Produced by James Rusk





THE LEGACY OF CAIN

By Wilkie Collins


To

MRS. HENRY POWELL BARTLEY:

Permit me to add your name to my name, in publishing this novel. The
pen which has written my books cannot be more agreeably employed than in
acknowledging what I owe to the pen which has skillfully and patiently
helped me, by copying my manuscripts for the printer.

WILKIE COLLINS.

Wimpole Street, 6th December, 1888.





THE LEGACY OF CAIN.




First Period: 1858-1859. EVENTS IN THE PRISON, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR.



CHAPTER I. THE GOVERNOR EXPLAINS.

At the request of a person who has claims on me that I must not disown,
I consent to look back through a long interval of years and to describe
events which took place within the walls of an English prison during the
earlier period of my appointment as Governor.

Viewing my task by the light which later experience casts on it, I think
I shall act wisely by exercising some control over the freedom of my
pen.

I propose to pass over in silence the name of the town in which is
situated the prison once confided to my care. I shall observe a similar
discretion in alluding to individuals--some dead, some living, at the
present time.

Being obliged to write of a woman who deservedly suffered the extreme
penalty of the law, I think she will be sufficiently identified if I
call her The Prisoner. Of the four persons present on the evening before
her execution three may be distinguished one from the other by allusion
to their vocations in life. I here introduce them as The Chaplain, The
Minister, and The Doctor. The fourth was a young woman. She has no claim
on my consideration; and, when she is mentioned, her name may appear.
If these reserves excite suspicion, I declare beforehand that they
influence in no way the sense of responsibility which commands an honest
man to speak the truth.



CHAPTER II. THE MURDERESS ASKS QUESTIONS.

The first of the events which I must now relate was the conviction of
The Prisoner for the murder of her husband.

They had lived together in matrimony for little more than two years. The
husband, a gentleman by birth and education, had mortally offended his
relations in marrying a woman of an inferior rank of life. He was
fast declining into a state of poverty, through his own reckless
extravagance, at the time when he met with his death at his wife's hand.

Without attempting to excuse him, he deserved, to my mind, some tribute
of regret. It is not to be denied that he was profligate in his
habits and violent in his temper. But it is equally true that he was
affectionate in the domestic circle, and, when moved by wisely applied
remonstrance, sincerely penitent for sins committed under temptation
that overpowered him. If his wife had killed him in a fit of jealous
rage--under provocation, be it remembered, which the witnesses
proved--she might have been convicted of manslaughter, and might have
received a light sentence. But the evidence so undeniably revealed
deliberate and merciless premeditation, that the only defense attempted
by her counsel was madness, and the only alternative left to a righteous
jury was a verdict which condemned the woman to death. Those mischievous
members of the community, whose topsy-turvy sympathies feel for the
living criminal and forget the dead victim, attempted to save her by
means of high-flown petitions and contemptible correspondence in the
newspapers. But the Judge held firm; and the Home Secretary held firm.
They were entirely right; and the public were scandalously wrong.

Our Chaplain endeavored to offer the consolations of religion to the
condemned wretch. She refused to accept his ministrations in language
which filled him with grief and horror.

On the evening before the execution, the reverend gentleman laid on my
table his own written report of a conversation which had passed between
the Prisoner and himself.

"I see some hope, sir," he said, "of inclining the heart of this woman
to religious belief, before it is too late. Will you read my report, and
say if you agree with me?"

I read it, of course. It was called "A Memorandum," and was thus
written:

"At his last interview with the Prisoner, the Chaplain asked her if she
had ever entered a place of public worship. She replied that she had
occasionally attended the services at a Congregational Church in this
town; attracted by the reputation of the Minister as a preacher. 'He
entirely failed to make a Christian of me,' she said; 'but I was struck
by his eloquence. Besides, he interested me personally--he was a fine
man.'

"In the dreadful situation in which the woman was placed, such language
as this shocked the Chaplain; he appealed in vain to the Prisoner's
sense of propriety. 'You don't understand women,' she answered. 'The
greatest saint of my sex that ever lived likes to look at a preacher as
well as to hear him. If he is an agreeable man, he has all the greater
effect on her. This preacher's voice told me he was kind-hearted; and
I had only to look at his beautiful eyes to see that he was trustworthy
and true.'

"It was useless to repeat a protest which had already failed. Recklessly
and flippantly as she had described it, an impression had been produced
on her. It occurred to the Chaplain that he might at least make the
attempt to turn this result to her own religious advantage. He asked
whether she would receive the Minister, if the reverend gentleman came
to the prison. 'That will depend,' she said, 'on whether you answer some
questions which I want to put to you first.' The Chaplain consented;
provided always that he could reply with propriety to what she asked of
him. Her first question only related to himself.

"She said: 'The women who watch me tell me that you are a widower, and
have a family of children. Is that true?'

"The Chaplain answered that it was quite true.

"She alluded next to a report, current in the town, that the Minister
had resigned the pastorate. Being personally acquainted with him, the
Chaplain was able to inform her that his resignation had not yet been
accepted. On hearing this, she seemed to gather confidence. Her next
inquiries succeeded each other rapidly, as follows:

"'Is my handsome preacher married?'

"'Yes.'

"'Has he got any children?'

"'He has never had any children.'

"'How long has he been married?'

"'As well as I know, about seven or eight years.

"'What sort of woman is his wife?'

"'A lady universally respected.'

"'I don't care whether she is respected or not. Is she kind?'

"'Certainly!'

"'Is her husband well off?'

"'He has a sufficient income.'

"After that reply, the Prisoner's curiosity appeared to be satisfied.
She said, 'Bring your friend the preacher to me, if you like'--and there
it ended.

"What her object could have been in putting these questions, it seems to
be impossible to guess. Having accurately reported all that took place,
the Chaplain declares, with heartfelt regret, that he can exert no
religious influence over this obdurate woman. He leaves it to the
Governor to decide whether the Minister of the Congregational Church may
not succeed, where the Chaplain of the Jail has failed. Herein is the
one last hope of saving the soul of the Prisoner, now under sentence of
death!"

In those serious words the Memorandum ended. Although not personally
acquainted with the Minister I had heard of him, on all sides, as an
excellent man. In the emergency that confronted us he had, as it seemed
to me, his own sacred right to enter the prison; assuming that he
was willing to accept, what I myself felt to be, a very serious
responsibility. The first necessity was to discover whether we might
hope to obtain his services. With my full approval the Chaplain left me,
to state the circumstances to his reverend colleague.



CHAPTER III. THE CHILD APPEARS.

During my friend's absence, my attention was claimed by a sad
incident--not unforeseen.

It is, I suppose, generally known that near relatives are admitted to
take their leave of criminals condemned to death. In the case of the
Prisoner now waiting for execution, no person applied to the authorities
for permission to see her. I myself inquired if she had any relations
living, and if she would like to see them. She answered: "None that
I care to see, or that care to see me--except the nearest relation of
all."

In those last words the miserable creature alluded to her only child, a
little girl (an infant, I should say), who had passed her first year's
birthday by a few months. The farewell interview was to take place on
the mother's last evening on earth; and the child was now brought into
my rooms, in charge of her nurse.

I had seldom seen a brighter or prettier little girl. She was just able
to walk alone, and to enjoy the first delight of moving from one place
to another. Quite of her own accord she came to me, attracted I daresay
by the glitter of my watch-chain. Helping her to climb on my knee, I
showed the wonders of the watch, and held it to her ear. At that past
time, death had taken my good wife from me; my two boys were away at
Harrow School; my domestic life was the life of a lonely man. Whether
I was reminded of the bygone days when my sons were infants on my knee,
listening to the ticking of my watch--or whether the friendless position
of the poor little creature, who had lost one parent and was soon to
lose the other by a violent death, moved me in depths of pity not easily
reached in my later experience--I am not able to say. This only I know:
my heart ached for the child while she was laughing and listening; and
something fell from me on the watch which I don't deny might have been
a tear. A few of the toys, mostly broken now, which my two children
used to play with are still in my possession; kept, like my poor wife's
favorite jewels, for old remembrance' sake. These I took from their
repository when the attraction of my watch showed signs of failing. The
child pounced on them with her chubby hands, and screamed with pleasure.
And the hangman was waiting for her mother--and, more horrid still, the
mother deserved it!

My duty required me to let the Prisoner know that her little daughter
had arrived. Did that heart of iron melt at last? It might have been so,
or it might not; the message sent back kept her secret. All that it said
to me was: "Let the child wait till I send for her."

The Minister had consented to help us. On his arrival at the prison, I
received him privately in my study.

I had only to look at his face--pitiably pale and agitated--to see
that he was a sensitive man, not always able to control his nerves on
occasions which tried his moral courage. A kind, I might almost say a
noble face, and a voice unaffectedly persuasive, at once prepossessed
me in his favor. The few words of welcome that I spoke were intended
to compose him. They failed to produce the impression on which I had
counted.

"My experience," he said, "has included many melancholy duties, and has
tried my composure in terrible scenes; but I have never yet found myself
in the presence of an unrepentant criminal, sentenced to death--and
that criminal a woman and a mother. I own, sir, that I am shaken by the
prospect before me."

I suggested that he should wait a while, in the hope that time and quiet
might help him. He thanked me, and refused.

"If I have any knowledge of myself," he said, "terrors of anticipation
lose their hold when I am face to face with a serious call on me. The
longer I remain here, the less worthy I shall appear of the trust that
has been placed in me--the trust which, please God, I mean to deserve."

My own observation of human nature told me that this was wisely said. I
led the way at once to the cell.

CHAPTER IV. THE MINISTER SAYS YES.

The Prisoner was seated on her bed, quietly talking with the woman
appointed to watch her. When she rose to receive us, I saw the Minister
start. The face that confronted him would, in my opinion, have taken any
man by surprise, if he had first happened to see it within the walls of
a prison.

Visitors to the picture-galleries of Italy, growing weary of Holy
Families in endless succession, observe that the idea of the Madonna,
among the rank and file of Italian Painters, is limited to one
changeless and familiar type. I can hardly hope to be believed when I
say that the personal appearance of the murderess recalled that type.
She presented the delicate light hair, the quiet eyes, the finely-shaped
lower features and the correctly oval form of face, repeated in hundreds
on hundreds of the conventional works of Art to which I have ventured to
allude. To those who doubt me, I can only declare that what I have
here written is undisguised and absolute truth. Let me add that daily
observation of all classes of criminals, extending over many years, has
considerably diminished my faith in physiognomy as a safe guide to the
discovery of character. Nervous trepidation looks like guilt. Guilt,
firmly sustained by insensibility, looks like innocence. One of the
vilest wretches ever placed under my charge won the sympathies (while he
was waiting for his trial) of every person who saw him, including even
the persons employed in the prison. Only the other day, ladies and
gentlemen coming to visit me passed a body of men at work on the road.
Judges of physiognomy among them were horrified at the criminal atrocity
betrayed in every face that they noticed. They condoled with me on the
near neighborhood of so many convicts to my official place of residence.
I looked out of the window and saw a group of honest laborers (whose
only crime was poverty) employed by the parish!

Having instructed the female warder to leave the room--but to take care
that she waited within call--I looked again at the Minister.

Confronted by the serious responsibility that he had undertaken, he
justified what he had said to me. Still pale, still distressed, he was
now nevertheless master of himself. I turned to the door to leave him
alone with the Prisoner. She called me back.

"Before this gentleman tries to convert me," she said, "I want you to
wait here and be a witness."

Finding that we were both willing to comply with this request, she
addressed herself directly to the Minister. "Suppose I promise to listen
to your exhortations," she began, "what do you promise to do for me in
return?"

The voice in which she spoke to him was steady and clear; a marked
contrast to the tremulous earnestness with which he answered her.

"I promise to urge you to repentance and the confession of your crime. I
promise to implore the divine blessing on me in the effort to save your
poor guilty soul."

She looked at him, and listened to him, as if he was speaking to her in
an unknown tongue, and went on with what she had to say as quietly as
ever.

"When I am hanged to-morrow, suppose I die without confessing, without
repenting--are you one of those who believe I shall be doomed to eternal
punishment in another life?"

"I believe in the mercy of God."

"Answer my question, if you please. Is an impenitent sinner eternally
punished? Do you believe that?"

"My Bible leaves me no other alternative."

She paused for a while, evidently considering with special attention
what she was about to say next.

"As a religious man," she resumed, "would you be willing to make some
sacrifice, rather than let a fellow-creature go--after a disgraceful
death--to everlasting torment?"

"I know of no sacrifice in my power," he said, fervently, "to which I
would not rather submit than let you die in the present dreadful state
of your mind."

The Prisoner turned to me. "Is the person who watches me waiting
outside?"

"Yes."

"Will you be so kind as to call her in? I have a message for her."

It was plain that she had been leading the way to the delivery of
that message, whatever it might be, in all that she had said up to the
present time. So far my poor powers of penetration helped me, and no
further.

The warder appeared, and received her message. "Tell the woman who has
come here with my little girl that I want to see the child."

Taken completely by surprise, I signed to the attendant to wait for
further instructions.

In a moment more I had sufficiently recovered myself to see the
impropriety of permitting any obstacle to interpose between the Minister
and his errand of mercy. I gently reminded the Prisoner that she would
have a later opportunity of seeing her child. "Your first duty," I told
her, "is to hear and to take to heart what the clergyman has to say to
you."

For the second time I attempted to leave the cell. For the second time
this impenetrable woman called me back.

"Take the parson away with you," she said. "I refuse to listen to him."

The patient Minister yielded, and appealed to me to follow his example.
I reluctantly sanctioned the delivery of the message.

After a brief interval the child was brought to us, tired and sleepy.
For a while the nurse roused her by setting her on her feet. She
happened to notice the Minister first. Her bright eyes rested on him,
gravely wondering. He kissed her, and, after a momentary hesitation,
gave her to her mother. The horror of the situation overpowered him:
he turned his face away from us. I understood what he felt; he almost
overthrew my own self-command.

The Prisoner spoke to the nurse in no friendly tone: "You can go."

The nurse turned to me, ostentatiously ignoring the words that had been
addressed to her. "Am I to go, sir, or to stay?" I suggested that she
should return to the waiting-room. She returned at once in silence. The
Prisoner looked after her as she went out, with such an expression of
hatred in her eyes that the Minister noticed it.

"What has that person done to offend you?" he asked.

"She is the last person in the whole world whom I should have chosen
to take care of my child, if the power of choosing had been mine. But
I have been in prison, without a living creature to represent me or to
take my part. No more of that; my troubles will be over in a few hours
more. I want you to look at my little girl, whose troubles are all to
come. Do you call her pretty? Do you feel interested in her?"

The sorrow and pity in his face answered for him.

Quietly sleeping, the poor baby rested on her mother's bosom. Was the
heart of the murderess softened by the divine influence of maternal
love? The hands that held the child trembled a little. For the first
time it seemed to cost her an effort to compose herself, before she
could speak to the Minister again.

"When I die to-morrow," she said, "I leave my child helpless and
friendless--disgraced by her mother's shameful death. The workhouse
may take her--or a charitable asylum may take her." She paused; a first
tinge of color rose on her pale face; she broke into an outburst of
rage. "Think of _my_ daughter being brought up by charity! She may
suffer poverty, she may be treated with contempt, she may be employed by
brutal people in menial work. I can't endure it; it maddens me. If she
is not saved from that wretched fate, I shall die despairing, I shall
die cursing--"

The Minister sternly stopped her before she could say the next word.
To my astonishment she appeared to be humbled, to be even ashamed: she
asked his pardon: "Forgive me; I won't forget myself again. They tell
me you have no children of your own. Is that a sorrow to you and your
wife?"

Her altered tone touched him. He answered sadly and kindly: "It is the
one sorrow of our lives."

The purpose which she had been keeping in view from the moment when
the Minister entered her cell was no mystery now. Ought I to have
interfered? Let me confess a weakness, unworthy perhaps of my office. I
was so sorry for the child--I hesitated.

My silence encouraged the mother. She advanced to the Minister with the
sleeping infant in her arms.

"I daresay you have sometimes thought of adopting a child?" she said.
"Perhaps you can guess now what I had in my mind, when I asked if you
would consent to a sacrifice? Will you take this wretched innocent
little creature home with you?" She lost her self-possession once more.
"A motherless creature to-morrow," she burst out. "Think of that."

God knows how I still shrunk from it! But there was no alternative now;
I was bound to remember my duty to the excellent man, whose critical
position at that moment was, in some degree at least, due to my
hesitation in asserting my authority. Could I allow the Prisoner to
presume on his compassionate nature, and to hurry him into a decision
which, in his calmer moments, he might find reason to regret? I spoke
to _him_. Does the man live who--having to say what I had to say--could
have spoken to the doomed mother?

"I am sorry to have allowed this to go on," I said. "In justice to
yourself, sir, don't answer!"

She turned on me with a look of fury.

"He shall answer," she cried.

I saw, or thought I saw, signs of yielding in his face. "Take time," I
persisted--"take time to consider before you decide."

She stepped up to me.

"Take time?" she repeated. "Are you inhuman enough to talk of time, in
my presence?"

She laid the sleeping child on her bed, and fell on her knees before the
Minister: "I promise to hear your exhortations--I promise to do all
a woman can to believe and repent. Oh, I know myself! My heart, once
hardened, is a heart that no human creature can touch. The one way to
my better nature--if I have a better nature--is through that poor babe.
Save her from the workhouse! Don't let them make a pauper of her!" She
sank prostrate at his feet, and beat her hands in frenzy on the floor.
"You want to save my guilty soul," she reminded him furiously. "There's
but one way of doing it. Save my child!"

He raised her. Her fierce tearless eyes questioned his face in a mute
expectation dreadful to see. Suddenly, a foretaste of death--the death
that was so near now!--struck her with a shivering fit: her head dropped
on the Minister's shoulder. Other men might have shrunk from the contact
of it. That true Christian let it rest.

Under the maddening sting of suspense, her sinking energies rallied for
an instant. In a whisper, she was just able to put the supreme question
to him.

"Yes? or No?"

He answered: "Yes."

A faint breath of relief, just audible in the silence, told me that she
had heard him. It was her last effort. He laid her, insensible, on the
bed, by the side of her sleeping child. "Look at them," was all he said
to me; "how could I refuse?"



CHAPTER V. MISS CHANCE ASSERTS HERSELF.

The services of our medical officer were required, in order to hasten
the recovery of the Prisoner's senses.

When the Doctor and I left the cell together, she was composed, and
ready (in the performance of her promise) to listen to the exhortations
of the Minister. The sleeping child was left undisturbed, by the
mother's desire. If the Minister felt tempted to regret what he had
done, there was the artless influence which would check him! As we
stepped into the corridor, I gave the female warder her instructions to
remain on the watch, and to return to her post when she saw the Minister
come out.

In the meantime, my companion had walked on a little way.

Possessed of ability and experience within the limits of his profession,
he was in other respects a man with a crotchety mind; bold to the verge
of recklessness in the expression of his opinion; and possessed of a
command of language that carried everything before it. Let me add that
he was just and merciful in his intercourse with others, and I shall
have summed him up fairly enough. When I joined him he seemed to be
absorbed in reflection.

"Thinking of the Prisoner?" I said.

"Thinking of what is going on, at this moment, in the condemned cell,"
he answered, "and wondering if any good will come of it."

I was not without hope of a good result, and I said so.

The Doctor disagreed with me. "I don't believe in that woman's
penitence," he remarked; "and I look upon the parson as a poor weak
creature. What is to become of the child?"

There was no reason for concealing from one of my colleagues the
benevolent decision, on the part of the good Minister, of which I had
been a witness. The Doctor listened to me with the first appearance of
downright astonishment that I had ever observed in his face. When I had
done, he made an extraordinary reply:

"Governor, I retract what I said of the parson just now. He is one of
the boldest men that ever stepped into a pulpit."

Was the doctor in earnest? Strongly in earnest; there could be no doubt
of it. Before I could ask him what he meant, he was called away to a
patient on the other side of the prison. When we parted at the door of
my room, I made it a request that my medical friend would return to me
and explain what he had just said.

"Considering that you are the governor of a prison," he replied, "you
are a singularly rash man. If I come back, how do you know I shall not
bore you?"

"My rashness runs the risk of that," I rejoined.

"Tell me something, before I allow you to run your risk," he said.
"Are you one of those people who think that the tempers of children are
formed by the accidental influences which happen to be about them? Or do
you agree with me that the tempers of children are inherited from their
parents?"

The Doctor (as I concluded) was still strongly impressed by the
Minister's resolution to adopt a child whose wicked mother had committed
the most atrocious of all crimes. Was some serious foreboding in secret
possession of his mind? My curiosity to hear him was now increased
tenfold. I replied without hesitation:

"I agree with you."

He looked at me with his sense of humor twinkling in his eyes. "Do you
know I rather expected that answer?" he said, slyly. "All right. I'll
come back."

Left by myself, I took up the day's newspaper.

My attention wandered; my thoughts were in the cell with the Minister
and the Prisoner. How would it end? Sometimes, I was inclined to doubt
with the Doctor. Sometimes, I took refuge in my own more hopeful view.
These idle reflections were agreeably interrupted by the appearance of
my friend, the Chaplain.

"You are always welcome," I said; "and doubly welcome just now. I am
feeling a little worried and anxious."

"And you are naturally," the Chaplain added, "not at all disposed to
receive a stranger?"

"Is the stranger a friend of yours?" I asked.

"Oh, no! Having occasion, just now, to go into the waiting-room, I found
a young woman there, who asked me if she could see you. She thinks you
have forgotten her, and she is tired of waiting. I merely undertook, of
course, to mention what she had said to me."

The nurse having been in this way recalled to my memory, I felt some
little interest in seeing her, after what had passed in the cell. In
plainer words, I was desirous of judging for myself whether she deserved
the hostile feeling which the Prisoner had shown toward her. I thanked
the Chaplain before he left me, and gave the servant the necessary
instructions. When she entered the room, I looked at the woman
attentively for the first time.

Youth and a fine complexion, a well-made figure and a natural grace of
movement--these were her personal attractions, so far as I could
see. Her defects were, to my mind, equally noticeable. Under a heavy
forehead, her piercing eyes looked out at persons and things with an
expression which was not to my taste. Her large mouth--another defect,
in my opinion--would have been recommended to mercy, in the estimation
of many men, by her magnificent teeth; white, well-shaped, cruelly
regular. Believers in physiognomy might perhaps have seen the betrayal
of an obstinate nature in the lengthy firmness of her chin. While I am
trying to describe her, let me not forget her dress. A woman's dress
is the mirror in which we may see the reflection of a woman's nature.
Bearing in mind the melancholy and impressive circumstances under which
she had brought the child to the prison, the gayety of color in her gown
and her bonnet implied either a total want of feeling, or a total want
of tact. As to her position in life, let me confess that I felt, after
a closer examination, at a loss to determine it. She was certainly not
a lady. The Prisoner had spoken of her as if she was a domestic servant
who had forfeited her right to consideration and respect. And she had
entered the prison, as a nurse might have entered it, in charge of a
child. I did what we all do when we are not clever enough to find the
answer to a riddle--I gave it up.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

"Perhaps you can tell me," she answered, "how much longer I am to be
kept waiting in this prison."

"The decision," I reminded her, "doesn't depend on me."

"Then who does it depend on?"

The Minister had undoubtedly acquired the sole right of deciding. It
was for him to say whether this woman should, or should not, remain
in attendance on the child whom he had adopted. In the meanwhile, the
feeling of distrust which was gaining on my mind warned me to remember
the value of reserve in holding intercourse with a stranger.

She seemed to be irritated by my silence. "If the decision doesn't rest
with you," she asked, "why did you tell me to stay in the waiting-room?"

"You brought the little girl into the prison," I said; "was it not
natural to suppose that your mistress might want you--"

"Stop, sir!"

I had evidently given offense; I stopped directly.

"No person on the face of the earth," she declared, loftily, "has ever
had the right to call herself my mistress. Of my own free will, sir, I
took charge of the child."

"Because you are fond of her?" I suggested.

"I hate her."

It was unwise on my part--I protested. "Hate a baby little more than a
year old!" I said.

"_Her_ baby!"

She said it with the air of a woman who had produced an unanswerable
reason. "I am accountable to nobody," she went on. "If I consented
to trouble myself with the child, it was in remembrance of my
friendship--notice, if you please, that I say friendship--with the
unhappy father."

Putting together what I had just heard, and what I had seen in the cell,
I drew the right conclusion at last. The woman, whose position in life
had been thus far an impenetrable mystery to me, now stood revealed
as one, among other objects of the Prisoner's jealousy, during her
disastrous married life. A serious doubt occurred to me as to the
authority under which the husband's mistress might be acting, after the
husband's death. I instantly put it to the test.

"Do I understand you to assert any claim to the child?" I asked.

"Claim?" she repeated. "I know no more of the child than you do. I
heard for the first time that such a creature was in existence, when
her murdered father sent for me in his dying moments. At his entreaty I
promised to take care of her, while her vile mother was out of the house
and in the hands of the law. My promise has been performed. If I am
expected (having brought her to the prison) to take her away again,
understand this: I am under no obligation (even if I could afford it)
to burden myself with that child; I shall hand her over to the workhouse
authorities."

I forgot myself once more--I lost my temper.

"Leave the room," I said. "Your unworthy hands will not touch the poor
baby again. She is provided for."

"I don't believe you!" the wretch burst out. "Who has taken the child?"

A quiet voice answered: "_I_ have taken her."

We both looked round and saw the Minister standing in the open doorway,
with the child in his arms. The ordeal that he had gone through in the
condemned cell was visible in his face; he looked miserably haggard and
broken. I was eager to know if his merciful interest in the Prisoner had
purified her guilty soul--but at the same time I was afraid, after what
he had but too plainly suffered, to ask him to enter into details.

"Only one word," I said. "Are your anxieties at rest?"

"God's mercy has helped me," he answered. "I have not spoken in vain.
She believes; she repents; she has confessed the crime."

After handing the written and signed confession to me, he approached
the venomous creature, still lingering in the room to hear what passed
between us. Before I could stop him, he spoke to her, under a natural
impression that he was addressing the Prisoner's servant.

"I am afraid you will be disappointed," he said, "when I tell you that
your services will no longer be required. I have reasons for placing the
child under the care of a nurse of my own choosing."

She listened with an evil smile.

"I know who furnished you with your reasons," she answered. "Apologies
are quite needless, so far as I am concerned. If you had proposed to me
to look after the new member of your family there, I should have felt it
my duty to myself to have refused. I am not a nurse--I am an independent
single lady. I see by your dress that you are a clergyman. Allow me to
present myself as a mark of respect to your cloth. I am Miss Elizabeth
Chance. May I ask the favor of your name?"

Too weary and too preoccupied to notice the insolence of her manner, the
Minister mentioned his name. "I am anxious," he said, "to know if the
child has been baptized. Perhaps you can enlighten me?"

Still insolent, Miss Elizabeth Chance shook her head carelessly. "I
never heard--and, to tell you the truth, I never cared to hear--whether
she was christened or not. Call her by what name you like, I can tell
you this--you will find your adopted daughter a heavy handful."

The Minister turned to me. "What does she mean?"

"I will try to tell you," Miss Chance interposed. "Being a clergyman,
you know who Deborah was? Very well. I am Deborah now; and _I_
prophesy." She pointed to the child. "Remember what I say, reverend sir!
You will find the tigress-cub take after its mother."

With those parting words, she favored us with a low curtsey, and left
the room.



CHAPTER VI. THE DOCTOR DOUBTS.

The Minister looked at me in an absent manner; his attention seemed to
have been wandering. "What was it Miss Chance said?" he asked.

Before I could speak, a friend's voice at the door interrupted us. The
Doctor, returning to me as he had promised, answered the Minister's
question in these words:

"I must have passed the person you mean, sir, as I was coming in here;
and I heard her say: 'You will find the tigress-cub take after its
mother.' If she had known how to put her meaning into good English, Miss
Chance--that is the name you mentioned, I think--might have told you
that the vices of the parents are inherited by the children. And the
one particular parent she had in her mind," the Doctor continued, gently
patting the child's cheek, "was no doubt the mother of this unfortunate
little creature--who may, or may not, live to show you that she comes of
a bad stock and inherits a wicked nature."

I was on the point of protesting against my friend's interpretation,
when the Minister stopped me.

"Let me thank you, sir, for your explanation," he said to the Doctor.
"As soon as my mind is free, I will reflect on what you have said.
Forgive me, Mr. Governor," he went on, "if I leave you, now that I have
placed the Prisoner's confession in your hands. It has been an effort to
me to say the little I have said, since I first entered this room. I can
think of nothing but that unhappy criminal, and the death that she must
die to-morrow."

"Does she wish you to be present?" I asked.

"She positively forbids it. 'After what you have done for me,' she
said, 'the least I can do in return is to prevent your being needlessly
distressed.' She took leave of me; she kissed the little girl for the
last time--oh, don't ask me to tell you about it! I shall break down
if I try. Come, my darling!" He kissed the child tenderly, and took her
away with him.

"That man is a strange compound of strength and weakness," the Doctor
remarked. "Did you notice his face, just now? Nine men out of ten,
suffering as he suffered, would have failed to control themselves. Such
resolution as his _may_ conquer the difficulties that are in store for
him yet."

It was a trial of my temper to hear my clever colleague justifying, in
this way, the ignorant prediction of an insolent woman.

"There are exceptions to all rules," I insisted. "And why are the
virtues of the parents not just as likely to descend to the children as
the vices? There was a fund of good, I can tell you, in that poor baby's
father--though I don't deny that he was a profligate man. And even the
horrible mother--as you heard just now--has virtue enough left in her
to feel grateful to the man who has taken care of her child. These are
facts; you can't dispute them."

The Doctor took out his pipe. "Do you mind my smoking?" he asked.
"Tobacco helps me to arrange my ideas."

I gave him the means of arranging his ideas; that is to say, I gave
him the match-box. He blew some preliminary clouds of smoke and then he
answered me:

"For twenty years past, my friend, I have been studying the question
of hereditary transmission of qualities; and I have found vices and
diseases descending more frequently to children than virtue and health.
I don't stop to ask why: there is no end to that sort of curiosity. What
I have observed is what I tell you; no more and no less. You will say
this is a horribly discouraging result of experience, for it tends to
show that children come into the world at a disadvantage on the day of
their birth. Of course they do. Children are born deformed; children are
born deaf, dumb, or blind; children are born with the seeds in them of
deadly diseases. Who can account for the cruelties of creation? Why are
we endowed with life--only to end in death? And does it ever strike you,
when you are cutting your mutton at dinner, and your cat is catching its
mouse, and your spider is suffocating its fly, that we are all, big
and little together, born to one certain inheritance--the privilege of
eating each other?"

"Very sad," I admitted. "But it will all be set right in another world."

"Are you quite sure of that?" the Doctor asked.

"Quite sure, thank God! And it would be better for you if you felt about
it as I do."

"We won't dispute, my dear Governor. I don't scoff at comforting hopes;
I don't deny the existence of occasional compensations. But I do see,
nevertheless, that Evil has got the upper hand among us, on this curious
little planet. Judging by my observation and experience, that ill-fated
baby's chance of inheriting the virtues of her parents is not to be
compared with her chances of inheriting their vices; especially if she
happens to take after her mother. _There_ the virtue is not conspicuous,
and the vice is one enormous fact. When I think of the growth of that
poisonous hereditary taint, which may come with time--when I think of
passions let loose and temptations lying in ambush--I see the smooth
surface of the Minister's domestic life with dangers lurking under it
which make me shake in my shoes. God! what a life I should lead, if I
happened to be in his place, some years hence. Suppose I said or did
something (in the just exercise of my parental authority) which offended
my adopted daughter. What figure would rise from the dead in my memory,
when the girl bounced out of the room in a rage? The image of her mother
would be the image I should see. I should remember what her mother did
when _she_ was provoked; I should lock my bedroom door, in my own house,
at night. I should come down to breakfast with suspicions in my cup of
tea, if I discovered that my adopted daughter had poured it out. Oh,
yes; it's quite true that I might be doing the girl a cruel injustice
all the time; but how am I to be sure of that? I am only sure that her
mother was hanged for one of the most merciless murders committed in our
time. Pass the match-box. My pipe's out, and my confession of faith has
come to an end."

It was useless to dispute with a man who possessed his command of
language. At the same time, there was a bright side to the poor
Minister's prospects which the Doctor had failed to see. It was barely
possible that I might succeed in putting my positive friend in the
wrong. I tried the experiment, at any rate.

"You seem to have forgotten," I reminded him, "that the child will have
every advantage that education can offer to her, and will be accustomed
from her earliest years to restraining and purifying influences, in a
clergyman's household."

Now that he was enjoying the fumes of tobacco, the Doctor was as placid
and sweet-tempered as a man could be.

"Quite true," he said.

"Do you doubt the influence of religion?" I asked sternly.

He answered, sweetly: "Not at all"

"Or the influence of kindness?"

"Oh, dear, no!"

"Or the force of example?"

"I wouldn't deny it for the world."

I had not expected this extraordinary docility. The Doctor had got the
upper hand of me again--a state of things that I might have found it
hard to endure, but for a call of duty which put an end to our sitting.
One of the female warders appeared with a message from the condemned
cell. The Prisoner wished to see the Governor and the Medical Officer.

"Is she ill?" the Doctor inquired.

"No, sir."

"Hysterical? or agitated, perhaps?"

"As easy and composed, sir, as a person can be."

We set forth together for the condemned cell.

CHAPTER VII. THE MURDERESS CONSULTS THE AUTHORITIES.

There was a considerate side to my friend's character, which showed
itself when the warder had left us.

He was especially anxious to be careful of what he said to a woman in
the Prisoner's terrible situation; especially in the event of her having
been really subjected to the influence of religious belief. On the
Minister's own authority, I declared that there was every reason to
adopt this conclusion; and in support of what I had said I showed him
the confession. It only contained a few lines, acknowledging that she
had committed the murder and that she deserved her sentence. "From the
planning of the crime to the commission of the crime, I was in my
right senses throughout. I knew what I was doing." With that remarkable
disavowal of the defense set up by her advocate, the confession ended.

My colleague read the paper, and handed it back to me without making any
remark. I asked if he suspected the Prisoner of feigning conversion to
please the Minister.

"She shall not discover it," he answered, gravely, "if I do."

It would not be true to say that the Doctor's obstinacy had shaken
my belief in the good result of the Minister's interference. I may,
however, acknowledge that I felt some misgivings, which were not
dispelled when I found myself in the presence of the Prisoner.

I had expected to see her employed in reading the Bible. The good book
was closed and was not even placed within her reach. The occupation to
which she was devoting herself astonished and repelled me.

Some carelessness on the part of the attendant had left on the table the
writing materials that had been needed for her confession. She was using
them now--when death on the scaffold was literally within a few hours
of her--to sketch a portrait of the female warder, who was on the watch!
The Doctor and I looked at each other; and now the sincerity of her
repentance was something that I began to question, too.

She laid down the pen, and proceeded quietly to explain herself.

"Even the little time that is left to me proves to be a weary time
to get through," she said. "I am making a last use of the talent for
drawing and catching a likeness, which has been one of my gifts since I
was a girl. You look as if you didn't approve of such employment as this
for a woman who is going to be hanged. Well, sir, I have no doubt you
are right." She paused, and tore up the portrait. "If I have misbehaved
myself," she resumed, "I make amends. To find you in an indulgent frame
of mind is of importance to me just now. I have a favor to ask of you.
May the warder leave the cell for a few minutes?"

Giving the woman permission to withdraw for a while, I waited with some
anxiety to hear what the Prisoner wanted of me.

"I have something to say to you," she proceeded, "on the subject of
executions. The face of a person who is going to be hanged is hidden, as
I have been told, by a white cap drawn over it. Is that true?"

How another man might have felt, in my place, I cannot, of course,
say. To my mind, such a question--on _her_ lips--was too shocking to be
answered in words. I bowed.

"And the body is buried," she went on, "in the prison?"

I could remain silent no longer. "Is there no human feeling left in
you?" I burst out. "What do these horrid questions mean?"

"Don't be angry with me, sir; you shall hear directly. I want to know
first if I am to be buried in the prison?"

I replied as before, by a bow.

"Now," she said, "I may tell you what I mean. In the autumn of last
year I was taken to see some waxworks. Portraits of criminals were
among them. There was one portrait--" She hesitated; her infernal
self-possession failed her at last. The color left her face; she was no
longer able to look at me firmly. "There was one portrait," she resumed,
"that had been taken after the execution. The face was so hideous; it
was swollen to such a size in its frightful deformity--oh, sir, don't
let me be seen in that state, even by the strangers who bury me! Use
your influence--forbid them to take the cap off my face when I am
dead--order them to bury me in it, and I swear to you I'll meet death
tomorrow as coolly as the boldest man that ever mounted the scaffold!"
Before I could stop her, she seized me by the hand, and wrung it with
a furious power that left the mark of her grasp on me, in a bruise, for
days afterward. "Will you do it?" she cried. "You're an honorable man;
you will keep your word. Give me your promise!"

I gave her my promise.

The relief to her tortured spirit expressed itself horribly in a burst
of frantic laughter. "I can't help it," she gasped; "I'm so happy."

My enemies said of me, when I got my appointment, that I was too
excitable a man to be governor of a prison. Perhaps they were not
altogether wrong. Anyhow, the quick-witted Doctor saw some change in me,
which I was not aware of myself. He took my arm and led me out of the
cell. "Leave her to me," he whispered. "The fine edge of my nerves was
worn off long ago in the hospital."

When we met again, I asked what had passed between the Prisoner and
himself.

"I gave her time to recover," he told me; "and, except that she looked a
little paler than usual, there was no trace left of the frenzy that you
remember. 'I ought to apologize for troubling you,' she said; 'but it is
perhaps natural that I should think, now and then, of what is to happen
to me to-morrow morning. As a medical man, you will be able to enlighten
me. Is death by hanging a painful death?' She had put it so politely
that I felt bound to answer her. 'If the neck happens to be broken,' I
said, 'hanging is a sudden death; fright and pain (if there is any pain)
are both over in an instant. As to the other form of death which is also
possible (I mean death by suffocation), I must own as an honest man that
I know no more about it than you do.' After considering a little, she
made a sensible remark, and followed it by an embarrassing request. 'A
great deal,' she said, 'must depend on the executioner. I am not afraid
of death, Doctor. Why should I be? My anxiety about my little girl is
set at rest; I have nothing left to live for. But I don't like pain.
Would you mind telling the executioner to be careful? Or would it be
better if I spoke to him myself?' I said I thought it would come with
a better grace from herself. She understood me directly; and we dropped
the subject. Are you surprised at her coolness, after your experience of
her?"

I confessed that I was surprised.

"Think a little," the Doctor said. "The one sensitive place in that
woman's nature is the place occupied by her self-esteem."

I objected to this that she had shown fondness for her child.

My friend disposed of the objection with his customary readiness.

"The maternal instinct," he said. "A cat is fond of her kittens; a cow
is fond of her calf. No, sir, the one cause of that outbreak of passion
which so shocked you--a genuine outbreak, beyond all doubt--is to be
found in the vanity of a fine feminine creature, overpowered by a horror
of looking hideous, even after her death. Do you know I rather like that
woman?"

"Is it possible that you are in earnest?" I asked.

"I know as well as you do," he answered, "that this is neither a time
nor a place for jesting. The fact is, the Prisoner carries out an idea
of mine. It is my positive conviction that the worst murders--I mean
murders deliberately planned--are committed by persons absolutely
deficient in that part of the moral organization which _feels_. The
night before they are hanged they sleep. On their last morning they
eat a breakfast. Incapable of realizing the horror of murder, they are
incapable of realizing the horror of death. Do you remember the last
murderer who was hanged here--a gentleman's coachman who killed his
wife? He had but two anxieties while he was waiting for execution. One
was to get his allowance of beer doubled, and the other was to be hanged
in his coachman's livery. No! no! these wretches are all alike; they are
human creatures born with the temperaments of tigers. Take my word for
it, we need feel no anxiety about to-morrow. The Prisoner will face the
crowd round the scaffold with composure; and the people will say, 'She
died game.'"



CHAPTER VIII. THE MINISTER SAYS GOOD-BY.

The Capital Punishment of the Prisoner is in no respect connected with
my purpose in writing the present narrative. Neither do I desire
to darken these pages by describing in detail an act of righteous
retribution which must present, by the nature of it, a scene of horror.
For these reasons I ask to be excused, if I limit what I must needs say
of the execution within the compass of a few words--and pass on.

The one self-possessed person among us was the miserable woman who
suffered the penalty of death.

Not very discreetly, as I think, the Chaplain asked her if she had truly
repented. She answered: "I have confessed the crime, sir. What more do
you want?" To my mind--still hesitating between the view that believes
with the Minister, and the view that doubts with the Doctor--this reply
leaves a way open to hope of her salvation. Her last words to me, as she
mounted the steps of the scaffold, were: "Remember your promise." It was
easy for me to be true to my word. At that bygone time, no difficulties
were placed in my way by such precautions as are now observed in the
conduct of executions within the walls of the prison. From the time of
her death to the time of her burial, no living creature saw her face.
She rests, veiled in her prison grave.

Let me now turn to living interests, and to scenes removed from the
thunder-clouds of crime.

.......

On the next day I received a visit from the Minister.

His first words entreated me not to allude to the terrible event of
the previous day. "I cannot escape thinking of it," he said, "but I may
avoid speaking of it." This seemed to me to be the misplaced confidence
of a weak man in the refuge of silence. By way of changing the subject,
I spoke of the child. There would be serious difficulties to contend
with (as I ventured to suggest), if he remained in the town, and allowed
his new responsibilities to become the subject of public talk.

His reply to this agreeably surprised me. There were no difficulties to
be feared.

The state of his wife's health had obliged him (acting under medical
advice) to try the influence of her native air. An interval of
some months might elapse before the good effect of the change had
sufficiently declared itself; and a return to the peculiar climate
of the town might bring on a relapse. There had consequently been no
alternative to but resign his charge. Only on that day the resignation
had been accepted--with expressions of regret sincerely reciprocated
by himself. He proposed to leave the town immediately; and one of the
objects of his visit was to bid me good-by.

"The next place I live in," he said, "will be more than a hundred miles
away. At that distance I may hope to keep events concealed which must
be known only to ourselves. So far as I can see, there are no risks of
discovery lurking in this place. My servants (only two in number) have
both been born here, and have both told my wife that they have no wish
to go away. As to the person who introduced herself to me by the name of
Miss Chance, she was traced to the railway station yesterday afternoon,
and took her ticket for London."

I congratulated the Minister on the good fortune which had befriended
him, so far.

"You will understand how carefully I have provided against being
deceived," he continued, "when I tell you what my plans are. The persons
among whom my future lot is cast--and the child herself, of course--must
never suspect that the new member of my family is other than my own
daughter. This is deceit, I admit; but it is deceit that injures no one.
I hope you see the necessity for it, as I do."

There could be no doubt of the necessity.

If the child was described as adopted, there would be curiosity about
the circumstances, and inquiries relating to the parents. Prevaricating
replies lead to suspicion, and suspicion to discovery. But for the wise
course which the Minister had decided on taking, the poor child's life
might have been darkened by the horror of the mother's crime, and the
infamy of the mother's death.

Having quieted my friend's needless scruples by this perfectly sincere
expression of opinion, I ventured to approach the central figure in his
domestic circle, by means of a question relating to his wife. How had
that lady received the unfortunate little creature, for whose appearance
on the home-scene she must have been entirely unprepared?

The Minister's manner showed some embarrassment; he prefaced what he had
to tell me with praises of his wife, equally creditable no doubt to both
of them. The beauty of the child, the pretty ways of the child, he said,
fascinated the admirable woman at first sight. It was not to be denied
that she had felt, and had expressed, misgivings, on being informed
of the circumstances under which the Minister's act of mercy had been
performed. But her mind was too well balanced to incline to this
state of feeling, when her husband had addressed her in defense of
his conduct. She then understood that the true merit of a good action
consisted in patiently facing the sacrifices involved. Her interest in
the new daughter being, in this way, ennobled by a sense of Christian
duty, there had been no further difference of opinion between the
married pair.

I listened to this plausible explanation with interest, but, at the
same time, with doubts of the lasting nature of the lady's submission to
circumstances; suggested, perhaps, by the constraint in the Minister's
manner. It was well for both of us when we changed the subject. He
reminded me of the discouraging view which the Doctor had taken of the
prospect before him.

"I will not attempt to decide whether your friend is right or wrong,"
he said. "Trusting, as I do, in the mercy of God, I look hopefully to
a future time when all that is brightest and best in the nature of
my adopted child will be developed under my fostering care. If evil
tendencies show themselves, my reliance will be confidently placed on
pious example, on religious instruction, and, above all, on intercession
by prayer. Repeat to your friend," he concluded, "what you have just
heard me say. Let him ask himself if he could confront the uncertain
future with my cheerful submission and my steadfast hope."

He intrusted me with that message, and gave me his hand. So we parted.

I agreed with him, I admired him; but my faith seemed to want sustaining
power, as compared with his faith. On his own showing (as it appeared
to me), there would be two forces in a state of conflict in the child's
nature as she grew up--inherited evil against inculcated good. Try as I
might, I failed to feel the Minister's comforting conviction as to which
of the two would win.



CHAPTER IX. THE GOVERNOR RECEIVES A VISIT.

A few days after the good man had left us, I met with a serious
accident, caused by a false step on the stone stairs of the prison.

The long illness which followed this misfortune, and my removal
afterward (in the interests of my recovery) to a milder climate than the
climate of England, obliged me to confide the duties of governor of the
prison to a representative. I was absent from my post for rather more
than a year. During this interval no news reached me from my reverend
friend.

Having returned to the duties of my office, I thought of writing to the
Minister. While the proposed letter was still in contemplation, I was
informed that a lady wished to see me. She sent in her card. My visitor
proved to be the Minister's wife.

I observed her with no ordinary attention when she entered the room.

Her dress was simple; her scanty light hair, so far as I could see it
under her bonnet, was dressed with taste. The paleness of her lips, and
the faded color in her face, suggested that she was certainly not in
good health. Two peculiarities struck me in her personal appearance.
I never remembered having seen any other person with such a singularly
narrow and slanting forehead as this lady presented; and I was
impressed, not at all agreeably, by the flashing shifting expression in
her eyes. On the other hand, let me own that I was powerfully attracted
and interested by the beauty of her voice. Its fine variety of compass,
and its musical resonance of tone, fell with such enchantment on the
ear, that I should have liked to put a book of poetry into her hand, and
to have heard her read it in summer-time, accompanied by the music of a
rocky stream.

The object of her visit--so far as she explained it at the
outset--appeared to be to offer her congratulations on my recovery,
and to tell me that her husband had assumed the charge of a church in a
large town not far from her birthplace.

Even those commonplace words were made interesting by her delicious
voice. But however sensitive to sweet sounds a man may be, there are
limits to his capacity for deceiving himself--especially when he happens
to be enlightened by experience of humanity within the walls of a
prison. I had, it may be remembered, already doubted the lady's good
temper, judging from her husband's over-wrought description of her
virtues. Her eyes looked at me furtively; and her manner, gracefully
self-possessed as it was, suggested that she had something of a
delicate, or disagreeable, nature to say to me, and that she was at a
loss how to approach the subject so as to produce the right impression
on my mind at the outset. There was a momentary silence between us. For
the sake of saying something, I asked how she and the Minister liked
their new place of residence.

"Our new place of residence," she answered, "has been made interesting
by a very unexpected event--an event (how shall I describe it?) which
has increased our happiness and enlarged our family circle."

There she stopped: expecting me, as I fancied, to guess what she
meant. A woman, and that woman a mother, might have fulfilled her
anticipations. A man, and that man not listening attentively, was simply
puzzled.

"Pray excuse my stupidity," I said; "I don't quite understand you."

The lady's temper looked at me out of the lady's shifting eyes, and
hid itself again in a moment. She set herself right in my estimation
by taking the whole blame of our little misunderstanding on her own
innocent shoulders.

"I ought to have spoken more plainly," she said. "Let me try what I can
do now. After many years of disappointment in my married life, it has
pleased Providence to bestow on me the happiness--the inexpressible
happiness--of being a mother. My baby is a sweet little girl; and my one
regret is that I cannot nurse her myself."

My languid interest in the Minister's wife was not stimulated by the
announcement of this domestic event.

I felt no wish to see the "sweet little girl"; I was not even reminded
of another example of long-deferred maternity, which had occurred
within the limits of my own family circle. All my sympathies attached
themselves to the sad little figure of the adopted child. I remembered
the poor baby on my knee, enchanted by the ticking of my watch--I
thought of her, peacefully and prettily asleep under the horrid shelter
of the condemned cell--and it is hardly too much to say that my heart
was heavy, when I compared her prospects with the prospects of her
baby-rival. Kind as he was, conscientious as he was, could the Minister
be expected to admit to an equal share in his love the child endeared
to him as a father, and the child who merely reminded him of an act of
mercy? As for his wife, it seemed the merest waste of time to put
her state of feeling (placed between the two children) to the test of
inquiry. I tried the useless experiment, nevertheless.

"It is pleasant to think," I began, "that your other daughter--"

She interrupted me, with the utmost gentleness: "Do you mean the child
that my husband was foolish enough to adopt?"

"Say rather fortunate enough to adopt," I persisted. "As your own
little girl grows up, she will want a playfellow. And she will find a
playfellow in that other child, whom the good Minister has taken for his
own."

"No, my dear sir--not if I can prevent it."

The contrast between the cruelty of her intention, and the musical
beauty of the voice which politely expressed it in those words, really
startled me. I was at a loss how to answer her, at the very time when I
ought to have been most ready to speak.

"You must surely understand," she went on, "that we don't want another
person's child, now we have a little darling of our own?"

"Does your husband agree with you in that view?" I asked.

"Oh dear, no! He said what you said just now, and (oddly enough) almost
in the same words. But I don't at all despair of persuading him to
change his mind--and you can help me."

She made that audacious assertion with such an appearance of feeling
perfectly sure of me, that my politeness gave way under the strain laid
on it. "What do you mean?" I asked sharply.

Not in the least impressed by my change of manner, she took from the
pocket of her dress a printed paper. "You will find what I mean there,"
she replied--and put the paper into my hand.

It was an appeal to the charitable public, occasioned by the enlargement
of an orphan-asylum, with which I had been connected for many years.
What she meant was plain enough now. I said nothing: I only looked at
her.

Pleased to find that I was clever enough to guess what she meant, on
this occasion, the Minister's wife informed me that the circumstances
were all in our favor. She still persisted in taking me into
partnership--the circumstances were in _our_ favor.

"In two years more," she explained, "the child of that detestable
creature who was hanged--do you know, I cannot even look at the little
wretch without thinking of the gallows?--will be old enough (with your
interest to help us) to be received into the asylum. What a relief
it will be to get rid of that child! And how hard I shall work at
canvassing for subscribers' votes! Your name will be a tower of
strength when I use it as a reference. Pardon me--you are not looking so
pleasantly as usual. Do you see some obstacles in our way?"

"I see two obstacles."

"What can they possibly be?"

For the second time, my politeness gave way under the strain laid on it.
"You know perfectly well," I said, "what one of the obstacles is."

"Am I to understand that you contemplate any serious resistance on the
part of my husband?"

"Certainly!"

She was unaffectedly amused by my simplicity.

"Are you a single man?" she asked.

"I am a widower."

"Then your experience ought to tell you that I know every weak point in
the Minister's character. I can tell him, on your authority, that the
hateful child will be placed in competent and kindly hands--and I have
my own sweet baby to plead for me. With these advantages in my favor, do
you actually suppose I can fail to make _my_ way of thinking _his_ way
of thinking? You must have forgotten your own married life! Suppose
we go on to the second of your two obstacles. I hope it will be better
worth considering than the first."

"The second obstacle will not disappoint you," I answered; "I am the
obstacle, this time."

"You refuse to help me?"

"Positively."

"Perhaps reflection may alter your resolution?"

"Reflection will do nothing of the kind."

"You are rude, sir!"

"In speaking to you, madam, I have no alternative but to speak plainly."

She rose. Her shifting eyes, for once, looked at me steadily.

"What sort of enemy have I made of you?" she asked. "A passive enemy who
is content with refusing to help me? Or an active enemy who will write
to my husband?"

"It depends entirely," I told her, "on what your husband does. If he
questions me about you, I shall tell him the truth."

"And if not?"

"In that case, I shall hope to forget that you ever favored me with a
visit."

In making this reply I was guiltless of any malicious intention. What
evil interpretation she placed on my words it is impossible for me to
say; I can only declare that some intolerable sense of injury hurried
her into an outbreak of rage. Her voice, strained for the first time,
lost its tuneful beauty of tone.

"Come and see us in two years' time," she burst out--"and discover the
orphan of the gallows in our house if you can! If your Asylum won't
take her, some other Charity will. Ha, Mr. Governor, I deserve my
disappointment! I ought to have remembered that you are only a jailer
after all. And what is a jailer? Proverbially a brute. Do you hear that?
A brute!"

Her strength suddenly failed her. She dropped back into the chair from
which she had risen, with a faint cry of pain. A ghastly pallor stole
over her face. There was wine on the sideboard; I filled a glass.
She refused to take it. At that time in the day, the Doctor's duties
required his attendance in the prison. I instantly sent for him. After
a moment's look at her, he took the wine out of my hand, and held the
glass to her lips.

"Drink it," he said. She still refused. "Drink it," he reiterated, "or
you will die."

That frightened her; she drank the wine. The Doctor waited for a while
with his fingers on her pulse. "She will do now," he said.

"Can I go?" she asked.

"Go wherever you please, madam--so long as you don't go upstairs in a
hurry."

She smiled: "I understand you, sir--and thank you for your advice."

I asked the Doctor, when we were alone, what made him tell her not to go
upstairs in a hurry.

"What I felt," he answered, "when I had my fingers on her pulse. You
heard her say that she understood me."

"Yes; but I don't know what she meant."

"She meant, probably, that her own doctor had warned her as I did."

"Something seriously wrong with her health?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Heart."



CHAPTER X. MISS CHANCE REAPPEARS.

A week had passed, since the Minister's wife had left me, when I
received a letter from the Minister himself.

After surprising me, as he innocently supposed, by announcing the birth
of his child, he mentioned some circumstances connected with that event,
which I now heard for the first time.

"Within an easy journey of the populous scene of my present labors," he
wrote, "there is a secluded country village called Low Lanes. The rector
of the place is my wife's brother. Before the birth of our infant, he
had asked his sister to stay for a while at his house; and the doctor
thought she might safely be allowed to accept the invitation. Through
some error in the customary calculations, as I suppose, the child
was born unexpectedly at the rectory; and the ceremony of baptism was
performed at the church, under circumstances which I am not able to
relate within the limits of a letter: Let me only say that I allude to
this incident without any sectarian bitterness of feeling--for I am
no enemy to the Church of England. You have no idea what treasures of
virtue and treasures of beauty maternity has revealed in my wife's sweet
nature. Other mothers, in her proud position, might find their love
cooling toward the poor child whom we have adopted. But my household is
irradiated by the presence of an angel, who gives an equal share in her
affections to the two little ones alike."

In this semi-hysterical style of writing, the poor man unconsciously
told me how cunningly and how cruelly his wife was deceiving him.

I longed to exhibit that wicked woman in her true character--but what
could I do? She must have been so favored by circumstances as to be able
to account for her absence from home, without exciting the slightest
suspicion of the journey which she had really taken, if I declared in my
reply to the Minister's letter that I had received her in my rooms,
and if I repeated the conversation that had taken place, what would
the result be? She would find an easy refuge in positive denial of
the truth--and, in that case, which of us would her infatuated husband
believe?

The one part of the letter which I read with some satisfaction was the
end of it.

I was here informed that the Minister's plans for concealing the
parentage of his adopted daughter had proved to be entirely successful.
The members of the new domestic household believed the two children to
be infant-sisters. Neither was there any danger of the adopted child
being identified (as the oldest child of the two) by consultation of the
registers.

Before he left our town, the Minister had seen for himself that no
baptismal name had been added, after the birth of the daughter of the
murderess had been registered, and that no entry of baptism existed in
the registers kept in places of worship. He drew the inference--in
all probability a true inference, considering the characters of the
parents--that the child had never been baptized; and he performed the
ceremony privately, abstaining, for obvious reasons, from adding her
Christian name to the imperfect register of her birth. "I am not aware,"
he wrote, "whether I have, or have not, committed an offense against the
Law. In any case, I may hope to have made atonement by obedience to the
Gospel."

Six weeks passed, and I heard from my reverend friend once more.

His second letter presented a marked contrast to the first. It was
written in sorrow and anxiety, to inform me of an alarming change
for the worse in his wife's health. I showed the letter to my medical
colleague. After reading it he predicted the event that might be
expected, in two words:--Sudden death.

On the next occasion when I heard from the Minister, the Doctor's grim
reply proved to be a prophecy fulfilled.

When we address expressions of condolence to bereaved friends, the
principles of popular hypocrisy sanction indiscriminate lying as a
duty which we owe to the dead--no matter what their lives may have
been--because they are dead. Within my own little sphere, I have always
been silent, when I could not offer to afflicted persons expressions of
sympathy which I honestly felt. To have condoled with the Minister on
the loss that he had sustained by the death of a woman, self-betrayed to
me as shamelessly deceitful, and pitilessly determined to reach her own
cruel ends, would have been to degrade myself by telling a deliberate
lie. I expressed in my answer all that an honest man naturally feels,
when he is writing to a friend in distress; carefully abstaining from
any allusion to the memory of his wife, or to the place which her
death had left vacant in his household. My letter, I am sorry to say,
disappointed and offended him. He wrote to me no more, until years had
passed, and time had exerted its influence in producing a more indulgent
frame of mind. These letters of a later date have been preserved, and
will probably be used, at the right time, for purposes of explanation
with which I may be connected in the future.

.......

The correspondent whom I had now lost was succeeded by a gentleman
entirely unknown to me.

Those reasons which induced me to conceal the names of persons, while I
was relating events in the prison, do not apply to correspondence with a
stranger writing from another place. I may, therefore, mention that Mr.
Dunboyne, of Fairmount, on the west coast of Ireland, was the writer of
the letter now addressed to me. He proved, to my surprise, to be one of
the relations whom the Prisoner under sentence of death had not cared to
see, when I offered her the opportunity of saying farewell. Mr. Dunboyne
was a brother-in-law of the murderess. He had married her sister.

His wife, he informed me, had died in childbirth, leaving him but one
consolation--a boy, who already recalled all that was brightest and best
in his lost mother. The father was naturally anxious that the son should
never become acquainted with the disgrace that had befallen the family.

The letter then proceeded in these terms:

"I heard yesterday, for the first time, by means of an old
newspaper-cutting sent to me by a friend, that the miserable woman who
suffered the ignominy of public execution has left an infant child. Can
you tell me what has become of the orphan? If this little girl is, as I
fear, not well provided for, I only do what my wife would have done if
she had lived, by offering to make the child's welfare my especial care.
I am willing to place her in an establishment well known to me, in which
she will be kindly treated, well educated, and fitted to earn her own
living honorably in later life.

"If you feel some surprise at finding that my good intentions toward
this ill-fated niece of mine do not go to the length of receiving her as
a member of my own family, I beg to submit some considerations which may
perhaps weigh with you as they have weighed with me.

"In the first place, there is at least a possibility--however carefully
I might try to conceal it--that the child's parentage would sooner
or later be discovered. In the second place (and assuming that the
parentage had been successfully concealed), if this girl and my boy
grew up together, there is another possibility to be reckoned with:
they might become attached to each other. Does the father live who would
allow his son ignorantly to marry the daughter of a convicted murderess?
I should have no alternative but to part them cruelly by revealing the
truth." The letter ended with some complimentary expressions addressed
to myself. And the question was: how ought I to answer it?

My correspondent had strongly impressed me in his favor; I could not
doubt that he was an honorable man. But the interest of the Minister
in keeping his own benevolent action secure from the risk of
discovery--increased as that interest was by the filial relations of the
two children toward him, now publicly established--had, as I could not
doubt, the paramount claim on me. The absolutely safe course to take
was to admit no one, friend or stranger, to our confidence. I replied,
expressing sincere admiration of Mr. Dunboyne's motives, and merely
informing him that the child was already provided for.

After that, I heard no more of the Irish gentleman.

It is perhaps hardly necessary to add that I kept the Minister in
ignorance of my correspondence with Mr. Dunboyne. I was too well
acquainted with my friend's sensitive and self-tormenting nature to let
him know that a relative of the murderess was living, and was aware that
she had left a child.

A last event remains to be related, before I close these pages.

During the year of which I am now writing, our Chaplain added one more
to the many examples that I have seen of his generous readiness to serve
his friends. He had arranged to devote his annual leave of absence to a
tour among the English Lakes, when he received a letter from a clergyman
resident in London, whom he had known from the time when they had
been school-fellows. This old friend wrote under circumstances of the
severest domestic distress, which made it absolutely necessary that he
should leave London for a while. Having failed to find a representative
who could relieve him of his clerical duties, he applied to the Chaplain
to recommend a clergyman who might be in a position to help him. My
excellent colleague gave up his holiday-plans without hesitation, and
went to London himself.

On his return, I asked if he had seen anything of some acquaintances
of his and of mine, who were then visitors to the metropolis. He smiled
significantly when he answered me.

"I have a card to deliver from an acquaintance whom you have not
mentioned," he said; "and I rather think it will astonish you."

It simply puzzled me. When he gave me the card, this is what I found
printed on it:

"MRS. TENBRUGGEN (OF SOUTH BEVELAND)."

"Well?" said the Chaplain.

"Well," I answered; "I never even heard of Mrs. Tenbruggen, of South
Beveland. Who is she?"

"I married the lady to a foreign gentleman, only last week, at my
friend's church," the Chaplain replied. "Perhaps you may remember her
maiden name?"

He mentioned the name of the dangerous creature who had first presented
herself to me, in charge of the Prisoner's child--otherwise Miss
Elizabeth Chance. The reappearance of this woman on the scene--although
she was only represented by her card--caused me a feeling of vague
uneasiness, so contemptibly superstitious in its nature that I now
remember it with shame. I asked a stupid question:

"How did it happen?"

"In the ordinary course of such things," my friend said. "They were
married by license, in their parish church. The bridegroom was a
fine tall man, with a bold eye and a dashing manner. The bride and
I recognized each other directly. When Miss Chance had become Mrs.
Tenbruggen, she took me aside, and gave me her card. 'Ask the Governor
to accept it,' she said, 'in remembrance of the time when he took me for
a nursemaid. Tell him I am married to a Dutch gentleman of high
family. If he ever comes to Holland, we shall be glad to see him in our
residence at South Beveland.' There is her message to you, repeated word
for word."

"I am glad she is going to live out of England."

"Why? Surely you have no reason to fear her?"

"None whatever."

"You are thinking, perhaps, of somebody else?"

I was thinking of the Minister; but it seemed to be safest not to say
so. ----

My pen is laid aside, and my many pages of writing have been sent
to their destination. What I undertook to do, is now done. To take a
metaphor from the stage--the curtain falls here on the Governor and the
Prison.




Second Period: 1875. THE GIRLS AND THE JOURNALS.



CHAPTER XI. HELENA'S DIARY.

We both said good-night, and went up to our room with a new object in
view. By our father's advice we had resolved on keeping diaries, for the
first time in our lives, and had pledged ourselves to begin before we
went to bed.

Slowly and silently and lazily, my sister sauntered to her end of the
room and seated herself at her writing-table. On the desk lay a nicely
bound book, full of blank pages. The word "Journal" was printed on it in
gold letters, and there was fitted to the covers a bright brass lock and
key. A second journal, exactly similar in every respect to the first,
was placed on the writing-table at my end of the room. I opened my book.
The sight of the blank leaves irritated me; they were so smooth, so
spotless, so entirely ready to do _their_ duty. I took too deep a dip
of ink, and began the first entry in my diary by making a blot. This was
discouraging. I got up, and looked out of window.

"Helena!"

My sister's voice could hardly have addressed me in a more weary tone,
if her pen had been at work all night, relating domestic events. "Well!"
I said. "What is it?"

"Have you done already?" she asked.

I showed her the blot. My sister Eunice (the strangest as well as the
dearest of girls) always blurts out what she has in her mind at the
time. She fixed her eyes gravely on my spoiled page, and said: "That
comforts me." I crossed the room, and looked at her book. She had not
even summoned energy enough to make a blot. "What will papa think of
us," she said, "if we don't begin to-night?"

"Why not begin," I suggested, "by writing down what he said, when he
gave us our journals? Those wise words of advice will be in their proper
place on the first page of the new books."

Not at all a demonstrative girl naturally; not ready with her tears, not
liberal with her caresses, not fluent in her talk, Eunice was affected
by my proposal in a manner wonderful to see. She suddenly developed into
an excitable person--I declare she kissed me. "Oh," she burst out, "how
clever you are! The very thing to write about; I'll do it directly."

She really did it directly; without once stopping to consider, without
once waiting to ask my advice. Line after line, I heard her noisy pen
hurrying to the bottom of a first page, and getting three-parts of the
way toward the end of a second page, before she closed her diary. I
reminded her that she had not turned the key, in the lock which was
intended to keep her writing private.

"It's not worth while," she answered. "Anybody who cares to do it may
read what I write. Good-night."

The singular change which I had noticed in her began to disappear, when
she set about her preparations for bed. I noticed the old easy indolent
movements again, and that regular and deliberate method of brushing
her hair, which I can never contemplate without feeling a stupefying
influence that has helped me to many a delicious night's sleep. She said
her prayers in her favorite corner of the room, and laid her head on
the pillow with the luxurious little sigh which announces that she
is falling asleep. This reappearance of her usual habits was really a
relief to me. Eunice in a state of excitement is Eunice exhibiting an
unnatural spectacle.

The next thing I did was to take the liberty which she had already
sanctioned--I mean the liberty of reading what she had written. Here it
is, copied exactly:

"I am not half so fond of anybody as I am of papa. He is always kind, he
is always right. I love him, I love him, I love him.

"But this is not how I meant to begin. I must tell how he talked to us;
I wish he was here to tell it himself.

"He said to me: 'You are getting lazier than ever, Eunice.' He said to
Helena: 'You are feeling the influence of Eunice's example.' He said to
both of us: 'You are too ready, my dear children, to sit with your hands
on your laps, looking at nothing and thinking of nothing; I want to try
a new way of employing your leisure time.'

"He opened a parcel on the table. He made each of us a present of a
beautiful book, called 'Journal.' He said: 'When you have nothing to do,
my dears, in the evening, employ yourselves in keeping a diary of the
events of the day. It will be a useful record in many ways, and a good
moral discipline for young girls.' Helena said: 'Oh, thank you!' I said
the same, but not so cheerfully.

