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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 + +Release Date: October 15, 2008 [EBook #1975] +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, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE LEGACY OF CAIN + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Wilkie Collins + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> To MRS. HENRY POWELL BARTLEY: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + WILKIE COLLINS. + </p> + <p> + Wimpole Street, 6th December, 1888. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE LEGACY OF CAIN.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>First Period: 1858-1859. EVENTS IN THE + PRISON, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. THE GOVERNOR EXPLAINS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. THE MURDERESS ASKS QUESTIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. THE CHILD APPEARS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. THE MINISTER SAYS YES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. MISS CHANCE ASSERTS HERSELF. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. THE DOCTOR DOUBTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. THE MURDERESS CONSULTS THE + AUTHORITIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. THE MINISTER SAYS GOOD-BY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. THE GOVERNOR RECEIVES A VISIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. MISS CHANCE REAPPEARS. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> <b>Second Period: 1875. THE GIRLS AND THE + JOURNALS.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. HELENA’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. EUNICE’S DIARY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. THE MIDDLE-AGED LADY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. THE MINISTER’S MISFORTUNE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LIVELY OLD MAID. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. THE FUTURE LOOKS GLOOMY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. THE WANDERING MIND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. THE SHAMELESS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE GIRLS’ AGES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. THE ADOPTED CHILD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. THE BRUISED HEART. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. THE WHISPERING VOICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. THE QUAINT PHILOSOPHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. THE MASTERFUL MASSEUSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. THE RESURRECTION OF THE PAST. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. THE FATAL PORTRAIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. THE CUMBERSOME LADIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. THE JOURNEY TO THE FARM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DECISION OF EUNICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. THE GOVERNOR ON HIS GUARD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. THE NEWS FROM THE FARM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER LI. THE TRIUMPH OF MRS. TENBRUGGEN. + </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> <b>Third period: 1876. <i>HELENA’S DIARY + RESUMED.</i></b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER LII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER LIII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER LIV. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER LV. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER LVI. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER LVII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER LVIII. DANGER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER LIX. DEFENSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER LX. DISCOVERY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER LXI. ATROCITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER LXII. THE SENTENCE PRONOUNCED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER LXIII. THE OBSTACLE REMOVED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER LXIV. THE TRUTH TRIUMPHANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> POSTSCRIPT. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE LEGACY OF CAIN. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + First Period: 1858-1859. EVENTS IN THE PRISON, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE GOVERNOR EXPLAINS. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. THE MURDERESS ASKS QUESTIONS. + </h2> + <p> + The first of the events which I must now relate was the conviction of The + Prisoner for the murder of her husband. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + I read it, of course. It was called “A Memorandum,” and was thus written: + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “She said: ‘The women who watch me tell me that you are a widower, and + have a family of children. Is that true?’ + </p> + <p> + “The Chaplain answered that it was quite true. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “‘Is my handsome preacher married?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Has he got any children?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘He has never had any children.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘How long has he been married?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘As well as I know, about seven or eight years. + </p> + <p> + “‘What sort of woman is his wife?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘A lady universally respected.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I don’t care whether she is respected or not. Is she kind?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Certainly!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Is her husband well off?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘He has a sufficient income.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. THE CHILD APPEARS. + </h2> + <p> + During my friend’s absence, my attention was claimed by a sad incident—not + unforeseen. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The Minister had consented to help us. On his arrival at the prison, I + received him privately in my study. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I suggested that he should wait a while, in the hope that time and quiet + might help him. He thanked me, and refused. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + My own observation of human nature told me that this was wisely said. I + led the way at once to the cell. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. THE MINISTER SAYS YES. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Having instructed the female warder to leave the room—but to take + care that she waited within call—I looked again at the Minister. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Before this gentleman tries to convert me,” she said, “I want you to wait + here and be a witness.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + The voice in which she spoke to him was steady and clear; a marked + contrast to the tremulous earnestness with which he answered her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe in the mercy of God.” + </p> + <p> + “Answer my question, if you please. Is an impenitent sinner eternally + punished? Do you believe that?” + </p> + <p> + “My Bible leaves me no other alternative.” + </p> + <p> + She paused for a while, evidently considering with special attention what + she was about to say next. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The Prisoner turned to me. “Is the person who watches me waiting outside?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you be so kind as to call her in? I have a message for her.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Taken completely by surprise, I signed to the attendant to wait for + further instructions. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + For the second time I attempted to leave the cell. For the second time + this impenetrable woman called me back. + </p> + <p> + “Take the parson away with you,” she said. “I refuse to listen to him.” + </p> + <p> + The patient Minister yielded, and appealed to me to follow his example. I + reluctantly sanctioned the delivery of the message. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Prisoner spoke to the nurse in no friendly tone: “You can go.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What has that person done to offend you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + The sorrow and pity in his face answered for him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Her altered tone touched him. He answered sadly and kindly: “It is the one + sorrow of our lives.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My silence encouraged the mother. She advanced to the Minister with the + sleeping infant in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i>. + Does the man live who—having to say what I had to say—could + have spoken to the doomed mother? + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to have allowed this to go on,” I said. “In justice to + yourself, sir, don’t answer!” + </p> + <p> + She turned on me with a look of fury. + </p> + <p> + “He shall answer,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + I saw, or thought I saw, signs of yielding in his face. “Take time,” I + persisted—“take time to consider before you decide.” + </p> + <p> + She stepped up to me. + </p> + <p> + “Take time?” she repeated. “Are you inhuman enough to talk of time, in my + presence?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes? or No?” + </p> + <p> + He answered: “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. MISS CHANCE ASSERTS HERSELF. + </h2> + <p> + The services of our medical officer were required, in order to hasten the + recovery of the Prisoner’s senses. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, my companion had walked on a little way. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thinking of the Prisoner?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Thinking of what is going on, at this moment, in the condemned cell,” he + answered, “and wondering if any good will come of it.” + </p> + <p> + I was not without hope of a good result, and I said so. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Governor, I retract what I said of the parson just now. He is one of the + boldest men that ever stepped into a pulpit.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “My rashness runs the risk of that,” I rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I agree with you.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Left by myself, I took up the day’s newspaper. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are always welcome,” I said; “and doubly welcome just now. I am + feeling a little worried and anxious.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are naturally,” the Chaplain added, “not at all disposed to + receive a stranger?” + </p> + <p> + “Is the stranger a friend of yours?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What can I do for you?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you can tell me,” she answered, “how much longer I am to be kept + waiting in this prison.” + </p> + <p> + “The decision,” I reminded her, “doesn’t depend on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then who does it depend on?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “You brought the little girl into the prison,” I said; “was it not natural + to suppose that your mistress might want you—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, sir!” + </p> + <p> + I had evidently given offense; I stopped directly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you are fond of her?” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + “I hate her.” + </p> + <p> + It was unwise on my part—I protested. “Hate a baby little more than + a year old!” I said. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Her</i> baby!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do I understand you to assert any claim to the child?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I forgot myself once more—I lost my temper. + </p> + <p> + “Leave the room,” I said. “Your unworthy hands will not touch the poor + baby again. She is provided for.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you!” the wretch burst out. “Who has taken the child?” + </p> + <p> + A quiet voice answered: “<i>I</i> have taken her.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Only one word,” I said. “Are your anxieties at rest?” + </p> + <p> + “God’s mercy has helped me,” he answered. “I have not spoken in vain. She + believes; she repents; she has confessed the crime.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She listened with an evil smile. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The Minister turned to me. “What does she mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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>I</i> prophesy.” + She pointed to the child. “Remember what I say, reverend sir! You will + find the tigress-cub take after its mother.” + </p> + <p> + With those parting words, she favored us with a low curtsey, and left the + room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE DOCTOR DOUBTS. + </h2> + <p> + The Minister looked at me in an absent manner; his attention seemed to + have been wandering. “What was it Miss Chance said?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I was on the point of protesting against my friend’s interpretation, when + the Minister stopped me. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she wish you to be present?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>may</i> conquer the difficulties that are in store + for him yet.” + </p> + <p> + It was a trial of my temper to hear my clever colleague justifying, in + this way, the ignorant prediction of an insolent woman. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The Doctor took out his pipe. “Do you mind my smoking?” he asked. “Tobacco + helps me to arrange my ideas.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Very sad,” I admitted. “But it will all be set right in another world.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure of that?” the Doctor asked. + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure, thank God! And it would be better for you if you felt about + it as I do.” + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>There</i> 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 <i>she</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Now that he was enjoying the fumes of tobacco, the Doctor was as placid + and sweet-tempered as a man could be. + </p> + <p> + “Quite true,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Do you doubt the influence of religion?” I asked sternly. + </p> + <p> + He answered, sweetly: “Not at all” + </p> + <p> + “Or the influence of kindness?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, no!” + </p> + <p> + “Or the force of example?” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t deny it for the world.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is she ill?” the Doctor inquired. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Hysterical? or agitated, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “As easy and composed, sir, as a person can be.” + </p> + <p> + We set forth together for the condemned cell. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. THE MURDERESS CONSULTS THE AUTHORITIES. + </h2> + <p> + There was a considerate side to my friend’s character, which showed itself + when the warder had left us. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She shall not discover it,” he answered, gravely, “if I do.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She laid down the pen, and proceeded quietly to explain herself. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Giving the woman permission to withdraw for a while, I waited with some + anxiety to hear what the Prisoner wanted of me. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + How another man might have felt, in my place, I cannot, of course, say. To + my mind, such a question—on <i>her</i> lips—was too shocking + to be answered in words. I bowed. + </p> + <p> + “And the body is buried,” she went on, “in the prison?” + </p> + <p> + I could remain silent no longer. “Is there no human feeling left in you?” + I burst out. “What do these horrid questions mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + I replied as before, by a bow. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + I gave her my promise. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + When we met again, I asked what had passed between the Prisoner and + himself. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + I confessed that I was surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Think a little,” the Doctor said. “The one sensitive place in that + woman’s nature is the place occupied by her self-esteem.” + </p> + <p> + I objected to this that she had shown fondness for her child. + </p> + <p> + My friend disposed of the objection with his customary readiness. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible that you are in earnest?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>feels</i>. 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.’” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THE MINISTER SAYS GOOD-BY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The one self-possessed person among us was the miserable woman who + suffered the penalty of death. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Let me now turn to living interests, and to scenes removed from the + thunder-clouds of crime. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + On the next day I received a visit from the Minister. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His reply to this agreeably surprised me. There were no difficulties to be + feared. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I congratulated the Minister on the good fortune which had befriended him, + so far. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + There could be no doubt of the necessity. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He intrusted me with that message, and gave me his hand. So we parted. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. THE GOVERNOR RECEIVES A VISIT. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I observed her with no ordinary attention when she entered the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Pray excuse my stupidity,” I said; “I don’t quite understand you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + My languid interest in the Minister’s wife was not stimulated by the + announcement of this domestic event. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is pleasant to think,” I began, “that your other daughter—” + </p> + <p> + She interrupted me, with the utmost gentleness: “Do you mean the child + that my husband was foolish enough to adopt?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear sir—not if I can prevent it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Does your husband agree with you in that view?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>our</i> favor. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I see two obstacles.” + </p> + <p> + “What can they possibly be?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to understand that you contemplate any serious resistance on the + part of my husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + She was unaffectedly amused by my simplicity. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a single man?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am a widower.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> way of thinking <i>his</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “The second obstacle will not disappoint you,” I answered; “I am the + obstacle, this time.” + </p> + <p> + “You refuse to help me?” + </p> + <p> + “Positively.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps reflection may alter your resolution?” + </p> + <p> + “Reflection will do nothing of the kind.” + </p> + <p> + “You are rude, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “In speaking to you, madam, I have no alternative but to speak plainly.” + </p> + <p> + She rose. Her shifting eyes, for once, looked at me steadily. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It depends entirely,” I told her, “on what your husband does. If he + questions me about you, I shall tell him the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “And if not?” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, I shall hope to forget that you ever favored me with a + visit.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Drink it,” he said. She still refused. “Drink it,” he reiterated, “or you + will die.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Can I go?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Go wherever you please, madam—so long as you don’t go upstairs in a + hurry.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled: “I understand you, sir—and thank you for your advice.” + </p> + <p> + I asked the Doctor, when we were alone, what made him tell her not to go + upstairs in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + “What I felt,” he answered, “when I had my fingers on her pulse. You heard + her say that she understood me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but I don’t know what she meant.” + </p> + <p> + “She meant, probably, that her own doctor had warned her as I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Something seriously wrong with her health?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Heart.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. MISS CHANCE REAPPEARS. + </h2> + <p> + A week had passed, since the Minister’s wife had left me, when I received + a letter from the Minister himself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + In this semi-hysterical style of writing, the poor man unconsciously told + me how cunningly and how cruelly his wife was deceiving him. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + The one part of the letter which I read with some satisfaction was the end + of it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Six weeks passed, and I heard from my reverend friend once more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On the next occasion when I heard from the Minister, the Doctor’s grim + reply proved to be a prophecy fulfilled. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + The correspondent whom I had now lost was succeeded by a gentleman + entirely unknown to me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The letter then proceeded in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + After that, I heard no more of the Irish gentleman. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A last event remains to be related, before I close these pages. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have a card to deliver from an acquaintance whom you have not + mentioned,” he said; “and I rather think it will astonish you.” + </p> + <p> + It simply puzzled me. When he gave me the card, this is what I found + printed on it: + </p> + <p> + “MRS. TENBRUGGEN (OF SOUTH BEVELAND).” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said the Chaplain. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I answered; “I never even heard of Mrs. Tenbruggen, of South + Beveland. Who is she?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “How did it happen?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad she is going to live out of England.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Surely you have no reason to fear her?” + </p> + <p> + “None whatever.” + </p> + <p> + “You are thinking, perhaps, of somebody else?” + </p> + <p> + I was thinking of the Minister; but it seemed to be safest not to say so. + —— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Second Period: 1875. THE GIRLS AND THE JOURNALS. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>their</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Helena!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you done already?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not worth while,” she answered. “Anybody who cares to do it may read + what I write. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But Eunice is wrong, let me tell her, in what she says of myself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + SECOND DAY. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I hope papa will excuse me; I have nothing to write about to-day.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She made an absurd reply: “I used to call him papa when I was a little + girl.” + </p> + <p> + “That,” I reminded her, “doesn’t justify you in calling him papa now.” + </p> + <p> + And she actually answered: “Yes it does.” What a strange state of mind! + And what a charming girl, in spite of her mind! + </p> + <p> + THIRD DAY. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>might</i> have happened if I had remained a little longer in + London. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. said: “She hasn’t got her sister’s pretty gray eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. said; “She has got pretty brown eyes, which are just as good.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. said: “You can’t compare her complexion with Helena’s.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. said: “I like Eunice’s pale complexion. So delicate.” + </p> + <p> + Young Miss struck in: “I admire Helena’s hair—light brown.” + </p> + <p> + Young Master took his turn: “I prefer Eunice’s hair—dark brown.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. opened his great big mouth, and asked a question: “Which of you two + sisters is the oldest? I forget.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. answered for me: “Helena is the oldest; she told us so when she was + here last.” + </p> + <p> + I really could <i>not</i> stand that. “You must be mistaken,” I burst out. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. and Mrs. looked at each other. Mrs. said: “You seem to be very + positive, Eunice. Surely, Helena ought to know.” + </p> + <p> + I said: “Helena knows a good deal; but she doesn’t know which of us is the + oldest of the two.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. put in another question: “Do <i>you</i> know?” + </p> + <p> + “No more than Helena does.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. said: “Don’t you keep birthdays?” + </p> + <p> + I said: “Yes; we keep both our birthdays on the same day.” + </p> + <p> + “On what day?” + </p> + <p> + “The first day of the New Year.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. tried again: “You can’t possibly be twins?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Helena knows?” + </p> + <p> + “Not she!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. took the next question out of her husband’s mouth: “Come, come, my + dear! you must know how old you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I do know that. I’m eighteen.” + </p> + <p> + “And how old is Helena?” + </p> + <p> + “Helena’s eighteen.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. turned round to Mr.: “Do you hear that?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. said: “I shall write to her father, and ask what it means.” + </p> + <p> + I said: “Papa will only tell you what he told us—years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “What did your father say?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + I said I didn’t know. She said: “You strange girl, what do you mean by + that?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + A voice behind us joined in. The voice said: “Excuse me, Mrs. Staveley, if + I expose <i>my</i> ignorance. I entirely agree with the young lady.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dunboyne paid us a visit in the afternoon. Fortunately, before we went + out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What I wrote up above, yesterday, is nonsense. I think his Christian name + is perfect. I like London. I love everybody. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>he</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Staveley began nicely; “I suppose, Eunice, you have often been told + that you have a good figure, and that you walk well?” + </p> + <p> + I said: “Helena thinks my figure is better than my face. But do I really + walk well? Nobody ever told me that.” + </p> + <p> + 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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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>I</i> see it. Tell me, my dear, do you + like Philip?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + What a delightful woman! as I said just now. I asked if she really liked + me as well as she liked my sister. + </p> + <p> + She said: “Better.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Staveley answered: “No profession.” + </p> + <p> + I foolishly put a wrong meaning on this. I said: “Is he idle?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Staveley laughed. “My dear, he is an only son—and his father is + a rich man.” + </p> + <p> + That stopped me—at last. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I have no fortune. And Philip’s father is a rich man. + </p> + <p> + The best thing I can do is to wipe my pen, and shut up my Journal, and go + home by the next train. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + I have a great mind to burn my Journal. It tells me that I had better not + think of Philip any more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What is this aching pain in my heart? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I wish I had never seen Philip. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “You are getting tired of this. And so am I.” + </p> + <p> + “I am trying to like it,” I whispered back. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t try,” he answered. “Let’s talk.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + He said: “Is it really true that your visit to Mrs. Staveley is coming to + an end?” + </p> + <p> + I answered: “It comes to an end the day after to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sorry to be leaving your friends in London?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t possibly be as sorry as I am, Eunice. May I call you by your + pretty name?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + “Eunice!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You will leave a blank in my life when you go away—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He set me right in the sweetest manner: “I alluded to a building hundreds + of years older than your market-place—your beautiful cathedral.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He said: “Do you know, I take the greatest interest in cathedrals. I + propose to enjoy the privilege and pleasure of seeing <i>your</i> + cathedral early next week.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Philip, dear Philip, protected and composed me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “The accompaniments of the Oratorio?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear. The accompaniments of Philip.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Staveley asked why. + </p> + <p> + My bitterness overflowed at my tongue. I said: “Because papa is a poor + man.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” + </p> + <p> + “And you have certainly never seen a play?” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This was Helena’s news from home: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Staveley did not look as if she believed in the good news, for + all that. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, miss; a lady, to see the master.” + </p> + <p> + “A stranger?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Has anything happened, father, to vex you?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the lady concerned in it?” + </p> + <p> + “What lady, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “The lady who called on you while I was out.” + </p> + <p> + “Who told you she had called on me?” + </p> + <p> + “I asked Maria—” + </p> + <p> + “That will do, Helena, for the present.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Try as I might, I could get no more than that out of our stupid young + housemaid. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you heard her speaking?” + </p> + <p> + “No, miss—crying.” + </p> + <p> + “Where was she crying?” + </p> + <p> + “In the master’s study.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you come to hear her?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect me of listening?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My father gave me his arm, and we walked slowly up and down the lawn. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + This was so very encouraging that I said at once: “I should like to know + who the lady is.” + </p> + <p> + “The lady is related to me,” he answered. “We are cousins.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Have I or my sister ever seen the lady?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Never. She has been living abroad; and I have not seen her myself since + we were both young people.