The Legacy of Cain Page 24

Philip's letters exhibit notes in pencil, evidently added by Helena. These

  express, for the most part, the interpretation which she had placed on passages

  that perplexed or displeased her; and they have, as Philip's rejoinders show,

  been employed as materials when she wrote her replies.

  On reflection, I find myself troubled by complexities and contradictions in the

  view presented of this young man's character. To decide positively whether I can

  justify to myself and to my regard for Eunice, an attempt to reunite the lovers,

  requires more time for consideration than I can reasonably expect that Helena's

  patience will allow. Having a quiet hour or two still before me, I have

  determined to make extracts from the letters for my own use; with the intention

  of referring to them while I am still in doubt which way my decision ought to

  incline. I shall present them here, to speak for themselves. Is there any

  objection to this? None that I can see.

  In the first place, those extracts have a value of their own. They add necessary

  information to the present history of events.

  In the second place, I am under no obligation to Mr. Gracedieu's daughter which

  forbids me to make use of her portfolio. I told her that I only consented to

  receive it, under reserve of my own right of action--and her assent to that

  stipulation was expressed in the clearest terms.

  EXTRACTS FROM MR. PHILIP DUNBOYNE'S LETTERS.

  First Extract.

  You blame me, dear Helena, for not having paid proper attention to the questions

  put to me in your last letter. I have only been waiting to make up my mind,

  before I replied.

  First question: Do I think it advisable that you should write to my father? No,

  my dear; I beg you will defer writing, until you hear from me again.

  Second question: Considering that he is still a stranger to you, is there any

  harm in your asking me what sort of man my father is? No harm, my sweet one;

  but, as you will presently see, I am afraid you have addressed yourself to the

  wrong person.

  My father is kind, in his own odd way--and learned, and rich--a more high-minded

  and honorable man (as I have every reason to believe) doesn't live. But if you

  ask me which he prefers, his books or his son, I hope I do him no injustice when

  I answer, his books. His reading and his writing are obstacles between us which

  I have never been able to overcome. This is the more to be regretted because he

  is charming, on the few occasions when I find him disengaged. If you wish I knew

  more about my father, we are in complete agreement as usual--I wish, too.

  But there is a dear friend of yours and mine, who is just the person we want to

  help us. Need I say that I allude to Mrs. Staveley?

  I called on her yesterday, not long after she had paid a visit to my father.

  Luck had favored her. She arrived just at the time when hunger had obliged him

  to shut up his books, and ring for something to eat. Mrs. Staveley secured a

  favorable reception with her customary tact and delicacy. He had a fowl for his

  dinner. She knows his weakness of old; she volunteered to carve it for him.

  If I can only repeat what this clever woman told me of their talk, you will have

  a portrait of Mr. Dunboyne the elder--not perhaps a highly-finished picture,

  but, as I hope and believe, a good likeness.

  Mrs. Staveley began by complaining to him of the conduct of his son. I had

  promised to write to her, and I had never kept my word. She had reasons for

  being especially interested in my plans and prospects, just then; knowing me to

  be attached (please take notice that I am quoting her own language) to a

  charming friend of hers, whom I had first met at her house. To aggravate the

  disappointment that I had inflicted, the young lady had neglected her, too. No

  letters, no information. Perhaps my father would kindly enlighten her? Was the

  affair going on? or was it broken off?

  My father held out his plate and asked for the other wing of the fowl. "It isn't

  a bad one for London," he said; "won't you have some yourself?"

  "I don't seem to have interested you," Mrs. Staveley remarked.

  "What did you expect me to be interested in?" my father inquired. "I was

  absorbed in the fowl. Favor me by returning to the subject."

  Mrs. Staveley admits that she answered this rather sharply: "The subject, sir,

  was your son's admiration for a charming girl: one of the daughters of Mr.

  Gracedieu, the famous preacher."

  My father is too well-bred to speak to a lady while his attention is absorbed by

  a fowl. He finished the second wing, and then he asked if "Philip was engaged to

  be married."

  "I am not quite sure," Mrs. Staveley confessed.

  "Then, my dear friend, we will wait till we are sure."

