Library, to which I have been a +subscriber in secret for some time past. It was an old volume, full +of what we should now call Gossip; relating strange adventures, and +scandalous incidents in family history which had been concealed from +public notice. + +One of these last romances in real life caught a strong hold on my +interest. + +It was a strange case of intended poisoning, which had never been +carried out. A young married lady of rank, whose name was concealed +under an initial letter, had suffered some unendurable wrong (which +was not mentioned) at the hands of her husband’s mother. The wife +was described as a woman of strong passions, who had determined on a +terrible revenge by taking the life of her mother-in-law. There +were difficulties in the way of her committing the crime without an +accomplice to help her; and she decided on taking her maid, an elderly +woman, into her confidence. The poison was secretly obtained by this +person; and the safest manner of administering it was under discussion +between the mistress and the maid, when the door of the room was +suddenly opened. The husband, accompanied by his brother, rushed in, and +charged his wife with plotting the murder of his mother. The young lady +(she was only twenty-three) must have been a person of extraordinary +courage and resolution. She saw at once that her maid had betrayed her, +and, with astonishing presence of mind, she turned on the traitress, +and said to her husband: “There is the wretch who has been trying to +persuade me to poison your mother!” As it happened, the old lady’s +temper was violent and overbearing; and the maid had complained of +being ill-treated by her, in the hearing of the other servants. The +circumstances made it impossible to decide which of the two was really +the guilty woman. The servant was sent away, and the husband and wife +separated soon afterward, under the excuse of incompatibility of +temper. Years passed; and the truth was only discovered by the death-bed +confession of the wife. A remarkable story, which has made such an +impression on me that I have written it in my Journal. I am not rich +enough to buy the book. + + +For the last two days, I have been confined to my room with a bad +feverish cold--caught, as I suppose, by sitting at an open window +reading my book till nearly three o’clock in the morning. I sent a note +to Philip, telling him of my illness. On the first day, he called to +inquire after me. On the second day, no visit, and no letter. Here is +the third day--and no news of him as yet. I am better, but not fit to go +out. Let me wait another hour, and, if that exertion of patience meets +with no reward, I shall send a note to the hotel. No news of Philip. I +have sent to the hotel. The servant has just returned, bringing me back +my note. The waiter informed her that Mr. Dunboyne had gone away to +London by the morning train. No apology or explanation left for me. + +_Can_ he have deserted me? I am in such a frenzy of doubt and rage that +I can hardly write that horrible question. Is it possible--oh, I feel it +_is_ possible that he has gone away with Eunice. Do I know where to find +them? if I did know, what could I do? I feel as if I could kill them +both! + + + +CHAPTER LIII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + +After the heat of my anger had cooled, I made two discoveries. One cost +me a fee to a messenger, and the other exposed me to the insolence of +a servant. I pay willingly in my purse and my pride, when the gain is +peace of mind. Through my messenger I ascertained that Eunice had never +left the farm. Through my own inquiries, answered by the waiter with an +impudent grin, I heard that Philip had left orders to have his room kept +for him. What misery our stupid housemaid might have spared me, if she +had thought of putting that question when I sent her to the hotel! + +The rest of the day passed in vain speculations on Philip’s motive for +this sudden departure. What poor weak creatures we are! I persuaded +myself to hope that anxiety for our marriage had urged him to make an +effort to touch the heart of his mean father. Shall I see him to-morrow? +And shall I have reason to be fonder of him than ever? + + +We met again to-day as usual. He has behaved infamously. + +When I asked what had been his object in going to London, I was told +that it was “a matter of business.” He made that idiotic excuse as +coolly as if he really thought I should believe it. I submitted in +silence, rather than mar his return to me by the disaster of a quarrel. +But this was an unlucky day. A harder trial of my self-control was still +to come. Without the slightest appearance of shame, Philip informed me +that he was charged with a message from Mrs. Tenbruggen! She wanted some +Irish lace, and would I be so good as to tell her which was the best +shop at which she could buy it? + +Was he really in earnest? “You,” I said, “who distrusted and detested +her--you are on friendly terms with that woman?” + +He remonstrated with me. “My dear Helena, don’t speak in that way +of Mrs. Tenbruggen. We have both been mistaken about her. That good +creature has forgiven the brutal manner in which I spoke to her, when +she was in attendance on my father. She was the first to propose that +we should shake hands and forget it. My darling, don’t let all the good +feeling be on one side. You have no idea how kindly she speaks of you, +and how anxious she is to help us to be married. Come! come! meet her +half-way. Write down the name of the shop on my card, and I will take it +back to her.” + +Sheer amazement kept me silent: I let him go on. He was a mere child in +the hands of Mrs. Tenbruggen: she had only to determine to make a fool +of him, and she could do it. + +But why did she do it? What advantage had she to gain by insinuating +herself in this way into his good opinion, evidently with the intention +of urging him to reconcile us to each other? How could we two poor young +people be of the smallest use to the fashionable Masseuse? + +My silence began to irritate Philip. “I never knew before how obstinate +you could be,” he said; “you seem to be doing your best--I can’t imagine +why--to lower yourself in my estimation.” + +I held my tongue; I assumed my smile. It is all very well for men to +talk about the deceitfulness of women. What chance (I should like to ask +somebody who knows about it) do the men give us of making our lives with +them endurable, except by deceit! I gave way, of course, and wrote down +the address of the shop. + +He was so pleased that he kissed me. Yes! the most fondly affectionate +kiss that he had given me, for weeks past, was my reward for submitting +to Mrs. Tenbruggen. She is old enough to be his mother, and almost as +ugly as Miss Jillgall--and she has made her interests his interests +already! + + +On the next day, I fully expected to receive a visit from Mrs. +Tenbruggen. She knew better than that. I only got a polite little note, +thanking me for the address, and adding an artless concession: “I earn +more money than I know what to do with; and I adore Irish lace.” + +The next day came, and still she was careful not to show herself too +eager for a personal reconciliation. A splendid nosegay was sent to me, +with another little note: “A tribute, dear Helena, offered by one of my +grateful patients. Too beautiful a present for an old woman like me. +I agree with the poet: ‘Sweets to the sweet.’ A charming thought of +Shakespeare’s, is it not? I should like to verify the quotation. Would +you mind leaving the volume for me in the hall, if I call to-morrow?” + +Well done, Mrs. Tenbruggen! She doesn’t venture to intrude on Miss +Gracedieu in the drawing-room; she only wants to verify a quotation +in the hall. Oh, goddess of Humility (if there is such a person), how +becomingly you are dressed when your milliner is an artful old woman! + +While this reflection was passing through my mind, Miss Jillgall came +in--saw the nosegay on the table--and instantly pounced on it. “Oh, for +me! for me!” she cried. “I noticed it this morning on Elizabeth’s table. +How very kind of her!” She plunged her inquisitive nose into the poor +flowers, and looked up sentimentally at the ceiling. “The perfume of +goodness,” she remarked, “mingled with the perfume of flowers!” “When +you have quite done with it,” I said, “perhaps you will be so good as +to return my nosegay?” “_Your_ nosegay!” she exclaimed. “There is Mrs. +Tenbruggen’s letter,” I replied, “if you would like to look at it.” + She did look at it. All the bile in her body flew up into her eyes, and +turned them green; she looked as if she longed to scratch my face. I +gave the flowers afterward to Maria; Miss Jillgall’s nose had completely +spoiled them. + + +It would have been too ridiculous to have allowed Mrs. Tenbruggen to +consult Shakespeare in the hall. I had the honor of receiving her in my +own room. We accomplished a touching reconciliation, and we quite forgot +Shakespeare. + +She troubles me; she does indeed trouble me. + +Having set herself entirely right with Philip, she is determined on +performing the same miracle with me. Her reform of herself is already +complete. Her vulgar humor was kept under strict restraint; she was +quiet and well-bred, and readier to listen than to talk. This change was +not presented abruptly. She contrived to express her friendly interests +in Philip and in me by hints dropped here and there, assisted in their +effort by answers on my part, into which I was tempted so skillfully +that I only discovered the snare set for me, on reflection. What is it, +I ask again, that she has in view in taking all this trouble? Where is +her motive for encouraging a love-affair, which Miss Jillgall must have +denounced to her as an abominable wrong inflicted on Eunice? Money (even +if there was a prospect of such a thing, in our case) cannot be her +object; it is quite true that her success sets her above pecuniary +anxiety. Spiteful feeling against Eunice is out of the question. They +have only met once; and her opinion was expressed to me with evident +sincerity: “Your sister is a nice girl, but she is like other nice +girls--she doesn’t interest me.” There is Eunice’s character, drawn from +the life in few words. In what an irritating position do I find myself +placed! Never before have I felt so interested in trying to look into +a person’s secret mind; and never before have I been so completely +baffled. + +I had written as far as this, and was on the point of closing my +Journal, when a third note arrived from Mrs. Tenbruggen. + +She had been thinking about me at intervals (she wrote) all through the +rest of the day; and, kindly as I had received her, she was conscious +of being the object of doubts on my part which her visit had failed to +remove. Might she ask leave to call on me, in the hope of improving her +position in my estimation? An appointment followed for the next day. + +What can she have to say to me which she has not already said? Is it +anything about Philip, I wonder? + + + +CHAPTER LIV. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + +At our interview of the next day, Mrs. Tenbruggen’s capacity for +self-reform appeared under a new aspect. She dropped all familiarity +with me, and she stated the object of her visit without a superfluous +word of explanation or apology. + +I thought this a remarkable effort for a woman; and I recognized the +merit of it by leaving the lion’s share of the talk to my visitor. In +these terms she opened her business with me: + +“Has Mr. Philip Dunboyne told you why he went to London?” + +“He made a commonplace excuse,” I answered. “Business, he said, took him +to London. I know no more.” + +“You have a fair prospect of happiness, Miss Helena, when you are +married--your future husband is evidently afraid of you. I am not afraid +of you; and I shall confide to your private ear something which you have +an interest in knowing. The business which took young Mr. Dunboyne +to London was to consult a competent person, on a matter concerning +himself. The competent person is the sagacious (not to say sly) old +gentleman--whom we used to call the Governor. You know him, I believe?” + +“Yes. But I am at a loss to imagine why Philip should have consulted +him.” + +“Have you ever heard or read, Miss Helena, of such a thing as ‘an old +man’s fancy’?” + +“I think I have.” + +“Well, the Governor has taken an old man’s fancy to your sister. +They appeared to understand each other perfectly when I was at the +farmhouse.” + +“Excuse me, Mrs. Tenbruggen, that is what I know already. Why did Philip +go to the Governor?” + +She smiled. “If anybody is acquainted with the true state of your +sister’s feelings, the Governor is the man. I sent Mr. Dunboyne to +consult him--and there is the reason for it.” + +This open avowal of her motives perplexed and offended me. After +declaring herself to be interested in my marriage-engagement had she +changed her mind, and resolved on favoring Philip’s return to Eunice? +What right had he to consult anybody about the state of that girl’s +feelings? _My_ feelings form the only subject of inquiry that was +properly open to him. I should have said something which I might have +afterward regretted, if Mrs. Tenbruggen had allowed me the opportunity. +Fortunately for both of us, she went on with her narrative of her own +proceedings. + +“Philip Dunboyne is an excellent fellow,” she continued; “I really like +him--but he has his faults. He sadly wants strength of purpose; and, +like weak men in general, he only knows his own mind when a resolute +friend takes him in hand and guides him. I am his resolute friend. I +saw him veering about between you and Eunice; and I decided for +his sake--may I say for your sake also?--on putting an end to that +mischievous state of indecision. You have the claim on him; you are the +right wife for him, and the Governor was (as I thought likely from what +I had myself observed) the man to make him see it. I am not in anybody’s +secrets; it was pure guesswork on my part, and it has succeeded. There +is no more doubt now about Miss Eunice’s sentiments. The question is +settled.” + +“In my favor?” + +“Certainly in your favor--or I should not have said a word about it.” + +“Was Philip’s visit kindly received? Or did the old wretch laugh at +him?” + +“My dear Miss Gracedieu, the old wretch is a man of the world, and never +makes mistakes of that sort. Before he could open his lips, he had +to satisfy himself that your lover deserved to be taken into his +confidence, on the delicate subject of Eunice’s sentiments. He arrived +at a favorable conclusion. I can repeat Philip’s questions and +the Governor’s answers after putting the young man through a stiff +examination just as they passed: ‘May I inquire, sir, if she has spoken +to you about me?’ ‘She has often spoken about you.’ ‘Did she seem to be +angry with me?’ ‘She is too good and too sweet to be angry with you.’ +‘Do you think she will forgive me?’ ‘She has forgiven you.’ ‘Did she say +so herself?’ ‘Yes, of her own free will.’ ‘Why did she refuse to see +me when I called at the farm?’ ‘She had her own reasons--good reasons.’ +‘Has she regretted it since?’ ‘Certainly not.’ ‘Is it likely that she +would consent, if I proposed a reconciliation?’ ‘I put that question to +her myself.’ ‘How did she take it, sir?’ ‘She declined to take it.’ ‘You +mean that she declined a reconciliation?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Are you sure she was +in earnest?’ ‘I am positively sure.’ That last answer seems, by young +Dunboyne’s own confession, to have been enough, and more than enough for +him. He got up to go--and then an odd thing happened. After giving him +the most unfavorable answers, the Governor patted him paternally on +the shoulder, and encouraged him to hope. ‘Before we say good-by, +Mr. Philip, one word more. If I was as young as you are, I should not +despair.’ There is a sudden change of front! Who can explain it?” + +The Governor’s mischievous resolution to reconcile Philip and Eunice +explained it, of course. With the best intentions (perhaps) Mrs. +Tenbruggen had helped that design by bringing the two men together. “Go +on,” I said; “I am prepared to hear next that Philip has paid another +visit to my sister, and has been received this time.” + +I must say this for Mrs. Tenbruggen: she kept her temper perfectly. + +“He has not been to the farm,” she said, “but he has done something +nearly as foolish. He has written to your sister.” + +“And he has received a favorable reply, of course?” + +She put her hand into the pocket of her dress. + +“There is your sister’s reply,” she said. + +Any persons who have had a crushing burden lifted, unexpectedly and +instantly, from off their minds, will know what I felt when I read the +reply. In the most positive language, Eunice refused to correspond with +Philip, or to speak with him. The concluding words proved that she was +in earnest. “You are engaged to Helena. Consider me as a stranger until +you are married. After that time you will be my brother-in-law, and then +I may pardon you for writing to me.” + +Nobody who knows Eunice would have supposed that she possessed those +two valuable qualities--common-sense and proper pride. It is pleasant +to feel that I can now send cards to my sister, when I am Mrs. Philip +Dunboyne. + +I returned the letter to Mrs. Tenbruggen, with the sincerest expressions +of regret for having doubted her. “I have been unworthy of your generous +interest in me,” I said; “I am almost ashamed to offer you my hand.” + +She took my hand, and gave it a good, heady shake. + +“Are we friends?” she asked, in the simplest and prettiest manner. +“Then let us be easy and pleasant again,” she went on. “Will you call +me Elizabeth; and shall I call you Helena? Very well. Now I have got +something else to say; another secret which must be kept from Philip +(I call _him_ by his name now, you see) for a few days more. Your +happiness, my dear, must not depend on his miserly old father. He must +have a little income of his own to marry on. Among the hundreds of +unfortunate wretches whom I have relieved from torture of mind and body, +there is a grateful minority. Small! small! but there they are. I have +influence among powerful people; and I am trying to make Philip private +secretary to a member of Parliament. When I have succeeded, you shall +tell him the good news.” + +What a vile humor I must have been in, at the time, not to have +appreciated the delightful gayety of this good creature; I went to the +other extreme now, and behaved like a gushing young miss fresh from +school. I kissed her. + +She burst out laughing. “What a sacrifice!” she cried. “A kiss for me, +which ought to have been kept for Philip! By-the-by, do you know what I +should do, Helena, in your place? I should take our handsome young man +away from that hotel!” + +“I will do anything that you advise,” I said. + +“And you will do well, my child. In the first place, the hotel is too +expensive for Philip’s small means. In the second place, two of the +chambermaids have audaciously presumed to be charming girls; and +the men, my dear--well! well! I will leave you to find that out for +yourself. In the third place, you want to have Philip under your own +wing; domestic familiarity will make him fonder of you than ever. Keep +him out of the sort of company that he meets with in the billiard-room +and the smoking-room. You have got a spare bed here, I know, and your +poor father is in no condition to use his authority. Make Philip one of +the family.” + +This last piece of advice staggered me. I mentioned the Proprieties. +Mrs. Tenbruggen laughed at the Proprieties. + +“Make Selina of some use,” she suggested. “While you have got _her_ in +the house, Propriety is rampant. Why condemn poor helpless Philip to +cheap lodgings? Time enough to cast him out to the feather-bed and the +fleas on the night before your marriage. Besides, I shall be in and out +constantly--for I mean to cure your father. The tongue of scandal is +silent in my awful presence; an atmosphere of virtue surrounds Mamma +Tenbruggen. Think of it.” + + + +CHAPTER LV. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + +I did think of it. Philip came to us, and lived in our house. + +Let me hasten to add that the protest of Propriety was duly entered, +on the day before my promised husband arrived. Standing in the +doorway--nothing would induce her to take a chair, or even to enter the +room--Miss Jillgall delivered her opinion on Philip’s approaching +visit. Mrs. Tenbruggen reported it in her pocket-book, as if she was +representing a newspaper at a public meeting. Here it is, copied from +her notes: + +“Miss Helena Gracedieu, my first impulse under the present disgusting +circumstances was to leave the house, and earn a bare crust in the +cheapest garret I could find in the town. But my grateful heart +remembers Mr. Gracedieu. My poor afflicted cousin was good to me when +I was helpless. I cannot forsake him when _he_ is helpless. At whatever +sacrifice of my own self-respect, I remain under this roof, so dear to +me for the Minister’s sake. I notice, miss, that you smile. I see my +once dear Elizabeth, the friend who has so bitterly disappointed +me--” she stopped, and put her handkerchief to her eyes, and went on +again--“the friend who has so bitterly disappointed me, taking satirical +notes of what I say. I am not ashamed of what I say. The virtue which +will not stretch a little, where the motive is good, is feeble virtue +indeed. I shall stay in the house, and witness horrors, and rise +superior to them. Good-morning, Miss Gracedieu. Good-morning, +Elizabeth.” She performed a magnificent curtsey, and (as Mrs. +Tenbruggen’s experience of the stage informed me) made a very creditable +exit. + + +A week has passed, and I have not opened my Diary. + +My days have glided away in one delicious flow of happiness. Philip has +been delightfully devoted to me. His fervent courtship, far exceeding +any similar attentions which he may once have paid to Eunice, has +shown such variety and such steadfastness of worship, that I despair +of describing it. My enjoyment of my new life is to be felt--not to be +coldly considered, and reduced to an imperfect statement in words. + +For the first time I feel capable, if the circumstances encouraged me, +of acts of exalted virtue. For instance, I could save my country if +my country was worth it. I could die a martyr to religion if I had a +religion. In one word, I am exceedingly well satisfied with myself. +The little disappointments of life pass over me harmless. I do not +even regret the failure of good Mrs. Tenbruggen’s efforts to find an +employment for Philip, worthy of his abilities and accomplishments. +The member of Parliament to whom she had applied has chosen a secretary +possessed of political influence. That is the excuse put forward in his +letter to Mrs. Tenbruggen. Wretched corrupt creature! If he was worth a +thought I should pity him. He has lost Philip’s services. + + +Three days more have slipped by. The aspect of my heaven on earth is +beginning to alter. + +Perhaps the author of that wonderful French novel, “L’Ame Damne’e,” is +right when he tells us that human happiness is misery in masquerade. It +would be wrong to say that I am miserable. But I may be on the way to +it; I am anxious. + +To-day, when he did not know that I was observing him, I discovered a +preoccupied look in Philip’s eyes. He laughed when I asked if anything +had happened to vex him. Was it a natural laugh? He put his arm round +me and kissed me. Was it done mechanically? I daresay I am out of humor +myself. I think I had a little headache. Morbid, probably. I won’t think +of it any more. + +It has occurred to me this morning that he may dislike being left by +himself, while I am engaged in my household affairs. If this is the +case, intensely as I hate her, utterly as I loathe the idea of putting +her in command over my domestic dominions, I shall ask Miss Jillgall to +take my place as housekeeper. + +I was away to-day in the kitchen regions rather longer than usual. When +I had done with my worries, Philip was not to be found. Maria, looking +out of one of the bedroom windows instead of doing her work, had seen +Mr. Dunboyne leave the house. It was possible that he had charged Miss +Jillgall with a message for me. I asked if she was in her room. No; she, +too, had gone out. It was a fine day, and Philip had no doubt taken a +stroll--but he might have waited till I could join him. There were some +orders to be given to the butcher and the green-grocer. I, too, left the +house, hoping to get rid of some little discontent, caused by thinking +of what had happened. Returning by the way of High Street--I declare +I can hardly believe it even now--I did positively see Miss Jillgall +coming out of a pawnbroker’s shop! + +The direction in which she turned prevented her from seeing me. She was +quite unaware that I had discovered her; and I have said nothing about +it since. But I noticed something unusual in the manner in which her +watch-chain was hanging, and I asked her what o’clock it was. She said, +“You have got your own watch.” I told her my watch had stopped. “So +has mine,” she said. There is no doubt about it now; she has pawned her +watch. What for? She lives here for nothing, and she has not had a new +dress since I have known her. Why does she want money? + +Philip had not returned when I got home. Another mysterious journey to +London? No. After an absence of more than two hours, he came back. + +Naturally enough, I asked what he had been about. He had been taking a +long walk. For his health’s sake? No: to think. To think of what? Well, +I might be surprised to hear it, but his idle life was beginning +to weigh on his spirits; he wanted employment. Had he thought of an +employment? Not yet. Which way had he walked? Anyway: he had not noticed +where he went. These replies were all made in a tone that offended me. +Besides, I observed there was no dust on his boots (after a week of dry +weather), and his walk of two hours did not appear to have heated or +tired him. I took an opportunity of consulting Mrs. Tenbruggen. + +She had anticipated that I should appeal to her opinion, as a woman of +the world. + +I shall not set down in detail what she said. Some of it humiliated me; +and from some of it I recoiled. The expression of her opinion came to +this. In the absence of experience, a certain fervor of temperament +was essential to success in the art of fascinating men. Either my +temperament was deficient, or my intellect overpowered it. It was +natural that I should suppose myself to be as susceptible to the tender +passion as the most excitable woman living. Delusion, my Helena, amiable +delusion! Had I ever observed or had any friend told me that my pretty +hands were cold hands? I had beautiful eyes, expressive of vivacity, +of intelligence, of every feminine charm, except the one inviting +charm that finds favor in the eyes of a man. She then entered into +particulars, which I don’t deny showed a true interest in helping me. +I was ungrateful, sulky, self-opinionated. Dating from that day’s talk +with Mrs. Tenbruggen, my new friendship began to show signs of having +caught a chill. But I did my best to follow her instructions--and +failed. + +It is perhaps true that my temperament is overpowered by my intellect. +Or it is possibly truer still that the fire in my heart, when it warms +to love, is a fire that burns low. My belief is that I surprised Philip +instead of charming him. He responded to my advances, but I felt that it +was not done in earnest, not spontaneously. Had I any right to complain? +Was I in earnest? Was I spontaneous? We were making love to each +other under false pretenses. Oh, what a fool I was to ask for Mrs. +Tenbruggen’s advice! + +A humiliating doubt has come to me suddenly. Has his heart been +inclining to Eunice again? After such a letter as she has written to +him? Impossible! + + +Three events since yesterday, which I consider, trifling as they may be, +intimations of something wrong. + +First, Miss Jillgall, who at one time was eager to take my place, has +refused to relieve me of my housekeeping duties. Secondly, Philip has +been absent again, on another long walk. Thirdly, when Philip returned, +depressed and sulky, I caught Miss Jillgall looking at him with interest +and pity visible in her skinny face. What do these things mean? + + +I am beginning to doubt everybody. Not one of them, Philip included, +cares for me--but I can frighten them, at any rate. Yesterday evening, +I dropped on the floor as suddenly as if I had been shot: a fit of some +sort. The doctor honestly declared that he was at a loss to account for +it. He would have laid me under an eternal obligation if he had failed +to bring me back to life again. + +As it is, I am more clever than the doctor. What brought the fit on +is well known to me. Rage--furious, overpowering, deadly rage--was the +cause. I am now in the cold-blooded state, which can look back at the +event as composedly as if it had happened to some other girl. Suppose +that girl had let her sweetheart know how she loved him as she had never +let him know it before. Suppose she opened the door again the instant +after she had left the room, eager, poor wretch, to say once more, for +the fiftieth time, “My angel, I love you!” Suppose she found her angel +standing with his back toward her, so that his face was reflected in the +glass. And suppose she discovered in that face, so smiling and so sweet +when his head had rested on her bosom only the moment before, the most +hideous expression of disgust that features can betray. There could +be no doubt of it; I had made my poor offering of love to a man who +secretly loathed me. I wonder that I survived my sense of my own +degradation. Well! I am alive; and I know him in his true character at +last. Am I a woman who submits when an outrage is offered to her? What +will happen next? Who knows? I am in a fine humor. What I have just +written has set me laughing at myself. Helena Gracedieu has one merit at +least--she is a very amusing person. + + +I slept last night. + +This morning, I am strong again, calm, wickedly capable of deceiving +Mr. Philip Dunboyne, as he has deceived me. He has not the faintest +suspicion that I have discovered him. I wish he had courage enough +to kill somebody. How I should enjoy hiring the nearest window to the +scaffold, and seeing him hanged! + +Miss Jillgall is in better spirits than ever. She is going to take +a little holiday; and the cunning creature makes a mystery of it. +“Good-by, Miss Helena. I am going to stay for a day or two with a +friend.” What friend? Who cares? + + +Last night, I was wakeful. In the darkness a daring idea came to me. +To-day, I have carried out the idea. Something has followed which is +well worth entering in my Diary. + +I left the room at the usual hour for attending to my domestic affairs. +The obstinate cook did me a service; she was insolent; she wanted to +have her own way. I gave her her own way. In less than five minutes I +was on the watch in the pantry, which has a view of the house door. My +hat and my parasol were waiting for me on the table, in case of my going +out, too. + +In a few minutes more, I heard the door opened. Mr. Philip Dunboyne +stepped out. He was going to take another of his long walks. + +I followed him to the street in which the cabs stand. He hired the first +one on the rank, an open chaise; while I kept myself hidden in a shop +door. + +The moment he started on his drive, I hired a closed cab. “Double your +fare,” I said to the driver, “whatever it may be, if you follow that +chaise cleverly, and do what I tell you.” + +He nodded and winked at me. A wicked-looking old fellow; just the man I +wanted. + +We followed the chaise. + + + +CHAPTER LVI. