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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 ha
d 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.

  [Chapters 36-64] [Title Page] [Return to Main Index]

  The Legacy of Cain, Chapters 36-64CHAPTER 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