"The truth is, I feel out of spirits now if I think of papa; I am not
easy in my mind about him. When he is very much interested, there is a
quivering in his face which I don't remember in past times. He seems to
have got older and thinner, all on a sudden. He shouts (which he never
used to do) when he threatens sinners at sermon-time. Being in dreadful
earnest about our souls, he is of course obliged to speak of the devil;
but he never used to hit the harmless pulpit cushion with his fist as he
does now. Nobody seems to have seen these things but me; and now I have
noticed them what ought I to do? I don't know; I am certain of nothing,
except what I have put in at the top of page one: I love him, I love
him, I love him."

.......

There this very curious entry ended. It was easy enough to discover the
influence which had made my slow-minded sister so ready with her memory
and her pen--so ready, in short, to do anything and everything, provided
her heart was in it, and her father was in it.

But Eunice is wrong, let me tell her, in what she says of myself.

I, too, have seen the sad change in my father; but I happen to know
that he dislikes having it spoken of at home, and I have kept my painful
discoveries to myself. Unhappily, the best medical advice is beyond our
reach. The one really competent doctor in this place is known to be an
infidel. But for that shocking obstacle I might have persuaded my father
to see him. As for the other two doctors whom he has consulted, at
different times, one talked about suppressed gout, and the other told
him to take a year's holiday and enjoy himself on the Continent.

The clock has just struck twelve. I have been writing and copying till
my eyes are heavy, and I want to follow Eunice's example and sleep
as soundly as she does. We have made a strange beginning of this
journalizing experiment. I wonder how long it will go on, and what will
come of it.


SECOND DAY.

I begin to be afraid that I am as stupid--no; that is not a nice word to
use--let me say as simple as dear Eunice. A diary means a record of the
events of the day; and not one of the events of yesterday appears in my
sister's journal or in mine. Well, it is easy to set that mistake right.
Our lives are so dull (but I would not say so in my father's hearing
for the world) that the record of one day will be much the same as
the record of another. After family prayers and breakfast I suffer my
customary persecution at the hands of the cook. That is to say, I am
obliged, being the housekeeper, to order what we have to eat. Oh, how I
hate inventing dinners! and how I admire the enviable slowness of
mind and laziness of body which have saved Eunice from undertaking the
worries of housekeeping in her turn! She can go and work in her garden,
while I am racking my invention to discover variety in dishes without
overstepping the limits of economy. I suppose I may confess it privately
to myself--how sorry I am not to have been born a man!

My next employment leads me to my father's study, to write under his
dictation. I don't complain of this; it flatters my pride to feel that I
am helping so great a man. At the same time, I do notice that here again
Eunice's little defects have relieved her of another responsibility.
She can neither keep dictated words in her memory, nor has she ever been
able to learn how to put in her stops.

After the dictation, I have an hour's time left for practicing music.
My sister comes in from the garden, with her pencil and paint-box, and
practices drawing. Then we go out for a walk--a delightful walk, if my
father goes too. He has something always new to tell us, suggested by
what we pass on the way. Then, dinner-time comes--not always a pleasant
part of the day to me. Sometimes I hear paternal complaints (always
gentle complaints) of my housekeeping; sometimes my sister (I won't say
the greedy sister) tells me I have not given her enough to eat. Poor
father! Dear Eunice!

Dinner having reached its end, we stroll in the garden when the weather
is fine. When it rains, we make flannel petticoats for poor old women.
What a horrid thing old age is to look at! To be ugly, to be helpless,
to be miserably unfit for all the pleasures of life--I hope I shall not
live to be an old woman. What would my father say if he saw this? For
his sake, to say nothing of my own feelings, I shall do well if I make
it a custom to use the lock of my journal. Our next occupation is to
join the Scripture class for girls, and to help the teacher. This is a
good discipline for Eunice's temper, and--oh, I don't deny it!--for my
temper, too. I may long to box the ears of the whole class, but it is
my duty to keep a smiling face and to be a model of patience. From the
Scripture class we sometimes go to my father's lecture. At other times,
we may amuse ourselves as well as we can till the tea is ready. After
tea, we read books which instruct us, poetry and novels being forbidden.
When we are tired of the books we talk. When supper is over, we have
prayers again, and we go to bed. There is our day. Oh, dear me! there is
our day.

.......

And how has Eunice succeeded in her second attempt at keeping a diary?
Here is what she has written. It has one merit that nobody can deny--it
is soon read:

"I hope papa will excuse me; I have nothing to write about to-day."

Over and over again I have tried to point out to my sister the absurdity
of calling her father by the infantile nickname of papa. I have reminded
her that she is (in years, at least) no longer a child. "Why don't you
call him father, as I do?" I asked only the other day.

She made an absurd reply: "I used to call him papa when I was a little
girl."

"That," I reminded her, "doesn't justify you in calling him papa now."

And she actually answered: "Yes it does." What a strange state of mind!
And what a charming girl, in spite of her mind!


THIRD DAY.

The morning post has brought with it a promise of some little variety in
our lives--or, to speak more correctly, in the life of my sister.

Our new and nice friends, the Staveleys, have written to invite Eunice
to pay them a visit at their house in London. I don't complain at being
left at home. It would be unfilial, indeed, if we both of us forsook our
father; and last year it was my turn to receive the first invitation,
and to enjoy the change of scene. The Staveleys are excellent
people--strictly pious members of the Methodist Connection--and
exceedingly kind to my sister and me. But it was just as well for my
moral welfare that I ended my visit to our friends when I did. With my
fondness for music, I felt the temptation of the Evil One trying me,
when I saw placards in the street announcing that the Italian Opera was
open. I had no wish to be a witness of the shameful and sinful dancing
which goes on (I am told) at the opera; but I did feel my principles
shaken when I thought of the wonderful singers and the entrancing music.
And this, when I knew what an atmosphere of wickedness people breathe
who enter a theater! I reflect with horror on what _might_ have happened
if I had remained a little longer in London.

Helping Eunice to pack up, I put her journal into the box. "You
will find something to write about now," I told her. "While I record
everything that happens at home, you will keep your diary of all that
you do in London, and when you come back we will show each other what we
have written." My sister is a dear creature. "I don't feel sure of being
able to do it," she answered; "but I promise to try." Good Eunice!



CHAPTER XII. EUNICE'S DIARY.

The air of London feels very heavy. There is a nasty smell of smoke
in London. There are too many people in London. They seem to be mostly
people in a hurry. The head of a country girl, when she goes into the
streets, turns giddy--I suppose through not being used to the noise.

I do hope that it is London that has put me out of temper. Otherwise, it
must be I myself who am ill-tempered. I have not yet been one whole day
in the Staveleys' house, and they have offended me already. I don't
want Helena to hear of this from other people, and then to ask me why I
concealed it from her. We are to read each other's journals when we are
both at home again. Let her see what I have to say for myself here.

There are seven Staveleys in all: Mr. and Mrs. (two); three young
Masters (five); two young Misses (seven). An eldest miss and the second
young Master are the only ones at home at the present time.

Mr., Mrs., and Miss kissed me when I arrived. Young Master only shook
hands. He looked as if he would have liked to kiss me too. Why shouldn't
he? It wouldn't have mattered. I don't myself like kissing. What is the
use of it? Where is the pleasure of it?

Mrs. was so glad to see me; she took hold of me by both hands. She said:
"My dear child, you are improving. You were wretchedly thin when I saw
you last. Now you are almost as well-developed as your sister. I think
you are prettier than your sister." Mr. didn't agree to that. He and
his wife began to dispute about me before my face. I do call that an
aggravating thing to endure.

Mr. said: "She hasn't got her sister's pretty gray eyes."

Mrs. said; "She has got pretty brown eyes, which are just as good."

Mr. said: "You can't compare her complexion with Helena's."

Mrs. said: "I like Eunice's pale complexion. So delicate."

Young Miss struck in: "I admire Helena's hair--light brown."

Young Master took his turn: "I prefer Eunice's hair--dark brown."

Mr. opened his great big mouth, and asked a question: "Which of you two
sisters is the oldest? I forget."

Mrs. answered for me: "Helena is the oldest; she told us so when she was
here last."

I really could _not_ stand that. "You must be mistaken," I burst out.

"Certainly not, my dear."

"Then Helena was mistaken." I was unwilling to say of my sister that she
had been deceiving them, though it did seem only too likely.

Mr. and Mrs. looked at each other. Mrs. said: "You seem to be very
positive, Eunice. Surely, Helena ought to know."

I said: "Helena knows a good deal; but she doesn't know which of us is
the oldest of the two."

Mr. put in another question: "Do _you_ know?"

"No more than Helena does."

Mrs. said: "Don't you keep birthdays?"

I said: "Yes; we keep both our birthdays on the same day."

"On what day?"

"The first day of the New Year."

Mr. tried again: "You can't possibly be twins?"

"I don't know."

"Perhaps Helena knows?"

"Not she!"

Mrs. took the next question out of her husband's mouth: "Come, come, my
dear! you must know how old you are."

"Yes; I do know that. I'm eighteen."

"And how old is Helena?"

"Helena's eighteen."

Mrs. turned round to Mr.: "Do you hear that?"

Mr. said: "I shall write to her father, and ask what it means."

I said: "Papa will only tell you what he told us--years ago."

"What did your father say?"

"He said he had added our two ages together, and he meant to divide
the product between us. It's so long since, I don't remember what the
product was then. But I'll tell you what the product is now. Our two
ages come to thirty-six. Half thirty-six is eighteen. I get one half,
and Helena gets the other. When we ask what it means, and when friends
ask what it means, papa has got the same answer for everybody, 'I have
my reasons.' That's all he says--and that's all I say."

I had no intention of making Mr. angry, but he did get angry. He left
off speaking to me by my Christian name; he called me by my surname. He
said: "Let me tell you, Miss Gracedieu, it is not becoming in a young
lady to mystify her elders."

I had heard that it was respectful in a young lady to call an old
gentleman, Sir, and to say, If you please. I took care to be respectful
now. "If you please, sir, write to papa. You will find that I have
spoken the truth."

A woman opened the door, and said to Mrs. Staveley: "Dinner, ma'am."
That stopped this nasty exhibition of our tempers. We had a very good
dinner.

.......

The next day I wrote to Helena, asking her what she had really said to
the Staveleys about her age and mine, and telling her what I had said.
I found it too great a trial of my patience to wait till she could see
what I had written about the dispute in my journal. The days, since
then, have passed, and I have been too lazy and stupid to keep my diary.

To-day it is different. My head is like a dark room with the light let
into it. I remember things; I think I can go on again.

We have religious exercises in this house, morning and evening, just as
we do at home. (Not to be compared with papa's religious exercises.) Two
days ago his answer came to Mr. Staveley's letter. He did just what I
had expected--said I had spoken truly, and disappointed the family by
asking to be excused if he refrained from entering into explanations.
Mr. said: "Very odd;" and Mrs. agreed with him. Young Miss is not quite
as friendly now as she was at first. And young Master was impudent
enough to ask me if "I had got religion." To conclude the list of
my worries, I received an angry answer from Helena. "Nobody but a
simpleton," she wrote, "would have contradicted me as you did. Who but
you could have failed to see that papa's strange objection to let it be
known which of us is the elder makes us ridiculous before other people?
My presence of mind prevented that. You ought to have been grateful, and
held your tongue." Perhaps Helena is right--but I don't feel it so.

On Sunday we went to chapel twice. We also had a sermon read at home,
and a cold dinner. In the evening, a hot dispute on religion between Mr.
Staveley and his son. I don't blame them. After being pious all day long
on Sunday, I have myself felt my piety give way toward evening.

There is something pleasant in prospect for to-morrow. All London is
going just now to the exhibition of pictures. We are going with all
London.

.......

I don't know what is the matter with me tonight. I have positively been
to bed, without going to sleep! After tossing and twisting and trying
all sorts of positions, I am so angry with myself that I have got up
again. Rather than do nothing, I have opened my ink-bottle, and I mean
to go on with my journal. Now I think of it, it seems likely that the
exhibition of works of art may have upset me.

I found a dreadfully large number of pictures, matched by a dreadfully
large number of people to look at them. It is not possible for me to
write about what I saw: there was too much of it. Besides, the show
disappointed me. I would rather write about a disagreement (oh, dear,
another dispute!) I had with Mrs. Staveley. The cause of it was a famous
artist; not himself, but his works. He exhibited four pictures--what
they call figure subjects. Mrs. Staveley had a pencil. At every one of
the great man's four pictures, she made a big mark of admiration on her
catalogue. At the fourth one, she spoke to me: "Perfectly beautiful,
Eunice, isn't it?"

I said I didn't know. She said: "You strange girl, what do you mean by
that?"

It would have been rude not to have given the best answer I could find.
I said: "I never saw the flesh of any person's face like the flesh in
the faces which that man paints. He reminds me of wax-work. Why does he
paint the same waxy flesh in all four of his pictures? I don't see the
same colored flesh in all the faces about us." Mrs. Staveley held up her
hand, by way of stopping me. She said: "Don't speak so loud, Eunice; you
are only exposing your own ignorance."

A voice behind us joined in. The voice said: "Excuse me, Mrs. Staveley,
if I expose _my_ ignorance. I entirely agree with the young lady."

I felt grateful to the person who took my part, just when I was at a
loss what to say for myself, and I looked round. The person was a young
gentleman.

He wore a beautiful blue frock-coat, buttoned up. I like a frock-coat
to be buttoned up. He had light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a
pretty cane. I like light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a pretty
cane. What color his eyes were is more than I can say; I only know they
made me hot when they looked at me. Not that I mind being made hot; it
is surely better than being made cold. He and Mrs. Staveley shook hands.

They seemed to be old friends. I wished I had been an old friend--not
for any bad reason, I hope. I only wanted to shake hands, too. What Mrs.
Staveley said to him escaped me, somehow. I think the picture escaped
me also; I don't remember noticing anything except the young gentleman,
especially when he took off his hat to me. He looked at me twice before
he went away. I got hot again. I said to Mrs. Staveley: "Who is he?"

She laughed at me. I said again: "Who is he?" She said: "He is young Mr.
Dunboyne." I said: "Does he live in London?" She laughed again. I said
again: "Does he live in London?" She said: "He is here for a holiday; he
lives with his father at Fairmount, in Ireland."

Young Mr. Dunboyne--here for a holiday--lives with his father at
Fairmount, in Ireland. I have said that to myself fifty times over. And
here it is, saying itself for the fifty-first time in my Journal. I must
indeed be a simpleton, as Helena says. I had better go to bed again.



CHAPTER XIII. EUNICE'S DIARY.

Not long before I left home, I heard one of our two servants telling the
other about a person who had been "bewitched." Are you bewitched when
you don't understand your own self? That has been my curious case,
since I returned from the picture show. This morning I took my drawing
materials out of my box, and tried to make a portrait of young Mr.
Dunboyne from recollection. I succeeded pretty well with his frock-coat
and cane; but, try as I might, his face was beyond me. I have never
drawn anything so badly since I was a little girl; I almost felt ready
to cry. What a fool I am!

This morning I received a letter from papa--it was in reply to a letter
that I had written to him--so kind, so beautifully expressed, so like
himself, that I felt inclined to send him a confession of the strange
state of feeling that has come over me, and to ask him to comfort and
advise me. On second thoughts, I was afraid to do it. Afraid of papa! I
am further away from understanding myself than ever.

Mr. Dunboyne paid us a visit in the afternoon. Fortunately, before we
went out.

I thought I would have a good look at him; so as to know his face better
than I had known it yet. Another disappointment was in store for me.
Without intending it, I am sure, he did what no other young man has ever
done--he made me feel confused. Instead of looking at him, I sat with
my head down, and listened to his talk. His voice--this is high
praise--reminded me of papa's voice. It seemed to persuade me as papa
persuades his congregation. I felt quite at ease again. When he went
away, we shook hands. He gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave him back
the squeeze--without knowing why. When he was gone, I wished I had not
done it--without knowing why, either.

I heard his Christian name for the first time to-day. Mrs. Staveley
said to me: "We are going to have a dinner-party. Shall I ask Philip
Dunboyne?" I said to Mrs. Staveley: "Oh, do!"

She is an old woman; her eyes are dim. At times, she can look
mischievous. She looked at me mischievously now. I wished I had not been
so eager to have Mr. Dunboyne asked to dinner.

A fear has come to me that I may have degraded myself. My spirits are
depressed. This, as papa tells us in his sermons, is a miserable world.
I am sorry I accepted the Staveleys' invitation. I am sorry I went to
see the pictures. When that young man comes to dinner, I shall say I
have got a headache, and shall stop upstairs by myself. I don't think I
like his Christian name. I hate London. I hate everybody.

What I wrote up above, yesterday, is nonsense. I think his Christian
name is perfect. I like London. I love everybody.

He came to dinner to-day. I sat next to him. How beautiful a dress-coat
is, and a white cravat! We talked. He wanted to know what my Christian
name was. I was so pleased when I found he was one of the few people who
like it. His hair curls naturally. In color, it is something between my
hair and Helena's. He wears his beard. How manly! It curls naturally,
like his hair; it smells deliciously of some perfume which is new to me.
He has white hands; his nails look as if he polished them; I should like
to polish my nails if I knew how. Whatever I said, he agreed with me; I
felt satisfied with my own conversation, for the first time in my life.
Helena won't find me a simpleton when I go home. What exquisite things
dinner-parties are!


My sister told me (when we said good-by) to be particular in writing
down my true opinion of the Staveleys. Helena wishes to compare what she
thinks of them with what I think of them.

My opinion of Mr. Staveley is--I don't like him. My opinion of Miss
Staveley is--I can't endure her. As for Master Staveley, my clever
sister will understand that _he_ is beneath notice. But, oh, what a
wonderful woman Mrs. Staveley is! We went out together, after luncheon
today, for a walk in Kensington Gardens. Never have I heard any
conversation to compare with Mrs. Staveley's. Helena shall enjoy it
here, at second hand. I am quite changed in two things. First: I think
more of myself than I ever did before. Second: writing is no longer a
difficulty to me. I could fill a hundred journals, without once stopping
to think.

Mrs. Staveley began nicely; "I suppose, Eunice, you have often been told
that you have a good figure, and that you walk well?"

I said: "Helena thinks my figure is better than my face. But do I really
walk well? Nobody ever told me that."

She answered: "Philip Dunboyne thinks so. He said to me, 'I resist the
temptation because I might be wanting in respect if I gave way to
it. But I should like to follow her when she goes out--merely for the
pleasure of seeing her walk.'"

I stood stockstill. I said nothing. When you are as proud as a peacock
(which never happened to me before), I find you can't move and can't
talk. You can only enjoy yourself.

Kind Mrs. Staveley had more things to tell me. She said: "I am
interested in Philip. I lived near Fairmount in the time before I
was married; and in those days he was a child. I want him to marry a
charming girl, and be happy."

What made me think directly of Miss Staveley? What made me mad to know
if she was the charming girl? I was bold enough to ask the question.
Mrs. Staveley turned to me with that mischievous look which I have
noticed already. I felt as if I had been running at the top of my speed,
and had not got my breath again, yet.

But this good motherly friend set me at my ease. She explained herself:
"Philip is not much liked, poor fellow, in our house. My husband
considers him to be weak and vain and fickle. And my daughter agrees
with her father. There are times when she is barely civil to Philip. He
is too good-natured to complain, but _I_ see it. Tell me, my dear, do
you like Philip?"

"Of course I do!" Out it came in those words, before I could stop it.
Was there something unbecoming to a young lady in saying what I had just
said? Mrs. Staveley seemed to be more amused than angry with me. She
took my arm kindly, and led me along with her. "My dear, you are as
clear as crystal, and as true as steel. You are a favorite of mine
already."

What a delightful woman! as I said just now. I asked if she really liked
me as well as she liked my sister.

She said: "Better."

I didn't expect that, and didn't want it. Helena is my superior. She is
prettier than I am, cleverer than I am, better worth liking than I am.
Mrs. Staveley shifted the talk back to Philip. I ought to have said Mr.
Philip. No, I won't; I shall call him Philip. If I had a heart of stone,
I should feel interested in him, after what Mrs. Staveley has told me.

Such a sad story, in some respects. Mother dead; no brothers or sisters.
Only the father left; he lives a dismal life on a lonely stormy coast.
Not a severe old gentleman, for all that. His reasons for taking to
retirement are reasons (so Mrs. Staveley says) which nobody knows. He
buries himself among his books, in an immense library; and he appears
to like it. His son has not been brought up like other young men,
at school and college. He is a great scholar, educated at home by his
father. To hear this account of his learning depressed me. It seemed to
put such a distance between us. I asked Mrs. Staveley if he thought me
ignorant. As long as I live I shall remember the reply: "He thinks you
charming."

Any other girl would have been satisfied with this. I am the miserable
creature who is always making mistakes. My stupid curiosity spoiled
the charm of Mrs. Staveley's conversation. And yet it seemed to be a
harmless question; I only said I should like to know what profession
Philip belonged to.

Mrs. Staveley answered: "No profession."

I foolishly put a wrong meaning on this. I said: "Is he idle?"

Mrs. Staveley laughed. "My dear, he is an only son--and his father is a
rich man."

That stopped me--at last.

We have enough to live on in comfort at home--no more. Papa has told us
himself that he is not (and can never hope to be) a rich man. This is
not the worst of it. Last year, he refused to marry a young couple, both
belonging to our congregation. This was very unlike his usual kind self.
Helena and I asked him for his reasons. They were reasons that did not
take long to give. The young gentleman's father was a rich man. He had
forbidden his son to marry a sweet girl--because she had no fortune.

I have no fortune. And Philip's father is a rich man.

The best thing I can do is to wipe my pen, and shut up my Journal, and
go home by the next train.

.......

I have a great mind to burn my Journal. It tells me that I had better
not think of Philip any more.

On second thoughts, I won't destroy my Journal; I will only put it away.
If I live to be an old woman, it may amuse me to open my book again, and
see how foolish the poor wretch was when she was young.

What is this aching pain in my heart?

I don't remember it at any other time in my life. Is it trouble? How can
I tell?--I have had so little trouble. It must be many years since I was
wretched enough to cry. I don't even understand why I am crying now. My
last sorrow, so far as I can remember, was the toothache. Other
girls' mothers comfort them when they are wretched. If my mother had
lived--it's useless to think about that. We lost her, while I and my
sister were too young to understand our misfortune.

I wish I had never seen Philip.

This seems an ungrateful wish. Seeing him at the picture-show was a new
enjoyment. Sitting next to him at dinner was a happiness that I don't
recollect feeling, even when Papa has been most sweet and kind to me.
I ought to be ashamed of myself to confess this. Shall I write to my
sister? But how should she know what is the matter with me, when I don't
know it myself? Besides, Helena is angry; she wrote unkindly to me when
she answered my last letter.

There is a dreadful loneliness in this great house at night. I had
better say my prayers, and try to sleep. If it doesn't make me feel
happier, it will prevent me spoiling my Journal by dropping tears on it.

.......

What an evening of evenings this has been! Last night it was crying that
kept me awake. To-night I can't sleep for joy.

Philip called on us again to-day. He brought with him tickets for the
performance of an Oratorio. Sacred music is not forbidden music among
our people. Mrs. Staveley and Miss Staveley went to the concert with us.
Philip and I sat next to each other.

My sister is a musician--I am nothing. That sounds bitter; but I don't
mean it so. All I mean is, that I like simple little songs, which I
can sing to myself by remembering the tune. There, my musical enjoyment
ends. When voices and instruments burst out together by hundreds, I feel
bewildered. I also get attacked by fidgets. This last misfortune is sure
to overtake me when choruses are being performed. The unfortunate people
employed are made to keep singing the same words, over and over and over
again, till I find it a perfect misery to listen to them. The choruses
were unendurable in the performance to-night. This is one of them: "Here
we are all alone in the wilderness--alone in the wilderness--in the
wilderness alone, alone, alone--here we are in the wilderness--alone in
the wilderness--all all alone in the wilderness," and soon, till I felt
inclined to call for the learned person who writes Oratorios, and beg
him to give the poor music a more generous allowance of words.

Whenever I looked at Philip, I found him looking at me. Perhaps he saw
from the first that the music was wearying music to my ignorant ears.
With his usual delicacy he said nothing for some time. But when he
caught me yawning (though I did my best to hide it, for it looked like
being ungrateful for the tickets), then he could restrain himself no
longer. He whispered in my ear:

"You are getting tired of this. And so am I."

"I am trying to like it," I whispered back.

"Don't try," he answered. "Let's talk."

He meant, of course, talk in whispers. We were a good deal
annoyed--especially when the characters were all alone in the
wilderness--by bursts of singing and playing which interrupted us at the
most interesting moments. Philip persevered with a manly firmness. What
could I do but follow his example--at a distance?

He said: "Is it really true that your visit to Mrs. Staveley is coming
to an end?"

I answered: "It comes to an end the day after to-morrow."

"Are you sorry to be leaving your friends in London?"

What I might have said if he had made that inquiry a day earlier, when I
was the most miserable creature living, I would rather not try to guess.
Being quite happy as things were, I could honestly tell him I was sorry.

"You can't possibly be as sorry as I am, Eunice. May I call you by your
pretty name?"

"Yes, if you please."

"Eunice!"

"Yes."

"You will leave a blank in my life when you go away--"

There another chorus stopped him, just as I was eager for more. It was
such a delightfully new sensation to hear a young gentleman telling me
that I had left a blank in his life. The next change in the Oratorio
brought up a young lady, singing alone. Some people behind us grumbled
at the smallness of her voice. We thought her voice perfect. It seemed
to lend itself so nicely to our whispers.

He said: "Will you help me to think of you while you are away? I want
to imagine what your life is at home. Do you live in a town or in the
country?"

I told him the name of our town. When we give a person information, I
have always heard that we ought to make it complete. So I mentioned our
address in the town. But I was troubled by a doubt. Perhaps he preferred
the country. Being anxious about this, I said: "Would you rather have
heard that I live in the country?"

"Live where you may, Eunice, the place will be a favorite place of mine.
Besides, your town is famous. It has a public attraction which brings
visitors to it."

I made another of those mistakes which no sensible girl, in my position,
would have committed. I asked if he alluded to our new market-place.

He set me right in the sweetest manner: "I alluded to a building
hundreds of years older than your market-place--your beautiful
cathedral."

Fancy my not having thought of the cathedral! This is what comes of
being a Congregationalist. If I had belonged to the Church of England,
I should have forgotten the market-place, and remembered the cathedral.
Not that I want to belong to the Church of England. Papa's chapel is
good enough for me.

The song sung by the lady with the small voice was so pretty that the
audience encored it. Didn't Philip and I help them! With the sweetest
smiles the lady sang it all over again. The people behind us left the
concert.

He said: "Do you know, I take the greatest interest in cathedrals. I
propose to enjoy the privilege and pleasure of seeing _your_ cathedral
early next week."

I had only to look at him to see that I was the cathedral. It was no
surprise to hear next that he thought of "paying his respects to Mr.
Gracedieu." He begged me to tell him what sort of reception he might
hope to meet with when he called at our house. I got so excited in doing
justice to papa that I quite forgot to whisper when the next question
came. Philip wanted to know if Mr. Gracedieu disliked strangers. When
I answered, "Oh dear, no!" I said it out loud, so that the people heard
me. Cruel, cruel people! They all turned round and stared. One hideous
old woman actually said, "Silence!" Miss Staveley looked disgusted. Even
kind Mrs. Staveley lifted her eyebrows in astonishment.

Philip, dear Philip, protected and composed me.

He held my hand devotedly till the end of the performance. When he put
us into the carriage, I was last. He whispered in my ear: "Expect me
next week." Miss Staveley might be as ill-natured as she pleased, on the
way home. It didn't matter what she said. The Eunice of yesterday might
have been mortified and offended. The Eunice of to-day was indifferent
to the sharpest things that could be said to her.

.......

All through yesterday's delightful evening, I never once thought of
Philip's father. When I woke this morning, I remembered that old Mr.
Dunboyne was a rich man. I could eat no breakfast for thinking of the
poor girl who was not allowed to marry her young gentleman, because she
had no money.

Mrs. Staveley waited to speak to me till the rest of them had left us
together. I had expected her to notice that I looked dull and dismal.
No! her cleverness got at my secret in quite another way.

She said: "How do you feel after the concert? You must be hard to please
indeed if you were not satisfied with the accompaniments last night."

"The accompaniments of the Oratorio?"

"No, my dear. The accompaniments of Philip."

I suppose I ought to have laughed. In my miserable state of mind, it was
not to be done. I said: "I hope Mr. Dunboyne's father will not hear how
kind he was to me."

Mrs. Staveley asked why.

My bitterness overflowed at my tongue. I said: "Because papa is a poor
man."

"And Philip's papa is a rich man," says Mrs. Staveley, putting my
own thought into words for me. "Where do you get these ideas, Eunice?
Surely, you are not allowed to read novels?"

"Oh no!"

"And you have certainly never seen a play?"

"Never."

"Clear your head, child, of the nonsense that has got into it--I can't
think how. Rich Mr. Dunboyne has taught his heir to despise the base act
of marrying for money. He knows that Philip will meet young ladies at my
house; and he has written to me on the subject of his son's choice of a
wife. 'Let Philip find good principles, good temper, and good looks; and
I promise beforehand to find the money.' There is what he says. Are you
satisfied with Philip's father, now?"

I jumped up in a state of ecstasy. Just as I had thrown my arms round
Mrs. Staveley's neck, the servant came in with a letter, and handed it
to me.

Helena had written again, on this last day of my visit. Her letter was
full of instructions for buying things that she wants, before I leave
London. I read on quietly enough until I came to the postscript. The
effect of it on me may be told in two words: I screamed. Mrs. Staveley
was naturally alarmed. "Bad news?" she asked. Being quite unable to
offer an opinion, I read the postscript out loud, and left her to judge
for herself.

This was Helena's news from home:

"I must prepare you for a surprise, before your return. You will find a
strange lady established at home. Don't suppose there is any prospect
of her bidding us good-by, if we only wait long enough. She is already
(with father's full approval) as much a member of the family as we
are. You shall form your own unbiased opinion of her, Eunice. For the
present, I say no more."

I asked Mrs. Staveley what she thought of my news from home. She said:
"Your father approves of the lady, my dear. I suppose it's good news."

But Mrs. Staveley did not look as if she believed in the good news, for
all that.



CHAPTER XIV. HELENA'S DIARY.

To-day I went as usual to the Scripture-class for girls. It was harder
work than ever, teaching without Eunice to help me. Indeed, I felt
lonely all day without my sister. When I got home, I rather hoped that
some friend might have come to see us, and have been asked to stay to
tea. The housemaid opened the door to me. I asked Maria if anybody had
called.

"Yes, miss; a lady, to see the master."

"A stranger?"

"Never saw her before, miss, in all my life." I put no more questions.
Many ladies visit my father. They call it consulting the Minister.
He advises them in their troubles, and guides them in their religious
difficulties, and so on. They come and go in a sort of secrecy. So far
as I know, they are mostly old maids, and they waste the Minister's
time.

When my father came in to tea, I began to feel some curiosity about the
lady who had called on him. Visitors of that sort, in general, never
appear to dwell on his mind after they have gone away; he sees too many
of them, and is too well accustomed to what they have to say. On
this particular evening, however, I perceived appearances that set me
thinking; he looked worried and anxious.

"Has anything happened, father, to vex you?" I said.

"Yes."

"Is the lady concerned in it?"

"What lady, my dear?"

"The lady who called on you while I was out."

"Who told you she had called on me?"

"I asked Maria--"

"That will do, Helena, for the present."

He drank his tea and went back to his study, instead of staying a while,
and talking pleasantly as usual. My respect submitted to his want of
confidence in me; but my curiosity was in a state of revolt. I sent for
Maria, and proceeded to make my own discoveries, with this result:

No other person had called at the house. Nothing had happened, except
the visit of the mysterious lady. "She looked between young and old.
And, oh dear me, she was certainly not pretty. Not dressed nicely, to my
mind; but they do say dress is a matter of taste."

Try as I might, I could get no more than that out of our stupid young
housemaid.

Later in the evening, the cook had occasion to consult me about supper.
This was a person possessing the advantages of age and experience. I
asked if she had seen the lady. The cook's reply promised something new:
"I can't say I saw the lady; but I heard her."

"Do you mean that you heard her speaking?"

"No, miss--crying."

"Where was she crying?"

"In the master's study."

"How did you come to hear her?"

"Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect me of listening?"

Is a lie told by a look as bad as a lie told by words? I looked shocked
at the bare idea of suspecting a respectable person of listening. The
cook's sense of honor was satisfied; she readily explained herself: "I
was passing the door, miss, on my way upstairs."

Here my discoveries came to an end. It was certainly possible that an
afflicted member of my father's congregation might have called on him
to be comforted. But he sees plenty of afflicted ladies, without looking
worried and anxious after they leave him. Still suspecting something
out of the ordinary course of events, I waited hopefully for our next
meeting at supper-time. Nothing came of it. My father left me by myself
again, when the meal was over. He is always courteous to his daughters;
and he made an apology: "Excuse me, Helena, I want to think."

.......

I went to bed in a vile humor, and slept badly; wondering, in the long
wakeful hours, what new rebuff I should meet with on the next day.

At breakfast this morning I was agreeably surprised. No signs of anxiety
showed themselves in my father's face. Instead of retiring to his study
when we rose from the table, he proposed taking a turn in the garden:
"You are looking pale, Helena, and you will be the better for a little
fresh air. Besides, I have something to say to you."

Excitement, I am sure, is good for young women. I saw in his face, I
heard in his last words, that the mystery of the lady was at last to be
revealed. The sensation of languor and fatigue which follows a disturbed
night left me directly.

My father gave me his arm, and we walked slowly up and down the lawn.

"When that lady called on me yesterday," he began, "you wanted to know
who she was, and you were surprised and disappointed when I refused to
gratify your curiosity. My silence was not a selfish silence, Helena. I
was thinking of you and your sister; and I was at a loss how to act for
the best. You shall hear why my children were in my mind, presently.
I must tell you first that I have arrived at a decision; I hope and
believe on reasonable grounds. Ask me any questions you please; my
silence will be no longer an obstacle in your way."

This was so very encouraging that I said at once: "I should like to know
who the lady is."

"The lady is related to me," he answered. "We are cousins."

Here was a disclosure that I had not anticipated. In the little that I
have seen of the world, I have observed that cousins--when they happen
to be brought together under interesting circumstances--can remember
their relationship, and forget their relationship, just as it suits
them. "Is your cousin a married lady?" I ventured to inquire.

"No."

Short as it was, that reply might perhaps mean more than appeared on
the surface. The cook had heard the lady crying. What sort of tender
agitation was answerable for those tears? Was it possible, barely
possible, that Eunice and I might go to bed, one night, a widower's
daughters, and wake up the next day to discover a stepmother?

"Have I or my sister ever seen the lady?" I asked.

"Never. She has been living abroad; and I have not seen her myself since
we were both young people."

My excellent innocent father! Not the faintest idea of what I had been
thinking of was in his mind. Little did he suspect how welcome was the
relief that he had afforded to his daughter's wicked doubts of him. But
he had not said a word yet about his cousin's personal appearance. There
might be remains of good looks which the housemaid was too stupid to
discover.

"After the long interval that has passed since you met," I said, "I
suppose she has become an old woman?"

"No, my dear. Let us say, a middle-aged woman."

"Perhaps she is still an attractive person?"

He smiled. "I am afraid, Helena, that would never have been a very
accurate description of her."

I now knew all that I wanted to know about this alarming person,
excepting one last morsel of information which my father had strangely
forgotten.

"We have been talking about the lady for some time," I said; "and you
have not yet told me her name."

Father looked a little embarrassed "It's not a very pretty name," he
answered. "My cousin, my unfortunate cousin, is--Miss Jillgall."

I burst out with such a loud "Oh!" that he laughed. I caught the
infection, and laughed louder still. Bless Miss Jillgall! The interview
promised to become an easy one for both of us, thanks to her name. I was
in good spirits, and I made no attempt to restrain them. "The next time
Miss Jillgall honors you with a visit," I said, "you must give me an
opportunity of being presented to her."

He made a strange reply: "You may find your opportunity, Helena, sooner
than you anticipate."

Did this mean that she was going to call again in a day or two? I am
afraid I spoke flippantly. I said: "Oh, father, another lady fascinated
by the popular preacher?"

The garden chairs were near us. He signed to me gravely to be seated by
his side, and said to himself: "This is my fault."

"What is your fault?" I asked.

"I have left you in ignorance, my dear, of my cousin's sad story. It
is soon told; and, if it checks your merriment, it will make amends by
deserving your sympathy. I was indebted to her father, when I was a boy,
for acts of kindness which I can never forget. He was twice married. The
death of his first wife left him with one child--once my playfellow; now
the lady whose visit has excited your curiosity. His second wife was a
Belgian. She persuaded him to sell his business in London, and to invest
the money in a partnership with a brother of hers, established as a
sugar-refiner at Antwerp. The little daughter accompanied her father to
Belgium. Are you attending to me, Helena?"

I was waiting for the interesting part of the story, and was wondering
when he would get to it.

"As time went on," he resumed, "the new partner found that the value
of the business at Antwerp had been greatly overrated. After a long
struggle with adverse circumstances, he decided on withdrawing from
the partnership before the whole of his capital was lost in a failing
commercial speculation. The end of it was that he retired, with his
daughter, to a small town in East Flanders; the wreck of his property
having left him with an income of no more than two hundred pounds a
year."

I showed my father that I was attending to him now, by inquiring what
had become of the Belgian wife. Those nervous quiverings, which Eunice
has mentioned in her diary, began to appear in his face.

"It is too shameful a story," he said, "to be told to a young girl. The
marriage was dissolved by law; and the wife was the person to blame. I
am sure, Helena, you don't wish to hear any more of _this_ part of the
story."

I did wish. But I saw that he expected me to say No--so I said it.

"The father and daughter," he went on, "never so much as thought of
returning to their own country. They were too poor to live comfortably
in England. In Belgium their income was sufficient for their wants. On
the father's death, the daughter remained in the town. She had friends
there, and friends nowhere else; and she might have lived abroad to the
end of her days, but for a calamity to which we are all liable. A
long and serious illness completely prostrated her. Skilled medical
attendance, costing large sums of money for the doctors' traveling
expenses, was imperatively required. Experienced nurses, summoned from a
distant hospital, were in attendance night and day. Luxuries, far beyond
the reach of her little income, were absolutely required to support her
wasted strength at the time of her tedious recovery. In one word, her
resources were sadly diminished, when the poor creature had paid her
debts, and had regained her hold on life. At that time, she unhappily
met with the man who has ruined her."

It was getting interesting at last. "Ruined her?" I repeated. "Do you
mean that he robbed her?"

"That, Helena, is exactly what I mean--and many and many a helpless
woman has been robbed in the same way. The man of whom I am now speaking
was a lawyer in large practice. He bore an excellent character, and
was highly respected for his exemplary life. My cousin (not at all a
discreet person, I am bound to admit) was induced to consult him on her
pecuniary affairs. He expressed the most generous sympathy--offered to
employ her little capital in his business--and pledged himself to pay
her double the interest for her money, which she had been in the habit
of receiving from the sound investment chosen by her father."

"And of course he got the money, and never paid the interest?" Eager to
hear the end, I interrupted the story in those inconsiderate words. My
father's answer quietly reproved me.

"He paid the interest regularly as long as he lived."

"And what happened when he died?"

"He died a bankrupt; the secret profligacy of his life was at last
exposed. Nothing, actually nothing, was left for his creditors. The
unfortunate creature, whose ugly name has amused you, must get help
somewhere, or must go to the workhouse."

If I had been in a state of mind to attend to trifles, this would have
explained the reason why the cook had heard Miss Jillgall crying. But
the prospect before me--the unendurable prospect of having a strange
woman in the house--had showed itself too plainly to be mistaken.
I could think of nothing else. With infinite difficulty I assumed a
momentary appearance of composure, and suggested that Miss Jillgall's
foreign friends might have done something to help her.

My father defended her foreign friends. "My dear, they were poor people,
and did all they could afford to do. But for their kindness, my cousin
might not have been able to return to England."

"And to cast herself on your mercy," I added, "in the character of a
helpless woman."

"No, Helena! Not to cast herself on my mercy--but to find my house open
to her, as her father's house was open to me in the bygone time. I
am her only surviving relative; and, while I live, she shall not be a
helpless woman."

I began to wish that I had not spoken out so plainly. My father's sweet
temper--I do so sincerely wish I had inherited it!--made the kindest
allowances for me.

"I understand the momentary bitterness of feeling that has escaped you,"
he said; "I may almost say that I expected it. My only hesitation in
this matter has been caused by my sense of what I owe to my children. It
was putting your endurance, and your sister's endurance, to a trial to
expect you to receive a stranger (and that stranger not a young girl
like yourselves) as one of the household, living with you in the closest
intimacy of family life. The consideration which has decided me does
justice, I hope, to you and Eunice, as well as to myself. I think that
some allowance is due from my daughters to the father who has always
made loving allowance for _them_. Am I wrong in believing that my good
children have not forgotten this, and have only waited for the occasion
to feel the pleasure of rewarding me?"

It was beautifully put. There was but one thing to be done--I kissed
him. And there was but one thing to be said. I asked at what time we
might expect to receive Miss Jillgall. "She is staying, Helena, at a
small hotel in the town. I have already sent to say that we are waiting
to see her. Perhaps you will look at the spare bedroom?"

"It shall be got ready, father, directly."

I ran into the house; I rushed upstairs into the room that is Eunice's
and mine; I locked the door, and then I gave way to my rage, before it
stifled me. I stamped on the floor, I clinched my fists, I cast myself
on the bed, I reviled that hateful woman by every hard word that I could
throw at her. Oh, the luxury of it! the luxury of it!

Cold water and my hairbrush soon made me fit to be seen again.

As for the spare room, it looked a great deal too comfortable for an
incubus from foreign parts. The one improvement that I could have
made, if a friend of mine had been expected, was suggested by the
window-curtains. I was looking at a torn place in one of them, and
determined to leave it unrepaired, when I felt an arm slipped round
my waist from behind. A voice, so close that it tickled my neck, said:
"Dear girl, what friends we shall be!" I turned round, and confronted
Miss Jillgall.

CHAPTER XV. HELENA'S DIARY.

If I am not a good girl, where is a good girl to be found? This is in
Eunice's style. It sometimes amuses me to mimic my simple sister.

I have just torn three pages out of my diary, in deference to the
expression of my father's wishes. He took the first opportunity which
his cousin permitted him to enjoy of speaking to me privately; and his
object was to caution me against hastily relying on first impressions of
anybody--especially of Miss Jillgall. "Wait for a day or two," he said;
"and then form your estimate of the new member of our household."

The stormy state of my temper had passed away, and had left my
atmosphere calm again. I could feel that I had received good advice; but
unluckily it reached me too late.

I had formed my estimate of Miss Jillgall, and had put it in writing for
my own satisfaction, at least an hour before my father found himself
at liberty to speak to me. I don't agree with him in distrusting first
impressions; and I had proposed to put my opinion to the test, by
referring to what I had written about his cousin at a later time.
However, after what he had said to me, I felt bound in filial duty
to take the pages out of my book, and to let two days pass before I
presumed to enjoy the luxury of hating Miss Jillgall. On one thing I
am determined: Eunice shall not form a hasty opinion, either. She shall
undergo the same severe discipline of self-restraint to which her sister
is obliged to submit. Let us be just, as somebody says, before we are
generous. No more for to-day.

.......

I open my diary again--after the prescribed interval has elapsed. The
first impression produced on me by the new member of our household
remains entirely unchanged.

Have I already made the remark that, when one removes a page from
a book, it does not necessarily follow that one destroys the page
afterward? or did I leave this to be inferred? In either case, my course
of proceeding was the same. I ordered some paste to be made. Then I
unlocked a drawer, and found my poor ill-used leaves, and put them back
in my Journal. An act of justice is surely not the less praiseworthy
because it is an act of justice done to one's self.

My father has often told me that he revises his writings on religious
subjects. I may harmlessly imitate that good example, by revising my
restored entry. It is now a sufficiently remarkable performance to be
distinguished by a title. Let me call it:

Impressions of Miss Jillgall. My first impression was a strong one--it
was produced by the state of this lady's breath. In other words, I was
obliged to let her kiss me. It is a duty to be considerate toward human
infirmity. I will only say that I thought I should have fainted.

My second impression draws a portrait, and produces a striking likeness.

Figure, little and lean--hair of a dirty drab color which we see in
string--small light gray eyes, sly and restless, and deeply sunk in
the head--prominent cheekbones, and a florid complexion--an
inquisitive nose, turning up at the end--a large mouth and a servile
smile--raw-looking hands, decorated with black mittens--a misfitting
white jacket and a limp skirt--manners familiar--temper cleverly
hidden--voice too irritating to be mentioned. Whose portrait is this? It
is the portrait of Miss Jillgall, taken in words.

Her true character is not easy to discover; I suspect that it will
only show itself little by little. That she is a born meddler in other
people's affairs, I think I can see already. I also found out that she
trusted to flattery as the easiest means of making herself agreeable.
She tried her first experiment on myself.

"You charming girl," she began, "your bright face encourages me to ask
a favor. Pray make me useful! The one aspiration of my life is to be
useful. Unless you employ me in that way, I have no right to intrude
myself into your family circle. Yes, yes, I know that your father
has opened his house and his heart to me. But I dare not found any
claim--your name is Helena, isn't it? Dear Helena, I dare not found any
claim on what I owe to your father's kindness."

"Why not?" I inquired.

"Because your father is not a man--"

I was rude enough to interrupt her: "What is he, then?"

"An angel," Miss Jillgall answered, solemnly. "A destitute earthly
creature like me must not look up as high as your father. I might be
dazzled."

This was rather more than I could endure patiently. "Let us try," I
suggested, "if we can't understand each other, at starting."

Miss Jillgall's little eyes twinkled in their bony caverns. "The very
thing I was going to propose!" she burst out.

"Very well," I went on; "then, let me tell you plainly that flattery is
not relished in this house."

"Flattery?" She put her hand to her head as she repeated the word, and
looked quite bewildered. "Dear Helena, I have lived all my life in East
Flanders, and my own language is occasionally strange to me. Can you
tell me what flattery is in Flemish?"

"I don't understand Flemish."

"How very provoking! You don't understand Flemish, and I don't
understand Flattery. I should so like to know what it means. Ah, I see
books in this lovely room. Is there a dictionary among them?" She darted
to the bookcase, and discovered a dictionary. "Now I shall understand
Flattery," she remarked--"and then we shall understand each other.
Oh, let me find it for myself!" She ran her raw red finger along the
alphabetical headings at the top of each page. "'FAD.' That won't do.
'FIE.' Further on still. 'FLE.' Too far the other way. 'FLA.' Here we
are! 'Flattery: False praise. Commendation bestowed for the purpose of
gaining favor and influence.' Oh, Helena, how cruel of you!" She dropped
the book, and sank into a chair--the picture, if such a thing can be, of
a broken-hearted old maid.

I should most assuredly have taken the opportunity of leaving her to her
own devices, if I had been free to act as I pleased. But my interests
as a daughter forbade me to make an enemy of my father's cousin, on the
first day when she had entered the house. I made an apology, very neatly
expressed.

She jumped up--let me do her justice; Miss Jillgall is as nimble as a
monkey--and (Faugh!) she kissed me for the second time. If I had been a
man, I am afraid I should have called for that deadly poison (we are all
temperance people in this house) known by the name of Brandy.

"If you will make me love you," Miss Jillgall explained, "you must
expect to be kissed. Dear girl, let us go back to my poor little
petition. Oh, do make me useful! There are so many things I can do: you
will find me a treasure in the house. I write a good hand; I understand
polishing furniture; I can dress hair (look at my own hair); I play and
sing a little when people want to be amused; I can mix a salad and knit
stockings--who is this?" The cook came in, at the moment, to consult
me; I introduced her. "And, oh," cried Miss Jillgall, in ecstasy, "I can
cook! Do, please, let me see the kitchen."

The cook's face turned red. She had come to me to make a confession;
and she had not (as she afterward said) bargained for the presence of
a stranger. For the first time in her life she took the liberty
of whispering to me: "I must ask you, miss, to let me send up the
cauliflower plain boiled; I don't understand the directions in the book
for doing it in the foreign way."

Miss Jillgall's ears--perhaps because they are so large--possess a
quickness of hearing quite unparalleled in my experience. Not one word
of the cook's whispered confession had escaped her.

"Here," she declared, "is an opportunity of making myself useful! What
is the cook's name? Hannah? Take me downstairs, Hannah, and I'll show
you how to do the cauliflower in the foreign way. She seems to hesitate.
Is it possible that she doesn't believe me? Listen, Hannah, and judge
for yourself if I am deceiving you. Have you boiled the cauliflower?
Very well; this is what you must do next. Take four ounces of grated
cheese, two ounces of best butter, the yolks of four eggs, a little bit
of glaze, lemon-juice, nutmeg--dear, dear, how black she looks. What
have I said to offend her?"

The cook passed over the lady who had presumed to instruct her, as if no
such person had been present, and addressed herself to me: "If I am
to be interfered with in my own kitchen, miss, I will ask you to suit
yourself at a month's notice."

Miss Jillgall wrung her hands in despair.

"I meant so kindly," she said; "and I seem to have made mischief.
With the best intentions, Helena, I have set you and your servant at
variance. I really didn't know you had such a temper, Hannah," she
declared, following the cook to the door. "I'm sure there's nothing I
am not ready to do to make it up with you. Perhaps you have not got the
cheese downstairs? I'm ready to go out and buy it for you. I could
show you how to keep eggs sweet and fresh for weeks together. Your gown
doesn't fit very well; I shall be glad to improve it, if you will leave
it out for me after you have gone to bed. There!" cried Miss Jillgall,
as the cook majestically left the room, without even looking at her,
"I have done my best to make it up, and you see how my advances are
received. What more could I have done? I really ask you, dear, as a
friend, what more _could_ I have done?"

I had it on the tip of my tongue to say: "The cook doesn't ask you to
buy cheese for her, or to teach her how to keep eggs, or to improve the
fit of her gown; all she wants is to have her kitchen to herself." But
here again it was necessary to remember that this odious person was my
father's guest.

"Pray don't distress yourself," I began; "I am sure you are not to
blame, Miss Jillgall--"

"Oh, don't!"

"Don't--what?"

"Don't call me Miss Jillgall. I call you Helena. Call me Selina."

I had really not supposed it possible that she could be more unendurable
than ever. When she mentioned her Christian name, she succeeded
nevertheless in producing that result. In the whole list of women's
names, is there any one to be found so absolutely sickening as "Selina"?
I forced myself to pronounce it; I made another neatly-expressed
apology; I said English servants were so very peculiar. Selina was more
than satisfied; she was quite delighted.

"Is that it, indeed? An explanation was all I wanted. How good of you!
And now tell me--is there no chance, in the house or out of the house,
of my making myself useful? Oh, what's that? Do I see a chance? I do! I
do!"

Miss Jillgall's eyes are more than mortal. At one time, they are
microscopes. At another time, they are telescopes. She discovered (right
across the room) the torn place in the window-curtain. In an instant,
she snatched a dirty little leather case out of her pocket, threaded her
needle and began darning the curtain. She sang over her work. "My heart
is light, my will is free--" I can repeat no more of it. When I heard
her singing voice, I became reckless of consequences, and ran out of the
room with my hands over my ears.



CHAPTER XVI. HELENA'S DIARY.

When I reached the foot of the stairs, my father called me into his
study.

I found him at his writing-table, with such a heap of torn-up paper in
his waste-basket that it overflowed on to the floor. He explained to me
that he had been destroying a large accumulation of old letters, and
had ended (when his employment began to grow wearisome) in examining his
correspondence rather carelessly. The result was that he had torn up a
letter, and a copy of the reply, which ought to have been set aside as
worthy of preservation. After collecting the fragments, he had heaped
them on the table. If I could contrive to put them together again on
fair sheets of paper, and fasten them in their right places with gum, I
should be doing him a service, at a time when he was too busy to set his
mistake right for himself.

Here was the best excuse that I could desire for keeping out of Miss
Jillgall's way. I cheerfully set to work on the restoration of the
letters, while my father went on with his writing.

Having put the fragments together--excepting a few gaps caused by
morsels that had been lost--I was unwilling to fasten them down with
gum, until I could feel sure of not having made any mistakes; especially
in regard to some of the lost words which I had been obliged to restore
by guess-work. So I copied the letters, and submitted them, in the first
place, to my father's approval. He praised me in the prettiest
manner for the care that I had taken. But, when he began, after some
hesitation, to read my copy, I noticed a change. The smile left his
face, and the nervous quiverings showed themselves again.

"Quite right, my child," he said, in low sad tones.

On returning to my side of the table, I expected to see him resume his
writing. He crossed the room to the window and stood (with his back to
me) looking out.

When I had first discovered the sense of the letters, they failed
to interest me. A tiresome woman, presuming on the kindness of a
good-natured man to beg a favor which she had no right to ask, and
receiving a refusal which she had richly deserved, was no remarkable
event in my experience as my father's secretary and copyist. But the
change in his face, while he read the correspondence, altered my opinion
of the letters. There was more in them evidently than I had discovered.
I kept my manuscript copy--here it is:


From Miss Elizabeth Chance to the Rev. Abel Gracedieu.

(Date of year, 1859. Date of month, missing.)


"DEAR SIR--You have, I hope, not quite forgotten the interesting
conversation that we had last year in the Governor's rooms. I am afraid
I spoke a little flippantly at the time; but I am sure you will believe
me when I say that this was out of no want of respect to yourself. My
pecuniary position being far from prosperous, I am endeavoring to
obtain the vacant situation of housekeeper in a public institution the
prospectus of which I inclose. You will see it is a rule of the place
that a candidate must be a single woman (which I am), and must be
recommended by a clergyman. You are the only reverend gentleman whom it
is my good fortune to know, and the thing is of course a mere formality.
Pray excuse this application, and oblige me by acting as my reference.

"Sincerely yours,

"ELIZABETH CHANCE."


"P. S.--Please address: Miss E. Chance, Poste Restante, St.
Martin's-le-Grand, London."


"From the Rev. Abel Gracedieu to Miss Chance.

(Copy.)


"MADAM--The brief conversation to which your letter alludes, took place
at an accidental meeting between us. I then saw you for the first time,
and I have not seen you since. It is impossible for me to assert the
claim of a perfect stranger, like yourself, to fill a situation of
trust. I must beg to decline acting as your reference.

"Your obedient servant,

"ABEL GRACEDIEU."

.......

My father was still at the window.

In that idle position he could hardly complain of me for interrupting
him, if I ventured to talk about the letters which I had put together.
If my curiosity displeased him, he had only to say so, and there would
be an end to any allusions of mine to the subject. My first idea was to
join him at the window. On reflection, and still perceiving that he kept
his back turned on me, I thought it might be more prudent to remain at
the table.

"This Miss Chance seems to be an impudent person?" I said.

"Yes."

"Was she a young woman, when you met with her?"

"Yes."

"What sort of a woman to look at? Ugly?"

"No."

Here were three answers which Eunice herself would have been quick
enough to interpret as three warnings to say no more. I felt a little
hurt by his keeping his back turned on me. At the same time, and
naturally, I think, I found my interest in Miss Chance (I don't say my
friendly interest) considerably increased by my father's unusually rude
behavior. I was also animated by an irresistible desire to make him turn
round and look at me.

"Miss Chance's letter was written many years ago," I resumed. "I wonder
what has become of her since she wrote to you."

"I know nothing about her."

"Not even whether she is alive or dead?"

"Not even that. What do these questions mean, Helena?"

"Nothing, father."

I declare he looked as if he suspected me!

"Why don't you speak out?" he said. "Have I ever taught you to conceal
your thoughts? Have I ever been a hard father, who discouraged you when
you wished to confide in him? What are you thinking about? Do _you_ know
anything of this woman?"

"Oh, father, what a question! I never even heard of her till I put the
torn letters together. I begin to wish you had not asked me to do it."

"So do I. It never struck me that you would feel such extraordinary--I
had almost said, such vulgar--curiosity about a worthless letter."

This roused my temper. When a young lady is told that she is vulgar,
if she has any self-conceit--I mean self-respect--she feels insulted. I
said something sharp in my turn. It was in the way of argument. I do
not know how it may be with other young persons, I never reason so well
myself as when I am angry.

"You call it a worthless letter," I said, "and yet you think it worth
preserving."

"Have you nothing more to say to me than that?" he asked.

"Nothing more," I answered.

He changed again. After having looked unaccountably angry, he now looked
unaccountably relieved.

"I will soon satisfy you," he said, "that I have a good reason for
preserving a worthless letter. Miss Chance, my dear, is not a woman to
be trusted. If she saw her advantage in making a bad use of my reply,
I am afraid she would not hesitate to do it. Even if she is no longer
living, I don't know into what vile hands my letter may not have fallen,
or how it might be falsified for some wicked purpose. Do you see now how
a correspondence may become accidentally important, though it is of no
value in itself?"

I could say "Yes" to this with a safe conscience.

But there were some perplexities still left in my mind. It seemed
strange that Miss Chance should (apparently) have submitted to the
severity of my father's reply. "I should have thought," I said to him,
"that she would have sent you another impudent letter--or perhaps have
insisted on seeing you, and using her tongue instead of her pen."

"She could do neither the one nor the other, Helena. Miss Chance will
never find out my address again; I have taken good care of that."

He spoke in a loud voice, with a flushed face--as if it was quite a
triumph to have prevented this woman from discovering his address. What
reason could he have for being so anxious to keep her away from him?
Could I venture to conclude that there was a mystery in the life of a
man so blameless, so truly pious? It shocked one even to think of it.

There was a silence between us, to which the housemaid offered a welcome
interruption. Dinner was ready.

He kissed me before we left the room. "One word more, Helena," he said,
"and I have done. Let there be no more talk between us about Elizabeth
Chance."



CHAPTER XVII. HELENA'S DIARY.

Miss Jillgall joined us at the dinner-table, in a state of excitement,
carrying a book in her hand.

I am inclined, on reflection, to suspect that she is quite clever enough
to have discovered that I hate her--and that many of the aggravating
things she says and does are assumed, out of retaliation, for the
purpose of making me angry. That ugly face is a double face, or I am
much mistaken.

To return to the dinner-table, Miss Jillgall addressed herself, with an
air of playful penitence, to my father.

"Dear cousin, I hope I have not done wrong. Helena left me all by
myself. When I had finished darning the curtain, I really didn't know
what to do. So I opened all the bedroom doors upstairs and looked into
the rooms. In the big room with two beds--oh, I am so ashamed--I found
this book. Please look at the first page."

My father looked at the title-page: "Doctor Watts's Hymns. Well, Selina,
what is there to be ashamed of in this?"

"Oh, no! no! It's the wrong page. Do look at the other page--the one
that comes first before that one."

My patient father turned to the blank page.

"Ah," he said quietly, "my other daughter's name is written in it--the
daughter whom you have not seen. Well?"

Miss Jillgall clasped her hands distractedly. "It's my ignorance I'm so
ashamed of. Dear cousin, forgive me, enlighten me. I don't know how to
pronounce your other daughter's name. Do you call her Euneece?"

The dinner was getting cold. I was provoked into saying: "No, we don't."

She had evidently not forgiven me for leaving her by herself. "Pardon
me, Helena, when I want information I don't apply to you: I sit, as it
were, at the feet of your learned father. Dear cousin, is it--"

Even my father declined to wait for his dinner any longer. "Pronounce it
as you like, Selina. Here we say Euni'ce--with the accent on the 'i' and
with the final 'e' sounded: Eu-ni'-see. Let me give you some soup."

Miss Jillgall groaned. "Oh, how difficult it seems to be! Quite beyond
my poor brains! I shall ask the dear girl's leave to call her Euneece.
What very strong soup! Isn't it rather a waste of meat? Give me a little
more, please."

I discovered another of Miss Jillgall's peculiarities. Her appetite
was enormous, and her ways were greedy. You heard her eat her soup. She
devoured the food on her plate with her eyes before she put it into
her mouth; and she criticised our English cookery in the most impudent
manner, under pretense of asking humbly how it was done. There was,
however, some temporary compensation for this. We had less of her talk
while she was eating her dinner.

With the removal of the cloth, she recovered the use of her tongue; and
she hit on the one subject of all others which proves to be the sorest
trial to my father's patience.

"And now, dear cousin, let us talk of your other daughter, our absent
Euneece. I do so long to see her. When is she coming back?"

"In a few days more."

"How glad I am! And do tell me--which is she? Your oldest girl or your
youngest?"

"Neither the one nor the other, Selina."

"Oh, my head! my head! This is even worse than the accent on the 'i' and
the final 'e.' Stop! I am cleverer than I thought I was. You mean that
the girls are twins. Are they both so exactly like each other that I
shan't know which is which? What fun!"

When the subject of our ages was unluckily started at Mrs. Staveley's,
I had slipped out of the difficulty easily by assuming the character of
the eldest sister--an example of ready tact which my dear stupid Eunice
doesn't understand. In my father's presence, it is needless to say that
I kept silence, and left it to him. I was sorry to be obliged to
do this. Owing to his sad state of health, he is easily
irritated--especially by inquisitive strangers.

"I must leave you," he answered, without taking the slightest notice of
what Miss Jillgall had said to him. "My work is waiting for me."

She stopped him on his way to the door. "Oh, tell me--can't I help you?"

"Thank you; no."

"Well--but tell me one thing. Am I right about the twins?"

"You are wrong."

Miss Jillgall's demonstrative hands flew up into the air again, and
expressed the climax of astonishment by quivering over her head. "This
is positively maddening," she declared. "What does it mean?"

"Take my advice, cousin. Don't attempt to find out what it means."

He left the room. Miss Jillgall appealed to me. I imitated my father's
wise brevity of expression: "Sorry to disappoint you, Selina; I know no
more about it than you do. Come upstairs."

Every step of the way up to the drawing-room was marked by a protest or
an inquiry. Did I expect her to believe that I couldn't say which of
us was the elder of the two? that I didn't really know what my father's
motive was for this extraordinary mystification? that my sister and I
had submitted to be robbed, as it were, of our own ages, and had not
insisted on discovering which of us had come into the world first? that
our friends had not put an end to this sort of thing by comparing us
personally, and discovering which was the elder sister by investigation
of our faces? To all this I replied: First, that I did certainly expect
her to believe whatever I might say: Secondly, that what she was pleased
to call the "mystification" had begun when we were both children; that
habit had made it familiar to us in the course of years; and above all,
that we were too fond of our good father to ask for explanations which
we knew by experience would distress him: Thirdly, that friends did try
to discover, by personal examination, which was the elder sister, and
differed perpetually in their conclusions; also that we had amused
ourselves by trying the same experiment before our looking-glasses, and
that Eunice thought Helena was the oldest, and Helena thought Eunice was
the oldest: Fourthly (and finally), that the Reverend Mr. Gracedieu's
cousin had better drop the subject, unless she was bent on making her
presence in the house unendurable to the Reverend Mr. Gracedieu himself.

I write it with a sense of humiliation; Miss Jillgall listened
attentively to all I had to say--and then took me completely by
surprise. This inquisitive, meddlesome, restless, impudent woman
suddenly transformed herself into a perfect model of amiability and
decorum. She actually said she agreed with me, and was much obliged for
my good advice!

A stupid young woman, in my place, would have discovered that this was
not natural, and that Miss Jillgall was presenting herself to me in
disguise, to reach some secret end of her own. I am not a stupid young
woman; I ought to have had at my service penetration enough to
see through and through Cousin Selina. Well! Cousin Selina was an
impenetrable mystery to me.

The one thing to be done was to watch her. I was at least sly enough to
take up a book, and pretend to be reading it. How contemptible!

She looked round the room, and discovered our pretty writing-table;
a present to my father from his congregation. After a little
consideration, she sat down to write a letter.

"When does the post go out?" she asked.

I mentioned the hour; and she began her letter. Before she could have
written more than the first two or three lines, she turned round on her
seat, and began talking to me.

"Do you like writing letters, my dear?"

"Yes--but then I have not many letters to write."

"Only a few friends, Helena, but those few worthy to be loved? My own
case exactly. Has your father told you of my troubles? Ah, I am glad of
that. It spares me the sad necessity of confessing what I have suffered.
Oh, how good my friends, my new friends, were to me in that dull little
Belgian town! One of them was generosity personified--ah, she had
suffered, too! A vile husband who had deceived and deserted her. Oh,
the men! When she heard of the loss of my little fortune, that noble
creature got up a subscription for me, and went round herself to
collect. Think of what I owe to her! Ought I to let another day pass
without writing to my benefactress? Am I not bound in gratitude to make
her happy in the knowledge of _my_ happiness--I mean the refuge opened
to me in this hospitable house?"

She twisted herself back again to the writing-table, and went on with
her letter.

I have not attempted to conceal my stupidity. Let me now record a
partial recovery of my intelligence.

It was not to be denied that Miss Jillgall had discovered a good reason
for writing to her friend; but I was at a loss to understand why
she should have been so anxious to mention the reason. Was it
possible--after the talk which had passed between us--that she had
something mischievous to say in her letter, relating to my father or
to me? Was she afraid I might suspect this? And had she been so
communicative for the purpose of leading my suspicions astray? These
were vague guesses; but, try as I might, I could arrive at no clearer
view of what was passing in Miss Jillgall's mind. What would I not have
given to be able to look over her shoulder, without discovery!

She finished her letter, and put the address, and closed the envelope.
Then she turned round toward me again.

"Have you got a foreign postage stamp, dear?"

If I could look at nothing else, I was resolved to look at her envelope.
It was only necessary to go to the study, and to apply to my father. I
returned with the foreign stamp, and I stuck it on the envelope with my
own hand.

There was nothing to interest _me_ in the address, as I ought to have
foreseen, if I had not been too much excited for the exercise of
a little common sense. Miss Jillgall's wonderful friend was only
remarkable by her ugly foreign name--MRS. TENBRUGGEN.



CHAPTER XVIII. EUNICE'S DIARY.

Here I am, writing my history of myself, once more, by my own bedside.
Some unexpected events have happened while I have been away. One of them
is the absence of my sister.

Helena has left home on a visit to a northern town by the seaside. She
is staying in the house of a minister (one of papa's friends), and is
occupying a position of dignity in which I should certainly lose my
head. The minister and his wife and daughters propose to set up a Girls'
Scripture Class, on the plan devised by papa; and they are at a loss,
poor helpless people, to know how to begin. Helena has volunteered to
set the thing going. And there she is now, advising everybody, governing
everybody, encouraging everybody--issuing directions, finding fault,
rewarding merit--oh, dear, let me put it all in one word, and say:
thoroughly enjoying herself.