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “After the long interval that has passed since you met,” I said, “I + suppose she has become an old woman?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear. Let us say, a middle-aged woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she is still an attractive person?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled. “I am afraid, Helena, that would never have been a very + accurate description of her.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We have been talking about the lady for some time,” I said; “and you have + not yet told me her name.” + </p> + <p> + Father looked a little embarrassed “It’s not a very pretty name,” he + answered. “My cousin, my unfortunate cousin, is—Miss Jillgall.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He made a strange reply: “You may find your opportunity, Helena, sooner + than you anticipate.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “What is your fault?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + I was waiting for the interesting part of the story, and was wondering + when he would get to it. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>this</i> part of the + story.” + </p> + <p> + I did wish. But I saw that he expected me to say No—so I said it. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + It was getting interesting at last. “Ruined her?” I repeated. “Do you mean + that he robbed her?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “He paid the interest regularly as long as he lived.” + </p> + <p> + “And what happened when he died?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “And to cast herself on your mercy,” I added, “in the character of a + helpless woman.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>them</i>. 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “It shall be got ready, father, directly.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Cold water and my hairbrush soon made me fit to be seen again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My second impression draws a portrait, and produces a striking likeness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” I inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Because your father is not a man—” + </p> + <p> + I was rude enough to interrupt her: “What is he, then?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + This was rather more than I could endure patiently. “Let us try,” I + suggested, “if we can’t understand each other, at starting.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall’s little eyes twinkled in their bony caverns. “The very + thing I was going to propose!” she burst out. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” I went on; “then, let me tell you plainly that flattery is + not relished in this house.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand Flemish.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall wrung her hands in despair. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>could</i> I have + done?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Pray don’t distress yourself,” I began; “I am sure you are not to blame, + Miss Jillgall—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t—what?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t call me Miss Jillgall. I call you Helena. Call me Selina.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + When I reached the foot of the stairs, my father called me into his study. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, my child,” he said, in low sad tones. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + From Miss Elizabeth Chance to the Rev. Abel Gracedieu. + </p> + <p> + (Date of year, 1859. Date of month, missing.) + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Sincerely yours, + </p> + <p> + “ELIZABETH CHANCE.” + </p> + <p> + “P. S.—Please address: Miss E. Chance, Poste Restante, St. + Martin’s-le-Grand, London.” + </p> + <p> + “From the Rev. Abel Gracedieu to Miss Chance. + </p> + <p> + (Copy.) + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Your obedient servant, + </p> + <p> + “ABEL GRACEDIEU.” ....... + </p> + <p> + My father was still at the window. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This Miss Chance seems to be an impudent person?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Was she a young woman, when you met with her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of a woman to look at? Ugly?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Chance’s letter was written many years ago,” I resumed. “I wonder + what has become of her since she wrote to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing about her.” + </p> + <p> + “Not even whether she is alive or dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even that. What do these questions mean, Helena?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, father.” + </p> + <p> + I declare he looked as if he suspected me! + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> + know anything of this woman?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I. It never struck me that you would feel such extraordinary—I + had almost said, such vulgar—curiosity about a worthless letter.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You call it a worthless letter,” I said, “and yet you think it worth + preserving.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you nothing more to say to me than that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + He changed again. After having looked unaccountably angry, he now looked + unaccountably relieved. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + I could say “Yes” to this with a safe conscience. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There was a silence between us, to which the housemaid offered a welcome + interruption. Dinner was ready. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + Miss Jillgall joined us at the dinner-table, in a state of excitement, + carrying a book in her hand. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To return to the dinner-table, Miss Jillgall addressed herself, with an + air of playful penitence, to my father. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + My father looked at the title-page: “Doctor Watts’s Hymns. Well, Selina, + what is there to be ashamed of in this?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! no! It’s the wrong page. Do look at the other page—the one + that comes first before that one.” + </p> + <p> + My patient father turned to the blank page. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” he said quietly, “my other daughter’s name is written in it—the + daughter whom you have not seen. Well?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + The dinner was getting cold. I was provoked into saying: “No, we don’t.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “In a few days more.” + </p> + <p> + “How glad I am! And do tell me—which is she? Your oldest girl or + your youngest?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither the one nor the other, Selina.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped him on his way to the door. “Oh, tell me—can’t I help + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; no.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—but tell me one thing. Am I right about the twins?” + </p> + <p> + “You are wrong.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Take my advice, cousin. Don’t attempt to find out what it means.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “When does the post go out?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like writing letters, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but then I have not many letters to write.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> happiness—I mean the refuge opened to me in + this hospitable house?” + </p> + <p> + She twisted herself back again to the writing-table, and went on with her + letter. + </p> + <p> + I have not attempted to conceal my stupidity. Let me now record a partial + recovery of my intelligence. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + She finished her letter, and put the address, and closed the envelope. + Then she turned round toward me again. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got a foreign postage stamp, dear?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing to interest <i>me</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Another event has happened, relating to papa. It so distressed me that I + even forgot to think of Philip—for a little while. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Poor dear papa! I did see a change in him for the worse—though I had + only been away for so short a time. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The servants told me that Miss Jillgall was in the garden. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I have had my plans, and I have changed my plans. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The cottage door was not closed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I showed myself, and asked what was the matter. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Molly looked at me helplessly. She said: “Miss Eunice, it’s the + baby.” + </p> + <p> + “What has the baby done?” I inquired. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Molly got on her feet, and whispered in my ear: “You know he’s a fine + child?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, miss, he’s bewitched a lady.” + </p> + <p> + “What lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Jillgall.” + </p> + <p> + The very person I had been trying to find! I asked where she was. + </p> + <p> + The laundress pointed dolefully to the locked door: “In there.” + </p> + <p> + “And where is your baby?” + </p> + <p> + The poor woman still pointed to the door: “I’m beginning to doubt, miss, + whether it is my baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Mrs. Molly. If it isn’t yours, whose baby can it be?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Jillgall’s.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>him</i>.’ 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MISS EUNICE: ....... + </p> + <p> + “Yours ever truly.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + My enjoyment of that delightful time was checked when I went into the + drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Can any words say how wretched I felt? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Was it wrong for me to go to Philip, in the garden? Oh, there is no end to + objections! Perhaps I did it <i>because</i> it was wrong. Perhaps I had + been kept on my best behavior too long for human endurance. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Eunice, your father doesn’t like me!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He made no reply. His silence was sufficiently expressive; he looked at me + fondly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He began: “Tell me, dear, is Mr. Gracedieu always as serious as he is + to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” + </p> + <p> + “When he takes exercise, does he ride? or does he walk?” + </p> + <p> + “Papa always walks.” + </p> + <p> + “By himself?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes by himself. Sometimes with me. Do you want to meet him when he + goes out?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “When he is out with me?” + </p> + <p> + “No. When he is out by himself.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Eunice! don’t you understand me?” + </p> + <p> + I was as stupid and as disagreeable as I could possibly be: “No; I don’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Then let me help you,” he said, with a patience which I had not deserved. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Philip went on: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My father left us; and Miss Jillgall explained herself. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Mr.</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I jumped off her lap; it was horrible to hear her. “Oh,” I said, “<i>can</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “When my views are directed by my affections,” she assured me, “I never + see wrong. My bosom is my strong point.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I mean to marry Philip,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my dear Euneece. But please don’t be so fierce about it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, dear—there can.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the reason, then?” + </p> + <p> + “That, my sweet girl, is one of the things that we have got to find out.” + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + What were we to think of it? What were we to do? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>my</i> nature! Strange that I should + feel fear of something—I hardly know what! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “My darling, why don’t you congratulate me?” + </p> + <p> + No argument could have persuaded me, as this persuaded me, that all + sisterly remonstrance on my part would be completely thrown away. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Eunice,” I said, “let me beg you to excuse me. I am waiting—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You have been away from home, too,” she said. “Do I see in this serious + face some astonishing news waiting to overpower me? Have <i>you</i> found + a sweetheart? Are <i>you</i> engaged to be married?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear,” she burst out, “surely you are not jealous of me?” + </p> + <p> + There was but one possible reply to this: I laughed at it. Is Eunice’s + head turned? She kissed me! + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Her head <i>was</i> turned. I drew the poor soul’s attention + compassionately to what I had said a moment since. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, dear, for reminding you that I have not yet refused to offer + my congratulations. I only told you I was waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” + </p> + <p> + “Waiting, of course, to hear what my father thinks of your wonderful good + luck.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” I said, “don’t distress yourself by speaking of it; I + understand. Your father objects to your marrying Mr. Dunboyne.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “I can’t exactly say, Helena, that papa does that. He + only behaves very strangely.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I indiscreet, dear, if I ask in what way father’s behavior has + surprised you?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Absurd! if I was not too tired to do anything more, those last lines + should be scratched out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + I said so to Miss Jillgall, and I say it again here. Nothing will induce + me to think ill of Helena. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall began it. + </p> + <p> + “If I trust you, dearest Euneece, with my own precious secrets, shall I + never, never, never live to repent it?” + </p> + <p> + I told my good little friend that she might depend on me, provided her + secrets did no harm to any person whom I loved. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Let me confess that I began to listen more attentively when the narrative + reached this point. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + By this time, I was all eagerness to hear more. + </p> + <p> + “Has she written to you?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall looked at me affectionately, and took the reply out of her + pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Euneece; and you shall hear her own words. Thus she writes: + </p> + <p> + “‘Your letter, dear Selina, especially interests me by what it says about + the <i>two</i> 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: + </p> + <p> + “‘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: + </p> + <p> + “‘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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart, dear. But don’t deceive yourself—the subject + will turn up again when we least expect it.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Well, away we went together; it was just what I wanted; it gave me an + opportunity of saying something to Philip, between ourselves. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>you</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall answered in an odd off-hand manner: “Not he! He is a great + deal more likely to have quarreled with himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you ask him why?