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The Legacy of Cain

W >> Wilkie Collins >> The Legacy of Cain




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!"

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