The Legacy of Cain Read online

my part! What is religion? What is education? I read a horrible book once (I

  forget who was the author); it called religion superstition, and education empty

  form. I don't know; upon my word I don't know that the book may not--Oh, my

  tongue! Why don't I keep a guard over my tongue? Are you a father, too? Don't

  interrupt me. Put yourself in my place, and think of it. Heartless, deceitful,

  and my daughter. Give me the pocketbook; I want to see which memorandum comes

  first."

  He had now wrought himself into a state of excitement, which relieved his

  spirits of the depression that had weighed on them up to this time. His harmless

  vanity, always, as I suspect, a latent quality in his kindly nature, had already

  restored his confidence. With a self-sufficient smile he consulted his own

  unintelligible entries, and made his own wild discoveries.

  "Ah, yes; 'M' stands for Minister; I come first. Am I to blame? Am I--God

  forgive me my many sins--am I heartless? Am I deceitful?"

  "My good friend, not even your enemies could say that!"

  "Thank you. Who comes next?" He consulted the book again. "Her mother, her

  sainted mother, comes next. People say she is like her mother. Was my wife

  heartless? Was the angel of my life deceitful?"

  ("That," I thought to myself, "is exactly what your wife was--and exactly what

  reappears in your wife's child.")

  "Where does her wickedness come from?" he went on. "Not from her mother; not

  from me; not from a neglected education." He suddenly stepped up to me and laid

  his hands on my shoulders; his voice dropped to hoarse, moaning, awestruck

  tones. "Shall I tell you what it is? A possession of the devil."

  It was so evidently desirable to prevent any continuation of such a train of

  thought as this, that I could feel no hesitation in interrupting him.

  "Will you hear what I have to say?" I asked bluntly.

  His humor changed again; he made me a low bow, and went back to his chair. "I

  will hear you with pleasure," he answered politely. "You are the most eloquent

  man I know, with one exception--myself. Of course--myself."

  "It is mere waste of time," I continued, "to regret the excellent education

  which your daughter has misused." Making that reply, I was tempted to add

  another word of truth. All education is at the mercy of two powerful

  counter-influences: the influence of temperament, and the influence of

  circumstances. But this was philosophy. How could I expect him to submit to

  philosophy? "What we know of Miss Helena," I went on, "must be enough for us.

  She has plotted, and she means to succeed. Stop her."

  "Just my idea!" he declared firmly. "I refuse my consent to that abominable

  marriage."

  In the popular phrase, I struck while the iron was hot. "You must do more than

  that, sir," I told him.

  His vanity suddenly took the alarm--I was leading him rather too undisguisedly.

  He handed his book back to me. "You will find," he said loftily, "that I have

  put it all down there."

  I pretended to find it, and read an imaginary entry to this effect: "After what

  she has already done, Helena is capable of marrying in defiance of my wishes and

  commands. This must be considered and provided against." So far, I had succeeded

  in flattering him. But when (thinking of his paternal authority) I alluded next

  to his daughter's age, his eyes rested on me with a look of downright terror.

  "No more of that!" he said. "I won't talk of the girls' ages even with you."

  What did he mean? It was useless to ask. I went on with the matter in

  hand--still deliberately speaking to him, as I might have spoken to a man with

  an intellect as clear as my own. In my experience, this practice generally

  stimulates a weak intelligence to do its best. We all know how children receive

  talk that is lowered, or books that are lowered, to their presumed level.

  "I shall take it for granted," I continued, "that Miss Helena is still under

  your lawful authority. She can only arrive at her ends by means of a runaway

  marriage. In that case, much depends on the man. You told me you couldn't help

  liking him. This was, of course, before you knew of the infamous manner in which

  he has behaved. You must have changed your opinion now."

  He seemed to be at a loss how to reply. "I am afraid," he said, "the young man

  was drawn into it by Helena."

  Here was Miss Jillgall's apology for Philip Dunboyne repeated in other words.