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “My poor dear?” I repeated. “What makes you speak to me in that way?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—I’m tired; I’m an old fool—I’ll go back to the + house.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>shall</i> be—would have been too distressing, too + unnatural I might almost call it. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Clever Helena suggested what seemed to be a strange amusement to offer to + Philip. “Let’s take him to the Girls’ School,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + On entering the schoolroom we lost our gayety, all in a moment. Something + unpleasant had evidently happened. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Papa advanced to us the moment we showed ourselves at the door. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + We now heard that the two girls in disgrace had broken the rules, and in + such a manner as to deserve severe punishment. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + We said, “No”—and hoped it was over. But he had not done yet. He + turned to Helena. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “And if these fail?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was entirely beyond my power to get on my feet. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Neither the one nor the other answered him. He called across the room to + the teachers: “Those two pupils are expelled the school.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i> to forgive me. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you, really and truly, as fond of me as ever?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to be sure!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He came out to us with an open letter in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “From my father, at last,” he said—and gave me the letter to read. + It only contained these few lines: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Of course I knew who the foreign woman, mentioned in the newspaper, was. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + I <i>have</i> been ill; ill of my own wickedness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Upon my word, there is no excuse for me! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I have relieved my mind, and may now return to the business of my diary—the + record of domestic events. + </p> + <p> + An overwhelming disappointment has fallen on Eunice. Our dinner-party has + been put off. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen my sister?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Every word he said was an offense to me. With or without reason, I + attacked him again. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you excuse me, Miss Helena,” he said, “if I ask leave to speak to + Mr. Gracedieu in private?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The door which communicated with the next room was pulled to, but not + closed. On the other side of it, I found Eunice. + </p> + <p> + “Listening!” I said, in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she whispered back. “You listen, too!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gracedieu,” Philip began, “I wish to speak to you—” + </p> + <p> + Father interrupted him: “We are alone now, Mr. Dunboyne. I want to know + why you consult me in private?” + </p> + <p> + “I am anxious to consult you, sir, on a subject—” + </p> + <p> + “On what subject? Any religious difficulty?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything I can do for you in the town?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. If you will only allow me—” + </p> + <p> + “I am still waiting, sir, to know what it is about.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If you have any personal objection to me, sir, be so good as to state it + plainly.” + </p> + <p> + “You have no right to ask me to do that.” + </p> + <p> + “You refuse to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Positively.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not very civil, Mr. Gracedieu.” + </p> + <p> + “If I speak without ceremony, Mr. Dunboyne, you have yourself to thank for + it.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear what your father said to me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear; but you ought to have controlled yourself—you ought, + indeed, for my sake.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how cruel, Philip, to leave me when I am so wretched! Why do you want + to go?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I never said anything about your temper, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you tell me to control myself?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! Go back to Papa, and beg him to forgive you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll see him damned first!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do?” she burst out, helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Do what I told you to do yesterday—wait.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Maria took the letter to the hotel, with instructions to wait. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Maria, did you open the door for Mr. Dunboyne when he went away just + now?” + </p> + <p> + “No, miss.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>tinkle, + tinkle</i>—and the tongue mixed up words with the notes in this way: + “Perhaps they have been talking in the kitchen about Philip?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I know where he was, miss, half an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Where was he?” + </p> + <p> + “At the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that Mr. Dunboyne was at the hotel?” + </p> + <p> + “I was sent there with a letter for him, and waited for the answer.” + </p> + <p> + There was no suggestion required this time. The one possible question was: + “Who sent you?” + </p> + <p> + Maria replied, after first reserving a condition: “You won’t tell upon me, + miss?” + </p> + <p> + I promised not to tell. Selina suddenly left off playing. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I repeated, “who sent you?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Helena.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I said: “Suppose I go to Helena, and ask her why she wrote to Philip?” And + Selina said: “Suppose you do, dear.” + </p> + <p> + I rang for Maria once more: “Do you know where my sister is?” + </p> + <p> + “Just gone out, miss.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + After knocking twice at the door of the study, and receiving no reply, I + ventured to look in. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He said: “Who is it?” This to me—to his own daughter. He said: “What + do you want?” + </p> + <p> + I really could <i>not</i> bear it. I went up to him. I said: “Papa, have + you forgotten Eunice?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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>I</i> + might have forgotten my name, too. Much to think of, Eunice—too much + to think of.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I came here, papa to see if there was anything I could do for You.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + I told him that she had gone out, and begged leave to try what I could do + to supply her place. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Let me try if I can call to mind the substance of it. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m tired,” he said. “Wait for me while I rest.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I would.” + </p> + <p> + “Then send for Philip, dear, and be a little kinder to him, this time.” + </p> + <p> + His pale face turned red with anger; he pushed me away from him. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “S. J.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My memory of what passed between us is, in some degree, disturbed by the + formidable interruption which brought our talk to an end. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I had merely intended to irritate him. He showed a superiority to anger + for which I was not prepared. + </p> + <p> + “Be so kind as to sit down again,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “When you tell me you were beside yourself,” I said, “do you mean, ashamed + of yourself?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “What has become of it now?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me first if I am forgiven,” he said—“and you shall know.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you deserve to be forgiven?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If I did my duty to my sister,” I reminded him, “I should refuse to + forgive you, and send you back to Eunice.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Am I forgiven?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + It is absurd to put it on record. Of course, I forgave him. What a good + Christian I am, after all! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. HELENA’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + On reaching the street which led to Philip’s hotel, we spoke to each other + for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “What are we to do?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Leave this place,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Together?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right,” he said, gloomily. “Good-by.” + </p> + <p> + My anxiety put the all-important question to him without hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Is it good-by forever, Philip?” + </p> + <p> + His reply instantly relieved me: “God forbid!” + </p> + <p> + But I wanted more: “You still love me?” I persisted. + </p> + <p> + “More dearly than ever!” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you leave me!” + </p> + <p> + He turned pale. “I leave you because I am afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid of what?” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid to face Eunice again.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + “And you would ask my father to consent to our marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “On the day of my return, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose obstacles get in our way,” I said—“suppose time passes and + tries your patience—will you still consider yourself engaged to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Engaged to you,” he answered, “in spite of obstacles and in spite of + time.” + </p> + <p> + “And while you are away from me,” I ventured to add, “we shall write to + each other?” + </p> + <p> + “Go where I may,” he said, “you shall always hear from me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>that</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She looked round her. “I see no third person here,” she said. “May I ask + if you mean me?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean you.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you be so good, Miss Helena, as to explain yourself?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Her insolence forced its way out of her at last. Let me record it—and + repay it, when the time comes. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + In half an hour more, an unexpected event raised my spirits. I heard from + Philip. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <p> + Through the day, and through the night, I feel a misery that never leaves + me—I mean the misery of fear. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + No: the days in the garden won’t come back. What else can I think of? + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + The recollections that I try to encourage keep away from me. The other + recollections that I dread, come crowding back. Still Philip! Still + Helena! + </p> + <p> + But Selina mixes herself up with them. Let me try again if I can think of + Selina. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My love, you must have innocently said something to him, when you and he + were alone, which touched his conscience (when he <i>had</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + I said: “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + Another sleepless night. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I walked toward home by a roundabout way; feeling as if want of sleep was + killing me by inches. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + The walking tired me; I went straight home. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I found Selina waiting to speak with me, on the subject of poor papa. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>we</i> anything to be ashamed of?” I said to + Selina. “Stay where you are.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Go on with what you have to say,” I answered, “and don’t notice me.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> engagement. <i>I</i> + have consented to become Mrs. Philip Dunboyne.’” + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Why am I to stop?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Your face seems to be paler than usual,” she answered—“that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could comfort you!” she said, in her kind simple way. + </p> + <p> + “Keep my hand in your hand,” I told her; “I am drowning in dark water—and + I have nothing to hold by but you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my darling, don’t talk in that way!” + </p> + <p> + “Good Selina! dear Selina! You shall talk to me. Say something harmless—tell + me a melancholy story—try to make me cry.” + </p> + <p> + My poor little friend looked sadly bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i>. So hardly treated! so young! so forlorn! Your + good father too ill to help you; your poor mother—” + </p> + <p> + I interrupted her; she had interested me in something better than my own + wretched self. I asked directly if she had known my mother. + </p> + <p> + “My dear child, I never even saw her!” + </p> + <p> + “Has my father never spoken to you about her?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I had arrived at the same conclusion years since. But I shrank from + confessing it. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When all was quiet in the house, I stole out into the passage and listened + at the door of my father’s room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Then I returned to my own room—and lay down in bed, waiting to be + composed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. EUNICE’S DIARY. + </h2> + <h3> + My restless nights are passed in Selina’s room. + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + All this time, my eyes were still covered by the handkerchief which I had + laid over them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The faint glow of the night-light was extinguished. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The light grew fainter and fainter; the objects in the room faded slowly + away. Darkness came. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no more!” I cried out. “You are killing me with an icy death!” + </p> + <p> + The dead-cold touches lingered a moment longer—and left me. + </p> + <p> + The first sound came. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It said to me: “Do you know who I am?” + </p> + <p> + I answered: “No.” + </p> + <p> + It said: “Who have you been thinking of this evening?” + </p> + <p> + I answered: “My mother.” + </p> + <p> + The whisper said: “I am your mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother, command the light to come back! Show yourself to me!” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “My face was hidden when I passed from life to death. My face no mortal + creature may see.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother, touch me! Kiss me!” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “My touch is poison. My kiss is death.” + </p> + <p> + The sense of fear began to come to me now. I moved my head away on the + pillow. The whisper followed my movement. + </p> + <p> + “Leave me,” I said. “You are an Evil Spirit.” + </p> + <p> + The whisper answered: “I am your mother.” + </p> + <p> + “You come to tempt me.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It is true.” + </p> + <p> + “The man you loved has deserted you. Is it true?” + </p> + <p> + “It is true.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman has lured him away to herself. A woman has had no mercy on you, + or on him. Is it true?” + </p> + <p> + “It is true.” + </p> + <p> + “If she lives, what crime toward you will she commit next?” + </p> + <p> + “If she lives, she will marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you let her live?” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I hardened your heart against her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you kill her?” + </p> + <p> + “Show me how.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The light flowed along in front of me. I followed, from room to room in + the Museum, where the light led. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The whisper tempted me again. It followed again the train of my own + thought. It said: “Kill her by poison.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I was standing in Helena’s room, looking at her as she lay asleep in her + bed. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + The temptation took a form which now tried me for the first time. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The man was Philip. The likeness was looking at me. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + There was a sudden cry. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Helena <i>had</i> started up in her bed. That cry of terror, at the sight + of me in her room at night, <i>had</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My last words are written. I lock up this journal of misery-never, I hope + and pray, to open it again. —— + </p> + <p> + Second Period (continued). + </p> + <p> + EVENTS IN THE FAMILY, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR. —— <a + name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. THE MIDDLE-AGED LADY. + </h2> + <p> + In the year 1870 I found myself compelled to submit to the demands of two + hard task-masters. + </p> + <p> + Advancing age and failing health reminded the Governor of the Prison of + his duty to his successor, in one unanswerable word—Resign. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This was unexpected advice. After some hesitation, I accepted it + reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was a distressing letter to read. I beg permission to give only the + substance of it in this place. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The first question that I put, as we drove from the station to the house, + related naturally to her father. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + The interest which I was still able to feel in my friend’s domestic + affairs centered in the daughter whom he had adopted. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask,” she resumed, “if you were disappointed when you found nobody + but me to meet you at our station?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What excuse could I have,” I asked, “for feeling disappointed?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>both</i> my father’s daughters had been present at the + station. It’s not my fault that my sister was not with me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My sister is away from home.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely, Miss Helena, that is a good reason for her not coming to meet + me?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + What did this matter to me? I decided on dropping the subject. My memory + reverted, however, to past occasions on which the loss of <i>my</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + She slyly set the best construction on my perfectly commonplace reply. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I quite understand you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Is Miss Jillgall at home?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, the servant’s answer was: “Not at home.” + </p> + <p> + The middle aged lady said: “Do you expect her back soon?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “I will call again, later in the day.” + </p> + <p> + “What name, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + The lady stole another look at me, before she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the name,” she said—and walked away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. THE MINISTER’S MISFORTUNE. + </h2> + <h3> + “Do you know that lady?” Miss Helena asked, as we entered the house. + </h3> + <p> + “She is a perfect stranger to me,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure you have not forgotten her?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you think I have forgotten her?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she evidently remembered you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Beginning to recover myself, I begged that he would make no more excuses. + My interruption seemed to confuse him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Compose yourself,” I said, “I understand you at last.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “True!” he said. “Frightfully true! Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He shuddered while he listened to me. “Come to the end of it,” he cried. + </p> + <p> + I had no more to say, and I was obliged to answer him to that effect. + </p> + <p> + “No more to say?” he replied. “You have not told me yet what I most want + to know.” + </p> + <p> + I did a rash thing; I asked what it was that he most wanted to know. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you see it for yourself?” he demanded indignantly. “Suppose you + were put between those two alternatives which you mentioned just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Either way, my reply might lead to serious consequences. I hesitated. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He listened to this with a smile. Had I happily blundered on some + association which his mind was still able to pursue? + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>your</i> memory to a test? Can you remember + the name?” he asked, with a momentary appearance of triumph showing + itself, poor fellow, in his face. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Your</i> 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 <i>not</i> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + I was afraid to tell him what I really did think. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LIVELY OLD MAID. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She saluted me with a carefully-performed curtsey, and threw open the door + of a room on the ground floor. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she say anything particular, when she saw the lady asking for me at + the door?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Helena thought,” I said, “that the lady recognized me as a person + whom she had seen before.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did you think yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought Miss Helena was wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + When we reached the upper floor, she paused before the Minister’s room. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall suddenly turned pale. + </p> + <p> + “His daughter’s marriage?” she repeated. “Oh, you frighten me!” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I frighten you?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” I answered, “you mean Eunice’s marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir! Helena.” + </p> + <p> + “No, madam! Eunice.” + </p> + <p> + “What does he mean?” said Miss Jillgall to herself. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Not the slightest hint of any such thing, I assured her, had reached my + ears. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + I took a liberty. “May I ask what Miss Helena has done?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “<i>May</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + She checked herself there, and looked suspiciously at the door of Mr. + Gracedieu’s room. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if he is asleep—as I left him.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall shook her head ominously. “The safe way is this way,” she + said. “Come with me.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV. THE FUTURE LOOKS GLOOMY. + </h2> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + With that she told the lamentable story of the desertion of Eunice. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I felt inclined to be harder on Philip than ever. “Where is he?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he has left England?” + </p> + <p> + “If you must know, sir, he is in London—with Mr. Dunboyne.” + </p> + <p> + The name startled me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall’s keen observation noticed the impression that had been + produced upon me. “Mr. Dunboyne’s name seems to surprise you.” she said. + </p> + <p> + “This is the first time I have heard you mention it,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Mr. Gracedieu must have mentioned it?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + This second reply in the negative irritated her. + </p> + <p> + “At any rate,” she said, sharply, “you appeared to know Mr. Dunboyne’s + name, just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + We were completely at cross-purposes. She had taken something for granted + which was an unfathomable mystery to me. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I objected, “if you did mention his name a dozen times—excuse + me for asking the question—-what then?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” cried Miss Jillgall, “do you mean to say you never guessed + that Philip was Mr. Dunboyne’s son?” + </p> + <p> + I was petrified. + </p> + <p> + His son! Dunboyne’s son! How could I have guessed it? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His son! Dunboyne’s son! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Observing my agitation, Miss Jillgall placed her own construction on it. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>she</i> married—into + her wronged sister’s place? Impossible! In the one case as in the other, + impossible! + </p> + <p> + Equally hopeless did the prospect appear, when I tried to determine what + my own individual course of action ought to be. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Had Miss Jillgall returned? When I said “Come in,” Mr. Gracedieu opened + the door, and entered the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “When you were with me in my room,” he began, “did I not tell you that I + had forgotten something?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly you did.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I waited anxiously for what he might say to me next. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. THE WANDERING MIND. + </h2> + <h3> + For the moment, the Minister disappointed me. + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My mind is gone!” he burst out. “Oh, Father in Heaven, let death deliver + me from a body without a mind!” + </p> + <p> + Who could hear him, and be guilty of the cruelty of preaching + self-control? I picked up the pocketbook, and offered to help him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you can?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I can at least try.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I answered, “you have something to say to me about the education + which you have given to your daughters.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t put them together!” he cried. “Dear, patient, sweet Eunice must not + be confounded with that she-devil—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, hush, Mr. Gracedieu! Badly as Miss Helena has behaved, she is your + own child.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> + daughter. Give me the pocketbook; I want to see which memorandum comes + first.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “My good friend, not even your enemies could say that!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + (“That,” I thought to myself, “is exactly what your wife was—and + exactly what reappears in your wife’s child.”) + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you hear what I have to say?” I asked bluntly. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Just my idea!” he declared firmly. “I refuse my consent to that + abominable marriage.” + </p> + <p> + In the popular phrase, I struck while the iron was hot. “You must do more + than that, sir,” I told him. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No more of that!” he said. “I won’t talk of the girls’ ages even with + you.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be at a loss how to reply. “I am afraid,” he said, “the young + man was drawn into it by Helena.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The excuse you have just made for him,” I resumed, “implies that he is a + weak man; easily persuaded, easily led.” + </p> + <p> + The Minister answered by nodding his head. + </p> + <p> + “Such weakness as that,” I persisted, “is a vice in itself. It has led + already, sir, to the saddest results.” + </p> + <p> + He admitted this by another nod. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I placed them before him. He took up the pen; he arranged the paper; he + was eager to begin. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + The letter was easily written. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + I could only assure her (after what I remembered of his letter to me) that + he was a man whom we could depend upon. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. THE SHAMELESS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + For some reason, which my unassisted penetration was unable to discover, + Miss Helena Gracedieu kept out of my way. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The room to which I was conducted proved to be empty. I looked round me. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I have nothing particular to say.” + </p> + <p> + “In plain words, you mean that I must begin?” + </p> + <p> + “If you please.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Pray go on, Miss Helena.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I not said enough already?” + </p> + <p> + “Not enough, I regret to say, to convey your meaning to me.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “A great deal more than enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you have made up your mind about me without stopping to + think?” + </p> + <p> + “That is exactly what I mean. An act of treachery, Miss Helena, <i>is</i> + an act of treachery; no honest person need hesitate to condemn it. I am + sorry you sent for me.” + </p> + <p> + I got up to go. With an ironical gesture of remonstrance, she signed to me + to sit down again. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I returned to my chair. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + When the female mind gets into this state, no wise man answers the female + questions. + </p> + <p> + “Am I to take silence as meaning Go on?” Miss Helena inquired. + </p> + <p> + I begged her to interpret my silence in the sense most agreeable to + herself. + </p> + <p> + This naturally encouraged her. She made a proposal: + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind changing places, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you like, Miss Helena.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She also mentioned, perhaps, that he was a highly-cultivated man?” + </p> + <p> + “She did.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “In the case of any one else in your position, Miss Helena, I should + venture to call it bad taste.” + </p> + <p> + I was provoked into saying that. It failed entirely as a well-meant effort + in the way of implied reproof. Miss Helena smiled. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “If you will take my advice,” I said, “you will not inquire too closely + into my opinion of Mr. Philip Dunboyne.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you don’t wish me to say anymore?” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, pray go on, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I will wait till you have done.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no more to say.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” I said, “a person has been forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? What person?” + </p> + <p> + “Your sister.” + </p> + <p> + A little perplexed at first, Miss Helena reflected, and recovered herself. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Let me not attempt to disguise it—Miss Helena Gracedieu confounded + me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I said, “I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She has your sympathy, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “My heart-felt sympathy.