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + +When we had left the town behind us, the coachman began to drive more +slowly. In my ignorance, I asked what this change in the pace meant. +He pointed with his whip to the open road and to the chaise in the +distance. + +“If we keep too near the gentleman, miss, he has only got to look back, +and he’ll see we are following him. The safe thing to do is to let the +chaise get on a bit. We can’t lose sight of it, out here.” + +I had felt inclined to trust in the driver’s experience, and he had +already justified my confidence in him. This encouraged me to consult +his opinion on a matter of some importance to my present interests. I +could see the necessity of avoiding discovery when we had followed the +chaise to its destination; but I was totally at a loss to know how it +could be done. My wily old man was ready with his advice the moment I +asked for it. + +“Wherever the chaise stops, miss, we must drive past it as if we were +going somewhere else. I shall notice the place while we go by; and you +will please sit back in the corner of the cab so that the gentleman +can’t see you.” + +“Well,” I said, “and what next?” + +“Next, miss, I shall pull up, wherever it may be, out of sight of the +driver of the chaise. He bears an excellent character, I don’t deny it; +but I’ve known him for years--and we had better not trust him. I shall +tell you where the gentleman stopped; and you will go back to the place +(on foot, of course), and see for yourself what’s to be done, specially +if there happens to be a lady in the case. No offense, miss; it’s in my +experience that there’s generally a lady in the case. Anyhow, you can +judge for yourself, and you’ll know where to find me waiting when you +want me again.” + +“Suppose something happens,” I suggested, “that we don’t expect?” + +“I shan’t lose my head, miss, whatever happens.” + +“All very well, coachman; but I have only your word for it.” In the +irritable state of my mind, the man’s confident way of thinking annoyed +me. + +“Begging your pardon, my young lady, you’ve got (if I may say so) what +they call a guarantee. When I was a young man, I drove a cab in London +for ten years. Will that do?” + +“I suppose you mean,” I answered, “that you have learned deceit in the +wicked ways of the great city.” + +He took this as a compliment. “Thank you, miss. That’s it exactly.” + +After a long drive, or so it seemed to my impatience, we passed the +chaise drawn up at a lonely house, separated by a front garden from the +road. In two or three minutes more, we stopped where the road took a +turn, and descended to lower ground. The farmhouse which we had left +behind us was known to the driver. He led the way to a gate at the side +of the road, and opened it for me. + +“In your place, miss,” he said slyly, “the private way back is the way +I should wish to take. Try it by the fields. Turn to the right when +you have passed the barn, and you’ll find yourself at the back of the +house.” He stopped, and looked at his big silver watch. “Half-past +twelve,” he said, “the Chawbacons--I mean the farmhouse servants, +miss--will be at their dinner. All in your favor, so far. If the dog +happens to be loose, don’t forget that his name’s Grinder; call him by +his name, and pat him before he has time enough to think, and he’ll let +you be. When you want me, here you’ll find me waiting for orders.” + +I looked back as I crossed the field. The driver was sitting on the +gate, smoking his pipe, and the horse was nibbling the grass at the +roadside. Two happy animals, without a burden on their minds! + +After passing the barn, I saw nothing of the dog. Far or near, no +living creature appeared; the servants must have been at dinner, as the +coachman had foreseen. Arriving at a wooden fence, I opened a gate in +it, and found myself on a bit of waste ground. On my left, there was +a large duck-pond. On my right, I saw the fowl-house and the pigstyes. +Before me was a high impenetrable hedge; and at some distance behind +it--an orchard or a garden, as I supposed, filling the intermediate +space--rose the back of the house. I made for the shelter of the hedge, +in the fear that some one might approach a window and see me. Once +sheltered from observation, I might consider what I should do next. +It was impossible to doubt that this was the house in which Eunice +was living. Neither could I fail to conclude that Philip had tried to +persuade her to see him, on those former occasions when he told me he +had taken a long walk. + +As I crouched behind the hedge, I heard voices approaching on the other +side of it. At last fortune had befriended me. The person speaking +at the moment was Miss Jillgall; and the person who answered her was +Philip. + +“I am afraid, dear Mr. Philip, you don’t quite understand my sweet +Euneece. Honorable, high minded, delicate in her feelings, and, oh, so +unselfish! I don’t want to alarm you, but when she hears you have been +deceiving Helena--” + +“Upon my word, Miss Jillgall, you are so provoking! I have not been +deceiving Helena. Haven’t I told you what discouraging answers I got, +when I went to see the Governor? Haven’t I shown you Eunice’s reply to +my letter? You can’t have forgotten it already?” + +“Oh, yes, I have. Why should I remember it? Don’t I know poor Euneece +was in your mind, all the time?” + +“You’re wrong again! Eunice was not in my mind all the time. I was +hurt--I was offended by the cruel manner in which she had treated me. +And what was the consequence? So far was I from deceiving Helena--she +rose in my estimation by comparison with her sister.” + +“Oh, come, come, Mr. Philip! that won’t do. Helena rising in anybody’s +estimation? Ha! ha! ha!” + +“Laugh as much as you like, Miss Jillgall, you won’t laugh away the +facts. Helena loved me; Helena was true to me. Don’t be hard on a poor +fellow who is half distracted. What a man finds he can do on one day, +he finds he can’t do on another. Try to understand that a change does +sometimes come over one’s feelings.” + +“Bless my soul, Mr. Philip, that’s just what I have been understanding +all the time! I know your mind as well as you know it yourself. You +can’t forget my sweet Euneece.” + +“I tell you I tried to forget her! On my word of honor as a gentleman, I +tried to forget her, in justice to Helena. Is it my fault that I failed? +Eunice was in my mind, as you said just now. Oh, my friend--for you +are my friend, I am sure--persuade her to see me, if it’s only for a +minute!” + +(Was there ever a man’s mind in such a state of confusion as this! +First, I rise in his precious estimation, and Eunice drops. Then Eunice +rises, and I drop. Idiot! Mischievous idiot! Even Selina seemed to be +disgusted with him, when she spoke next.) + +“Mr. Philip, you are hard and unreasonable. I have tried to persuade +her, and I have made my darling cry. Nothing you can say will induce me +to distress her again. Go back, you very undetermined man--go back to +your Helena.” + +“Too late.” + +“Nonsense!” + +“I say too late. If I could have married Helena when I first went to +stay in the house, I might have faced the sacrifice. As it is, I can’t +endure her; and (I tell you this in confidence) she has herself to thank +for what has happened.” + +“Is that really true?” + +“Quite true.” + +“Tell me what she did. + +“Oh, don’t talk of her! Persuade Eunice to see me. I shall come back +again, and again, and again till you bring her to me.” + +“Please don’t talk nonsense. If she changes her mind, I will bring her +with pleasure. If she still shrinks from it, I regard Euneece’s feelings +as sacred. Take my advice; don’t press her. Leave her time to think of +you, and to pity you--and that true heart may be yours again, if you are +worthy of it.” + +“Worthy of it? What do you mean?” + +“Are you quite sure, my young friend, that you won’t go back to Helena?” + +“Go back to _her_? I would cut my throat if I thought myself capable of +doing it!” + +“How did she set you against her? Did the wretch quarrel with you?” + +“It might have been better for both of us if she had done that. Oh, her +fulsome endearments! What a contrast to the charming modesty of Eunice! +If I was rich, I would make it worth the while of the first poor fellow +I could find to rid me of Helena by marrying her. I don’t like saying +such a thing of a woman, but if you will have the truth--” + +“Well, Mr. Philip--and what is the truth?” + +“Helena disgusts me.” + + + +CHAPTER LVII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + +So it was all settled between them. Philip is to throw me away, like one +of his bad cigars, for this unanswerable reason: “Helena disgusts me.” + And he is to persuade Eunice to take my place, and be his wife. Yes! if +I let him do it. + +I heard no more of their talk. With that last, worst outrage burning in +my memory, I left the place. + +On my way back to the carriage, the dog met me. Truly, a grand creature. +I called him by his name, and patted him. He licked my hand. Something +made me speak to him. I said: “If I was to tell you to tear Mr. Philip +Dunboyne to pieces, would you do it?” The great good-natured brute held +out his paw to shake hands. Well! well! I was not an object of disgust +to the dog. + +But the coachman was startled, when he saw me again. He said something, +I did not know what it was; and he produced a pocket-flask, containing +some spirits, I suppose. Perhaps he thought I was going to faint. He +little knew me. I told him to drive back to the place at which I had +hired the cab, and earn his money. He earned it. + +On getting home, I found Mrs. Tenbruggen walking up and down the +dining-room, deep in thought. She was startled when we first confronted +each other. “You look dreadfully ill,” she said. + +I answered that I had been out for a little exercise, and had +over-fatigued myself; and then changed the subject. “Does my father seem +to improve under your treatment?” I asked. + +“Very far from it, my dear. I promised that I would try what Massage +would do for him, and I find myself compelled to give it up.” + +“Why?” + +“It excites him dreadfully.” + +“In what way?” + +“He has been talking wildly of events in his past life. His brain is in +some condition which is beyond my powers of investigation. He pointed +to a cabinet in his room, and said his past life was locked up there. +I asked if I should unlock it. He shook with fear; he said I should let +out the ghost of his dead brother-in-law. Have you any idea of what he +meant?” + +The cabinet was full of old letters. I could tell her that--and could +tell her no more. I had never heard of his brother-in-law. Another of +his delusions, no doubt. “Did you ever hear him speak,” Mrs. Tenbruggen +went on, “of a place called Low Lanes?” + +She waited for my reply to this last inquiry with an appearance of +anxiety that surprised me. I had never heard him speak of Low Lanes. + +“Have you any particular interest in the place?” I asked. + +“None whatever.” + +She went away to attend on a patient. I retired to my bedroom, and +opened my Diary. Again and again, I read that remarkable story of the +intended poisoning, and of the manner in which it had ended. I sat +thinking over this romance in real life till I was interrupted by the +announcement of dinner. + +Mr. Philip Dunboyne had returned. In Miss Jillgall’s absence we were +alone at the table. My appetite was gone. I made a pretense of eating, +and another pretense of being glad to see my devoted lover. I talked to +him in the prettiest manner. As a hypocrite, he thoroughly matched +me; he was gallant, he was amusing. If baseness like ours had been +punishable by the law, a prison was the right place for both of us. + +Mrs. Tenbruggen came in again after dinner, still not quite easy about +my health. “How flushed you are!” she said. “Let me feel your pulse.” I +laughed, and left her with Mr. Philip Dunboyne. + +Passing my father’s door, I looked in, anxious to see if he was in the +excitable state which Mrs. Tenbruggen had described. Yes; the effect +which she had produced on him--how, she knows best--had not passed away +yet: he was still talking. The attendant told me it had gone on for +hours together. On my approaching his chair, he called out: “Which are +you? Eunice or Helena?” When I had answered him, he beckoned me to +come nearer. “I am getting stronger every minute,” he said. “We will go +traveling to-morrow, and see the place where you were born.” + +Where had I been born? He had never told me where. Had he mentioned the +place in Mrs. Tenbruggen’s hearing? I asked the attendant if he had been +present while she was in the room. Yes; he had remained at his post; +he had also heard the allusion to the place with the odd name. Had Mr. +Gracedieu said anything more about that place? Nothing more; the poor +Minister’s mind had wandered off to other things. He was wandering now. +Sometimes, he was addressing his congregation; sometimes, he wondered +what they would give him for supper; sometimes, he talked of the +flowers in the garden. And then he looked at me, and frowned, and said I +prevented him from thinking. + +I went back to my bedroom, and opened my Diary, and read the story +again. + +Was the poison of which that resolute young wife proposed to make use +something that acted slowly, and told the doctors nothing if they looked +for it after death? + +Would it be running too great a risk to show the story to the doctor, +and try to get a little valuable information in that way? It would be +useless. He would make some feeble joke; he would say, girls and poisons +are not fit company for each other. + +But I might discover what I want to know in another way. I might call on +the doctor, after he has gone out on his afternoon round of visits, +and might tell the servant I would wait for his master’s return. +Nobody would be in my way; I might get at the medical literature in the +consulting-room, and find the information for myself. + +A knock at my door interrupted me in the midst of my plans. Mrs. +Tenbruggen again!--still in a fidgety state of feeling on the subject of +my health. “Which is it?” she said. “Pain of body, my dear, or pain of +mind? I am anxious about you.” + +“My dear Elizabeth, your sympathy is thrown away on me. As I have told +you already, I am over-tired--nothing more.” + +She was relieved to hear that I had no mental troubles to complain of. +“Fatigue,” she remarked, “sets itself right with rest. Did you take a +very long walk?” + +“Yes.” + +“Beyond the limits of the town, of course? Philip has been taking a walk +in the country, too. He doesn’t say that he met you.” + +These clever people sometimes overreach themselves. How she suggested it +to me, I cannot pretend to have discovered. But I did certainly suspect +that she had led Philip, while they were together downstairs, into +saying to her what he had already said to Miss Jillgall. I was so angry +that I tried to pump my excellent friend, as she had been trying to pump +me--a vulgar expression, but vulgar writing is such a convenient way +of writing sometimes. My first attempt to entrap the Masseuse failed +completely. She coolly changed the subject. + +“Have I interrupted you in writing?” she asked, pointing to my Diary. + +“No; I was idling over what I have written already--an extraordinary +story which I copied from a book.” + +“May I look at it?” + +I pushed the open Diary across the table. If I was the object of any +suspicions which she wanted to confirm, it would be curious to see if +the poisoning story helped her. “It’s a piece of family history,” I +said; “I think you will agree with me that it is really interesting.” + +She began to read. As she went on, not all her power of controlling +herself could prevent her from turning pale. This change of color (in +such a woman) a little alarmed me. When a girl is devoured by deadly +hatred of a man, does the feeling show itself to other persons in +her face? I must practice before the glass and train my face into a +trustworthy state of discipline. + +“Coarse melodrama!” Mrs. Tenbruggen declared. “Mere sensation. No +analysis of character. A made-up story!” + +“Well made up, surely?” I answered. + +“I don’t agree with you.” Her voice was not quite so steady as usual. +She asked suddenly if my clock was right--and declared that she +should be late for an appointment. On taking leave she pressed my +hand strongly--eyed me with distrustful attention and said, very +emphatically: “Take care of yourself, Helena; pray take care of +yourself.” + +I am afraid I did a very foolish thing when I showed her the poisoning +story. Has it helped the wily old creature to look into my inmost +thoughts? + +Impossible! + + +To-day, Miss Jillgall returned, looking hideously healthy and spitefully +cheerful. Although she tried to conceal it, while I was present, I could +see that Philip had recovered his place in her favor. After what he had +said to her behind the hedge at the farm, she would be relieved from all +fear of my becoming his wife, and would joyfully anticipate his marriage +to Eunice. There are thoughts in me which I don’t set down in my book. I +only say: We shall see. + +This afternoon, I decided on visiting the doctor. The servant was quite +sorry for me when he answered the door. His master had just left the +house for a round of visits. I said I would wait. The servant was afraid +I should find waiting very tedious. I reminded him that I could go away +if I found it