  Despising and detesting the fellow as I did, I was forced to admit to myself

  that he must be recommended by personal attractions which it would be necessary

  to reckon with. I tried to get some more information from Mr. Gracedieu.

  "The excuse you have just made for him," I resumed, "implies that he is a weak

  man; easily persuaded, easily led."

  The Minister answered by nodding his head.

  "Such weakness as that," I persisted, "is a vice in itself. It has led already,

  sir, to the saddest results."

  He admitted this by another nod.

  "I don't wish to shock you, Mr. Gracedieu; but I must recommend employing the

  means that present themselves. You must practice on this man's weakness, for the

  sake of the good that may come of it. I hear he is in London with his father.

  Try the strong influence, and write to his father. There is another reason

  besides for doing this. It is quite possible that the truth has been concealed

  from Mr. Dunboyne the elder. Take care that he is informed of what has really

  happened. Are you looking for pen, ink, and paper? Let me offer you the writing

  materials which I use in traveling."

  I placed them before him. He took up the pen; he arranged the paper; he was

  eager to begin.

  After writing a few words, he stopped--reflected--tried again--stopped

  again--tore up the little that he had done--and began a new letter, ending in

  the same miserable result. It was impossible to witness his helplessness, to see

  how pitiably patient he was over his own incapacity, and to let the melancholy

  spectacle go on. I proposed to write the letter; authenticating it, of course,

  by his signature. When he allowed me to take the pen, he turned away his face,

  ashamed to let me see what he suffered. Was this the same man, whose great

  nature had so nobly asserted itself in the condemned cell? Poor mortality!

  The letter was easily written.

  I had only to inform Mr. Dunboyne of his son's conduct; repeating, in the

  plainest language that I could use, what Miss Jillgall had related to me.

  Arrived at the conclusion, I contrived to make Mr. Gracedieu express himself in

  these strong terms: "I protest against the marriage in justice to you, sir, as

  well as to myself. We can neither of us content to be accomplices in an act of

  domestic treason of the basest kind."

  In silence, the Minister read the letter, and attached his signature to it. In

  silence, he rose and took my arm. I asked if he wished to go to his room. He

  only replied by a sign. I offered to sit with him, and try to cheer him.

  Gratefully, he pressed my hand: gently, he put me back from the door. Crushed by

  the miserable discovery of the decay of his ow
n faculties! What could I do? what

  could I say? Nothing!

  Miss Jillgall was in the drawing-room. With the necessary explanations, I showed

  her the letter. She read it with breathless interest. "It terrifies one to think

  how much depends on old Mr. Dunboyne," she said. "You know him. What sort of man

  is he?"

  I could only assure her (after what I remembered of his letter to me) that he

  was a man whom we could depend upon.

  Miss Jillgall possessed treasures of information to which I could lay no claim.

  Mr. Dunboyne, she told me, was a scholar, and a writer, and a rich man. His

  views on marriage were liberal in the extreme. Let his son find good principles,

  good temper, and good looks, in a wife, and he would promise to find the money.

  "I get these particulars," said Miss Jillgall, "from dear Euneece. They are

  surely encouraging? That Helena may carry out Mr. Dunboyne's views in her

  personal appearance is, I regret to say, what I can't deny. But as to the other

  qualifications, how hopeful is the prospect! Good principles, and good temper?

  Ha! ha! Helena has the principles of Jezebel, and the temper of Lady Macbeth."

  After dashing off this striking sketch of character, the fair artist asked to

  look at my letter again, and observed that the address was wanting. "I can set

  this right for you," she resumed, "thanks, as before, to my sweet Euneece. And

  (don't be in a hurry) I can make myself useful in another way. Oh, how I do

  enjoy making myself useful! If you trust your letter to the basket in the hall,

  Helena's lovely eyes--capable of the meanest conceivable actions--are sure to

  take a peep at the address. In that case, do you think your letter would get to

  London? I am afraid you detect a faint infusion of spitefulness in that

  question. Oh, for shame! I'll post the letter myself."

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  THE SHAMELESS SISTER.

  FOR some reason, which my unassisted penetration was unable to discover, Miss

  Helena Gracedieu kept out of my way.