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I view you with a feeling of horror.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I inspire you with horror, and Eunice inspires you with compassion,” she + said. “That, Mr. Governor, is not natural.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + “You know why.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You will have it?” + </p> + <p> + “I want an explanation, Miss Helena, if that is what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am completely right,” she answered; “I saw it.” + </p> + <p> + “Saw what?” + </p> + <p> + “Saw you pretending to be a stranger to me.” + </p> + <p> + “When did I do that?” + </p> + <p> + “You did it when we met at the station.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You shall have no second opportunity, Miss Gracedieu, of insulting me.” + With that foolish reply, I opened the door violently and went out. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Heard only by his daughter, my reply seemed to cool the heat of her anger + in an instant. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + In the solitude of my room, I was able to look my position fairly in the + face. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What course did respect for my friend, and respect for myself, counsel me + to take? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Before I had decided, somebody knocked at the door. It was the + maid-servant again. Was it possible she had been sent by Helena? + </p> + <p> + “Another message?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. My master wishes to see you.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE GIRLS’ AGES. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When I entered his room, he was still in bed. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke more clearly and collectedly than I had heard him speak yet. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let me think a little,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This time, my harmless curiosity could be gratified by a reply expressed + in three words—nothing had happened. + </p> + <p> + Then what, in Heaven’s name, was the Minister afraid of? + </p> + <p> + His voice dropped to a whisper. He said: “I am afraid of the women.” + </p> + <p> + Who were the women? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In making my inquiries, I found that I had an obstacle to contend with. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One of them was an old copy of the <i>Times</i>, 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: + </p> + <p> + “On the 10th inst., the wife of the Rev. Abel Gracedieu, of a daughter.” + </p> + <p> + The second newspaper bore a later date, and contained nothing that + interested me. I naturally assumed that the advertisement in the <i>Times</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + The Minister’s eyes opened instantly: he raised himself in his bed. + </p> + <p> + “Eunice, at last!” he cried. “Let her in.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX. THE ADOPTED CHILD + </h2> + <h3> + I opened the door. + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + I believe I should have lied again, if Mr. Gracedieu had not called me to + the bedside. + </p> + <p> + “How does she strike you?” he whispered, eagerly. “Is it too soon to ask + if she shows her age in her face?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked fondly at Eunice. “Her figure seems to bear out what you say,” + he went on. “Almost childish, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Eunice kissed his forehead—and we left the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL. THE BRUISED HEART. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come with me to the part of the garden that I am fondest of?” + she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear child, I have heard your sad story—but I can’t trust myself + to speak of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you are so sorry for me?” + </p> + <p> + “No words can say how sorry I am!” + </p> + <p> + “But you are not angry with Philip?” + </p> + <p> + “Not angry! My poor dear, I am afraid to tell you how angry I am with + him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + She said, gently: “How could I help forgiving him?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She dropped my hand, and sat by me in silence, thinking. Had I—without + meaning it, God knows!—had I disappointed her? + </p> + <p> + “Did you expect me to tell my own sad story,” I said, “as frankly and as + trustfully as you have told yours?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Many of them.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, and looked at me with a pale fear confessing itself in her + face. + </p> + <p> + “You know who Selina is?” she resumed. “My friend! The only friend I had, + till you came here.” + </p> + <p> + I guessed that she was speaking of the quaint, kindly little woman, whose + ugly surname had been hitherto the only name known to me. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Did you notice how I behaved upstairs?” she said. “I mean when we left my + father, and came out on the landing.” + </p> + <p> + It was easily recollected; I begged her to go on. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I guessed that—and I understood you.” + </p> + <p> + “No! You are not wicked enough to understand me. Will you do me a favor? I + want you to look at me.” + </p> + <p> + It was said seriously. She lifted her head for a moment, so that I could + examine her face. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see anything,” she asked, “which makes you fear that I am not in + my right mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! how can you ask such a horrible question?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + I had seen it—and, after a moment’s doubt, I said I had seen it. + </p> + <p> + “Did you pity those poor wretches?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly! They deserved pity.” + </p> + <p> + “I am one of them!” she said. “Pity <i>me</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + The mother! Prepared as I was for the accursed discovery, the horror of it + shook me. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us talk of Philip,” I said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said; “we had better not talk of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I have lost all my courage. If you speak of Philip, you will make me + cry.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Cry!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There was silence between us for a while. It was possible for me to think. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Still absorbed in these speculations, I was disturbed by a touch on my + arm. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look again,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI. THE WHISPERING VOICE. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Quite needless,” she replied; “I shall not detain you for more than a + minute. Please look at this.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Philip’s Letters To Me. Private. Helena Gracedieu.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + A more impudent bargain could not well have been proposed to me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Understand, Miss Helena,” I said, “that I make no promises. I reserve my + own opinion, and my own right of action.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + We were alone again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to be afraid of,” I said. “She has gone.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear child! of what person are you speaking?” + </p> + <p> + She answered: “Of no person. I am speaking of a Voice that whispers and + tempts me, when Helena is near.” + </p> + <p> + “What voice, Eunice?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> 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 <i>you?</i> Did you hear her tempting me? + Don’t speak of it, if you did. Oh, not a word! not a word!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Selina will think we are lost,” I said. “Let us go and find Selina.” + </p> + <p> + “Not for the world,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I resumed my place at her side. + </p> + <p> + “Let me take your hand.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I have surprised you,” she said. “Helena brings the dreadful + time back to me—” She stopped and shuddered. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak of Helena, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I privately determined to watch for the doctor’s arrival, and to consult + with him. Eunice went on: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No—she has gone out.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she say that herself? Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you get that?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + It was needless to reply in words. My hesitation spoke for me. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I see Mr. Philip Dunboyne when I go back to London,” I began, + “what shall I say to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Say I have forgiven him.” + </p> + <p> + “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—?” + </p> + <p> + She resolutely interrupted me: “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Eunice, you surely mean Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean No!” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me! Good-by till to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII. THE QUAINT PHILOSOPHER. + </h2> + <p> + No person came to my room, and nothing happened to interrupt me while I + was reading Mr. Philip Dunboyne’s letters. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the first place, those extracts have a value of their own. They add + necessary information to the present history of events. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + EXTRACTS FROM MR. PHILIP DUNBOYNE’S LETTERS. + </p> + <p> + First Extract. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t seem to have interested you,” Mrs. Staveley remarked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not quite sure,” Mrs. Staveley confessed. + </p> + <p> + “Then, my dear friend, we will wait till we <i>are</i> sure.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mr. Dunboyne, there is really no need to wait. I suppose your son + comes here, now and then, to see you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose he hits upon the right time to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “You might ask him if he is engaged?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me. I think I might wait till Philip mentions it without asking.” + </p> + <p> + “What an extraordinary man you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, no—only a philosopher.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know what a philosopher is!” he repeated. “Be so kind as to + look at me. I am a philosopher.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Staveley bowed. + </p> + <p> + “And a philosopher, my charming friend, is a man who has discovered a + system of life. Some systems assert themselves in volumes—<i>my</i> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII. THE MASTERFUL MASSEUSE. + </h2> + <p> + My next quotations will suffer a process of abridgment. I intend them to + present the substance of three letters, reduced as follows: + </p> + <p> + Second Extract. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His third letter shows that this exhibition of spirit has had its effect. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + The next letter has been already mentioned. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The letter that follows must be permitted to speak for itself: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The next time I saw my father, he was alone. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Did you say that the father of these girls was a parson?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—a Congregational Minister.” + </p> + <p> + “What does the Minister think of you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Find out.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I had to keep my appointment; and the sooner Helena Gracedieu and I + understood each other the better. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I mean to come to the point at once,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to hear it, Miss Helena.” + </p> + <p> + “May I count on your influence to help me? I want a positive answer.” + </p> + <p> + I gave her what she wanted. I said: “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + She took a crumpled letter from her pocket, opened it, and smoothed it out + on the table with a blow of her open hand. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I can depend on you to tell me the truth?” she continued. + </p> + <p> + “Without fear or favor,” I answered, “you may depend on <i>that</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose writing is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Mine.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV. THE RESURRECTION OF THE PAST. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I looked it over. The memorandum follows which I made for my own use: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I found Miss Jillgall waiting in the passage to see me come out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What do I think of Mr. Gracedieu?” he said, repeating the first question + that I put. “Well, sir, I think badly of him.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The change of subject seemed to be agreeable to Mr. Wellwood. He smiled + good-humoredly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + With that cheering reply he went up to the Minister’s room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Before I had been long alone the servant-maid came in, and said the doctor + wanted to see me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLV. THE FATAL PORTRAIT. + </h2> + <h3> + I knocked at the bedroom door. + </h3> + <p> + “Who’s there?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He received me with a boisterous affectation of cordiality. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Remembering the doctor’s advice, I obeyed him in silence. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + It was really pitiable. Heartily sorry for him, I pacified him again. + </p> + <p> + “And don’t suppose I forget that you are one of them. Do you hear me, my + noble friend?” + </p> + <p> + There was no help for it—I made another conciliatory reply. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Turning back into the room, he laid the folded sheet of paper on the + table. That done, he spoke to me. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the interval of silence that followed, I was reminded that an unseen + friend was keeping watch outside. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The slow minutes followed each other—and still nothing happened. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + We stood together, with our eyes fixed on the portrait. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>that</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + I opened the paper. “Am I to read this to myself?” I asked. “Or am I to + read it aloud?” + </p> + <p> + “Read it aloud!” + </p> + <p> + In these terms, his daughter addressed him: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But let me make sure, in such a serious matter as this is, that I am not + mistaken. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gracedieu interrupted me. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I gave him the paper. + </p> + <p> + He hesitated—and looked at the portrait once more. “Turn her away + from me,” he said; “I can’t face my wife.” + </p> + <p> + I placed the picture with its back to him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Helena tells me,” he began, “that you said you knew her by her likeness + to her mother. Is that true?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I did.” + </p> + <p> + He consulted the paper again. + </p> + <p> + “My daughter says—No! I won’t be hurried and I won’t be interrupted—she + says you were confused. Is that so?” + </p> + <p> + “It is so. Let your questions wait for a moment. I wish to tell you why I + was confused.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I said I won’t be interrupted? Do you think you can shake <i>my</i> + resolution?” He referred to the paper again. “I have lost the place. It’s + your fault—find it for me.” + </p> + <p> + The evidence which was intended to convict me was the evidence which I was + expected to find! I pointed it out to him. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” he cried, “that she came to you?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + After that answer, he no longer required the paper to help him. He threw + it from him on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gracedieu, I insist on being heard! Your wife’s motive—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He paused, looking backward and forward between the picture and me. + </p> + <p> + “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!!!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVI. THE CUMBERSOME LADIES. + </h2> + <p> + I cannot prevail upon myself to dwell at any length on the events that + followed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + I signed to her to go on. If I had answered in words, I should have told + her to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She was determined to have a reply—and she got it. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + I rang for the waiter. “Show this lady out,” I said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The lady smiled; her provokingly familiar eyes rested on me with a + humorous enjoyment of the scene. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>his</i> 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>I</i> am no longer recognizable. Allow + me to prompt you, as they say on the stage. I am Mrs. Tenbruggen.” + </p> + <p> + As a man of the world, I ought to have been capable of concealing my + astonishment and dismay. She struck me dumb. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Hearing this, the best of genial old maids was unable to restrain her + curiosity. “Where are you going?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Too confused to think of an excuse, I said I was going to the farm. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVII. THE JOURNEY TO THE FARM. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I saw it when I called on you,” Mrs. Tenbruggen suggested. “Where + did the picture hang?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear! I received you in the dining-room, and the portrait hung in Mr. + Gracedieu’s study.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Tenbruggen’s voice, cheery and humorous, broke in on my reflections, + with an odd question: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Governor, do you ever condescend to read novels?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not easy to say, Mrs. Tenbruggen, how grateful I am to the writers + of novels.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You are entirely wrong.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Tenbruggen’s social resources were not exhausted yet. She suddenly + shifted to the serious side of her character. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Her cunning seized its advantage and put a sly question to me. “Do you + wish to be one of my patients yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “That is, unfortunately, impossible,” I replied “I have arranged to return + to London.” + </p> + <p> + “Immediately?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow at the latest.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>My</i> fingers and thumbs, Mr. + Governor, are not to be insulted with impunity.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall nodded her head at me. It was an eloquent nod. “Admire my + spirited friend,” was the interpretation I put on it. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t a doubt of it, if you can get rid of the doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “You think he would be an obstacle in the way?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I find something in your manner—pray don’t suppose that I am angry—which + looks like distrust; I mean, distrust of me.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Tenbruggen waited to hear what I had to say, scornfully insensible to + Miss Jillgall’s well-meant interruption. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I determined to remind her of it. Whether I could depend on her to tell me + the truth, might be quite another thing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DECISION OF EUNICE. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope she will be <i>my</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Before dinner we were shown over the farm. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is that lady a friend of yours?” she asked. “No; only an acquaintance. + What do you think of her?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I will keep your secret, Eunice; and you must keep mine. I entirely agree + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “You agree with me in disliking her?” + </p> + <p> + “Heartily.” + </p> + <p> + We could say no more at that time. Our friends in advance were waiting for + us. We joined them at once. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + At dinner-time we found the master of the house waiting to bid us welcome. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The social arrangements, when our meal was over, fell of themselves into + the right train. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The entry in her Journal, which she was anxious that I should read, was + placed before me next. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You told me yesterday,” I reminded her, “that I was to say you had + forgiven him. Do you still wish me to do that?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I do!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you thought of it seriously? Are you sure of not having been hurried + by a generous impulse into saying more than you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>she</i> pitied <i>me</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + She asked to be allowed to speak of Philip again, and for the last time. + </p> + <p> + “When you meet with him in London, he may perhaps ask if you have seen + Eunice.” + </p> + <p> + “My child! he is sure to ask.” + </p> + <p> + “Break it to him gently—but don’t let him deceive himself. In this + world, he must never hope to see me again.” + </p> + <p> + I tried—very gently—to remonstrate. “At your age, and at his + age,” I said, “surely there is hope?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no hope.” She pressed her hand on her heart. “I know it, I feel + it, here.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Eunice, it’s hard for me to say that!” + </p> + <p> + “I will try to make it easier for you. Say that I have forgiven him—and + say no more.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIX. THE GOVERNOR ON HIS GUARD. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come in here for a moment?” she said. “The farmer has been + called away, and I want to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + Very unwillingly—but how could I have refused without giving + offense?—I entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + I had purposely remained standing as a hint to her not to prolong the + interview. The hint was thrown away; I took a chair. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I began to be interested. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “he is within your reach now.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She stopped me at the door. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What advantage?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> advantage.” + </p> + <p> + “In other words,” she rejoined, “you leave me to make the discovery + myself. Well, my friend, I mean to do it!” + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I started for London by the early train in the morning. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In two days more, I received a line from Eunice, written evidently in the + greatest agitation. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER L. THE NEWS FROM THE FARM. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall may now give place to Eunice. The same day’s post brought me + both letters. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “These are trifling things to mention, but I am afraid you may think I am + unhappy—and I want to prevent that. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + With that reassuring view of her life as a governess, the poor child’s + letter comes to an end. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LI. THE TRIUMPH OF MRS. TENBRUGGEN. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The arrival of this news affected me in two different ways. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall goes on with her curious story, as follows: + </p> + <p> + ....... + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Times</i> 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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I asked Elizabeth what she proposed to do next. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘By Massage?’ I inquired. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “We went to his room. Don’t blame me for giving way; I am too fond of + Elizabeth to be able to disappoint her. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Elizabeth whispered: ‘Leave me alone with him.’ + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why I did such a rude thing—I hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Elizabeth asked me if I had no confidence in her. I was ashamed of + myself; I left them together. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Well,’ I said, ‘how has it ended?’ + </p> + <p> + “Quite calmly my noble Elizabeth answered: ‘In total failure.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What did you say to him after you sent me away?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I tried, in every possible way, to get him to tell me which of his two + daughters was the oldest.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Did he refuse to answer?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What is to be done?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nothing is to be done, Selina.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What!’ I cried, ‘you give it up?’ + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My looks, Mrs. Tenbruggen, exactly express my opinion. Mesmerism is a + humbug!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I should like to hear you tell me, which is the adopted child.” + </p> + <p> + “Helena, to be sure!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How did you arrive at your discovery?” I asked. “I know of nobody who + could have helped you.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>his</i> child. And Helena + was once the baby whom I carried into the prison. Do you deny that?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t deny it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “If I did wonder,” I answered, “would you tell me why?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Third period: 1876. <i>HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED.</i> + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no curiosity to hear it, Mrs. Tenbruggen.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to say much more, Mrs. Tenbruggen?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Tempus fugit</i> (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.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you done?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear—for the present.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This is a specimen of the customary encounter of our wits. I place it on + record in my Journal, to excuse myself <i>to</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Last night my mind was in a harassed state. Philip was, as usual, the + cause of it. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One of these last romances in real life caught a strong hold on my + interest. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <i>Can</i> 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 <i>is</i> 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + We met again to-day as usual. He has behaved infamously. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Was he really in earnest? “You,” I said, “who distrusted and detested her—you + are on friendly terms with that woman?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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?” “<i>Your</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She troubles me; she does indeed trouble me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I had written as far as this, and was on the point of closing my Journal, + when a third note arrived from Mrs. Tenbruggen. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What can she have to say to me which she has not already said? Is it + anything about Philip, I wonder? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIV. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Has Mr. Philip Dunboyne told you why he went to London?” + </p> + <p> + “He made a commonplace excuse,” I answered. “Business, he said, took him + to London. I know no more.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I am at a loss to imagine why Philip should have consulted him.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever heard or read, Miss Helena, of such a thing as ‘an old + man’s fancy’?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I have.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Mrs. Tenbruggen, that is what I know already. Why did Philip + go to the Governor?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? <i>My</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “In my favor?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly in your favor—or I should not have said a word about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Was Philip’s visit kindly received? Or did the old wretch laugh at him?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I must say this for Mrs. Tenbruggen: she kept her temper perfectly. + </p> + <p> + “He has not been to the farm,” she said, “but he has done something nearly + as foolish. He has written to your sister.” + </p> + <p> + “And he has received a favorable reply, of course?” + </p> + <p> + She put her hand into the pocket of her dress. + </p> + <p> + “There is your sister’s reply,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + She took my hand, and gave it a good, heady shake. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>him</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “I will do anything that you advise,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + This last piece of advice staggered me. I mentioned the Proprieties. Mrs. + Tenbruggen laughed at the Proprieties. + </p> + <p> + “Make Selina of some use,” she suggested. “While you have got <i>her</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LV. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + </h2> + <h3> + I did think of it. Philip came to us, and lived in our house. + </h3> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>he</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + A week has passed, and I have not opened my Diary. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Three days more have slipped by. The aspect of my heaven on earth is + beginning to alter. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had anticipated that I should appeal to her opinion, as a woman of the + world. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Three events since yesterday, which I consider, trifling as they may be, + intimations of something wrong. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I slept last night. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded and winked at me. A wicked-looking old fellow; just the man I + wanted. + </p> + <p> + We followed the chaise. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVI. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “and what next?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose something happens,” I suggested, “that we don’t expect?” + </p> + <p> + “I shan’t lose my head, miss, whatever happens.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you mean,” I answered, “that you have learned deceit in the + wicked ways of the great city.” + </p> + <p> + He took this as a compliment. “Thank you, miss. That’s it exactly.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I have. Why should I remember it? Don’t I know poor Euneece was + in your mind, all the time?