tedious. At last, the polite old man left me. + +I went into the consulting-room, and read the backs of the medical books +ranged round the walls, and found a volume that interested me. There was +such curious information in it that I amused myself by making extracts, +using the first sheets of paper that I could find. They had printed +directions at the top, which showed that the doctor was accustomed +to write his prescriptions on them. We had many, too many, of his +prescriptions in our house. + +The servant’s doubts of my patience proved to have been well founded. I +got tired of waiting, and went home before the doctor returned. + +From morning to night, nothing has been seen of Mrs. Tenbruggen to-day. +Nor has any apology for her neglect of us been received, fond as she is +of writing little notes. Has that story in my Diary driven her away? Let +me see what to-morrow may bring forth. + + +To-day has brought forth--nothing. Mrs. Tenbruggen still keeps away from +us. It looks as if my Diary had something to do with the mystery of her +absence. + +I am not in good spirits to-day. My nerves--if I have such things, which +is more than I know by my own experience--have been a little shaken by +a horrid dream. The medical information, which my thirst for knowledge +absorbed in the doctor’s consulting-room, turned traitor--armed itself +with the grotesque horrors of nightmare--and so thoroughly frightened me +that I was on the point of being foolish enough to destroy my notes. I +thought better of it, and my notes are safe under lock and key. + +Mr. Philip Dunboyne is trying to pave the way for his flight from this +house. He speaks of friends in London, whose interest will help him to +find the employment which is the object of his ambition. “In a few days +more,” he said, “I shall ask for leave of absence.” + +Instead of looking at me, his eyes wandered to the window; his fingers +played restlessly with his watch-chain while he spoke. I thought I would +give him a chance, a last chance, of making the atonement that he owes +to me. This shows shameful weakness, on my part. Does my own resolution +startle me? Or does the wretch appeal--to what? To my pity? It cannot be +my love; I am positively sure that I hate him. Well, I am not the first +girl who had been an unanswerable riddle to herself. + +“Is there any other motive for your departure?” I asked. + +“What other motive can there be?” he replied. I put what I had to say to +him in plainer words still. “Tell me, Philip, are you beginning to wish +that you were a free man again?” + +He still prevaricated. Was this because he is afraid of me, or because +he is not quite brute enough to insult me to my face? I tried again for +the third and last time. I almost put the words into his mouth. + +“I fancy you have been out of temper lately,” I said. “You have not been +your own kinder and better self. Is this the right interpretation of the +change that I think I see in you?” + +He answered: “I have not been very well lately.” + +“And that is all?” + +“Yes--that is all.” + +There was no more to be said; I turned away to leave the room. He +followed me to the door. After a momentary hesitation, he made the +attempt to kiss me. I only looked at him--he drew back from me in +silence. I left the new Judas, standing alone, while the shades of +evening began to gather over the room. + + + +Third Period _(continued)_. + +_EVENTS IN THE FAMILY, RELATED BY MISS JILLGALL._ + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. DANGER. + +“If anything of importance happens, I trust to you to write an account +of it, and to send the writing to me. I will come to you at once, if +I see reason to believe that my presence is required.” Those lines, in +your last kind reply to me, rouse my courage, dear Mr. Governor, and +sharpen the vigilance which has always been one of the strong points in +my character. Every suspicious circumstance which occurs in this house +will be (so to speak) seized on by my pen, and will find itself (so to +speak again) placed on its trial, before your unerring judgment! Let the +wicked tremble! I mention no names. + +Taking up my narrative where it came to an end when I last wrote, I +have to say a word first on the subject of my discoveries, in regard to +Philip’s movements. + +The advertisement of a private inquiry office, which I read in a +newspaper, put the thing into my head. I provided myself with money to +pay the expenses by--I blush while I write it--pawning my watch. This +humiliation of my poor self has been rewarded by success. Skilled +investigation has proved that our young man has come to his senses +again, exactly as I supposed. On each occasion when he was suspiciously +absent from the house, he has been followed to the farm. I have been +staying there myself for a day or two, in the hope of persuading Eunice +to relent. The hope has not yet been realized. But Philip’s devotion, +assisted by my influence, will yet prevail. Let me not despair. + +Whether Helena knows positively that she has lost her wicked hold on +Philip I cannot say. It seems hardly possible that she could have made +the discovery just yet. The one thing of which I am certain is, that she +looks like a fiend. + +Philip has wisely taken my advice, and employed pious fraud. He will get +away from the wretch, who has tempted him once and may tempt him again, +under pretense of using the interest of his friends in London to find +a place under Government. He has not been very well for the last day or +two, and the execution of our project is in consequence delayed. + +I have news of Mrs. Tenbruggen which will, I think, surprise you. + +She has kept away from us in a most unaccountable manner. I called on +her at the hotel, and heard she was engaged with her lawyer. On the next +day, she suddenly returned to her old habits, and paid the customary +visit. I observed a similar alteration in her state of feeling. She is +now coldly civil to Helena; and she asks after Eunice with a maternal +interest touching to see--I said to her: “Elizabeth, you appear to have +changed your opinion of the two girls, since I saw you.” She answered, +with a delightful candor which reminded me of old times: “Completely!” + I said: “A woman of your intellectual caliber, dear, doesn’t change her +mind without a good reason for it.” Elizabeth cordially agreed with me. +I ventured to be a little more explicit: “You have no doubt made some +interesting discovery.” Elizabeth agreed again; and I ventured again: “I +suppose I may not ask what the discovery is?” “No, Selina, you may not +ask.” + +This is curious; but it is nothing to what I have got to tell you next. +Just as I was longing to take her to my bosom again as my friend and +confidante, Elizabeth has disappeared. And, alas! alas! there is a +reason for it which no sympathetic person can dispute. + +I have just received some overwhelming news, in the form of a neat +parcel, addressed to myself. + +There has been a scandal at the hotel. That monster in human form, +Elizabeth’s husband, is aware of his wife’s professional fame, has +heard of the large sums of money which she earns as the greatest living +professor of massage, has been long on the lookout for her, and +has discovered her at last. He has not only forced his way into her +sitting-room at the hotel; he insists on her living with him again; her +money being the attraction, it is needless to say. If she refuses, he +threatens her with the law, the barbarous law, which, to use his own +coarse expression, will “restore his conjugal rights.” + +All this I gather from the narrative of my unhappy friend, which forms +one of the two inclosures in her parcel. She has already made her +escape. Ha! the man doesn’t live who can circumvent Elizabeth. The +English Court of Law isn’t built which can catch her when she roams the +free and glorious Continent. + +The vastness of this amazing woman’s mind is what I must pause to +admire. In the frightful catastrophe that has befallen her, she can +still think of Philip and Euneece. She is eager to hear of their +marriage, and renounces Helena with her whole heart. “I too was deceived +by that cunning young Woman,” she writes. “Beware of her, Selina. Unless +I am much mistaken, she is going to end badly. Take care of Philip, take +care of Euneece. If you want help, apply at once to my favorite hero +in real life, The Governor.” I don’t presume to correct Elizabeth’s +language. I should have called you The idol of the Women. + +The second inclosure contains, as I suppose, a wedding present. It is +carefully sealed--it feels no bigger than an ordinary letter--and it +contains an inscription which your highly-cultivated intelligence may be +able to explain. I copy it as follows: + +“To be inclosed in another envelope, addressed to Mr. Dunboyne the +elder, at Percy’s Private Hotel, London, and delivered by a trustworthy +messenger, on the day when Mr. Philip Dunboyne is married to Miss Eunice +Gracedieu. Placed meanwhile under the care of Miss Selina Jillgall.” + +Why is this mysterious letter to be sent to Philip’s father? I wonder +whether that circumstance will puzzle you as it has puzzled me. + +I have kept my report back, so as to send you the last news relating to +Philip’s state of health. To my great regret, his illness seems to have +made a serious advance since yesterday. When I ask if he is in pain, he +says: “It isn’t exactly pain; I feel as if I was sinking. Sometimes I am +giddy; and sometimes I find myself feeling thirsty and sick.” I have no +opportunity of looking after him as I could wish; for Helena insists on +nursing him, assisted by the housemaid. Maria is a very good girl in her +way, but too stupid to be of much use. If he is not better to-morrow, I +shall insist on sending for the doctor. + + +He is no better; and he wishes to have medical help. Helena doesn’t +seem to understand his illness. It was not until Philip had insisted on +seeing him that she consented to send for the doctor. + +You had some talk with this experienced physician when you were here, +and you know what a clever man he is. When I tell you that he hesitates +to say what is the matter with Philip, you will feel as much alarmed as +I do. I will wait to send this to the post until I can write in a more +definite way. + + +Two days more have passed. The doctor has put two very strange questions +to me. + +He asked, first, if there was anybody staying with us besides the +regular members of the household. I said we had no visitor. He wanted +to know, next, if Mr. Philip Dunboyne had made any enemies since he +has been living in our town. I said none that I knew of--and I took the +liberty of asking what he meant. He answered to this, that he has a +few more inquiries to make, and that he will tell me what he means +to-morrow. + + +For God’s sake come here as soon as you possibly can. The whole burden +is thrown on me--and I am quite unequal to it. + +I received the doctor to-day in the drawing-room. To my amazement, +he begged leave to speak with me in the garden. When I asked why, he +answered: “I don’t want to have a listener at the door. Come out on the +lawn, where we can be sure that we are alone.” + +When we were in the garden, he noticed that I was trembling. + +“Rouse your courage, Miss Jillgall,” he said. “In the Minister’s +helpless state there is nobody whom I can speak to but yourself.” + +I ventured to remind him that he might speak to Helena as well as to +myself. + +He looked as black as thunder when I mentioned her name. All he said +was, “No!” But, oh, if you had heard his voice--and he so gentle and +sweet-tempered at other times--you would have felt, as I did, that he +had Helena in his mind! + +“Now, listen to this,” he went on. “Everything that my art can do for +Mr. Philip Dunboyne, while I am at his bedside, is undone while I am +away by some other person. He is worse to-day than I have seen him yet.” + +“Oh, sir, do you think he will die?” + +“He will certainly die unless the right means are taken to save him, and +taken at once. It is my duty not to flinch from telling you the truth. +I have made a discovery since yesterday which satisfies me that I am +right. Somebody is trying to poison Mr. Dunboyne; and somebody will +succeed unless he is removed from this house.” + +I am a poor feeble creature. The doctor caught me, or I should have +dropped on the grass. It was not a fainting-fit. I only shook and +shivered so that I was too weak to stand up. Encouraged by the doctor, +I recovered sufficiently to be able to ask him where Philip was to be +taken to. He said: “To the hospital. No poisoner can follow my patient +there. Persuade him to let me take him away, when I call again in an +hour’s time.” + +As soon as I could hold a pen, I sent a telegram to you. Pray, pray come +by the earliest train. I also telegraphed to old Mr. Dunboyne, at the +hotel in London. + +It was impossible for me to face Helena; I own I was afraid. The +cook kindly went upstairs to see who was in Philip’s room. It was the +housemaid’s turn to look after him for a while. I went instantly to his +bedside. + +There was no persuading him to allow himself to be taken to the +hospital. “I am dying,” he said. “If you have any pity for me, send for +Euneece. Let me see her once more, let me hear her say that she forgives +me, before I die.” + +I hesitated. It was too terrible to think of Euneece in the same house +with her sister. Her life might be in danger! Philip gave me a look, a +dreadful ghastly look. “If you refuse,” he said wildly, “the grave won’t +hold me. I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.” + +“She shall hear that you are ill,” I answered--and ran out of the room +before he could speak again. + +What I had promised to write, I did write. But, placed between Euneece’s +danger and Philip’s danger, my heart was all for Euneece. Would Helena +spare her, if she came to Philip’s bedside? In such terror as I never +felt before in my life, I added a word more, entreating her not to leave +the farm. I promised to keep her regularly informed on the subject of +Philip’s illness; and I mentioned that I expected the Governor to return +to us immediately. “Do nothing,” I wrote, “without his advice.” My +letter having been completed, I sent the cook away with it, in a chaise. +She belonged to the neighborhood, and she knew the farmhouse well. +Nearly two hours afterward, I heard the chaise stop at the door, and +ran out, impatient to hear how my sweet girl had received my letter. +God help us all! When I opened the door, the first person whom I saw was +Euneece herself. + + + +CHAPTER LIX. DEFENSE. + +One surprise followed another, after I had encountered Euneece at the +door. + +When my fondness had excused her for setting the well-meant advice in +my letter at defiance, I was conscious of expecting to see her in tears; +eager, distressingly eager, to hear what hope there might be of Philip’s +recovery. I saw no tears, I heard no inquiries. She was pale, and quiet, +and silent. Not a word fell from her when we met, not a word when she +kissed me, not a word when she led the way into the nearest room--the +dining-room. It was only when we were shut in together that she spoke. + +“Which is Philip’s room?” she asked. + +Instead of wanting to know how he was, she desired to know where he +was! I pointed toward the back dining-room, which had been made into a +bedroom for Philip. He had chosen it himself, when he first came to stay +with us, because the window opened into the garden, and he could slip +out and smoke at any hour of the day or night, when he pleased. + +“Who is with him now?” was the next strange thing this sadly-changed +girl said to me. + +“Maria is taking her turn,” I answered; “she assists in nursing Philip.” + +“Where is--?” Euneece got no further than that. Her breath quickened, +her color faded away. I had seen people look as she was looking now, +when they suffered under some sudden pain. Before I could offer to help +her, she rallied, and went on: “Where,” she began again, “is the other +nurse?” + +“You mean Helena?” I said. + +“I mean the Poisoner.” + +When I remind you, dear Mr. Governor, that my letter had carefully +concealed from her the horrible discovery made by the doctor, +your imagination will picture my state of mind. She saw that I was +overpowered. Her sweet nature, so strangely frozen up thus far, melted +at last. “You don’t know what I have heard,” she said, “you don’t know +what thoughts have been