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The Legacy of Cain

W >> Wilkie Collins >> The Legacy of Cain




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 term s:

" '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 Phi lip 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 w ord: "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.

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