Another event has happened, relating to papa. It so distressed me that I
even forgot to think of Philip--for a little while.

Traveling by railway (I suppose because I am not used to it) gives me
the headache. When I got to our station here, I thought it would do
me more good to walk home than to ride in the noisy omnibus. Half-way
between the railway and the town, I met one of the doctors. He is a
member of our congregation; and he it was who recommended papa, some
time since, to give up his work as a minister and take a long holiday in
foreign parts.

"I am glad to have met with you," the doctor said. "Your sister, I
find, is away on a visit; and I want to speak to one of you about your
father."

It seemed that he had been observing papa, in chapel, from what he
called his own medical point of view. He did not conceal from me that he
had drawn conclusions which made him feel uneasy. "It may be anxiety,"
he said, "or it may be overwork. In either case, your father is in
a state of nervous derangement, which is likely to lead to serious
results--unless he takes the advice that I gave him when he last
consulted me. There must be no more hesitation about it. Be careful not
to irritate him--but remember that he must rest. You and your sister
have some influence over him; he won't listen to me."

Poor dear papa! I did see a change in him for the worse--though I had
only been away for so short a time.

When I put my arms round his neck, and kissed him, he turned pale, and
then flushed up suddenly: the tears came into his eyes. Oh, it was hard
to follow the doctor's advice, and not to cry, too; but I succeeded in
controlling myself. I sat on his knee, and made him tell me all that I
have written here about Helena. This led to our talking next of the new
lady, who is to live with us as a member of the family. I began to feel
less uneasy at the prospect of being introduced to this stranger, when
I heard that she was papa's cousin. And when he mentioned her name, and
saw how it amused me, his poor worn face brightened into a smile. "Go
and find her," he said, "and introduce yourself. I want to hear, Eunice,
if you and my cousin are likely to get on well together."

The servants told me that Miss Jillgall was in the garden.

I searched here, there, and everywhere, and failed to find her. The
place was so quiet, it looked so deliciously pure and bright, after
smoky dreary London, that I sat down at the further end of the garden
and let my mind take me back to Philip. What was he doing at that
moment, while I was thinking of him? Perhaps he was in the company of
other young ladies, who drew all his thoughts away to themselves? Or
perhaps he was writing to his father in Ireland, and saying something
kindly and prettily about me? Or perhaps he was looking forward, as
anxiously as I do, to our meeting next week.

I have had my plans, and I have changed my plans.

On the railway journey, I thought I would tell papa at once of the new
happiness which seems to have put a new life into me. It would have been
delightful to make my confession to that first and best and dearest of
friends; but my meeting with the doctor spoiled it all. After what he
had said to me, I discovered a risk. If I ventured to tell papa that my
heart was set on a young gentleman who was a stranger to him, could I be
sure that he would receive my confession favorably? There was a chance
that it might irritate him--and the fault would then be mine of doing
what I had been warned to avoid. It might be safer in every way to wait
till Philip paid his visit, and he and papa had been introduced to each
other and charmed with each other. Could Helena herself have arrived at
a wiser conclusion? I declare I felt proud of my own discretion.

In this enjoyable frame of mind I was disturbed by a woman's voice. The
tone was a tone of distress, and the words reached my ears from the end
of the garden: "Please, miss, let me in."

A shrubbery marks the limit of our little bit of pleasure-ground. On the
other side of it there is a cottage standing on the edge of the
common. The most good-natured woman in the world lives here. She is our
laundress--married to a stupid young fellow named Molly, and blessed
with a plump baby as sweet-tempered at herself. Thinking it likely that
the piteous voice which had disturbed me might be the voice of Mrs.
Molly, I was astonished to hear her appealing to anybody (perhaps to
me?) to "let her in." So I passed through the shrubbery, wondering
whether the gate had been locked during my absence in London. No; it was
as easy to open as ever.

The cottage door was not closed.

I saw our amiable laundress in the passage, on her knees, trying to open
an inner door which seemed to be locked. She had her eye at the keyhole;
and, once again, she called out: "Please, miss, let me in." I waited to
see if the door would be opened--nothing happened. I waited again, to
hear if some person inside would answer--nobody spoke. But somebody,
or something, made a sound of splashing water on the other side of the
door.

I showed myself, and asked what was the matter.

Mrs. Molly looked at me helplessly. She said: "Miss Eunice, it's the
baby."

"What has the baby done?" I inquired.

Mrs. Molly got on her feet, and whispered in my ear: "You know he's a
fine child?"

"Yes."

"Well, miss, he's bewitched a lady."

"What lady?"

"Miss Jillgall."

The very person I had been trying to find! I asked where she was.

The laundress pointed dolefully to the locked door: "In there."

"And where is your baby?"

The poor woman still pointed to the door: "I'm beginning to doubt, miss,
whether it is my baby."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Molly. If it isn't yours, whose baby can it be?"

"Miss Jillgall's."

Her puzzled face made this singular reply more funny still. The
splashing of water on the other side of the door began again. "What is
Miss Jillgall doing now?" I said.

"Washing the baby, miss. A week ago, she came in here, one morning;
very pleasant and kind, I must own. She found me putting on the baby's
things. She says: 'What a cherub!' which I took as a compliment. She
says: 'I shall call again to-morrow.' She called again so early that
she found the baby in his crib. 'You be a good soul,' she says, 'and
go about your work, and leave the child to me.' I says: 'Yes, miss, but
please to wait till I've made him fit to be seen.' She says: 'That's
just what I mean to do myself.' I stared; and I think any other person
would have done the same in my place. 'If there's one thing more than
another I enjoy,' she says, 'it's making myself useful. Mrs. Molly, I've
taken a fancy to your boy-baby,' she says, 'and I mean to make myself
useful to _him_.' If you will believe me, Miss Jillgall has only let
me have one opportunity of putting my own child tidy. She was late
this morning, and I got my chance, and had the boy on my lap, drying
him--when in she burst like a blast of wind, and snatched the baby away
from me. 'This is your nasty temper,' she says; 'I declare I'm ashamed
of you!' And there she is, with the door locked against me, washing the
child all over again herself. Twice I've knocked, and asked her to let
me in, and can't even get an answer. They do say there's luck in odd
numbers; suppose I try again?" Mrs. Molly knocked, and the proverb
proved to be true; she got an answer from Miss Jillgall at last: "If you
don't be quiet and go away, you shan't have the baby back at all." Who
could help it?--I burst out laughing. Miss Jillgall (as I supposed from
the tone of her voice) took severe notice of this act of impropriety.
"Who's that laughing?" she called out; "give yourself a name." I gave
my name. The door was instantly thrown open with a bang. Papa's cousin
appeared, in a disheveled state, with splashes of soap and water all
over her. She held the child in one arm, and she threw the other arm
round my neck. "Dearest Euneece, I have been longing to see you. How do
you like Our baby?"

To the curious story of my introduction to Miss Jillgall, I ought
perhaps to add that I have got to be friends with her already. I am the
friend of anybody who amuses me. What will Helena say when she reads
this?



CHAPTER XIX. EUNICE'S DIARY.

When people are interested in some event that is coming, do they find
the dull days, passed in waiting for it, days which they are not able to
remember when they look back? This is my unfortunate case. Night after
night, I have gone to bed without so much as opening my Journal. There
was nothing worth writing about, nothing that I could recollect, until
the postman came to-day. I ran downstairs, when I heard his ring at the
bell, and stopped Maria on her way to the study. There, among papa's
usual handful of letters, was a letter for me.

"DEAR MISS EUNICE:

.......

"Yours ever truly."

I quote the passages in Philip's letter which most deeply interested
me--I am his dear miss; and he is mine ever truly. The other part of the
letter told me that he had been detained in London, and he lamented it.
At the end was a delightful announcement that he was coming to me by the
afternoon train. I ran upstairs to see how I looked in the glass.

My first feeling was regret. For the thousandth time, I was obliged to
acknowledge that I was not as pretty as Helena. But this passed off. A
cheering reflection occurred to me. Philip would not have found, in my
sister's face, what seems to have interested him in my face. Besides,
there is my figure.

The pity of it is that I am so ignorant about some things. If I had been
allowed to read novels, I might (judging by what papa said against them
in one of his sermons) have felt sure of my own attractions; I might
even have understood what Philip really thought of me. However, my mind
was quite unexpectedly set at ease on the subject of my figure. The
manner in which it happened was so amusing--at least, so amusing to
me--that I cannot resist mentioning it.

My sister and I are forbidden to read newspapers, as well as novels. But
the teachers at the Girls' Scripture Class are too old to be treated in
this way. When the morning lessons were over, one of them was reading
the newspaper to the other, in the empty schoolroom; I being in the
passage outside, putting on my cloak.

It was a report of "an application made to the magistrates by the lady
of his worship the Mayor." Hearing this, I stopped to listen. The
lady of his worship (what a funny way of describing a man's wife!) is
reported to be a little too fond of notoriety, and to like hearing the
sound of her own voice on public occasions. But this is only my writing;
I had better get back to the report. "In her address to the magistrates,
the Mayoress stated that she had seen a disgusting photograph in the
shop window of a stationer, lately established in the town. She desired
to bring this person within reach of the law, and to have all his
copies of the shameless photograph destroyed. The usher of the court
was thereupon sent to purchase the photograph."--On second thoughts,
I prefer going back to my own writing again; it is so uninteresting to
copy other people's writing. Two of the magistrates were doing justice.
They looked at the photograph--and what did it represent? The famous
statue called the Venus de' Medici! One of the magistrates took this
discovery indignantly. He was shocked at the gross ignorance which could
call the classic ideal of beauty and grace a disgusting work. The other
one made polite allowances. He thought the lady was much to be pitied;
she was evidently the innocent victim of a neglected education. Mrs.
Mayor left the court in a rage, telling the justices she knew where to
get law. "I shall expose Venus," she said, "to the Lord Chancellor."

When the Scripture Class had broken up for the day, duty ought to
have taken me home. Curiosity led me astray--I mean, led me to the
stationer's window.

There I found our two teachers, absorbed in the photograph; having got
to the shop first by a short cut. They seemed to think I had taken a
liberty whom I joined them. "We are here," they were careful to explain,
"to get a lesson in the ideal of beauty and grace." There was quite
a little crowd of townsfolk collected before the window. Some of them
giggled; and some of them wondered whether it was taken from the life.
For my own part, gratitude to Venus obliges me to own that she effected
a great improvement in the state of my mind. She encouraged me. If
that stumpy little creature--with no waist, and oh, such uncertain
legs!--represented the ideal of beauty and grace, I had reason indeed to
be satisfied with my own figure, and to think it quite possible that my
sweetheart's favorable opinion of me was not ill-bestowed.

I was at the bedroom window when the time approached for Philip's
arrival. Quite at the far end of the road, I discovered him. He was on
foot; he walked like a king. Not that I ever saw a king, but I have my
ideal. Ah, what a smile he gave me, when I made him look up by waving
my handkerchief out of the window! "Ask for papa," I whispered as he
ascended the house-steps.

The next thing to do was to wait, as patiently as I could, to be sent
for downstairs. Maria came to me in a state of excitement. "Oh, miss,
what a handsome young gentleman, and how beautifully dressed! Is he--?"
Instead of finishing what she had to say, she looked at me with a sly
smile. I looked at her with a sly smile. We were certainly a couple of
fools. But, dear me, how happy sometimes a fool can be!

My enjoyment of that delightful time was checked when I went into the
drawing-room.

I had expected to see papa's face made beautiful by his winning smile.
He was not only serious; he actually seemed to be ill at ease when he
looked at me. At the same time, I saw nothing to make me conclude that
Philip had produced an unfavorable impression. The truth is, we were all
three on our best behavior, and we showed it. Philip had brought with
him a letter from Mrs. Staveley, introducing him to papa. We spoke of
the Staveleys, of the weather, of the Cathedral--and then there seemed
to be nothing more left to talk about.

In the silence that followed--what a dreadful thing silence is!--papa
was sent for to see somebody who had called on business. He made his
excuses in the sweetest manner, but still seriously. When he and Philip
had shaken hands, would he leave us together? No; he waited. Poor Philip
had no choice but to take leave of me. Papa then went out by the door
that led into his study, and I was left alone.

Can any words say how wretched I felt?

I had hoped so much from that first meeting--and where were my hopes
now? A profane wish that I had never been born was finding its way into
my mind, when the door of the room was opened softly, from the side of
the passage. Maria, dear Maria, the best friend I have, peeped in. She
whispered: "Go into the garden, miss, and you will find somebody there
who is dying to see you. Mind you let him out by the shrubbery gate."
I squeezed her hand; I asked if she had tried the shrubbery gate with a
sweetheart of her own. "Hundreds of times, miss."

Was it wrong for me to go to Philip, in the garden? Oh, there is no end
to objections! Perhaps I did it _because_ it was wrong. Perhaps I had
been kept on my best behavior too long for human endurance.

How sadly disappointed he looked! And how rashly he had placed himself
just where he could be seen from the back windows! I took his arm and
led him to the end of the garden. There we were out of the reach of
inquisitive eyes; and there we sat down together, under the big mulberry
tree.

"Oh, Eunice, your father doesn't like me!"

Those were his first words. In justice to papa (and a little for my
own sake too) I told him he was quite wrong. I said: "Trust my father's
goodness, trust his kindness, as I do."

He made no reply. His silence was sufficiently expressive; he looked at
me fondly.

I may be wrong, but fond looks surely require an acknowledgment of some
kind? Is a young woman guilty of boldness who only follows her impulses?
I slipped my hand into his hand. Philip seemed to like it. We returned
to our conversation.

He began: "Tell me, dear, is Mr. Gracedieu always as serious as he is
to-day?"

"Oh no!"

"When he takes exercise, does he ride? or does he walk?"

"Papa always walks."

"By himself?"

"Sometimes by himself. Sometimes with me. Do you want to meet him when
he goes out?"

"Yes."

"When he is out with me?"

"No. When he is out by himself."

Was it possible to tell me more plainly that I was not wanted? I did my
best to express indignation by snatching my hand away from him. He was
completely taken by surprise.

"Eunice! don't you understand me?"

I was as stupid and as disagreeable as I could possibly be: "No; I
don't!"

"Then let me help you," he said, with a patience which I had not
deserved.

Up to that moment I had been leaning against the back of a garden
chair. Something else now got between me and my chair. It stole round
my waist--it held me gently--it strengthened its hold--it improved my
temper--it made me fit to understand him. All done by what? Only an arm!

Philip went on:

"I want to ask your father to do me the greatest of all favors--and
there is no time to lose. Every day, I expect to get a letter which may
recall me to Ireland."

My heart sank at this horrid prospect; and in some mysterious way my
head must have felt it too. I mean that I found my head resting on his
shoulder. He went on:

"How am I to get my opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gracedieu? I mustn't
call on him again as soon as to-morrow or next day. But I might meet
him, out walking alone, if you will tell me how to do it. A note to my
hotel is all I want. Don't tremble, my sweet. If you are not present at
the time, do you see any objection to my owning to your father that I
love you?"

I felt his delicate consideration for me--I did indeed feel it
gratefully. If he only spoke first, how well I should get on with papa
afterward! The prospect before me was exquisitely encouraging. I agreed
with Philip in everything; and I waited (how eagerly was only known to
myself) to hear what he would say to me next. He prophesied next:

"When I have told your father that I love you, he will expect me to tell
him something else. Can you guess what it is?"

If I had not been confused, perhaps I might have found the answer to
this. As it was, I left him to reply to himself. He did it, in words
which I shall remember as long as I live.

"Dearest Eunice, when your father has heard my confession, he will
suspect that there is another confession to follow it--he will want to
know if you love me. My angel, will my hopes be your hopes too, when I
answer him?"

What there was in this to make my heart beat so violently that I felt as
if I was being stifled, is more than I can tell. He leaned so close to
me, so tenderly, so delightfully close, that our faces nearly touched.
He whispered: "Say you love me, in a kiss!"

His lips touched my lips, pressed them, dwelt on them--oh, how can I
tell of it! Some new enchantment of feeling ran deliciously through
and through me. I forgot my own self; I only knew of one person in the
world. He was master of my lips; he was master of my heart. When he
whispered, "kiss me," I kissed. What a moment it was! A faintness stole
over me; I felt as if I was going to die some exquisite death; I laid
myself back away from him--I was not able to speak. There was no need
for it; my thoughts and his thoughts were one--he knew that I was
quite overcome; he saw that he must leave me to recover myself alone. I
pointed to the shrubbery gate. We took one long last look at each other
for that day; the trees hid him; I was left by myself.



CHAPTER XX. EUNICE'S DIARY.

How long a time passed before my composure came back to me, I cannot
remember now. It seemed as if I was waiting through some interval of my
life that was a mystery to myself. I was content to wait, and feel the
light evening air in the garden wafting happiness over me. And all this
had come from a kiss! I can call the time to mind when I used to wonder
why people made such a fuss about kissing.

I had been indebted to Maria for my first taste of Paradise. I was
recalled by Maria to the world that I had been accustomed to live in;
the world that was beginning to fade away in my memory already. She had
been sent to the garden in search of me; and she had a word of advice
to offer, after noticing my face when I stepped out of the shadow of the
tree: "Try to look more like yourself, miss, before you let them see you
at the tea-table."


Papa and Miss Jillgall were sitting together talking, when I opened the
door. They left off when they saw me; and I supposed, quite correctly
as it turned out, that I had been one of the subjects in their course
of conversation. My poor father seemed to be sadly anxious and out of
sorts. Miss Jillgall, if I had been in the humor to enjoy it, would have
been more amusing than ever. One of her funny little eyes persisted in
winking at me; and her heavy foot had something to say to my foot, under
the table, which meant a great deal perhaps, but which only succeeded in
hurting me.

My father left us; and Miss Jillgall explained herself.

"I know, dearest Euneece, that we have only been acquainted for a day or
two and that I ought not perhaps to have expected you to confide in
me so soon. Can I trust you not to betray me if I set an example of
confidence? Ah, I see I can trust you! And, my dear, I do so enjoy
telling secrets to a friend. Hush! Your father, your excellent father,
has been talking to me about young Mr. Dunboyne."

She provokingly stopped there. I entreated her to go on. She invited
me to sit on her knee. "I want to whisper," she said. It was too
ridiculous--but I did it. Miss Jillgall's whisper told me serious news.

"The minister has some reason, Euneece, for disapproving of Mr.
Dunboyne; but, mind this, I don't think he has a bad opinion of the
young man himself. He is going to return Mr. Dunboyne's call. Oh, I do
so hate formality; I really can't go on talking of _Mr._ Dunboyne. Tell
me his Christian name. Ah, what a noble name! How I long to be useful
to him! Tomorrow, my dear, after the one o'clock dinner, your papa will
call on Philip, at his hotel. I hope he won't be out, just at the wrong
time."

I resolved to prevent that unlucky accident by writing to Philip. If
Miss Jillgall would have allowed it, I should have begun my letter at
once. But she had more to say; and she was stronger than I was, and
still kept me on her knee.

"It all looks bright enough so far, doesn't it, dear sister? Will you
let me be your second sister? I do so love you, Euneece. Thank you!
thank you! But the gloomy side of the picture is to come next! The
minister--no! now I am your sister I must call him papa; it makes me
feel so young again! Well, then, papa has asked me to be your companion
whenever you go out. 'Euneece is too young and too attractive to be
walking about this great town (in Helena's absence) by herself.' That
was how he put it. Slyly enough, if one may say so of so good a man. And
he used your sister (didn't he?) as a kind of excuse. I wish your sister
was as nice as you are. However, the point is, why am I to be your
companion? Because, dear child, you and your young gentleman are not to
make appointments and to meet each other alone. Oh, yes--that's it!
Your father is quite willing to return Philip's call; he proposes (as a
matter of civility to Mrs. Staveley) to ask Philip to dinner; but, mark
my words, he doesn't mean to let Philip have you for his wife."

I jumped off her lap; it was horrible to hear her. "Oh," I said, "_can_
you be right about it?" Miss Jillgall jumped up too. She has foreign
ways of shrugging her shoulders and making signs with her hands. On this
occasion she laid both hands on the upper part of her dress, just below
her throat, and mysteriously shook her head.

"When my views are directed by my affections," she assured me, "I never
see wrong. My bosom is my strong point."

She has no bosom, poor soul--but I understood what she meant. It failed
to have any soothing effect on my feelings. I felt grieved and angry and
puzzled, all in one. Miss Jillgall stood looking at me, with her hands
still on the place where her bosom was supposed to be. She made my
temper hotter than ever.

"I mean to marry Philip," I said.

"Certainly, my dear Euneece. But please don't be so fierce about it."

"If my father does really object to my marriage," I went on, "it must be
because he dislikes Philip. There can be no other reason."

"Oh, yes, dear--there can."

"What is the reason, then?"

"That, my sweet girl, is one of the things that we have got to find
out."

.......

The post of this morning brought a letter from my sister. We were to
expect her return by the next day's train. This was good news. Philip
and I might stand in need of clever Helena's help, and we might be sure
of getting it now.

In writing to Philip, I had asked him to let me hear how papa and he had
got on at the hotel. I won't say how often I consulted my watch, or how
often I looked out of the window for a man with a letter in his hand. It
will be better to get on at once to the discouraging end of it, when the
report of the interview reached me at last. Twice Philip had attempted
to ask for my hand in marriage--and twice my father had "deliberately,
obstinately" (Philip's own words) changed the subject. Even this was not
all. As if he was determined to show that Miss Jillgall was perfectly
right, and I perfectly wrong, papa (civil to Philip as long as he did
not talk of Me) had asked him to dine with us, and Philip had accepted
the invitation!

What were we to think of it? What were we to do?

I wrote back to my dear love (so cruelly used) to tell him that Helena
was expected to return on the next day, and that her opinion would be of
the greatest value to both of us. In a postscript I mentioned the hour
at which we were going to the station to meet my sister. When I say
"we," I mean Miss Jillgall as well as myself.

.......

We found him waiting for us at the railway. I am afraid he resented
papa's incomprehensible resolution not to give him a hearing. He was
silent and sullen. I could not conceal that to see this state of feeling
distressed me. He showed how truly he deserved to be loved--he begged
my pardon, and he became his own sweet self again directly. I am more
determined to marry him than ever.

When the train entered the station, all the carriages were full. I went
one way, thinking I had seen Helena. Miss Jillgall went the other way,
under the same impression. Philip was a little way behind me.

Not seeing my sister, I had just turned back, when a young man jumped
out of a carriage, opposite Philip, and recognized and shook hands with
him. I was just near enough to hear the stranger say, "Look at the girl
in our carriage." Philip looked. "What a charming creature!" he said,
and then checked himself for fear the young lady should hear him. She
had just handed her traveling bag and wraps to a porter, and was getting
out. Philip politely offered his hand to help her. She looked my way.
The charming creature of my sweetheart's admiration was, to my infinite
amusement, Helena herself.



CHAPTER XXI. HELENA'S DIARY.

The day of my return marks an occasion which I am not likely to forget.
Hours have passed since I came home--and my agitation still forbids the
thought of repose.

As I sit at my desk I see Eunice in bed, sleeping peacefully, except
when she is murmuring enjoyment in some happy dream. To what end has my
sister been advancing blindfold, and (who knows?) dragging me with her,
since that disastrous visit to our friends in London? Strange that there
should be a leaven of superstition in _my_ nature! Strange that I should
feel fear of something--I hardly know what!

I have met somewhere (perhaps in my historical reading) with the
expression: "A chain of events." Was I at the beginning of that chain,
when I entered the railway carriage on my journey home?

Among the other passengers there was a young gentleman, accompanied by
a lady who proved to be his sister. They were both well-bred people.
The brother evidently admired me, and did his best to make himself
agreeable. Time passed quickly in pleasant talk, and my vanity was
flattered--and that was all. My fellow-travelers were going on to
London. When the train reached our station the young lady sent
her brother to buy some fruit, which she saw in the window of the
refreshment-room. The first man whom he encountered on the platform was
one of his friends; to whom he said something which I failed to hear.
When I handed my traveling bag and my wraps to the porter, and showed
myself at the carriage door, I heard the friend say: "What a charming
creature!" Having nothing to conceal in a journal which I protect by a
lock, I may own that the stranger's personal appearance struck me,
and that what I felt this time was not flattered vanity, but
gratified pride. He was young, he was remarkably handsome, he was a
distinguished-looking man.

All this happened in one moment. In the moment that followed, I found
myself in Eunice's arms. That odious person, Miss Jillgall, insisted on
embracing me next. And then I was conscious of an indescribable feeling
of surprise. Eunice presented the distinguished-looking gentleman to me
as a friend of hers--Mr. Philip Dunboyne.

"I had the honor of meeting your sister," he said, "in London, at Mr.
Staveley's house." He went on to speak easily and gracefully of the
journey I had taken, and of his friend who had been my fellow-traveler;
and he attended us to the railway omnibus before he took his leave. I
observed that Eunice had something to say to him confidentially, before
they parted. This was another example of my sister's childish character;
she is instantly familiar with new acquaintances, if she happens to like
them. I anticipated some amusement from hearing how she had contrived to
establish confidential relations with a highly-cultivated man like Mr.
Dunboyne. But, while Miss Jillgall was with us, it was just as well to
keep within the limits of commonplace conversation.

Before we got out of the omnibus I had, however, observed one
undesirable result of my absence from home. Eunice and Miss
Jillgall--the latter having, no doubt, finely flattered the
former--appeared to have taken a strong liking to each other.

Two curious circumstances also caught my attention. I saw a change to,
what I call self-assertion, in my sister's manner; something seemed to
have raised her in her own estimation. Then, again, Miss Jillgall was
not like her customary self. She had delightful moments of silence; and
when Eunice asked how I liked Mr. Dunboyne, she listened to my reply
with an appearance of interest in her ugly face which was quite a new
revelation in my experience of my father's cousin.

These little discoveries (after what I had already observed at the
railway-station) ought perhaps to have prepared me for what was to come,
when my sister and I were alone in our room. But Eunice, whether she
meant to do it or not, baffled my customary penetration. She looked as
if she had plenty of news to tell me--with some obstacle in the way of
doing it, which appeared to amuse instead of annoying her. If there is
one thing more than another that I hate, it is being puzzled. I asked
at once if anything remarkable had happened during Eunice's visit to
London.

She smiled mischievously. "I have got a delicious surprise for you, my
dear; and I do so enjoy prolonging it. Tell me, Helena, what did you
propose we should both do when we found ourselves at home again?"

My memory was at fault. Eunice's good spirits became absolutely
boisterous. She called out: "Catch!" and tossed her journal into my
hands, across the whole length of the room. "We were to read each
other's diaries," she said. "There is mine to begin with."

Innocent of any suspicion of the true state of affairs, I began the
reading of Eunice's journal. If I had not seen the familiar handwriting,
nothing would have induced me to believe that a girl brought up in
a pious household, the well-beloved daughter of a distinguished
Congregational Minister, could have written that shameless record of
passions unknown to young ladies in respectable English life. What to
say, what to do, when I had closed the book, was more than I felt myself
equal to decide. My wretched sister spared me the anxiety which I might
otherwise have felt. It was she who first opened her lips, after the
silence that had fallen on us while I was reading. These were literally
the words that she said:

"My darling, why don't you congratulate me?"

No argument could have persuaded me, as this persuaded me, that all
sisterly remonstrance on my part would be completely thrown away.

"My dear Eunice," I said, "let me beg you to excuse me. I am waiting--"

There she interrupted me--and, oh, in what an impudent manner! She took
my chin between her finger and thumb, and lifted my downcast face, and
looked at me with an appearance of eager expectation which I was quite
at a loss to understand.

"You have been away from home, too," she said. "Do I see in this serious
face some astonishing news waiting to overpower me? Have _you_ found a
sweetheart? Are _you_ engaged to be married?"

I only put her hand away from me, and advised her to return to her
chair. This perfectly harmless proceeding seemed absolutely to frighten
her.

"Oh, my dear," she burst out, "surely you are not jealous of me?"

There was but one possible reply to this: I laughed at it. Is Eunice's
head turned? She kissed me!

"Now you laugh," she said, "I begin to understand you again; I ought to
have known that you are superior to jealousy. But, do tell me, would it
be so very wonderful if other girls found something to envy in my good
luck? Just think of it! Such a handsome man, such an agreeable man,
such a clever man, such a rich man--and, not the least of his merits,
by-the-by, a man who admires You. Come! if you won't congratulate me,
congratulate yourself on having such a brother-in-law in prospect!"

Her head _was_ turned. I drew the poor soul's attention compassionately
to what I had said a moment since.

"Pardon me, dear, for reminding you that I have not yet refused to offer
my congratulations. I only told you I was waiting."

"For what?"

"Waiting, of course, to hear what my father thinks of your wonderful
good luck."

This explanation, offered with the kindest intentions, produced another
change in my very variable sister. I had extinguished her good spirits
as I might have extinguished a light. She sat down by me, and sighed in
the saddest manner. The heart must be hard indeed which can resist the
distress of a person who is dear to us. I put my arm round her; she was
becoming once more the Eunice whom I so dearly loved.

"My poor child," I said, "don't distress yourself by speaking of it; I
understand. Your father objects to your marrying Mr. Dunboyne."

She shook her head. "I can't exactly say, Helena, that papa does that.
He only behaves very strangely."

"Am I indiscreet, dear, if I ask in what way father's behavior has
surprised you?"

She was quite willing to enlighten me. It was a simple little story
which, to my mind, sufficiently explained the strange behavior that had
puzzled my unfortunate sister.

There could indeed be no doubt that my father considered Eunice far too
childish in character, as yet, to undertake the duties of matrimony.
But, with his customary delicacy, and dread of causing distress to
others, he had deferred the disagreeable duty of communicating his
opinion to Mr. Dunboyne. The adverse decision must, however, be sooner
or later announced; and he had arranged to inflict disappointment, as
tenderly as might be, at his own table.

Considerately leaving Eunice in the enjoyment of any vain hopes which
she may have founded on the event of the dinner-party, I passed the
evening until supper-time came in the study with my father.

Our talk was mainly devoted to the worthy people with whom I had been
staying, and whose new schools I had helped to found. Not a word was
said relating to my sister, or to Mr. Dunboyne. Poor father looked so
sadly weary and ill that I ventured, after what the doctor had said
to Eunice, to hint at the value of rest and change of scene to an
overworked man. Oh, dear me, he frowned, and waved the subject away from
him impatiently, with a wan, pale hand.

After supper, I made an unpleasant discovery. Not having completely
finished the unpacking of my boxes, I left Miss Jillgall and Eunice in
the drawing-room, and went upstairs. In half an hour I returned, and
found the room empty. What had become of them? It was a fine moonlight
night; I stepped into the back drawing-room, and looked out of the
window. There they were, walking arm-in-arm with their heads close
together, deep in talk. With my knowledge of Miss Jillgall, I call this
a bad sign.

An odd thought has just come to me. I wonder what might have happened,
if I had been visiting at Mrs. Staveley's, instead of Eunice, and if Mr.
Dunboyne had seen me first.

Absurd! if I was not too tired to do anything more, those last lines
should be scratched out.



CHAPTER XXII. EUNICE'S DIARY.

I said so to Miss Jillgall, and I say it again here. Nothing will induce
me to think ill of Helena.

My sister is a good deal tired, and a little out of temper after the
railway journey. This is exactly what happened to me when I went to
London. I attribute her refusal to let me read her journal, after she
had read mine, entirely to the disagreeable consequences of traveling
by railway. Miss Jillgall accounted for it otherwise, in her own funny
manner: "My sweet child, your sister's diary is full of abuse of poor
me." I humored the joke: "Dearest Selina, keep a diary of your own, and
fill it with abuse of my sister." This seemed to be a droll saying at
the time. But it doesn't look particularly amusing, now it is written
down. We had ginger wine at supper, to celebrate Helena's return.
Although I only drank one glass, I daresay it may have got into my head.

However that may be, when the lovely moonlight tempted us into the
garden, there was an end to our jokes. We had something to talk about
which still dwells disagreeably on my mind.

Miss Jillgall began it.

"If I trust you, dearest Euneece, with my own precious secrets, shall I
never, never, never live to repent it?"

I told my good little friend that she might depend on me, provided her
secrets did no harm to any person whom I loved.

She clasped her hands and looked up at the moon--I can only suppose that
her sentiments overpowered her. She said, very prettily, that her heart
and my heart beat together in heavenly harmony. It is needless to add
that this satisfied me.

Miss Jillgall's generous confidence in my discretion was, I am afraid,
not rewarded as it ought to have been. I found her tiresome at first.

She spoke of an excellent friend (a lady), who had helped her, at
the time when she lost her little fortune, by raising a subscription
privately to pay the expenses of her return to England. Her friend's
name--not very attractive to English ears--was Mrs. Tenbruggen; they had
first become acquainted under interesting circumstances. Miss Jillgall
happened to mention that my father was her only living relative; and
it turned out that Mrs. Tenbruggen was familiar with his name, and
reverenced his fame as a preacher. When he had generously received his
poor helpless cousin under his own roof, Miss Jillgall's gratitude and
sense of duty impelled her to write and tell Mrs. Tenbruggen how happy
she was as a member of our family.

Let me confess that I began to listen more attentively when the
narrative reached this point.

"I drew a little picture of our domestic circle here," Miss Jillgall
said, describing her letter; "and I mentioned the mystery in which
Mr. Gracedieu conceals the ages of you two dear girls. Mrs.
Tenbruggen--shall we shorten her ugly name and call her Mrs. T.? Very
well--Mrs. T. is a remarkably clever woman, and I looked for interesting
results, if she would give her opinion of the mysterious circumstance
mentioned in my letter."

By this time, I was all eagerness to hear more.

"Has she written to you?" I asked.

Miss Jillgall looked at me affectionately, and took the reply out of her
pocket.

"Listen, Euneece; and you shall hear her own words. Thus she writes:

"'Your letter, dear Selina, especially interests me by what it says
about the _two_ Miss Gracedieus. '--Look, dear; she underlines the word
Two. Why, I can't explain. Can you? Ah, I thought not. Well, let us get
back to the letter. My accomplished friend continues in these terms:

"'I can understand the surprise which you have felt at the strange
course taken by their father, as a means of concealing the difference
which there must be in the ages of these young ladies. Many years since,
I happened to discover a romantic incident in the life of your popular
preacher, which he has his reasons, as I suspect, for keeping strictly
to himself. If I may venture on a bold guess, I should say that any
person who could discover which was the oldest of the two daughters,
would be also likely to discover the true nature of the romance in Mr.
Gracedieu's life.'--Isn't that very remarkable, Euneece? You don't seem
to see it--you funny child! Pray pay particular attention to what comes
next. These are the closing sentences in my friend's letter:

"'If you find anything new to tell me which relates to this interesting
subject, direct your letter as before--provided you write within a week
from the present time. Afterward, my letters will be received by the
English physician whose card I inclose. You will be pleased to hear that
my professional interests call me to London at the earliest moment that
I can spare.'--There, dear child, the letter comes to an end. I daresay
you wonder what Mrs. T. means, when she alludes to her professional
interests?"

No: I was not wondering about anything. It hurt me to hear of a strange
woman exercising her ingenuity in guessing at mysteries in papa's life.

But Miss Jillgall was too eagerly bent on setting forth the merits
of her friend to notice this. I now heard that Mrs. T.'s marriage had
turned out badly, and that she had been reduced to earn her own bread.
Her manner of doing this was something quite new to me. She went
about, from one place to another, curing people of all sorts of painful
maladies, by a way she had of rubbing them with her hands. In Belgium
she was called a "Masseuse." When I asked what this meant in English,
I was told, "Medical Rubber," and that the fame of Mrs. T.'s wonderful
cures had reached some of the medical newspapers published in London.

After listening (I must say for myself) very patiently, I was bold
enough to own that my interest in what I had just heard was not quite so
plain to me as I could have wished it to be.

Miss Jillgall looked shocked at my stupidity. She reminded me that
there was a mystery in Mrs. Tenbruggen's letter and a mystery in papa's
strange conduct toward Philip. "Put two and two together, darling," she
said; "and, one of these days, they may make four."

If this meant anything, it meant that the reason which made papa keep
Helena's age and my age unknown to everybody but himself, was also the
reason why he seemed to be so strangely unwilling to let me be Philip's
wife. I really could not endure to take such a view of it as that, and
begged Miss Jillgall to drop the subject. She was as kind as ever.

"With all my heart, dear. But don't deceive yourself--the subject will
turn up again when we least expect it."



CHAPTER XXIII. EUNICE'S DIARY.

Only two days now, before we give our little dinner-party, and Philip
finds his opportunity of speaking to papa. Oh, how I wish that day had
come and gone!

I try not to take gloomy views of things; but I am not quite so happy as
I had expected to be when my dear was in the same town with me. If papa
had encouraged him to call again, we might have had some precious time
to ourselves. As it is, we can only meet in the different show-places
in the town--with Helena on one side, and Miss Jillgall on the other,
to take care of us. I do call it cruel not to let two young people love
each other, without setting third persons to watch them. If I was Queen
of England, I would have pretty private bowers made for lovers, in the
summer, and nice warm little rooms to hold two, in the winter. Why not?
What harm could come of it, I should like to know?

The cathedral is the place of meeting which we find most convenient,
under the circumstances. There are delightful nooks and corners about
this celebrated building in which lovers can lag behind. If we had been
in papa's chapel I should have hesitated to turn it to such a profane
use as this; the cathedral doesn't so much matter.

Shall I own that I felt my inferiority to Helena a little keenly? She
could tell Philip so many things that I should have liked to tell him
first. My clever sister taught him how to pronounce the name of the
bishop who began building the cathedral; she led him over the crypt, and
told him how old it was. He was interested in the crypt; he talked
to Helena (not to me) of his ambition to write a work on cathedral
architecture in England; he made a rough little sketch in his book of
our famous tomb of some king. Helena knew the late royal personage's
name, and Philip showed his sketch to her before he showed it to me. How
can I blame him, when I stood there the picture of stupidity, trying
to recollect something that I might tell him, if it was only the Dean's
name? Helena might have whispered it to me, I think. She remembered it,
not I--and mentioned it to Philip, of course. I kept close by him all
the time, and now and then he gave me a look which raised my spirits. He
might have given me something better than that--I mean a kiss--when we
had left the cathedral, and were by ourselves for a moment in a corner
of the Dean's garden. But he missed the opportunity. Perhaps he was
afraid of the Dean himself coming that way, and happening to see us.
However, I am far from thinking the worse of Philip. I gave his arm a
little squeeze--and that was better than nothing.

.......

He and I took a walk along the bank of the river to-day; my sister and
Miss Jillgall looking after us as usual. On our way through the town,
Helena stopped to give an order at a shop. She asked us to wait for her.
That best of good creatures, Miss Jillgall, whispered in my ear: "Go on
by yourselves, and leave me to wait for her." Philip interpreted this
act of kindness in a manner which would have vexed me, if I had not
understood that it was one of his jokes. He said to me: "Miss Jillgall
sees a chance of annoying your sister, and enjoys the prospect."

Well, away we went together; it was just what I wanted; it gave me an
opportunity of saying something to Philip, between ourselves.

I could now beg of him, in his interests and mine, to make the best of
himself when he came to dinner. Clever people, I told him, were people
whom papa liked and admired. I said: "Let him see, dear, how clever
_you_ are, and how many things you know--and you can't imagine what a
high place you will have in his opinion. I hope you don't think I am
taking too much on myself in telling you how to behave."

He relieved that doubt in a manner which I despair of describing. His
eyes rested on me with such a look of exquisite sweetness and love that
I was obliged to hold by his arm, I trembled so with the pleasure of
feeling it.

"I do sincerely believe," he said, "that you are the most innocent girl,
the sweetest, truest girl that ever lived. I wish I was a better man,
Eunice; I wish I was good enough to be worthy of you!"

To hear him speak of himself in that way jarred on me. If such words had
fallen from any other man's lips, I should have been afraid that he had
done something, or thought something, of which he had reason to feel
ashamed. With Philip this was impossible.

He was eager to walk on rapidly, and to turn a corner in the path,
before we could be seen. "I want to be alone with you," he said.

I looked back. We were too late; Helena and Miss Jillgall had nearly
overtaken us. My sister was on the point of speaking to Philip, when she
seemed to change her mind, and only looked at him. Instead of looking
at her in return, he kept his eyes cast down and drew figures on the
pathway with his stick. I think Helena was out of temper; she suddenly
turned my way. "Why didn't you wait for me?" she asked.

Philip took her up sharply. "If Eunice likes seeing the river better
than waiting in the street," he said, "isn't she free to do as she
pleases?"

Helena said nothing more; Philip walked on slowly by himself. Not
knowing what to make of it, I turned to Miss Jillgall. "Surely Philip
can't have quarreled with Helena?" I said.

Miss Jillgall answered in an odd off-hand manner: "Not he! He is a great
deal more likely to have quarreled with himself."

"Why?"

"Suppose you ask him why?"

It was not to be thought of; it would have looked like prying into his
thoughts. "Selina!" I said, "there is something odd about you to-day.
What is the matter? I don't understand you."

"My poor dear, you will find yourself understanding me before long." I
thought I saw something like pity in her face when she said that.

"My poor dear?" I repeated. "What makes you speak to me in that way?"

"I don't know--I'm tired; I'm an old fool--I'll go back to the house."

Without another word, she left me. I turned to look for Philip, and
saw that my sister had joined him while I had been speaking to Miss
Jillgall. It pleased me to find that they were talking in a friendly way
when I joined them. A quarrel between Helena and my husband that is to
be--no, my husband that _shall_ be--would have been too distressing, too
unnatural I might almost call it.

Philip looked along the backward path, and asked what had become of Miss
Jillgall. "Have you any objection to follow her example?" he said to me,
when I told him that Selina had returned to the town. "I don't care for
the banks of this river."

Helena, who used to like the river at other times, was as ready as
Philip to leave it now. I fancy they had both been kindly waiting to
change our walk, till I came to them, and they could study my wishes
too. Of course I was ready to go where they pleased. I asked Philip if
there was anything he would like to see, when we got into the streets
again.

Clever Helena suggested what seemed to be a strange amusement to offer
to Philip. "Let's take him to the Girls' School," she said.

It appeared to be a matter of perfect indifference to him; he was, what
they call, ironical. "Oh, yes, of course. Deeply interesting! deeply
interesting!" He suddenly broke into the wildest good spirits, and
tucked my hand under his arm with a gayety which it was impossible
to resist. "What a boy you are!" Helena said, enjoying his delightful
hilarity as I did.



CHAPTER XXIV. EUNICE'S DIARY.

On entering the schoolroom we lost our gayety, all in a moment.
Something unpleasant had evidently happened.

Two of the eldest girls were sitting together in a corner, separated
from the rest, and looking most wickedly sulky. The teachers were at the
other end of the room, appearing to be ill at ease. And there, standing
in the midst of them, with his face flushed and his eyes angry--there
was papa, sadly unlike his gentle self in the days of his health and
happiness. On former occasions, when the exercise of his authority was
required in the school, his forbearing temper always set things right.
When I saw him now, I thought of what the doctor had said of his health,
on my way home from the station.

Papa advanced to us the moment we showed ourselves at the door.

He shook hands--cordially shook hands--with Philip. It was delightful to
see him, delightful to hear him say: "Pray don't suppose, Mr. Dunboyne,
that you are intruding; remain with us by all means if you like." Then
he spoke to Helena and to me, still excited, still not like himself:
"You couldn't have come here, my dears, at a time when your presence
was more urgently needed." He turned to the teachers. "Tell my
daughters what has happened; tell them why they see me here--shocked and
distressed, I don't deny it."

We now heard that the two girls in disgrace had broken the rules, and in
such a manner as to deserve severe punishment.

One of them had been discovered hiding a novel in her desk. The other
had misbehaved herself more seriously still--she had gone to the
theater. Instead of expressing any regret, they had actually dared to
complain of having to learn papa's improved catechism. They had even
accused him of treating them with severity, because they were poor
girls brought up on charity. "If we had been young ladies," they were
audacious enough to say, "more indulgence would have been shown to us;
we should have been allowed to read stories and to see plays."

All this time I had been asking myself what papa meant, when he told us
we could not have come to the schoolroom at a better time. His meaning
now appeared. When he spoke to the offending girls, he pointed to Helena
and to me.

"Here are my daughters," he said. "You will not deny that they are young
ladies. Now listen. They shall tell you themselves whether my rules make
any difference between them and you. Helena! Eunice! do I allow you to
read novels? do I allow you to go to the play?"

We said, "No"--and hoped it was over. But he had not done yet. He turned
to Helena.

"Answer some of the questions," he went on, "from my Manual of Christian
Obligation, which the girls call my catechism." He asked one of the
questions: "If you are told to do unto others as you would they should
do unto you, and if you find a difficulty in obeying that Divine
Precept, what does your duty require?"

It is my belief that Helena has the materials in her for making another
Joan of Arc. She rose, and answered without the slightest sign of
timidity: "My duty requires me to go to the minister, and to seek for
advice and encouragement."

"And if these fail?"

"Then I am to remember that my pastor is my friend. He claims no
priestly authority or priestly infallibility. He is my fellow-Christian
who loves me. He will tell me how he has himself failed; how he has
struggled against himself; and what a blessed reward has followed his
victory--a purified heart, a peaceful mind."

Then papa released my sister, after she had only repeated two out of all
the answers in Christian Obligation, which we first began to learn when
we were children. He then addressed himself again to the girls.

"Is what you have just heard a part of my catechism? Has my daughter
been excused from repeating it because she is a young lady? Where is
the difference between the religious education which is given to my own
child, and that given to you?"

The wretched girls still sat silent and obstinate, with their heads
down. I tremble again as I write of what happened next. Papa fixed his
eyes on me. He said, out loud: "Eunice!"--and waited for me to rise and
answer, as my sister had done.

It was entirely beyond my power to get on my feet.

Philip had (innocently, I am sure) discouraged me; I saw displeasure,
I saw contempt in his face. There was a dead silence in the room.
Everybody looked at me. My heart beat furiously, my hands turned cold,
the questions and answers in Christian Obligation all left my memory
together. I looked imploringly at papa.

For the first time in his life, he was hard on me. His eyes were as
angry as ever; they showed me no mercy. Oh, what had come to me?
what evil spirit possessed me? I felt resentment; horrid, undutiful
resentment, at being treated in this cruel way. My fists clinched
themselves in my lap, my face felt as hot as fire. Instead of asking my
father to excuse me, I said: "I can't do it." He was astounded, as well
he might be. I went on from bad to worse. I said: "I won't do it."

He stooped over me; he whispered: "I am going to ask you something;
I insist on your answering, Yes or No." He raised his voice, and drew
himself back so that they could all see me.

"Have you been taught like your sister?" he asked. "Has the catechism
that has been her religious lesson, for all her life, been your
religious lesson, for all your life, too?"

I said: "Yes"--and I was in such a rage that I said it out loud. If
Philip had handed me his cane, and had advised me to give the young
hussies who were answerable for this dreadful state of things a good
beating, I believe I should have done it. Papa turned his back on me and
offered the girls a last chance: "Do you feel sorry for what you have
done? Do you ask to be forgiven?"

Neither the one nor the other answered him. He called across the room to
the teachers: "Those two pupils are expelled the school."

Both the women looked horrified. The elder of the two approached him,
and tried to plead for a milder sentence. He answered in one stern
word: "Silence!"--and left the schoolroom, without even a passing bow to
Philip. And this, after he had cordially shaken hands with my poor dear,
not half an hour before.

I ought to have made affectionate allowance for his nervous miseries;
I ought to have run after him, and begged his pardon. There must be
something wrong, I am afraid, in girls loving anybody but their fathers.
When Helena led the way out by another door, I ran after Philip; and I
asked _him_ to forgive me.

I don't know what I said; it was all confusion. The fear of having
forfeited his fondness must, I suppose, have shaken my mind. I remember
entreating Helena to say a kind word for me. She was so clever, she
had behaved so well, she had deserved that Philip should listen to her.
"Oh," I cried out to him desperately, "what must you think of me?"

"I will tell you what I think of you," he said. "It is your father who
is in fault, Eunice--not you. Nothing could have been in worse taste
than his management of that trumpery affair in the schoolroom; it was
a complete mistake from beginning to end. Make your mind easy; I don't
blame You."

"Are you, really and truly, as fond of me as ever?"

"Yes, to be sure!"

Helena seemed to be hardly as much interested in this happy ending of my
anxieties as I might have anticipated. She walked on by herself. Perhaps
she was thinking of poor papa's strange outbreak of excitement, and
grieving over it.

We had only a little way to walk, before we passed the door of Philip's
hotel. He had not yet received the expected letter from his father--the
cruel letter which might recall him to Ireland. It was then the hour of
delivery by our second post; he went to look at the letter-rack in the
hall. Helena saw that I was anxious. She was as kind again as ever; she
consented to wait with me for Philip, at the door.

He came out to us with an open letter in his hand.

"From my father, at last," he said--and gave me the letter to read. It
only contained these few lines:

"Do not be alarmed, my dear boy, at the change for the worse in my
handwriting. I am suffering for my devotion to the studious habits of a
lifetime: my right hand is attacked by the malady called Writer's Cramp.
The doctor here can do nothing. He tells me of some foreign woman,
mentioned in his newspaper, who cures nervous derangements of all kinds
by hand-rubbing, and who is coming to London. When you next hear from
me, I may be in London too."--There the letter ended.

Of course I knew who the foreign woman, mentioned in the newspaper, was.

But what does Miss Jillgall's friend matter to me? The one important
thing is, that Philip has not been called back to Ireland. Here is a
fortunate circumstance, which perhaps means more good luck. I may be
Mrs. Philip Dunboyne before the year is out.



CHAPTER XXV. HELENA'S DIARY.

They all notice at home that I am looking worn and haggard. That hideous
old maid, Miss Jillgall, had her malicious welcome ready for me when
we met at breakfast this morning: "Dear Helena, what has become of your
beauty? One would think you had left it in your room!" Poor deluded
Eunice showed her sisterly sympathy: "Don't joke about it, Selina: can't
you see that Helena is ill?"

I _have_ been ill; ill of my own wickedness.

But the recovery to my tranquillity will bring with it the recovery
of my good looks. My fatal passion for Philip promises to be the utter
destruction of everything that is good in me. Well! what is good in
me may not be worth keeping. There is a fate in these things. If I am
destined to rob Eunice of the one dear object of her love and hope--how
can I resist? The one kind thing I can do is to keep her in ignorance of
what is coming, by acts of affectionate deceit.

Besides, if she suffers, I suffer too. In the length and breadth of
England, I doubt if there is a much more wicked young woman to be found
than myself. Is it nothing to feel that, and to endure it as I do?

Upon my word, there is no excuse for me!

Is this sheer impudence? No; it is the bent of my nature. I have a
tendency to self-examination, accompanied by one merit--I don't spare
myself.

There are excuses for Eunice. She lives in a fools' paradise; and she
sees in her lover a radiant creature, shining in the halo thrown over
him by her own self-delusion, Nothing of this sort is to be said for me.
I see Philip as he is. My penetration looks into the lowest depths
of his character--when I am not in his company. There seems to be a
foundation of good, somewhere in his nature. He despises and hates
himself (he has confessed it to me), when Eunice is with him--still
believing in her false sweetheart. But how long do these better
influences last? I have only to show myself, in my sister's absence,
and Philip is mine body and soul. His vanity and his weakness take
possession of him the moment he sees my face. He is one of those
men--even in my little experience I have met with them--who are born to
be led by women. If Eunice had possessed my strength of character, he
would have been true to her for life.

Ought I not, in justice to myself, to have lifted my heart high above
the reach of such a creature as this? Certainly I ought! I know it, I
feel it. And yet, there is some fascination in having him which I am
absolutely unable to resist.

What, I ask myself, has fed the new flame which is burning in me? Did it
begin with gratified pride? I might well feel proud when I found
myself admired by a man of his beauty, set off by such manners and such
accomplishments as his. Or, has the growth of this masterful feeling
been encouraged by the envy and jealousy stirred in me, when I found
Eunice (my inferior in every respect) distinguished by the devotion of
a handsome lover, and having a brilliant marriage in view--while I was
left neglected, with no prospect of changing my title from Miss to Mrs.?
Vain inquiries! My wicked heart seems to have secrets of its own, and to
keep them a mystery to me.

What has become of my excellent education? I don't care to inquire; I
have got beyond the reach of good books and religious examples. Among
my other blamable actions there may now be reckoned disobedience to my
father. I have been reading novels in secret.

At first I tried some of the famous English works, published at a price
within the reach of small purses. Very well written, no doubt--but with
one unpardonable drawback, so far as I am concerned. Our celebrated
native authors address themselves to good people, or to penitent people
who want to be made good; not to wicked readers like me.

Arriving at this conclusion, I tried another experiment. In a small
bookseller's shop I discovered some cheap translations of French novels.
Here, I found what I wanted--sympathy with sin. Here, there was
opened to me a new world inhabited entirely by unrepentant people; the
magnificent women diabolically beautiful; the satanic men dead to
every sense of virtue, and alive--perhaps rather dirtily alive--to the
splendid fascinations of crime. I know now that Love is above everything
but itself. Love is the one law that we are bound to obey. How deep!
how consoling! how admirably true! The novelists of England have reason
indeed to hide their heads before the novelists of France. All that
I have felt, and have written here, is inspired by these wonderful
authors.


I have relieved my mind, and may now return to the business of my
diary--the record of domestic events.

An overwhelming disappointment has fallen on Eunice. Our dinner-party
has been put off.

The state of father's health is answerable for this change in our
arrangements. That wretched scene at the school, complicated by my
sister's undutiful behavior at the time, so seriously excited him that
he passed a sleepless night, and kept his bedroom throughout the day.
Eunice's total want of discretion added, no doubt, to his sufferings:
she rudely intruded on him to express her regret and to ask his pardon.
Having carried her point, she was at leisure to come to me, and to ask
(how amazingly simple of her!) what she and Philip were to do next.

"We had arranged it all so nicely," the poor wretch began. "Philip was
to have been so clever and agreeable at dinner, and was to have chosen
his time so very discreetly, that papa would have been ready to listen
to anything he said. Oh, we should have succeeded; I haven't a doubt of
it! Our only hope, Helena, is in you. What are we to do now?"

"Wait," I answered.

"Wait?" she repeated, hotly. "Is my heart to be broken? and, what is
more cruel still, is Philip to be disappointed? I expected something
more sensible, my dear, from you. What possible reason can there be for
waiting?"

The reason--if I could only have mentioned it--was beyond dispute. I
wanted time to quiet Philip's uneasy conscience, and to harden his
weak mind against outbursts of violence, on Eunice's part, which would
certainly exhibit themselves when she found that she had lost her lover,
and lost him to me. In the meanwhile, I had to produce my reason
for advising her to wait. It was easily done. I reminded her of the
irritable condition of our father's nerves, and gave it as my opinion
that he would certainly say No, if she was unwise enough to excite him
on the subject of Philip, in his present frame of mind.

These unanswerable considerations seemed to produce the right effect on
her. "I suppose you know best," was all she said. And then she left me.

I let her go without feeling any distrust of this act of submission on
her part; it was such a common experience, in my life, to find my
sister guiding herself by my advice. But experience is not always to
be trusted. Events soon showed that I had failed to estimate Eunice's
resources of obstinacy and cunning at their true value.

Half an hour later I heard the street door closed, and looked out of
the window. Miss Jillgall was leaving the house; no one was with her.
My dislike of this person led me astray once more. I ought to have
suspected her of being bent on some mischievous errand, and to have
devised some means of putting my suspicions to the test. I did nothing
of the kind. In the moment when I turned my head away from the window,
Miss Jillgall was a person forgotten--and I was a person who had made a
serious mistake.



CHAPTER XXVI. HELENA'S DIARY.

The event of to-day began with the delivery of a message summoning me to
my father's study. He had decided--too hastily, as I feared--that he was
sufficiently recovered to resume his usual employments. I was writing
to his dictation, when we were interrupted. Maria announced a visit from
Mr. Dunboyne.

Hitherto Philip had been content to send one of the servants of the
hotel to make inquiry after Mr. Gracedieu's health. Why had he now
called personally? Noticing that father seemed to be annoyed, I tried
to make an opportunity of receiving Philip myself. "Let me see him," I
suggested; "I can easily say you are engaged."

Very unwillingly, as it was easy to see, my father declined to allow
this. "Mr. Dunboyne's visit pays me a compliment," he said; "and I must
receive him." I made a show of leaving the room, and was called back to
my chair. "This is not a private interview, Helena; stay where you are."

Philip came in--handsomer than ever, beautifully dressed--and paid his
respects to my father with his customary grace. He was too well-bred
to allow any visible signs of embarrassment to escape him. But when he
shook hands with me, I felt a little trembling in his fingers, through
the delicate gloves which fitted him like a second skin. Was it the
true object of his visit to try the experiment designed by Eunice
and himself, and deferred by the postponement of our dinner-party?
Impossible surely that my sister could have practiced on his weakness,
and persuaded him to return to his first love! I waited, in breathless
interest, for his next words. They were not worth listening to. Oh, the
poor commonplace creature!

"I am glad, Mr. Gracedieu, to see that you are well enough to be in your
study again," he said. The writing materials on the table attracted his
attention. "Am I one of the idle people," he asked, with his charming
smile, "who are always interrupting useful employment?"

He spoke to my father, and he was answered by my father. Not once had
he addressed a word to me--no, not even when we shook hands. I was
angry enough to force him into taking some notice of me, and to make an
attempt to confuse him at the same time.

"Have you seen my sister?" I asked.

"No."

It was the shortest reply that he could choose. Having flung it at me,
he still persisted in looking at my father and speaking to my father:
"Do you think of trying change of air, Mr. Gracedieu, when you feel
strong enough to travel?"

"My duties keep me here," father answered; "and I cannot honestly say
that I enjoy traveling. I dislike manners and customs that are strange
to me; I don't find that hotels reward me for giving up the comforts of
my own house. How do you find the hotel here?"

"I submit to the hotel, sir. They are sad savages in the kitchen; they
put mushroom ketchup into their soup, and mustard and cayenne pepper
into their salads. I am half-starved at dinner-time, but I don't
complain."

Every word he said was an offense to me. With or without reason, I
attacked him again.

"I have heard you acknowledge that the landlord and landlady are very
obliging people," I said. "Why don't you ask them to let you make your
own soup and mix your own salad?"

I wondered whether I should succeed in attracting his notice, after
this. Even in these private pages, my self-esteem finds it hard to
confess what happened. I succeeded in reminding Philip that he had his
reasons for requesting me to leave the room.

"Will you excuse me, Miss Helena," he said, "if I ask leave to speak to
Mr. Gracedieu in private?"

The right thing for me to do was, let me hope, the thing that I did.
I rose, and waited to see if my father would interfere. He looked at
Philip with suspicion in his face, as well as surprise. "May I ask," he
said, coldly, "what is the object of the interview?"

"Certainly," Philip answered, "when we are alone." This cool reply
placed my father between two alternatives; he must either give way, or
be guilty of an act of rudeness to a guest in his own house. The choice
reserved for me was narrower still--I had to decide between being told
to go, or going of my own accord. Of course, I left them together.

The door which communicated with the next room was pulled to, but not
closed. On the other side of it, I found Eunice.

"Listening!" I said, in a whisper.

"Yes," she whispered back. "You listen, too!"

I was so indignant with Philip, and so seriously interested in what was
going on in the study, that I yielded to temptation. We both degraded
ourselves. We both listened.

Eunice's base lover spoke first. Judging by the change in his voice, he
must have seen something in my father's face that daunted him. Eunice
heard it, too. "He's getting nervous," she whispered; "he'll forget to
say the right thing at the right time."

"Mr. Gracedieu," Philip began, "I wish to speak to you--"

Father interrupted him: "We are alone now, Mr. Dunboyne. I want to know
why you consult me in private?"

"I am anxious to consult you, sir, on a subject--"

"On what subject? Any religious difficulty?"

"No."

"Anything I can do for you in the town?"

"Not at all. If you will only allow me--"

"I am still waiting, sir, to know what it is about."

Philip's voice suddenly became an angry voice. "Once for all, Mr.
Gracedieu," he said, "will you let me speak? It's about your daughter--"

"No more of it, Mr. Dunboyne!" (My father was now as loud as Philip.) "I
don't desire to hold a private conversation with you on the subject of
my daughter."

"If you have any personal objection to me, sir, be so good as to state
it plainly."

"You have no right to ask me to do that."

"You refuse to do it?"

"Positively."

"You are not very civil, Mr. Gracedieu."

"If I speak without ceremony, Mr. Dunboyne, you have yourself to thank
for it."

Philip replied to this in a tone of savage irony. "You are a minister
of religion, and you are an old man. Two privileges--and you presume on
them both. Good-morning."

I drew back into a corner, just in time to escape discovery in the
character of a listener. Eunice never moved. When Philip dashed into the
room, banging the door after him, she threw herself impulsively on his
breast: "Oh, Philip! Philip! what have you done? Why didn't you keep
your temper?"

"Did you hear what your father said to me?" he asked.

"Yes, dear; but you ought to have controlled yourself--you ought,
indeed, for my sake."

Her arms were still round him. It struck me that he felt her influence.
"If you wish me to recover myself," he said, gently, "you had better let
me go."

"Oh, how cruel, Philip, to leave me when I am so wretched! Why do you
want to go?"

"You told me just now what I ought to do," he answered, still
restraining himself. "If I am to get the better of my temper, I must be
left alone."

"I never said anything about your temper, darling."

"Didn't you tell me to control myself?"

"Oh, yes! Go back to Papa, and beg him to forgive you."

"I'll see him damned first!"

If ever a stupid girl deserved such an answer as this, the girl was
my sister. I had hitherto (with some difficulty) refrained from
interfering. But when Eunice tried to follow Philip out of the house, I
could hesitate no longer; I held her back. "You fool," I said; "haven't
you made mischief enough already?"

"What am I to do?" she burst out, helplessly.

"Do what I told you to do yesterday--wait."

Before she could reply, or I could say anything more, the door that led
to the landing was opened softly and slyly, and Miss Jillgall peeped
in. Eunice instantly left me, and ran to the meddling old maid. They
whispered to each other. Miss Jillgall's skinny arm encircled my
sister's waist; they disappeared together.

I was only too glad to get rid of them both, and to take the opportunity
of writing to Philip. I insisted on an explanation of his conduct while
I was in the study--to be given within an hour's time, at a place which
I appointed. "You are not to attempt to justify yourself in writing,"
I added in conclusion. "Let your reply merely inform me if you can keep
the appointment. The rest, when we meet."

Maria took the letter to the hotel, with instructions to wait.

Philip's reply reached me without delay. It pledged him to justify
himself as I had desired, and to keep the appointment. My own belief is
that the event of to-day will decide his future and mine.



CHAPTER XXVII. EUNICE'S DIARY.

Indeed, I am a most unfortunate creature; everything turns out badly
with me. My good, true friend, my dear Selina, has become the object of
a hateful doubt in my secret mind. I am afraid she is keeping something
from me.

Talking with her about my troubles, I heard for the first time that she
had written again to Mrs. Tenbruggen. The object of her letter was to
tell her friend of my engagement to young Mr. Dunboyne. I asked her why
she had done this. The answer informed me that there was no knowing, in
the present state of my affairs, how soon I might not want the help of a
clever woman. I ought, I suppose, to have been satisfied with this. But
there seemed to be something not fully explained yet.

Then again, after telling Selina what I heard in the study, and how
roughly Philip had spoken to me afterward, I asked her what she thought
of it. She made an incomprehensible reply: "My sweet child, I mustn't
think of it--I am too fond of you."

It was impossible to make her explain what this meant. She began to talk
of Philip; assuring me (which was quite needless) that she had done
her best to fortify and encourage him, before he called on papa. When
I asked her to help me in another way--that is to say, when I wanted to
find out where Philip was at that moment--she had no advice to give me.
I told her that I should not enjoy a moment's ease of mind until I and
my dear one were reconciled. She only shook her head and declared that
she was sorry for me. When I hit on the idea of ringing for Maria, this
little woman, so bright, and quick and eager to help me at other times,
said "I leave it to you, dear," and turned to the piano (close to which
I was sitting), and played softly and badly stupid little tunes.

"Maria, did you open the door for Mr. Dunboyne when he went away just
now?"

"No, miss."

Nothing but ill-luck for me! If I had been left to my own devices, I
should now have let the housemaid go. But Selina contrived to give me
a hint, on a strange plan of her own. Still at the piano, she began
to confuse talking to herself with playing to herself. The notes went
_tinkle, tinkle_--and the tongue mixed up words with the notes in this
way: "Perhaps they have been talking in the kitchen about Philip?"

The suggestion was not lost on me. I said to Maria--who was standing at
the other end of the room, near the door--"Did you happen to hear which
way Mr. Dunboyne went when he left us?"

"I know where he was, miss, half an hour ago."

"Where was he?"

"At the hotel."

Selina went on with her hints in the same way as before. "How does she
know--ah, how does she know?" was the vocal part of the performance this
time. My clever inquiries followed the vocal part as before:

"How do you know that Mr. Dunboyne was at the hotel?"

"I was sent there with a letter for him, and waited for the answer."

There was no suggestion required this time. The one possible question
was: "Who sent you?"

Maria replied, after first reserving a condition: "You won't tell upon
me, miss?"

I promised not to tell. Selina suddenly left off playing.

"Well," I repeated, "who sent you?"

"Miss Helena."

Selina looked round at me. Her little eyes seemed to have suddenly
become big, they stared me so strangely in the face. I don't know
whether she was in a state of fright or of wonder. As for myself, I
simply lost the use of my tongue. Maria, having no more questions to
answer, discreetly left us together.

Why should Helena write to Philip at all--and especially without
mentioning it to me? Here was a riddle which was more than I could
guess. I asked Selina to help me. She might at least have tried, I
thought; but she looked uneasy, and made excuses.

I said: "Suppose I go to Helena, and ask her why she wrote to Philip?"
And Selina said: "Suppose you do, dear."

I rang for Maria once more: "Do you know where my sister is?"

"Just gone out, miss."

There was no help for it but to wait till she came back, and to
get through the time in the interval as I best might. But for one
circumstance, I might not have known what to do. The truth is, there was
a feeling of shame in me when I remembered having listened at the study
door. Curious notions come into one's head--one doesn't know how or why.
It struck me that I might make a kind of atonement for having been mean
enough to listen, if I went to papa, and offered to keep him company
in his solitude. If we fell into pleasant talk, I had a sly idea of my
own--I meant to put in a good word for poor Philip.