roused in me.” She left her chair, and sat on +my knee with the familiarity of the dear old times, and took the letter +that I had written to her from her pocket. + +“Look at it yourself,” she said, “and tell me if anybody could read it, +and not see that you were concealing something. My dear, I have driven +round by the doctor’s house--I have seen him--I have persuaded him, or +perhaps I ought to say surprised him, into telling me the truth. But the +kind old man is obstinate. He wouldn’t believe me when I told him I was +on my way here to save Philip’s life. He said: ‘My child, you will only +put your own life in jeopardy. If I had not seen that danger, I should +never have told you of the dreadful state of things at home. Go back to +the good people at the farm, and leave the saving of Philip to me.’” + +“He was right, Euneece, entirely right.” + +“No, dear, he was wrong. I begged him to come here, and judge for +himself; and I ask you to do the same.” + +I was obstinate. “Go back!” I persisted. “Go back to the farm!” + +“Can I see Philip?” she asked. + +I have heard some insolent men say that women are like cats. If they +mean that we do, figuratively speaking, scratch at times, I am afraid +they are not altogether wrong. An irresistible impulse made me say to +poor Euneece: “This is a change indeed, since you refused to receive +Philip.” + +“Is there no change in the circumstances?” she asked sadly. “Isn’t he +ill and in danger?” + +I begged her to forgive me; I said I meant no harm. + +“I gave him up to my sister,” she continued, “when I believed that his +happiness depended, not on me, but on her. I take him back to myself, +when he is at the mercy of a demon who threatens his life. Come, Selina, +let us go to Philip.” + +She put her arm round me, and made me get up from my chair. I was so +easily persuaded by her, that the fear of what Helena’s jealousy and +Helena’s anger might do was scarcely present in my thoughts. The door of +communication was locked on the side of the bedchamber. I went into the +hall, to enter Philip’s room by the other door. She followed, waiting +behind me. I heard what passed between them when Maria went out to her. + +“Where is Miss Gracedieu?” + +“Resting upstairs, miss, in her room.” + +“Look at the clock, and tell me when you expect her to come down here.” + +“I am to call her, miss, in ten minutes more.” + +“Wait in the dining-room, Maria, till I come back to you.” + +She joined me. I held the door open for her to go into Philip’s room. It +was not out of curiosity; the feeling that urged me was sympathy, when +I waited a moment to see their first meeting. She bent over the poor, +pallid, trembling, suffering man, and raised him in her arms, and laid +his head on her bosom. “My Philip!” She murmured those words in a kiss. +I closed the door, I had a good cry; and, oh, how it comforted me! + +There was only a minute to spare when she came out of the room. Maria +was waiting for her. Euneece said, as quietly as ever: “Go and call Miss +Gracedieu.” + +The girl looked at her, and saw--I don’t know what. Maria became +alarmed. But she went up the stairs, and returned in haste to tell us +that her young mistress was coming down. + +The faint rustling of Helena’s dress as she left her room reached us in +the silence. I remained at the open door of the dining-room, and Maria +approached and stood near me. We were both frightened. Euneece stepped +forward, and stood on the mat at the foot of the stairs, waiting. Her +back was toward me; I could only see that she was as still as a statue. +The rustling of the dress came nearer. Oh, heavens! what was going to +happen? My teeth chattered in my head; I held by Maria’s shoulder. Drops +of perspiration showed themselves on the girl’s forehead; she stared in +vacant terror at the slim little figure, posted firm and still on the +mat. + +Helena turned the corner of the stairs, and waited a moment on the last +landing, and saw her sister. + +“You here?” she said. “What do you want?” + +There was no reply. Helena descended, until she reached the last stair +but one. There, she stopped. Her staring eyes grew large and wild; +her hand shook as she stretched it out, feeling for the banister; she +staggered as she caught at it, and held herself up. The silence was +still unbroken. Something in me, stronger than myself, drew my steps +along the hall nearer and nearer to the stair, till I could see the face +which had struck that murderous wretch with terror. + +I looked. + +No! it was not my sweet girl; it was a horrid transformation of her. +I saw a fearful creature, with glittering eyes that threatened some +unimaginable vengeance. Her lips were drawn back; they showed her +clinched teeth. A burning red flush dyed her face. The hair of her head +rose, little by little, slowly. And, most dreadful sight of all, she +seemed, in the stillness of the house, to be _listening to something_. +If I could have moved, I should have fled to the first place of refuge +I could find. If I could have raised my voice, I should have cried for +help. I could do neither the one nor the other. I could only look, look, +look; held by the horror of it with a hand of iron. + +Helena must have roused her courage, and resisted her terror. I heard +her speak: + +“Let me by!” + +“No.” + +Slowly, steadily, in a whisper, Euneece made that reply. + +Helena tried once more--still fighting against her own terror: I knew it +by the trembling of her voice. + +“Let me by,” she repeated; “I am on my way to Philip’s room.” + +“You will never enter Philip’s room again.” + +“Who will stop me?” + +“I will.” + +She had spoken in the same steady whisper throughout--but now she moved. +I saw her set her foot on the first stair. I saw the horrid glitter in +her eyes flash close into Helena’s face. I heard her say: + +“Poisoner, go back to your room.” + +Silent and shuddering, Helena shrank away from her--daunted by her +glittering eyes; mastered by her lifted hand pointing up the stairs. + +Helena slowly ascended till she reached the landing. She turned and +looked down; she tried to speak. The pointing hand struck her dumb, and +drove her up the next flight of stairs. She was lost to view. Only the +small rustling sound of the dress was to be heard, growing fainter and +fainter; then an interval of stillness; then the noise of a door opened +and closed again; then no sound more--but a change to be seen: the +transformed creature was crouching on her knees, still and silent, her +face covered by her hands. I was afraid to approach her; I was afraid to +speak to her. After a time, she rose. Suddenly, swiftly, with her head +turned away from me, she opened the door of Philip’s room--and was gone. + +I looked round. There was only Maria in the lonely hall. Shall I try +to tell you what my sensations were? It may sound strangely, but it is +true--I felt like a sleeper, who has half-awakened from a dream. + + + +CHAPTER LX. DISCOVERY. + +A little later, on that eventful day, when I was most in need of all +that your wisdom and kindness could do to guide me, came the telegram +which announced that you were helpless under an attack of gout. As soon +as I had in some degree got over my disappointment, I remembered having +told Euneece in my letter that I expected her kind old friend to come to +us. With the telegram in my hand I knocked softly at Philip’s door. + +The voice that bade me come in was the gentle voice that I knew so well. +Philip was sleeping. There, by his bedside, with his hand resting in her +hand, was Euneece, so completely restored to her own sweet self that I +could hardly believe what I had seen, not an hour since. She talked +of you, when I showed her your message, with affectionate interest and +regret. Look back, my admirable friend, at what I have written on +the two or three pages which precede this, and explain the astounding +contrast if you can. + +I was left alone to watch by Philip, while Euneece went away to see her +father. Soon afterward, Maria took my place; I had been sent for to the +next room to receive the doctor. + +He looked care-worn and grieved. I said I was afraid he had brought bad +news with him. + +“The worst possible news,” he answered. “A terrible exposure threatens +this family, and I am powerless to prevent it.” + +He then asked me to remember the day when I had been surprised by the +singular questions which he had put to me, and when he had engaged to +explain himself after he had made some inquiries. Why, and how, he had +set those inquiries on foot was what he had now to tell. I will repeat +what he said, in his own words, as nearly as I can remember them. While +he was in attendance on Philip, he had observed symptoms which made him +suspect that Digitalis had been given to the young man, in doses often +repeated. Cases of attempted poisoning by this medicine were so rare, +that he felt bound to put his suspicions to the test by going round +among the chemists’s shops--excepting of course the shop at which his +own prescriptions were made up--and asking if they had lately dispensed +any preparation of Digitalis, ordered perhaps in a larger quantity +than usual. At the second shop he visited, the chemist laughed. “Why, +doctor,” he said, “have you forgotten your own prescription?” After +this, the prescription was asked for, and produced. It was on the paper +used by the doctor--paper which had his address printed at the top, and +a notice added, telling patients who came to consult him for the second +time to bring their prescriptions with them. Then, there followed in +writing: “Tincture of Digitalis, one ounce”--with his signature at the +end, not badly imitated, but a forgery nevertheless. The chemist noticed +the effect which this discovery had produced on the doctor, and asked if +that was his signature. He could hardly, as an honest man, have asserted +that a forgery was a signature of his own writing. So he made the true +reply, and asked who had presented the prescription. The chemist called +to his assistant to come forward. “Did you tell me that you knew, by +sight, the young lady who brought this prescription?” The assistant +admitted it. “Did you tell me she was Miss Helena Gracedieu?” “I did.” + “Are you sure of not having made any mistake?” “Quite sure.” The chemist +then said: “I myself supplied the Tincture of Digitalis, and the young +lady paid for it, and took it away with her. You have had all the +information that I can give you, sir; and I may now ask, if you can +throw any light on the matter.” Our good friend thought of the poor +Minister, so sorely afflicted, and of the famous name so sincerely +respected in the town and in the country round, and said he could not +undertake to give an immediate answer. The chemist was excessively +angry. “You know as well as I do,” he said, “that Digitalis, given in +certain doses, is a poison, and you cannot deny that I honestly believed +myself to be dispensing your prescription. While you are hesitating to +give me an answer, my character may suffer; I may be suspected myself.” + He ended in declaring he should consult his lawyer. The doctor went +home, and questioned his servant. The man remembered the day of Miss +Helena’s visit in the afternoon, and the intention that she expressed of +waiting for his master’s return. He had shown her into the parlor which +opened into the consulting-room. No other visitor was in the house at +that time, or had arrived during the rest of the day. The doctor’s own +experience, when he got home, led him to conclude that Helena had gone +into the consulting-room. He had entered that room, for the purpose of +writing some prescriptions, and had found the leaves of paper that he +used diminished in number. After what he had heard, and what he had +discovered (to say nothing of what he suspected), it occurred to him +to look along the shelves of his medical library. He found a volume +(treating of Poisons) with a slip of paper left between the leaves; the +poison described at the place so marked being Digitalis, and the paper +used being one of his own prescription-papers. “If, as I fear, a legal +investigation into Helena’s conduct is a possible event,” the doctor +concluded, “there is the evidence that I shall be obliged to give, when +I am called as a witness.” + +It is my belief that I could have felt no greater dismay, if the long +arm of the Law had laid its hold on me while he was speaking. I asked +what was to be done. + +“If she leaves the house at once,” the doctor replied, “she may escape +the infamy of being charged with an attempt at murder by poison; and, +in her absence, I can answer for Philip’s life. I don’t urge you to warn +her, because that might be a dangerous thing to do. It is for you to +decide, as a member of the family, whether you will run the risk.” + +I tried to speak to him of Euneece, and to tell him what I had already +related to yourself. He was in no humor to listen to me. “Keep it for a +fitter time,” he answered; “and think of what I have just said to you.” + With that, he left me, on his way to Philip’s room. + +Mental exertion was completely beyond me. Can you understand a poor +middle-aged spinster being frightened into doing a dangerous thing? That +may seem to be nonsense. But if you ask why I took a morsel of paper, +and wrote the warning which I was afraid to communicate by word of +mouth--why I went upstairs with my knees knocking together, and +opened the door of Helena’s room just wide enough to let my hand pass +through--why I threw the paper in, and banged the door to again, and +ran downstairs as I have never run since I was a little girl--I can +only say, in the way of explanation, what I have said already: I was +frightened into doing it. + +What I have written, thus far, I shall send to you by to-night’s post. + +The doctor came back to me, after he had seen Philip, and spoken with +Euneece. He was very angry; and, I must own, not without reason. Philip +had flatly refused to let himself be removed to the hospital; and +Euneece--“a mere girl”--had declared that she would be answerable for +consequences! The doctor warned me that he meant to withdraw from +the case, and to make his declaration before the magistrates. At my +entreaties he consented to return in the evening, and to judge by +results before taking the terrible step that he had threatened. + +While I remained at home on the watch, keeping the doors of both +rooms locked, Eunice went out to get Philip’s medicine. She came back, +followed by a boy carrying a portable apparatus for cooking. “All that +Philip wants, and all that we want,” she explained, “we can provide for +ourselves. Give me a morsel of paper to write on.” + +Unhooking the little pencil attached to her watch-chain, she paused and +looked toward the door. “Somebody listening,” she whispered. “Let them +listen.” She wrote a list of necessaries, in the way of things to eat +and things to drink, and asked me to go out and get them myself. “I +don’t doubt the servants,” she said, speaking distinctly enough to +be heard outside; “but I am afraid of what a Poisoner’s cunning and a +Poisoner’s desperation may do, in a kitchen which is open to her.” I +went away on my errand--discovering no listener outside, I need hardly +say. On my return, I found the door of communication with Philip’s room +closed, but no longer locked. “We can now attend on him in turn,” she +said, “without opening either of the doors which lead into the hall. At +night we can relieve each other, and each of us can get sleep as we want +it in the large armchair in the dining-room. Philip must be safe under +our charge, or the doctor will insist on taking him to the hospital. +When we want Maria’s help, from time to time, we can employ her under +our own superintendence. Have you anything else, Selina, to suggest?” + +There was nothing left to suggest. Young and inexperienced as she was, +how (I asked) had she contrived to think of all this? She answered, +simply “I’m sure I don’t know; my thoughts came to me while I was +looking at Philip.” + +Soon afterward I found an opportunity of inquiring if Helena had left +the house. She had just rung her bell; and Maria had found her, quietly +reading, in her room. Hours afterward, when I was on the watch at +night, I heard Philip’s door softly tried from the outside. Her dreadful +purpose had not been given up, even yet. + +The doctor came in the evening, as he had promised, and found an +improvement in Philip’s health. I mentioned what