  At dinner, on the day of my arrival, and at breakfast on the next morning, she

  was present of course; ready to make herself agreeable in a modest way, and

  provided with the necessary supply of cheerful small-talk. But the meal having

  come to an end, she had her domestic excuse ready, and unostentatiously

  disappeared like a well-bred young lady. I never met her on the stairs, never

  found myself intruding on her in the drawing-room, never caught her getting out

  of my way in the garden. As much at a loss for an explanation of these mysteries

  as I was, Miss Jillgall's interest in my welfare led her to caution me in a

  vague and general way.

  "Take my word for it, dear Mr. Governor, she has some design on you. Will you

  allow an insignificant old maid to offer a suggestion? Oh, thank you; I will

  venture to advise. Please look back at your experience of the very worst female

  prisoner you ever had to deal with--and be guided accordingly if Helena catches

  you at a private interview."

  In less than half an hour afterward, Helena caught me. I was writing in my room,

  when the maidservant came in with a message: "Miss Helena's compliments, sir,

  and would you please spare her half an hour, downstairs?"

  My first excuse was of course that I was engaged. This was disposed of by a

  second message, provided beforehand, no doubt, for an anticipated refusal: "Miss

  Helena wished me to say, sir, that her time is your time." I was still

  obstinate; I pleaded next that my day was filled up. A third message had

  evidently been prepared, even for this emergency: "Miss Helena will regret, sir,

  having the pleasure deferred, but she will leave you to make your own

  appointment for to-morrow." Persistency so inveterate as this led to a result

  which Mr. Gracedieu's cautious daughter had not perhaps contemplated: it put me

  on my guard. There seemed to be a chance, to say the least of it, that I might

  serve Eunice's interests if I discovered what the enemy had to say. I locked up

  my writing--declared myself incapable of putting Miss Helena to needless

  inconvenience--and followed the maid to the lower floor of the house.

  The room to which I was conducted proved to be empty. I looked round me.

  If I had been told that a man lived there who was absolutely indifferent to

  appearances, I should have concluded that his views were faithfully represented

  by his place of abode. The chairs and tables reminded me of a railway

  waiting-room. The shabby little bookcase was the mute record of a life

  indifferent to literature. The carpet was of that dreadful drab color, still the

  cherished favorite of the average English mind, in spite of every protest that

  can be entered against it, on behalf of Art. The ceiling, recently whitewashed;

  made my eyes ache when they looked at it. On either side of the window, flaccid

  green curtains hung helplessly with nothing to loop them up. The writing-desk

  and the paper-case, viewed as specimens of woodwork, recalled the ready-made

  bedrooms on show in cheap shops. The books, mostly in slate-colored bindings,

  were devoted to the literature which is called religious; I only discovered

  three worldly publications among them--Domestic Cookery, Etiquette for Ladies,

  and Hints on the Breeding of Poultry. An ugly little clock, ticking noisily in a

  black case, and two candlesticks of base metal placed on either side of it,

  completed the ornaments on the chimney-piece. Neither pictures nor prints hid

  the barrenness of the walls. I saw no needlework and no flowers. The one object

  in the place which showed any pretensions to beauty was a looking-glass in an

  elegant gilt frame--sacred to vanity, and worthy of the office that it filled.

  Such was Helena Gracedieu's sitting-room. I really could not help thinking: How

  like her!

  She came in with a face perfectly adapted to the circumstances--pleased and

  smiling; amiably deferential, in consideration of the claims of her father's

  guest--and, to my surprise, in some degree suggestive of one of those

  incorrigible female prisoners, to whom Miss Jillgall had referred me when she

  offered a word of advice.

  "How kind of you to come so soon! Excuse my receiving you in my

  housekeeping-room; we shall not be interrupted here. Very plainly furnished, is

  it not? I dislike ostentation and display. Ornaments are out of place in a room

  devoted to domestic necessities. I hate domestic necessities. You notice the

  looking-glass? It's a present. I should never have put such a thing up. Perhaps

  my vanity excuses it."

