The Legacy of Cain Page 12

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