precautions we had +taken, and that they had been devised by Euneece. “Are you going to +withdraw from the case?” I asked. “I am coming back to the case,” he +answered, “to-morrow morning.” + +It had been a disappointment to me to receive no answer to the telegram +which I had sent to Mr. Dunboyne the elder. The next day’s post brought +the explanation in a letter to Philip from his father, directed to him +at the hotel here. This showed that my telegram, giving my address at +this house, had not been received. Mr. Dunboyne announced that he had +returned to Ireland, finding the air of London unendurable, after the +sea-breezes at home. If Philip had already married, his father would +leave him to a life of genteel poverty with Helena Gracedieu. If he had +thought better of it, his welcome was waiting for him. + +Little did Mr. Dunboyne know what changes had taken place since he and +his son had last met, and what hope might yet present itself of brighter +days for poor Euneece! I thought of writing to him. But how would that +crabbed old man receive a confidential letter from a lady who was a +stranger? + +My doubts were set at rest by Philip himself. He asked me to write a few +lines of reply to his father; declaring that his marriage with Helena +was broken off--that he had not given up all hope of being permitted to +offer the sincere expression of his penitence to Euneece--and that +he would gladly claim his welcome, as soon as he was well enough to +undertake the journey to Ireland. When he had signed the letter, I was +so pleased that I made a smart remark. I said: “This is a treaty of +peace between father and son.” + +When the doctor arrived in the morning, and found the change for the +better in his patient confirmed, he did justice to us at last. He +spoke kindly, and even gratefully, to Euneece. No more allusions to the +hospital as a place of safety escaped him. He asked me cautiously for +news of Helena. I could only tell him that she had gone out at her +customary time, and had returned at her customary time. He did not +attempt to conceal that my reply had made him uneasy. + +“Are you still afraid that she may succeed in poisoning Philip?” I +asked. + +“I am afraid of her cunning,” he said. “If she is charged with +attempting to poison young Dunboyne, she has some system of defense, you +may rely on it, for which we are not prepared. There, in my opinion, is +the true reason for her extraordinary insensibility to her own danger.” + +Two more days passed, and we were still safe under the protection of +lock and key. + +On the evening of the second day (which was a Monday) Maria came to me +in great tribulation. On inquiring what was the matter, I received a +disquieting reply: “Miss Helena is tempting me. She is so miserable at +being prevented from seeing Mr. Philip, and helping to nurse him, that +it is quite distressing to see her. At the same time, miss, it’s hard +on a poor servant. She asks me to take the key secretly out of the door, +and lend it to her at night for a few minutes only. I’m really afraid I +shall be led into doing it, if she goes on persuading me much longer.” + +I commended Maria for feeling scruples which proved her to be the best +of good girls, and promised to relieve her from all fear of future +temptation. This was easily done. Euneece kept the key of Philip’s door +in her pocket; and I kept the key of the dining-room door in mine. + + + +CHAPTER LXI. ATROCITY. + +On the next day, a Tuesday in the week, an event took place which +Euneece and I viewed with distrust. Early in the afternoon, a young man +called with a note for Helena. It was to be given to her immediately, +and no answer was required. + +Maria had just closed the house door, and was on her way upstairs with +the letter, when she was called back by another ring at the bell. Our +visitor was the doctor. He spoke to Maria in the hall: + +“I think I see a note in your hand. Was it given to you by the young man +who has just left the house?” + +“Yes, sir. + +“If he’s your sweetheart, my dear, I have nothing more to say.” + +“Good gracious, doctor, how you do talk! I never saw the young man +before in my life.” + +“In that case, Maria, I will ask you to let me look at the address. Aha! +Mischief!” + +The moment I heard that I threw open the dining-room door. Curiosity is +not easily satisfied. When it hears, it wants to see; when it sees, it +wants to know. Every lady will agree with me in this observation. + +“Pray come in,” I said. + +“One minute, Miss Jillgall. My girl, when you give Miss Helena that +note, try to get a sly look at her when she opens it, and come and tell +me what you have seen.” He joined me in the dining-room, and closed +the door. “The other day,” he went on, “when I told you what I had +discovered in the chemist’s shop, I think I mentioned a young man who +was called to speak to a question of identity--an assistant who knew +Miss Helena Gracedieu by sight.” + +“Yes, yes!” + +“That young man left the note which Maria has just taken upstairs.” + +“Who wrote it, doctor, and what does it say?” + +“Questions naturally asked, Miss Jillgall--and not easily answered. +Where is Eunice? Her quick wit might help us.” + +She had gone out to buy some fruit and flowers for Philip. + +The doctor accepted his disappointment resignedly. “Let us try what +we can do without her,” he said. “That young man’s master has been in +consultation (you may remember why) with his lawyer, and Helena may +be threatened by an investigation before the magistrates. If this wild +guess of mine turns out to have hit the mark, the poisoner upstairs has +got a warning.” + +I asked if the chemist had written the note. Foolish enough of me when +I came to think of it. The chemist would scarcely act a friendly part +toward Helena, when she was answerable for the awkward position in which +he had placed himself. Perhaps the young man who had left the warning +was also the writer of the warning. The doctor reminded me that he +was all but a stranger to Helena. “We are not usually interested,” he +remarked, “in a person whom we only know by sight.” + +“Remember that he is a young man,” I ventured to say. This was a strong +hint, but the doctor failed to see it. He had evidently forgotten his +own youth. I made another attempt. + +“And vile as Helena is,” I continued, “we cannot deny that this disgrace +to her sex is a handsome young lady.” + +He saw it at last. “Woman’s wit!” he cried. “You have hit it, Miss +Jillgall. The young fool is smitten with her, and has given her a chance +of making her escape.” + +“Do you think she will take the chance?” + +“For all our sakes, I pray God she may! But I don’t feel sure about it.” + +“Why?” + +“Recollect what you and Eunice have done. You have shown your suspicion +of her without an attempt to conceal it. If you had put her in prison +you could not have more completely defeated her infernal design. Do you +think she is a likely person to submit to that, without an effort to be +even with you?” + +Just as he said those terrifying words, Maria came back to us. He asked +at once what had kept her so long upstairs. + +The girl had evidently something to say, which had inflated her (if I +may use such an expression) with a sense of her own importance. + +“Please to let me tell it, sir,” she answered, “in my own way. Miss +Helena turned as pale as ashes when she opened the letter, and then she +took a turn in the room, and then she looked at me with a smile--well, +miss, I can only say that I felt that smile in the small of my back. +I tried to get to the door. She stopped me. She says: ‘Where’s Miss +Eunice?’ I says: ‘Gone out.’ She says: ‘Is there anybody in the +drawing-room?’ I says: ‘No, miss.’ She says: ‘Tell Miss Jillgall I want +to speak to her, and say I am waiting in the drawing-room.’ It’s every +word of it true! And, if a poor servant may give an opinion, I don’t +like the look of it.” + +The doctor dismissed Maria. “Whatever it is,” he said to me, “you must +go and hear it.” + +I am not a courageous woman; I expressed myself as being willing to go +to her, if the doctor went with me. He said that was impossible; she +would probably refuse to speak before any witness; and certainly before +him. But he promised to look after Philip in my absence, and to wait +below if it really so happened that I wanted him. I need only ring the +bell, and he would come to me the moment he heard it. Such kindness as +this roused my courage, I suppose. At any rate, I went upstairs. + +She was standing by the fire-place, with her elbow on the chimney-piece, +and her head, resting on her hand. I stopped just inside the door, +waiting to hear what she had to say. In this position her side-face only +was presented to me. It was a ghastly face. The eye that I could see +turned wickedly on me when I came in--then turned away again. Otherwise, +she never moved. I confess I trembled, but I did my best to disguise it. + +She broke out suddenly with what she had to say: “I won’t allow this +state of things to go on any longer. My horror of an exposure which will +disgrace the family has kept me silent, wrongly silent, so far. Philip’s +life is in danger. I am forgetting my duty to my affianced husband, if +I allow myself to be kept away from him any longer. Open those locked +doors, and relieve me from the sight of you. Open the doors, I say, or +you will both of you--you the accomplice, she the wretch who directs +you--repent it to the end of your lives.” + +In my own mind, I asked myself if she had gone mad. But I only answered: +“I don’t understand you.” + +She said again: “You are Eunice’s accomplice.” + +“Accomplice in what?” I asked. + +She turned her head slowly and faced me. I shrank from looking at her. + +“All the circumstances prove it,” she went on. “I have supplanted Eunice +in Philip’s affection. She was once engaged to marry him; I am engaged +to marry him now. She is resolved that he shall never make me his wife. +He will die if I delay any longer. He will die if I don’t crush her, +like the reptile she is. She comes here--and what does she do? Keeps him +prisoner under her own superintendence. Who gets his medicine? She gets +it. Who cooks his food? She cooks it. The doors are locked. I might be +a witness of what goes on; and I am kept out. The servants who ought to +wait on him are kept out. She can do what she likes with his medicine; +she can do what she likes with his food: she is infuriated with him for +deserting her, and promising to marry me. Give him back to my care; or, +dreadful as it is to denounce my own sister, I shall claim protection +from the magistrates.” + +I lost all fear of her: I stepped close up to the place at which she +was standing; I cried out: “Of what, in God’s name, do you accuse your +sister?” + +She answered: “I accuse her of poisoning Philip Dunboyne.” + +I ran out of the room; I rushed headlong down the stairs. The doctor +heard me, and came running into the hall. I caught hold of him like a +madwoman. “Euneece!” My breath was gone; I could only say: “Euneece!” + +He dragged me into the dining-room. There was wine on the side-board, +which he had ordered medically for Philip. He forced me to drink some of +it. It ran through me like fire; it helped me to speak. “Now tell me,” + he said, “what has she done to Eunice?” + +“She brings a horrible accusation against her,” I answered. + +“What is the accusation?” I told him. + +He looked me through and through. “Take care!” he said. “No hysterics, +no exaggeration. You may lead to dreadful consequences if you are +not sure of yourself. If it’s really true, say it again.” I said it +again--quietly this time. + +His face startled me; it was white with rage. He snatched his hat off +the hall table. + +“What are you going to do?” I asked. + +“My duty.” He was out of the house before I could speak to him again. + + + +Third Period _(concluded)._ + +_TROUBLES AND TRIUMPHS OF THE FAMILY, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR._ + + + +CHAPTER LXII. THE SENTENCE PRONOUNCED. + +MARTYRS to gout know, by sad experience, that they suffer under one of +the most capricious of maladies. An attack of this disease will shift, +in the most unaccountable manner, from one part of the body to another; +or, it will release the victim when there is every reason to fear that +it is about to strengthen its hold on him; or, having shown the fairest +promise of submitting to medical treatment, it will cruelly lay the +patient prostrate again in a state of relapse. Adverse fortune, in my +case, subjected me to this last and worst trial of endurance. Two months +passed--months of pain aggravated by anxiety--before I was able to help +Eunice and Miss Jillgall personally with my sympathy and advice. + +During this interval, I heard regularly from the friendly and faithful +Selina. + +Terror and suspense, courageously endured day after day, seem to have +broken down her resistance, poor soul, when Eunice’s good name and +Eunice’s tranquillity were threatened by the most infamous of false +accusations. From that time, Miss Jillgall’s method of expressing +herself betrayed a gradual deterioration. I shall avoid presenting at a +disadvantage a correspondent who has claims on my gratitude, if I give +the substance only of what she wrote--assisted by the newspaper which +she sent to me, while the legal proceedings were in progress. + + +Honest indignation does sometimes counsel us wisely. When the doctor +left Miss Jillgall, in anger and in haste, he had determined on taking +the course from which, as a humane man and a faithful friend, he had +hitherto recoiled. It was no time, now, to shrink from the prospect of +an exposure. The one hope of successfully encountering the vindictive +wickedness of Helena lay in the resolution to be beforehand with her, in +the appeal to the magistrates with which she had threatened Eunice and +Miss Jillgall. The doctor’s sworn information stated the whole terrible +case of the poisoning, ranging from his first suspicions and their +confirmation, to Helena’s atrocious attempt to accuse her innocent +sister of her own guilt. So firmly were the magistrates convinced of the +serious nature of the case thus stated, that they did not hesitate +to issue their warrant. Among the witnesses whose attendance was +immediately secured, by the legal adviser to whom the doctor applied, +were the farmer and his wife. + +Helena was arrested while she was dressing to go out. Her composure was +not for a moment disturbed. “I was on my way,” she said coolly, “to make +a statement before the justices. The sooner they hear what I have to say +the better.” + +The attempt of this shameless wretch to “turn the tables” on poor +Eunice--suggested, as I afterward discovered, by the record of family +history which she had quoted in her journal--was defeated with ease. The +farmer and his wife proved the date at which Eunice had left her place +of residence under their roof. The doctor’s evidence followed. He +proved, by the production of his professional diary, that the discovery +of the attempt to poison his patient had taken place before the day of +Eunice’s departure from the farm, and that the first improvement in +Mr. Philip Dunboyne’s state of health had shown itself after that young +lady’s arrival to perform the duties of a nurse. To the wise precautions +which she had taken--perverted by Helena to the purpose of a false +accusation--the doctor attributed the preservation of the young man’s +life. + +Having produced the worst possible impression on the minds of the +magistrates, Helena was remanded. Her legal adviser had predicted +this result; but the vindictive obstinacy of his client had set both +experience and remonstrance at defiance. + +At the renewed examination, the line of defense adopted by the +prisoner’s lawyer proved to be--mistaken identity. + +It was asserted that she had never entered the chemist’s shop; also, +that the assistant had wrongly identified some other lady as Miss Helena +Gracedieu; also, that there was not an atom of evidence to connect her +with the stealing of the doctor’s prescription-paper and the forgery of +his writing. Other assertions to the same purpose followed, on which +it is needless to dwell. The case for the prosecution was, happily, in +competent hands. With the exception of one witness, cross-examination +afforded no material help to the evidence for the defense. + +The chemist swore positively to the personal appearance of Helena, +as being the personal