When I confided my design to Selina, she shut up the piano and ran
across the room to me. But somehow she was not like her old self again,
yet.

"You good little soul, you are always right. Look at me again, Euneece.
Are you beginning to doubt me? Oh, my darling, don't do that! It isn't
using me fairly. I can't bear it--I can't bear it!"

I took her hand; I was on the point of speaking to her with the kindness
she deserved from me. On a sudden she snatched her hand away and ran
back to the piano. When she was seated on the music-stool, her face was
hidden from me. At that moment she broke into a strange cry--it began
like a laugh, and it ended like a sob.

"Go away to papa! Don't mind me--I'm a creature of impulse--ha! ha!
ha! a little hysterical--the state of the weather--I get rid of these
weaknesses, my dear, by singing to myself. I have a favorite song:
'My heart is light, my will is free.'--Go away! oh, for God's sake, go
away!"

I had heard of hysterics, of course; knowing nothing about them,
however, by my own experience. What could have happened to agitate her
in this extraordinary manner?

Had Helena's letter anything to do with it? Was my sister indignant with
Philip for swearing in my presence; and had she written him an angry
letter, in her zeal on my behalf? But Selina could not possibly have
seen the letter--and Helena (who is often hard on me when I do stupid
things) showed little indulgence for me, when I was so unfortunate as to
irritate Philip. I gave up the hopeless attempt to get at the truth
by guessing, and went away to forget my troubles, if I could, in my
father's society.

After knocking twice at the door of the study, and receiving no reply, I
ventured to look in.

The sofa in this room stood opposite the door. Papa was resting on it,
but not in comfort. There were twitching movements in his feet, and he
shifted his arms this way and that as if no restful posture could he
found for them. But what frightened me was this. His eyes, staring
straight at the door by which I had gone in, had an inquiring
expression, as if he actually did not know me! I stood midway between
the door and the sofa, doubtful about going nearer to him.

He said: "Who is it?" This to me--to his own daughter. He said: "What do
you want?"

I really could _not_ bear it. I went up to him. I said: "Papa, have you
forgotten Eunice?"

My name seemed (if one may say such a thing) to bring him to himself
again. He sat upon the sofa--and laughed as he answered me.

"My dear child, what delusion has got into that pretty little head of
yours? Fancy her thinking that I had forgotten my own daughter! I was
lost in thought, Eunice. For the moment, I was what they call an absent
man. Did I ever tell you the story of the absent man? He went to call
upon some acquaintance of his; and when the servant said, 'What
name, sir?' He couldn't answer. He was obliged to confess that he had
forgotten his own name. The servant said, 'That's very strange.' The
absent man at once recovered himself. 'That's it!' he said: 'my name is
Strange.' Droll, isn't it? If I had been calling on a friend to-day,
I daresay _I_ might have forgotten my name, too. Much to think of,
Eunice--too much to think of."

Leaving the sofa with a sigh, as if he was tired of it, he began walking
up and down. He seemed to be still in good spirits. "Well, my dear," he
said, "what can I do for you?"

"I came here, papa to see if there was anything I could do for You."

He looked at some sheets of paper, strung together, and laid on the
table. They were covered with writing (from his dictation) in my
sister's hand. "I ought to get on with my work," he said. "Where is
Helena?"

I told him that she had gone out, and begged leave to try what I could
do to supply her place.

The request seemed to please him; but he wanted time to think. I waited;
noticing that his face grew gradually worried and anxious. There came
a vacant look into his eyes which it grieved me to see; he appeared to
have quite lost himself again. "Read the last page," he said, pointing
to the manuscript on the table; "I don't remember where I left off."

I turned to the last page. As well as I could tell, it related to some
publication, which he was recommending to religious persons of our way
of thinking.

Before I had read half-way through it, he began to dictate, speaking so
rapidly that my pen was not always able to follow him. My handwriting is
as bad as bad can be when I am hurried. To make matters worse still, I
was confused. What he was now saying seemed to have nothing to do with
what I had been reading.

Let me try if I can call to mind the substance of it.

He began in the most strangely sudden way by asking: "Why should there
be any fear of discovery, when every possible care had been taken to
prevent it? The danger from unexpected events was far more disquieting.
A man might find himself bound in honor to disclose what it had been
the chief anxiety of his life to conceal. For example, could he let an
innocent person be the victim of deliberate suppression of the truth--no
matter how justifiable that suppression might appear to be? On the other
hand, dreadful consequences might follow an honorable confession.
There might be a cruel sacrifice of tender affection; there might be a
shocking betrayal of innocent hope and trust."

I remember those last words, just as he dictated them, because he
suddenly stopped there; looking, poor dear, distressed and confused. He
put his hand to his head, and went back to the sofa.

"I'm tired," he said. "Wait for me while I rest."

In a few minutes he fell asleep. It was a deep repose that came to him
now; and, though I don't think it lasted much longer than half an hour,
it produced a wonderful change in him for the better when he woke. He
spoke quietly and kindly; and when he returned to me at the table and
looked at the page on which I had been writing, he smiled.

"Oh, my dear, what bad writing! I declare I can't read what I myself
told you to write. No! no! don't be downhearted about it. You are not
used to writing from dictation; and I daresay I have been too quick
for you." He kissed me and encouraged me. "You know how fond I am of my
little girl," he said; "I am afraid I like my Eunice just the least in
the world more than I like my Helena. Ah, you are beginning to look a
little happier now!"

He had filled me with such confidence and such pleasure that I could
not help thinking of my sweetheart. Oh dear, when shall I learn to be
distrustful of my own feelings? The temptation to say a good word for
Philip quite mastered any little discretion that I possessed.

I said to papa: "If you knew how to make me happier than I have ever
been in all my life before, would you do it?"

"Of course I would."

"Then send for Philip, dear, and be a little kinder to him, this time."

His pale face turned red with anger; he pushed me away from him.

"That man again!" he burst out. "Am I never to hear the last of him? Go
away, Eunice. You are of no use here." He took up my unfortunate page of
writing and ridiculed it with a bitter laugh. "What is this fit for?" He
crumpled it up in his hand and tossed it into the fire.

I ran out of the room in such a state of mortification that I hardly
knew what I was about. If some hard-hearted person had come to me with
a cup of poison, and had said: "Eunice, you are not fit to live any
longer; take this," I do believe I should have taken it. If I thought of
anything, I thought of going back to Selina. My ill luck still pursued
me; she had disappeared. I looked about in a helpless way, completely at
a loss what to do next--so stupefied, I may even say, that it was some
time before I noticed a little three-cornered note on the table by which
I was standing. The note was addressed to me:


"EVER-DEAREST EUNEECE--I have tried to make myself useful to you, and
have failed. But how can I see the sad sight of your wretchedness, and
not feel the impulse to try again? I have gone to the hotel to find
Philip, and to bring him back to you a penitent and faithful man. Wait
for me, and hope for great things. A. hundred thousand kisses to my
sweet Euneece.

"S. J."


Wait for her, after reading that note! How could she expect it? I had
only to follow her, and to find Philip. In another minute, I was on my
way to the hotel.

CHAPTER XXVIII. HELENA'S DIARY.

Looking at the last entry in my Journal, I see myself anticipating
that the event of to-day will decide Philip's future and mine. This has
proved prophetic. All further concealment is now at an end.

Forced to it by fate, or helped to it by chance, Eunice has made the
discovery of her lover's infidelity. "In all human probability" (as my
father says in his sermons), we two sisters are enemies for life.


I am not suspected, as Eunice is, of making appointments with a
sweetheart. So I am free to go out alone, and to go where I please.
Philip and I were punctual to our appointment this afternoon.

Our place of meeting was in a secluded corner of the town park. We
found a rustic seat in our retirement, set up (one would suppose) as a
concession to the taste of visitors who are fond of solitude. The view
in front of us was bounded by the park wall and railings, and our seat
was prettily approached on one side by a plantation of young trees. No
entrance gate was near; no carriage road crossed the grass. A more safe
and more solitary nook for conversation, between two persons desiring to
be alone, it would be hard to find in most public parks. Lovers are said
to know it well, and to be especially fond of it toward evening. We
were there in broad daylight, and we had the seat to ourselves.

My memory of what passed between us is, in some degree, disturbed by the
formidable interruption which brought our talk to an end.

But among other things, I remember that I showed him no mercy at the
outset. At one time I was indignant; at another I was scornful. I
declared, in regard to my object in meeting him, that I had changed my
mind, And had decided to shorten a disagreeable interview by waiving my
right to an explanation, and bidding him farewell. Eunice, as I pointed
out, had the first claim to him; Eunice was much more likely to suit
him, as a companion for life, than I was. "In short," I said, in
conclusion, "my inclination for once takes sides with my duty, and
leaves my sister in undisturbed possession of young Mr. Dunboyne." With
this satirical explanation, I rose to say good-by.

I had merely intended to irritate him. He showed a superiority to anger
for which I was not prepared.

"Be so kind as to sit down again," he said quietly.

He took my letter from his pocket, and pointed to that part of it which
alluded to his conduct, when we had met in my father's study.

"You have offered me the opportunity of saying a word in my own
defense," he went on. "I prize that privilege far too highly to consent
to your withdrawing it, merely because you have changed your mind. Let
me at least tell you what my errand was, when I called on your father.
Loving you, and you only, I had forced myself to make a last effort
to be true to your sister. Remember that, Helena, and then say--is it
wonderful if I was beside myself, when I found You in the study?"

"When you tell me you were beside yourself," I said, "do you mean,
ashamed of yourself?"

That touched him. "I mean nothing of the kind," he burst out. "After the
hell on earth in which I have been living between you two sisters, a man
hasn't virtue enough left in him to be ashamed. He's half mad--that's
what he is. Look at my position! I had made up my mind never to see you
again; I had made up my mind (if I married Eunice) to rid myself of my
own miserable life when I could endure it no longer. In that state
of feeling, when my sense of duty depended on my speaking with Mr.
Gracedieu alone, whose was the first face I saw when I entered the room?
If I had dared to look at you, or to speak to you, what do you think
would have become of my resolution to sacrifice myself?"

"What has become of it now?" I asked.

"Tell me first if I am forgiven," he said--"and you shall know."

"Do you deserve to be forgiven?"

It has been discovered by wiser heads than mine that weak people are
always in extremes. So far, I had seen Philip in the vain and violent
extreme. He now shifted suddenly to the sad and submissive extreme. When
I asked him if he deserved to be forgiven, he made the humblest of all
replies--he sighed and said nothing.

"If I did my duty to my sister," I reminded him, "I should refuse to
forgive you, and send you back to Eunice."

"Your father's language and your father's conduct," he answered, "have
released me from that entanglement. I can never go back to Eunice. If
you refuse to forgive me, neither you nor she will see anything more of
Philip Dunboyne; I promise you that. Are you satisfied now?"

After holding out against him resolutely, I felt myself beginning to
yield. When a man has once taken their fancy, what helplessly weak
creatures women are! I saw through his vacillating weakness--and yet
I trusted him, with both eyes open. My looking-glass is opposite to me
while I write. It shows me a contemptible Helena. I lied, and said I was
satisfied--to please _him_.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked.

It is absurd to put it on record. Of course, I forgave him. What a good
Christian I am, after all!

He took my willing hand. "My lovely darling," he said, "our marriage
rests with you. Whether your father approves of it or not, say the word;
claim me, and I am yours for life."

I must have been infatuated by his voice and his look; my heart must
have been burning under the pressure of his hand on mine. Was it my
modesty or my self-control that deserted me? I let him take me in his
arms. Again, and again, and again I kissed him. We were deaf to what we
ought to have heard; we were blind to what we ought to have seen. Before
we were conscious of a movement among the trees, we were discovered.
My sister flew at me like a wild animal. Her furious hands fastened
themselves on my throat. Philip started to his feet. When he touched
her, in the act of forcing her back from me, Eunice's raging strength
became utter weakness in an instant. Her arms fell helpless at her
sides--her head drooped--she looked at him in silence which was
dreadful, at such a moment as that. He shrank from the unendurable
reproach in those tearless eyes. Meanly, he turned away from her.
Meanly, I followed him. Looking back for an instant, I saw her step
forward; perhaps to stop him, perhaps to speak to him. The effort was
too much for her strength; she staggered back against the trunk of a
tree. Like strangers, walking separate one from the other, we left her
to her companion--the hideous traitress who was my enemy and her friend.



CHAPTER XXIX. HELENA'S DIARY.

On reaching the street which led to Philip's hotel, we spoke to each
other for the first time.

"What are we to do?" I said.

"Leave this place," he answered.

"Together?" I asked.

"Yes."

To leave us (for a while), after what had happened, might be the wisest
thing which a man, in Philip's critical position, could do. But if I
went with him--unprovided as I was with any friend of my own sex, whose
character and presence might sanction the step I had taken--I should be
lost beyond redemption. Is any man that ever lived worth that sacrifice?
I thought of my father's house closed to me, and of our friends ashamed
of me. I have owned, in some earlier part of my Journal, that I am not
very patient under domestic cares. But the possibility of Eunice being
appointed housekeeper, with my power, in my place, was more than I could
calmly contemplate. "No," I said to Philip. "Your absence, at such a
time as this, may help us both; but, come what may of it, I must remain
at home."

He yielded, without an attempt to make me alter my mind. There was a
sullen submission in his manner which it was not pleasant to see. Was he
despairing already of himself and of me? Had Eunice aroused the watchful
demons of shame and remorse?

"Perhaps you are right," he said, gloomily. "Good-by."

My anxiety put the all-important question to him without hesitation.

"Is it good-by forever, Philip?"

His reply instantly relieved me: "God forbid!"

But I wanted more: "You still love me?" I persisted.

"More dearly than ever!"

"And yet you leave me!"

He turned pale. "I leave you because I am afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid to face Eunice again."

The only possible way out of our difficulty that I could see, now
occurred to me. "Suppose my sister can be prevailed on to give you up?"
I suggested. "Would you come back to us in that case?"

"Certainly!"

"And you would ask my father to consent to our marriage?"

"On the day of my return, if you like."

"Suppose obstacles get in our way," I said--"suppose time passes and
tries your patience--will you still consider yourself engaged to me?"

"Engaged to you," he answered, "in spite of obstacles and in spite of
time."

"And while you are away from me," I ventured to add, "we shall write to
each other?"

"Go where I may," he said, "you shall always hear from me."

I could ask no more, and he could concede no more. The impression
evidently left on him by Eunice's terrible outbreak, was far more
serious than I had anticipated. I was myself depressed and ill at
ease. No expressions of tenderness were exchanged between us. There was
something horrible in our barren farewell. We merely clasped hands, at
parting. He went his way--and I went mine.

There are some occasions when women set an example of courage to men. I
was ready to endure whatever might happen to me, when I got home. What
a desperate wretch! some people might say, if they could look into this
diary!

Maria opened the door; she told me that my sister had already returned,
accompanied by Miss Jillgall. There had been apparently some difference
of opinion between them, before they entered the house. Eunice
had attempted to go on to some other place; and Miss Jillgall
had remonstrated. Maria had heard her say: "No, you would degrade
yourself"--and, with that, she had led Eunice indoors. I understood, of
course, that my sister had been prevented from following Philip to the
hotel. There was probably a serious quarrel in store for me. I went
straight to the bedroom, expecting to find Eunice there, and prepared
to brave the storm that might burst on me. There was a woman at Eunice's
end of the room, removing dresses from the wardrobe. I could only see
her back, but it was impossible to mistake _that_ figure--Miss Jillgall.
She laid the dresses on Eunice's bed, without taking the slightest
notice of me. In significant silence I pointed to the door. She went
on as coolly with her occupation as if the room had been, not mine but
hers; I stepped up to her, and spoke plainly.

"You oblige me to remind you," I said, "that you are not in your own
room." There, I waited a little, and found that I had produced no
effect. "With every disposition," I resumed, "to make allowance for
the disagreeable peculiarities of your character, I cannot consent to
overlook an act of intrusion, committed by a Spy. Now, do you understand
me?"

She looked round her. "I see no third person here," she said. "May I ask
if you mean me?"

"I mean you."

"Will you be so good, Miss Helena, as to explain yourself?"

Moderation of language would have been thrown away on this woman. "You
followed me to the park," I said. "It was you who found me with Mr.
Dunboyne, and betrayed me to my sister. You are a Spy, and you know it.
At this very moment you daren't look me in the face."

Her insolence forced its way out of her at last. Let me record it--and
repay it, when the time comes.

"Quite true," she replied. "If I ventured to look you in the face, I am
afraid I might forget myself. I have always been brought up like a lady,
and I wish to show it even in the company of such a wretch as you are.
There is not one word of truth in what you have said of me. I went to
the hotel to find Mr. Dunboyne. Ah, you may sneer! I haven't got your
good looks--and a vile use you have made of them. My object was to
recall that base young man to his duty to my dear charming injured
Euneece. The hotel servant told me that Mr. Dunboyne had gone out. Oh,
I had the means of persuasion in my pocket! The man directed me to the
park, as he had already directed Mr. Dunboyne. It was only when I had
found the place, that I heard some one behind me. Poor innocent Euneece
had followed me to the hotel, and had got her directions, as I had got
mine. God knows how hard I tried to persuade her to go back, and how
horribly frightened I was--No! I won't distress myself by saying a word
more. It would be too humiliating to let _you_ see an honest woman in
tears. Your sister has a spirit of her own, thank God! She won't inhabit
the same room with you; she never desires to see your false face again.
I take the poor soul's dresses and things away--and as a religious
person I wait, confidently wait, for the judgment that will fall on
you!"

She caught up the dresses all together; some of them were in her arms,
some of them fell on her shoulders, and one of them towered over her
head. Smothered in gowns, she bounced out of the room like a walking
milliner's shop. I have to thank the wretched old creature for a moment
of genuine amusement, at a time of devouring anxiety. The meanest
insect, they say, has its use in this world--and why not Miss Jillgall?

In half an hour more, an unexpected event raised my spirits. I heard
from Philip.

On his return to the hotel he had found a telegram waiting for him. Mr.
Dunboyne the elder had arrived in London; and Philip had arranged to
join his father by the next train. He sent me the address, and begged
that I would write and tell him my news from home by the next day's
post.

Welcome, thrice welcome, to Mr. Dunboyne the elder! If Philip can
manage, under my advice, to place me favorably in the estimation of this
rich old man, his presence and authority may do for us what we cannot
do for ourselves. Here is surely an influence to which my father must
submit, no matter how unreasonable or how angry he may be when he hears
what has happened. I begin already to feel hopeful of the future.



CHAPTER XXX. EUNICE'S DIARY.

Through the day, and through the night, I feel a misery that never
leaves me--I mean the misery of fear.

I am trying to find out some harmless means of employing myself, which
will keep evil remembrances from me. If I don't succeed, my fear tells
me what will happen. I shall be in danger of going mad.

I dare not confide in any living creature. I don't know what other
persons might think of me, or how soon I might find myself perhaps in an
asylum. In this helpless condition, doubt and fright seem to be driving
me back to my Journal. I wonder whether I shall find harmless employment
here.

I have heard of old people losing their memories. What would I not give
to be old! I remember! oh, how I remember! One day after another I see
Philip, I see Helena, as I first saw them when I was among the trees in
the park. My sweetheart's arms, that once held me, hold my sister now.
She kisses him, kisses him, kisses him.

Is there no way of making myself see something else? I want to get back
to remembrances that don't burn in my head and tear at my heart. How is
it to be done?

I have tried books--no! I have tried going out to look at the shops--no!
I have tried saying my prayers--no! And now I am making my last effort;
trying my pen. My black letters fall from it, and take their places
on the white paper. Will my black letters help me? Where can I find
something consoling to write down? Where? Where?

Selina--poor Selina, so fond of me, so sorry for me. When I was happy,
she was happy, too. It was always amusing to hear her talk. Oh, my
memory, be good to me! Save me from Philip and Helena. I want to
remember the pleasant days when my kind little friend and I used to
gossip in the garden.

No: the days in the garden won't come back. What else can I think of?

.......

The recollections that I try to encourage keep away from me. The other
recollections that I dread, come crowding back. Still Philip! Still
Helena!

But Selina mixes herself up with them. Let me try again if I can think
of Selina.

How delightfully good to me and patient with me she was, on our dismal
way home from the park! And how affectionately she excused herself for
not having warned me of it, when she first suspected that my own sister
and my worst enemy were one and the same!

"I know I was wrong, my dear, to let my love and pity close my lips.
But remember how happy you were at the time. The thought of making you
miserable was more than I could endure--I am so fond of you! Yes; I
began to suspect them, on the day when they first met at the station.
And, I am afraid, I thought it just likely that you might be as cunning
as I was, and have noticed them, too."

Oh, how ignorant she must have been of my true thoughts and feelings!
How strangely people seem to misunderstand their dearest friends!
knowing, as I did, that I could never love any man but Philip, could I
be wicked enough to suppose that Philip would love any woman but me?

I explained to Selina how he had spoken to me, when we were walking
together on the bank of the river. Shall I ever forget those exquisite
words? "I wish I was a better man, Eunice; I wish I was good enough to
be worthy of you." I asked Selina if she thought he was deceiving me
when he said that. She comforted me by owning that he must have been in
earnest, at the time--and then she distressed me by giving the reason
why.

"My love, you must have innocently said something to him, when you
and he were alone, which touched his conscience (when he _had_ a
conscience), and made him ashamed of himself. Ah, you were too fond of
him to see how he changed for the worse, when your vile sister joined
you, and took possession of him again. It made my heart ache to see
you so unsuspicious of them. You asked me, my poor dear, if they had
quarreled--you believed they were tired of walking by the river, when it
was you they were tired of--and you wondered why Helena took him to see
the school. My child! she was the leading spirit at the school, and you
were nobody. Her vanity saw the chance of making him compare you at a
disadvantage with your clever sister. I declare, Euneece, I lose my head
if I only think of it! All the strong points in my character seem to
slip away from me. Would you believe it?--I have neglected that sweet
infant at the cottage; I have even let Mrs. Molly have her baby back
again. If I had the making of the laws, Philip Dunboyne and Helena
Gracedieu should be hanged together on the same gallows. I see I shock
you. Don't let us talk of it! Oh, don't let us talk of it!"

And here am I writing of it! What I had determined not to do, is what I
have done. Am I losing my senses already? The very names that I was most
anxious to keep out of my memory stare me in the face in the lines that
I have just written. Philip again! Helena again!

.......

Another day, and something new that must and will be remembered, shrink
from it as I may. This afternoon, I met Helena on the stairs.

She stopped, and eyed me with a wicked smile; she held out her hand.
"We are likely to meet often, while we are in the same house," she said;
"hadn't we better consult appearances, and pretend to be as fond of each
other as ever?"

I took no notice of her hand; I took no notice of her shameless
proposal. She tried again: "After all, it isn't my fault if Philip likes
me better than he likes you. Don't you see that?" I still refused to
speak to her. She still persisted. "How black you look, Eunice! Are you
sorry you didn't kill me, when you had your hands on my throat?"

I said: "Yes."

She laughed, and left me. I was obliged to sit down on the stair--I
trembled so. My own reply frightened me. I tried to find out why I had
said Yes. I don't remember being conscious of meaning anything. It was
as if somebody else had said Yes--not I. Perhaps I was provoked, and the
word escaped me before I could stop it. Could I have stopped it? I don't
know.

.......

Another sleepless night.

Did I pass the miserable hours in writing letters to Philip and then
tearing them up? Or did I only fancy that I wrote to him? I have just
looked at the fireplace. The torn paper in it tells me that I did write.
Why did I destroy my letters? I might have sent one of them to Philip.
After what has happened? Oh, no! no!

Having been many days away from the Girls' Scripture Class, it seemed to
be possible that going back to the school and the teaching might help me
to escape from myself.

Nothing succeeds with me. I found it impossible to instruct the girls as
usual; their stupidity soon reached the limit of my patience--suffocated
me with rage. One of them, a poor, fat, feeble creature, began to cry
when I scolded her. I looked with envy at the tears rolling over her
big round cheeks. If I could only cry, I might perhaps bear my hard fate
with submission.

I walked toward home by a roundabout way; feeling as if want of sleep
was killing me by inches.

In the High Street, I saw Helena; she was posting a letter, and was
not aware that I was near her. Leaving the post-office, she crossed
the street, and narrowly escaped being run over. Suppose the threatened
accident had really taken place--how should I have felt, if it had ended
fatally? What a fool I am to be putting questions to myself about things
that have not happened!

The walking tired me; I went straight home.

Before I could ring the bell, the house door opened, and the doctor
came out. He stopped to speak to me. While I had been away (he said),
something had happened at home (he neither knew nor wished to know what)
which had thrown my father into a state of violent agitation. The doctor
had administered composing medicine. "My patient is asleep now," he told
me; "but remember what I said to you the last time we met; a longer rest
than any doctor's prescription can give him is what he wants. You are
not looking well yourself, my dear. What is the matter?"

I told him of my wretched restless nights; and asked if I might take
some of the composing medicine which he had given to my father. He
forbade me to touch a drop of it. "What is physic for your father, you
foolish child, is not physic for a young creature like you," he said.
"Count a thousand, if you can't sleep to-night, or turn your pillow. I
wish you pleasant dreams." He went away, amused at his own humor.

I found Selina waiting to speak with me, on the subject of poor papa.

She had been startled on hearing his voice, loud in anger. In the
fear that something serious had happened, she left her room to make
inquiries, and saw Helena on the landing of the flight of stairs
beneath, leaving the study. After waiting till my sister was out of the
way, Selina ventured to present herself at the study door, and to ask
if she could be of any use. My father, walking excitedly up and down the
room, declared that both his daughters had behaved infamously, and that
he would not suffer them to speak to him again until they had come to
their senses, on the subject of Mr. Dunboyne. He would enter into no
further explanation; and he had ordered, rather than requested, Selina
to leave him. Having obeyed, she tried next to find me, and had
just looked into the dining-room to see if I was there, when she was
frightened by the sound of a fall in the room above--that is to say, in
the study. Running upstairs again, she had found him insensible on the
floor and had sent for the doctor.

"And mind this," Selina continued, "the person who has done the mischief
is the person whom I saw leaving the study. What your unnatural sister
said to provoke her father--"

"That your unnatural sister will tell you herself," Helena's voice
added. She had opened the door while we were too much absorbed in our
talk to hear her.

Selina attempted to leave the room. I caught her by the hand, and held
her back. I was afraid of what I might do if she left me by myself.
Never have I felt anything like the rage that tortured me, when I saw
Helena looking at us with the same wicked smile on her lips that had
insulted me when we met on the stairs. "Have _we_ anything to be ashamed
of?" I said to Selina. "Stay where you are."

"You may be of some use, Miss Jillgall, if you stay," my sister
suggested. "Eunice seems to be trembling. Is she angry, or is she ill?"

The sting of this was in the tone of her voice. It was the hardest thing
I ever had to do in my life--but I did succeed in controlling myself.

"Go on with what you have to say," I answered, "and don't notice me."

"You are not very polite, my dear, but I can make allowances. Oh, come!
come! putting up your hands to stop your ears is too childish. You would
do better to express regret for having misled your father. Yes! you did
mislead him. Only a few days since, you left him to suppose that you
were engaged to Philip. It became my duty, after that, to open his eyes
to the truth; and if I unhappily provoked him, it was your fault. I was
strictly careful in the language I used. I said: 'Dear father, you have
been misinformed on a very serious subject. The only marriage engagement
for which your kind sanction is requested, is _my_ engagement. _I_ have
consented to become Mrs. Philip Dunboyne.'"

"Stop!" I said.

"Why am I to stop?"

"Because I have something to say. You and I are looking at each other.
Does my face tell you what is passing in my mind?"

"Your face seems to be paler than usual," she answered--"that's all."

"No," I said; "that is not all. The devil that possessed me, when I
discovered you with Philip, is not cast out of me yet. Silence the
sneering devil that is in You, or we may both live to regret it."

Whether I did or did not frighten her, I cannot say. This only I
know--she turned away silently to the door, and went out.

I dropped on the sofa. That horrid hungering for revenge, which I felt
for the first time when I knew how Helena had wronged me, began to
degrade and tempt me again. In the effort to get away from this new evil
self of mine, I tried to find sympathy in Selina, and called to her to
come and sit by me. She seemed to be startled when I looked at her, but
she recovered herself, and came to me, and took my hand.

"I wish I could comfort you!" she said, in her kind simple way.

"Keep my hand in your hand," I told her; "I am drowning in dark
water--and I have nothing to hold by but you."

"Oh, my darling, don't talk in that way!"

"Good Selina! dear Selina! You shall talk to me. Say something
harmless--tell me a melancholy story--try to make me cry."

My poor little friend looked sadly bewildered.

"I'm more likely to cry myself," she said. "This is so heart-breaking--I
almost wish I was back in the time, before you came home, the time
when your detestable sister first showed how she hated me. I was happy,
meanly happy, in the spiteful enjoyment of provoking her. Oh, Euneece,
I shall never recover my spirits again! All the pity in the world would
not be pity enough for _you_. So hardly treated! so young! so forlorn!
Your good father too ill to help you; your poor mother--"

I interrupted her; she had interested me in something better than my own
wretched self. I asked directly if she had known my mother.

"My dear child, I never even saw her!"

"Has my father never spoken to you about her?"

"Only once, when I asked him how long she had been dead. He told me you
lost her while you were an infant, and he told me no more. I was looking
at her portrait in the study, only yesterday. I think it must be a bad
portrait; your mother's face disappoints me."

I had arrived at the same conclusion years since. But I shrank from
confessing it.

"At any rate," Selina continued, "you are not like her. Nobody would
ever guess that you were the child of that lady, with the long slanting
forehead and the restless look in her eyes."

What Selina had said of me and my mother's portrait, other friends had
said. There was nothing that I know of to interest me in hearing it
repeated--and yet it set me pondering on the want of resemblance between
my mother's face and mine, and wondering (not for the first time) what
sort of woman my mother was. When my father speaks of her, no words of
praise that he can utter seem to be good enough for her. Oh, me, I wish
I was a little more like my mother!

It began to get dark; Maria brought in the lamp. The sudden brightness
of the flame struck my aching eyes, as if it had been a blow from a
knife. I was obliged to hide my face in my handkerchief. Compassionate
Selina entreated me to go to bed. "Rest your poor eyes, my child, and
your weary head--and try at least to get some sleep." She found me very
docile; I kissed her, and said good-night. I had my own idea.

When all was quiet in the house, I stole out into the passage and
listened at the door of my father's room.

I heard his regular breathing, and opened the door and went in. The
composing medicine, of which I was in search, was not on the table by
his bedside. I found it in the cupboard--perhaps placed purposely out of
his reach. They say that some physic is poison, if you take too much of
it. The label on the bottle told me what the dose was. I dropped it into
the medicine glass, and swallowed it, and went back to my father.

Very gently, so as not to wake him, I touched poor papa's forehead with
my lips. "I must have some of your medicine," I whispered to him; "I
want it, dear, as badly as you do."

Then I returned to my own room--and lay down in bed, waiting to be
composed.



CHAPTER XXXI. EUNICE'S DIARY.

My restless nights are passed in Selina's room.

Her bed remains near the window. My bed has been placed opposite, near
the door. Our night-light is hidden in a corner, so that the faint glow
of it is all that we see. What trifles these are to write about! But
they mix themselves up with what I am determined to set down in
my Journal, and then to close the book for good and all. I had not
disturbed my little friend's enviable repose, either when I left our
bed-chamber, or when I returned to it. The night was quiet, and the
stars were out. Nothing moved but the throbbing at my temples. The
lights and shadows in our half-darkened room, which at other times
suggest strange resemblances to my fancy, failed to disturb me now. I
was in a darkness of my own making, having bound a handkerchief, cooled
with water, over my hot eyes. There was nothing to interfere with the
soothing influence of the dose that I had taken, if my father's medicine
would only help me.

I began badly. The clock in the hall struck the quarter past the
hour, the half-past, the three-quarters past, the new hour. Time was
awake--and I was awake with Time.

It was such a trial to my patience that I thought of going back to my
father's room, and taking a second dose of the medicine, no matter what
the risk might be. On attempting to get up, I became aware of a change
in me. There was a dull sensation in my limbs which seemed to bind them
down on the bed. It was the strangest feeling. My will said, Get up--and
my heavy limbs said, No.

I lay quite still, thinking desperate thoughts, and getting nearer and
nearer to the end that I had been dreading for so many days past. Having
been as well educated as most girls, my lessons in history had made me
acquainted with assassination and murder. Horrors which I had recoiled
from reading in past happy days, now returned to my memory; and, this
time, they interested instead of revolting me. I counted the three
first ways of killing as I happened to remember them, in my books of
instruction:--a way by stabbing; a way by poison; a way in a bed, by
suffocation with a pillow. On that dreadful night, I never once called
to mind what I find myself remembering now--the harmless past time,
when our friends used to say: "Eunice is a good girl; we are all fond of
Eunice." Shall I ever be the same lovable creature again?

While I lay thinking, a strange thing happened. Philip, who had haunted
me for days and nights together, vanished out of my thoughts. My memory
of the love which had begun so brightly, and had ended so miserably,
became a blank. Nothing was left but my own horrid visions of vengeance
and death.

For a while, the strokes of the clock still reached my ears. But it was
an effort to count them; I ended in letting them pass unheeded. Soon
afterward, the round of my thoughts began to circle slowly and more
slowly. The strokes of the clock died out. The round of my thoughts
stopped.

All this time, my eyes were still covered by the handkerchief which I
had laid over them.

The darkness began to weigh on my spirits, and to fill me with distrust.
I found myself suspecting that there was some change--perhaps an
unearthly change--passing over the room. To remain blindfolded any
longer was more than I could endure. I lifted my hand--without being
conscious of the heavy sensation which, some time before, had laid my
limbs helpless on the bed--I lifted my hand, and drew the handkerchief
away from my eyes.

The faint glow of the night-light was extinguished.

But the room was not quite dark. There was a ghastly light trembling
over it; like nothing that I have ever seen by day; like nothing that I
have ever seen by night. I dimly discerned Selina's bed, and the frame
of the window, and the curtains on either side of it--but not the
starlight, and not the shadowy tops of the trees in the garden.

The light grew fainter and fainter; the objects in the room faded slowly
away. Darkness came.

It may be a saying hard to believe--but, when I declare that I was not
frightened, I am telling the truth. Whether the room was lighted by
awful light, or sunk in awful dark, I was equally interested in the
expectation of what might happen next. I listened calmly for what I
might hear: I waited calmly for what I might feel. A touch came first.
I feel it creeping on my face--like a little fluttering breeze. The
sensation pleased me for a while. Soon it grew colder, and colder, and
colder, till it froze me.

"Oh, no more!" I cried out. "You are killing me with an icy death!"

The dead-cold touches lingered a moment longer--and left me.

The first sound came.

It was the sound of a whisper on my pillow, close to my ear. My strange
insensibility to fear remained undisturbed. The whisper was welcome, it
kept me company in the dark room.

It said to me: "Do you know who I am?"

I answered: "No."

It said: "Who have you been thinking of this evening?"

I answered: "My mother."

The whisper said: "I am your mother."

"Oh, mother, command the light to come back! Show yourself to me!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"My face was hidden when I passed from life to death. My face no mortal
creature may see."

"Oh, mother, touch me! Kiss me!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"My touch is poison. My kiss is death."

The sense of fear began to come to me now. I moved my head away on the
pillow. The whisper followed my movement.

"Leave me," I said. "You are an Evil Spirit."

The whisper answered: "I am your mother."

"You come to tempt me."

"I come to harden your heart. Daughter of mine, whose blood is cool;
daughter of mine, who tamely submits--you have loved. Is it true?"

"It is true."

"The man you loved has deserted you. Is it true?"

"It is true."

"A woman has lured him away to herself. A woman has had no mercy on you,
or on him. Is it true?"

"It is true."

"If she lives, what crime toward you will she commit next?"

"If she lives, she will marry him."

"Will you let her live?"

"Never."

"Have I hardened your heart against her?"

"Yes."

"Will you kill her?"

"Show me how."

There was a sudden silence. I was still left in the darkness; feeling
nothing, hearing nothing. Even the consciousness that I was lying on
my bed deserted me. I had no idea that I was in the bedroom; I had no
knowledge of where I was.

The ghastly light that I had seen already dawned on me once more. I
was no longer in my bed, no longer in my room, no longer in the house.
Without wonder, without even a feeling of surprise, I looked round. The
place was familiar to me. I was alone in the Museum of our town.

The light flowed along in front of me. I followed, from room to room in
the Museum, where the light led.

First, through the picture-gallery, hung with the works of modern
masters; then, through the room filled with specimens of stuffed
animals. The lion and the tiger, the vulture of the Alps and the
great albatross, looked like living creatures threatening me, in the
supernatural light. I entered the third room, devoted to the exhibition
of ancient armor, and the weapons of all nations. Here the light rose
higher, and, leaving me in darkness where I stood, showed a collection
of swords, daggers, and knives arranged on the wall in imitation of the
form of a star.

The whisper sounded again, close at my ear. It echoed my own thought,
when I called to mind the ways of killing which history had taught me.
It said: "Kill her with the knife."

No. My heart failed me when I thought of the blood. I hid the dreadful
weapons from my view. I cried out: "Let me go! let me go!"

Again, I was lost in darkness. Again, I had no knowledge in me of where
I was. Again, after an interval, the light showed me the new place in
which I stood.

I was alone in the burial-ground of our parish church. The light led me
on, among the graves, to the lonely corner in which the great yew tree
stands; and, rising higher, revealed the solemn foliage, brightened by
the fatal red fruit which hides in itself the seeds of death.

The whisper tempted me again. It followed again the train of my own
thought. It said: "Kill her by poison."

No. Revenge by poison steals its way to its end. The base deceitfulness
of Helena's crime against me seemed to call for a day of reckoning that
hid itself under no disguise. I raised my cry to be delivered from the
sight of the deadly tree. The changes which I have tried to describe
followed once more the confession of what I felt; the darkness was
dispelled for the third time.

I was standing in Helena's room, looking at her as she lay asleep in her
bed.

She was quite still now; but she must have been restless at some earlier
time. The bedclothes were disordered, her head had sunk so low that the
pillow rose high and vacant above her. There, colored by a tender flush
of sleep, was the face whose beauty put my poor face to shame. There,
was the sister who had committed the worst of murders--the wretch who
had killed in me all that made life worth having. While that thought was
in my mind, I heard the whisper again. "Kill her openly," the tempter
mother said. "Kill her daringly. Faint heart, do you still want courage?
Rouse your spirit; look! see yourself in the act!"

The temptation took a form which now tried me for the first time.

As if a mirror had reflected the scene, I saw myself standing by the
bedside, with the pillow that was to smother the sleeper in my hands. I
heard the whispering voice telling me how to speak the words that warned
and condemned her: "Wake! you who have taken him from me! Wake! and meet
your doom."

I saw her start up in bed. The sudden movement disordered the nightdress
over her bosom and showed the miniature portrait of a man, hung round
her neck.

The man was Philip. The likeness was looking at me.

So dear, so lovely--those eyes that had once been the light of my heart,
mourned for me and judged me now. They saw the guilty thought that
polluted me; they brought me to my knees, imploring him to help me back
to my better self: "One last mercy, dear, to comfort me under the loss
of you. Let the love that was once my life, be my good angel still. Save
me, Philip, even though you forsake me--save me from myself!"

.......

There was a sudden cry.

The agony of it pierced my brain--drove away the ghastly light--silenced
the tempting whispers. I came to myself. I saw--and not in a dream.

Helena _had_ started up in her bed. That cry of terror, at the sight
of me in her room at night, _had_ burst from her lips. The miniature of
Philip hung round her neck, a visible reality. Though my head was dizzy,
though my heart was sinking, I had not lost my senses yet. All that the
night lamp could show me, I still saw; and I heard the sound, faintly,
when the door of the bed-chamber was opened. Alarmed by that piercing
cry, my father came hurrying into the room.

Not a word passed between us three. The whispers that I had heard were
wicked; the thoughts that had been in my mind were vile. Had they left
some poison in the air of the room, which killed the words on our lips?

My father looked at Helena. With a trembling hand she pointed to me. He
put his arm round me and held me up. I remember his leading me away--and
I remember nothing more.

My last words are written. I lock up this journal of misery-never, I
hope and pray, to open it again. ----

Second Period (continued).

EVENTS IN THE FAMILY, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR. ----



CHAPTER XXXII. THE MIDDLE-AGED LADY.

In the year 1870 I found myself compelled to submit to the demands of
two hard task-masters.

Advancing age and failing health reminded the Governor of the Prison of
his duty to his successor, in one unanswerable word--Resign.

When they have employed us and interested us, for the greater part of
our lives, we bid farewell to our duties--even to the gloomy duties of a
prison--with a sense of regret. My view of the future presented a vacant
prospect indeed, when I looked at my idle life to come, and wondered
what I should do with it. Loose on the world--at my age!--I drifted into
domestic refuge, under the care of my two dear and good sons. After a
while (never mind how long a while) I began to grow restless under
the heavy burden of idleness. Having nothing else to complain of, I
complained of my health, and consulted a doctor. That sagacious man hit
on the right way of getting rid of me--he recommended traveling.

This was unexpected advice. After some hesitation, I accepted it
reluctantly.

The instincts of age recoil from making new acquaintances, contemplating
new places, and adopting new habits. Besides, I hate railway traveling.
However, I contrived to get as far as Italy, and stopped to rest at
Florence. Here, I found pictures by the old masters that I could really
enjoy, a public park that I could honestly admire, and an excellent
friend and colleague of former days; once chaplain to the prison, now
clergyman in charge of the English Church. We met in the gallery of the
Pitti Palace; and he recognized me immediately. I was pleased to find
that the lapse of years had made so little difference in my personal
appearance.

The traveler who advances as far as Florence, and does not go on to
Rome, must be regardless indeed of the opinions of his friends. Let me
not attempt to conceal it--I am that insensible traveler. Over and over
again, I said to myself: "Rome must be done"; and over and over again I
put off doing it. To own the truth, the fascinations of Florence, aided
by the society of my friend, laid so strong a hold on me that I believe
I should have ended my days in the delightful Italian city, but for the
dangerous illness of one of my sons. This misfortune hurried me back to
England, in dread, every step of the way, of finding that I had arrived
too late. The journey (thank God!) proved to have been taken without
need. My son was no longer in danger, when I reached London in the year
1875.

At that date I was near enough to the customary limit of human life to
feel the necessity of rest and quiet. In other words, my days of travel
had come to their end.

Having established myself in my own country, I did not forget to let old
friends know where they might find me. Among those to whom I wrote was
another colleague of past years, who still held his medical appointment
in the prison. When I received the doctor's reply, it inclosed a letter
directed to me at my old quarters in the Governor's rooms. Who could
possibly have sent a letter to an address which I had left five
years since? My correspondent proved to be no less a person than the
Congregational Minister--the friend whom I had estranged from me by the
tone in which I had written to him, on the long-past occasion of his
wife's death.

It was a distressing letter to read. I beg permission to give only the
substance of it in this place.

Entreating me, with touching expressions of humility and sorrow, to
forgive his long silence, the writer appealed to my friendly remembrance
of him. He was in sore need of counsel, under serious difficulties; and
I was the only person to whom he could apply for help. In the disordered
state of his health at that time, he ventured to hope that I would visit
him at his present place of abode, and would let him have the
happiness of seeing me as speedily as possible. He concluded with this
extraordinary postscript:

"When you see my daughters, say nothing to either of them which relates,
in any way, to the subject of their ages. You shall hear why when we
meet."

The reading of this letter naturally reminded me of the claims which my
friend's noble conduct had established on my admiration and respect, at
the past time when we met in the prison. I could not hesitate to grant
his request--strangely as it was expressed, and doubtful as the prospect
appeared to be of my answering the expectations which he had founded
on the renewal of our intercourse. Answering his letter by telegraph, I
promised to be with him on the next day.

On arriving at the station, I found that I was the only traveler, by a
first-class carriage, who left the train. A young lady, remarkable by
her good looks and good dressing, seemed to have noticed this trifling
circumstance. She approached me with a ready smile. "I believe I
am speaking to my father's friend," she said; "my name is Helena
Gracedieu."

Here was one of the Minister's two "daughters"; and that one of the
two--as I discovered the moment I shook hands with her--who was my
friend's own child. Miss Helena recalled to me her mother's face,
infinitely improved by youth and health, and by a natural beauty which
that cruel and deceitful woman could never have possessed. The slanting
forehead and the shifting, flashing eyes, that I recollected in the
parent, were reproduced (slightly reproduced, I ought to say) in the
child. As for the other features, I had never seen a more beautiful nose
and mouth, or a more delicately-shaped outline, than was presented by
the lower part of the face. But Miss Helena somehow failed to charm me.
I doubt if I should have fallen in love with her, even in the days when
I was a foolish young man.

The first question that I put, as we drove from the station to the
house, related naturally to her father.

"He is very ill," she began; "I am afraid you must prepare yourself to
see a sad change. Nerves. The mischief first showed itself, the doctor
tells us, in derangement of his nervous system. He has been, I regret
to tell you, obstinate in refusing to give up his preaching and pastoral
work. He ought to have tried rest at the seaside. Things have gone on
from bad to worse. Last Sunday, at the beginning of his sermon, he broke
down. Very, very sad, is it not? The doctor says that precious time has
been lost, and he must make up his mind to resign his charge. He won't
hear of it. You are his old friend. Please try to persuade him."

Fluently spoken; the words well chosen; the melodious voice reminding
me of the late Mrs. Gracedieu's advantages in that respect; little
sighs judiciously thrown in here and there, just at the right places;
everything, let me own, that could present a dutiful daughter as a
pattern of propriety--and nothing, let me add, that could produce an
impression on my insensible temperament. If I had not been too discreet
to rush at a hasty conclusion, I might have been inclined to say: her
mother's child, every inch of her!

The interest which I was still able to feel in my friend's domestic
affairs centered in the daughter whom he had adopted.

In her infancy I had seen the child, and liked her; I was the one person
living (since the death of Mrs. Gracedieu) who knew how the Minister had
concealed the sad secret of her parentage; and I wanted to discover if
the hereditary taint had begun to show itself in the innocent offspring
of the murderess. Just as I was considering how I might harmlessly speak
of Miss Helena's "sister," Miss Helena herself introduced the subject.

"May I ask," she resumed, "if you were disappointed when you found
nobody but me to meet you at our station?"

Here was an opportunity of paying her a compliment, if I had been a
younger man, or if she had produced a favorable impression on me. As it
was, I hit--if I may praise myself--on an ingenious compromise.

"What excuse could I have," I asked, "for feeling disappointed?"

"Well, I hear you are an official personage--I ought to say, perhaps,
a retired official personage. We might have received you more
respectfully, if _both_ my father's daughters had been present at the
station. It's not my fault that my sister was not with me."

The tone in which she said this strengthened my prejudice against her.
It told me that the two girls were living together on no very
friendly terms; and it suggested--justly or unjustly I could not then
decide--that Miss Helena was to blame.

"My sister is away from home."

"Surely, Miss Helena, that is a good reason for her not coming to meet
me?"

"I beg your pardon--it is a bad reason. She has been sent away for the
recovery of her health--and the loss of her health is entirely her own
fault."

What did this matter to me? I decided on dropping the subject. My memory
reverted, however, to past occasions on which the loss of _my_ health
had been entirely my own fault. There was something in these personal
recollections, which encouraged my perverse tendency to sympathize with
a young lady to whom I had not yet been introduced. The young lady's
sister appeared to be discouraged by my silence. She said: "I hope you
don't think the worse of me for what I have just mentioned?"

"Certainly not."

"Perhaps you will fail to see any need of my speaking of my sister at
all? Will you kindly listen, if I try to explain myself?"

"With pleasure."

She slyly set the best construction on my perfectly commonplace reply.

"Thank you," she said. "The fact is, my father (I can't imagine why)
wishes you to see my sister as well as me. He has written to the
farmhouse at which she is now staying, to tell her to come
home to-morrow. It is possible--if your kindness offers me an
opportunity--that I may ask to be guided by your experience, in a little
matter which interests me. My sister is rash, and reckless, and has a
terrible temper. I should be very sorry indeed if you were induced to
form an unfavorable opinion of me, from anything you might notice if you
see us together. You understand me, I hope?"

"I quite understand you."

To set me against her sister, in her own private interests--there, as
I felt sure, was the motive under which she was acting. As hard as
her mother, as selfish as her mother, and, judging from those two bad
qualities, probably as cruel as her mother. That was how I understood
Miss Helena Gracedieu, when our carriage drew up at her father's house.

A middle-aged lady was on the doorstep, when we arrived, just ringing
the bell. She looked round at us both; being evidently as complete a
stranger to my fair companion as she was to me. When the servant opened
the door, she said:

"Is Miss Jillgall at home?"

At the sound of that odd name, Miss Helena tossed her head disdainfully.
She took no sort of notice of the stranger-lady who was at the door
of her father's house. This young person's contempt for Miss Jillgall
appeared to extend to Miss Jillgall's friends.

In the meantime, the servant's answer was: "Not at home."

The middle aged lady said: "Do you expect her back soon?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I will call again, later in the day."

"What name, if you please?"

The lady stole another look at me, before she replied.

"Never mind the name," she said--and walked away.



CHAPTER XXXIII. THE MINISTER'S MISFORTUNE.

"Do you know that lady?" Miss Helena asked, as we entered the house.

"She is a perfect stranger to me," I answered.

"Are you sure you have not forgotten her?"

"Why do you think I have forgotten her?"

"Because she evidently remembered you."

The lady had no doubt looked at me twice. If this meant that my face was
familiar to her, I could only repeat what I have already said. Never, to
my knowledge, had I seen her before.

Leading the way upstairs, Miss Helena apologized for taking me into her
father's bedroom. "He is able to sit up in an armchair," she said; "and
he might do more, as I think, if he would exert himself. He won't exert
himself. Very sad. Would you like to look at your room, before you see
my father? It is quite ready for you. We hope"--she favored me with
a fascinating smile, devoted to winning my heart when her interests
required it--"we hope you will pay us a long visit; we look on you as
one of ourselves."

I thanked her, and said I would shake hands with my old friend before I
went to my room. We parted at the bedroom door.

It is out of my power to describe the shock that overpowered me when I
first saw the Minister again, after the long interval of time that had
separated us. Nothing that his daughter said, nothing that I myself
anticipated, had prepared me for that lamentable change. For the moment,
I was not sufficiently master of myself to be able to speak to him. He
added to my embarrassment by the humility of his manner, and the formal
elaboration of his apologies.

"I feel painfully that I have taken a liberty with you," he said,
"after the long estrangement between us--for which my want of Christian
forbearance is to blame. Forgive it, sir, and forget it. I hope to
show that necessity justifies my presumption, in subjecting you to a
wearisome journey for my sake."

Beginning to recover myself, I begged that he would make no more
excuses. My interruption seemed to confuse him.

"I wished to say," he went on, "that you are the one man who can
understand me. There is my only reason for asking to see you, and
looking forward as I do to your advice. You remember the night--or was
it the day?--before that miserable woman was hanged? You were the only
person present when I agreed to adopt the poor little creature, stained
already (one may say) by its mother's infamy. I think your wisdom
foresaw what a terrible responsibility I was undertaking; you tried to
prevent it. Well! well! you have been in my confidence--you only. Mind!
nobody in this house knows that one of the two girls is not really my
daughter. Pray stop me, if you find me wandering from the point. My wish
is to show that you are the only man I can open my heart to. She--"
He paused, as if in search of a lost idea, and left the sentence
uncompleted. "Yes," he went on, "I was thinking of my adopted child. Did
I ever tell you that I baptized her myself? and by a good Scripture name
too--Eunice. Ah, sir, that little helpless baby is a grown-up girl now;
of an age to inspire love, and to feel love. I blush to acknowledge
it; I have behaved with a want of self-control, with a cowardly
weakness.--No! I am, indeed, wandering this time. I ought to have told
you first that I have been brought face to face with the possibility of
Eunice's marriage. And, to make it worse still, I can't help liking
the young man. He comes of a good family--excellent manners, highly
educated, plenty of money, a gentleman in every sense of the word. And
poor little Eunice is so fond of him! Isn't it dreadful to be obliged to
check her dearly-loved Philip? The young gentleman's name is Philip.
Do you like the name? I say I am obliged to cheek her sweetheart in
the rudest manner, when all he wants to do is to ask me modestly for
my sweet Eunice's hand. Oh, what have I not suffered, without a word
of sympathy to comfort me, before I had courage enough to write to you!
Shall I make a dreadful confession? If my religious convictions had not
stood in my way, I believe I should have committed suicide. Put yourself
in my place. Try to see yourself shrinking from a necessary
explanation, when the happiness of a harmless girl--so dutiful, so
affectionate--depended on a word of kindness from your lips. And that
word you are afraid to speak! Don't take offense, sir; I mean myself,
not you. Why don't you say something?" he burst out fiercely, incapable
of perceiving that he had allowed me no opportunity of speaking to him.
"Good God! don't you understand me, after all?"

The signs of mental confusion in his talk had so distressed me, that I
had not been composed enough to feel sure of what he really meant,
until he described himself as "shrinking from a necessary explanation."
Hearing those words, my knowledge of the circumstances helped me; I
realized what his situation really was.

"Compose yourself," I said, "I understand you at last."

He had suddenly become distrustful. "Prove it," he muttered, with a
furtive look at me. "I want to be satisfied that you understand my
position."

"This is your position," I told him. "You are placed between two
deplorable alternatives. If you tell this young gentleman that Miss
Eunice's mother was a criminal hanged for murder, his family--even if he
himself doesn't recoil from it--will unquestionably forbid the marriage;
and your adopted daughter's happiness will be the sacrifice."

"True!" he said. "Frightfully true! Go on."

"If, on the other hand, you sanction the marriage, and conceal the
truth, you commit a deliberate act of deceit; and you leave the lives of
the young couple at the mercy of a possible discovery, which might
part husband and wife--cast a slur on their children--and break up the
household."

He shuddered while he listened to me. "Come to the end of it," he cried.

I had no more to say, and I was obliged to answer him to that effect.

"No more to say?" he replied. "You have not told me yet what I most want
to know."

I did a rash thing; I asked what it was that he most wanted to know.

"Can't you see it for yourself?" he demanded indignantly. "Suppose you
were put between those two alternatives which you mentioned just now."

"Well?"

"What would you do, sir, in my place? Would you own the disgraceful
truth--before the marriage--or run the risk, and keep the horrid story
to yourself?"

Either way, my reply might lead to serious consequences. I hesitated.

He threatened me with his poor feeble hand. It was only the anger of a
moment; his humor changed to supplication. He reminded me piteously of
bygone days: "You used to be a kind-hearted man. Has age hardened you?
Have you no pity left for your old friend? My poor heart is sadly in
want of a word of wisdom, spoken kindly."

Who could have resisted this? I took his hand: "Be at ease, dear
Minister. In your place I should run the risk, and keep that horrid
story to myself."

He sank back gently in his chair. "Oh, the relief of it!" he said. "How
can I thank you as I ought for quieting my mind?"

I seized the opportunity of quieting his mind to good purpose by
suggesting a change of subject. "Let us have done with serious talk for
the present," I proposed. "I have been an idle man for the last five
years, and I want to tell you about my travels."

His attention began to wander, he evidently felt no interest in my
travels. "Are you sure," he asked anxiously, "that we have said all we
ought to say? No!" he cried, answering his own question. "I believe
I have forgotten something--I am certain I have forgotten something.
Perhaps I mentioned it in the letter I wrote to you. Have you got my
letter?"

I showed it to him. He read the letter, and gave it back to me with a
heavy sigh. "Not there!" he said despairingly. "Not there!"

"Is the lost remembrance connected with anybody in the house?" I asked,
trying to help him. "Does it relate, by any chance, to one of the young
ladies?"

"You wonderful man! Nothing escapes you. Yes; the thing I have forgotten
concerns one of the girls. Stop! Let me get at it by myself. Surely
it relates to Helena?" He hesitated; his face clouded over with an
expression of anxious thought. "Yes; it relates to Helena," he repeated
"but how?" His eyes filled with tears. "I am ashamed of my weakness,"
he said faintly. "You don't know how dreadful it is to forget things in
this way."

The injury that his mind had sustained now assumed an aspect that was
serious indeed. The subtle machinery, which stimulates the memory, by
means of the association of ideas, appeared to have lost its working
power in the intellect of this unhappy man. I made the first suggestion
that occurred to me, rather than add to his distress by remaining
silent.

"If we talk of your daughter," I said, "the merest accident--a word
spoken at random by. you or me--may be all your memory wants to rouse
it."

He agreed eagerly to this: "Yes! Yes! Let me begin. Helena met you, I
think, at the station. Of course, I remember that; it only happened
a few hours since. Well?" he went on, with a change in his manner to
parental pride, which it was pleasant to see, "did you think my daughter
a fine girl? I hope Helena didn't disappoint you?"

"Quite the contrary." Having made that necessary reply, I saw my way to
keeping his mind occupied by a harmless subject. "It must, however, be
owned," I went on, "that your daughter surprised me."

"In what way?"

"When she mentioned her name. Who could have supposed that you--an
inveterate enemy to the Roman Catholic Church--would have christened
your daughter by the name of a Roman Catholic Saint?"

He listened to this with a smile. Had I happily blundered on some
association which his mind was still able to pursue?

"You happen to be wrong this time," he said pleasantly. "I never gave
my girl the name of Helena; and, what is more, I never baptized her.
You ought to know that. Years and years ago, I wrote to tell you that my
poor wife had made me a proud and happy father. And surely I said that
the child was born while she was on a visit to her brother's rectory.
Do you remember the name of the place? I told you it was a remote
little village, called--Suppose we put _your_ memory to a test? Can you
remember the name?" he asked, with a momentary appearance of triumph
showing itself, poor fellow, in his face.

After the time that had elapsed, the name had slipped my memory. When I
confessed this, he exulted over me, with an unalloyed pleasure which it
was cheering to see.

"_Your_ memory is failing you now," he said. "The name is Long Lanes.
And what do you think my wife did--this is so characteristic of
her!--when I presented myself at her bedside. Instead of speaking of our
own baby, she reminded me of the name that I had given to our adopted
daughter when I baptized the child. 'You chose the ugliest name that a
girl can have,' she said. I begged her to remember that 'Eunice' was
a name in Scripture. She persisted in spite of me. (What firmness of
character!) 'I detest the name of Eunice!' she said; 'and now that I
have a girl of my own, it's my turn to choose the name; I claim it as my
right.' She was beginning to get excited; I allowed her to have her own
way, of course. 'Only let me know,' I said, 'what the name is to be when
you have thought of it.' My dear sir, she had the name ready, without
thinking about it: 'My baby shall be called by the name that is sweetest
in my ears, the name of my dear lost mother.' We had--what shall I call
it?--a slight difference of opinion when I heard that the name was to be
Helena. I really could _not_ reconcile it to my conscience to baptize
a child of mine by the name of a Popish saint. My wife's brother set
things right between us. A worthy good man; he died not very long ago--I
forget the date. Not to detain you any longer, the rector of Long Lanes
baptized our daughter. That is how she comes by her un-English name; and
so it happens that her birth is registered in a village which her father
has never inhabited. I hope, sir, you think a little better of my memory
now?"

I was afraid to tell him what I really did think.

He was not fifty years old yet; and he had just exhibited one of the sad
symptoms which mark the broken memory of old age. Lead him back to the
events of many years ago, and (as he had just proved to me) he could
remember well and relate coherently. But let him attempt to recall
circumstances which had only taken place a short time since, and
forgetfulness and confusion presented the lamentable result, just as I
have related it.

The effort that he had made, the agitation that he had undergone in
talking to me, had confirmed my fears that he would overtask his
wasted strength. He lay back in his chair. "Let us go on with our
conversation," he murmured. "We haven't recovered what I had forgotten,
yet." His eyes closed, and opened again languidly. "There was something
I wanted to recall--" he resumed, "and you were helping me." His weak
voice died away; his weary eyes closed again. After waiting until there
could be no doubt that he was resting peacefully in sleep, I left the
room.



CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LIVELY OLD MAID.

A perfect stranger to the interior of the house (seeing that my
experience began and ended with the Minister's bedchamber), I
descended the stairs, in the character of a guest in search of domestic
information.

On my way down, I heard the door of a room on the ground floor opened,
and a woman' s voice below, speaking in a hurry: "My dear, I have not a
moment to spare; my patients are waiting for me." This was followed by a
confidential communication, judging by the tone. "Mind! not a word about
me to that old gentleman!" Her patients were waiting for her--had I
discovered a female doctor? And there was some old gentleman whom she
was not willing to trust--surely I was not that much-injured man?

Reaching the hall just as the lady said her last words, I caught a
glimpse of her face, and discovered the middle-aged stranger who had
called on "Miss Jillgall," and had promised to repeat her visit. A
second lady was at the door, with her back to me, taking leave of her
friend. Having said good-by, she turned round--and we confronted each
other.

I found her to be a little person, wiry and active; past the prime of
life, and ugly enough to encourage prejudice, in persons who take a
superficial view of their fellow-creatures. Looking impartially at
the little sunken eyes which rested on me with a comical expression of
embarrassment, I saw signs that said: There is some good here, under a
disagreeable surface, if you can only find it.

She saluted me with a carefully-performed curtsey, and threw open the
door of a room on the ground floor.

"Pray walk in, sir, and permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr.
Gracedieu's cousin--Miss Jillgall. Proud indeed to make the acquaintance
of a gentleman distinguished in the service of his country--or perhaps I
ought to say, in the service of the Law. The Governor offers hospitality
to prisoners. And who introduces prisoners to board and lodging with the
Governor?--the Law. Beautiful weather for the time of year, is it not?
May I ask--have you seen your room?"

The embarrassment which I had already noticed had extended by this time
to her voice and her manner. She was evidently trying to talk herself
into a state of confidence. It seemed but too probable that I was indeed
the person mentioned by her prudent friend at the door.

Having acknowledged that I had not seen my room yet, my politeness
attempted to add that there was no hurry. The wiry little lady was of
the contrary opinion; she jumped out of her chair as if she had been
shot out of it. "Pray let me make myself useful. The dream of my life
is to make myself useful to others; and to such a man as you--I consider
myself honored. Besides, I do enjoy running up and down stairs. This
way, dear sir; this way to your room."

She skipped up the stairs, and stopped on the first landing. "Do you
know, I am a timid person, though I may not look like it. Sometimes,
curiosity gets the better of me--and then I grow bold. Did you notice a
lady who was taking leave of me just now at the house door?"

I replied that I had seen the lady for a moment, but not for the first
time. "Just as I arrived here from the station," I said, "I found her
paying a visit when you were not at home."

"Yes--and do tell me one thing more." My readiness in answering
seemed to have inspired Miss Jillgall with confidence. I heard no more
confessions of overpowering curiosity. "Am I right," she proceeded, "in
supposing that Miss Helena accompanied you on your way here from the
station?"

"Quite right."

"Did she say anything particular, when she saw the lady asking for me at
the door?"

"Miss Helena thought," I said, "that the lady recognized me as a person
whom she had seen before."

"And what did you think yourself?"

"I thought Miss Helena was wrong."

"Very extraordinary!" With that remark, Miss Jillgall dropped the
subject. The meaning of her reiterated inquiries was now, as it seemed
to me, clear enough. She was eager to discover how I could have inspired
the distrust of me, expressed in the caution addressed to her by her
friend.

When we reached the upper floor, she paused before the Minister's room.

"I believe many years have passed," she said, "since you last saw Mr.
Gracedieu. I am afraid you have found him a sadly changed man? You won't
be angry with me, I hope, for asking more questions? I owe Mr. Gracedieu
a debt of gratitude which no devotion, on my part, can ever repay. You
don't know what a favor I shall consider it, if you will tell me what
you think of him. Did it seem to you that he was not quite himself? I
don't mean in his looks, poor dear--I mean in his mind."

There was true sorrow and sympathy in her face. I believe I should
hardly have thought her ugly, if we had first met at that moment. Thus
far, she had only amused me. I began really to like Miss Jillgall now.

"I must not conceal from you," I replied, "that the state of Mr.
Gracedieu's mind surprised and distressed me. But I ought also to tell
you that I saw him perhaps at his worst. The subject on which he wished
to speak with me would have agitated any man, in his state of health. He
consulted me about his daughter's marriage."

Miss Jillgall suddenly turned pale.

"His daughter's marriage?" she repeated. "Oh, you frighten me!"

"Why should I frighten you?"

She seemed to find some difficulty in expressing herself. "I hardly
know how to put it, sir. You will excuse me (won't you?) if I say what
I feel. You have influence--not the sort of influence that finds
places for people who don't deserve them, and gets mentioned in the
newspapers--I only mean influence over Mr. Gracedieu. That's what
frightens me. How do I know--? Oh, dear, I'm asking another question!
Allow me, for once, to be plain and positive. I'm afraid, sir, you have
encouraged the Minister to consent to Helena's marriage."

"Pardon me," I answered, "you mean Eunice's marriage."

"No, sir! Helena."

"No, madam! Eunice."

"What does he mean?" said Miss Jillgall to herself.

I heard her. "This is what I mean," I asserted, in my most positive
manner. "The only subject on which the Minister has consulted me is Miss
Eunice's marriage."

My tone left her no alternative but to believe me. She looked not only
bewildered, but alarmed. "Oh, poor man, has he lost himself in such a
dreadful way as that?" she said to herself. "I daren't believe it!" She
turned to me. "You have been talking with him for some time. Please try
to remember. While Mr. Gracedieu was speaking of Euneece, did he say
nothing of Helena's infamous conduct to her sister?"

Not the slightest hint of any such thing, I assured her, had reached my
ears.

"Then," she cried, "I can tell you what he has forgotten! We kept as
much of that miserable story to ourselves as we could, in mercy to him.
Besides, he was always fondest of Euneece; she would live in his memory
when he had forgotten the other--the wretch, the traitress, the plotter,
the fiend!" Miss Jillgall's good manners slipped, as it were, from
under her; she clinched her fists as a final means of expressing her
sentiments. "The wretched English language isn't half strong enough for
me," she declared with a look of fury.

I took a liberty. "May I ask what Miss Helena has done?" I said.

"_May_ you ask? Oh, Heavens! you must ask, you shall ask. Mr. Governor,
if your eyes are not opened to Helena's true character, I can tell you
what she will do; she will deceive you into taking her part. Do you
think she went to the station out of regard for the great man? Pooh! she
went with an eye to her own interests; and she means to make the great
man useful. Thank God, I can stop that!"

She checked herself there, and looked suspiciously at the door of Mr.
Gracedieu's room.