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, come, Mr. Philip! that won’t do. Helena rising in anybody’s + estimation? Ha! ha! ha!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + (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.) + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that really true?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what she did. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Worthy of it? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure, my young friend, that you won’t go back to Helena?” + </p> + <p> + “Go back to <i>her</i>? I would cut my throat if I thought myself capable + of doing it!” + </p> + <p> + “How did she set you against her? Did the wretch quarrel with you?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Philip—and what is the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “Helena disgusts me.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVII. HELENA’S DIARY RESUMED. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I heard no more of their talk. With that last, worst outrage burning in my + memory, I left the place. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “It excites him dreadfully.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any particular interest in the place?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “None whatever.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I went back to my bedroom, and opened my Diary, and read the story again. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Elizabeth, your sympathy is thrown away on me. As I have told you + already, I am over-tired—nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have I interrupted you in writing?” she asked, pointing to my Diary. + </p> + <p> + “No; I was idling over what I have written already—an extraordinary + story which I copied from a book.” + </p> + <p> + “May I look at it?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Coarse melodrama!” Mrs. Tenbruggen declared. “Mere sensation. No analysis + of character. A made-up story!” + </p> + <p> + “Well made up, surely?” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Impossible! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any other motive for your departure?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He answered: “I have not been very well lately.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is all?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that is all.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Third Period <i>(continued)</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>EVENTS IN THE FAMILY, RELATED BY MISS JILLGALL.</i> <a + name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVIII. DANGER. + </h2> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I have news of Mrs. Tenbruggen which will, I think, surprise you. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I have just received some overwhelming news, in the form of a neat parcel, + addressed to myself. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Two days more have passed. The doctor has put two very strange questions + to me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + When we were in the garden, he noticed that I was trembling. + </p> + <p> + “Rouse your courage, Miss Jillgall,” he said. “In the Minister’s helpless + state there is nobody whom I can speak to but yourself.” + </p> + <p> + I ventured to remind him that he might speak to Helena as well as to + myself. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, do you think he will die?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “She shall hear that you are ill,” I answered—and ran out of the + room before he could speak again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIX. DEFENSE. + </h2> + <p> + One surprise followed another, after I had encountered Euneece at the + door. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Which is Philip’s room?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who is with him now?” was the next strange thing this sadly-changed girl + said to me. + </p> + <p> + “Maria is taking her turn,” I answered; “she assists in nursing Philip.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean Helena?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I mean the Poisoner.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “He was right, Euneece, entirely right.” + </p> + <p> + “No, dear, he was wrong. I begged him to come here, and judge for himself; + and I ask you to do the same.” + </p> + <p> + I was obstinate. “Go back!” I persisted. “Go back to the farm!” + </p> + <p> + “Can I see Philip?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there no change in the circumstances?” she asked sadly. “Isn’t he ill + and in danger?” + </p> + <p> + I begged her to forgive me; I said I meant no harm. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Miss Gracedieu?” + </p> + <p> + “Resting upstairs, miss, in her room.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at the clock, and tell me when you expect her to come down here.” + </p> + <p> + “I am to call her, miss, in ten minutes more.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait in the dining-room, Maria, till I come back to you.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Helena turned the corner of the stairs, and waited a moment on the last + landing, and saw her sister. + </p> + <p> + “You here?” she said. “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I looked. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>listening to something</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + Helena must have roused her courage, and resisted her terror. I heard her + speak: + </p> + <p> + “Let me by!” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Slowly, steadily, in a whisper, Euneece made that reply. + </p> + <p> + Helena tried once more—still fighting against her own terror: I knew + it by the trembling of her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Let me by,” she repeated; “I am on my way to Philip’s room.” + </p> + <p> + “You will never enter Philip’s room again.” + </p> + <p> + “Who will stop me?” + </p> + <p> + “I will.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Poisoner, go back to your room.” + </p> + <p> + Silent and shuddering, Helena shrank away from her—daunted by her + glittering eyes; mastered by her lifted hand pointing up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LX. DISCOVERY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He looked care-worn and grieved. I said I was afraid he had brought bad + news with him. + </p> + <p> + “The worst possible news,” he answered. “A terrible exposure threatens + this family, and I am powerless to prevent it.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What I have written, thus far, I shall send to you by to-night’s post. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you still afraid that she may succeed in poisoning Philip?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Two more days passed, and we were still safe under the protection of lock + and key. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXI. ATROCITY. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I think I see a note in your hand. Was it given to you by the young man + who has just left the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + “If he’s your sweetheart, my dear, I have nothing more to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, doctor, how you do talk! I never saw the young man before + in my life.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, Maria, I will ask you to let me look at the address. Aha! + Mischief!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Pray come in,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes!” + </p> + <p> + “That young man left the note which Maria has just taken upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Who wrote it, doctor, and what does it say?” + </p> + <p> + “Questions naturally asked, Miss Jillgall—and not easily answered. + Where is Eunice? Her quick wit might help us.” + </p> + <p> + She had gone out to buy some fruit and flowers for Philip. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “And vile as Helena is,” I continued, “we cannot deny that this disgrace + to her sex is a handsome young lady.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think she will take the chance?” + </p> + <p> + “For all our sakes, I pray God she may! But I don’t feel sure about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Just as he said those terrifying words, Maria came back to us. He asked at + once what had kept her so long upstairs. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor dismissed Maria. “Whatever it is,” he said to me, “you must go + and hear it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + In my own mind, I asked myself if she had gone mad. But I only answered: + “I don’t understand you.” + </p> + <p> + She said again: “You are Eunice’s accomplice.” + </p> + <p> + “Accomplice in what?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + She turned her head slowly and faced me. I shrank from looking at her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + She answered: “I accuse her of poisoning Philip Dunboyne.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “She brings a horrible accusation against her,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “What is the accusation?” I told him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His face startled me; it was white with rage. He snatched his hat off the + hall table. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “My duty.” He was out of the house before I could speak to him again. + </p> + <p> + Third Period <i>(concluded).</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>TROUBLES AND TRIUMPHS OF THE FAMILY, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR.</i> <a + name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXII. THE SENTENCE PRONOUNCED. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + During this interval, I heard regularly from the friendly and faithful + Selina. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At the renewed examination, the line of defense adopted by the prisoner’s + lawyer proved to be—mistaken identity. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I arrived in the town, as well as I can remember, about a week after the + trial had taken place. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But when she comes out of prison, what will she do?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t alarm yourself, my good friend. She will do very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hush! hush! Poetical justice, Mr. Governor!” + </p> + <p> + “Poetical fiddlesticks, Miss Jillgall.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXIII. THE OBSTACLE REMOVED. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Melancholy news, again, was the news that I now heard. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Philip submit to separation from Eunice?” I asked. “Does he stay in + Ireland?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Further consultation being thus deferred, I went upstairs to the + Minister’s room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you remember your old friend?” I said. He smiled, and nodded, and + repeated the words: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I suppose I must have looked glad to hear that. Anyway, Philip shook hands + with me again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How has she done it?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I made him sit down and compose himself. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + His head sank. “I am ashamed to defend it,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + I pressed him without mercy. “You own yourself,” I said, “that it was a + rascally action?” + </p> + <p> + “Use stronger language against me, even than that, sir—I deserve + it.” + </p> + <p> + “In plain words,” I went on, “you can find no excuse for your conduct?” + </p> + <p> + “In the past time,” he said, “I might have found excuses.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t find them now?” + </p> + <p> + “I must not even look for them now.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I owe it to Eunice to leave my conduct at its worst; with nothing said—by + me—to defend it.” + </p> + <p> + “What has Eunice done to have such a claim on you as that?” + </p> + <p> + “Eunice has forgiven me.” + </p> + <p> + It was gratefully and delicately said. Ought I to have allowed this + circumstance to weigh with me? I ask, in return, had <i>I</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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But the serious question was not answered yet. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Leaving Philip, with a few words of sympathy which might help him to bear + his suspense, I went to my room to think. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Any reason for feeling them?” She turned pale as she repeated the words. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He gave me his promise, without an instant’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Philip grants what I ask,” I said to Eunice. “Do you grant it, too?” + </p> + <p> + Her hand turned cold in mine; but she spoke firmly when she said: “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0064" id="link2HCH0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXIV. THE TRUTH TRIUMPHANT. + </h2> + <p> + The marriage was deferred, at Eunice’s request, as an expression of + respect to the memory of Philip’s father. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + I could honestly satisfy her, so far. “Certainly not!” I said. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “On my word of honor.” + </p> + <p> + We arrived at the church. Let Miss Jillgall describe the marriage, in her + own inimitable way. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Jillgall returned, on the wedding-day, to take care of the good man + who had befriended her in her hour of need. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + She was as cheerful as ever, and as eminently agreeable as ever. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “May I venture to ask how?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Bewilderment and dismay deprived me of my presence of mind. “How did you + discover that?” I was foolish enough to ask. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Only one. Is Philip to hear of this?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I hardly knew what to say. My face must have expressed disappointment and + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> secret.” + </p> + <p> + “Remember your promise,” I said + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What thoughts?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I relieved your mind of those doubts on the morning of your + marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I was only thinking of myself at that time. My mother—the doubt + of <i>her</i> is the doubt that torments me now.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + She put her arm in mine, and held by it with both hands. + </p> + <p> + “The mock-mother!” she whispered. “Do you remember that dreadful Vision, + that horrid whispering temptation in the dead of night? <i>Was</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + No! It was beating calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Does it relieve your anxiety?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not while Philip lives!” + </p> + <p> + There, where her love was—there her safety was. And she knew it! She + suddenly left me. I asked where she was going. + </p> + <p> + “To tell Philip,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + She was waiting for me at the door, when I followed her to the house. + </p> + <p> + “Is it done?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “It is done,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He said: ‘My darling, if I could be fonder of you than ever, I should be + fonder of you now.’” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POSTSCRIPT. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At times, my memory reverts to Helena Gracedieu, and to what I discovered + when I had seen her diary. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + I read: “The Reverend Miss Gracedieu.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +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-h.htm or 1975-h.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, and David Widger + +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. 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