appearance of the lady who had presented the +prescription. His assistant, pressed on the question of identity, broke +down under cross-examination--purposely, as it was whispered, serving +the interests of the prisoner. But the victory, so far gained by +the defense, was successfully contested by the statement of the next +witness, a respectable tradesman in the town. He had seen the newspaper +report of the first examination, and had volunteered to present himself +as a witness. A member of Mr. Gracedieu’s congregation, his pew in the +chapel was so situated as to give him a view of the minister’s daughters +occupying their pew. He had seen the prisoner on every Sunday, for years +past; and he swore that he was passing the door of the chemist’s shop, +at the moment when she stepped out into the street, having a bottle +covered with the customary white paper in her hand. The doctor and +his servant were the next witnesses called. They were severely +cross-examined. Some of their statements--questioned technically with +success--received unexpected and powerful support, due to the discovery +and production of the prisoner’s diary. The entries, guardedly as some +of them were written, revealed her motive for attempting to poison +Philip Dunboyne; proved that she had purposely called on the doctor when +she knew that he would be out, that she had entered the consulting-room, +and examined the medical books, had found (to use her own written words) +“a volume that interested her,” and had used the prescription-papers for +the purpose of making notes. The notes themselves were not to be +found; they had doubtless been destroyed. Enough, and more than enough, +remained to make the case for the prosecution complete. The magistrates +committed Helena Gracedieu for trial at the next assizes. + +I arrived in the town, as well as I can remember, about a week after the +trial had taken place. + +Found guilty, the prisoner had been recommended to mercy by the +jury--partly in consideration of her youth; partly as an expression +of sympathy and respect for her unhappy father. The judge (a father +himself) passed a lenient sentence. She was condemned to imprisonment +for two years. The careful matron of the jail had provided herself with +a bottle of smelling-salts, in the fear that there might be need for +it when Helena heard her sentence pronounced. Not the slightest sign +of agitation appeared in her face or her manner. She lied to the last; +asserting her innocence in a firm voice, and returning from the dock to +the prison without requiring assistance from anybody. + +Relating these particulars to me, in a state of ungovernable excitement, +good Miss Jillgall ended with a little confession of her own, which +operated as a relief to my overburdened mind after what I had just +heard. + +“I wouldn’t own it,” she said, “to anybody but a dear friend. One thing, +in the dreadful disgrace that has fallen on us, I am quite at a loss +to account for. Think of Mr. Gracedieu’s daughter being one of those +criminal creatures on whom it was once your terrible duty to turn the +key! Why didn’t she commit suicide?” + +“My dear lady, no thoroughly wicked creature ever yet committed suicide. +Self-destruction, when it is not an act of madness, implies some +acuteness of feeling--sensibility to remorse or to shame, or perhaps a +distorted idea of making atonement. There is no such thing as remorse or +shame, or hope of making atonement, in Helena’s nature.” + +“But when she comes out of prison, what will she do?” + +“Don’t alarm yourself, my good friend. She will do very well.” + +“Oh, hush! hush! Poetical justice, Mr. Governor!” + +“Poetical fiddlesticks, Miss Jillgall.” + + + +CHAPTER LXIII. THE OBSTACLE REMOVED. + +When the subject of the trial was happily dismissed, my first inquiry +related to Eunice. The reply was made with an ominous accompaniment of +sighs and sad looks. Eunice had gone back to her duties as governess at +the farm. Hearing this, I asked naturally what had become of Philip. + +Melancholy news, again, was the news that I now heard. + +Mr. Dunboyne the elder had died suddenly, at his house in Ireland, while +Philip was on his way home. When the funeral ceremony had come to an +end, the will was read. It had been made only a few days before the +testator’s death; and the clause which left all his property to his son +was preceded by expressions of paternal affection, at a time when Philip +was in sore need of consolation. After alluding to a letter, received +from his son, the old man added: “I always loved him, without caring to +confess it; I detest scenes of sentiment, kissings, embracings, tears, +and that sort of thing. But Philip has yielded to my wishes, and has +broken off a marriage which would have made him, as well as me, wretched +for life. After this, I may speak my mind from my grave, and may tell my +boy that I loved him. If the wish is likely to be of any use, I will add +(on the chance)--God bless him.” + +“Does Philip submit to separation from Eunice?” I asked. “Does he stay +in Ireland?” + +“Not he, poor fellow! He will be here to-morrow or next day. When I last +wrote,” Miss Jillgall continued, “I told him I hoped to see you again +soon. If you can’t help us (I mean with Eunice) that unlucky young man +will do some desperate thing. He will join those madmen at large who +disturb poor savages in Africa, or go nowhere to find nothing in the +Arctic regions. + +“Whatever I can do, Miss Jillgall, shall be gladly done. Is it really +possible that Eunice refuses to marry him, after having saved his life?” + +“A little patience, please, Mr. Governor; let Philip tell his own +story. If I try to do it, I shall only cry--and we have had tears enough +lately, in this house.” + +Further consultation being thus deferred, I went upstairs to the +Minister’s room. + +He was sitting by the window, in his favorite armchair, absorbed in +knitting! The person who attended on him, a good-natured, patient +fellow, had been a sailor in his younger days, and had taught Mr. +Gracedieu how to use the needles. “You see it amuses him,” the man said, +kindly. “Don’t notice his mistakes, he thinks there isn’t such another +in the world for knitting as himself. You can see, sir, how he sticks to +it.” He was so absorbed over his employment that I had to speak to him +twice, before I could induce him to look at me. The utter ruin of his +intellect did not appear to have exercised any disastrous influence over +his bodily health. On the contrary, he had grown fatter since I had last +seen him; his complexion had lost the pallor that I remembered--there +was color in his cheeks. + +“Don’t you remember your old friend?” I said. He smiled, and nodded, and +repeated the words: + +“Yes, yes, my old friend.” It was only too plain that he had not the +least recollection of me. “His memory is gone,” the man said. “When +he puts away his knitting, at night, I have to find it for him in the +morning. But, there! he’s happy--enjoys his victuals, likes sitting out +in the garden and watching the birds. There’s been a deal of trouble in +the family, sir; and it has all passed over him like a wet sponge over +a slate.” The old sailor was right. If that wreck of a man had been +capable of feeling and thinking, his daughter’s disgrace would have +broken his heart. In a world of sin and sorrow, is peaceable imbecility +always to be pitied? I have known men who would have answered, without +hesitation: “It is to be envied.” And where (some persons might say) was +the poor Minister’s reward for the act of mercy which had saved Eunice +in her infancy? Where it ought to be! A man who worthily performs a good +action finds his reward in the action itself. + + +At breakfast, on the next day, the talk touched on those passages in +Helena’s diary, which had been produced in court as evidence against +her. + +I expressed a wish to see what revelation of a depraved nature the +entries in the diary might present; and my curiosity was gratified. At +a fitter time, I may find an opportunity of alluding to the impression +produced on me by the diary. In the meanwhile, the event of Philip’s +return claims notice in the first place. + +The poor fellow was so glad to see me that he shook hands as heartily as +if we had known each other from the time when he was a boy. + +“Do you remember how kindly you spoke to me when I called on you in +London?” he asked. “If I have repeated those words once--but perhaps you +don’t remember them? You said: ‘If I was as young as you are, I should +not despair.’ Well! I have said that to myself over and over again, for +a hundred times at least. Eunice will listen to you, sir, when she will +listen to nobody else. This is the first happy moment I have had for +weeks past.” + +I suppose I must have looked glad to hear that. Anyway, Philip shook +hands with me again. + +Miss Jillgall was present. The gentle-hearted old maid was so touched +by our meeting that she abandoned herself to the genial impulse of +the moment, and gave Philip a kiss. The outraged claims of propriety +instantly seized on her. She blushed as if the long-lost days of her +girlhood had been found again, and ran out of the room. + +“Now, Mr. Philip,” I said, “I have been waiting, at Miss Jillgall’s +suggestion, to get my information from you. There is something wrong +between Eunice and yourself. What is it? And who is to blame?” + +“Her vile sister is to blame,” he answered. “That reptile was determined +to sting us. And she has done it!” he cried, starting to his feet, and +walking up and down the room, urged into action by his own unendurable +sense of wrong. “I say, she has done it, after Eunice has saved me--done +it, when Eunice was ready to be my wife.” + +“How has she done it?” + +Between grief and indignation his reply was involved in a confusion of +vehemently-spoken words, which I shall not attempt to reproduce. Eunice +had reminded him that her sister had been publicly convicted of an +infamous crime, and publicly punished for it by imprisonment. “If I +consent to marry you,” she said, “I stain you with my disgrace; that +shall never be.” With this resolution, she had left him. “I have tried +to convince her,” Philip said, “that she will not be associated with her +sister’s disgrace when she bears my name; I have promised to take her +far away from England, among people who have never even heard of her +sister. Miss Jillgall has used her influence to help me. All in vain! +There is no hope for us but in you. I am not thinking selfishly only of +myself. She tries to conceal it--but, oh, she is broken-hearted! Ask the +farmer’s wife, if you don’t believe me. Judge for yourself, sir. Go--for +God’s sake, go to the farm.” + +I made him sit down and compose himself. + +“You may depend on my going to the farm,” I answered. “I shall write to +Eunice to-day, and follow my letter to-morrow.” He tried to thank me; +but I would not allow it. “Before I consent to accept the expression of +your gratitude,” I said, “I must know a little more of you than I know +now. This is only the second occasion on which we have met. Let us look +back a little, Mr. Philip Dunboyne. You were Eunice’s affianced husband; +and you broke faith with her. That was a rascally action. How do you +defend it?” + +His head sank. “I am ashamed to defend it,” he answered. + +I pressed him without mercy. “You own yourself,” I said, “that it was a +rascally action?” + +“Use stronger language against me, even than that, sir--I deserve it.” + +“In plain words,” I went on, “you can find no excuse for your conduct?” + +“In the past time,” he said, “I might have found excuses.” + +“But you can’t find them now?” + +“I must not even look for them now.” + +“Why not?” + +“I owe it to Eunice to leave my conduct at its worst; with nothing +said--by me--to defend it.” + +“What has Eunice done to have such a claim on you as that?” + +“Eunice has forgiven me.” + +It was gratefully and delicately said. Ought I to have allowed this +circumstance to weigh with me? I ask, in return, had _I_ never committed +any faults? As a fellow-mortal and fellow-sinner, had I any right to +harden my heart against an expression of penitence which I felt to be +sincere in its motive? + +But I was bound to think of Eunice. I did think of her, before I +ventured to accept the position--the critical position, as I shall +presently show--of Philip’s friend. + +After more than an hour of questions put without reserve, and of answers +given without prevarication, I had traveled over the whole ground laid +out by the narratives which appear in these pages, and had arrived at my +conclusion--so far as Philip Dunboyne was concerned. + +I found him to be a man with nothing absolutely wicked in him--but with +a nature so perilously weak, in many respects, that it might drift into +wickedness unless a stronger nature was at hand to bold it back. Married +to a wife without force of character, the probabilities would point to +him as likely to yield to examples which might make him a bad husband. +Married to a wife with a will of her own, and with true love to sustain +her--a wife who would know when to take the command and how to take the +command--a wife who, finding him tempted to commit actions unworthy +of his better self, would be far-sighted enough to perceive that her +husband’s sense of honor might sometimes lose its balance, without being +on that account hopelessly depraved--then, and, in these cases only, the +probabilities would point to Philip as a man likely to be the better and +the happier for his situation, when the bonds of wedlock had got him. + +But the serious question was not answered yet. + +Could I feel justified in placing Eunice in the position toward Philip +which I have just endeavored to describe? I dared not allow my mind to +dwell on the generosity which had so nobly pardoned him, or on the force +of character which had bravely endured the bitterest disappointment, the +cruelest humiliation. The one consideration which I was bound to face, +was the sacred consideration of her happiness in her life to come. + +Leaving Philip, with a few words of sympathy which might help him to +bear his suspense, I went to my room to think. + +The time passed--and I could arrive at no positive conclusion. Either +way--with or without Philip--the contemplation of Eunice’s future +harassed me with doubt. Even if I had conquered my own indecision, and +had made up my mind to sanction the union of the two young people, the +difficulties that now beset me would not have been dispersed. Knowing +what I alone knew, I could certainly remove Eunice’s one objection to +the marriage. In other words, I had only to relate what had happened on +the day when the Chaplain brought the Minister to the prison, and the +obstacle of their union would be removed. But, without considering +Philip, it was simply out of the question to do this, in mercy to Eunice +herself. What was Helena’s disgrace, compared with the infamy which +stained the name of the poor girl’s mother! The other alternative of +telling her part of the truth only was before me, if I could persuade +myself to adopt it. I failed to persuade myself; my morbid anxiety for +her welfare made me hesitate again. Human patience could endure no +more. Rashness prevailed and prudence yielded--I left my decision to be +influenced by the coming interview with Eunice. + +The next day I drove to the farm. Philip’s entreaties persuaded me +to let him be my companion, on one condition--that he waited in the +carriage while I went into the house. + +I had carefully arranged my ideas, and had decided on proceeding with +the greatest caution, before I ventured on saying the all-important +words which, once spoken, were not to be recalled. The worst of those +anxieties, under which the delicate health of Mr. Gracedieu had broken +down, was my anxiety now. Could I reconcile it to my conscience to +permit a man, innocent of all knowledge of the truth, to marry the +daughter of a condemned murderess, without honestly telling him what +he was about to do? Did I deserve to be pitied? did I deserve to be +blamed?