"In the interest of our conversation," she whispered, "we have not
given a thought to the place we have been talking in. Do you think the
Minister has heard us?"

"Not if he is asleep--as I left him."

Miss Jillgall shook her head ominously. "The safe way is this way," she
said. "Come with me."



CHAPTER XXXV. THE FUTURE LOOKS GLOOMY.

My ever-helpful guide led me to my room--well out of Mr. Gracedieu's
hearing, if he happened to be awake--at the other end of the passage.
Having opened the door, she paused on the threshold. The decrees of that
merciless English despot, Propriety, claimed her for their own. "Oh,
dear!" she said to herself, "ought I to go in?"

My interest as a man (and, what is more, an old man) in the coming
disclosure was too serious to be trifled with in this way. I took her
arm, and led her into my room as if I was at a dinner-party, leading
her to the table. Is it the good or the evil fortune of mortals that
the comic side of life, and the serious side of life, are perpetually in
collision with each other? We burst out laughing, at a moment of grave
importance to us both. Perfectly inappropriate, and perfectly natural.
But we were neither of us philosophers, and we were ashamed of our own
merriment the moment it had ceased.

"When you hear what I have to tell you," Miss Jillgall began, "I hope
you will think as I do. What has slipped Mr. Gracedieu's memory, it
may be safer to say--for he is sometimes irritable, poor dear--where he
won't know anything about it."

With that she told the lamentable story of the desertion of Eunice.

In silence I listened, from first to last. How could I trust myself
to speak, as I must have spoken, in the presence of a woman? The cruel
injury inflicted on the poor girl, who had interested and touched me in
the first innocent year of her life--who had grown to womanhood to be
the victim of two wretches, both trusted by her, both bound to her by
the sacred debt of love--so fired my temper that I longed to be within
reach of the man, with a horsewhip in my hand. Seeing in my face, as I
suppose, what was passing in my mind, Miss Jillgall expressed sympathy
and admiration in her own quaint way: "Ah, I like to see you so angry!
It's grand to know that a man who has governed prisoners has got such
a pitying heart. Let me tell you one thing, sir. You will be more angry
than ever, when you see my sweet girl to-morrow. And mind this--it is
Helena's devouring vanity, Helena's wicked jealousy of her sister's good
fortune, that has done the mischief. Don't be too hard on Philip? I do
believe, if the truth was told, he is ashamed of himself."

I felt inclined to be harder on Philip than ever. "Where is he?" I
asked.

Miss Jillgall started. "Oh, Mr. Governor, don't show the severe side of
yourself, after the pretty compliment I have just paid to you! What a
masterful voice! and what eyes, dear sir; what terrifying eyes! I feel
as if I was one of your prisoners, and had misbehaved myself."

I repeated my question with improvement, I hope, in my looks and tones:
"Don't think me obstinate, my dear lady. I only want to know if he is in
this town."

Miss Jillgall seemed to take a curious pleasure in disappointing me;
she had not forgotten my unfortunate abruptness of look and manner. "You
won't find him here," she said.

"Perhaps he has left England?"

"If you must know, sir, he is in London--with Mr. Dunboyne."

The name startled me.

In a moment more it recalled to my memory a remarkable letter, addressed
to me many years ago, which will be found in my introductory narrative.
The writer--an Irish gentleman, named Dunboyne confided to me that
his marriage had associated him with the murderess, who had then been
recently executed, as brother-in-law to that infamous woman. This
circumstance he had naturally kept a secret from every one, including
his son, then a boy. I alone was made an exception to the general rule,
because I alone could tell him what had become of the poor little girl,
who in spite of the disgraceful end of her mother was still his niece.
If the child had not been provided for, he felt it his duty to take
charge of her education, and to watch over her prospects in the future.
Such had been his object in writing to me; and such was the substance
of his letter. I had merely informed him, in reply, that his kind
intentions had been anticipated, and that the child's prosperous future
was assured.

Miss Jillgall's keen observation noticed the impression that had been
produced upon me. "Mr. Dunboyne's name seems to surprise you." she said.

"This is the first time I have heard you mention it," I answered.

She looked as if she could hardly believe me. "Surely you must have
heard the name," she said, "when I told you about poor Euneece?"

"No."

"Well, then, Mr. Gracedieu must have mentioned it?"

"No."

This second reply in the negative irritated her.

"At any rate," she said, sharply, "you appeared to know Mr. Dunboyne's
name, just now."

"Certainly!"

"And yet," she persisted, "the name seemed to come upon you as a
surprise. I don't understand it. If I have mentioned Philip's name once,
I have mentioned it a dozen times."

We were completely at cross-purposes. She had taken something for
granted which was an unfathomable mystery to me.

"Well," I objected, "if you did mention his name a dozen times--excuse
me for asking the question---what then?"

"Good heavens!" cried Miss Jillgall, "do you mean to say you never
guessed that Philip was Mr. Dunboyne's son?"

I was petrified.

His son! Dunboyne's son! How could I have guessed it?

At a later time only, the good little creature who had so innocently
deceived me, remembered that the mischief might have been wrought by the
force of habit. While he had still a claim on their regard the family
had always spoken of Eunice's unworthy lover by his Christian name; and
what had been familiar in their mouths felt the influence of custom,
before time enough had elapsed to make them think as readily of the
enemy as they had hitherto thought of the friend.

But I was ignorant of this: and the disclosure by which I found myself
suddenly confronted was more than I could support. For the moment,
speech was beyond me.

His son! Dunboyne's son!

What a position that young man had occupied, unsuspected by his father,
unknown to himself! kept in ignorance of the family disgrace, he had
been a guest in the house of the man who had consoled his infamous
aunt on the eve of her execution--who had saved his unhappy cousin from
poverty, from sorrow, from shame. And but one human being knew this. And
that human being was myself!

Observing my agitation, Miss Jillgall placed her own construction on it.

"Do you know anything bad of Philip?" she asked eagerly. "If it's
something that will prevent Helena from marrying him, tell me what it
is, I beg and pray."

I knew no more of "Philip" (whom she still called by his Christian
name!) than she had told me herself: there was no help for it but to
disappoint her. At the same time I was unable to conceal that I was ill
at ease, and that it might be well to leave me by myself. After a look
round the bedchamber to see that nothing was wanting to my comfort, she
made her quaint curtsey, and left me with her own inimitable form of
farewell. "Oh, indeed, I have been here too long! And I'm afraid I have
been guilty, once or twice, of vulgar familiarity. You will excuse me, I
hope. This has been an exciting interview--I think I am going to cry."

She ran out of the room; and carried away with her some of my kindliest
feelings, short as the time of our acquaintance had been. What a wife
and what a mother was lost there--and all for want of a pretty face!

Left alone, my thoughts inevitably reverted to Dunboyne the elder,
and to all that had happened in Mr. Gracedieu's family since the Irish
gentleman had written to me in bygone years.

The terrible choice of responsibilities which had preyed on the
Minister's mind had been foreseen by Mr. Dunboyne, when he first thought
of adopting his infant niece, and had warned him to dread what might
happen in the future, if he brought her up as a member of the family
with his own boy, and if the two young people became at a later period
attached to each other. How had the wise foresight, which offered such
a contrast to the poor Minister's impulsive act of mercy, met with its
reward? Fate or Providence (call it which we may) had brought Dunboyne's
son and the daughter of the murderess together; had inspired those two
strangers with love; and had emboldened them to plight their troth by a
marriage engagement. Was the man's betrayal of the trust placed in him
by the faithful girl to be esteemed a fortunate circumstance by the
two persons who knew the true story of her parentage, the Minister and
myself? Could we rejoice in an act of infidelity which had embittered
and darkened the gentle harmless life of the victim? Or could we, on the
other hand, encourage the ruthless deceit, the hateful treachery,
which had put the wicked Helena--with no exposure to dread if _she_
married--into her wronged sister's place? Impossible! In the one case as
in the other, impossible!

Equally hopeless did the prospect appear, when I tried to determine what
my own individual course of action ought to be.

In my calmer moments, the idea had occurred to my mind of going to
Dunboyne the younger, and, if he had any sense of shame left, exerting
my influence to lead him back to his betrothed wife. How could I now do
this, consistently with my duty to the young man's father; knowing what
I knew, and not forgetting that I had myself advised Mr. Gracedieu
to keep the truth concealed, when I was equally ignorant of Philip
Dunboyne's parentage and of Helena Gracedieu's treachery?

Even if events so ordered it that the marriage of Eunice might yet take
place--without any interference exerted to produce that result, one way
or the other, on my part--it would be just as impossible for me to speak
out now, as it had been in the long-past years when I had so cautiously
answered Mr. Dunboyne's letter. But what would he think of me if
accident led, sooner or later, to the disclosure which I had felt bound
to conceal? The more I tried to forecast the chances of the future, the
darker and the darker was the view that faced me.

To my sinking heart and wearied mind, good Dame Nature presented a more
acceptable prospect, when I happened to look out of the window of my
room. There I saw the trees and flowerbeds of a garden, tempting me
irresistibly under the cloudless sunshine of a fine day. I was on my way
out, to recover heart and hope, when a knock at the door stopped me.

Had Miss Jillgall returned? When I said "Come in," Mr. Gracedieu opened
the door, and entered the room.

He was so weak that he staggered as he approached me. Leading him to
a chair, I noticed a wild look in his eyes, and a flush on his haggard
cheeks. Something had happened.

"When you were with me in my room," he began, "did I not tell you that I
had forgotten something?"

"Certainly you did."

"Well, I have found the lost remembrance. My misfortune--I ought to call
it the punishment for my sins, is recalled to me now. The worst curse
that can fall on a father is the curse that has come to me. I have a
wicked daughter. My own child, sir! my own child!"

Had he been awake, while Miss Jillgall and I had been talking outside
his door? Had he heard her ask me if Mr. Gracedieu had said nothing
of Helena's infamous conduct to her sister, while he was speaking of
Eunice? The way to the lost remembrance had perhaps been found there.
In any case, after that bitter allusion to his "wicked daughter" some
result must follow. Helena Gracedieu and a day of reckoning might be
nearer to each other already than I had ventured to hope.

I waited anxiously for what he might say to me next.



CHAPTER XXXVI. THE WANDERING MIND.

For the moment, the Minister disappointed me.

Without speaking, without even looking up, he took out his pocketbook,
and began to write in it. Constantly interrupted either by a trembling
in the hand that held the pencil, or by a difficulty (as I imagined)
in expressing thoughts imperfectly realized--his patience gave way; he
dashed the book on the floor.

"My mind is gone!" he burst out. "Oh, Father in Heaven, let death
deliver me from a body without a mind!"

Who could hear him, and be guilty of the cruelty of preaching
self-control? I picked up the pocketbook, and offered to help him.

"Do you think you can?" he asked.

"I can at least try."

"Good fellow! What should I do without you? See now; here is my
difficulty. I have got so many things to say, I want to separate
them--or else they will all run into each other. Look at the book," my
poor friend said mournfully; "they have run into each other in spite of
me."

The entries proved to be nearly incomprehensible. Here and there I
discovered some scattered words, which showed themselves more or less
distinctly in the midst of the surrounding confusion. The first word
that I could make out was "Education." Helped by that hint, I trusted
to guess-work to guide me in speaking to him. It was necessary to be
positive, or he would have lost all faith in me.

"Well?" he said impatiently.

"Well," I answered, "you have something to say to me about the education
which you have given to your daughters."

"Don't put them together!" he cried. "Dear, patient, sweet Eunice must
not be confounded with that she-devil--"

"Hush, hush, Mr. Gracedieu! Badly as Miss Helena has behaved, she is
your own child."

"I repudiate her, sir! Think for a moment of what she has done--and
then think of the religious education that I have given her. Heartless!
Deceitful! The most ignorant creature in the lowest dens of this town
could have done nothing more basely cruel. And this, after years on
years of patient Christian instruction on my part! What is religion?
What is education? I read a horrible book once (I forget who was the
author); it called religion superstition, and education empty form.
I don't know; upon my word I don't know that the book may not--Oh, my
tongue! Why don't I keep a guard over my tongue? Are you a father,
too? Don't interrupt me. Put yourself in my place, and think of it.
Heartless, deceitful, and _my_ daughter. Give me the pocketbook; I want
to see which memorandum comes first."

He had now wrought himself into a state of excitement, which relieved
his spirits of the depression that had weighed on them up to this time.
His harmless vanity, always, as I suspect, a latent quality in
his kindly nature, had already restored his confidence. With a
self-sufficient smile he consulted his own unintelligible entries, and
made his own wild discoveries.

"Ah, yes; 'M' stands for Minister; I come first. Am I to blame? Am
I--God forgive me my many sins--am I heartless? Am I deceitful?"

"My good friend, not even your enemies could say that!"

"Thank you. Who comes next?" He consulted the book again. "Her mother,
her sainted mother, comes next. People say she is like her mother. Was
my wife heartless? Was the angel of my life deceitful?"

("That," I thought to myself, "is exactly what your wife was--and
exactly what reappears in your wife's child.")

"Where does her wickedness come from?" he went on. "Not from her mother;
not from me; not from a neglected education." He suddenly stepped up
to me and laid his hands on my shoulders; his voice dropped to hoarse,
moaning, awestruck tones. "Shall I tell you what it is? A possession of
the devil."

It was so evidently desirable to prevent any continuation of such
a train of thought as this, that I could feel no hesitation in
interrupting him.

"Will you hear what I have to say?" I asked bluntly.

His humor changed again; he made me a low bow, and went back to his
chair. "I will hear you with pleasure," he answered politely. "You
are the most eloquent man I know, with one exception--myself. Of
course--myself."

"It is mere waste of time," I continued, "to regret the excellent
education which your daughter has misused." Making that reply, I was
tempted to add another word of truth. All education is at the mercy of
two powerful counter-influences: the influence of temperament, and the
influence of circumstances. But this was philosophy. How could I expect
him to submit to philosophy? "What we know of Miss Helena," I went on,
"must be enough for us. She has plotted, and she means to succeed. Stop
her."

"Just my idea!" he declared firmly. "I refuse my consent to that
abominable marriage."

In the popular phrase, I struck while the iron was hot. "You must do
more than that, sir," I told him.

His vanity suddenly took the alarm--I was leading him rather too
undisguisedly. He handed his book back to me. "You will find," he said
loftily, "that I have put it all down there."

I pretended to find it, and read an imaginary entry to this effect:
"After what she has already done, Helena is capable of marrying in
defiance of my wishes and commands. This must be considered and provided
against." So far, I had succeeded in flattering him. But when (thinking
of his paternal authority) I alluded next to his daughter's age, his
eyes rested on me with a look of downright terror.

"No more of that!" he said. "I won't talk of the girls' ages even with
you."

What did he mean? It was useless to ask. I went on with the matter in
hand--still deliberately speaking to him, as I might have spoken to
a man with an intellect as clear as my own. In my experience, this
practice generally stimulates a weak intelligence to do its best. We
all know how children receive talk that is lowered, or books that are
lowered, to their presumed level. "I shall take it for granted," I
continued, "that Miss Helena is still under your lawful authority. She
can only arrive at her ends by means of a runaway marriage. In that
case, much depends on the man. You told me you couldn't help liking him.
This was, of course, before you knew of the infamous manner in which he
has behaved. You must have changed your opinion now."

He seemed to be at a loss how to reply. "I am afraid," he said, "the
young man was drawn into it by Helena."

Here was Miss Jillgall's apology for Philip Dunboyne repeated in other
words. Despising and detesting the fellow as I did, I was forced to
admit to myself that he must be recommended by personal attractions
which it would be necessary to reckon with. I tried to get some more
information from Mr. Gracedieu.

"The excuse you have just made for him," I resumed, "implies that he is
a weak man; easily persuaded, easily led."

The Minister answered by nodding his head.

"Such weakness as that," I persisted, "is a vice in itself. It has led
already, sir, to the saddest results."

He admitted this by another nod.

"I don't wish to shock you, Mr. Gracedieu; but I must recommend
employing the means that present themselves. You must practice on this
man's weakness, for the sake of the good that may come of it. I hear he
is in London with his father. Try the strong influence, and write to
his father. There is another reason besides for doing this. It is quite
possible that the truth has been concealed from Mr. Dunboyne the elder.
Take care that he is informed of what has really happened. Are you
looking for pen, ink, and paper? Let me offer you the writing materials
which I use in traveling."

I placed them before him. He took up the pen; he arranged the paper; he
was eager to begin.

After writing a few words, he stopped--reflected--tried again--stopped
again--tore up the little that he had done--and began a new letter,
ending in the same miserable result. It was impossible to witness
his helplessness, to see how pitiably patient he was over his own
incapacity, and to let the melancholy spectacle go on. I proposed to
write the letter; authenticating it, of course, by his signature. When
he allowed me to take the pen, he turned away his face, ashamed to let
me see what he suffered. Was this the same man, whose great nature had
so nobly asserted itself in the condemned cell? Poor mortality!

The letter was easily written.

I had only to inform Mr. Dunboyne of his son's conduct; repeating, in
the plainest language that I could use, what Miss Jillgall had related
to me. Arrived at the conclusion, I contrived to make Mr. Gracedieu
express himself in these strong terms: "I protest against the marriage
in justice to you, sir, as well as to myself. We can neither of us
content to be accomplices in an act of domestic treason of the basest
kind."

In silence, the Minister read the letter, and attached his signature to
it. In silence, he rose and took my arm. I asked if he wished to go to
his room. He only replied by a sign. I offered to sit with him, and try
to cheer him. Gratefully, he pressed my hand: gently, he put me back
from the door. Crushed by the miserable discovery of the decay of his
own faculties! What could I do? what could I say? Nothing!


Miss Jillgall was in the drawing-room. With the necessary explanations,
I showed her the letter. She read it with breathless interest. "It
terrifies one to think how much depends on old Mr. Dunboyne," she said.
"You know him. What sort of man is he?"

I could only assure her (after what I remembered of his letter to me)
that he was a man whom we could depend upon.

Miss Jillgall possessed treasures of information to which I could lay
no claim. Mr. Dunboyne, she told me, was a scholar, and a writer, and a
rich man. His views on marriage were liberal in the extreme. Let his
son find good principles, good temper, and good looks, in a wife, and he
would promise to find the money.

"I get these particulars," said Miss Jillgall, "from dear Euneece. They
are surely encouraging? That Helena may carry out Mr. Dunboyne's views
in her personal appearance is, I regret to say, what I can't deny.
But as to the other qualifications, how hopeful is the prospect! Good
principles, and good temper? Ha! ha! Helena has the principles of
Jezebel, and the temper of Lady Macbeth."

After dashing off this striking sketch of character, the fair artist
asked to look at my letter again, and observed that the address was
wanting. "I can set this right for you," she resumed, "thanks, as
before, to my sweet Euneece. And (don't be in a hurry) I can make myself
useful in another way. Oh, how I do enjoy making myself useful! If
you trust your letter to the basket in the hall, Helena's lovely
eyes--capable of the meanest conceivable actions--are sure to take a
peep at the address. In that case, do you think your letter would get to
London? I am afraid you detect a faint infusion of spitefulness in that
question. Oh, for shame! I'll post the letter myself."



CHAPTER XXXVII. THE SHAMELESS SISTER.

For some reason, which my unassisted penetration was unable to discover,
Miss Helena Gracedieu kept out of my way.

At dinner, on the day of my arrival, and at breakfast on the next
morning, she was present of course; ready to make herself agreeable in
a modest way, and provided with the necessary supply of cheerful
small-talk. But the meal having come to an end, she had her domestic
excuse ready, and unostentatiously disappeared like a well-bred young
lady. I never met her on the stairs, never found myself intruding on
her in the drawing-room, never caught her getting out of my way in the
garden. As much at a loss for an explanation of these mysteries as I
was, Miss Jillgall's interest in my welfare led her to caution me in a
vague and general way.

"Take my word for it, dear Mr. Governor, she has some design on you.
Will you allow an insignificant old maid to offer a suggestion? Oh,
thank you; I will venture to advise. Please look back at your experience
of the very worst female prisoner you ever had to deal with--and be
guided accordingly if Helena catches you at a private interview."

In less than half an hour afterward, Helena caught me. I was writing
in my room, when the maidservant came in with a message: "Miss
Helena's compliments, sir, and would you please spare her half an hour,
downstairs?"

My first excuse was of course that I was engaged. This was disposed of
by a second message, provided beforehand, no doubt, for an anticipated
refusal: "Miss Helena wished me to say, sir, that her time is your
time." I was still obstinate; I pleaded next that my day was filled up.
A third message had evidently been prepared, even for this emergency:
"Miss Helena will regret, sir, having the pleasure deferred, but she
will leave you to make your own appointment for to-morrow." Persistency
so inveterate as this led to a result which Mr. Gracedieu's cautious
daughter had not perhaps contemplated: it put me on my guard. There
seemed to be a chance, to say the least of it, that I might serve
Eunice's interests if I discovered what the enemy had to say. I locked
up my writing--declared myself incapable of putting Miss Helena to
needless inconvenience--and followed the maid to the lower floor of the
house.

The room to which I was conducted proved to be empty. I looked round me.

If I had been told that a man lived there who was absolutely indifferent
to appearances, I should have concluded that his views were faithfully
represented by his place of abode. The chairs and tables reminded me of
a railway waiting-room. The shabby little bookcase was the mute record
of a life indifferent to literature. The carpet was of that dreadful
drab color, still the cherished favorite of the average English mind, in
spite of every protest that can be entered against it, on behalf of Art.
The ceiling, recently whitewashed; made my eyes ache when they looked at
it. On either side of the window, flaccid green curtains hung helplessly
with nothing to loop them up. The writing-desk and the paper-case,
viewed as specimens of woodwork, recalled the ready-made bedrooms on
show in cheap shops. The books, mostly in slate-colored bindings, were
devoted to the literature which is called religious; I only discovered
three worldly publications among them--Domestic Cookery, Etiquette for
Ladies, and Hints on the Breeding of Poultry. An ugly little clock,
ticking noisily in a black case, and two candlesticks of base
metal placed on either side of it, completed the ornaments on the
chimney-piece. Neither pictures nor prints hid the barrenness of the
walls. I saw no needlework and no flowers. The one object in the place
which showed any pretensions to beauty was a looking-glass in an elegant
gilt frame--sacred to vanity, and worthy of the office that it filled.
Such was Helena Gracedieu's sitting-room. I really could not help
thinking: How like her!

She came in with a face perfectly adapted to the circumstances--pleased
and smiling; amiably deferential, in consideration of the claims of her
father's guest--and, to my surprise, in some degree suggestive of one of
those incorrigible female prisoners, to whom Miss Jillgall had referred
me when she offered a word of advice.

"How kind of you to come so soon! Excuse my receiving you in my
housekeeping-room; we shall not be interrupted here. Very plainly
furnished, is it not? I dislike ostentation and display. Ornaments are
out of place in a room devoted to domestic necessities. I hate domestic
necessities. You notice the looking-glass? It's a present. I should
never have put such a thing up. Perhaps my vanity excuses it."

She pointed the last remark by a look at herself in the glass; using it,
while she despised it. Yes: there was a handsome face, paying her its
reflected compliment--but not so well matched as it might have been by
a handsome figure. Her feet were too large; her shoulders were too
high; the graceful undulations of a well-made girl were absent when she
walked; and her bosom was, to my mind, unduly developed for her time of
life.

She sat down by me with her back to the light. Happening to be opposite
to the window, I offered her the advantage of a clear view of my face.
She waited for me, and I waited for her--and there was an awkward pause
before we spoke. She set the example.

"Isn't it curious?" she remarked. "When two people have something
particular to say to each other, and nothing to hinder them, they never
seem to know how to say it. You are the oldest, sir. Why don't you
begin?"

"Because I have nothing particular to say."

"In plain words, you mean that I must begin?"

"If you please."

"Very well. I want to know whether I have given you (and Miss Jillgall,
of course) as much time as you want, and as many opportunities as you
could desire?"

"Pray go on, Miss Helena."

"Have I not said enough already?"

"Not enough, I regret to say, to convey your meaning to me."

She drew her chair a little further away from me. "I am sadly
disappointed," she said. "I had such a high opinion of your perfect
candor. I thought to myself: There is such a striking expression of
frankness in his face. Another illusion gone! I hope you won't think I
am offended, if I say a bold word. I am only a young girl, to be sure;
but I am not quite such a fool as you take me for. Do you really think
I don't know that Miss Jillgall has been telling you everything that is
bad about me; putting every mistake that I have made, every fault that
I have committed, in the worst possible point of view? And you have
listened to her--quite naturally! And you are prejudiced, strongly
prejudiced, against me--what else could you be, under the circumstances?
I don't complain; I have purposely kept out of your way, and out of Miss
Jillgall's way; in short, I have afforded you every facility, as the
prospectuses say. I only want to know if my turn has come at last. Once
more, have I given you time enough, and opportunities enough?"

"A great deal more than enough."

"Do you mean that you have made up your mind about me without stopping
to think?"

"That is exactly what I mean. An act of treachery, Miss Helena, _is_
an act of treachery; no honest person need hesitate to condemn it. I am
sorry you sent for me."

I got up to go. With an ironical gesture of remonstrance, she signed to
me to sit down again.

"Must I remind you, dear sir, of our famous native virtue? Fair play is
surely due to a young person who has nobody to take her part. You talked
of treachery just how. I deny the treachery. Please give me a hearing."

I returned to my chair.

"Or would you prefer waiting," she went out, "till my sister comes here
later in the day, and continues what Miss Jillgall has begun, with the
great advantage of being young and nice-looking?"

When the female mind gets into this state, no wise man answers the
female questions.

"Am I to take silence as meaning Go on?" Miss Helena inquired.

I begged her to interpret my silence in the sense most agreeable to
herself.

This naturally encouraged her. She made a proposal:

"Do you mind changing places, sir?"

"Just as you like, Miss Helena."

We changed chairs; the light now fell full on her face. Had she
deliberately challenged me to look into her secret mind if I could?
Anything like the stark insensibility of that young girl to every
refinement of feeling, to every becoming doubt of herself, to every
customary timidity of her age and sex in the presence of a man who had
not disguised his unfavorable opinion of her, I never met with in all my
experience of the world and of women.

"I wish to be quite mistress of myself," she explained; "your face, for
some reason which I really don't know, irritates me. The fact is, I have
great pride in keeping my temper. Please make allowances. Now about Miss
Jillgall. I suppose she told you how my sister first met with Philip
Dunboyne?"

"Yes."

"She also mentioned, perhaps, that he was a highly-cultivated man?"

"She did."

"Now we shall get on. When Philip came to our town here, and saw me for
the first time--Do you object to my speaking familiarly of him, by his
Christian name?"

"In the case of any one else in your position, Miss Helena, I should
venture to call it bad taste."

I was provoked into saying that. It failed entirely as a well-meant
effort in the way of implied reproof. Miss Helena smiled.

"You grant me a liberty which you would not concede to another girl."
That was how she viewed it. "We are getting on better already. To return
to what I was saying. When Philip first saw me--I have it from himself,
mind--he felt that I should have been his choice, if he had met with me
before he met with my sister. Do you blame him?"

"If you will take my advice," I said, "you will not inquire too closely
into my opinion of Mr. Philip Dunboyne."

"Perhaps you don't wish me to say anymore?" she suggested.

"On the contrary, pray go on, if you like."

After that concession, she was amiability itself. "Oh, yes," she assured
me, "that's easily done." And she went on accordingly: "Philip having
informed me of the state of his affections, I naturally followed his
example. In fact, we exchanged confessions. Our marriage engagement
followed as a matter of course. Do you blame me?"

"I will wait till you have done."

"I have no more to say."

She made that amazing reply with such perfect composure, that I began
to fear there must have been some misunderstanding between us. "Is that
really all you have to say for yourself?" I persisted.

Her patience with me was most exemplary. She lowered herself to my
level. Not trusting to words only on this occasion, she (so to say) beat
her meaning into my head by gesticulating on her fingers, as if she was
educating a child.

"Philip and I," she began, "are the victims of an accident, which kept
us apart when we ought to have met together--we are not responsible
for an accident." She impressed this on me by touching her forefinger.
"Philip and I fell in love with each other at first sight--we are not
responsible for the feelings implanted in our natures by an all-wise
Providence." She assisted me in understanding this by touching her
middle finger. "Philip and I owe a duty to each other, and accept a
responsibility under those circumstances--the responsibility of getting
married." A touch on her third finger, and an indulgent bow, announced
that the lesson was ended. "I am not a clever man like you," she
modestly acknowledged, "but I ask you to help us, when you next see my
father, with some confidence. You know exactly what to say to him, by
this time. Nothing has been forgotten."

"Pardon me," I said, "a person has been forgotten."

"Indeed? What person?"

"Your sister."

A little perplexed at first, Miss Helena reflected, and recovered
herself.

"Ah, yes," she said; "I was afraid I might be obliged to trouble you
for an explanation--I see it now. You are shocked (very properly) when
feelings of enmity exist between near relations; and you wish to be
assured that I bear no malice toward Eunice. She is violent, she is
sulky, she is stupid, she is selfish; and she cruelly refuses to live in
the same house with me. Make your mind easy, sir, I forgive my sister."

Let me not attempt to disguise it--Miss Helena Gracedieu confounded me.

Ordinary audacity is one of those forms of insolence which mature
experience dismisses with contempt. This girl's audacity struck down
all resistance, for one shocking reason: it was unquestionably sincere.
Strong conviction of her own virtue stared at me in her proud and daring
eyes. At that time, I was not aware of what I have learned since. The
horrid hardening of her moral sense had been accomplished by herself.
In her diary, there has been found the confession of a secret course of
reading--with supplementary reflections flowing from it, which need only
to be described as worthy of their source.

A person capable of repentance and reform would, in her place, have
seen that she had disgusted me. Not a suspicion of this occurred to Miss
Helena. "I see you are embarrassed," she remarked, "and I am at no loss
to account for it. You are too polite to acknowledge that I have not
made a friend of you yet. Oh, I mean to do it!"

"No," I said, "I think not."

"We shall see," she replied. "Sooner or later, you will find yourself
saying a kind word to my father for Philip and me." She rose, and took
a turn in the room--and stopped, eying me attentively. "Are you thinking
of Eunice?" she asked.

"Yes."

"She has your sympathy, I suppose?"

"My heart-felt sympathy."

"I needn't ask how I stand in your estimation, after that. Pray express
yourself freely. Your looks confess it--you view me with a feeling of
aversion."

"I view you with a feeling of horror."

The exasperating influences of her language, her looks, and her tones
would, as I venture to think, have got to the end of another man's
self-control before this. Anyway, she had at last irritated me into
speaking as strongly as I felt. What I said had been so plainly
(perhaps so rudely) expressed, that misinterpretation of it seemed to be
impossible. She mistook me, nevertheless. The most merciless disclosure
of the dreary side of human destiny is surely to be found in the failure
of words, spoken or written, so to answer their purpose that we can
trust them, in our attempts to communicate with each other. Even when
he seems to be connected, by the nearest and dearest relations, with his
fellow-mortals, what a solitary creature, tried by the test of sympathy,
the human being really is in the teeming world that he inhabits!
Affording one more example of the impotence of human language to speak
for itself, my misinterpreted words had found their way to the one
sensitive place in Helena Gracedieu's impenetrable nature. She betrayed
it in the quivering and flushing of her hard face, and in the appeal to
the looking-glass which escaped her eyes the next moment. My hasty reply
had roused the idea of a covert insult addressed to her handsome face.
In other words, I had wounded her vanity. Driven by resentment, out came
the secret distrust of me which had been lurking in that cold heart,
from the moment when we first met.

"I inspire you with horror, and Eunice inspires you with compassion,"
she said. "That, Mr. Governor, is not natural."

"May I ask why?"

"You know why."

"No."

"You will have it?"

"I want an explanation, Miss Helena, if that is what you mean."

"Take your explanation, then! You are not the stranger you are said
to be to my sister and to me. Your interest in Eunice is a personal
interest of some kind. I don't pretend to guess what it is. As for
myself, it is plain that somebody else has been setting you against me,
before Miss Jillgall got possession of your private ear."

In alluding to Eunice, she had blundered, strangely enough, on something
like the truth. But when she spoke of herself, the headlong malignity
of her suspicions--making every allowance for the anger that had hurried
her into them--seemed to call for some little protest against a false
assertion. I told her that she was completely mistaken.

"I am completely right," she answered; "I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"Saw you pretending to be a stranger to me."

"When did I do that?"

"You did it when we met at the station."

The reply was too ridiculous for the preservation of any control over my
own sense of humor. It was wrong; but it was inevitable--I laughed. She
looked at me with a fury, revealing a concentration of evil passion in
her which I had not seen yet. I asked her pardon; I begged her to think
a little before she persisted in taking a view of my conduct unworthy of
her, and unjust to myself.

"Unjust to You!" she burst out. "Who are You? A man who has driven your
trade has spies always at his command--yes! and knows how to use them.
You were primed with private information--you had, for all I know, a
stolen photograph of me in your pocket--before ever you came to our
town. Do you still deny it? Oh, sir, why degrade yourself by telling a
lie?"

No such outrage as this had ever been inflicted on me, at any time in my
life. My forbearance must, I suppose, have been more severely tried than
I was aware of myself. With or without excuse for me, I was weak enough
to let a girl's spiteful tongue sting me, and, worse still, to let her
see that I felt it.

"You shall have no second opportunity, Miss Gracedieu, of insulting me."
With that foolish reply, I opened the door violently and went out.

She ran after me, triumphing in having roused the temper of a man old
enough to have been her grandfather, and caught me by the arm. "Your
own conduct has exposed you." (That was literally how she expressed
herself.) "I saw it in your eyes when we met at the station. You, the
stranger--you who allowed poor ignorant me to introduce myself--you knew
me all the time, knew me by sight!"

I shook her hand off with an inconsiderable roughness, humiliating to
remember. "It's false!" I cried. "I knew you by your likeness to your
mother."

The moment the words had passed my lips, I came to my senses again; I
remembered what fatal words they might prove to be, if they reached the
Minister's ears.

Heard only by his daughter, my reply seemed to cool the heat of her
anger in an instant.

"So you knew my mother?" she said. "My father never told us that, when
he spoke of your being such a very old friend of his. Strange, to say
the least of it."

I was wise enough--now when wisdom had come too late--not to attempt to
explain myself, and not to give her an opportunity of saying more.
"We are neither of us in a state of mind," I answered, "to allow this
interview to continue. I must try to recover my composure; and I leave
you to do the same."

In the solitude of my room, I was able to look my position fairly in the
face.

Mr. Gracedieu's wife had come to me, in the long-past time, without her
husband's knowledge. Tempted to a cruel resolve by the maternal triumph
of having an infant of her own, she had resolved to rid herself of the
poor little rival in her husband's fatherly affection, by consigning the
adopted child to the keeping of a charitable asylum. She had dared to
ask me to help her. I had kept the secret of her shameful visit--I can
honestly say, for the Minister's sake. And now, long after time had
doomed those events to oblivion, they were revived--and revived by me.
Thanks to my folly, Mr. Gracedieu's daughter knew what I had concealed
from Mr. Gracedieu himself.

What course did respect for my friend, and respect for myself, counsel
me to take?

I could only see before me a choice of two evils. To wait for
events--with the too certain prospect of a vindictive betrayal of my
indiscretion by Helena Gracedieu. Or to take the initiative into my own
hands, and risk consequences which I might regret to the end of my life,
by making my confession to the Minister.

Before I had decided, somebody knocked at the door. It was the
maid-servant again. Was it possible she had been sent by Helena?

"Another message?"

"Yes, sir. My master wishes to see you."



CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE GIRLS' AGES.

Had the Minister's desire to see me been inspired by his daughter's
betrayal of what I had unfortunately said to her? Although he would
certainly not consent to receive her personally, she would be at liberty
to adopt a written method of communication with him, and the letter
might be addressed in such a manner as to pique his curiosity. If
Helena's vindictive purpose had been already accomplished--and if Mr.
Gracedieu left me no alternative but to present his unworthy wife in her
true character--I can honestly say that I dreaded the consequences, not
as they might affect myself, but as they might affect my unhappy friend
in his enfeebled state of body and mind.

When I entered his room, he was still in bed.

The bed-curtains were so drawn, on the side nearest to the window, as to
keep the light from falling too brightly on his weak eyes. In the shadow
thus thrown on him, it was not possible to see his face plainly enough,
from the open side of the bed, to arrive at any definite conclusion as
to what might be passing in his mind. After having been awake for some
hours during the earlier part of the night, he had enjoyed a long and
undisturbed sleep. "I feel stronger this morning," he said, "and I wish
to speak to you while my mind is clear."

If the quiet tone of his voice was not an assumed tone, he was surely
ignorant of all that had passed between his daughter and myself.

"Eunice will be here soon," he proceeded, "and I ought to explain why I
have sent for her to come and meet you. I have reasons, serious reasons,
mind, for wishing you to compare her personal appearance with Helena's
personal appearance, and then to tell me which of the two, on a fair
comparison, looks the eldest. Pray bear in mind that I attach the
greatest importance to the conclusion at which you may arrive."

He spoke more clearly and collectedly than I had heard him speak yet.

Here and there I detected hesitations and repetitions, which I have
purposely passed over. The substance of what he said to me is all that I
shall present in this place. Careful as I have been to keep my record of
events within strict limits, I have written at a length which I was far
indeed from contemplating when I accepted Mr. Gracedieu's invitation.

Having promised to comply with the strange request which he had
addressed to me, I ventured to remind him of past occasions on which
he had pointedly abstained, when the subject presented itself, from
speaking of the girls' ages. "You have left it to my discretion," I
added, "to decide a question in which you are seriously interested,
relating to your daughters. Have I no excuse for regretting that I have
not been admitted to your confidence a little more freely?"

"You have every excuse," he answered. "But you trouble me all the same.
There was something else that I had to say to you--and your curiosity
gets in the way."

He said this with a sullen emphasis. In my position, the worst of evils
was suspense. I told him that my curiosity could wait; and I begged that
he would relieve his mind of what was pressing on it at the moment.

"Let me think a little," he said.

I waited anxiously for the decision at which he might arrive. Nothing
came of it to justify my misgivings. "Leave what I have in my mind to
ripen in my mind," he said. "The mystery about the girls' ages seems to
irritate you. If I put my good friend's temper to any further trial, he
will be of no use to me. Never mind if my head swims; I'm used to that.
Now listen!"

Strange as the preface was, the explanation that followed was stranger
yet. I offer a shortened and simplified version, giving accurately the
substance of what I heard.

The Minister entered without reserve on the mysterious subject of the
ages. Eunice, he informed me, was nearly two years older than Helena. If
she outwardly showed her superiority of age, any person acquainted with
the circumstances under which the adopted infant had been received into
Mr. Gracedieu's childless household, need only compare the so-called
sisters in after-life, and would thereupon identify the eldest-looking
young lady of the two as the offspring of the woman who had been hanged
for murder. With such a misfortune as this presenting itself as a
possible prospect, the Minister was bound to prevent the girls from
ignorantly betraying each other by allusions to their ages and their
birthdays. After much thought, he had devised a desperate means of
meeting the difficulty--already made known, as I am told, for the
information of strangers who may read the pages that have gone before
mine. My friend's plan of proceeding had, by the nature of it, exposed
him to injurious comment, to embarrassing questions, and to doubts and
misconceptions, all patiently endured in consideration of the security
that had been attained. Proud of his explanation, Mr. Gracedieu's vanity
called upon me to acknowledge that my curiosity had been satisfied, and
my doubts completely set at rest.

No: my obstinate common sense was not reduced to submission, even yet.
Looking back over a lapse of seventeen years, I asked what had happened,
in that long interval, to justify the anxieties which still appeared to
trouble my friend.

This time, my harmless curiosity could be gratified by a reply expressed
in three words--nothing had happened.

Then what, in Heaven's name, was the Minister afraid of?

His voice dropped to a whisper. He said: "I am afraid of the women."

Who were the women?

Two of them actually proved to be the servants employed in Mr.
Gracedieu's house, at the bygone time when he had brought the child home
with him from the prison! To point out the absurdity of the reasons
that he gave for fearing what female curiosity might yet attempt, if
circumstances happened to encourage it, would have been a mere waste of
words. Dismissing the subject, I next ascertained that the Minister's
doubts extended even to the two female warders, who had been appointed
to watch the murderess in turn, during her last days in prison. I easily
relieved his mind in this case. One of the warders was dead. The
other had married a farmer in Australia. Had we exhausted the list of
suspected persons yet? No: there was one more left; and the Minister
declared that he had first met with her in my official residence, at the
time when I was Governor of the prison.

"She presented herself to me by name," he said; "and she spoke rudely.
A Miss--" He paused to consult his memory, and this time (thanks perhaps
to his night's rest) his memory answered the appeal. "I have got it!" he
cried--"Miss Chance."

My friend had interested me in his imaginary perils at last. It was just
possible that he might have a formidable person to deal with now.

During my residence at Florence, the Chaplain and I had taken many a
retrospective look (as old men will) at past events in our lives. My
former colleague spoke of the time when he had performed clerical duty
for his friend, the rector of a parish church in London. Neither he
nor I had heard again of the "Miss Chance" of our disagreeable prison
experience, whom he had married to the dashing Dutch gentleman, Mr.
Tenbruggen. We could only wonder what had become of that mysterious
married pair.

Mr. Gracedieu being undoubtedly ignorant of the woman's marriage, it was
not easy to say what the consequence might be, in his excitable state,
if I informed him of it. He would, in all probability, conclude that I
knew more of the woman than he did. I decided on keeping my own counsel,
for the present at least.

Passing at once, therefore, to the one consideration of any importance,
I endeavored to find out whether Mr. Gracedieu and Mrs. Tenbruggen had
met, or had communicated with each other in any way, during the long
period of separation that had taken place between the Minister and
myself. If he had been so unlucky as to offend her, she was beyond all
doubt an enemy to be dreaded. Apart, however, from a misfortune of this
kind, she would rank, in my opinion, with the other harmless objects of
Mr. Gracedieu's distrust.

In making my inquiries, I found that I had an obstacle to contend with.

While he felt the renovating influence of the repose that he enjoyed,
the Minister had been able to think and to express himself with less
difficulty than usual. But the reserves of strength, on which the useful
exercise of his memory depended, began to fail him as the interview
proceeded. He distinctly recollected that "something unpleasant had
passed between that audacious woman and himself." But at what date--and
whether by word of mouth or by correspondence--was more than his memory
could now recall. He believed he was not mistaken in telling me that he
"had been in two minds about her." At one time, he was satisfied that he
had taken wise measures for his own security, if she attempted to annoy
him. But there was another and a later time, when doubts and fears had
laid hold of him again. If I wanted to know how this had happened, he
fancied it was through a dream; and if I asked what the dream was, he
could only beg and pray that I would spare his poor head.

Unwilling even yet to submit unconditionally to defeat, it occurred to
me to try a last experiment on my friend, without calling for any mental
effort on his own part. The "Miss Chance" of former days might, by a
bare possibility, have written to him. I asked accordingly if he was in
the habit of keeping his letters, and if he would allow me (when he had
rested a little) to lay them open before him, so that he could look at
the signatures. "You might find the lost recollection in that way," I
suggested, "at the bottom of one of your letters."

He was in that state of weariness, poor fellow, in which a man will do
anything for the sake of peace. Pointing to a cabinet in his room,
he gave me a key taken from a little basket on his bed. "Look for
yourself," he said. After some hesitation--for I naturally recoiled
from examining another man's correspondence--I decided on opening the
cabinet, at any rate.

The letters--a large collection--were, to my relief, all neatly folded,
and indorsed with the names of the writers. I could run harmlessly
through bundle after bundle in search of the one name that I wanted,
and still respect the privacy of the letters. My perseverance deserved
a reward--and failed to get it. The name I wanted steadily eluded my
search. Arriving at the upper shelf of the cabinet, I found it so high
that I could barely reach it with my hand. Instead of getting more
letters to look over, I pulled down two newspapers.

One of them was an old copy of the _Times_, dating back as far as
the 13th December, 1858. It was carefully folded, longwise, with the
title-page uppermost. On the first column, at the left-hand side of the
sheet, appeared the customary announcements of Births. A mark with a
blue pencil, against one of the advertisements, attracted my attention.
I read these lines:

"On the 10th inst., the wife of the Rev. Abel Gracedieu, of a daughter."

The second newspaper bore a later date, and contained nothing that
interested me. I naturally assumed that the advertisement in the _Times_
had been inserted at the desire of Mrs. Gracedieu; and, after all that
I had heard, there was little difficulty in attributing the curious
omission of the place in which the child had been born to the caution of
her husband. If Mrs. Tenbruggen (then Miss Chance) had happened to see
the advertisement in the great London newspaper, Mr. Gracedieu might
yet have good reason to congratulate himself on his prudent method of
providing against mischievous curiosity.

I turned toward the bed and looked at him. His eyes were closed. Was he
sleeping? Or was he trying to remember what he had desired to say to me,
when the demands which I made on his memory had obliged him to wait for
a later opportunity?

Either way, there was something that quickened my sympathies, in the
spectacle of his helpless repose. It suggested to me personal reasons
for his anxieties, which he had not mentioned, and which I had not
thought of, up to this time. If the discovery that he dreaded took
place, his household would be broken up, and his position as pastor
would suffer in the estimation of the flock. His own daughter would
refuse to live under the same roof with the daughter of an infamous
woman. Popular opinion, among his congregation, judging a man who had
passed off the child of other parents as his own, would find that man
guilty of an act of deliberate deceit.

Still oppressed by reflections which pointed to the future in this
discouraging way, I was startled by a voice outside the door--a sweet,
sad voice--saying, "May I come in?"

The Minister's eyes opened instantly: he raised himself in his bed.

"Eunice, at last!" he cried. "Let her in."



CHAPTER XXXIX. THE ADOPTED CHILD

I opened the door.

Eunice passed me with the suddenness almost of a flash of light. When I
turned toward the bed, her arms were round her father's neck. "Oh, poor
papa, how ill you look!" Commonplace expressions of fondness, and no
more; but the tone gave them a charm that subdued me. Never had I felt
so indulgent toward Mr. Gracedieu's unreasonable fears as when I saw him
in the embrace of his adopted daughter. She had already reminded me
of the bygone day when a bright little child had sat on my knee and
listened to the ticking of my watch.

The Minister gently lifted her head from his breast. "My darling,"
he said, "you don't see my old friend. Love him, and look up to him,
Eunice. He will be your friend, too, when I am gone."

She came to me and offered her cheek to be kissed. It was sadly pale,
poor soul--and I could guess why. But her heart was now full of her
father. "Do you think he is seriously ill?" she whispered. What I ought
to have said I don't know. Her eyes, the sweetest, truest, loveliest
eyes I ever saw in a human face, were pleading with me. Let my enemies
make the worst of it, if they like--I did certainly lie. And if I
deserved my punishment, I got it; the poor child believed me! "Now I
am happier," she said, gratefully. "Only to hear your voice seems to
encourage me. On our way here, Selina did nothing but talk of you. She
told me I shouldn't have time to feel afraid of the great man; he would
make me fond of him directly. I said, 'Are you fond of him?' She said,
'Madly in love with him, my dear.' My little friend really thinks you
like her, and is very proud of it. There are some people who call her
ugly. I hope you don't agree with them?"

I believe I should have lied again, if Mr. Gracedieu had not called me
to the bedside.

"How does she strike you?" he whispered, eagerly. "Is it too soon to ask
if she shows her age in her face?"

"Neither in her face nor her figure," I answered: "it astonishes me
that you can ever have doubted it. No stranger, judging by personal
appearance, could fail to make the mistake of thinking Helena the oldest
of the two."

He looked fondly at Eunice. "Her figure seems to bear out what you say,"
he went on. "Almost childish, isn't it?"

I could not agree to that. Slim, supple, simply graceful in every
movement, Eunice's figure, in the charm of first youth, only waited its
perfect development. Most men, looking at her as she stood at the other
end of the room with her back toward us, would have guessed her age to
be sixteen.

Finding that I failed to agree with him, Mr. Gracedieu's misgivings
returned. "You speak very confidently," he said, "considering that you
have not seen the girls together. Think what a dreadful blow it would be
to me if you made a mistake."

I declared, with perfect sincerity, that there was no fear of a mistake.
The bare idea of making the proposed comparison was hateful to me. If
Helena and I had happened to meet at that moment, I should have turned
away from her by instinct--she would have disturbed my impressions of
Eunice.

The Minister signed to me to move a little nearer to him. "I must say
it," he whispered, "and I am afraid of her hearing me. Is there anything
in her face that reminds you of her miserable mother?"

I had hardly patience to answer the question: it was simply
preposterous. Her hair was by many shades darker than her mother's hair;
her eyes were of a different color. There was an exquisite tenderness
and sincerity in their expression--made additionally beautiful, to my
mind, by a gentle, uncomplaining sadness. It was impossible even to
think of the eyes of the murderess when I looked at her child.
Eunice's lower features, again, had none of her mother's regularity
of proportion. Her smile, simple and sweet, and soon passing away,
was certainly not an inherited smile on the maternal side. Whether she
resembled her father, I was unable to conjecture--having never seen him.
The one thing certain was, that not the faintest trace, in feature or
expression, of Eunice's mother was to be seen in Eunice herself. Of the
two girls, Helena--judging by something in the color of her hair, and by
something in the shade of her complexion--might possibly have suggested,
in those particulars only, a purely accidental resemblance to my
terrible prisoner of past times.

The revival of Mr. Gracedieu's spirits indicated a temporary change
only, and was already beginning to pass away. The eyes which had looked
lovingly at Eunice began to look languidly now: his head sank on the
pillow with a sigh of weak content. "My pleasure has been almost too
much for me," he said. "Leave me for a while to rest, and get used to
it."

Eunice kissed his forehead--and we left the room.



CHAPTER XL. THE BRUISED HEART.

When we stepped out on the landing, I observed that my companion paused.
She looked at the two flights of stairs below us before she descended
them. It occurred to me that there must be somebody in the house whom
she was anxious to avoid.

Arrived at the lower hall, she paused again, and proposed in a whisper
that we should go into the garden. As we advanced along the backward
division of the hall, I saw her eyes turn distrustfully toward the
door of the room in which Helena had received me. At last, my slow
perceptions felt with her and understood her. Eunice's sensitive nature
recoiled from a chance meeting with the wretch who had laid waste all
that had once been happy and hopeful in that harmless young life.

"Will you come with me to the part of the garden that I am fondest of?"
she asked.

I offered her my arm. She led me in silence to a rustic seat, placed
under the shade of a mulberry tree. I saw a change in her face as we sat
down--a tender and beautiful change. At that moment the girl's heart
was far away from me. There was some association with this corner of the
garden, on which I felt that I must not intrude.

"I was once very happy here," she said. "When the time of the heartache
came soon after, I was afraid to look at the old tree and the bench
under it. But that is all over now. I like to remember the hours that
were once dear to me, and to see the place that recalls them. Do you
know who I am thinking of? Don't be afraid of distressing me. I never
cry now."

"My dear child, I have heard your sad story--but I can't trust myself to
speak of it."

"Because you are so sorry for me?"

"No words can say how sorry I am!"

"But you are not angry with Philip?"

"Not angry! My poor dear, I am afraid to tell you how angry I am with
him."

"Oh, no! You mustn't say that. If you wish to be kind to me--and I am
sure you do wish it--don't think bitterly of Philip."

When I remember that the first feeling she roused in me was nothing
worthier of a professing Christian than astonishment, I drop in my own
estimation to the level of a savage. "Do you really mean," I was base
enough to ask, "that you have forgiven him?"

She said, gently: "How could I help forgiving him?"

The man who could have been blessed with such love as this, and who
could have cast it away from him, can have been nothing but an idiot.
On that ground--though I dared not confess it to Eunice--I forgave him,
too.

"Do I surprise you?" she asked simply. "Perhaps love will bear any
humiliation. Or perhaps I am only a poor weak creature. You don't know
what a comfort it was to me to keep the few letters that I received from
Philip. When I heard that he had gone away, I gave his letters the kiss
that bade him good-by. That was the time, I think, when my poor
bruised heart got used to the pain; I began to feel that there was one
consolation still left for me--I might end in forgiving him. Why do I
tell you all this? I think you must have bewitched me. Is this really
the first time I have seen you?"

She put her little trembling hand into mine; I lifted it to my lips, and
kissed it. Sorely was I tempted to own that I had pitied and loved her
in her infancy. It was almost on my lips to say: "I remember you an
easily-pleased little creature, amusing yourself with the broken toys
which were once the playthings of my own children." I believe I should
have said it, if I could have trusted myself to speak composedly to
her. This was not to be done. Old as I was, versed as I was in the hard
knowledge of how to keep the mask on in the hour of need, this was not
to be done.

Still trying to understand that I was little better than a stranger to
her, and still bent on finding the secret of the sympathy that united
us, Eunice put a strange question to me.

"When you were young yourself," she said, "did you know what it was to
love, and to be loved--and then to lose it all?"

It is not given to many men to marry the woman who has been the object
of their first love. My early life had been darkened by a sad story;
never confided to any living creature; banished resolutely from my own
thoughts. For forty years past, that part of my buried self had lain
quiet in its grave--and the chance touch of an innocent hand had raised
the dead, and set us face to face again! Did I know what it was to
love, and to be loved, and then to lose it all? "Too well, my child; too
well!"

That was all I could say to her. In the last days of my life, I shrank
from speaking of it. When I had first felt that calamity, and had
felt it most keenly, I might have given an answer worthier of me, and
worthier of her.

She dropped my hand, and sat by me in silence, thinking. Had I--without
meaning it, God knows!--had I disappointed her?

"Did you expect me to tell my own sad story," I said, "as frankly and as
trustfully as you have told yours?"

"Oh, don't think that! I know what an effort it was to you to answer me
at all. Yes, indeed! I wonder whether I may ask something. The sorrow
you have just told me of is not the only one--is it? You have had other
troubles?"

"Many of them."

"There are times," she went on, "when one can't help thinking of one's
own miserable self. I try to be cheerful, but those times come now and
then."

She stopped, and looked at me with a pale fear confessing itself in her
face.

"You know who Selina is?" she resumed. "My friend! The only friend I
had, till you came here."

I guessed that she was speaking of the quaint, kindly little woman,
whose ugly surname had been hitherto the only name known to me.

"Selina has, I daresay, told you that I have been ill," she continued,
"and that I am staying in the country for the benefit of my health."

It was plain that she had something to say to me, far more important
than this, and that she was dwelling on trifles to gain time and
courage. Hoping to help her, I dwelt on trifles, too; asking commonplace
questions about the part of the country in which she was staying. She
answered absently--then, little by little, impatiently. The one poor
proof of kindness that I could offer, now, was to say no more.

"Do you know what a strange creature I am?" she broke out. "Shall I make
you angry with me? or shall I make you laugh at me? What I have shrunk
from confessing to Selina--what I dare not confess to my father--I must,
and will, confess to You."

There was a look of horror in her face that alarmed me. I drew her to
me so that she could rest her head on my shoulder. My own agitation
threatened to get the better of me. For the first time since I had seen
this sweet girl, I found myself thinking of the blood that ran in her
veins, and of the nature of the mother who had borne her.

"Did you notice how I behaved upstairs?" she said. "I mean when we left
my father, and came out on the landing."

It was easily recollected; I begged her to go on.

"Before I went downstairs," she proceeded, "you saw me look and listen.
Did you think I was afraid of meeting some person? and did you guess who
it was I wanted to avoid?"

"I guessed that--and I understood you."

"No! You are not wicked enough to understand me. Will you do me a favor?
I want you to look at me."

It was said seriously. She lifted her head for a moment, so that I could
examine her face.

"Do you see anything," she asked, "which makes you fear that I am not in
my right mind?"

"Good God! how can you ask such a horrible question?"

She laid her head back on my shoulder with a sad little sigh of
resignation. "I ought to have known better," she said; "there is no such
easy way out of it as that. Tell me--is there one kind of wickedness
more deceitful than another? Can it be hid in a person for years
together, and show itself when a time of suffering--no; I mean when a
sense of injury comes? Did you ever see that, when you were master in
the prison?"

I had seen it--and, after a moment's doubt, I said I had seen it.

"Did you pity those poor wretches?"

"Certainly! They deserved pity."

"I am one of them!" she said. "Pity _me_. If Helena looks at me--if
Helena speaks to me--if I only see Helena by accident--do you know what
she does? She tempts me! Tempts me to do dreadful things! Tempts me--"
The poor child threw her arms round my neck, and whispered the next
fatal words in my ear.

The mother! Prepared as I was for the accursed discovery, the horror of
it shook me.

She left me, and started to her feet. The inherited energy showed itself
in furious protest against the inherited evil. "What does it mean?" she
cried. "I'll submit to anything. I'll bear my hard lot patiently, if you
will only tell me what it means. Where does this horrid transformation
of me out of myself come from? Look at my good father. In all this world
there is no man so perfect as he is. And oh, how he has taught me! there
isn't a single good thing that I have not learned from him since I was
a little child. Did you ever hear him speak of my mother? You must have
heard him. My mother was an angel. I could never be worthy of her at my
best--but I have tried! I have tried! The wickedest girl in the world
doesn't have worse thoughts than the thoughts that have come to me.
Since when? Since Helena--oh, how can I call her by her name as if I
still loved her? Since my sister--can she be my sister, I ask myself
sometimes! Since my enemy--there's the word for her--since my enemy took
Philip away from me. What does it mean? I have asked in my prayers--and
have got no answer. I ask you. What does it mean? You must tell me! You
shall tell me! What does it mean?"

Why did I not try to calm her? I had vainly tried to calm her--I who
knew who her mother was, and what her mother had been.

At last, she had forced the sense of my duty on me. The simplest way
of calming her was to put her back in the place by my side that she had
left. It was useless to reason with her, it was impossible to answer
her. I had my own idea of the one way in which I might charm Eunice back
to her sweeter self.

"Let us talk of Philip," I said.

The fierce flush on her face softened, the swelling trouble of her bosom
began to subside, as that dearly-loved name passed my lips! But there
was some influence left in her which resisted me.

"No," she said; "we had better not talk of him."

"Why not?"

"I have lost all my courage. If you speak of Philip, you will make me
cry."

I drew her nearer to me. If she had been my own child, I don't think I
could have felt for her more truly than I felt at that moment. I only
looked at her; I only said:

"Cry!"

The love that was in her heart rose, and poured its tenderness into her
eyes. I had longed to see the tears that would comfort her. The tears
came.

There was silence between us for a while. It was possible for me to
think.

In the absence of physical resemblance between parent and child, is an
unfavorable influence exercised on the tendency to moral resemblance?
Assuming the possibility of such a result as this, Eunice (entirely
unlike her mother) must, as I concluded, have been possessed of
qualities formed to resist, as well as of qualities doomed to undergo,
the infection of evil. While, therefore, I resigned myself to recognize
the existence of the hereditary maternal taint, I firmly believed in the
counterbalancing influences for good which had been part of the girl's
birthright. They had been derived, perhaps, from the better qualities
in her father's nature; they had been certainly developed by the tender
care, the religious vigilance, which had guarded the adopted child so
lovingly in the Minister's household; and they had served their purpose
until time brought with it the change, for which the tranquil domestic
influences were not prepared. With the great, the vital transformation,
which marks the ripening of the girl into the woman's maturity of
thought and passion, a new power for Good, strong enough to resist the
latent power for Evil, sprang into being, and sheltered Eunice under
the supremacy of Love. Love ill-fated and ill-bestowed--but love that no
profanation could stain, that no hereditary evil could conquer--the
True Love that had been, and was, and would be, the guardian angel of
Eunice's life.

If I am asked whether I have ventured to found this opinion on what
I have observed in one instance only, I reply that I have had other
opportunities of investigation, and that my conclusions are derived from
experience which refers to more instances than one.

No man in his senses can doubt that physical qualities are transmitted
from parents to children. But inheritance of moral qualities is less
easy to trace. Here, the exploring mind finds its progress beset by
obstacles. That those obstacles have been sometimes overcome I do not
deny. Moral resemblances have been traced between parents and children.
While, however, I admit this, I doubt the conclusion which sees, in
inheritance of moral qualities, a positive influence exercised on moral
destiny. There are inherent emotional forces in humanity to which the
inherited influences must submit; they are essentially influences under
control--influences which can be encountered and forced back. That we,
who inhabit this little planet, may be the doomed creatures of fatality,
from the cradle to the grave, I am not prepared to dispute. But I
absolutely refuse to believe that it is a fatality with no higher
origin than can be found in our accidental obligation to our fathers and
mothers.


Still absorbed in these speculations, I was disturbed by a touch on my
arm.

I looked up. Eunice's eyes were fixed on a shrubbery, at some little
distance from us, which closed the view of the garden on that side. I
noticed that she was trembling. Nothing to alarm her was visible that I
could discover. I asked what she had seen to startle her. She pointed to
the shrubbery.

"Look again," she said.

This time I saw a woman's dress among the shrubs. The woman herself
appeared in a moment more. It was Helena. She carried a small portfolio,
and she approached us with a smile.



CHAPTER XLI. THE WHISPERING VOICE.

I looked at Eunice. She had risen, startled by her first suspicion of
the person who was approaching us through the shrubbery; but she kept
her place near me, only changing her position so as to avoid confronting
Helena. Her quickened breathing was all that told me of the effort she
was making to preserve her self-control. Entirely free from unbecoming
signs of hurry and agitation, Helena opened her business with me by
means of an apology.

"Pray excuse me for disturbing you. I am obliged to leave the house on
one of my tiresome domestic errands. If you will kindly permit it, I
wish to express, before I go, my very sincere regret for what I was rude
enough to say, when I last had the honor of seeing you. May I hope to
be forgiven? How-do-you-do, Eunice? Have you enjoyed your holiday in the
country?"

Eunice neither moved nor answered. Having some doubt of what might
happen if the two girls remained together, I proposed to Helena to leave
the garden and to let me hear what she had to say, in the house.

"Quite needless," she replied; "I shall not detain you for more than a
minute. Please look at this."

She offered to me the portfolio that she had been carrying, and pointed
to a morsel of paper attached to it, which contained this inscription:


"Philip's Letters To Me. Private. Helena Gracedieu."


"I have a favor to ask," she said, "and a proof of confidence in you
to offer. Will you be so good as to look over what you find in my
portfolio? I am unwilling to give up the hopes that I had founded on our
interview, when I asked for it. The letters will, I venture to think,
plead my cause more convincingly than I was able to plead it for myself.
I wish to forget what passed between us, to the last word. To the
last word," she repeated emphatically--with a look which sufficiently
informed me that I had not been betrayed to her father yet. "Will you
indulge me?" she asked, and offered her portfolio for the second time.

A more impudent bargain could not well have been proposed to me.

I was to read, and to be favorably impressed by, Mr. Philip Dunboyne's
letters; and Miss Helena was to say nothing of that unlucky slip of the
tongue, relating to her mother, which she had discovered to be a serious
act of self-betrayal--thanks to my confusion at the time. If I had not
thought of Eunice, and of the desolate and loveless life to which the
poor girl was so patiently resigned, I should have refused to read Miss
Gracedieu's love-letters.

But, as things were, I was influenced by the hope (innocently encouraged
by Eunice herself) that Philip Dunboyne might not be so wholly unworthy
of the sweet girl whom he had injured as I had hitherto been too hastily
disposed to believe. To act on this view with the purpose of promoting
a reconciliation was impossible, unless I had the means of forming a
correct estimate of the man's character. It seemed to me that I had
found the means. A fair chance of putting his sincerity to a trustworthy
test, was surely offered by the letters (the confidential letters) which
I had been requested to read. To feel this as strongly as I felt it,
brought me at once to a decision. I consented to take the portfolio--on
my own conditions.

"Understand, Miss Helena," I said, "that I make no promises. I reserve
my own opinion, and my own right of action."

"I am not afraid of your opinions or your actions," she answered
confidently, "if you will only read the letters. In the meantime, let me
relieve my sister, there, of my presence. I hope you will soon recover,
Eunice, in the country air."

If the object of the wretch was to exasperate her victim, she had
completely failed. Eunice remained as still as a statue. To all
appearance, she had not even heard what had been said to her. Helena
looked at me, and touched her forehead with a significant smile. "Sad,
isn't it?" she said--and bowed, and went briskly away on her household
errand.

We were alone again.

Still, Eunice never moved. I spoke to her, and produced no impression.
Beginning to feel alarmed, I tried the effect of touching her. With
a wild cry, she started into a state of animation. Almost at the same
moment, she weakly swayed to and fro as if the pleasant breeze in the
garden moved her at its will, like the flowers. I held her up, and led
her to the seat.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," I said. "She has gone."

Eunice's eyes rested on me in vacant surprise. "How do you know?" she
asked. "I hear her; but I never see her. Do you see her?"

"My dear child! of what person are you speaking?"

She answered: "Of no person. I am speaking of a Voice that whispers and
tempts me, when Helena is near."

"What voice, Eunice?"

"The whispering Voice. It said to me, 'I am your mother;' it called
me Daughter when I first heard it. My father speaks of my mother, the
angel. That good spirit has never come to me from the better world. It
is a mock-mother who comes to me--some spirit of evil. Listen to this.
I was awake in my bed. In the dark I heard the mock-mother whispering,
close at my ear. Shall I tell you how she answered me, when I longed
for light to see her by, when I prayed to her to show herself to me? She
said: 'My face was hidden when I passed from life to death; my face no
mortal creature may see.' I have never seen her--how can _you_ have seen
her? But I heard her again, just now. She whispered to me when Helena
was standing there--where you are standing. She freezes the life in me.
Did she freeze the life in _you?_ Did you hear her tempting me? Don't
speak of it, if you did. Oh, not a word! not a word!"

A man who has governed a prison may say with Macbeth, "I have supped
full with horrors." Hardened as I was--or ought to have been--the effect
of what I had just heard turned me cold. If I had not known it to be
absolutely impossible, I might have believed that the crime and the
death of the murderess were known to Eunice, as being the crime and the
death of her mother, and that the horrid discovery had turned her brain.
This was simply impossible. What did it mean? Good God! what did it
mean?

My sense of my own helplessness was the first sense in me that
recovered. I thought of Eunice's devoted little friend. A woman's
sympathy seemed to be needed now. I rose to lead the way out of the
garden.

"Selina will think we are lost," I said. "Let us go and find Selina."

"Not for the world," she cried.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't feel sure of myself. I might tell Selina something
which she must never know; I should be so sorry to frighten her. Let me
stop here with you."

I resumed my place at her side.

"Let me take your hand."

I gave her my hand. What composing influence this simple act may, or
may not, have exercised, it is impossible to say. She was quiet, she
was silent. After an interval, I heard her breathe a long-drawn sigh of
relief.