  She pointed the last remark by a look at herself in the glass; using it, while

  she despised it. Yes: there was a handsome face, paying her its reflected

  compliment--but not so well matched as it might have been by a handsome figure.

  Her feet were too large; her shoulders were too high; the graceful undulations

  of a well-made girl were absent when she walked; and her bosom was, to my mind,

  unduly developed for her time of life.

  She sat down by me with her back to the light. Happening to be opposite to the

  window, I offered her the advantage of a clear view of my face. S
he waited for

  me, and I waited for her--and there was an awkward pause before we spoke. She

  set the example.

  "Isn't it curious?" she remarked. "When two people have something particular to

  say to each other, and nothing to hinder them, they never seem to know how to

  say it. You are the oldest, sir. Why don't you begin?"

  "Because I have nothing particular to say."

  "In plain words, you mean that I must begin?"

  "If you please."

  "Very well. I want to know whether I have given you (and Miss Jillgall, of

  course) as much time as you want, and as many opportunities as you could

  desire?"

  "Pray go on, Miss Helena."

  "Have I not said enough already?"

  "Not enough, I regret to say, to convey your meaning to me."

  She drew her chair a little further away from me. "I am sadly disappointed," she

  said. "I had such a high opinion of your perfect candor. I thought to myself:

  There is such a striking expression of frankness in his face. Another illusion

  gone! I hope you won't think I am offended, if I say a bold word. I am only a

  young girl, to be sure; but I am not quite such a fool as you take me for. Do

  you really think I don't know that Miss Jillgall has been telling you everything

  that is bad about me; putting every mistake that I have made, every fault that I

  have committed, in the worst possible point of view? And you have listened to

  her--quite naturally! And you are prejudiced, strongly prejudiced, against

  me--what else could you be, under the circumstances? I don't complain; I have

  purposely kept out of your way, and out of Miss Jillgall's way; in short, I have

  afforded you every facility, as the prospectuses say. I only want to know if my

  turn has come at last. Once more, have I given you time enough, and

  opportunities enough?"

  "A great deal more than enough."

  "Do you mean that you have made up your mind about me without stopping to

  think?"

  "That is exactly what I mean. An act of treachery, Miss Helena, is an act of

  treachery; no honest person need hesitate to condemn it. I am sorry you sent for

  me."

  I got up to go. With an ironical gesture of remonstrance, she signed to me to

  sit down again.

  "Must I remind you, dear sir, of our famous native virtue? Fair play is surely

  due to a young person who has nobody to take her part. You talked of treachery

  just how. I deny the treachery. Please give me a hearing."

  I returned to my chair.

  "Or would you prefer waiting," she went out, "till my sister comes here later in

  the day, and continues what Miss Jillgall has begun, with the great advantage of

  being young and nice-looking?"

  When the female mind gets into this state, no wise man answers the female

  questions.

  "Am I to take silence as meaning Go on?" Miss Helena inquired.

  I begged her to interpret my silence in the sense most agreeable to herself.

  This naturally encouraged her. She made a proposal:

  "Do you mind changing places, sir?"

  "Just as you like, Miss Helena."

  We changed chairs; the light now fell full on her face. Had she deliberately

  challenged me to look into her secret mind if I could? Anything like the stark

  insensibility of that young girl to every refinement of feeling, to every

  becoming doubt of herself, to every customary timidity of her age and sex in the

  presence of a man who had not disguised his unfavorable opinion of her, I never

  met with in all my experience of the world and of women.

  "I wish to be quite mistress of myself," she explained; "your face, for some

  reason which I really don't know, irritates me. The fact is, I have great pride

  in keeping my temper. Please make allowances. Now about Miss Jillgall. I suppose

  she told you how my sister first met with Philip Dunboyne?"

  "Yes."

  "She also mentioned, perhaps, that he was a highly-cultivated man?"

  "She did."

  "Now we shall get on. When Philip came to our town here, and saw me for the

  first time--Do you object to my speaking familiarly of him, by his Christian