--my mind was still undecided when I entered the house. + +She ran to meet me as if she had been my daughter; she kissed me as if +she had been my daughter; she fondly looked up at me as if she had been +my daughter. At the sight of that sweet young face, so sorrowful, and +so patiently enduring sorrow, all my doubts and hesitations, everything +artificial about me with which I had entered the room, vanished in an +instant. + +After she had thanked me for coming to see her, I saw her tremble a +little. The uppermost interest in her heart was forcing its way outward +to expression, try as she might to keep it back. “Have you seen Philip?” + she asked. The tone in which she put that question decided me--I was +resolved to let her marry him. Impulse! Yes, impulse, asserting itself +inexcusably in a man at the end of his life. I ought to have known +better than to have given way. Very likely. But am I the only mortal who +ought to have known better--and did not? + +When Eunice asked if I had seen Philip, I owned that he was outside in +the carriage. Before she could reproach me, I went on with what I had +to say: “My child, I know what a sacrifice you have made; and I should +honor your scruples, if you had any reason for feeling them.” + +“Any reason for feeling them?” She turned pale as she repeated the +words. + +An idea came to me. I rang for the servant, and sent her to the carriage +to tell Philip to come in. “My dear, I am not putting you to any unfair +trial,” I assured her; “I am going to prove that I love you as truly as +if you were my own child.” + +When they were both present, I resolved that they should not suffer +a moment of needless suspense. Standing between them, I took Eunice’s +hand, and laid my other hand on Philip’s shoulder, and spoke out +plainly. + +“I am here to make you both happy,” I said. “I can remove the only +obstacle to your marriage, and I mean to do it. But I must insist on +one condition. Give me your promise, Philip, that you will ask for no +explanations, and that you will be satisfied with the one true statement +which is all that I can offer to you.” + +He gave me his promise, without an instant’s hesitation. + +“Philip grants what I ask,” I said to Eunice. “Do you grant it, too?” + +Her hand turned cold in mine; but she spoke firmly when she said: “Yes.” + +I gave her into Philip’s care. It was his privilege to console and +support her. It was my duty to say the decisive words: + +“Rouse your courage, dear Eunice; you are no more affected by Helena’s +disgrace than I am. You are not her sister. Her father is not your +father; her mother was not your mother. I was present, in the time of +your infancy, when Mr. Gracedieu’s fatherly kindness received you as his +adopted child. This, I declare to you both, on my word of honor, is the +truth.” + +How she bore it I am not able to say. My foolish old eyes were filling +with tears. I could just see plainly enough to find my way to the door, +and leave them together. + +In my reckless state of mind, I never asked myself if Time would be my +accomplice, and keep the part of the secret which I had not revealed--or +be my enemy, and betray me. The chances, either way, were perhaps equal. +The deed was done. + + + +CHAPTER LXIV. THE TRUTH TRIUMPHANT. + +The marriage was deferred, at Eunice’s request, as an expression of +respect to the memory of Philip’s father. + +When the time of delay had passed, it was arranged that the wedding +ceremony should be held--after due publication of Banns--at the parish +church of the London suburb in which my house was situated. Miss +Jillgall was bridesmaid, and I gave away the bride. Before we set out +for the church, Eunice asked leave to speak with me for a moment in +private. + +“Don’t think,” she said, “that I am forgetting my promise to be content +with what you have told me about myself. I am not so ungrateful as that. +But I do want, before I consent to be Philip’s wife, to feel sure that I +am not quite unworthy of him. Is it because I am of mean birth that you +told me I was Mr. Gracedieu’s adopted child--and told me no more?” + +I could honestly satisfy her, so far. “Certainly not!” I said. + +She put her arms round my neck. “Do you say that,” she asked, “to make +my mind easy? or do you say it on your word of honor?” + +“On my word of honor.” + +We arrived at the church. Let Miss Jillgall describe the marriage, in +her own inimitable way. + +“No wedding breakfast, when you don’t want to eat it. No wedding +speeches, when nobody wants to make them, and nobody wants to hear +them. And no false sentiment, shedding tears and reddening noses, on the +happiest day in the whole year. A model marriage! I could desire nothing +better, if I had any prospect of being a bride myself.” + +They went away for their honeymoon to a quiet place by the seaside, not +very far from the town in which Eunice had passed some of the happiest +and the wretchedest days in her life. She persisted in thinking it +possible that Mr. Gracedieu might recover the use of his faculties, +at the last, and might wish to see her on his death-bed. “His adopted +daughter,” she gently reminded me, “is his only daughter now.” The +doctor shook his head when I told him what Eunice had said to me--and, +the sad truth must be told, the doctor was right. + +Miss Jillgall returned, on the wedding-day, to take care of the good man +who had befriended her in her hour of need. + +Before the end of the week, I heard from her, and was disagreeably +reminded of an incident which we had both forgotten, absorbed as we were +in other and greater interests, at the time. + +Mrs. Tenbruggen had again appeared on the scene! She had written to Miss +Jillgall, from Paris, to say that she had heard of old Mr. Dunboyne’s +death, and that she wished to have the letter returned, which she had +left for delivery to Philip’s father on the day when Philip and Eunice +were married. I had my own suspicions of what that letter might contain; +and I regretted that Miss Jillgall had sent it back without first +waiting to consult me. My misgivings, thus excited, were increased +by more news of no very welcome kind. Mrs. Tenbruggen had decided on +returning to her professional pursuits in England. Massage, now the +fashion everywhere, had put money into her pocket among the foreigners; +and her husband, finding that she persisted in keeping out of his reach, +had consented to a compromise. He was ready to submit to a judicial +separation; in consideration of a little income which his wife had +consented to settle on him, under the advice of her lawyer. + +Some days later, I received a delightful letter from Philip and Eunice; +reminding me that I had engaged to pay them a visit at the seaside. My +room was ready for me, and I was left to choose my own day. I had +just begun to write my reply, gladly accepting the invitation, when +an ominous circumstance occurred. My servant announced “a lady”; and I +found myself face to face with--Mrs. Tenbruggen! + +She was as cheerful as ever, and as eminently agreeable as ever. + +“I have heard it all from Selina,” she said. “Philip’s marriage +to Eunice (I shall go and congratulate them, of course), and the +catastrophe (how dramatic!) of Helena Gracedieu. I warned. Selina that +Miss Helena would end badly. To tell the truth, she frightened me. I +don’t deny that I am a mischievous woman when I find myself affronted, +quite capable of taking my revenge in my own small spiteful way. But +poison and murder--ah, the frightful subject! let us drop it, and talk +of something that doesn’t make my hair (it’s really my own hair) stand +on end. Has Selina told you that I have got rid of my charming husband, +on easy pecuniary terms? Oh, you know that? Very well. I will tell you +something that you don’t know. Mr. Governor, I have found you out.” + +“May I venture to ask how?” + +“When I guessed which was which of those two girls,” she answered, “and +guessed wrong, you deliberately encouraged the mistake. Very clever, but +you overdid it. From that moment, though I kept it to myself, I began +to fear I might be wrong. Do you remember Low Lanes, my dear sir? A +charming old church. I have had another consultation with my lawyer. +His questions led me into mentioning how it happened that I heard of Low +Lanes. After looking again at his memorandum of the birth advertised in +the newspaper without naming the place--he proposed trying the church +register at Low Lanes. Need I tell you the result? I know, as well +as you do, that Philip has married the adopted child. He has had a +mother-in-law who was hanged, and, what is more, he has the honor, +through his late father, of being otherwise connected with the murderess +by marriage--as his aunt!” + +Bewilderment and dismay deprived me of my presence of mind. “How did you +discover that?” I was foolish enough to ask. + +“Do you remember when I brought the baby to the prison?” she said. “The +father--as I mentioned at the time--had been a dear and valued friend of +mine. No person could be better qualified to tell me who had married his +wife’s sister. If that lady had been living, I should never have been +troubled with the charge of the child. Any more questions?” + +“Only one. Is Philip to hear of this?” + +“Oh, for shame! I don’t deny that Philip insulted me grossly, in one +way; and that Philip’s late father insulted me grossly, in another way. +But Mamma Tenbruggen is a Christian. She returns good for evil, and +wouldn’t for the world disturb the connubial felicity of Mr. and Mrs. +Philip Dunboyne.” + +The moment the woman was out of my house, I sent a telegram to Philip to +say that he might expect to see me that night. I caught the last train +in the evening; and I sat down to supper with those two harmless young +creatures, knowing I must prepare the husband for what threatened them, +and weakly deferring it, when I found myself in their presence, until +the next day. Eunice was, in some degree, answerable for this hesitation +on my part. No one could look at her husband, and fail to see that he +was a supremely happy man. But I detected signs of care in the wife’s +face. + +Before breakfast the next morning I was out on the beach, trying to +decide how the inevitable disclosure might be made. Eunice joined me. +Now, when we were alone, I asked if she was really and completely happy. +Quietly and sadly she answered: “Not yet.” + +I hardly knew what to say. My face must have expressed disappointment +and surprise. + +“I shall never be quite happy,” she resumed, “till I know what it is +that you kept from me on that memorable day. I don’t like having a +secret from my husband--though it is not _my_ secret.” + +“Remember your promise,” I said + +“I don’t forget it,” she answered. “I can only wish that my promise +would keep back the thoughts that come to me in spite of myself.” + +“What thoughts?” + +“There is something, as I fear, in the story of my parents which you are +afraid to confide to me. Why did Mr. Gracedieu allow me to believe and +leave everybody to believe, that I was his own child?” + +“My dear, I relieved your mind of those doubts on the morning of your +marriage.” + +“No. I was only thinking of myself at that time. My mother--the doubt of +_her_ is the doubt that torments me now.” + +“What do you mean?” + +She put her arm in mine, and held by it with both hands. + +“The mock-mother!” she whispered. “Do you remember that dreadful Vision, +that horrid whispering temptation in the dead of night? _Was_ it a +mock-mother? Oh, pity me! I don’t know who my mother was. One horrid +thought about her is a burden on my mind. If she was a good woman, you +who love me would surely have made me happy by speaking of her?” + +Those words decided me at last. Could she suffer more than she had +suffered already, if I trusted her with the truth? I ran the risk. There +was a time of silence that filled me with terror. The interval passed. +She took my hand, and put it to her heart. “Does it beat as if I was +frightened?” she asked. + + +No! It was beating calmly. + +“Does it relieve your anxiety?” + +It told me that I had not surprised her. That unforgotten Vision of the +night had prepared her for the worst, after the time when I had told her +that she was an adopted child. “I know,” I said, “that those whispered +temptations overpowered you again, when you and Helena met on the +stairs, and you forbade her to enter Philip’s room. And I know that love +had conquered once more, when you were next seen sitting by Philip’s +bedside. Tell me--have you any misgivings now? Is there fear in your +heart of the return of that tempting spirit in you, in the time to +come?” + +“Not while Philip lives!” + +There, where her love was--there her safety was. And she knew it! She +suddenly left me. I asked where she was going. + +“To tell Philip,” was the reply. + +She was waiting for me at the door, when I followed her to the house. + +“Is it done?” I said. + +“It is done,” she answered. + +“What did he say?” + +“He said: ‘My darling, if I could be fonder of you than ever, I should +be fonder of you now.’” + +I have been blamed for being too ready to confide to Philip the precious +trust of Eunice’s happiness. If that reply does not justify me, where is +justification to be found? + + + + +POSTSCRIPT. + +Later in the day, Mrs. Tenbruggen arrived to offer her congratulations. +She asked for a few minutes with Philip alone. As a cat elaborates +her preparations for killing a mouse, so the human cat elaborated her +preparations for killing Philip’s happiness, he remained uninjured +by her teeth and her claws. “Somebody,” she said, “has told you of it +already?” And Philip answered: “Yes; my wife.” + +For some months longer, Mr. Gracedieu lingered. One morning, he said to +Eunice: “I want to teach you to knit. Sit by me, and see me do it.” + His hands fell softly on his lap; his head sank little by little on +her shoulder. She could just hear him whisper: “How pleasant it is to +sleep!” Never was Death’s dreadful work more gently done. + +Our married pair live now on the paternal estate in Ireland; and Miss +Jillgall reigns queen of domestic affairs. I am still strong enough to +pass my autumn holidays in that pleasant house. + +At times, my memory reverts to Helena Gracedieu, and to what I +discovered when I had seen her diary. + +How little I knew of that terrible creature when I first met with her, +and fancied that she had inherited her mother’s character! It was weak +indeed to compare the mean vices of Mrs. Gracedieu with the diabolical +depravity of her daughter. Here the doctrine of hereditary transmission +of moral qualities must own that it has overlooked the fertility (for +growth of good and for growth of evil equally) which is inherent in +human nature. There are virtues that exalt us, and vices that degrade +us, whose mysterious origin is, not in our parents, but in ourselves. +When I think of Helena, I ask myself, where is the trace which reveals +that the first murder in the world was the product of inherited crime? + +The criminal left the prison, on the expiration of her sentence, so +secretly that it was impossible to trace her. Some months later, Miss +Jillgall received an illustrated newspaper published in the United +States. She showed me one of the portraits in it. + +“Do you recognize the illustrious original?” she asked, with indignant +emphasis on the last two words. I recognized Helena. “Now read her new +title,” Miss Jillgall continued. + +I read: “The Reverend Miss Gracedieu.” + +The biographical notice followed. Here is an extract: “This eminent +lady, the victim of a shocking miscarriage of justice in England, is +now the distinguished leader of a new community in the United States. We +hail in her the great intellect which asserts the superiority of woman +over man. In the first French Revolution, the attempt made by men +to found a rational religion met with only temporary success. It was +reserved for the mightier spirit of woman to lay the foundations more +firmly, and to dedicate one of the noblest edifices in this city to the +Worship of Pure Reason. Readers who wish for further information will +do well to provide themselves with the Reverend Miss Gracedieu’s +Orations--the tenth edition of which is advertised in our columns.” + +“I once asked you,” Miss Jillgall reminded me, “what Helena would do +when she came out of prison, and you said she would do very well. Oh, +Mr. Governor, Solomon was nothing to You!” + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Legacy of Cain, by Wilkie Collins + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGACY OF CAIN *** + +***** This file should be named 1975-0.txt or 1975-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/7/1975/ + +Produced by James Rusk + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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