"I am afraid I have surprised you," she said. "Helena brings the
dreadful time back to me--" She stopped and shuddered.

"Don't speak of Helena, my dear."

"But I am afraid you will think--because I have said strange
things--that I have been talking at random," she insisted. "The doctor
will say that, if you meet with him. He believes I am deluded by a
dream. I tried to think so myself. It was of no use; I am quite sure he
is wrong."

I privately determined to watch for the doctor's arrival, and to consult
with him. Eunice went on:

"I have the story of a terrible night to tell you; but I haven't the
courage to tell it now. Why shouldn't you come back with me to the place
that I am staying at? A pleasant farm-house, and such kind people. You
might read the account of that night in my journal. I shall not regret
the misery of having written it, if it helps you to find out how this
hateful second self of mine has come to me. Hush! I want to ask you
something. Do you think Helena is in the house?"

"No--she has gone out."

"Did she say that herself? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

She decided on going back to the farm, while Helena was out of the way.
We left the garden together. For the first time, my companion noticed
the portfolio. I happened to be carrying it in the hand that was nearest
to her, as she walked by my side.

"Where did you get that?" she asked.

It was needless to reply in words. My hesitation spoke for me.

"Carry it in your other hand," she said--"the hand that's furthest away
from me. I don't want to see it! Do you mind waiting a moment while I
find Selina? You will go to the farm with us, won't you?"

I had to look over the letters, in Eunice's own interests; and I
begged her to let me defer my visit to the farm until the next day. She
consented, after making me promise to keep my appointment. It was of
some importance to her, she told me, that I should make acquaintance
with the farmer and his wife and children, and tell her how I liked
them. Her plans for the future depended on what those good people might
be willing to do. When she had recovered her health, it was impossible
for her to go home again while Helena remained in the house. She had
resolved to earn her own living, if she could get employment as a
governess. The farmer's children liked her; she had already helped their
mother in teaching them; and there was reason to hope that their father
would see his way to employing her permanently. His house offered the
great advantage of being near enough to the town to enable her to hear
news of the Minister's progress toward recovery, and to see him herself
when safe opportunities offered, from time to time. As for her salary,
what did she care about money? Anything would be acceptable, if the good
man would only realize her hopes for the future.

It was disheartening to hear that hope, at her age, began and ended
within such narrow limits as these. No prudent man would have tried to
persuade her, as I now did, that the idea of reconciliation offered the
better hope of the two.

"Suppose I see Mr. Philip Dunboyne when I go back to London," I began,
"what shall I say to him?"

"Say I have forgiven him."

"And suppose," I went on, "that the blame really rests, where you all
believe it to rest, with Helena. If that young man returns to you, truly
ashamed of himself, truly penitent, will you--?"

She resolutely interrupted me: "No!"

"Oh, Eunice, you surely mean Yes?"

"I mean No!"

"Why?"

"Don't ask me! Good-by till to-morrow."



CHAPTER XLII. THE QUAINT PHILOSOPHER.

No person came to my room, and nothing happened to interrupt me while I
was reading Mr. Philip Dunboyne's letters.

One of them, let me say at once, produced a very disagreeable impression
on me. I have unexpectedly discovered Mrs. Tenbruggen--in a postscript.
She is making a living as a Medical Rubber (or Masseuse), and is in
professional attendance on Mr. Dunboyne the elder. More of this, a
little further on.

Having gone through the whole collection of young Dunboyne's letters, I
set myself to review the differing conclusions which the correspondence
had produced on my mind.

I call the papers submitted to me a correspondence, because the greater
part of Philip's letters exhibit notes in pencil, evidently added by
Helena. These express, for the most part, the interpretation which she
had placed on passages that perplexed or displeased her; and they have,
as Philip's rejoinders show, been employed as materials when she wrote
her replies.

On reflection, I find myself troubled by complexities and contradictions
in the view presented of this young man's character. To decide
positively whether I can justify to myself and to my regard for Eunice,
an attempt to reunite the lovers, requires more time for consideration
than I can reasonably expect that Helena's patience will allow. Having
a quiet hour or two still before me, I have determined to make extracts
from the letters for my own use; with the intention of referring to
them while I am still in doubt which way my decision ought to incline. I
shall present them here, to speak for themselves. Is there any objection
to this? None that I can see.

In the first place, those extracts have a value of their own. They add
necessary information to the present history of events.

In the second place, I am under no obligation to Mr. Gracedieu's
daughter which forbids me to make use of her portfolio. I told her
that I only consented to receive it, under reserve of my own right of
action--and her assent to that stipulation was expressed in the clearest
terms.


EXTRACTS FROM MR. PHILIP DUNBOYNE'S LETTERS.

First Extract.

You blame me, dear Helena, for not having paid proper attention to the
questions put to me in your last letter. I have only been waiting to
make up my mind, before I replied.

First question: Do I think it advisable that you should write to my
father? No, my dear; I beg you will defer writing, until you hear from
me again.

Second question: Considering that he is still a stranger to you, is
there any harm in your asking me what sort of man my father is? No
harm, my sweet one; but, as you will presently see, I am afraid you have
addressed yourself to the wrong person.

My father is kind, in his own odd way--and learned, and rich--a more
high-minded and honorable man (as I have every reason to believe)
doesn't live. But if you ask me which he prefers, his books or his son,
I hope I do him no injustice when I answer, his books. His reading and
his writing are obstacles between us which I have never been able to
overcome. This is the more to be regretted because he is charming, on
the few occasions when I find him disengaged. If you wish I knew more
about my father, we are in complete agreement as usual--I wish, too.

But there is a dear friend of yours and mine, who is just the person we
want to help us. Need I say that I allude to Mrs. Staveley?

I called on her yesterday, not long after she had paid a visit to my
father. Luck had favored her. She arrived just at the time when hunger
had obliged him to shut up his books, and ring for something to eat.
Mrs. Staveley secured a favorable reception with her customary tact and
delicacy. He had a fowl for his dinner. She knows his weakness of old;
she volunteered to carve it for him.

If I can only repeat what this clever woman told me of their talk,
you will have a portrait of Mr. Dunboyne the elder--not perhaps a
highly-finished picture, but, as I hope and believe, a good likeness.

Mrs. Staveley began by complaining to him of the conduct of his son.
I had promised to write to her, and I had never kept my word. She had
reasons for being especially interested in my plans and prospects, just
then; knowing me to be attached (please take notice that I am quoting
her own language) to a charming friend of hers, whom I had first met
at her house. To aggravate the disappointment that I had inflicted, the
young lady had neglected her, too. No letters, no information. Perhaps
my father would kindly enlighten her? Was the affair going on? or was it
broken off?

My father held out his plate and asked for the other wing of the
fowl. "It isn't a bad one for London," he said; "won't you have some
yourself?"

"I don't seem to have interested you," Mrs. Staveley remarked.

"What did you expect me to be interested in?" my father inquired. "I was
absorbed in the fowl. Favor me by returning to the subject."

Mrs. Staveley admits that she answered this rather sharply: "The
subject, sir, was your son's admiration for a charming girl: one of the
daughters of Mr. Gracedieu, the famous preacher."

My father is too well-bred to speak to a lady while his attention is
absorbed by a fowl. He finished the second wing, and then he asked if
"Philip was engaged to be married."

"I am not quite sure," Mrs. Staveley confessed.

"Then, my dear friend, we will wait till we _are_ sure."

"But, Mr. Dunboyne, there is really no need to wait. I suppose your son
comes here, now and then, to see you?"

"My son is most attentive. In course of time he will contrive to hit on
the right hour for his visit. At present, poor fellow, he interrupts me
every day."

"Suppose he hits upon the right time to-morrow?"

"Yes?"

"You might ask him if he is engaged?"

"Pardon me. I think I might wait till Philip mentions it without
asking."

"What an extraordinary man you are!"

"Oh, no, no--only a philosopher."

This tried Mrs. Staveley's temper. You know what a perfectly candid
person our friend is. She owned to me that she felt inclined to make
herself disagreeable. "That's thrown away upon me," she said: "I don't
know what a philosopher is."

Let me pause for a moment, dear Helena. I have inexcusably forgotten
to speak of my father's personal appearance. It won't take long. I need
only notice one interesting feature which, so to speak, lifts his face
out of the common. He has an eloquent nose. Persons possessing this
rare advantage are blest with powers of expression not granted to their
ordinary fellow-creatures. My father's nose is a mine of information to
friends familiarly acquainted with it. It changes color like a modest
young lady's cheek. It works flexibly from side to side like the rudder
of a ship. On the present occasion, Mrs. Staveley saw it shift toward
the left-hand side of his face. A sigh escaped the poor lady. Experience
told her that my father was going to hold forth.

"You don't know what a philosopher is!" he repeated. "Be so kind as to
look at me. I am a philosopher."

Mrs. Staveley bowed.

"And a philosopher, my charming friend, is a man who has discovered a
system of life. Some systems assert themselves in volumes--_my_ system
asserts itself in two words: Never think of anything until you have
first asked yourself if there is an absolute necessity for doing it,
at that particular moment. Thinking of things, when things needn't
be thought of, is offering an opportunity to Worry; and Worry is
the favorite agent of Death when the destroyer handles his work in a
lingering way, and achieves premature results. Never look back, and
never look forward, as long as you can possibly help it. Looking back
leads the way to sorrow. And looking forward ends in the cruelest of all
delusions: it encourages hope. The present time is the precious time.
Live for the passing day: the passing day is all that we can be sure of.
You suggested, just now, that I should ask my son if he was engaged to
be married. How do we know what wear and tear of your nervous texture I
succeeded in saving when I said. 'Wait till Philip mentions it without
asking?' There is the personal application of my system. I have
explained it in my time to every woman on the list of my acquaintance,
including the female servants. Not one of them has rewarded me by
adopting my system. How do you feel about it?"

Mrs. Staveley declined to tell me whether she had offered a bright
example of gratitude to the rest of the sex. When I asked why, she
declared that it was my turn now to tell her what I had been doing.

You will anticipate what followed. She objected to the mystery in which
my prospects seemed to be involved. In plain English, was I, or was I
not, engaged to marry her dear Eunice? I said, No. What else could I
say? If I had told Mrs. Staveley the truth, when she insisted on my
explaining myself, she would have gone back to my father, and would
have appealed to his sense of justice to forbid our marriage. Finding me
obstinately silent, she has decided on writing to Eunice. So we parted.
But don't be disheartened. On my way out of the house, I met Mr.
Staveley coming in, and had a little talk with him. He and his wife and
his family are going to the seaside, next week. Mrs. Staveley once out
of our way, I can tell my father of our engagement without any fear
of consequences. If she writes to him, the moment he sees my name
mentioned, and finds violent language associated with it, he will hand
the letter to me. "Your business, Philip: don't interrupt me." He will
say that, and go back to his books. There is my father, painted to the
life! Farewell, for the present.

.......

Remarks by H. G.--Philip's grace and gayety of style might be envied by
any professional Author. He amuses me, but he rouses my suspicion at the
same time. This slippery lover of mine tells me to defer writing to
his father, and gives no reason for offering that strange advice to the
young lady who is soon to be a member of the family. Is this merely one
more instance of the weakness of his character? Or, now that he is away
from my influence, is he beginning to regret Eunice already?

Added by the Governor.--I too have my doubts. Is the flippant nonsense
which Philip has written inspired by the effervescent good spirits of a
happy young man? Or is it assumed for a purpose? In this latter case, I
should gladly conclude that he was regarding his conduct to Eunice with
becoming emotions of sorrow and shame.



CHAPTER XLIII. THE MASTERFUL MASSEUSE.

My next quotations will suffer a process of abridgment. I intend them to
present the substance of three letters, reduced as follows:


Second Extract.

Weak as he may be, Mr. Philip Dunboyne shows (in his second letter)
that he can feel resentment, and that he can express his feelings, in
replying to Miss Helena. He protests against suspicions which he has not
deserved. That he does sometimes think of Eunice he sees no reason to
deny. He is conscious of errors and misdeeds, which--traceable as they
are to Helena's irresistible fascinations--may perhaps be considered
rather his misfortune than his fault. Be that as it may, he does indeed
feel anxious to hear good accounts of Eunice's health. If this honest
avowal excites her sister's jealousy, he will be disappointed in Helena
for the first time.

His third letter shows that this exhibition of spirit has had its
effect.

The imperious young lady regrets that she has hurt his feelings, and is
rewarded for the apology by receiving news of the most gratifying kind.
Faithful Philip has told his father that he is engaged to be married
to Miss Helena Gracedieu, daughter of the celebrated Congregational
preacher--and so on, and so on. Has Mr. Dunboyne the elder expressed
any objection to the young lady? Certainly not! He knows nothing of
the other engagement to Eunice; and he merely objects, on principle, to
looking forward. "How do we know," says the philosopher, "what accidents
may happen, or what doubts and hesitations may yet turn up? I am not
to burden my mind in this matter, till I know that I must do it. Let
me hear when she is ready to go to church, and I will be ready with
the settlements. My compliments to Miss and her papa, and let us wait a
little." Dearest Helena--isn't he funny?

The next letter has been already mentioned.

In this there occurs the first startling reference to Mrs. Tenbruggen,
by name. She is in London, finding her way to lucrative celebrity
by twisting, turning, and pinching the flesh of credulous persons,
afflicted with nervous disorders; and she has already paid a few medical
visits to old Mr. Dunboyne. He persists in poring over his books while
Mrs. Tenbruggen operates, sometimes on his cramped right hand, sometimes
(in the fear that his brain may have something to do with it) on the
back of his neck. One of them frowns over her rubbing, and the other
frowns over his reading. It would be delightfully ridiculous, but for a
drawback; Mr. Philip Dunboyne's first impressions of Mrs. Tenbruggen do
not incline him to look at that lady from a humorous point of view.

Helena's remarks follow, as usual. She has seen Mrs. Tenbruggen's name
on the address of a letter written by Miss Jillgall--which is quite
enough to condemn Mrs. Tenbruggen. As for Philip himself, she feels not
quite sure of him, even yet. No more do I. Third Extract.

The letter that follows must be permitted to speak for itself:

I have flown into a passion, dearest Helena; and I am afraid I shall
make you fly into a passion, too. Blame Mrs. Tenbruggen; don't blame me.

On the first occasion when I found my father under the hands of the
Medical Rubber, she took no notice of me. On the second occasion--when
she had been in daily attendance on him for a week, at an exorbitant
fee--she said in the coolest manner: "Who is this young gentleman?" My
father laid down his book, for a moment only: "Don't interrupt me again,
ma'am. The young gentleman is my son Philip." Mrs. Tenbruggen eyed me
with an appearance of interest which I was at a loss to account for. I
hate an impudent woman. My visit came suddenly to an end.

The next time I saw my father, he was alone.

I asked him how he got on with Mrs. Tenbruggen. As badly as possible,
it appeared. "She takes liberties with my neck; she interrupts me in
my reading; and she does me no good. I shall end, Philip, in applying a
medical rubbing to Mrs. Tenbruggen."

A few days later, I found the masterful "Masseuse" torturing the poor
old gentleman's muscles again. She had the audacity to say to me: "Well,
Mr. Philip, when are you going to marry Miss Eunice Gracedieu?" My
father looked up. "Eunice?" he repeated. "When my son told me he was
engaged to Miss Gracedieu, he said 'Helena'! Philip, what does this
mean?" Mrs. Tenbruggen was so obliging as to answer for me. "Some
mistake, sir; it's Eunice he is engaged to." I confess I forgot myself.
"How the devil do you know that?" I burst out. Mrs. Tenbruggen ignored
me and my language. "I am sorry to see, sir, that your son's education
has been neglected; he seems to be grossly ignorant of the laws of
politeness." "Never mind the laws of politeness," says my father. "You
appear to be better acquainted with my son's matrimonial prospects than
he is himself. How is that?" Mrs. Tenbruggen favored him with another
ready reply: "My authority is a letter, addressed to me by a relative of
Mr. Gracedieu--my dear and intimate friend, Miss Jillgall." My father's
keen eyes traveled backward and forward between his female surgeon and
his son. "Which am I to believe?" he inquired. "I am surprised at your
asking the question," I said. Mrs. Tenbruggen pointed to me. "Look at
Mr. Philip, sir--and you will allow him one merit. He is capable of
showing it, when he knows he has disgraced himself." Without intending
it, I am sure, my father infuriated me; he looked as if he believed her.
Out came one of the smallest and strongest words in the English language
before I could stop it: "Mrs. Tenbruggen, you lie!" The illustrious
Rubber dropped my father's hand--she had been operating on him all the
time--and showed us that she could assert her dignity when circumstances
called for the exertion: "Either your son or I, sir, must leave the
room. Which is it to be?" She met her match in my father. Walking
quietly to the door, he opened it for Mrs. Tenbruggen with a low bow.
She stopped on her way out, and delivered her parting words: "Messieurs
Dunboyne, father and son, I keep my temper, and merely regard you as a
couple of blackguards." With that pretty assertion of her opinion, she
left us.

When we were alone, there was but one course to take; I made my
confession. It is impossible to tell you how my father received it--for
he sat down at his library table with his back to me. The first thing he
did was to ask me to help his memory.

"Did you say that the father of these girls was a parson?"

"Yes--a Congregational Minister."

"What does the Minister think of you?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Find out."

That was all; not another word could I extract from him. I don't pretend
to have discovered what he really has in his mind. I only venture on
a suggestion. If there is any old friend in your town, who has some
influence over your father, leave no means untried of getting that
friend to say a kind word for us. And then ask your father to write to
mine. This is, as I see it, our only chance.

.......

There the letter ends. Helena's notes on it show that her pride is
fiercely interested in securing Philip as a husband. Her victory over
poor Eunice will, as she plainly intimates, be only complete when she is
married to young Dunboyne. For the rest, her desperate resolution to win
her way to my good graces is sufficiently intelligible, now.

My own impressions vary. Philip rather gains upon me; he appears to
have some capacity for feeling ashamed of himself. On the other hand,
I regard the discovery of an intimate friendship existing between
Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss Jillgall with the gloomiest views. Is this
formidable Masseuse likely to ply her trade in the country towns? And is
it possible that she may come to this town? God forbid!


Of the other letters in the collection, I need take no special notice.
I returned the whole correspondence to Helena, and waited to hear from
her.

The one recent event in Mr. Gracedieu's family, worthy of record, is of
a melancholy nature. After paying his visit to-day, the doctor has left
word that nobody but the nurse is to go near the Minister. This seems to
indicate, but too surely, a change for the worse.

Helena has been away all the evening at the Girls' School. She left a
little note, informing me of her wishes: "I shall expect to be favored
with your decision to-morrow morning, in my housekeeping room."

At breakfast time, the report of the poor Minister was still
discouraging. I noticed that Helena was absent from the table. Miss
Jillgall suspected that the cause was bad news from Mr. Philip Dunboyne,
arriving by that morning's post. "If you will excuse the use of strong
language by a lady," she said, "Helena looked perfectly devilish when
she opened the letter. She rushed away, and locked herself up in her
own shabby room. A serious obstacle, as I suspect, in the way of her
marriage. Cheering, isn't it?" As usual, good Selina expressed her
sentiments without reserve.

I had to keep my appointment; and the sooner Helena Gracedieu and I
understood each other the better.

I knocked at the door. It was loudly unlocked, and violently thrown
open. Helena's temper had risen to boiling heat; she stammered with rage
when she spoke to me.

"I mean to come to the point at once," she said.

"I am glad to hear it, Miss Helena."

"May I count on your influence to help me? I want a positive answer."

I gave her what she wanted. I said: "Certainly not."

She took a crumpled letter from her pocket, opened it, and smoothed it
out on the table with a blow of her open hand.

"Look at that," she said.

I looked. It was the letter addressed to Mr. Dunboyne the elder, which
I had written for Mr. Gracedieu--with the one object of preventing
Helena's marriage.

"Of course, I can depend on you to tell me the truth?" she continued.

"Without fear or favor," I answered, "you may depend on _that_."

"The signature to the letter, Mr. Governor, is written by my father.
But the letter itself is in a different hand. Do you, by any chance,
recognize the writing?"

"I do."

"Whose writing is it?"

"Mine."



CHAPTER XLIV. THE RESURRECTION OF THE PAST.

After having identified my handwriting, I waited with some curiosity to
see whether Helena would let her anger honestly show itself, or whether
she would keep it down. She kept it down.

"Allow me to return good for evil." (The evil was uppermost,
nevertheless, when Miss Gracedieu expressed herself in these
self-denying terms.) "You are no doubt anxious to know if Philip's
father has been won over to serve your purpose. Here is Philip's own
account of it: the last of his letters that I shall trouble you to
read."

I looked it over. The memorandum follows which I made for my own use:

An eccentric philosopher is as capable as the most commonplace human
being in existence of behaving like an honorable man. Mr. Dunboyne read
the letter which bore the Minister's signature, and handed it to his
son. "Can you answer that?" was all he said. Philip's silence confessed
that he was unable to answer it--and Philip himself, I may add, rose
accordingly in my estimation. His father pointed to the writing-desk. "I
must spare my cramped hand," the philosopher resumed, "and I must answer
Mr. Gracedieu's letter. Write, and leave a place for my signature." He
began to dictate his reply. "Sir--My son Philip has seen your letter,
and has no defense to make. In this respect he has set an example of
candor which I propose to follow. There is no excuse for him. What I can
do to show that I feel for you, and agree with you, shall be done. At
the age which this young man has reached, the laws of England abolish
the authority of his father. If he is sufficiently infatuated to place
his honor and his happiness at the mercy of a lady, who has behaved
to her sister as your daughter has behaved to Miss Eunice, I warn the
married couple not to expect a farthing of my money, either during my
lifetime or after my death. Your faithful servant, DUNBOYNE, SENIOR."
Having performed his duty as secretary, Philip received his dismissal:
"You may send my reply to the post," his father said; "and you may keep
Mr. Gracedieu's letter. Morally speaking, I regard that last document
as a species of mirror, in which a young gentleman like yourself may
see how ugly he looks." This, Philip declared, was his father's form of
farewell. I handed back the letter to Helena. Not a word passed between
us. In sinister silence she opened the door and left me alone in the
room.

That Mrs. Gracedieu and I had met in the bygone time, and--this was the
only serious part of it--had met in secret, would now be made known to
the Minister. Was I to blame for having shrunk from distressing my good
friend, by telling him that his wife had privately consulted me on the
means of removing his adopted child from his house? And, even if I
had been cruel enough to do this, would he have believed my statement
against the positive denial with which the woman whom he loved and
trusted would have certainly met it? No! let the consequences of the
coming disclosure be what they might, I failed to see any valid reason
for regretting my conduct in the past time.

I found Miss Jillgall waiting in the passage to see me come out.

Before I could tell her what had happened, there was a ring at the
house-bell. The visitor proved to be Mr. Wellwood, the doctor. I was
anxious to speak to him on the subject of Mr. Gracedieu's health. Miss
Jillgall introduced me, as an old and dear friend of the Minister, and
left us together in the dining-room.

"What do I think of Mr. Gracedieu?" he said, repeating the first
question that I put. "Well, sir, I think badly of him."

Entering into details, after that ominous reply, Mr. Wellwood did not
hesitate to say that his patient's nerves were completely shattered.
Disease of the brain had, as he feared, been already set up. "As to
the causes which have produced this lamentable break-down," the doctor
continued, "Mr. Gracedieu has been in the habit of preaching extempore
twice a day on Sundays, and sometimes in the week as well--and has
uniformly refused to spare himself when he was in most urgent need of
rest. If you have ever attended his chapel, you have seen a man in a
state of fiery enthusiasm, feeling intensely every word that he utters.
Think of such exhaustion as that implies going on for years together,
and accumulating its wasting influences on a sensitively organized
constitution. Add that he is tormented by personal anxieties, which he
confesses to no one, not even to his own children and the sum of it
all is that a worse case of its kind, I am grieved to say, has never
occurred in my experience."

Before the doctor left me to go to his patient, I asked leave to occupy
a minute more of his time. My object was, of course, to speak about
Eunice.

The change of subject seemed to be agreeable to Mr. Wellwood. He smiled
good-humoredly.

"You need feel no alarm about the health of that interesting girl,"
he said. "When she complained to me--at her age!--of not being able to
sleep, I should have taken it more seriously if I had been told that she
too had her troubles, poor little soul. Love-troubles, most likely--but
don't forget that my professional limits keep me in the dark! Have you
heard that she took some composing medicine, which I had prescribed for
her father? The effect (certain, in any case, to be injurious to a young
girl) was considerably aggravated by the state of her mind at the time.
A dream that frightened her, and something resembling delirium, seems to
have followed. And she made matters worse, poor child, by writing in her
diary about the visions and supernatural appearances that had terrified
her. I was afraid of fever, on the day when they first sent for me. We
escaped that complication, and I was at liberty to try the best of all
remedies--quiet and change of air. I have no fears for Miss Eunice."

With that cheering reply he went up to the Minister's room.

All that I had found perplexing in Eunice was now made clear. I
understood how her agony at the loss of her lover, and her keen sense
of the wrong that she had suffered, had been strengthened in their
disastrous influence by her experiment on the sleeping draught intended
for her father. In mind and body, both, the poor girl was in the
condition which offered its opportunity to the lurking hereditary
taint. It was terrible to think of what might have happened, if the
all-powerful counter-influence had not been present to save her.

Before I had been long alone the servant-maid came in, and said the
doctor wanted to see me.

Mr. Wellwood was waiting in the passage, outside the Minister's
bedchamber. He asked if he could speak to me without interruption, and
without the fear of being overheard. I led him at once to the room which
I occupied as a guest.

"At the very time when it is most important to keep Mr. Gracedieu
quiet," he said, "something has happened to excite--I might almost say
to infuriate him. He has left his bed, and is walking up and down the
room; and, I don't scruple to say, he is on the verge of madness. He
insists on seeing you. Being wholly unable to control him in any
other way, I have consented to this. But I must not allow you to place
yourself in what may be a disagreeable position, without a word of
warning. Judging by his tones and his looks, he seems to have no very
friendly motive for wishing to see you."

Knowing perfectly well what had happened, and being one of those
impatient people who can never endure suspense--I offered to go at once
to Mr. Gracedieu's room. The doctor asked leave to say one word more.

"Pray be careful that you neither say nor do anything to thwart him,"
Mr. Wellwood resumed. "If he expresses an opinion, agree with him. If
he is insolent and overbearing, don't answer him. In the state of his
brain, the one hopeful course to take is to let him have his own way.
Pray remember that. I will be within call, in case of your wanting me."



CHAPTER XLV. THE FATAL PORTRAIT.

I knocked at the bedroom door.

"Who's there?"

Only two words--but the voice that uttered them, hoarse and peremptory,
was altered almost beyond recognition. If I had not known whose room it
was, I might have doubted whether the Minister had really spoken to me.

At the instant when I answered him, I was allowed to pass in. Having
admitted me, he closed the door, and placed himself with his back
against it. The customary pallor of his face had darkened to a deep
red; there was an expression of ferocious mockery in his eyes. Helena's
vengeance had hurt her unhappy father far more severely than it seemed
likely to hurt me. The doctor had said he was on the verge of madness.
To my thinking, he had already passed the boundary line.

He received me with a boisterous affectation of cordiality.

"My excellent friend! My admirable, honorable, welcome guest, you don't
know how glad I am to see you. Stand a little nearer to the light; I
want to admire you."

Remembering the doctor's advice, I obeyed him in silence.

"Ah, you were a handsome fellow when I first knew you," he said, "and
you have some remains of it still left. Do you remember the time when
you were a favorite with the ladies? Oh, don't pretend to be modest;
don't turn your back, now you are old, on what you were in the prime of
your life. Do you own that I am right?"

What his object might be in saying this--if, indeed, he had an
object--it was impossible to guess. The doctor's advice left me no
alternative; I hastened to own that he was right. As I made that answer,
I observed that he held something in his hand which was half hidden up
the sleeve of his dressing-gown. What the nature of the object was I
failed to discover.

"And when I happened to speak of you somewhere," he went on, "I forget
where--a member of my congregation--I don't recollect who it was--told
me you were connected with the aristocracy. How were you connected?"

He surprised me; but, however he had got his information, he had not
been deceived. I told him that I was connected, through my mother, with
the family to which he had alluded.

"The aristocracy!" he repeated. "A race of people who are rich without
earning their money, and noble because their great-grandfathers were
noble before them. They live in idleness and luxury--profligates who
gratify their passions without shame and without remorse. Deny, if you
dare, that this is a true description of them."

It was really pitiable. Heartily sorry for him, I pacified him again.

"And don't suppose I forget that you are one of them. Do you hear me, my
noble friend?"

There was no help for it--I made another conciliatory reply.

"So far," he resumed, "I don't complain of you. You have not attempted
to deceive me--yet. Absolute silence is what I require next. Though you
may not suspect it, my mind is in a ferment; I must try to think."

To some extent at least, his thoughts betrayed themselves in his
actions. He put the object that I had half seen in his hand into the
pocket of his dressing-gown, and moved to the toilet-table. Opening one
of the drawers, he took from it a folded sheet of paper, and came back
to me.

"A minister of the Gospel," he said, "is a sacred man, and has a horror
of crime. You are safe, so far--provided you obey me. I have a solemn
and terrible duty to perform. This is not the right place for it. Follow
me downstairs."

He led the way out. The doctor, waiting in the passage, was not near the
stairs, and so escaped notice. "What is it?" Mr. Wellwood whispered.
In the same guarded way, I said: "He has not told me yet; I have been
careful not to irritate him." When we descended the stairs, the doctor
followed us at a safe distance. He mended his pace when the Minister
opened the door of the study, and when he saw us both pass in. Before he
could follow, the door was closed and locked in his face. Mr. Gracedieu
took out the key and threw it through the open window, into the garden
below.

Turning back into the room, he laid the folded sheet of paper on the
table. That done, he spoke to me.

"I distrust my own weakness," he said. "A dreadful necessity confronts
me--I might shrink from the horrid idea, and, if I could open the
door, might try to get away. Escape is impossible now. We are prisoners
together. But don't suppose that we are alone. There is a third person
present, who will judge between you and me. Look there!"

He pointed solemnly to the portrait of his wife. It was a small picture,
very simply framed; representing the face in a "three-quarter" view, and
part of the figure only. As a work of art it was contemptible; but, as a
likeness, it answered its purpose. My unhappy friend stood before it, in
an attitude of dejection, covering his face with his hands.

In the interval of silence that followed, I was reminded that an unseen
friend was keeping watch outside.

Alarmed by having heard the key turned in the lock, and realizing the
embarrassment of the position in which I was placed, the doctor had
discovered a discreet way of communicating with me. He slipped one of
his visiting-cards under the door, with these words written on it: "How
can I help you?"

I took the pencil from my pocketbook, and wrote on the blank side of
the card: "He has thrown the key into the garden; look for it under the
window." A glance at the Minister, before I returned my reply, showed
that his attitude was unchanged. Without being seen or suspected, I, in
my turn, slipped the card under the door.

The slow minutes followed each other--and still nothing happened.

My anxiety to see how the doctor's search for the key was succeeding,
tempted me to approach the window. On my way to it, the tail of my coat
threw down a little tray containing pens and pencils, which had been
left close to the edge of the table. Slight as the noise of the fall
was, it disturbed Mr. Gracedieu. He looked round vacantly.

"I have been comforted by prayer," he told me. "The weakness of poor
humanity has found strength in the Lord." He pointed to the portrait
once more: "My hands must not presume to touch it, while I am still in
doubt. Take it down."

I removed the picture and placed it, by his directions, on a chair that
stood midway between us. To my surprise his tones faltered; I saw tears
rising in his eyes. "You may think you see a picture there," he said.
"You are wrong. You see my wife herself. Stand here, and look at my wife
with me."

We stood together, with our eyes fixed on the portrait.

Without anything said or done on my part to irritate him, he suddenly
turned to me in a state of furious rage. "Not a sign of sorrow!" he
burst out. "Not a blush of shame! Wretch, you stand condemned by the
atrocious composure that I see in your face!"

A first discovery of the odious suspicion of which I was the object,
dawned on my mind at that moment. My capacity for restraining myself
completely failed me. I spoke to him as if he had been an accountable
being. "Once for all," I said, "tell me what I have a right to know. You
suspect me of something. What is it?"

Instead of directly replying, he seized my arm and led me to the table.
"Take up that paper," he said. "There is writing on it. Read--and let
Her judge between us. Your life depends on how you answer me."

Was there a weapon concealed in the room? or had he got it in the pocket
of his dressing-gown? I listened for the sound of the doctor's returning
footsteps in the passage outside, and heard nothing. My life had once
depended, years since, on my success in heading the arrest of an escaped
prisoner. I was not conscious, then, of feeling my energies weakened by
fear. But _that_ man was not mad; and I was younger, in those days, by a
good twenty years or more. At my later time of life, I could show my old
friend that I was not afraid of him--but I was conscious of an effort in
doing it.

I opened the paper. "Am I to read this to myself?" I asked. "Or am I to
read it aloud?"

"Read it aloud!"

In these terms, his daughter addressed him:


"I have been so unfortunate, dearest father, as to displease you, and I
dare not hope that you will consent to receive me. What it is my painful
duty to tell you, must be told in writing.

"Grieved as I am to distress you, in your present state of health, I
must not hesitate to reveal what it has been my misfortune--I may even
say my misery, when I think of my mother--to discover.

"But let me make sure, in such a serious matter as this is, that I am
not mistaken.

"In those happy past days, when I was still dear to my father, you said
you thought of writing to invite a dearly-valued friend to pay a visit
to this house. You had first known him, as I understood, when my mother
was still living. Many interesting things you told me about this old
friend, but you never mentioned that he knew, or that he had even seen,
my mother. I was left to suppose that those two had remained strangers
to each other to the day of her death.

"If there is any misinterpretation here of what you said, or perhaps of
what you meant to say, pray destroy what I have written without turning
to the next page; and forgive me for having innocently startled you by a
false alarm."


Mr. Gracedieu interrupted me.

"Put it down!" he cried; "I won't wait till you have got to the end--I
shall question you now. Give me the paper; it will help me to keep this
mystery of iniquity clear in my own mind."

I gave him the paper.

He hesitated--and looked at the portrait once more. "Turn her away from
me," he said; "I can't face my wife."

I placed the picture with its back to him.

He consulted the paper, reading it with but little of the confusion and
hesitation which my experience of him had induced me to anticipate. Had
the mad excitement that possessed him exercised an influence in clearing
his mind, resembling in some degree the influence exercised by a storm
in clearing the air? Whatever the right explanation may be, I can only
report what I saw. I could hardly have mastered what his daughter had
written more readily, if I had been reading it myself.

"Helena tells me," he began, "that you said you knew her by her likeness
to her mother. Is that true?"

"Quite true."

"And you made an excuse for leaving her--see! here it is, written down.
You made an excuse, and left her when she asked for an explanation."

"I did."

He consulted the paper again.

"My daughter says--No! I won't be hurried and I won't be
interrupted--she says you were confused. Is that so?"

"It is so. Let your questions wait for a moment. I wish to tell you why
I was confused."

"Haven't I said I won't be interrupted? Do you think you can shake _my_
resolution?" He referred to the paper again. "I have lost the place.
It's your fault--find it for me."

The evidence which was intended to convict me was the evidence which I
was expected to find! I pointed it out to him.

His natural courtesy asserted itself in spite of his anger. He said
"Thank you," and questioned me the moment after as fiercely as ever. "Go
back to the time, sir, when we met in your rooms at the prison. Did you
know my wife then?"

"Certainly not."

"Did you and she see each other--ha! I've got it now--did you see each
other after I had left the town? No prevarication! You own to telling
Helena that you knew her by her likeness to her mother. You must have
seen her mother. Where?"

I made another effort to defend myself. He again refused furiously to
hear me. It was useless to persist. Whatever the danger that threatened
me might be, the sooner it showed itself the easier I should feel. I
told him that Mrs. Gracedieu had called on me, after he and his wife had
left the town.

"Do you mean to tell me," he cried, "that she came to you?"

"I do."

After that answer, he no longer required the paper to help him. He threw
it from him on the floor.

"And you received her," he said, "without inquiring whether I knew of
her visit or not? Guilty deception on your part--guilty deception on her
part. Oh, the hideous wickedness of it!"

When his mad suspicion that I had been his wife's lover betrayed itself
in this way, I made a last attempt, in the face of my own conviction
that it was hopeless, to place my conduct and his wife's conduct before
him in the true light.

"Mrs. Gracedieu's object was to consult me--" Before I could say the
next words, I saw him put his hand into the pocket of his dressing-gown.

"An innocent man," he sternly declared, "would have told me that my wife
had been to see him--you kept it a secret. An innocent woman would have
given me a reason for wishing to go to you--she kept it a secret, when
she left my house; she kept it a secret when she came back."

"Mr. Gracedieu, I insist on being heard! Your wife's motive--"

He drew from his pocket the thing that he had hidden from me. This time,
there was no concealment; he let me see that he was opening a razor. It
was no time for asserting my innocence; I had to think of preserving my
life. When a man is without firearms, what defense can avail against a
razor in the hands of a madman? A chair was at my side; it offered the
one poor means of guarding myself that I could see. I laid my hand on
it, and kept my eye on him.

He paused, looking backward and forward between the picture and me.

"Which of them shall I kill first?" he said to himself. "The man who
was my trusted friend? Or the woman whom I believed to be an angel on
earth?" He stopped once more, in a state of fierce self-concentration,
debating what he should do. "The woman," he decided. "Wretch! Fiend!
Harlot! How I loved her!!!"

With a yell of fury, he pounced on the picture--ripped the canvas out of
the frame--and cut it malignantly into fragments. As they dropped from
the razor on the floor, he stamped on them, and ground them under his
foot. "Go, wife of my bosom," he cried, with a dreadful mockery of voice
and look--"go, and burn everlastingly in the place of torment!" His eyes
glared at me. "Your turn now," he said--and rushed at me with his
weapon ready in his hand. I hurled the chair at his right arm. The razor
dropped on the floor. I caught him by the wrist. Like a wild animal he
tried to bite me. With my free hand--if I had known how to defend myself
in any other way, I would have taken that way--with my free hand I
seized him by the throat; forced him back; and held him against the
wall. My grasp on his throat kept him quiet. But the dread of seriously
injuring him so completely overcame me, that I forgot I was a prisoner
in the room, and was on the point of alarming the household by a cry for
help.

I was still struggling to preserve my self-control, when the sound of
footsteps broke the silence outside. I heard the key turn in the lock,
and saw the doctor at the open door.



CHAPTER XLVI. THE CUMBERSOME LADIES.

I cannot prevail upon myself to dwell at any length on the events that
followed.

We secured my unhappy friend, and carried him to his bed. It was
necessary to have men in attendance who could perform the duty of
watching him. The doctor sent for them, while I went downstairs to make
the best I could of the miserable news which it was impossible entirely
to conceal. All that I could do to spare Miss Jillgall, I did. I was
obliged to acknowledge that there had been an outbreak of violence,
and that the portrait of the Minister's wife had been destroyed by the
Minister himself. Of Helena's revenge on me I said nothing. It had
led to consequences which even her merciless malice could not have
contemplated. There were no obstacles in the way of keeping secret the
attempt on my life. But I was compelled to own that Mr. Gracedieu had
taken a dislike to me, which rendered it necessary that my visit should
be brought to an end. I hastened to add that I should go to the hotel,
and should wait there until the next day, in the hope of hearing better
news.

Of the multitude of questions with which poor Miss Jillgall overwhelmed
me--of the wild words of sorrow and alarm that escaped her--of the
desperate manner in which she held by my arm, and implored me not to
go away, when I must see for myself that "she was a person entirely
destitute of presence of mind"--I shall say nothing. The undeserved
suffering that is inflicted on innocent persons by the sins of others
demands silent sympathy; and, to that extent at least, I can say that I
honestly felt for my quaint and pleasant little friend.

In the evening the doctor called on me at the hotel. The medical
treatment of his patient had succeeded in calming the maddened brain
under the influence of sleep. If the night passed quietly, better news
might be hoped for in the morning.

On the next day I had arranged to drive to the farm, being resolved
not to disappoint Eunice. But I shrank from the prospect of having
to distress her as I had already distressed Miss Jillgall. The only
alternative left was to repeat the sad story in writing, subject to
the concealments which I had already observed. This I did, and sent the
letter by messenger, overnight, so that Eunice might know when to expect
me.

The medical report, in the morning, justified some hope. Mr. Gracedieu
had slept well, and there had been no reappearance of insane violence
on his waking. But the doctor's opinion was far from encouraging when
we spoke of the future. He did not anticipate the cruel necessity of
placing the Minister under restraint--unless some new provocation led to
a new outbreak. The misfortune to be feared was imbecility.

I was just leaving the hotel to keep my appointment with Eunice, when
the waiter announced the arrival of a young lady who wished to speak
with me. Before I could ask if she had mentioned her name, the young
lady herself walked in--Helena Gracedieu.

She explained her object in calling on me, with the exasperating
composure which was peculiarly her own. No parallel to it occurs to me
in my official experience of shameless women.

"I don't wish to speak of what happened yesterday, so far as I know
anything about it," she began. "It is quite enough for me that you have
been obliged to leave the house and to take refuge in this hotel. I
have come to say a word about the future. Are you honoring me with your
attention?"

I signed to her to go on. If I had answered in words, I should have told
her to leave the room.

"At first," she resumed, "I thought of writing; but it occurred to me
that you might keep my letter, and show it to Philip, by way of lowering
me in his good opinion, as you have lowered me in the good opinion of
his father. My object in coming here is to give you a word of warning.
If you attempt to make mischief next between Philip and myself, I shall
hear of it--and you know what to expect, when you have me for an enemy.
It is not worth while to say any more. We understand each other, I
hope?"

She was determined to have a reply--and she got it.

"Not quite yet," I said. "I have been hitherto, as becomes a gentleman,
always mindful of a woman's claims to forbearance. You will do well not
to tempt me into forgetting that _you_ are a woman, by prolonging your
visit. Now, Miss Helena Gracedieu, we understand each other." She made
me a low curtsey, and answered in her finest tone of irony: "I only
desire to wish you a pleasant journey home."

I rang for the waiter. "Show this lady out," I said.

Even this failed to have the slightest effect on her. She sauntered to
the door, as perfectly at her ease as if the room had been hers--not
mine.

I had thought of driving to the farm. Shall I confess it? My temper was
so completely upset that active movement of some kind offered the one
means of relief in which I could find refuge. The farm was not more
than five miles distant, and I had been a good walker all my life. After
making the needful inquiries, I set forth to visit Eunice on foot.

My way through the town led me past the Minister's house. I had left the
door some fifty yards behind me, when I saw two ladies approaching.
They were walking, in the friendliest manner, arm in arm. As they came
nearer, I discovered Miss Jillgall. Her companion was the middle-aged
lady who had declined to give her name, when we met accidentally at Mr.
Gracedieu's door.

Hysterically impulsive, Miss Jillgall seized both my hands, and
overwhelmed me with entreaties that I would go back with her to the
house. I listened rather absently. The middle-aged lady happened to be
nearer to me now than on either of the former occasions on which I had
seen her. There was something in the expression of her eyes which seemed
to be familiar to me. But the effort of my memory was not helped by what
I observed in the other parts of her face. The iron-gray hair, the baggy
lower eyelids, the fat cheeks, the coarse complexion, and the double
chin, were features, and very disagreeable features, too, which I had
never seen at any former time.

"Do pray come back with us," Miss Jillgall pleaded. "We were just
talking of you. I and my friend--" There she stopped, evidently on the
point of blurting out the name which she had been forbidden to utter in
my hearing.

The lady smiled; her provokingly familiar eyes rested on me with a
humorous enjoyment of the scene.

"My dear," she said to Miss Jillgall, "caution ceases to be a virtue
when it ceases to be of any use. The Governor is beginning to
remember me, and the inevitable recognition--with _his_ quickness of
perception--is likely to be a matter of minutes now." She turned to me.
"In more ways than one, sir, women are hardly used by Nature. As they
advance in years they lose more in personal appearance than the men do.
You are white-haired, and (pray excuse me) you are too fat; and (allow
me to take another liberty) you stoop at the shoulders--but you have not
entirely lost your good looks. _I_ am no longer recognizable. Allow me
to prompt you, as they say on the stage. I am Mrs. Tenbruggen."

As a man of the world, I ought to have been capable of concealing my
astonishment and dismay. She struck me dumb.

Mrs. Tenbruggen in the town! The one woman whose appearance Mr.
Gracedieu had dreaded, and justly dreaded, stood before me--free, as a
friend of his kinswoman, to enter his house, at the very time when he
was a helpless man, guarded by watchers at his bedside. My first clear
idea was to get away from both the women, and consider what was to be
done next. I bowed--and begged to be excused--and said I was in a hurry,
all in a breath.

Hearing this, the best of genial old maids was unable to restrain her
curiosity. "Where are you going?" she asked.

Too confused to think of an excuse, I said I was going to the farm.

"To see my dear Euneece?" Miss Jillgall burst out. "Oh, we will go with
you!" Mrs. Tenbruggen's politeness added immediately, "With the greatest
pleasure."



CHAPTER XLVII. THE JOURNEY TO THE FARM.

My first ungrateful impulse was to get rid of the two cumbersome ladies
who had offered to be my companions. It was needless to call upon my
invention for an excuse; the truth, as I gladly perceived, would serve
my purpose. I had only to tell them that I had arranged to walk to the
farm.

Lean, wiry, and impetuous, Miss Jillgall received my excuse with
the sincerest approval of it, as a new idea. "Nothing could be more
agreeable to me," she declared; "I have been a wonderful walker all my
life." She turned to her friend. "We will go with him, my dear, won't
we?"

Mrs. Tenbruggen's reception of this proposal inspired me with hope; she
asked how far it was to the farm. "Five miles!" she repeated. "And five
miles back again, unless the farmer lends us a cart. My dear Selina, you
might as well ask me to walk to the North Pole. You have got rid of one
of us, Mr. Governor," she added, pleasantly; "and the other, if you only
walk fast enough, you will leave behind you on the road. If I believed
in luck--which I don't--I should call you a fortunate man."

But companionable Selina would not hear of a separation. She asked,
in her most irresistible manner, if I objected to driving instead of
walking. Her heart's dearest wish, she said, was to make her bosom
friend and myself better acquainted with each other. To conclude, she
reminded me that there was a cab-stand in the next street.

Perhaps I might have been influenced by my distrust of Mrs. Tenbruggen,
or perhaps by my anxiety to protect Eunice. It struck me that I might
warn the defenseless girl to be on her guard with Mrs. Tenbruggen to
better purpose, if Eunice was in a position to recognize her in any
future emergency that might occur. To my mind, this dangerous woman was
doubly formidable--and for a good reason; she was the bosom friend of
that innocent and unwary person, Miss Jillgall. So I amiably consented
to forego my walk, yielding to the superior attraction of Mrs.
Tenbruggen's company. On that day the sunshine was tempered by a
delightful breeze. If we had been in the biggest and worst-governed city
on the civilised earth, we should have found no public vehicle, open to
the air, which could offer accommodation to three people. Being only in
a country town, we had a light four-wheeled chaise at our disposal, as a
matter of course.

No wise man expects to be mercifully treated, when he is shut into a
carriage with a mature single lady, inflamed by curiosity. I was not
unprepared for Miss Jillgall when she alluded, for the second time, to
the sad events which had happened in the house on the previous day--and
especially to the destruction by Mr. Gracedieu of the portrait of his
wife.

"Why didn't he destroy something else?" she pleaded, piteously. "It
is such a disappointment to Me. I never liked that picture myself.
Of course I ought to have admired the portrait of the wife of my
benefactor. But no--that disagreeable painted face was too much for me.
I should have felt inexpressibly relieved, if I could have shown it to
Elizabeth, and heard her say that she agreed with me."

"Perhaps I saw it when I called on you," Mrs. Tenbruggen suggested.
"Where did the picture hang?"

"My dear! I received you in the dining-room, and the portrait hung in
Mr. Gracedieu's study."

What they said to each other next escaped my attention. Quite
unconsciously, Miss Jillgall had revealed to me a danger which
neither the Minister nor I had discovered, though it had conspicuously
threatened us both on the wall of the study. The act of mad destruction
which, if I had possessed the means of safely interfering, I should
certainly have endeavored to prevent, now assumed a new and startling
aspect. If Mrs. Tenbruggen really had some motive of her own for
endeavoring to identify the adopted child, the preservation of the
picture must have led her straight to the end in view. The most casual
opportunity of comparing Helena with the portrait of Mrs. Gracedieu
would have revealed the likeness between mother and daughter--and, that
result attained, the identification of Eunice with the infant whom the
"Miss Chance" of those days had brought to the prison must inevitably
have followed. It was perhaps natural that Mr. Gracedieu's infatuated
devotion to the memory of his wife should have blinded him to the
betrayal of Helena's parentage, which met his eyes every time he entered
his study. But that I should have been too stupid to discover what he
had failed to see, was a wound dealt to my self-esteem which I was vain
enough to feel acutely.

Mrs. Tenbruggen's voice, cheery and humorous, broke in on my
reflections, with an odd question:

"Mr. Governor, do you ever condescend to read novels?"

"It's not easy to say, Mrs. Tenbruggen, how grateful I am to the writers
of novels."

"Ah! I read novels, too. But I blush to confess--do I blush?--that I
never thought of feeling grateful till you mentioned it. Selina and I
don't complain of your preferring your own reflections to our company.
On the contrary, you have reminded us agreeably of the heroes of
fiction, when the author describes them as being 'absorbed in thought.'
For some minutes, Mr. Governor, you have been a hero; absorbed, as I
venture to guess, in unpleasant remembrances of the time when I was
a single lady. You have not forgotten how badly I behaved, and what
shocking things I said, in those bygone days. Am I right?"

"You are entirely wrong."

It is possible that I may have spoken a little too sharply. Anyway,
faithful Selina interceded for her friend. "Oh, dear sir, don't be hard
on Elizabeth! She always means well." Mrs. Tenbruggen, as facetious as
ever, made a grateful return for a small compliment. She chucked Miss
Jillgall under the chin, with the air of an amorous old gentleman
expressing his approval of a pretty servant-girl. It was impossible to
look at the two, in their relative situations, without laughing. But
Mrs. Tenbruggen failed to cheat me into altering my opinion of her.
Innocent Miss Jillgall clapped her ugly hands, and said: "Isn't she good
company?"

Mrs. Tenbruggen's social resources were not exhausted yet. She suddenly
shifted to the serious side of her character.

"Perhaps I have improved a little," she said, "as I have advanced in
years. The sorrows of an unhappy married life may have had a purifying
influence on my nature. My husband and I began badly. Mr. Tenbruggen
thought I had money; and I thought Mr. Tenbruggen had money. He was
taken in by me; and I was taken in by him. When he repeated the words
of the marriage service (most impressively read by your friend the
Chaplain): 'With all my worldly goods I thee endow'--his eloquent voice
suggested one of the largest incomes in Europe. When I promised and
vowed, in my turn, the delightful prospect of squandering my rich
husband's money made quite a new woman of me. I declare solemnly, when I
said I would love, honor, and obey Mr. T., I looked as if I really
meant it. Wherever he is now, poor dear, he is cheating somebody. Such
a handsome, gentleman-like man, Selina! And, oh, Mr. Governor, such a
blackguard!"

Having described her husband in those terms, she got tired of the
subject. We were now favored with another view of this many-sided woman.
She appeared in her professional character.

"Ah, what a delicious breeze is blowing, out here in the country!" she
said. "Will you excuse me if I take off my gloves? I want to air my
hands." She held up her hands to the breeze; firm, muscular, deadly
white hands. "In my professional occupation," she explained, "I am
always rubbing, tickling, squeezing, tapping, kneading, rolling,
striking the muscles of patients. Selina, do you know the movements of
your own joints? Flexion, extension, abduction, adduction, rotation,
circumduction, pronation, supination, and the lateral movements. Be
proud of those accomplishments, my dear, but beware of attempting
to become a Masseuse. There are drawbacks in that vocation--and I am
conscious of one of them at this moment." She lifted her hands to
her nose. "Pah! my hands smell of other people's flesh. The delicious
country air will blow it away--the luxury of purification!" Her fingers
twisted and quivered, and got crooked at one moment and straight again
at another, and showed themselves in succession singly, and flew into
each other fiercely interlaced, and then spread out again like the
sticks of a fan, until it really made me giddy to look at them. As for
Miss Jillgall, she lifted her poor little sunken eyes rapturously to the
sky, as if she called the homiest sunlight to witness that this was the
most lovable woman on the face of the earth.

But elderly female fascination offers its allurements in vain to
the rough animal, man. Suspicion of Mrs. Tenbruggen's motives had
established itself firmly in my mind. Why had the Popular Masseuse
abandoned her brilliant career in London, and plunged into the obscurity
of a country town? An opportunity of clearing up the doubt thus
suggested seemed to have presented itself now. "Is it indiscreet to
ask," I said, "if you are here in your professional capacity?"

Her cunning seized its advantage and put a sly question to me. "Do you
wish to be one of my patients yourself?"

"That is, unfortunately, impossible," I replied "I have arranged to
return to London."

"Immediately?"

"To-morrow at the latest."

Artful as she was, Mrs. Tenbruggen failed to conceal a momentary
expression of relief which betrayed itself, partly in her manner, partly
in her face. She had ascertained, to her own complete satisfaction, that
my speedy departure was an event which might be relied on.

"But I have not yet answered you," she resumed. "To tell the truth, I am
eager to try my hands on you. Massage, as I practice it, would lighten
your weight, and restore your figure; I may even say would lengthen
your life. You will think of me, one of these days, won't you? In
the meanwhile--yes! I am here in my professional capacity. Several
interesting cases; and one very remarkable person, brought to death's
door by the doctors; a rich man who is liberal in paying his fees. There
is my quarrel with London and Londoners. Some of their papers, medical
newspapers, of course, declare that my fees are exorbitant; and there
is a tendency among the patients--I mean the patients who are rolling in
riches--to follow the lead of the newspapers. I am no worm to be trodden
on, in that way. The London people shall wait for me, until they miss
me--and, when I do go back, they will find the fees increased. _My_
fingers and thumbs, Mr. Governor, are not to be insulted with impunity."

Miss Jillgall nodded her head at me. It was an eloquent nod. "Admire my
spirited friend," was the interpretation I put on it.

At the same time, my private sentiments suggested that Mrs. Tenbruggen's
reply was too perfectly satisfactory, viewed as an explanation. My
suspicions were by no means set at rest; and I was resolved not to let
the subject drop yet. "Speaking of Mr. Gracedieu, and of the chances of
his partial recovery," I said, "do you think the Minister would benefit
by Massage?"

"I haven't a doubt of it, if you can get rid of the doctor."

"You think he would be an obstacle in the way?"

"There are some medical men who are honorable exceptions to the general
rule; and he may be one of them," Mrs. Tenbruggen admitted. "Don't be
too hopeful. As a doctor, he belongs to the most tyrannical trades-union
in existence. May I make a personal remark?"

"Certainly."

"I find something in your manner--pray don't suppose that I am
angry--which looks like distrust; I mean, distrust of me."

Miss Jillgall's ever ready kindness interfered in my defense: "Oh, no,
Elizabeth! You are not often mistaken; but indeed you are wrong now.
Look at my distinguished friend. I remember my copy book, when I was
a small creature learning to write, in England. There were first lines
that we copied, in big letters, and one of them said, 'Distrust Is
Mean.' I know a young person, whose name begins with H, who is one mass
of meanness. But"--excellent Selina paused, and pointed to me with a
gesture of triumph--"no meanness there!"

Mrs. Tenbruggen waited to hear what I had to say, scornfully insensible
to Miss Jillgall's well-meant interruption.

"You are not altogether mistaken," I told her. "I can't say that my mind
is in a state of distrust, but I own that you puzzle me."

"How, if you please?"

"May I presume that you remember the occasion when we met at Mr.
Gracedieu's house-door? You saw that I failed to recognize you, and
you refused to give your name when the servant asked for it. A few days
afterward, I heard you (quite accidentally) forbid Miss Jillgall to
mention your name in my hearing. I am at a loss to understand it."

Before she could answer me, the chaise drew up at the gate of the
farmhouse. Mrs. Tenbruggen carefully promised to explain what had
puzzled me, at the first opportunity. "If it escapes my memory," she
said, "pray remind me of it."

I determined to remind her of it. Whether I could depend on her to tell
me the truth, might be quite another thing.



CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DECISION OF EUNICE.

Eunice ran out to meet us, and opened the gate. She was instantly folded
in Miss Jillgall's arms. On her release, she came to me, eager for news
of her father's health. When I had communicated all that I thought
it right to tell her of the doctor's last report, she noticed Mrs.
Tenbruggen. The appearance of a stranger seemed to embarrass her. I left
Miss Jillgall to introduce them to each other.

"Darling Euneece, you remember Mrs. Tenbruggen's name, I am sure?
Elizabeth, this is my sweet girl; I mentioned her in my letters to you."

"I hope she will be _my_ sweet girl, when we know each other a little
better. May I kiss you, dear? You have lovely eyes; but I am sorry to
see that they don't look like happy eyes. You want Mamma Tenbruggen to
cheer you. What a charming old house!"

She put her arm round Eunice's waist and led her to the house door. Her
enjoyment of the creepers that twined their way up the pillars of the
porch was simply perfection as a piece of acting. When the farmer's wife
presented herself, Mrs. Tenbruggen was so irresistibly amiable, and took
such flattering notice of the children, that the harmless British matron
actually blushed with pleasure. "I'm sure, ma'am, you must have children
of your own," she said. Mrs. Tenbruggen cast her eyes on the floor, and
sighed with pathetic resignation. A sweet little family, and all cruelly
swept away by death. If the performance meant anything, it did most
assuredly mean that.

"What wonderful self-possession!" somebody whispered in my ear. The
children in the room were healthy, well-behaved little creatures--but
the name of the innocent one among them was Selina.

Before dinner we were shown over the farm.

The good woman of the house led the way, and Miss Jillgall and I
accompanied her. The children ran on in front of us. Still keeping
possession of Eunice, Mrs. Tenbruggen followed at some distance behind.
I looked back, after no very long interval, and saw that a separation
had taken place. Mrs. Tenbruggen passed me, not looking so pleasantly as
usual, joined the children, and walked with two of them, hand in hand, a
pattern of maternal amiability. I dropped back a little, and gave Eunice
an opportunity of joining me; having purposely left her to form her own
opinion, without any adverse influence exercised on my part.

"Is that lady a friend of yours?" she asked. "No; only an acquaintance.
What do you think of her?"

"I thought I should like her at first; she was so kind, and seemed to
take such an interest in me. But she said such strange things--asked if
I was reckoned like my mother, and which of us was the eldest, my sister
or myself, and whether we were my father's only two children, and if one
of us was more his favorite than the other. What I could tell her, I did
tell. But when I said I didn't know which of us was the oldest, she gave
me an impudent tap on the cheek, and said, 'I don't believe you, child,'
and left me. How can Selina be so fond of her? Don't mention it to any
one else; I hope I shall never see her again."

"I will keep your secret, Eunice; and you must keep mine. I entirely
agree with you."

"You agree with me in disliking her?"

"Heartily."

We could say no more at that time. Our friends in advance were waiting
for us. We joined them at once.

If I had felt any doubt of the purpose which had really induced Mrs.
Tenbruggen to leave London, all further uncertainty on my part was at an
end. She had some vile interest of her own to serve by identifying Mr.
Gracedieu's adopted child--but what the nature of that interest might
be, it was impossible to guess. The future, when I thought of it now,
filled me with dismay. A more utterly helpless position than mine it
was not easy to conceive. To warn the Minister, in his present critical
state of health, was simply impossible. My relations with Helena forbade
me even to approach her. And, as for Selina, she was little less than a
mere tool in the hands of her well-beloved friend. What, in God's name,
was I to do?

At dinner-time we found the master of the house waiting to bid us
welcome.

Personally speaking, he presented a remarkable contrast to the typical
British farmer. He was neither big nor burly; he spoke English as well
as I did; and there was nothing in his dress which would have made him a
fit subject for a picture of rustic life. When he spoke, he was able to
talk on subjects unconnected with agricultural pursuits; nor did I hear
him grumble about the weather and the crops. It was pleasant to see that
his wife was proud of him, and that he was, what all fathers ought to
be, his children's best and dearest friend. Why do I dwell on these
details, relating to a man whom I was not destined to see again? Only
because I had reason to feel grateful to him. When my spirits were
depressed by anxiety, he made my mind easy about Eunice, as long as she
remained in his house.

The social arrangements, when our meal was over, fell of themselves into
the right train.

Miss Jillgall went upstairs, with the mother and the children, to see
the nursery and the bedrooms. Mrs. Tenbruggen discovered a bond of
union between the farmer and herself; they were both skilled players at
backgammon, and they sat down to try conclusions at their favorite game.
Without any wearisome necessity for excuses or stratagems, Eunice took
my arm and led me to the welcome retirement of her own sitting-room.

I could honestly congratulate her, when I heard that she was established
at the farm as a member of the family. While she was governess to the
children, she was safe from dangers that might have threatened her,
if she had been compelled by circumstances to return to the Minister's
house.

The entry in her Journal, which she was anxious that I should read, was
placed before me next.

I followed the poor child's account of the fearful night that she had
passed, with an interest that held me breathless to the end. A terrible
dream, which had impressed a sense of its reality on the sleeper by
reaching its climax in somnambulism--this was the obvious explanation,
no doubt; and a rational mind would not hesitate to accept it. But a
rational mind is not a universal gift, even in a country which prides
itself on the idol-worship of Fact. Those good friends who are always
better acquainted with our faults, failings, and weaknesses than we can
pretend to be ourselves, had long since discovered that my nature was
superstitious, and my imagination likely to mislead me in the presence
of events which encouraged it. Well! I was weak enough to recoil from
the purely rational view of all that Eunice had suffered, and heard, and
seen, on the fateful night recorded in her Journal. Good and Evil walk
the ways of this unintelligible world, on the same free conditions.
If we cling, as many of us do, to the comforting belief that departed
spirits can minister to earthly creatures for good--can be felt moving
in us, in a train of thought, and seen as visible manifestations, in a
dream--with what pretense of reason can we deny that the same freedom of
supernatural influence which is conceded to the departed spirit, working
for good, is also permitted to the departed spirit, working for evil?
If the grave cannot wholly part mother and child, when the mother's
life has been good, does eternal annihilation separate them, when the
mother's life has been wicked? No! If the departed spirit can bring with
it a blessing, the departed spirit can bring with it a curse. I dared
not confess to Eunice that the influence of her murderess-mother might,
as I thought possible, have been supernaturally present when she heard
temptation whispering in her ear; but I dared not deny it to myself.
All that I could say to satisfy and sustain her, I did say. And when I
declared--with my whole heart declared--that the noble passion which had
elevated her whole being, and had triumphed over the sorest trials that
desertion could inflict, would still triumph to the end, I saw hope, in
that brave and true heart, showing its bright promise for the future in
Eunice's eyes.

She closed and locked her Journal. By common consent we sought the
relief of changing the subject. Eunice asked me if it was really
necessary that I should return to London.

I shrank from telling her that I could be of no further use to her
father, while he regarded me with an enmity which I had not deserved.
But I saw no reason for concealing that it was my purpose to see Philip
Dunboyne.

"You told me yesterday," I reminded her, "that I was to say you had
forgiven him. Do you still wish me to do that?"

"Indeed I do!"

"Have you thought of it seriously? Are you sure of not having been
hurried by a generous impulse into saying more than you mean?"

"I have been thinking of it," she said, "through the wakeful hours of
last night--and many things are plain to me, which I was not sure of in
the time when I was so happy. He has caused me the bitterest sorrow of
my life, but he can't undo the good that I owe to him. He has made a
better girl of me, in the time when his love was mine. I don't forget
that. Miserably as it has ended, I don't forget that."

Her voice trembled; the tears rose in her eyes. It was impossible for
me to conceal the distress that I felt. The noble creature saw it. "No,"
she said faintly; "I am not going to cry. Don't look so sorry for me."
Her hand pressed my hand gently--_she_ pitied _me_. When I saw how she
struggled to control herself, and did control herself, I declare to God
I could have gone down on my knees before her.

She asked to be allowed to speak of Philip again, and for the last time.

"When you meet with him in London, he may perhaps ask if you have seen
Eunice."

"My child! he is sure to ask."

"Break it to him gently--but don't let him deceive himself. In this
world, he must never hope to see me again."

I tried--very gently--to remonstrate. "At your age, and at his age," I
said, "surely there is hope?"

"There is no hope." She pressed her hand on her heart. "I know it, I
feel it, here."

"Oh, Eunice, it's hard for me to say that!"

"I will try to make it easier for you. Say that I have forgiven him--and
say no more."



CHAPTER XLIX. THE GOVERNOR ON HIS GUARD.

After leaving Eunice, my one desire was to be alone. I had much to think
of, and I wanted an opportunity of recovering myself. On my way out of
the house, in search of the first solitary place that I could discover,
I passed the room in which we had dined. The door was ajar. Before I
could get by it, Mrs. Tenbruggen stepped out and stopped me.

"Will you come in here for a moment?" she said. "The farmer has been
called away, and I want to speak to you."

Very unwillingly--but how could I have refused without giving
offense?--I entered the room.

"When you noticed my keeping my name from you," Mrs. Tenbruggen began,
"while Selina was with us, you placed me in an awkward position. Our
little friend is an excellent creature, but her tongue runs away with
her sometimes; I am obliged to be careful of taking her too readily
into my confidence. For instance, I have never told her what my name was
before I married. Won't you sit down?"

I had purposely remained standing as a hint to her not to prolong the
interview. The hint was thrown away; I took a chair.

"Selina's letters had informed me," she resumed, "that Mr. Gracedieu
was a nervous invalid. When I came to England, I had hoped to try what
massage might do to relieve him. The cure of their popular preacher
might have advertised me through the whole of the Congregational
sect. It was essential to my success that I should present myself as a
stranger. I could trust time and change, and my married name (certainly
not known to Mr. Gracedieu) to keep up my incognito. He would have
refused to see me if he had known that I was once Miss Chance."

I began to be interested.

Here was an opportunity, perhaps, of discovering what the Minister had
failed to remember when he had been speaking of this woman, and when
I had asked if he had ever offended her. I was especially careful in
making my inquiries.

"I remember how you spoke to Mr. Gracedieu," I said, "when you and he
met, long ago, in my rooms. But surely you don't think him capable
of vindictively remembering some thoughtless words, which escaped you
sixteen or seventeen years since?"

