The Legacy of Cain Page 17

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 sin
king,

  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