"I am not quite such a fool as that, Mr. Governor. What I was thinking
of was an unpleasant correspondence between the Minister and myself.
Before I was so unfortunate as to meet with Mr. Tenbruggen, I obtained
a chance of employment in a public Institution, on condition that I
included a clergyman among my references. Knowing nobody else whom I
could apply to, I rashly wrote to Mr. Gracedieu, and received one
of those cold and cruel refusals which only the strictest religious
principle can produce. I was mortally offended at the time; and if your
friend the Minister had been within my reach--" She paused, and finished
the sentence by a significant gesture.

"Well," I said, "he is within your reach now."

"And out of his mind," she added. "Besides, one's sense of injury
doesn't last (except in novels and plays) through a series of years. I
don't pity him--and if an opportunity of shaking his high position among
his admiring congregation presented itself, I daresay I might make a
mischievous return for his letter to me. In the meanwhile, we may drop
the subject. I suppose you understand, now, why I concealed my name from
you, and why I kept out of the house while you were in it."

It was plain enough, of course. If I had known her again, or had heard
her name, I might have told the Minister that Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss
Chance were one and the same. And if I had seen her and talked with her
in the house, my memory might have shown itself capable of improvement.
Having politely presented the expression of my thanks, I rose to go.

She stopped me at the door.

"One word more," she said, "while Selina is out of the way. I need
hardly tell you that I have not trusted her with the Minister's secret.
You and I are, as I take it, the only people now living who know the
truth about these two girls. And we keep our advantage."

"What advantage?" I asked.

"Don't you know?"

"I don't indeed."

"No more do I. Female folly, and a slip of the tongue; I am old and
ugly, but I am still a woman. About Miss Eunice. Somebody has told the
pretty little fool never to trust strangers. You would have been amused,
if you had heard that sly young person prevaricating with me. In one
respect, her appearance strikes me. She is not like either the wretch
who was hanged, or the poor victim who was murdered. Can she be the
adopted child? Or is it the other sister, whom I have not seen yet? Oh,
come! come! Don't try to look as if you didn't know. That is really too
ridiculous."

"You alluded just now," I answered, "to our 'advantage' in being
the only persons who know the truth about the two girls. Well, Mrs.
Tenbruggen, I keep _my_ advantage."

"In other words," she rejoined, "you leave me to make the discovery
myself. Well, my friend, I mean to do it!"

.......

In the evening, my hotel offered to me the refuge of which I stood in
need. I could think, for the first time that day, without interruption.

Being resolved to see Philip, I prepared myself for the interview by
consulting my extracts once more. The letter, in which Mrs. Tenbruggen
figures, inspired me with the hope of protection for Mr. Gracedieu,
attainable through no less a person than Helena herself.

To begin with, she would certainly share Philip's aversion to the
Masseuse, and her dislike of Miss Jillgall would, just as possibly,
extend to Miss Jillgall's friend. The hostile feeling thus set up
might be trusted to keep watch on Mrs. Tenbruggen's proceedings, with
a vigilance not attainable by the coarser observation of a man. In the
event, of an improvement in the Minister's health, I should hear of it
both from the doctor and from Miss Jillgall, and in that case I should
instantly return to my unhappy friend and put him on his guard.

I started for London by the early train in the morning.

My way home from the terminus took me past the hotel at which the
elder Mr. Dunboyne was staying. I called on him. He was reported to be
engaged; that is to say, immersed in his books. The address on one of
Philip's letters had informed me that he was staying at another
hotel. Pursuing my inquiries in this direction, I met with a severe
disappointment. Mr. Philip Dunboyne had left the hotel that morning; for
what destination neither the landlord nor the waiter could tell me.

The next day's post brought with it the information which I had failed
to obtain. Miss Jillgall wrote, informing me in her strongest language
that Philip Dunboyne had returned to Helena. Indignant Selina added:
"Helena means to make him marry her; and I promise you she shall fail,
if I can stop it."

In taking leave of Eunice, I had given her my address; had warned her to
be careful, if she and Mrs. Tenbruggen happened to meet again, and had
begged her to write to me, or to come to me, if anything happened to
alarm her in my absence.

In two days more, I received a line from Eunice, written evidently in
the greatest agitation.

"Philip has discovered me. He has been here, and has insisted on seeing
me. I have refused. The good farmer has so kindly taken my part. I can
write no more."



CHAPTER L. THE NEWS FROM THE FARM.

When I next heard from Miss Jillgall, the introductory part of her
letter merely reminded me that Philip Dunboyne was established in the
town, and that Helena was in daily communication with him. I shall do
Selina no injustice if my extract begins with her second page.

"You will sympathize, I am sure" (she writes), "with the indignation
which urged me to call on Philip, and tell him the way to the farmhouse.
Think of Helena being determined to marry him, whether he wants to or
not! I am afraid this is bad grammar. But there are occasions when even
a cultivated lady fails in her grammar, and almost envies the men their
privilege of swearing when they are in a rage. My state of mind is truly
indescribable. Grief mingles with anger, when I tell you that my
sweet Euneece has disappointed me, for the first time since I had the
happiness of knowing and admiring her. What can have been the motive of
her refusal to receive her penitent lover? Is it pride? We are told that
Satan fell through pride. Euneece satanic? Impossible! I feel inclined
to go and ask her what has hardened her heart against a poor young man
who bitterly regrets his own folly. Do you think it was bad advice from
the farmer or his wife? In that case, I shall exert my influence, and
take her away. You would do the same, wouldn't you?

"I am ashamed to mention the poor dear Minister in a postscript. The
truth is, I don't very well know what I am about. Mr. Gracedieu is
quiet, sleeps better than he did, eats with a keener appetite, gives no
trouble. But, alas, that glorious intellect is in a state of eclipse! Do
not suppose, because I write figuratively, that I am not sorry for him.
He understands nothing; he remembers nothing; he has my prayers.

"You might come to us again, if you would only be so kind. It would make
no difference now; the poor man is so sadly altered. I must add, most
reluctantly, that the doctor recommends your staying at home. Between
ourselves, he is little better than a coward. Fancy his saying; 'No; we
must not run that risk yet.' I am barely civil to him, and no more.

"In any other affair (excuse me for troubling you with a second
postscript), my sympathy with Euneece would have penetrated her motives;
I should have felt with her feelings. But I have never been in love;
no gentleman gave me the opportunity when I was young. Now I am
middle-aged, neglect has done its dreary work--my heart is an extinct
crater. Figurative again! I had better put my pen away, and say farewell
for the present."

Miss Jillgall may now give place to Eunice. The same day's post brought
me both letters.

I should be unworthy indeed of the trust which this affectionate girl
has placed in me, if I failed to receive her explanation of her conduct
toward Philip Dunboyne, as a sacred secret confided to my fatherly
regard. In those later portions of her letter, which are not addressed
to me confidentially, Eunice writes as follows:


"I get news--and what heartbreaking news!--of my father, by sending
a messenger to Selina. It is more than ever impossible that I can put
myself in the way of seeing Helena again. She has written to me
about Philip, in a tone so shockingly insolent and cruel, that I have
destroyed her letter. Philip's visit to the farm, discovered I don't
know how, seems to have infuriated her. She accuses me of doing all
that she might herself have done in my place, and threatens me--No! I am
afraid of the wicked whisperings of that second self of mine if I think
of it. They were near to tempting me when I read Helena's letter. But
I thought of what you said, after I had shown you my Journal; and your
words took my memory back to the days when I was happy with Philip. The
trial and the terror passed away.

"Consolation has come to me from the best of good women. Mrs. Staveley
writes as lovingly as my mother might have written, if death had spared
her. I have replied with all the gratitude that I really feel, but
without taking advantage of the services which she offers. Mrs. Staveley
has it in her mind, as you had it in your mind, to bring Philip back to
me. Does she forget, do you forget, that Helena claims him? But you both
mean kindly, and I love you both for the interest that you feel in me.

"The farmer's wife--dear good soul!--hardly understands me so well as
her husband does. She confesses to pitying Philip. 'He is so wretched,'
she says. 'And, dear heart, how handsome, and what nice, winning
manners! I don't think I should have had your courage, in your place. To
tell the truth, I should have jumped for joy when I saw him at the door;
and I should have run down to let him in--and perhaps been sorry for it
afterward. If you really wish to forget him, my dear, I will do all I
can to help you.'

"These are trifling things to mention, but I am afraid you may think I
am unhappy--and I want to prevent that.

"I have so much to be thankful for, and the children are so fond of me.
Whether I teach them as well as I might have done, if I had been a more
learned girl, may perhaps be doubtful. They do more for their governess,
I am afraid, than their governess does for them. When they come into my
room in the morning, and rouse me with their kisses, the hour of waking,
which used to be so hard to endure after Philip left me, is now the
happiest hour of my day."


With that reassuring view of her life as a governess, the poor child's
letter comes to an end.



CHAPTER LI. THE TRIUMPH OF MRS. TENBRUGGEN.

Miss Jillgall appears again, after an interval, on the field of my
extracts. My pleasant friend deserves this time a serious reception. She
informs me that Mrs. Tenbruggen has begun the inquiries which I have the
best reason to dread--for I alone know the end which they are designed
to reach.

The arrival of this news affected me in two different ways.

It was discouraging to find that circumstances had not justified my
reliance on Helena's enmity as a counter-influence to Mrs. Tenbruggen.
On the other hand, it was a relief to be assured that my return to
London would serve, rather than compromise, the interests which it was
my chief anxiety to defend. I had foreseen that Mrs. Tenbruggen would
wait to set her enterprise on foot, until I was out of her way; and I
had calculated on my absence as an event which would at least put an end
to suspense by encouraging her to begin.

The first sentences in Miss Jillgall's letter explain the nature of her
interest in the proceedings of her friend, and are, on that account,
worth reading.

"Things are sadly changed for the worse" (Selina writes); "but I don't
forget that Philip was once engaged to Euneece, and that Mr. Gracedieu's
extraordinary conduct toward him puzzled us all. The mode of discovery
which dear Elizabeth suggested by letter, at that time, appears to be
the mode which she is following now. When I asked why, she said: 'Philip
may return to Euneece; the Minister may recover--and will be all the
more likely to do so if he tries Massage. In that case, he will probably
repeat the conduct which surprised you; and your natural curiosity will
ask me again to find out what it means. Am I your friend, Selina, or am
I not?' This was so delightfully kind, and so irresistibly conclusive,
that I kissed her in a transport of gratitude. With what breathless
interest I have watched her progress toward penetrating the mystery of
the girls' ages, it is quite needless to tell you."

.......

Mrs. Tenbruggen's method of keeping Miss Jillgall in ignorance of what
she was really about, and Miss Jillgall's admirable confidence in the
integrity of Mrs. Tenbruggen, being now set forth on the best authority,
an exact presentation of the state of affairs will be completed if I
add a word more, relating to the positions actually occupied toward Mrs.
Tenbruggen's enterprise, by my correspondent and myself.

On her side, Miss Jillgall was entirely ignorant that one of the two
girls was not Mr. Gracedieu's daughter, but his adopted child. On
my side, I was entirely ignorant of Mrs. Tenbruggen's purpose in
endeavoring to identify the daughter of the murderess. Speaking of
myself, individually, let me add that I only waited the event to protect
the helpless ones--my poor demented friend, and the orphan whom his
mercy received into his heart and his home.

Miss Jillgall goes on with her curious story, as follows:

.......

"Always desirous of making myself useful, I thought I would give my dear
Elizabeth a hint which might save time and trouble. 'Why not begin,' I
suggested, 'by asking the Governor to help you?' That wonderful woman
never forgets anything. She had already applied to you, without success.

"In my next attempt to be useful, I did violence to my most cherished
convictions, by presenting the wretch Helena to the admirable Elizabeth.
That the former would be cold as ice, in her reception of any friend
of mine, was nothing wonderful. Mrs. Tenbruggen passed it over with
the graceful composure of a woman of the world. In the course of
conversation with Helena, she slipped in a question: 'Might I ask if you
are older than your sister?' The answer was, of course: 'I don't know.'
And here, for once, the most deceitful girl in existence spoke the
truth.

"When we were alone again, Elizabeth made a remark: 'If personal
appearance could decide the question,' she said, 'the disagreeable young
woman is the oldest of the two. The next thing to be done is to discover
if looks are to be trusted in this case.'

"My friend's lawyer received confidential instructions (not shown to me,
which seems rather hard) to trace the two Miss Gracedieus' registers of
birth. Elizabeth described this proceeding (not very intelligibly to my
mind) as a means of finding out which of the girls could be identified
by name as the elder of the two.

"The report arrived this morning. I was only informed that the result,
in one case, had entirely defeated the inquiries. In the other case,
Elizabeth had helped her agent by referring him to a Birth, advertised
in the customary columns of the _Times_ newspaper. Even here, there
was a fatal obstacle. The name of the place in which Mr. Gracedieu's
daughter had been born was not added, as usual. I still tried to be
useful. Had my friend known the Minister's wife? My friend had never
even seen the Minister's wife. And, as if by a fatality, her portrait
was no longer in existence. I could only mention that Helena was like
her mother. But Elizabeth seemed to attach very little importance to my
evidence, if I may call it by so grand a name. 'People have such strange
ideas about likenesses,' she said, 'and arrive at such contradictory
conclusions. One can only trust one's own eyes in a matter of that
kind.'

"My friend next asked me about our domestic establishment. We had only a
cook and a housemaid. If they were old servants who had known the girls
as children, they might be made of some use. Our luck was as steadily
against us as ever. They had both been engaged when Mr. Gracedieu
assumed his new pastoral duties, after having resided with his wife at
her native place.

"I asked Elizabeth what she proposed to do next.

"She deferred her answer, until I had first told her whether the visit
of the doctor might be expected on that day. I could reply to this in
the negative. Elizabeth, thereupon, made a startling request; she begged
me to introduce her to Mr. Gracedieu.

"I said: 'Surely, you have forgotten the sad state of his mind?' No;
she knew perfectly well that he was imbecile. 'I want to try,' she
explained, 'if I can rouse him for a few minutes.'

"'By Massage?' I inquired.

"She burst out laughing. 'Massage, my dear, doesn't act in that way. It
is an elaborate process, pursued patiently for weeks together. But my
hands have more than one accomplishment at their finger-ends. Oh, make
your mind easy! I shall do no harm, if I do no good. Take me, Selina, to
the Minister.'

"We went to his room. Don't blame me for giving way; I am too fond of
Elizabeth to be able to disappoint her.

"It was a sad sight when we went in. He was quite happy, playing like
a child, at cup-and-ball. The attendant retired at my request. I
introduced Mrs. Tenbruggen. He smiled and shook hands with her. He said:
'Are you a Christian or a Pagan? You are very pretty. How many times can
you catch the ball in the cup?' The effort to talk to her ended there.
He went on with his game, and seemed to forget that there was anybody in
the room. It made my heart ache to remember what he was--and to see him
now.

"Elizabeth whispered: 'Leave me alone with him.'

"I don't know why I did such a rude thing--I hesitated.

"Elizabeth asked me if I had no confidence in her. I was ashamed of
myself; I left them together.

"A long half-hour passed. Feeling a little uneasy, I went upstairs
again and looked into the room. He was leaning back in his chair; his
plaything was on the floor, and he was looking vacantly at the light
that came in through the window. I found Mrs. Tenbruggen at the other
end of the room, in the act of ringing the bell. Nothing in the least
out of the ordinary way seemed to have happened. When the attendant
had answered the bell, we left the room together. Mr. Gracedieu took no
notice of us.

"'Well,' I said, 'how has it ended?'

"Quite calmly my noble Elizabeth answered: 'In total failure.'

"'What did you say to him after you sent me away?'

"'I tried, in every possible way, to get him to tell me which of his two
daughters was the oldest.'

"'Did he refuse to answer?'

"'He was only too ready to answer. First, he said Helena was the
oldest--then he corrected himself, and declared that Eunice was the
oldest--then he said they were twins--then he went back to Helena and
Eunice. Now one was the oldest, and now the other. He rang the changes
on those two names, I can't tell you how often, and seemed to think it a
better game than cup-and-ball.'

"'What is to be done?'

"'Nothing is to be done, Selina.'

"'What!' I cried, 'you give it up?'

"My heroic friend answered: 'I know when I am beaten, my dear--I give it
up.' She looked at her watch; it was time to operate on the muscles of
one of her patients. Away she went, on her glorious mission of Massage,
without a murmur of regret. What strength of mind! But, oh, dear, what
a disappointment for poor little me! On one thing I am determined. If
I find myself getting puzzled or frightened, I shall instantly write to
you."

With that expression of confidence in me, Selina's narrative came to an
end. I wish I could have believed, as she did, that the object of her
admiration had been telling her the truth.

A few days later, Mrs. Tenbruggen honored me with a visit at my house
in the neighborhood of London. Thanks to this circumstance, I am able to
add a postscript which will complete the revelations in Miss Jillgall's
letter.

The illustrious Masseuse, having much to conceal from her faithful
Selina, was well aware that she had only one thing to keep hidden from
me; namely, the advantage which she would have gained if her inquiries
had met with success.

"I thought I might have got at what I wanted," she told me, "by
mesmerizing our reverend friend. He is as weak as a woman; I threw him
into hysterics, and had to give it up, and quiet him, or he would have
alarmed the house. You look as if you don't believe in mesmerism."

"My looks, Mrs. Tenbruggen, exactly express my opinion. Mesmerism is a
humbug!"

"You amusing old Tory! Shall I throw you into a state of trance? No!
I'll give you a shock of another kind--a shock of surprise. I know as
much as you do about Mr. Gracedieu's daughters. What do you think of
that?"

"I think I should like to hear you tell me, which is the adopted child."

"Helena, to be sure!"

Her manner was defiant, her tone was positive; I doubted both. Under the
surface of her assumed confidence, I saw something which told me that
she was trying to read my thoughts in my face. Many other women had
tried to do that. They succeeded when I was young. When I had reached
the wrong side of fifty, my face had learned discretion, and they
failed.

"How did you arrive at your discovery?" I asked. "I know of nobody who
could have helped you."

"I helped myself, sir! I reasoned it out. A wonderful thing for a woman
to do, isn't it? I wonder whether you could follow the process?"

My reply to this was made by a bow. I was sure of my command over my
face; but perfect control of the voice is a rare power. Here and there,
a great actor or a great criminal possesses it.

Mrs. Tenbruggen's vanity took me into her confidence. "In the first
place," she said, "Helena is plainly the wicked one of the two. I was
not prejudiced by what Selina had told me of her: I saw it, and felt
it, before I had been five minutes in her company. If lying tongues ever
provoke her as lying tongues provoked her mother, she will follow her
mother's example. Very well. Now--in the second place--though it is
very slight, there is a certain something in her hair and her complexion
which reminds me of the murderess: there is no other resemblance,
I admit. In the third place, the girls' names point to the same
conclusion. Mr. Gracedieu is a Protestant and a Dissenter. Would he call
a child of his own by the name of a Roman Catholic saint? No! he would
prefer a name in the Bible; Eunice is _his_ child. And Helena was once
the baby whom I carried into the prison. Do you deny that?"

"I don't deny it."

Only four words! But they were deceitfully spoken, and the
deceit--practiced in Eunice's interest, it is needless to
say--succeeded. Mrs. Tenbruggen's object in visiting me was attained;
I had confirmed her belief in the delusion that Helena was the adopted
child.

She got up to take her leave. I asked if she proposed remaining in
London. No; she was returning to her country patients that night.

As I attended her to the house-door, she turned to me with her
mischievous smile. "I have taken some trouble in finding the clew to the
Minister's mystery," she said. "Don't you wonder why?"

"If I did wonder," I answered, "would you tell me why?"

She laughed at the bare idea of it. "Another lesson," she said, "to
assist a helpless man in studying the weaker sex. I have already shown
you that a woman can reason. Learn next that a woman can keep a secret.
Good-by. God bless you!"

Of the events which followed Mrs. Tenbruggen's visit it is not possible
for me, I am thankful to say, to speak from personal experience. Ought I
to conclude with an expression of repentance for the act of deception
to which I have already pleaded guilty? I don't know. Yes! the force of
circumstances does really compel me to say it, and say it seriously--I
declare, on my word of honor, I don't know.




Third period: 1876. _HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED._



CHAPTER LII. HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.

While my father remains in his present helpless condition, somebody must
assume a position of command in this house. There cannot be a moment's
doubt that I am the person to do it.

In my agitated state of mind, sometimes doubtful of Philip, sometimes
hopeful of him, I find Mrs. Tenbruggen simply unendurable. A female
doctor is, under any circumstances, a creature whom I detest. She is,
at her very best, a bad imitation of a man. The Medical Rubber is
worse than this; she is a bad imitation of a mountebank. Her grinning
good-humor, adopted no doubt to please the fools who are her patients,
and her impudent enjoyment of hearing herself talk, make me regret for
the first time in my life that I am a young lady. If I belonged to the
lowest order of the population, I might take the first stick I could
find, and enjoy the luxury of giving Mrs. Tenbruggen a good beating.

She literally haunts the house, encouraged, of course, by her wretched
little dupe, Miss Jillgall. Only this morning, I tried what a broad hint
would do toward suggesting that her visits had better come to an end.

"Really, Mrs. Tenbruggen," I said, "I must request Miss Jillgall to
moderate her selfish enjoyment of your company, for your own sake. Your
time is too valuable, in a professional sense, to be wasted on an
idle woman who has no sympathy with your patients, waiting for relief
perhaps, and waiting in vain."

She listened to this, all smiles and good-humor: "My dear, do you know
how I might answer you, if I was an ill-natured woman?"

"I have no curiosity to hear it, Mrs. Tenbruggen."

"I might ask you," she persisted, "to allow me to mind my own business.
But I am incapable of making an ungrateful return for the interest which
you take in my medical welfare. Let me venture to ask if you understand
the value of time."

"Are you going to say much more, Mrs. Tenbruggen?"

"I am going to make a sensible remark, my child. If you feel tired,
permit me--here is a chair. Father Time, dear Miss Gracedieu, has always
been a good friend of mine, because I know how to make the best use
of him. The author of the famous saying _Tempus fugit_ (you understand
Latin, of course) was, I take leave to think, an idle man. The more I
have to do, the readier Time is to wait for me. Let me impress this on
your mind by some interesting examples. The greatest conqueror of the
century--Napoleon--had time enough for everything. The greatest novelist
of the century--Sir Walter Scott--had time enough for everything. At my
humble distance, I imitate those illustrious men, and my patients never
complain of me."

"Have you done?" I asked.

"Yes, dear--for the present."

"You are a clever woman, Mrs. Tenbruggen and you know it. You have an
eloquent tongue, and you know it. But you are something else, which you
don't seem to be aware of. You are a Bore."

She burst out laughing, with the air of a woman who thoroughly enjoyed
a good joke. I looked back when I left the room, and saw the friend of
Father Time in the easy chair opening our newspaper.

This is a specimen of the customary encounter of our wits. I place it on
record in my Journal, to excuse myself _to_ myself. When she left us
at last, later in the day, I sent a letter after her to the hotel. Not
having kept a copy of it, let me present the substance, like a sermon,
under three heads: I begged to be excused for speaking plainly; I
declared that there was a total want of sympathy between us, on my side;
and I proposed that she should deprive me of future opportunities of
receiving her in this house. The reply arrived immediately in these
terms: "Your letter received, dear girl. I am not in the least angry;
partly because I am very fond of you, partly because I know that you
will ask me to come back again. P. S.: Philip sends his love."

This last piece of insolence was unquestionably a lie. Philip detests
her. They are both staying at the same hotel. But I happen to know that
he won't even look at her, if they meet by accident on the stairs.

People who can enjoy the melancholy spectacle of human nature in a state
of degradation would be at a loss which exhibition to prefer--an
ugly old maid in a rage, or an ugly old maid in tears. Miss Jillgall
presented herself in both characters when she heard what had happened.
To my mind, Mrs. Tenbruggen's bosom-friend is a creature not fit to be
seen or heard when she loses her temper. I only told her to leave
the room. To my great amusement, she shook her bony fist at me, and
expressed a frantic wish: "Oh, if I was rich enough to leave this wicked
house!" I wonder whether there is insanity (as well as poverty) in Miss
Jillgall's family?


Last night my mind was in a harassed state. Philip was, as usual, the
cause of it.

Perhaps I acted indiscreetly when I insisted on his leaving London, and
returning to this place. But what else could I have done? It was not
merely my interest, it was an act of downright necessity, to withdraw
him from the influence of his hateful father--whom I now regard as the
one serious obstacle to my marriage. There is no prospect of being rid
of Mr. Dunboyne the elder by his returning to Ireland. He is trying a
new remedy for his crippled hand--electricity. I wish it was lightning,
to kill him! If I had given that wicked old man the chance, I am firmly
convinced he would not have let a day pass without doing his best to
depreciate me in his son's estimation. Besides, there was the risk, if
I had allowed Philip to remain long away from me, of losing--no, while
I keep my beauty I cannot be in such danger as that--let me say, of
permitting time and absence to weaken my hold on him. However sullen and
silent he may be, when we meet--and I find him in that condition far too
often--I can, sooner or later, recall him to his brighter self. My eyes
preserve their charm, my talk can still amuse him, and, better even than
that, I feel the answering thrill in him, which tells me how precious my
kisses are--not too lavishly bestowed! But the time when I am obliged
to leave him to himself is the time that I dread. How do I know that
his thoughts are not wandering away to Eunice? He denies it; he declares
that he only went to the farmhouse to express his regret for his own
thoughtless conduct, and to offer her the brotherly regard due to the
sister of his promised wife. Can I believe it? Oh, what would I not give
to be able to believe it! How can I feel sure that her refusal to see
him was not a cunning device to make him long for another interview, and
plan perhaps in private to go back and try again. Marriage! Nothing will
quiet these frightful doubts of mine, nothing will reward me for all
that I have suffered, nothing will warm my heart with the delightful
sense of triumph over Eunice, but my marriage to Philip. And what does
he say, when I urge it on him?--yes, I have fallen as low as that, in
the despair which sometimes possesses me. He has his answer, always the
same, and always ready: "How are we to live? where is the money?" The
maddening part of it is that I cannot accuse him of raising objections
that don't exist. We are poorer than ever here, since my father's
illness--and Philip's allowance is barely enough to suffice him as a
single man. Oh, how I hate the rich!

It was useless to think of going to bed. How could I hope to sleep, with
my head throbbing, and my thoughts in this disturbed state? I put on my
comfortable dressing-gown, and sat down to try what reading would do to
quiet my mind.

I had borrowed the book from the Library, to which I have been a
subscriber in secret for some time past. It was an old volume, full
of what we should now call Gossip; relating strange adventures, and
scandalous incidents in family history which had been concealed from
public notice.

One of these last romances in real life caught a strong hold on my
interest.

It was a strange case of intended poisoning, which had never been
carried out. A young married lady of rank, whose name was concealed
under an initial letter, had suffered some unendurable wrong (which
was not mentioned) at the hands of her husband's mother. The wife
was described as a woman of strong passions, who had determined on a
terrible revenge by taking the life of her mother-in-law. There
were difficulties in the way of her committing the crime without an
accomplice to help her; and she decided on taking her maid, an elderly
woman, into her confidence. The poison was secretly obtained by this
person; and the safest manner of administering it was under discussion
between the mistress and the maid, when the door of the room was
suddenly opened. The husband, accompanied by his brother, rushed in, and
charged his wife with plotting the murder of his mother. The young lady
(she was only twenty-three) must have been a person of extraordinary
courage and resolution. She saw at once that her maid had betrayed her,
and, with astonishing presence of mind, she turned on the traitress,
and said to her husband: "There is the wretch who has been trying to
persuade me to poison your mother!" As it happened, the old lady's
temper was violent and overbearing; and the maid had complained of
being ill-treated by her, in the hearing of the other servants. The
circumstances made it impossible to decide which of the two was really
the guilty woman. The servant was sent away, and the husband and wife
separated soon afterward, under the excuse of incompatibility of
temper. Years passed; and the truth was only discovered by the death-bed
confession of the wife. A remarkable story, which has made such an
impression on me that I have written it in my Journal. I am not rich
enough to buy the book.


For the last two days, I have been confined to my room with a bad
feverish cold--caught, as I suppose, by sitting at an open window
reading my book till nearly three o'clock in the morning. I sent a note
to Philip, telling him of my illness. On the first day, he called to
inquire after me. On the second day, no visit, and no letter. Here is
the third day--and no news of him as yet. I am better, but not fit to go
out. Let me wait another hour, and, if that exertion of patience meets
with no reward, I shall send a note to the hotel. No news of Philip. I
have sent to the hotel. The servant has just returned, bringing me back
my note. The waiter informed her that Mr. Dunboyne had gone away to
London by the morning train. No apology or explanation left for me.

_Can_ he have deserted me? I am in such a frenzy of doubt and rage that
I can hardly write that horrible question. Is it possible--oh, I feel it
_is_ possible that he has gone away with Eunice. Do I know where to find
them? if I did know, what could I do? I feel as if I could kill them
both!



CHAPTER LIII. HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.

After the heat of my anger had cooled, I made two discoveries. One cost
me a fee to a messenger, and the other exposed me to the insolence of
a servant. I pay willingly in my purse and my pride, when the gain is
peace of mind. Through my messenger I ascertained that Eunice had never
left the farm. Through my own inquiries, answered by the waiter with an
impudent grin, I heard that Philip had left orders to have his room kept
for him. What misery our stupid housemaid might have spared me, if she
had thought of putting that question when I sent her to the hotel!

The rest of the day passed in vain speculations on Philip's motive for
this sudden departure. What poor weak creatures we are! I persuaded
myself to hope that anxiety for our marriage had urged him to make an
effort to touch the heart of his mean father. Shall I see him to-morrow?
And shall I have reason to be fonder of him than ever?


We met again to-day as usual. He has behaved infamously.

When I asked what had been his object in going to London, I was told
that it was "a matter of business." He made that idiotic excuse as
coolly as if he really thought I should believe it. I submitted in
silence, rather than mar his return to me by the disaster of a quarrel.
But this was an unlucky day. A harder trial of my self-control was still
to come. Without the slightest appearance of shame, Philip informed me
that he was charged with a message from Mrs. Tenbruggen! She wanted some
Irish lace, and would I be so good as to tell her which was the best
shop at which she could buy it?

Was he really in earnest? "You," I said, "who distrusted and detested
her--you are on friendly terms with that woman?"

He remonstrated with me. "My dear Helena, don't speak in that way
of Mrs. Tenbruggen. We have both been mistaken about her. That good
creature has forgiven the brutal manner in which I spoke to her, when
she was in attendance on my father. She was the first to propose that
we should shake hands and forget it. My darling, don't let all the good
feeling be on one side. You have no idea how kindly she speaks of you,
and how anxious she is to help us to be married. Come! come! meet her
half-way. Write down the name of the shop on my card, and I will take it
back to her."

Sheer amazement kept me silent: I let him go on. He was a mere child in
the hands of Mrs. Tenbruggen: she had only to determine to make a fool
of him, and she could do it.

But why did she do it? What advantage had she to gain by insinuating
herself in this way into his good opinion, evidently with the intention
of urging him to reconcile us to each other? How could we two poor young
people be of the smallest use to the fashionable Masseuse?

My silence began to irritate Philip. "I never knew before how obstinate
you could be," he said; "you seem to be doing your best--I can't imagine
why--to lower yourself in my estimation."

I held my tongue; I assumed my smile. It is all very well for men to
talk about the deceitfulness of women. What chance (I should like to ask
somebody who knows about it) do the men give us of making our lives with
them endurable, except by deceit! I gave way, of course, and wrote down
the address of the shop.

He was so pleased that he kissed me. Yes! the most fondly affectionate
kiss that he had given me, for weeks past, was my reward for submitting
to Mrs. Tenbruggen. She is old enough to be his mother, and almost as
ugly as Miss Jillgall--and she has made her interests his interests
already!


On the next day, I fully expected to receive a visit from Mrs.
Tenbruggen. She knew better than that. I only got a polite little note,
thanking me for the address, and adding an artless concession: "I earn
more money than I know what to do with; and I adore Irish lace."

The next day came, and still she was careful not to show herself too
eager for a personal reconciliation. A splendid nosegay was sent to me,
with another little note: "A tribute, dear Helena, offered by one of my
grateful patients. Too beautiful a present for an old woman like me.
I agree with the poet: 'Sweets to the sweet.' A charming thought of
Shakespeare's, is it not? I should like to verify the quotation. Would
you mind leaving the volume for me in the hall, if I call to-morrow?"

Well done, Mrs. Tenbruggen! She doesn't venture to intrude on Miss
Gracedieu in the drawing-room; she only wants to verify a quotation
in the hall. Oh, goddess of Humility (if there is such a person), how
becomingly you are dressed when your milliner is an artful old woman!

While this reflection was passing through my mind, Miss Jillgall came
in--saw the nosegay on the table--and instantly pounced on it. "Oh, for
me! for me!" she cried. "I noticed it this morning on Elizabeth's table.
How very kind of her!" She plunged her inquisitive nose into the poor
flowers, and looked up sentimentally at the ceiling. "The perfume of
goodness," she remarked, "mingled with the perfume of flowers!" "When
you have quite done with it," I said, "perhaps you will be so good as
to return my nosegay?" "_Your_ nosegay!" she exclaimed. "There is Mrs.
Tenbruggen's letter," I replied, "if you would like to look at it."
She did look at it. All the bile in her body flew up into her eyes, and
turned them green; she looked as if she longed to scratch my face. I
gave the flowers afterward to Maria; Miss Jillgall's nose had completely
spoiled them.


It would have been too ridiculous to have allowed Mrs. Tenbruggen to
consult Shakespeare in the hall. I had the honor of receiving her in my
own room. We accomplished a touching reconciliation, and we quite forgot
Shakespeare.

She troubles me; she does indeed trouble me.

Having set herself entirely right with Philip, she is determined on
performing the same miracle with me. Her reform of herself is already
complete. Her vulgar humor was kept under strict restraint; she was
quiet and well-bred, and readier to listen than to talk. This change was
not presented abruptly. She contrived to express her friendly interests
in Philip and in me by hints dropped here and there, assisted in their
effort by answers on my part, into which I was tempted so skillfully
that I only discovered the snare set for me, on reflection. What is it,
I ask again, that she has in view in taking all this trouble? Where is
her motive for encouraging a love-affair, which Miss Jillgall must have
denounced to her as an abominable wrong inflicted on Eunice? Money (even
if there was a prospect of such a thing, in our case) cannot be her
object; it is quite true that her success sets her above pecuniary
anxiety. Spiteful feeling against Eunice is out of the question. They
have only met once; and her opinion was expressed to me with evident
sincerity: "Your sister is a nice girl, but she is like other nice
girls--she doesn't interest me." There is Eunice's character, drawn from
the life in few words. In what an irritating position do I find myself
placed! Never before have I felt so interested in trying to look into
a person's secret mind; and never before have I been so completely
baffled.

I had written as far as this, and was on the point of closing my
Journal, when a third note arrived from Mrs. Tenbruggen.

She had been thinking about me at intervals (she wrote) all through the
rest of the day; and, kindly as I had received her, she was conscious
of being the object of doubts on my part which her visit had failed to
remove. Might she ask leave to call on me, in the hope of improving her
position in my estimation? An appointment followed for the next day.

What can she have to say to me which she has not already said? Is it
anything about Philip, I wonder?



CHAPTER LIV. HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.

At our interview of the next day, Mrs. Tenbruggen's capacity for
self-reform appeared under a new aspect. She dropped all familiarity
with me, and she stated the object of her visit without a superfluous
word of explanation or apology.

I thought this a remarkable effort for a woman; and I recognized the
merit of it by leaving the lion's share of the talk to my visitor. In
these terms she opened her business with me:

"Has Mr. Philip Dunboyne told you why he went to London?"

"He made a commonplace excuse," I answered. "Business, he said, took him
to London. I know no more."

"You have a fair prospect of happiness, Miss Helena, when you are
married--your future husband is evidently afraid of you. I am not afraid
of you; and I shall confide to your private ear something which you have
an interest in knowing. The business which took young Mr. Dunboyne
to London was to consult a competent person, on a matter concerning
himself. The competent person is the sagacious (not to say sly) old
gentleman--whom we used to call the Governor. You know him, I believe?"

"Yes. But I am at a loss to imagine why Philip should have consulted
him."

"Have you ever heard or read, Miss Helena, of such a thing as 'an old
man's fancy'?"

"I think I have."

"Well, the Governor has taken an old man's fancy to your sister.
They appeared to understand each other perfectly when I was at the
farmhouse."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Tenbruggen, that is what I know already. Why did Philip
go to the Governor?"

She smiled. "If anybody is acquainted with the true state of your
sister's feelings, the Governor is the man. I sent Mr. Dunboyne to
consult him--and there is the reason for it."

This open avowal of her motives perplexed and offended me. After
declaring herself to be interested in my marriage-engagement had she
changed her mind, and resolved on favoring Philip's return to Eunice?
What right had he to consult anybody about the state of that girl's
feelings? _My_ feelings form the only subject of inquiry that was
properly open to him. I should have said something which I might have
afterward regretted, if Mrs. Tenbruggen had allowed me the opportunity.
Fortunately for both of us, she went on with her narrative of her own
proceedings.

"Philip Dunboyne is an excellent fellow," she continued; "I really like
him--but he has his faults. He sadly wants strength of purpose; and,
like weak men in general, he only knows his own mind when a resolute
friend takes him in hand and guides him. I am his resolute friend. I
saw him veering about between you and Eunice; and I decided for
his sake--may I say for your sake also?--on putting an end to that
mischievous state of indecision. You have the claim on him; you are the
right wife for him, and the Governor was (as I thought likely from what
I had myself observed) the man to make him see it. I am not in anybody's
secrets; it was pure guesswork on my part, and it has succeeded. There
is no more doubt now about Miss Eunice's sentiments. The question is
settled."

"In my favor?"

"Certainly in your favor--or I should not have said a word about it."

"Was Philip's visit kindly received? Or did the old wretch laugh at
him?"

"My dear Miss Gracedieu, the old wretch is a man of the world, and never
makes mistakes of that sort. Before he could open his lips, he had
to satisfy himself that your lover deserved to be taken into his
confidence, on the delicate subject of Eunice's sentiments. He arrived
at a favorable conclusion. I can repeat Philip's questions and
the Governor's answers after putting the young man through a stiff
examination just as they passed: 'May I inquire, sir, if she has spoken
to you about me?' 'She has often spoken about you.' 'Did she seem to be
angry with me?' 'She is too good and too sweet to be angry with you.'
'Do you think she will forgive me?' 'She has forgiven you.' 'Did she say
so herself?' 'Yes, of her own free will.' 'Why did she refuse to see
me when I called at the farm?' 'She had her own reasons--good reasons.'
'Has she regretted it since?' 'Certainly not.' 'Is it likely that she
would consent, if I proposed a reconciliation?' 'I put that question to
her myself.' 'How did she take it, sir?' 'She declined to take it.' 'You
mean that she declined a reconciliation?' 'Yes.' 'Are you sure she was
in earnest?' 'I am positively sure.' That last answer seems, by young
Dunboyne's own confession, to have been enough, and more than enough for
him. He got up to go--and then an odd thing happened. After giving him
the most unfavorable answers, the Governor patted him paternally on
the shoulder, and encouraged him to hope. 'Before we say good-by,
Mr. Philip, one word more. If I was as young as you are, I should not
despair.' There is a sudden change of front! Who can explain it?"

The Governor's mischievous resolution to reconcile Philip and Eunice
explained it, of course. With the best intentions (perhaps) Mrs.
Tenbruggen had helped that design by bringing the two men together. "Go
on," I said; "I am prepared to hear next that Philip has paid another
visit to my sister, and has been received this time."

I must say this for Mrs. Tenbruggen: she kept her temper perfectly.

"He has not been to the farm," she said, "but he has done something
nearly as foolish. He has written to your sister."

"And he has received a favorable reply, of course?"

She put her hand into the pocket of her dress.

"There is your sister's reply," she said.

Any persons who have had a crushing burden lifted, unexpectedly and
instantly, from off their minds, will know what I felt when I read the
reply. In the most positive language, Eunice refused to correspond with
Philip, or to speak with him. The concluding words proved that she was
in earnest. "You are engaged to Helena. Consider me as a stranger until
you are married. After that time you will be my brother-in-law, and then
I may pardon you for writing to me."

Nobody who knows Eunice would have supposed that she possessed those
two valuable qualities--common-sense and proper pride. It is pleasant
to feel that I can now send cards to my sister, when I am Mrs. Philip
Dunboyne.

I returned the letter to Mrs. Tenbruggen, with the sincerest expressions
of regret for having doubted her. "I have been unworthy of your generous
interest in me," I said; "I am almost ashamed to offer you my hand."

She took my hand, and gave it a good, heady shake.

"Are we friends?" she asked, in the simplest and prettiest manner.
"Then let us be easy and pleasant again," she went on. "Will you call
me Elizabeth; and shall I call you Helena? Very well. Now I have got
something else to say; another secret which must be kept from Philip
(I call _him_ by his name now, you see) for a few days more. Your
happiness, my dear, must not depend on his miserly old father. He must
have a little income of his own to marry on. Among the hundreds of
unfortunate wretches whom I have relieved from torture of mind and body,
there is a grateful minority. Small! small! but there they are. I have
influence among powerful people; and I am trying to make Philip private
secretary to a member of Parliament. When I have succeeded, you shall
tell him the good news."

What a vile humor I must have been in, at the time, not to have
appreciated the delightful gayety of this good creature; I went to the
other extreme now, and behaved like a gushing young miss fresh from
school. I kissed her.

She burst out laughing. "What a sacrifice!" she cried. "A kiss for me,
which ought to have been kept for Philip! By-the-by, do you know what I
should do, Helena, in your place? I should take our handsome young man
away from that hotel!"

"I will do anything that you advise," I said.

"And you will do well, my child. In the first place, the hotel is too
expensive for Philip's small means. In the second place, two of the
chambermaids have audaciously presumed to be charming girls; and
the men, my dear--well! well! I will leave you to find that out for
yourself. In the third place, you want to have Philip under your own
wing; domestic familiarity will make him fonder of you than ever. Keep
him out of the sort of company that he meets with in the billiard-room
and the smoking-room. You have got a spare bed here, I know, and your
poor father is in no condition to use his authority. Make Philip one of
the family."

This last piece of advice staggered me. I mentioned the Proprieties.
Mrs. Tenbruggen laughed at the Proprieties.

"Make Selina of some use," she suggested. "While you have got _her_ in
the house, Propriety is rampant. Why condemn poor helpless Philip to
cheap lodgings? Time enough to cast him out to the feather-bed and the
fleas on the night before your marriage. Besides, I shall be in and out
constantly--for I mean to cure your father. The tongue of scandal is
silent in my awful presence; an atmosphere of virtue surrounds Mamma
Tenbruggen. Think of it."



CHAPTER LV. HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.

I did think of it. Philip came to us, and lived in our house.

Let me hasten to add that the protest of Propriety was duly entered,
on the day before my promised husband arrived. Standing in the
doorway--nothing would induce her to take a chair, or even to enter the
room--Miss Jillgall delivered her opinion on Philip's approaching
visit. Mrs. Tenbruggen reported it in her pocket-book, as if she was
representing a newspaper at a public meeting. Here it is, copied from
her notes:

"Miss Helena Gracedieu, my first impulse under the present disgusting
circumstances was to leave the house, and earn a bare crust in the
cheapest garret I could find in the town. But my grateful heart
remembers Mr. Gracedieu. My poor afflicted cousin was good to me when
I was helpless. I cannot forsake him when _he_ is helpless. At whatever
sacrifice of my own self-respect, I remain under this roof, so dear to
me for the Minister's sake. I notice, miss, that you smile. I see my
once dear Elizabeth, the friend who has so bitterly disappointed
me--" she stopped, and put her handkerchief to her eyes, and went on
again--"the friend who has so bitterly disappointed me, taking satirical
notes of what I say. I am not ashamed of what I say. The virtue which
will not stretch a little, where the motive is good, is feeble virtue
indeed. I shall stay in the house, and witness horrors, and rise
superior to them. Good-morning, Miss Gracedieu. Good-morning,
Elizabeth." She performed a magnificent curtsey, and (as Mrs.
Tenbruggen's experience of the stage informed me) made a very creditable
exit.


A week has passed, and I have not opened my Diary.

My days have glided away in one delicious flow of happiness. Philip has
been delightfully devoted to me. His fervent courtship, far exceeding
any similar attentions which he may once have paid to Eunice, has
shown such variety and such steadfastness of worship, that I despair
of describing it. My enjoyment of my new life is to be felt--not to be
coldly considered, and reduced to an imperfect statement in words.

For the first time I feel capable, if the circumstances encouraged me,
of acts of exalted virtue. For instance, I could save my country if
my country was worth it. I could die a martyr to religion if I had a
religion. In one word, I am exceedingly well satisfied with myself.
The little disappointments of life pass over me harmless. I do not
even regret the failure of good Mrs. Tenbruggen's efforts to find an
employment for Philip, worthy of his abilities and accomplishments.
The member of Parliament to whom she had applied has chosen a secretary
possessed of political influence. That is the excuse put forward in his
letter to Mrs. Tenbruggen. Wretched corrupt creature! If he was worth a
thought I should pity him. He has lost Philip's services.


Three days more have slipped by. The aspect of my heaven on earth is
beginning to alter.

Perhaps the author of that wonderful French novel, "L'Ame Damne'e," is
right when he tells us that human happiness is misery in masquerade. It
would be wrong to say that I am miserable. But I may be on the way to
it; I am anxious.

To-day, when he did not know that I was observing him, I discovered a
preoccupied look in Philip's eyes. He laughed when I asked if anything
had happened to vex him. Was it a natural laugh? He put his arm round
me and kissed me. Was it done mechanically? I daresay I am out of humor
myself. I think I had a little headache. Morbid, probably. I won't think
of it any more.

It has occurred to me this morning that he may dislike being left by
himself, while I am engaged in my household affairs. If this is the
case, intensely as I hate her, utterly as I loathe the idea of putting
her in command over my domestic dominions, I shall ask Miss Jillgall to
take my place as housekeeper.

I was away to-day in the kitchen regions rather longer than usual. When
I had done with my worries, Philip was not to be found. Maria, looking
out of one of the bedroom windows instead of doing her work, had seen
Mr. Dunboyne leave the house. It was possible that he had charged Miss
Jillgall with a message for me. I asked if she was in her room. No; she,
too, had gone out. It was a fine day, and Philip had no doubt taken a
stroll--but he might have waited till I could join him. There were some
orders to be given to the butcher and the green-grocer. I, too, left the
house, hoping to get rid of some little discontent, caused by thinking
of what had happened. Returning by the way of High Street--I declare
I can hardly believe it even now--I did positively see Miss Jillgall
coming out of a pawnbroker's shop!

The direction in which she turned prevented her from seeing me. She was
quite unaware that I had discovered her; and I have said nothing about
it since. But I noticed something unusual in the manner in which her
watch-chain was hanging, and I asked her what o'clock it was. She said,
"You have got your own watch." I told her my watch had stopped. "So
has mine," she said. There is no doubt about it now; she has pawned her
watch. What for? She lives here for nothing, and she has not had a new
dress since I have known her. Why does she want money?

Philip had not returned when I got home. Another mysterious journey to
London? No. After an absence of more than two hours, he came back.

Naturally enough, I asked what he had been about. He had been taking a
long walk. For his health's sake? No: to think. To think of what? Well,
I might be surprised to hear it, but his idle life was beginning
to weigh on his spirits; he wanted employment. Had he thought of an
employment? Not yet. Which way had he walked? Anyway: he had not noticed
where he went. These replies were all made in a tone that offended me.
Besides, I observed there was no dust on his boots (after a week of dry
weather), and his walk of two hours did not appear to have heated or
tired him. I took an opportunity of consulting Mrs. Tenbruggen.

She had anticipated that I should appeal to her opinion, as a woman of
the world.

I shall not set down in detail what she said. Some of it humiliated me;
and from some of it I recoiled. The expression of her opinion came to
this. In the absence of experience, a certain fervor of temperament
was essential to success in the art of fascinating men. Either my
temperament was deficient, or my intellect overpowered it. It was
natural that I should suppose myself to be as susceptible to the tender
passion as the most excitable woman living. Delusion, my Helena, amiable
delusion! Had I ever observed or had any friend told me that my pretty
hands were cold hands? I had beautiful eyes, expressive of vivacity,
of intelligence, of every feminine charm, except the one inviting
charm that finds favor in the eyes of a man. She then entered into
particulars, which I don't deny showed a true interest in helping me.
I was ungrateful, sulky, self-opinionated. Dating from that day's talk
with Mrs. Tenbruggen, my new friendship began to show signs of having
caught a chill. But I did my best to follow her instructions--and
failed.

It is perhaps true that my temperament is overpowered by my intellect.
Or it is possibly truer still that the fire in my heart, when it warms
to love, is a fire that burns low. My belief is that I surprised Philip
instead of charming him. He responded to my advances, but I felt that it
was not done in earnest, not spontaneously. Had I any right to complain?
Was I in earnest? Was I spontaneous? We were making love to each
other under false pretenses. Oh, what a fool I was to ask for Mrs.
Tenbruggen's advice!

A humiliating doubt has come to me suddenly. Has his heart been
inclining to Eunice again? After such a letter as she has written to
him? Impossible!


Three events since yesterday, which I consider, trifling as they may be,
intimations of something wrong.

First, Miss Jillgall, who at one time was eager to take my place, has
refused to relieve me of my housekeeping duties. Secondly, Philip has
been absent again, on another long walk. Thirdly, when Philip returned,
depressed and sulky, I caught Miss Jillgall looking at him with interest
and pity visible in her skinny face. What do these things mean?


I am beginning to doubt everybody. Not one of them, Philip included,
cares for me--but I can frighten them, at any rate. Yesterday evening,
I dropped on the floor as suddenly as if I had been shot: a fit of some
sort. The doctor honestly declared that he was at a loss to account for
it. He would have laid me under an eternal obligation if he had failed
to bring me back to life again.

As it is, I am more clever than the doctor. What brought the fit on
is well known to me. Rage--furious, overpowering, deadly rage--was the
cause. I am now in the cold-blooded state, which can look back at the
event as composedly as if it had happened to some other girl. Suppose
that girl had let her sweetheart know how she loved him as she had never
let him know it before. Suppose she opened the door again the instant
after she had left the room, eager, poor wretch, to say once more, for
the fiftieth time, "My angel, I love you!" Suppose she found her angel
standing with his back toward her, so that his face was reflected in the
glass. And suppose she discovered in that face, so smiling and so sweet
when his head had rested on her bosom only the moment before, the most
hideous expression of disgust that features can betray. There could
be no doubt of it; I had made my poor offering of love to a man who
secretly loathed me. I wonder that I survived my sense of my own
degradation. Well! I am alive; and I know him in his true character at
last. Am I a woman who submits when an outrage is offered to her? What
will happen next? Who knows? I am in a fine humor. What I have just
written has set me laughing at myself. Helena Gracedieu has one merit at
least--she is a very amusing person.


I slept last night.

This morning, I am strong again, calm, wickedly capable of deceiving
Mr. Philip Dunboyne, as he has deceived me. He has not the faintest
suspicion that I have discovered him. I wish he had courage enough
to kill somebody. How I should enjoy hiring the nearest window to the
scaffold, and seeing him hanged!

Miss Jillgall is in better spirits than ever. She is going to take
a little holiday; and the cunning creature makes a mystery of it.
"Good-by, Miss Helena. I am going to stay for a day or two with a
friend." What friend? Who cares?


Last night, I was wakeful. In the darkness a daring idea came to me.
To-day, I have carried out the idea. Something has followed which is
well worth entering in my Diary.

I left the room at the usual hour for attending to my domestic affairs.
The obstinate cook did me a service; she was insolent; she wanted to
have her own way. I gave her her own way. In less than five minutes I
was on the watch in the pantry, which has a view of the house door. My
hat and my parasol were waiting for me on the table, in case of my going
out, too.

In a few minutes more, I heard the door opened. Mr. Philip Dunboyne
stepped out. He was going to take another of his long walks.

I followed him to the street in which the cabs stand. He hired the first
one on the rank, an open chaise; while I kept myself hidden in a shop
door.

The moment he started on his drive, I hired a closed cab. "Double your
fare," I said to the driver, "whatever it may be, if you follow that
chaise cleverly, and do what I tell you."

He nodded and winked at me. A wicked-looking old fellow; just the man I
wanted.

We followed the chaise.



CHAPTER LVI. HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.

When we had left the town behind us, the coachman began to drive more
slowly. In my ignorance, I asked what this change in the pace meant.
He pointed with his whip to the open road and to the chaise in the
distance.

"If we keep too near the gentleman, miss, he has only got to look back,
and he'll see we are following him. The safe thing to do is to let the
chaise get on a bit. We can't lose sight of it, out here."

I had felt inclined to trust in the driver's experience, and he had
already justified my confidence in him. This encouraged me to consult
his opinion on a matter of some importance to my present interests. I
could see the necessity of avoiding discovery when we had followed the
chaise to its destination; but I was totally at a loss to know how it
could be done. My wily old man was ready with his advice the moment I
asked for it.

"Wherever the chaise stops, miss, we must drive past it as if we were
going somewhere else. I shall notice the place while we go by; and you
will please sit back in the corner of the cab so that the gentleman
can't see you."

"Well," I said, "and what next?"

"Next, miss, I shall pull up, wherever it may be, out of sight of the
driver of the chaise. He bears an excellent character, I don't deny it;
but I've known him for years--and we had better not trust him. I shall
tell you where the gentleman stopped; and you will go back to the place
(on foot, of course), and see for yourself what's to be done, specially
if there happens to be a lady in the case. No offense, miss; it's in my
experience that there's generally a lady in the case. Anyhow, you can
judge for yourself, and you'll know where to find me waiting when you
want me again."

"Suppose something happens," I suggested, "that we don't expect?"

"I shan't lose my head, miss, whatever happens."

"All very well, coachman; but I have only your word for it." In the
irritable state of my mind, the man's confident way of thinking annoyed
me.

"Begging your pardon, my young lady, you've got (if I may say so) what
they call a guarantee. When I was a young man, I drove a cab in London
for ten years. Will that do?"

"I suppose you mean," I answered, "that you have learned deceit in the
wicked ways of the great city."

He took this as a compliment. "Thank you, miss. That's it exactly."

After a long drive, or so it seemed to my impatience, we passed the
chaise drawn up at a lonely house, separated by a front garden from the
road. In two or three minutes more, we stopped where the road took a
turn, and descended to lower ground. The farmhouse which we had left
behind us was known to the driver. He led the way to a gate at the side
of the road, and opened it for me.

"In your place, miss," he said slyly, "the private way back is the way
I should wish to take. Try it by the fields. Turn to the right when
you have passed the barn, and you'll find yourself at the back of the
house." He stopped, and looked at his big silver watch. "Half-past
twelve," he said, "the Chawbacons--I mean the farmhouse servants,
miss--will be at their dinner. All in your favor, so far. If the dog
happens to be loose, don't forget that his name's Grinder; call him by
his name, and pat him before he has time enough to think, and he'll let
you be. When you want me, here you'll find me waiting for orders."

I looked back as I crossed the field. The driver was sitting on the
gate, smoking his pipe, and the horse was nibbling the grass at the
roadside. Two happy animals, without a burden on their minds!

After passing the barn, I saw nothing of the dog. Far or near, no
living creature appeared; the servants must have been at dinner, as the
coachman had foreseen. Arriving at a wooden fence, I opened a gate in
it, and found myself on a bit of waste ground. On my left, there was
a large duck-pond. On my right, I saw the fowl-house and the pigstyes.
Before me was a high impenetrable hedge; and at some distance behind
it--an orchard or a garden, as I supposed, filling the intermediate
space--rose the back of the house. I made for the shelter of the hedge,
in the fear that some one might approach a window and see me. Once
sheltered from observation, I might consider what I should do next.
It was impossible to doubt that this was the house in which Eunice
was living. Neither could I fail to conclude that Philip had tried to
persuade her to see him, on those former occasions when he told me he
had taken a long walk.

As I crouched behind the hedge, I heard voices approaching on the other
side of it. At last fortune had befriended me. The person speaking
at the moment was Miss Jillgall; and the person who answered her was
Philip.

"I am afraid, dear Mr. Philip, you don't quite understand my sweet
Euneece. Honorable, high minded, delicate in her feelings, and, oh, so
unselfish! I don't want to alarm you, but when she hears you have been
deceiving Helena--"

"Upon my word, Miss Jillgall, you are so provoking! I have not been
deceiving Helena. Haven't I told you what discouraging answers I got,
when I went to see the Governor? Haven't I shown you Eunice's reply to
my letter? You can't have forgotten it already?"

"Oh, yes, I have. Why should I remember it? Don't I know poor Euneece
was in your mind, all the time?"

"You're wrong again! Eunice was not in my mind all the time. I was
hurt--I was offended by the cruel manner in which she had treated me.
And what was the consequence? So far was I from deceiving Helena--she
rose in my estimation by comparison with her sister."

"Oh, come, come, Mr. Philip! that won't do. Helena rising in anybody's
estimation? Ha! ha! ha!"

"Laugh as much as you like, Miss Jillgall, you won't laugh away the
facts. Helena loved me; Helena was true to me. Don't be hard on a poor
fellow who is half distracted. What a man finds he can do on one day,
he finds he can't do on another. Try to understand that a change does
sometimes come over one's feelings."

"Bless my soul, Mr. Philip, that's just what I have been understanding
all the time! I know your mind as well as you know it yourself. You
can't forget my sweet Euneece."

"I tell you I tried to forget her! On my word of honor as a gentleman, I
tried to forget her, in justice to Helena. Is it my fault that I failed?
Eunice was in my mind, as you said just now. Oh, my friend--for you
are my friend, I am sure--persuade her to see me, if it's only for a
minute!"

(Was there ever a man's mind in such a state of confusion as this!
First, I rise in his precious estimation, and Eunice drops. Then Eunice
rises, and I drop. Idiot! Mischievous idiot! Even Selina seemed to be
disgusted with him, when she spoke next.)

"Mr. Philip, you are hard and unreasonable. I have tried to persuade
her, and I have made my darling cry. Nothing you can say will induce me
to distress her again. Go back, you very undetermined man--go back to
your Helena."

"Too late."

"Nonsense!"

"I say too late. If I could have married Helena when I first went to
stay in the house, I might have faced the sacrifice. As it is, I can't
endure her; and (I tell you this in confidence) she has herself to thank
for what has happened."

"Is that really true?"

"Quite true."

"Tell me what she did.

"Oh, don't talk of her! Persuade Eunice to see me. I shall come back
again, and again, and again till you bring her to me."

"Please don't talk nonsense. If she changes her mind, I will bring her
with pleasure. If she still shrinks from it, I regard Euneece's feelings
as sacred. Take my advice; don't press her. Leave her time to think of
you, and to pity you--and that true heart may be yours again, if you are
worthy of it."

"Worthy of it? What do you mean?"

"Are you quite sure, my young friend, that you won't go back to Helena?"

"Go back to _her_? I would cut my throat if I thought myself capable of
doing it!"

"How did she set you against her? Did the wretch quarrel with you?"

"It might have been better for both of us if she had done that. Oh, her
fulsome endearments! What a contrast to the charming modesty of Eunice!
If I was rich, I would make it worth the while of the first poor fellow
I could find to rid me of Helena by marrying her. I don't like saying
such a thing of a woman, but if you will have the truth--"

"Well, Mr. Philip--and what is the truth?"

"Helena disgusts me."



CHAPTER LVII. HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.

So it was all settled between them. Philip is to throw me away, like one
of his bad cigars, for this unanswerable reason: "Helena disgusts me."
And he is to persuade Eunice to take my place, and be his wife. Yes! if
I let him do it.

I heard no more of their talk. With that last, worst outrage burning in
my memory, I left the place.

On my way back to the carriage, the dog met me. Truly, a grand creature.
I called him by his name, and patted him. He licked my hand. Something
made me speak to him. I said: "If I was to tell you to tear Mr. Philip
Dunboyne to pieces, would you do it?" The great good-natured brute held
out his paw to shake hands. Well! well! I was not an object of disgust
to the dog.

But the coachman was startled, when he saw me again. He said something,
I did not know what it was; and he produced a pocket-flask, containing
some spirits, I suppose. Perhaps he thought I was going to faint. He
little knew me. I told him to drive back to the place at which I had
hired the cab, and earn his money. He earned it.

On getting home, I found Mrs. Tenbruggen walking up and down the
dining-room, deep in thought. She was startled when we first confronted
each other. "You look dreadfully ill," she said.

I answered that I had been out for a little exercise, and had
over-fatigued myself; and then changed the subject. "Does my father seem
to improve under your treatment?" I asked.

"Very far from it, my dear. I promised that I would try what Massage
would do for him, and I find myself compelled to give it up."

"Why?"

"It excites him dreadfully."

"In what way?"

"He has been talking wildly of events in his past life. His brain is in
some condition which is beyond my powers of investigation. He pointed
to a cabinet in his room, and said his past life was locked up there.
I asked if I should unlock it. He shook with fear; he said I should let
out the ghost of his dead brother-in-law. Have you any idea of what he
meant?"

The cabinet was full of old letters. I could tell her that--and could
tell her no more. I had never heard of his brother-in-law. Another of
his delusions, no doubt. "Did you ever hear him speak," Mrs. Tenbruggen
went on, "of a place called Low Lanes?"

She waited for my reply to this last inquiry with an appearance of
anxiety that surprised me. I had never heard him speak of Low Lanes.

"Have you any particular interest in the place?" I asked.

"None whatever."

She went away to attend on a patient. I retired to my bedroom, and
opened my Diary. Again and again, I read that remarkable story of the
intended poisoning, and of the manner in which it had ended. I sat
thinking over this romance in real life till I was interrupted by the
announcement of dinner.

Mr. Philip Dunboyne had returned. In Miss Jillgall's absence we were
alone at the table. My appetite was gone. I made a pretense of eating,
and another pretense of being glad to see my devoted lover. I talked to
him in the prettiest manner. As a hypocrite, he thoroughly matched
me; he was gallant, he was amusing. If baseness like ours had been
punishable by the law, a prison was the right place for both of us.

Mrs. Tenbruggen came in again after dinner, still not quite easy about
my health. "How flushed you are!" she said. "Let me feel your pulse." I
laughed, and left her with Mr. Philip Dunboyne.

Passing my father's door, I looked in, anxious to see if he was in the
excitable state which Mrs. Tenbruggen had described. Yes; the effect
which she had produced on him--how, she knows best--had not passed away
yet: he was still talking. The attendant told me it had gone on for
hours together. On my approaching his chair, he called out: "Which are
you? Eunice or Helena?" When I had answered him, he beckoned me to
come nearer. "I am getting stronger every minute," he said. "We will go
traveling to-morrow, and see the place where you were born."

Where had I been born? He had never told me where. Had he mentioned the
place in Mrs. Tenbruggen's hearing? I asked the attendant if he had been
present while she was in the room. Yes; he had remained at his post;
he had also heard the allusion to the place with the odd name. Had Mr.
Gracedieu said anything more about that place? Nothing more; the poor
Minister's mind had wandered off to other things. He was wandering now.
Sometimes, he was addressing his congregation; sometimes, he wondered
what they would give him for supper; sometimes, he talked of the
flowers in the garden. And then he looked at me, and frowned, and said I
prevented him from thinking.

I went back to my bedroom, and opened my Diary, and read the story
again.

Was the poison of which that resolute young wife proposed to make use
something that acted slowly, and told the doctors nothing if they looked
for it after death?

Would it be running too great a risk to show the story to the doctor,
and try to get a little valuable information in that way? It would be
useless. He would make some feeble joke; he would say, girls and poisons
are not fit company for each other.

But I might discover what I want to know in another way. I might call on
the doctor, after he has gone out on his afternoon round of visits,
and might tell the servant I would wait for his master's return.
Nobody would be in my way; I might get at the medical literature in the
consulting-room, and find the information for myself.

A knock at my door interrupted me in the midst of my plans. Mrs.
Tenbruggen again!--still in a fidgety state of feeling on the subject of
my health. "Which is it?" she said. "Pain of body, my dear, or pain of
mind? I am anxious about you."

"My dear Elizabeth, your sympathy is thrown away on me. As I have told
you already, I am over-tired--nothing more."

She was relieved to hear that I had no mental troubles to complain of.
"Fatigue," she remarked, "sets itself right with rest. Did you take a
very long walk?"

"Yes."

"Beyond the limits of the town, of course? Philip has been taking a walk
in the country, too. He doesn't say that he met you."

These clever people sometimes overreach themselves. How she suggested it
to me, I cannot pretend to have discovered. But I did certainly suspect
that she had led Philip, while they were together downstairs, into
saying to her what he had already said to Miss Jillgall. I was so angry
that I tried to pump my excellent friend, as she had been trying to pump
me--a vulgar expression, but vulgar writing is such a convenient way
of writing sometimes. My first attempt to entrap the Masseuse failed
completely. She coolly changed the subject.

"Have I interrupted you in writing?" she asked, pointing to my Diary.

"No; I was idling over what I have written already--an extraordinary
story which I copied from a book."

"May I look at it?"

I pushed the open Diary across the table. If I was the object of any
suspicions which she wanted to confirm, it would be curious to see if
the poisoning story helped her. "It's a piece of family history," I
said; "I think you will agree with me that it is really interesting."

She began to read. As she went on, not all her power of controlling
herself could prevent her from turning pale. This change of color (in
such a woman) a little alarmed me. When a girl is devoured by deadly
hatred of a man, does the feeling show itself to other persons in
her face? I must practice before the glass and train my face into a
trustworthy state of discipline.

"Coarse melodrama!" Mrs. Tenbruggen declared. "Mere sensation. No
analysis of character. A made-up story!"

"Well made up, surely?" I answered.

"I don't agree with you." Her voice was not quite so steady as usual.
She asked suddenly if my clock was right--and declared that she
should be late for an appointment. On taking leave she pressed my
hand strongly--eyed me with distrustful attention and said, very
emphatically: "Take care of yourself, Helena; pray take care of
yourself."

I am afraid I did a very foolish thing when I showed her the poisoning
story. Has it helped the wily old creature to look into my inmost
thoughts?

Impossible!


To-day, Miss Jillgall returned, looking hideously healthy and spitefully
cheerful. Although she tried to conceal it, while I was present, I could
see that Philip had recovered his place in her favor. After what he had
said to her behind the hedge at the farm, she would be relieved from all
fear of my becoming his wife, and would joyfully anticipate his marriage
to Eunice. There are thoughts in me which I don't set down in my book. I
only say: We shall see.

This afternoon, I decided on visiting the doctor. The servant was quite
sorry for me when he answered the door. His master had just left the
house for a round of visits. I said I would wait. The servant was afraid
I should find waiting very tedious. I reminded him that I could go away
if I found it tedious. At last, the polite old man left me.

I went into the consulting-room, and read the backs of the medical books
ranged round the walls, and found a volume that interested me. There was
such curious information in it that I amused myself by making extracts,
using the first sheets of paper that I could find. They had printed
directions at the top, which showed that the doctor was accustomed
to write his prescriptions on them. We had many, too many, of his
prescriptions in our house.

The servant's doubts of my patience proved to have been well founded. I
got tired of waiting, and went home before the doctor returned.

From morning to night, nothing has been seen of Mrs. Tenbruggen to-day.
Nor has any apology for her neglect of us been received, fond as she is
of writing little notes. Has that story in my Diary driven her away? Let
me see what to-morrow may bring forth.


To-day has brought forth--nothing. Mrs. Tenbruggen still keeps away from
us. It looks as if my Diary had something to do with the mystery of her
absence.

I am not in good spirits to-day. My nerves--if I have such things, which
is more than I know by my own experience--have been a little shaken by
a horrid dream. The medical information, which my thirst for knowledge
absorbed in the doctor's consulting-room, turned traitor--armed itself
with the grotesque horrors of nightmare--and so thoroughly frightened me
that I was on the point of being foolish enough to destroy my notes. I
thought better of it, and my notes are safe under lock and key.

Mr. Philip Dunboyne is trying to pave the way for his flight from this
house. He speaks of friends in London, whose interest will help him to
find the employment which is the object of his ambition. "In a few days
more," he said, "I shall ask for leave of absence."

Instead of looking at me, his eyes wandered to the window; his fingers
played restlessly with his watch-chain while he spoke. I thought I would
give him a chance, a last chance, of making the atonement that he owes
to me. This shows shameful weakness, on my part. Does my own resolution
startle me? Or does the wretch appeal--to what? To my pity? It cannot be
my love; I am positively sure that I hate him. Well, I am not the first
girl who had been an unanswerable riddle to herself.

"Is there any other motive for your departure?" I asked.

"What other motive can there be?" he replied. I put what I had to say to
him in plainer words still. "Tell me, Philip, are you beginning to wish
that you were a free man again?"

He still prevaricated. Was this because he is afraid of me, or because
he is not quite brute enough to insult me to my face? I tried again for
the third and last time. I almost put the words into his mouth.

"I fancy you have been out of temper lately," I said. "You have not been
your own kinder and better self. Is this the right interpretation of the
change that I think I see in you?"

He answered: "I have not been very well lately."

"And that is all?"

"Yes--that is all."

There was no more to be said; I turned away to leave the room. He
followed me to the door. After a momentary hesitation, he made the
attempt to kiss me. I only looked at him--he drew back from me in
silence. I left the new Judas, standing alone, while the shades of
evening began to gather over the room.



Third Period _(continued)_.

_EVENTS IN THE FAMILY, RELATED BY MISS JILLGALL._



CHAPTER LVIII. DANGER.

"If anything of importance happens, I trust to you to write an account
of it, and to send the writing to me. I will come to you at once, if
I see reason to believe that my presence is required." Those lines, in
your last kind reply to me, rouse my courage, dear Mr. Governor, and
sharpen the vigilance which has always been one of the strong points in
my character. Every suspicious circumstance which occurs in this house
will be (so to speak) seized on by my pen, and will find itself (so to
speak again) placed on its trial, before your unerring judgment! Let the
wicked tremble! I mention no names.

Taking up my narrative where it came to an end when I last wrote, I
have to say a word first on the subject of my discoveries, in regard to
Philip's movements.

The advertisement of a private inquiry office, which I read in a
newspaper, put the thing into my head. I provided myself with money to
pay the expenses by--I blush while I write it--pawning my watch. This
humiliation of my poor self has been rewarded by success. Skilled
investigation has proved that our young man has come to his senses
again, exactly as I supposed. On each occasion when he was suspiciously
absent from the house, he has been followed to the farm. I have been
staying there myself for a day or two, in the hope of persuading Eunice
to relent. The hope has not yet been realized. But Philip's devotion,
assisted by my influence, will yet prevail. Let me not despair.

Whether Helena knows positively that she has lost her wicked hold on
Philip I cannot say. It seems hardly possible that she could have made
the discovery just yet. The one thing of which I am certain is, that she
looks like a fiend.

Philip has wisely taken my advice, and employed pious fraud. He will get
away from the wretch, who has tempted him once and may tempt him again,
under pretense of using the interest of his friends in London to find
a place under Government. He has not been very well for the last day or
two, and the execution of our project is in consequence delayed.

I have news of Mrs. Tenbruggen which will, I think, surprise you.

She has kept away from us in a most unaccountable manner. I called on
her at the hotel, and heard she was engaged with her lawyer. On the next
day, she suddenly returned to her old habits, and paid the customary
visit. I observed a similar alteration in her state of feeling. She is
now coldly civil to Helena; and she asks after Eunice with a maternal
interest touching to see--I said to her: "Elizabeth, you appear to have
changed your opinion of the two girls, since I saw you." She answered,
with a delightful candor which reminded me of old times: "Completely!"
I said: "A woman of your intellectual caliber, dear, doesn't change her
mind without a good reason for it." Elizabeth cordially agreed with me.
I ventured to be a little more explicit: "You have no doubt made some
interesting discovery." Elizabeth agreed again; and I ventured again: "I
suppose I may not ask what the discovery is?" "No, Selina, you may not
ask."

This is curious; but it is nothing to what I have got to tell you next.
Just as I was longing to take her to my bosom again as my friend and
confidante, Elizabeth has disappeared. And, alas! alas! there is a
reason for it which no sympathetic person can dispute.

I have just received some overwhelming news, in the form of a neat
parcel, addressed to myself.

There has been a scandal at the hotel. That monster in human form,
Elizabeth's husband, is aware of his wife's professional fame, has
heard of the large sums of money which she earns as the greatest living
professor of massage, has been long on the lookout for her, and
has discovered her at last. He has not only forced his way into her
sitting-room at the hotel; he insists on her living with him again; her
money being the attraction, it is needless to say. If she refuses, he
threatens her with the law, the barbarous law, which, to use his own
coarse expression, will "restore his conjugal rights."

All this I gather from the narrative of my unhappy friend, which forms
one of the two inclosures in her parcel. She has already made her
escape. Ha! the man doesn't live who can circumvent Elizabeth. The
English Court of Law isn't built which can catch her when she roams the
free and glorious Continent.

The vastness of this amazing woman's mind is what I must pause to
admire. In the frightful catastrophe that has befallen her, she can
still think of Philip and Euneece. She is eager to hear of their
marriage, and renounces Helena with her whole heart. "I too was deceived
by that cunning young Woman," she writes. "Beware of her, Selina. Unless
I am much mistaken, she is going to end badly. Take care of Philip, take
care of Euneece. If you want help, apply at once to my favorite hero
in real life, The Governor." I don't presume to correct Elizabeth's
language. I should have called you The idol of the Women.

The second inclosure contains, as I suppose, a wedding present. It is
carefully sealed--it feels no bigger than an ordinary letter--and it
contains an inscription which your highly-cultivated intelligence may be
able to explain. I copy it as follows:

"To be inclosed in another envelope, addressed to Mr. Dunboyne the
elder, at Percy's Private Hotel, London, and delivered by a trustworthy
messenger, on the day when Mr. Philip Dunboyne is married to Miss Eunice
Gracedieu. Placed meanwhile under the care of Miss Selina Jillgall."

Why is this mysterious letter to be sent to Philip's father? I wonder
whether that circumstance will puzzle you as it has puzzled me.

I have kept my report back, so as to send you the last news relating to
Philip's state of health. To my great regret, his illness seems to have
made a serious advance since yesterday. When I ask if he is in pain, he
says: "It isn't exactly pain; I feel as if I was sinking. Sometimes I am
giddy; and sometimes I find myself feeling thirsty and sick." I have no
opportunity of looking after him as I could wish; for Helena insists on
nursing him, assisted by the housemaid. Maria is a very good girl in her
way, but too stupid to be of much use. If he is not better to-morrow, I
shall insist on sending for the doctor.


He is no better; and he wishes to have medical help. Helena doesn't
seem to understand his illness. It was not until Philip had insisted on
seeing him that she consented to send for the doctor.

You had some talk with this experienced physician when you were here,
and you know what a clever man he is. When I tell you that he hesitates
to say what is the matter with Philip, you will feel as much alarmed as
I do. I will wait to send this to the post until I can write in a more
definite way.


Two days more have passed. The doctor has put two very strange questions
to me.

He asked, first, if there was anybody staying with us besides the
regular members of the household. I said we had no visitor. He wanted
to know, next, if Mr. Philip Dunboyne had made any enemies since he
has been living in our town. I said none that I knew of--and I took the
liberty of asking what he meant. He answered to this, that he has a
few more inquiries to make, and that he will tell me what he means
to-morrow.


For God's sake come here as soon as you possibly can. The whole burden
is thrown on me--and I am quite unequal to it.

I received the doctor to-day in the drawing-room. To my amazement,
he begged leave to speak with me in the garden. When I asked why, he
answered: "I don't want to have a listener at the door. Come out on the
lawn, where we can be sure that we are alone."

When we were in the garden, he noticed that I was trembling.

"Rouse your courage, Miss Jillgall," he said. "In the Minister's
helpless state there is nobody whom I can speak to but yourself."

I ventured to remind him that he might speak to Helena as well as to
myself.

He looked as black as thunder when I mentioned her name. All he said
was, "No!" But, oh, if you had heard his voice--and he so gentle and
sweet-tempered at other times--you would have felt, as I did, that he
had Helena in his mind!

"Now, listen to this," he went on. "Everything that my art can do for
Mr. Philip Dunboyne, while I am at his bedside, is undone while I am
away by some other person. He is worse to-day than I have seen him yet."

"Oh, sir, do you think he will die?"

"He will certainly die unless the right means are taken to save him, and
taken at once. It is my duty not to flinch from telling you the truth.
I have made a discovery since yesterday which satisfies me that I am
right. Somebody is trying to poison Mr. Dunboyne; and somebody will
succeed unless he is removed from this house."

I am a poor feeble creature. The doctor caught me, or I should have
dropped on the grass. It was not a fainting-fit. I only shook and
shivered so that I was too weak to stand up. Encouraged by the doctor,
I recovered sufficiently to be able to ask him where Philip was to be
taken to. He said: "To the hospital. No poisoner can follow my patient
there. Persuade him to let me take him away, when I call again in an
hour's time."

As soon as I could hold a pen, I sent a telegram to you. Pray, pray come
by the earliest train. I also telegraphed to old Mr. Dunboyne, at the
hotel in London.

It was impossible for me to face Helena; I own I was afraid. The
cook kindly went upstairs to see who was in Philip's room. It was the
housemaid's turn to look after him for a while. I went instantly to his
bedside.

There was no persuading him to allow himself to be taken to the
hospital. "I am dying," he said. "If you have any pity for me, send for
Euneece. Let me see her once more, let me hear her say that she forgives
me, before I die."

I hesitated. It was too terrible to think of Euneece in the same house
with her sister. Her life might be in danger! Philip gave me a look, a
dreadful ghastly look. "If you refuse," he said wildly, "the grave won't
hold me. I'll haunt you for the rest of your life."

"She shall hear that you are ill," I answered--and ran out of the room
before he could speak again.

What I had promised to write, I did write. But, placed between Euneece's
danger and Philip's danger, my heart was all for Euneece. Would Helena
spare her, if she came to Philip's bedside? In such terror as I never
felt before in my life, I added a word more, entreating her not to leave
the farm. I promised to keep her regularly informed on the subject of
Philip's illness; and I mentioned that I expected the Governor to return
to us immediately. "Do nothing," I wrote, "without his advice." My
letter having been completed, I sent the cook away with it, in a chaise.
She belonged to the neighborhood, and she knew the farmhouse well.
Nearly two hours afterward, I heard the chaise stop at the door, and
ran out, impatient to hear how my sweet girl had received my letter.
God help us all! When I opened the door, the first person whom I saw was
Euneece herself.



CHAPTER LIX. DEFENSE.

One surprise followed another, after I had encountered Euneece at the
door.

When my fondness had excused her for setting the well-meant advice in
my letter at defiance, I was conscious of expecting to see her in tears;
eager, distressingly eager, to hear what hope there might be of Philip's
recovery. I saw no tears, I heard no inquiries. She was pale, and quiet,
and silent. Not a word fell from her when we met, not a word when she
kissed me, not a word when she led the way into the nearest room--the
dining-room. It was only when we were shut in together that she spoke.

"Which is Philip's room?" she asked.

Instead of wanting to know how he was, she desired to know where he
was! I pointed toward the back dining-room, which had been made into a
bedroom for Philip. He had chosen it himself, when he first came to stay
with us, because the window opened into the garden, and he could slip
out and smoke at any hour of the day or night, when he pleased.

"Who is with him now?" was the next strange thing this sadly-changed
girl said to me.

"Maria is taking her turn," I answered; "she assists in nursing Philip."

"Where is--?" Euneece got no further than that. Her breath quickened,
her color faded away. I had seen people look as she was looking now,
when they suffered under some sudden pain. Before I could offer to help
her, she rallied, and went on: "Where," she began again, "is the other
nurse?"

"You mean Helena?" I said.

"I mean the Poisoner."

When I remind you, dear Mr. Governor, that my letter had carefully
concealed from her the horrible discovery made by the doctor,
your imagination will picture my state of mind. She saw that I was
overpowered. Her sweet nature, so strangely frozen up thus far, melted
at last. "You don't know what I have heard," she said, "you don't know
what thoughts have been roused in me." She left her chair, and sat on
my knee with the familiarity of the dear old times, and took the letter
that I had written to her from her pocket.

"Look at it yourself," she said, "and tell me if anybody could read it,
and not see that you were concealing something. My dear, I have driven
round by the doctor's house--I have seen him--I have persuaded him, or
perhaps I ought to say surprised him, into telling me the truth. But the
kind old man is obstinate. He wouldn't believe me when I told him I was
on my way here to save Philip's life. He said: 'My child, you will only
put your own life in jeopardy. If I had not seen that danger, I should
never have told you of the dreadful state of things at home. Go back to
the good people at the farm, and leave the saving of Philip to me.'"

"He was right, Euneece, entirely right."

"No, dear, he was wrong. I begged him to come here, and judge for
himself; and I ask you to do the same."

I was obstinate. "Go back!" I persisted. "Go back to the farm!"

"Can I see Philip?" she asked.

I have heard some insolent men say that women are like cats. If they
mean that we do, figuratively speaking, scratch at times, I am afraid
they are not altogether wrong. An irresistible impulse made me say to
poor Euneece: "This is a change indeed, since you refused to receive
Philip."

"Is there no change in the circumstances?" she asked sadly. "Isn't he
ill and in danger?"

I begged her to forgive me; I said I meant no harm.

"I gave him up to my sister," she continued, "when I believed that his
happiness depended, not on me, but on her. I take him back to myself,
when he is at the mercy of a demon who threatens his life. Come, Selina,
let us go to Philip."

She put her arm round me, and made me get up from my chair. I was so
easily persuaded by her, that the fear of what Helena's jealousy and
Helena's anger might do was scarcely present in my thoughts. The door of
communication was locked on the side of the bedchamber. I went into the
hall, to enter Philip's room by the other door. She followed, waiting
behind me. I heard what passed between them when Maria went out to her.

"Where is Miss Gracedieu?"

"Resting upstairs, miss, in her room."

"Look at the clock, and tell me when you expect her to come down here."

"I am to call her, miss, in ten minutes more."

"Wait in the dining-room, Maria, till I come back to you."

She joined me. I held the door open for her to go into Philip's room. It
was not out of curiosity; the feeling that urged me was sympathy, when
I waited a moment to see their first meeting. She bent over the poor,
pallid, trembling, suffering man, and raised him in her arms, and laid
his head on her bosom. "My Philip!" She murmured those words in a kiss.
I closed the door, I had a good cry; and, oh, how it comforted me!

There was only a minute to spare when she came out of the room. Maria
was waiting for her. Euneece said, as quietly as ever: "Go and call Miss
Gracedieu."

The girl looked at her, and saw--I don't know what. Maria became
alarmed. But she went up the stairs, and returned in haste to tell us
that her young mistress was coming down.

The faint rustling of Helena's dress as she left her room reached us in
the silence. I remained at the open door of the dining-room, and Maria
approached and stood near me. We were both frightened. Euneece stepped
forward, and stood on the mat at the foot of the stairs, waiting. Her
back was toward me; I could only see that she was as still as a statue.
The rustling of the dress came nearer. Oh, heavens! what was going to
happen? My teeth chattered in my head; I held by Maria's shoulder. Drops
of perspiration showed themselves on the girl's forehead; she stared in
vacant terror at the slim little figure, posted firm and still on the
mat.

Helena turned the corner of the stairs, and waited a moment on the last
landing, and saw her sister.

"You here?" she said. "What do you want?"

There was no reply. Helena descended, until she reached the last stair
but one. There, she stopped. Her staring eyes grew large and wild;
her hand shook as she stretched it out, feeling for the banister; she
staggered as she caught at it, and held herself up. The silence was
still unbroken. Something in me, stronger than myself, drew my steps
along the hall nearer and nearer to the stair, till I could see the face
which had struck that murderous wretch with terror.

I looked.

No! it was not my sweet girl; it was a horrid transformation of her.
I saw a fearful creature, with glittering eyes that threatened some
unimaginable vengeance. Her lips were drawn back; they showed her
clinched teeth. A burning red flush dyed her face. The hair of her head
rose, little by little, slowly. And, most dreadful sight of all, she
seemed, in the stillness of the house, to be _listening to something_.
If I could have moved, I should have fled to the first place of refuge
I could find. If I could have raised my voice, I should have cried for
help. I could do neither the one nor the other. I could only look, look,
look; held by the horror of it with a hand of iron.

Helena must have roused her courage, and resisted her terror. I heard
her speak:

"Let me by!"

"No."

Slowly, steadily, in a whisper, Euneece made that reply.

Helena tried once more--still fighting against her own terror: I knew it
by the trembling of her voice.

"Let me by," she repeated; "I am on my way to Philip's room."

"You will never enter Philip's room again."

"Who will stop me?"

"I will."

She had spoken in the same steady whisper throughout--but now she moved.
I saw her set her foot on the first stair. I saw the horrid glitter in
her eyes flash close into Helena's face. I heard her say:

"Poisoner, go back to your room."

Silent and shuddering, Helena shrank away from her--daunted by her
glittering eyes; mastered by her lifted hand pointing up the stairs.

Helena slowly ascended till she reached the landing. She turned and
looked down; she tried to speak. The pointing hand struck her dumb, and
drove her up the next flight of stairs. She was lost to view. Only the
small rustling sound of the dress was to be heard, growing fainter and
fainter; then an interval of stillness; then the noise of a door opened
and closed again; then no sound more--but a change to be seen: the
transformed creature was crouching on her knees, still and silent, her
face covered by her hands. I was afraid to approach her; I was afraid to
speak to her. After a time, she rose. Suddenly, swiftly, with her head
turned away from me, she opened the door of Philip's room--and was gone.

I looked round. There was only Maria in the lonely hall. Shall I try
to tell you what my sensations were? It may sound strangely, but it is
true--I felt like a sleeper, who has half-awakened from a dream.



CHAPTER LX. DISCOVERY.

A little later, on that eventful day, when I was most in need of all
that your wisdom and kindness could do to guide me, came the telegram
which announced that you were helpless under an attack of gout. As soon
as I had in some degree got over my disappointment, I remembered having
told Euneece in my letter that I expected her kind old friend to come to
us. With the telegram in my hand I knocked softly at Philip's door.

The voice that bade me come in was the gentle voice that I knew so well.
Philip was sleeping. There, by his bedside, with his hand resting in her
hand, was Euneece, so completely restored to her own sweet self that I
could hardly believe what I had seen, not an hour since. She talked
of you, when I showed her your message, with affectionate interest and
regret. Look back, my admirable friend, at what I have written on
the two or three pages which precede this, and explain the astounding
contrast if you can.

I was left alone to watch by Philip, while Euneece went away to see her
father. Soon afterward, Maria took my place; I had been sent for to the
next room to receive the doctor.

He looked care-worn and grieved. I said I was afraid he had brought bad
news with him.

"The worst possible news," he answered. "A terrible exposure threatens
this family, and I am powerless to prevent it."

He then asked me to remember the day when I had been surprised by the
singular questions which he had put to me, and when he had engaged to
explain himself after he had made some inquiries. Why, and how, he had
set those inquiries on foot was what he had now to tell. I will repeat
what he said, in his own words, as nearly as I can remember them. While
he was in attendance on Philip, he had observed symptoms which made him
suspect that Digitalis had been given to the young man, in doses often
repeated. Cases of attempted poisoning by this medicine were so rare,
that he felt bound to put his suspicions to the test by going round
among the chemists's shops--excepting of course the shop at which his
own prescriptions were made up--and asking if they had lately dispensed
any preparation of Digitalis, ordered perhaps in a larger quantity
than usual. At the second shop he visited, the chemist laughed. "Why,
doctor," he said, "have you forgotten your own prescription?" After
this, the prescription was asked for, and produced. It was on the paper
used by the doctor--paper which had his address printed at the top, and
a notice added, telling patients who came to consult him for the second
time to bring their prescriptions with them. Then, there followed in
writing: "Tincture of Digitalis, one ounce"--with his signature at the
end, not badly imitated, but a forgery nevertheless. The chemist noticed
the effect which this discovery had produced on the doctor, and asked if
that was his signature. He could hardly, as an honest man, have asserted
that a forgery was a signature of his own writing. So he made the true
reply, and asked who had presented the prescription. The chemist called
to his assistant to come forward. "Did you tell me that you knew, by
sight, the young lady who brought this prescription?" The assistant
admitted it. "Did you tell me she was Miss Helena Gracedieu?" "I did."
"Are you sure of not having made any mistake?" "Quite sure." The chemist
then said: "I myself supplied the Tincture of Digitalis, and the young
lady paid for it, and took it away with her. You have had all the
information that I can give you, sir; and I may now ask, if you can
throw any light on the matter." Our good friend thought of the poor
Minister, so sorely afflicted, and of the famous name so sincerely
respected in the town and in the country round, and said he could not
undertake to give an immediate answer. The chemist was excessively
angry. "You know as well as I do," he said, "that Digitalis, given in
certain doses, is a poison, and you cannot deny that I honestly believed
myself to be dispensing your prescription. While you are hesitating to
give me an answer, my character may suffer; I may be suspected myself."
He ended in declaring he should consult his lawyer. The doctor went
home, and questioned his servant. The man remembered the day of Miss
Helena's visit in the afternoon, and the intention that she expressed of
waiting for his master's return. He had shown her into the parlor which
opened into the consulting-room. No other visitor was in the house at
that time, or had arrived during the rest of the day. The doctor's own
experience, when he got home, led him to conclude that Helena had gone
into the consulting-room. He had entered that room, for the purpose of
writing some prescriptions, and had found the leaves of paper that he
used diminished in number. After what he had heard, and what he had
discovered (to say nothing of what he suspected), it occurred to him
to look along the shelves of his medical library. He found a volume
(treating of Poisons) with a slip of paper left between the leaves; the
poison described at the place so marked being Digitalis, and the paper
used being one of his own prescription-papers. "If, as I fear, a legal
investigation into Helena's conduct is a possible event," the doctor
concluded, "there is the evidence that I shall be obliged to give, when
I am called as a witness."

It is my belief that I could have felt no greater dismay, if the long
arm of the Law had laid its hold on me while he was speaking. I asked
what was to be done.

"If she leaves the house at once," the doctor replied, "she may escape
the infamy of being charged with an attempt at murder by poison; and,
in her absence, I can answer for Philip's life. I don't urge you to warn
her, because that might be a dangerous thing to do. It is for you to
decide, as a member of the family, whether you will run the risk."

I tried to speak to him of Euneece, and to tell him what I had already
related to yourself. He was in no humor to listen to me. "Keep it for a
fitter time," he answered; "and think of what I have just said to you."
With that, he left me, on his way to Philip's room.

Mental exertion was completely beyond me. Can you understand a poor
middle-aged spinster being frightened into doing a dangerous thing? That
may seem to be nonsense. But if you ask why I took a morsel of paper,
and wrote the warning which I was afraid to communicate by word of
mouth--why I went upstairs with my knees knocking together, and
opened the door of Helena's room just wide enough to let my hand pass
through--why I threw the paper in, and banged the door to again, and
ran downstairs as I have never run since I was a little girl--I can
only say, in the way of explanation, what I have said already: I was
frightened into doing it.

What I have written, thus far, I shall send to you by to-night's post.

The doctor came back to me, after he had seen Philip, and spoken with
Euneece. He was very angry; and, I must own, not without reason. Philip
had flatly refused to let himself be removed to the hospital; and
Euneece--"a mere girl"--had declared that she would be answerable for
consequences! The doctor warned me that he meant to withdraw from
the case, and to make his declaration before the magistrates. At my
entreaties he consented to return in the evening, and to judge by
results before taking the terrible step that he had threatened.

While I remained at home on the watch, keeping the doors of both
rooms locked, Eunice went out to get Philip's medicine. She came back,
followed by a boy carrying a portable apparatus for cooking. "All that
Philip wants, and all that we want," she explained, "we can provide for
ourselves. Give me a morsel of paper to write on."

Unhooking the little pencil attached to her watch-chain, she paused and
looked toward the door. "Somebody listening," she whispered. "Let them
listen." She wrote a list of necessaries, in the way of things to eat
and things to drink, and asked me to go out and get them myself. "I
don't doubt the servants," she said, speaking distinctly enough to
be heard outside; "but I am afraid of what a Poisoner's cunning and a
Poisoner's desperation may do, in a kitchen which is open to her." I
went away on my errand--discovering no listener outside, I need hardly
say. On my return, I found the door of communication with Philip's room
closed, but no longer locked. "We can now attend on him in turn," she
said, "without opening either of the doors which lead into the hall. At
night we can relieve each other, and each of us can get sleep as we want
it in the large armchair in the dining-room. Philip must be safe under
our charge, or the doctor will insist on taking him to the hospital.
When we want Maria's help, from time to time, we can employ her under
our own superintendence. Have you anything else, Selina, to suggest?"

There was nothing left to suggest. Young and inexperienced as she was,
how (I asked) had she contrived to think of all this? She answered,
simply "I'm sure I don't know; my thoughts came to me while I was
looking at Philip."

Soon afterward I found an opportunity of inquiring if Helena had left
the house. She had just rung her bell; and Maria had found her, quietly
reading, in her room. Hours afterward, when I was on the watch at
night, I heard Philip's door softly tried from the outside. Her dreadful
purpose had not been given up, even yet.

The doctor came in the evening, as he had promised, and found an
improvement in Philip's health. I mentioned what precautions we had
taken, and that they had been devised by Euneece. "Are you going to
withdraw from the case?" I asked. "I am coming back to the case," he
answered, "to-morrow morning."

It had been a disappointment to me to receive no answer to the telegram
which I had sent to Mr. Dunboyne the elder. The next day's post brought
the explanation in a letter to Philip from his father, directed to him
at the hotel here. This showed that my telegram, giving my address at
this house, had not been received. Mr. Dunboyne announced that he had
returned to Ireland, finding the air of London unendurable, after the
sea-breezes at home. If Philip had already married, his father would
leave him to a life of genteel poverty with Helena Gracedieu. If he had
thought better of it, his welcome was waiting for him.

Little did Mr. Dunboyne know what changes had taken place since he and
his son had last met, and what hope might yet present itself of brighter
days for poor Euneece! I thought of writing to him. But how would that
crabbed old man receive a confidential letter from a lady who was a
stranger?

My doubts were set at rest by Philip himself. He asked me to write a few
lines of reply to his father; declaring that his marriage with Helena
was broken off--that he had not given up all hope of being permitted to
offer the sincere expression of his penitence to Euneece--and that
he would gladly claim his welcome, as soon as he was well enough to
undertake the journey to Ireland. When he had signed the letter, I was
so pleased that I made a smart remark. I said: "This is a treaty of
peace between father and son."

When the doctor arrived in the morning, and found the change for the
better in his patient confirmed, he did justice to us at last. He
spoke kindly, and even gratefully, to Euneece. No more allusions to the
hospital as a place of safety escaped him. He asked me cautiously for
news of Helena. I could only tell him that she had gone out at her
customary time, and had returned at her customary time. He did not
attempt to conceal that my reply had made him uneasy.

"Are you still afraid that she may succeed in poisoning Philip?" I
asked.

"I am afraid of her cunning," he said. "If she is charged with
attempting to poison young Dunboyne, she has some system of defense, you
may rely on it, for which we are not prepared. There, in my opinion, is
the true reason for her extraordinary insensibility to her own danger."

Two more days passed, and we were still safe under the protection of
lock and key.

On the evening of the second day (which was a Monday) Maria came to me
in great tribulation. On inquiring what was the matter, I received a
disquieting reply: "Miss Helena is tempting me. She is so miserable at
being prevented from seeing Mr. Philip, and helping to nurse him, that
it is quite distressing to see her. At the same time, miss, it's hard
on a poor servant. She asks me to take the key secretly out of the door,
and lend it to her at night for a few minutes only. I'm really afraid I
shall be led into doing it, if she goes on persuading me much longer."

I commended Maria for feeling scruples which proved her to be the best
of good girls, and promised to relieve her from all fear of future
temptation. This was easily done. Euneece kept the key of Philip's door
in her pocket; and I kept the key of the dining-room door in mine.



CHAPTER LXI. ATROCITY.

On the next day, a Tuesday in the week, an event took place which
Euneece and I viewed with distrust. Early in the afternoon, a young man
called with a note for Helena. It was to be given to her immediately,
and no answer was required.

Maria had just closed the house door, and was on her way upstairs with
the letter, when she was called back by another ring at the bell. Our
visitor was the doctor. He spoke to Maria in the hall:

"I think I see a note in your hand. Was it given to you by the young man
who has just left the house?"

"Yes, sir.

"If he's your sweetheart, my dear, I have nothing more to say."

"Good gracious, doctor, how you do talk! I never saw the young man
before in my life."

"In that case, Maria, I will ask you to let me look at the address. Aha!
Mischief!"

The moment I heard that I threw open the dining-room door. Curiosity is
not easily satisfied. When it hears, it wants to see; when it sees, it
wants to know. Every lady will agree with me in this observation.

"Pray come in," I said.

"One minute, Miss Jillgall. My girl, when you give Miss Helena that
note, try to get a sly look at her when she opens it, and come and tell
me what you have seen." He joined me in the dining-room, and closed
the door. "The other day," he went on, "when I told you what I had
discovered in the chemist's shop, I think I mentioned a young man who
was called to speak to a question of identity--an assistant who knew
Miss Helena Gracedieu by sight."

"Yes, yes!"

"That young man left the note which Maria has just taken upstairs."

"Who wrote it, doctor, and what does it say?"

"Questions naturally asked, Miss Jillgall--and not easily answered.
Where is Eunice? Her quick wit might help us."

She had gone out to buy some fruit and flowers for Philip.

The doctor accepted his disappointment resignedly. "Let us try what
we can do without her," he said. "That young man's master has been in
consultation (you may remember why) with his lawyer, and Helena may
be threatened by an investigation before the magistrates. If this wild
guess of mine turns out to have hit the mark, the poisoner upstairs has
got a warning."

I asked if the chemist had written the note. Foolish enough of me when
I came to think of it. The chemist would scarcely act a friendly part
toward Helena, when she was answerable for the awkward position in which
he had placed himself. Perhaps the young man who had left the warning
was also the writer of the warning. The doctor reminded me that he
was all but a stranger to Helena. "We are not usually interested," he
remarked, "in a person whom we only know by sight."

"Remember that he is a young man," I ventured to say. This was a strong
hint, but the doctor failed to see it. He had evidently forgotten his
own youth. I made another attempt.

"And vile as Helena is," I continued, "we cannot deny that this disgrace
to her sex is a handsome young lady."

He saw it at last. "Woman's wit!" he cried. "You have hit it, Miss
Jillgall. The young fool is smitten with her, and has given her a chance
of making her escape."

"Do you think she will take the chance?"

"For all our sakes, I pray God she may! But I don't feel sure about it."

"Why?"

"Recollect what you and Eunice have done. You have shown your suspicion
of her without an attempt to conceal it. If you had put her in prison
you could not have more completely defeated her infernal design. Do you
think she is a likely person to submit to that, without an effort to be
even with you?"

Just as he said those terrifying words, Maria came back to us. He asked
at once what had kept her so long upstairs.

The girl had evidently something to say, which had inflated her (if I
may use such an expression) with a sense of her own importance.

"Please to let me tell it, sir," she answered, "in my own way. Miss
Helena turned as pale as ashes when she opened the letter, and then she
took a turn in the room, and then she looked at me with a smile--well,
miss, I can only say that I felt that smile in the small of my back.
I tried to get to the door. She stopped me. She says: 'Where's Miss
Eunice?' I says: 'Gone out.' She says: 'Is there anybody in the
drawing-room?' I says: 'No, miss.' She says: 'Tell Miss Jillgall I want
to speak to her, and say I am waiting in the drawing-room.' It's every
word of it true! And, if a poor servant may give an opinion, I don't
like the look of it."

The doctor dismissed Maria. "Whatever it is," he said to me, "you must
go and hear it."

I am not a courageous woman; I expressed myself as being willing to go
to her, if the doctor went with me. He said that was impossible; she
would probably refuse to speak before any witness; and certainly before
him. But he promised to look after Philip in my absence, and to wait
below if it really so happened that I wanted him. I need only ring the
bell, and he would come to me the moment he heard it. Such kindness as
this roused my courage, I suppose. At any rate, I went upstairs.

She was standing by the fire-place, with her elbow on the chimney-piece,
and her head, resting on her hand. I stopped just inside the door,
waiting to hear what she had to say. In this position her side-face only
was presented to me. It was a ghastly face. The eye that I could see
turned wickedly on me when I came in--then turned away again. Otherwise,
she never moved. I confess I trembled, but I did my best to disguise it.

She broke out suddenly with what she had to say: "I won't allow this
state of things to go on any longer. My horror of an exposure which will
disgrace the family has kept me silent, wrongly silent, so far. Philip's
life is in danger. I am forgetting my duty to my affianced husband, if
I allow myself to be kept away from him any longer. Open those locked
doors, and relieve me from the sight of you. Open the doors, I say, or
you will both of you--you the accomplice, she the wretch who directs
you--repent it to the end of your lives."

In my own mind, I asked myself if she had gone mad. But I only answered:
"I don't understand you."

She said again: "You are Eunice's accomplice."

"Accomplice in what?" I asked.

She turned her head slowly and faced me. I shrank from looking at her.

"All the circumstances prove it," she went on. "I have supplanted Eunice
in Philip's affection. She was once engaged to marry him; I am engaged
to marry him now. She is resolved that he shall never make me his wife.
He will die if I delay any longer. He will die if I don't crush her,
like the reptile she is. She comes here--and what does she do? Keeps him
prisoner under her own superintendence. Who gets his medicine? She gets
it. Who cooks his food? She cooks it. The doors are locked. I might be
a witness of what goes on; and I am kept out. The servants who ought to
wait on him are kept out. She can do what she likes with his medicine;
she can do what she likes with his food: she is infuriated with him for
deserting her, and promising to marry me. Give him back to my care; or,
dreadful as it is to denounce my own sister, I shall claim protection
from the magistrates."

I lost all fear of her: I stepped close up to the place at which she
was standing; I cried out: "Of what, in God's name, do you accuse your
sister?"

She answered: "I accuse her of poisoning Philip Dunboyne."

I ran out of the room; I rushed headlong down the stairs. The doctor
heard me, and came running into the hall. I caught hold of him like a
madwoman. "Euneece!" My breath was gone; I could only say: "Euneece!"

He dragged me into the dining-room. There was wine on the side-board,
which he had ordered medically for Philip. He forced me to drink some of
it. It ran through me like fire; it helped me to speak. "Now tell me,"
he said, "what has she done to Eunice?"

"She brings a horrible accusation against her," I answered.

"What is the accusation?" I told him.

He looked me through and through. "Take care!" he said. "No hysterics,
no exaggeration. You may lead to dreadful consequences if you are
not sure of yourself. If it's really true, say it again." I said it
again--quietly this time.

His face startled me; it was white with rage. He snatched his hat off
the hall table.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"My duty." He was out of the house before I could speak to him again.



Third Period _(concluded)._

_TROUBLES AND TRIUMPHS OF THE FAMILY, RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR._



CHAPTER LXII. THE SENTENCE PRONOUNCED.

MARTYRS to gout know, by sad experience, that they suffer under one of
the most capricious of maladies. An attack of this disease will shift,
in the most unaccountable manner, from one part of the body to another;
or, it will release the victim when there is every reason to fear that
it is about to strengthen its hold on him; or, having shown the fairest
promise of submitting to medical treatment, it will cruelly lay the
patient prostrate again in a state of relapse. Adverse fortune, in my
case, subjected me to this last and worst trial of endurance. Two months
passed--months of pain aggravated by anxiety--before I was able to help
Eunice and Miss Jillgall personally with my sympathy and advice.

During this interval, I heard regularly from the friendly and faithful
Selina.

Terror and suspense, courageously endured day after day, seem to have
broken down her resistance, poor soul, when Eunice's good name and
Eunice's tranquillity were threatened by the most infamous of false
accusations. From that time, Miss Jillgall's method of expressing
herself betrayed a gradual deterioration. I shall avoid presenting at a
disadvantage a correspondent who has claims on my gratitude, if I give
the substance only of what she wrote--assisted by the newspaper which
she sent to me, while the legal proceedings were in progress.


Honest indignation does sometimes counsel us wisely. When the doctor
left Miss Jillgall, in anger and in haste, he had determined on taking
the course from which, as a humane man and a faithful friend, he had
hitherto recoiled. It was no time, now, to shrink from the prospect of
an exposure. The one hope of successfully encountering the vindictive
wickedness of Helena lay in the resolution to be beforehand with her, in
the appeal to the magistrates with which she had threatened Eunice and
Miss Jillgall. The doctor's sworn information stated the whole terrible
case of the poisoning, ranging from his first suspicions and their
confirmation, to Helena's atrocious attempt to accuse her innocent
sister of her own guilt. So firmly were the magistrates convinced of the
serious nature of the case thus stated, that they did not hesitate
to issue their warrant. Among the witnesses whose attendance was
immediately secured, by the legal adviser to whom the doctor applied,
were the farmer and his wife.

Helena was arrested while she was dressing to go out. Her composure was
not for a moment disturbed. "I was on my way," she said coolly, "to make
a statement before the justices. The sooner they hear what I have to say
the better."

The attempt of this shameless wretch to "turn the tables" on poor
Eunice--suggested, as I afterward discovered, by the record of family
history which she had quoted in her journal--was defeated with ease. The
farmer and his wife proved the date at which Eunice had left her place
of residence under their roof. The doctor's evidence followed. He
proved, by the production of his professional diary, that the discovery
of the attempt to poison his patient had taken place before the day of
Eunice's departure from the farm, and that the first improvement in
Mr. Philip Dunboyne's state of health had shown itself after that young
lady's arrival to perform the duties of a nurse. To the wise precautions
which she had taken--perverted by Helena to the purpose of a false
accusation--the doctor attributed the preservation of the young man's
life.

Having produced the worst possible impression on the minds of the
magistrates, Helena was remanded. Her legal adviser had predicted
this result; but the vindictive obstinacy of his client had set both
experience and remonstrance at defiance.

At the renewed examination, the line of defense adopted by the
prisoner's lawyer proved to be--mistaken identity.

It was asserted that she had never entered the chemist's shop; also,
that the assistant had wrongly identified some other lady as Miss Helena
Gracedieu; also, that there was not an atom of evidence to connect her
with the stealing of the doctor's prescription-paper and the forgery of
his writing. Other assertions to the same purpose followed, on which
it is needless to dwell. The case for the prosecution was, happily, in
competent hands. With the exception of one witness, cross-examination
afforded no material help to the evidence for the defense.

The chemist swore positively to the personal appearance of Helena,
as being the personal appearance of the lady who had presented the
prescription. His assistant, pressed on the question of identity, broke
down under cross-examination--purposely, as it was whispered, serving
the interests of the prisoner. But the victory, so far gained by
the defense, was successfully contested by the statement of the next
witness, a respectable tradesman in the town. He had seen the newspaper
report of the first examination, and had volunteered to present himself
as a witness. A member of Mr. Gracedieu's congregation, his pew in the
chapel was so situated as to give him a view of the minister's daughters
occupying their pew. He had seen the prisoner on every Sunday, for years
past; and he swore that he was passing the door of the chemist's shop,
at the moment when she stepped out into the street, having a bottle
covered with the customary white paper in her hand. The doctor and
his servant were the next witnesses called. They were severely
cross-examined. Some of their statements--questioned technically with
success--received unexpected and powerful support, due to the discovery
and production of the prisoner's diary. The entries, guardedly as some
of them were written, revealed her motive for attempting to poison
Philip Dunboyne; proved that she had purposely called on the doctor when
she knew that he would be out, that she had entered the consulting-room,
and examined the medical books, had found (to use her own written words)
"a volume that interested her," and had used the prescription-papers for
the purpose of making notes. The notes themselves were not to be
found; they had doubtless been destroyed. Enough, and more than enough,
remained to make the case for the prosecution complete. The magistrates
committed Helena Gracedieu for trial at the next assizes.

I arrived in the town, as well as I can remember, about a week after the
trial had taken place.

Found guilty, the prisoner had been recommended to mercy by the
jury--partly in consideration of her youth; partly as an expression
of sympathy and respect for her unhappy father. The judge (a father
himself) passed a lenient sentence. She was condemned to imprisonment
for two years. The careful matron of the jail had provided herself with
a bottle of smelling-salts, in the fear that there might be need for
it when Helena heard her sentence pronounced. Not the slightest sign
of agitation appeared in her face or her manner. She lied to the last;
asserting her innocence in a firm voice, and returning from the dock to
the prison without requiring assistance from anybody.

Relating these particulars to me, in a state of ungovernable excitement,
good Miss Jillgall ended with a little confession of her own, which
operated as a relief to my overburdened mind after what I had just
heard.

"I wouldn't own it," she said, "to anybody but a dear friend. One thing,
in the dreadful disgrace that has fallen on us, I am quite at a loss
to account for. Think of Mr. Gracedieu's daughter being one of those
criminal creatures on whom it was once your terrible duty to turn the
key! Why didn't she commit suicide?"

"My dear lady, no thoroughly wicked creature ever yet committed suicide.
Self-destruction, when it is not an act of madness, implies some
acuteness of feeling--sensibility to remorse or to shame, or perhaps a
distorted idea of making atonement. There is no such thing as remorse or
shame, or hope of making atonement, in Helena's nature."

"But when she comes out of prison, what will she do?"

"Don't alarm yourself, my good friend. She will do very well."

"Oh, hush! hush! Poetical justice, Mr. Governor!"

"Poetical fiddlesticks, Miss Jillgall."



CHAPTER LXIII. THE OBSTACLE REMOVED.

When the subject of the trial was happily dismissed, my first inquiry
related to Eunice. The reply was made with an ominous accompaniment of
sighs and sad looks. Eunice had gone back to her duties as governess at
the farm. Hearing this, I asked naturally what had become of Philip.

Melancholy news, again, was the news that I now heard.

Mr. Dunboyne the elder had died suddenly, at his house in Ireland, while
Philip was on his way home. When the funeral ceremony had come to an
end, the will was read. It had been made only a few days before the
testator's death; and the clause which left all his property to his son
was preceded by expressions of paternal affection, at a time when Philip
was in sore need of consolation. After alluding to a letter, received
from his son, the old man added: "I always loved him, without caring to
confess it; I detest scenes of sentiment, kissings, embracings, tears,
and that sort of thing. But Philip has yielded to my wishes, and has
broken off a marriage which would have made him, as well as me, wretched
for life. After this, I may speak my mind from my grave, and may tell my
boy that I loved him. If the wish is likely to be of any use, I will add
(on the chance)--God bless him."

"Does Philip submit to separation from Eunice?" I asked. "Does he stay
in Ireland?"

"Not he, poor fellow! He will be here to-morrow or next day. When I last
wrote," Miss Jillgall continued, "I told him I hoped to see you again
soon. If you can't help us (I mean with Eunice) that unlucky young man
will do some desperate thing. He will join those madmen at large who
disturb poor savages in Africa, or go nowhere to find nothing in the
Arctic regions.

"Whatever I can do, Miss Jillgall, shall be gladly done. Is it really
possible that Eunice refuses to marry him, after having saved his life?"

"A little patience, please, Mr. Governor; let Philip tell his own
story. If I try to do it, I shall only cry--and we have had tears enough
lately, in this house."

Further consultation being thus deferred, I went upstairs to the
Minister's room.

He was sitting by the window, in his favorite armchair, absorbed in
knitting! The person who attended on him, a good-natured, patient
fellow, had been a sailor in his younger days, and had taught Mr.
Gracedieu how to use the needles. "You see it amuses him," the man said,
kindly. "Don't notice his mistakes, he thinks there isn't such another
in the world for knitting as himself. You can see, sir, how he sticks to
it." He was so absorbed over his employment that I had to speak to him
twice, before I could induce him to look at me. The utter ruin of his
intellect did not appear to have exercised any disastrous influence over
his bodily health. On the contrary, he had grown fatter since I had last
seen him; his complexion had lost the pallor that I remembered--there
was color in his cheeks.

"Don't you remember your old friend?" I said. He smiled, and nodded, and
repeated the words:

"Yes, yes, my old friend." It was only too plain that he had not the
least recollection of me. "His memory is gone," the man said. "When
he puts away his knitting, at night, I have to find it for him in the
morning. But, there! he's happy--enjoys his victuals, likes sitting out
in the garden and watching the birds. There's been a deal of trouble in
the family, sir; and it has all passed over him like a wet sponge over
a slate." The old sailor was right. If that wreck of a man had been
capable of feeling and thinking, his daughter's disgrace would have
broken his heart. In a world of sin and sorrow, is peaceable imbecility
always to be pitied? I have known men who would have answered, without
hesitation: "It is to be envied." And where (some persons might say) was
the poor Minister's reward for the act of mercy which had saved Eunice
in her infancy? Where it ought to be! A man who worthily performs a good
action finds his reward in the action itself.


At breakfast, on the next day, the talk touched on those passages in
Helena's diary, which had been produced in court as evidence against
her.

I expressed a wish to see what revelation of a depraved nature the
entries in the diary might present; and my curiosity was gratified. At
a fitter time, I may find an opportunity of alluding to the impression
produced on me by the diary. In the meanwhile, the event of Philip's
return claims notice in the first place.

The poor fellow was so glad to see me that he shook hands as heartily as
if we had known each other from the time when he was a boy.

"Do you remember how kindly you spoke to me when I called on you in
London?" he asked. "If I have repeated those words once--but perhaps you
don't remember them? You said: 'If I was as young as you are, I should
not despair.' Well! I have said that to myself over and over again, for
a hundred times at least. Eunice will listen to you, sir, when she will
listen to nobody else. This is the first happy moment I have had for
weeks past."

I suppose I must have looked glad to hear that. Anyway, Philip shook
hands with me again.

Miss Jillgall was present. The gentle-hearted old maid was so touched
by our meeting that she abandoned herself to the genial impulse of
the moment, and gave Philip a kiss. The outraged claims of propriety
instantly seized on her. She blushed as if the long-lost days of her
girlhood had been found again, and ran out of the room.

"Now, Mr. Philip," I said, "I have been waiting, at Miss Jillgall's
suggestion, to get my information from you. There is something wrong
between Eunice and yourself. What is it? And who is to blame?"

"Her vile sister is to blame," he answered. "That reptile was determined
to sting us. And she has done it!" he cried, starting to his feet, and
walking up and down the room, urged into action by his own unendurable
sense of wrong. "I say, she has done it, after Eunice has saved me--done
it, when Eunice was ready to be my wife."

"How has she done it?"

Between grief and indignation his reply was involved in a confusion of
vehemently-spoken words, which I shall not attempt to reproduce. Eunice
had reminded him that her sister had been publicly convicted of an
infamous crime, and publicly punished for it by imprisonment. "If I
consent to marry you," she said, "I stain you with my disgrace; that
shall never be." With this resolution, she had left him. "I have tried
to convince her," Philip said, "that she will not be associated with her
sister's disgrace when she bears my name; I have promised to take her
far away from England, among people who have never even heard of her
sister. Miss Jillgall has used her influence to help me. All in vain!
There is no hope for us but in you. I am not thinking selfishly only of
myself. She tries to conceal it--but, oh, she is broken-hearted! Ask the
farmer's wife, if you don't believe me. Judge for yourself, sir. Go--for
God's sake, go to the farm."

I made him sit down and compose himself.

"You may depend on my going to the farm," I answered. "I shall write to
Eunice to-day, and follow my letter to-morrow." He tried to thank me;
but I would not allow it. "Before I consent to accept the expression of
your gratitude," I said, "I must know a little more of you than I know
now. This is only the second occasion on which we have met. Let us look
back a little, Mr. Philip Dunboyne. You were Eunice's affianced husband;
and you broke faith with her. That was a rascally action. How do you
defend it?"

His head sank. "I am ashamed to defend it," he answered.

I pressed him without mercy. "You own yourself," I said, "that it was a
rascally action?"

"Use stronger language against me, even than that, sir--I deserve it."

"In plain words," I went on, "you can find no excuse for your conduct?"

"In the past time," he said, "I might have found excuses."

"But you can't find them now?"

"I must not even look for them now."

"Why not?"

"I owe it to Eunice to leave my conduct at its worst; with nothing
said--by me--to defend it."

"What has Eunice done to have such a claim on you as that?"

"Eunice has forgiven me."

It was gratefully and delicately said. Ought I to have allowed this
circumstance to weigh with me? I ask, in return, had _I_ never committed
any faults? As a fellow-mortal and fellow-sinner, had I any right to
harden my heart against an expression of penitence which I felt to be
sincere in its motive?

But I was bound to think of Eunice. I did think of her, before I
ventured to accept the position--the critical position, as I shall
presently show--of Philip's friend.

After more than an hour of questions put without reserve, and of answers
given without prevarication, I had traveled over the whole ground laid
out by the narratives which appear in these pages, and had arrived at my
conclusion--so far as Philip Dunboyne was concerned.

I found him to be a man with nothing absolutely wicked in him--but with
a nature so perilously weak, in many respects, that it might drift into
wickedness unless a stronger nature was at hand to bold it back. Married
to a wife without force of character, the probabilities would point to
him as likely to yield to examples which might make him a bad husband.
Married to a wife with a will of her own, and with true love to sustain
her--a wife who would know when to take the command and how to take the
command--a wife who, finding him tempted to commit actions unworthy
of his better self, would be far-sighted enough to perceive that her
husband's sense of honor might sometimes lose its balance, without being
on that account hopelessly depraved--then, and, in these cases only, the
probabilities would point to Philip as a man likely to be the better and
the happier for his situation, when the bonds of wedlock had got him.

But the serious question was not answered yet.

Could I feel justified in placing Eunice in the position toward Philip
which I have just endeavored to describe? I dared not allow my mind to
dwell on the generosity which had so nobly pardoned him, or on the force
of character which had bravely endured the bitterest disappointment, the
cruelest humiliation. The one consideration which I was bound to face,
was the sacred consideration of her happiness in her life to come.

Leaving Philip, with a few words of sympathy which might help him to
bear his suspense, I went to my room to think.

The time passed--and I could arrive at no positive conclusion. Either
way--with or without Philip--the contemplation of Eunice's future
harassed me with doubt. Even if I had conquered my own indecision, and
had made up my mind to sanction the union of the two young people, the
difficulties that now beset me would not have been dispersed. Knowing
what I alone knew, I could certainly remove Eunice's one objection to
the marriage. In other words, I had only to relate what had happened on
the day when the Chaplain brought the Minister to the prison, and the
obstacle of their union would be removed. But, without considering
Philip, it was simply out of the question to do this, in mercy to Eunice
herself. What was Helena's disgrace, compared with the infamy which
stained the name of the poor girl's mother! The other alternative of
telling her part of the truth only was before me, if I could persuade
myself to adopt it. I failed to persuade myself; my morbid anxiety for
her welfare made me hesitate again. Human patience could endure no
more. Rashness prevailed and prudence yielded--I left my decision to be
influenced by the coming interview with Eunice.

The next day I drove to the farm. Philip's entreaties persuaded me
to let him be my companion, on one condition--that he waited in the
carriage while I went into the house.

I had carefully arranged my ideas, and had decided on proceeding with
the greatest caution, before I ventured on saying the all-important
words which, once spoken, were not to be recalled. The worst of those
anxieties, under which the delicate health of Mr. Gracedieu had broken
down, was my anxiety now. Could I reconcile it to my conscience to
permit a man, innocent of all knowledge of the truth, to marry the
daughter of a condemned murderess, without honestly telling him what
he was about to do? Did I deserve to be pitied? did I deserve to be
blamed?--my mind was still undecided when I entered the house.

She ran to meet me as if she had been my daughter; she kissed me as if
she had been my daughter; she fondly looked up at me as if she had been
my daughter. At the sight of that sweet young face, so sorrowful, and
so patiently enduring sorrow, all my doubts and hesitations, everything
artificial about me with which I had entered the room, vanished in an
instant.

After she had thanked me for coming to see her, I saw her tremble a
little. The uppermost interest in her heart was forcing its way outward
to expression, try as she might to keep it back. "Have you seen Philip?"
she asked. The tone in which she put that question decided me--I was
resolved to let her marry him. Impulse! Yes, impulse, asserting itself
inexcusably in a man at the end of his life. I ought to have known
better than to have given way. Very likely. But am I the only mortal who
ought to have known better--and did not?

When Eunice asked if I had seen Philip, I owned that he was outside in
the carriage. Before she could reproach me, I went on with what I had
to say: "My child, I know what a sacrifice you have made; and I should
honor your scruples, if you had any reason for feeling them."

"Any reason for feeling them?" She turned pale as she repeated the
words.

An idea came to me. I rang for the servant, and sent her to the carriage
to tell Philip to come in. "My dear, I am not putting you to any unfair
trial," I assured her; "I am going to prove that I love you as truly as
if you were my own child."

When they were both present, I resolved that they should not suffer
a moment of needless suspense. Standing between them, I took Eunice's
hand, and laid my other hand on Philip's shoulder, and spoke out
plainly.

"I am here to make you both happy," I said. "I can remove the only
obstacle to your marriage, and I mean to do it. But I must insist on
one condition. Give me your promise, Philip, that you will ask for no
explanations, and that you will be satisfied with the one true statement
which is all that I can offer to you."

He gave me his promise, without an instant's hesitation.

"Philip grants what I ask," I said to Eunice. "Do you grant it, too?"

Her hand turned cold in mine; but she spoke firmly when she said: "Yes."

I gave her into Philip's care. It was his privilege to console and
support her. It was my duty to say the decisive words:

"Rouse your courage, dear Eunice; you are no more affected by Helena's
disgrace than I am. You are not her sister. Her father is not your
father; her mother was not your mother. I was present, in the time of
your infancy, when Mr. Gracedieu's fatherly kindness received you as his
adopted child. This, I declare to you both, on my word of honor, is the
truth."

How she bore it I am not able to say. My foolish old eyes were filling
with tears. I could just see plainly enough to find my way to the door,
and leave them together.

In my reckless state of mind, I never asked myself if Time would be my
accomplice, and keep the part of the secret which I had not revealed--or
be my enemy, and betray me. The chances, either way, were perhaps equal.
The deed was done.



CHAPTER LXIV. THE TRUTH TRIUMPHANT.

The marriage was deferred, at Eunice's request, as an expression of
respect to the memory of Philip's father.

When the time of delay had passed, it was arranged that the wedding
ceremony should be held--after due publication of Banns--at the parish
church of the London suburb in which my house was situated. Miss
Jillgall was bridesmaid, and I gave away the bride. Before we set out
for the church, Eunice asked leave to speak with me for a moment in
private.

"Don't think," she said, "that I am forgetting my promise to be content
with what you have told me about myself. I am not so ungrateful as that.
But I do want, before I consent to be Philip's wife, to feel sure that I
am not quite unworthy of him. Is it because I am of mean birth that you
told me I was Mr. Gracedieu's adopted child--and told me no more?"

I could honestly satisfy her, so far. "Certainly not!" I said.

She put her arms round my neck. "Do you say that," she asked, "to make
my mind easy? or do you say it on your word of honor?"

"On my word of honor."

We arrived at the church. Let Miss Jillgall describe the marriage, in
her own inimitable way.

"No wedding breakfast, when you don't want to eat it. No wedding
speeches, when nobody wants to make them, and nobody wants to hear
them. And no false sentiment, shedding tears and reddening noses, on the
happiest day in the whole year. A model marriage! I could desire nothing
better, if I had any prospect of being a bride myself."

They went away for their honeymoon to a quiet place by the seaside, not
very far from the town in which Eunice had passed some of the happiest
and the wretchedest days in her life. She persisted in thinking it
possible that Mr. Gracedieu might recover the use of his faculties,
at the last, and might wish to see her on his death-bed. "His adopted
daughter," she gently reminded me, "is his only daughter now." The
doctor shook his head when I told him what Eunice had said to me--and,
the sad truth must be told, the doctor was right.

Miss Jillgall returned, on the wedding-day, to take care of the good man
who had befriended her in her hour of need.

Before the end of the week, I heard from her, and was disagreeably
reminded of an incident which we had both forgotten, absorbed as we were
in other and greater interests, at the time.

Mrs. Tenbruggen had again appeared on the scene! She had written to Miss
Jillgall, from Paris, to say that she had heard of old Mr. Dunboyne's
death, and that she wished to have the letter returned, which she had
left for delivery to Philip's father on the day when Philip and Eunice
were married. I had my own suspicions of what that letter might contain;
and I regretted that Miss Jillgall had sent it back without first
waiting to consult me. My misgivings, thus excited, were increased
by more news of no very welcome kind. Mrs. Tenbruggen had decided on
returning to her professional pursuits in England. Massage, now the
fashion everywhere, had put money into her pocket among the foreigners;
and her husband, finding that she persisted in keeping out of his reach,
had consented to a compromise. He was ready to submit to a judicial
separation; in consideration of a little income which his wife had
consented to settle on him, under the advice of her lawyer.

Some days later, I received a delightful letter from Philip and Eunice;
reminding me that I had engaged to pay them a visit at the seaside. My
room was ready for me, and I was left to choose my own day. I had
just begun to write my reply, gladly accepting the invitation, when
an ominous circumstance occurred. My servant announced "a lady"; and I
found myself face to face with--Mrs. Tenbruggen!

She was as cheerful as ever, and as eminently agreeable as ever.

"I have heard it all from Selina," she said. "Philip's marriage
to Eunice (I shall go and congratulate them, of course), and the
catastrophe (how dramatic!) of Helena Gracedieu. I warned. Selina that
Miss Helena would end badly. To tell the truth, she frightened me. I
don't deny that I am a mischievous woman when I find myself affronted,
quite capable of taking my revenge in my own small spiteful way. But
poison and murder--ah, the frightful subject! let us drop it, and talk
of something that doesn't make my hair (it's really my own hair) stand
on end. Has Selina told you that I have got rid of my charming husband,
on easy pecuniary terms? Oh, you know that? Very well. I will tell you
something that you don't know. Mr. Governor, I have found you out."

"May I venture to ask how?"

"When I guessed which was which of those two girls," she answered, "and
guessed wrong, you deliberately encouraged the mistake. Very clever, but
you overdid it. From that moment, though I kept it to myself, I began
to fear I might be wrong. Do you remember Low Lanes, my dear sir? A
charming old church. I have had another consultation with my lawyer.
His questions led me into mentioning how it happened that I heard of Low
Lanes. After looking again at his memorandum of the birth advertised in
the newspaper without naming the place--he proposed trying the church
register at Low Lanes. Need I tell you the result? I know, as well
as you do, that Philip has married the adopted child. He has had a
mother-in-law who was hanged, and, what is more, he has the honor,
through his late father, of being otherwise connected with the murderess
by marriage--as his aunt!"

Bewilderment and dismay deprived me of my presence of mind. "How did you
discover that?" I was foolish enough to ask.

"Do you remember when I brought the baby to the prison?" she said. "The
father--as I mentioned at the time--had been a dear and valued friend of
mine. No person could be better qualified to tell me who had married his
wife's sister. If that lady had been living, I should never have been
troubled with the charge of the child. Any more questions?"

"Only one. Is Philip to hear of this?"

"Oh, for shame! I don't deny that Philip insulted me grossly, in one
way; and that Philip's late father insulted me grossly, in another way.
But Mamma Tenbruggen is a Christian. She returns good for evil, and
wouldn't for the world disturb the connubial felicity of Mr. and Mrs.
Philip Dunboyne."

The moment the woman was out of my house, I sent a telegram to Philip to
say that he might expect to see me that night. I caught the last train
in the evening; and I sat down to supper with those two harmless young
creatures, knowing I must prepare the husband for what threatened them,
and weakly deferring it, when I found myself in their presence, until
the next day. Eunice was, in some degree, answerable for this hesitation
on my part. No one could look at her husband, and fail to see that he
was a supremely happy man. But I detected signs of care in the wife's
face.

Before breakfast the next morning I was out on the beach, trying to
decide how the inevitable disclosure might be made. Eunice joined me.
Now, when we were alone, I asked if she was really and completely happy.
Quietly and sadly she answered: "Not yet."

I hardly knew what to say. My face must have expressed disappointment
and surprise.

"I shall never be quite happy," she resumed, "till I know what it is
that you kept from me on that memorable day. I don't like having a
secret from my husband--though it is not _my_ secret."

"Remember your promise," I said

"I don't forget it," she answered. "I can only wish that my promise
would keep back the thoughts that come to me in spite of myself."

"What thoughts?"

"There is something, as I fear, in the story of my parents which you are
afraid to confide to me. Why did Mr. Gracedieu allow me to believe and
leave everybody to believe, that I was his own child?"

"My dear, I relieved your mind of those doubts on the morning of your
marriage."

"No. I was only thinking of myself at that time. My mother--the doubt of
_her_ is the doubt that torments me now."

"What do you mean?"

She put her arm in mine, and held by it with both hands.

"The mock-mother!" she whispered. "Do you remember that dreadful Vision,
that horrid whispering temptation in the dead of night? _Was_ it a
mock-mother? Oh, pity me! I don't know who my mother was. One horrid
thought about her is a burden on my mind. If she was a good woman, you
who love me would surely have made me happy by speaking of her?"

Those words decided me at last. Could she suffer more than she had
suffered already, if I trusted her with the truth? I ran the risk. There
was a time of silence that filled me with terror. The interval passed.
She took my hand, and put it to her heart. "Does it beat as if I was
frightened?" she asked.


No! It was beating calmly.

"Does it relieve your anxiety?"

It told me that I had not surprised her. That unforgotten Vision of the
night had prepared her for the worst, after the time when I had told her
that she was an adopted child. "I know," I said, "that those whispered
temptations overpowered you again, when you and Helena met on the
stairs, and you forbade her to enter Philip's room. And I know that love
had conquered once more, when you were next seen sitting by Philip's
bedside. Tell me--have you any misgivings now? Is there fear in your
heart of the return of that tempting spirit in you, in the time to
come?"

"Not while Philip lives!"

There, where her love was--there her safety was. And she knew it! She
suddenly left me. I asked where she was going.

"To tell Philip," was the reply.

She was waiting for me at the door, when I followed her to the house.

"Is it done?" I said.

"It is done," she answered.

"What did he say?"

"He said: 'My darling, if I could be fonder of you than ever, I should
be fonder of you now.'"

I have been blamed for being too ready to confide to Philip the precious
trust of Eunice's happiness. If that reply does not justify me, where is
justification to be found?




POSTSCRIPT.

Later in the day, Mrs. Tenbruggen arrived to offer her congratulations.
She asked for a few minutes with Philip alone. As a cat elaborates
her preparations for killing a mouse, so the human cat elaborated her
preparations for killing Philip's happiness, he remained uninjured
by her teeth and her claws. "Somebody," she said, "has told you of it
already?" And Philip answered: "Yes; my wife."

For some months longer, Mr. Gracedieu lingered. One morning, he said to
Eunice: "I want to teach you to knit. Sit by me, and see me do it."
His hands fell softly on his lap; his head sank little by little on
her shoulder. She could just hear him whisper: "How pleasant it is to
sleep!" Never was Death's dreadful work more gently done.

Our married pair live now on the paternal estate in Ireland; and Miss
Jillgall reigns queen of domestic affairs. I am still strong enough to
pass my autumn holidays in that pleasant house.

At times, my memory reverts to Helena Gracedieu, and to what I
discovered when I had seen her diary.

How little I knew of that terrible creature when I first met with her,
and fancied that she had inherited her mother's character! It was weak
indeed to compare the mean vices of Mrs. Gracedieu with the diabolical
depravity of her daughter. Here the doctrine of hereditary transmission
of moral qualities must own that it has overlooked the fertility (for
growth of good and for growth of evil equally) which is inherent in
human nature. There are virtues that exalt us, and vices that degrade
us, whose mysterious origin is, not in our parents, but in ourselves.
When I think of Helena, I ask myself, where is the trace which reveals
that the first murder in the world was the product of inherited crime?

The criminal left the prison, on the expiration of her sentence, so
secretly that it was impossible to trace her. Some months later, Miss
Jillgall received an illustrated newspaper published in the United
States. She showed me one of the portraits in it.

"Do you recognize the illustrious original?" she asked, with indignant
emphasis on the last two words. I recognized Helena. "Now read her new
title," Miss Jillgall continued.

I read: "The Reverend Miss Gracedieu."

The biographical notice followed. Here is an extract: "This eminent
lady, the victim of a shocking miscarriage of justice in England, is
now the distinguished leader of a new community in the United States. We
hail in her the great intellect which asserts the superiority of woman
over man. In the first French Revolution, the attempt made by men
to found a rational religion met with only temporary success. It was
reserved for the mightier spirit of woman to lay the foundations more
firmly, and to dedicate one of the noblest edifices in this city to the
Worship of Pure Reason. Readers who wish for further information will
do well to provide themselves with the Reverend Miss Gracedieu's
Orations--the tenth edition of which is advertised in our columns."

"I once asked you," Miss Jillgall reminded me, "what Helena would do
when she came out of prison, and you said she would do very well. Oh,
Mr. Governor, Solomon was nothing to You!"