  "But, Mr. Dunboyne, there is really no need to wait. I suppose your son comes

  here, now and then, to see you?"

  "My son is most attentive. In course of time he will contrive to hit on the

  right hour for his visit. At present, poor fellow, he interrupts me every day."

  "Suppose he hits upon the right time to-morrow?"

  "Yes?"

  "You might ask him if he is engaged?"

  "Pardon me. I think I might wait till Philip mentions it without asking."

  "What an extraordinary man you are!"

  "Oh, no, no--only a philosopher."

  This tried Mrs. Staveley's temper. You know what a perfectly candid person our

  friend is. She owned to me that she felt inclined to make herself disagreeable.

  "That's thrown away upon me," she said: "I don't know what a philosopher is."

  Let me pause for a moment, dear Helena. I have inexcusably forgotten to speak of

  my father's personal appearance. It won't take long. I need only notice one

  interesting feature which, so to speak, lifts his face out of the common. He has

  an eloquent nose. Persons possessing this rare advantage are blest with powers

  of expression not granted to their ordinary fellow-creatures. My father's nose

  is a mine of information to friends familiarly acquainted with it. It changes

  color like a modest young lady's cheek. It works flexibly from side to side like

  the rudder of a ship. On the present occasion, Mrs. Staveley saw it shift toward

  the left-hand side of his face. A sigh escaped the poor lady. Experience told

  her that my father was going to hold forth.

  "You don't know what a philosopher is!" he repeated. "Be so kind as to look at

  Me. I am a philosopher."

  Mrs. Staveley bowed.

  "And a philosopher, my charming friend, is a man who has discovered a system of

  life. Some systems assert themselves in volumes--my system asserts itself in two

  words: Never think of anything until you have first asked yourself if there is

  an absolute necessity for doing it, at that particular moment. Thinking of

  things, when things needn't be thought of, is offering an opportunity to Worry;

  and Worry is the favorite agent of Death when the destroyer handles his work in

  a lingering way, and achieves premature results. Never look back, and never look

  forward, as long as you can possibly help it. Looking back leads the way to

  sorrow. And looking forward ends in the cru
elest of all delusions: it encourages

  hope. The present time is the precious time. Live for the passing day: the

  passing day is all that we can be sure of. You suggested, just now, that I

  should ask my son if he was engaged to be married. How do we know what wear and

  tear of your nervous texture I succeeded in saving when I said. 'Wait till

  Philip mentions it without asking?' There is the personal application of my

  system. I have explained it in my time to every woman on the list of my

  acquaintance, including the female servants. Not one of them has rewarded me by

  adopting my system. How do you feel about it?"

  Mrs. Staveley declined to tell me whether she had offered a bright example of

  gratitude to the rest of the sex. When I asked why, she declared that it was my

  turn now to tell her what I had been doing.

  You will anticipate what followed. She objected to the mystery in which my

  prospects seemed to be involved. In plain English, was I, or was I not, engaged

  to marry her dear Eunice? I said, No. What else could I say? If I had told Mrs.

  Staveley the truth, when she insisted on my explaining myself, she would have

  gone back to my father, and would have appealed to his sense of justice to

  forbid our marriage. Finding me obstinately silent, she has decided on writing

  to Eunice. So we parted. But don't be disheartened. On my way out of the house,

  I met Mr. Staveley coming in, and had a little talk with him. He and his wife

  and his family are going to the seaside, next week. Mrs. Staveley once out of

  our way, I can tell my father of our engagement without any fear of

  consequences. If she writes to him, the moment he sees my name mentioned, and

  finds violent language associated with it, he will hand the letter to me. "Your

  business, Philip: don't interrupt me." He will say that, and go back to his

  books. There is my father, painted to the life! Farewell, for the present.

  . . . . . . .

  Remarks by H. G.--Philip's grace and gayety of style might be envied by any

  professional Author. He amuses me, but he rouses my suspicion at the same time.

  This slippery lover of mine tells me to defer writing to his father, and gives

  no reason for offering that strange advice to the young lady who is soon to be a

  member of the family. Is this merely one more instance of the weakness of his

  character? Or, now that he is away from my influence, is he beginning to regret

  Eunice already?

  Added by the Governor.--I too have my doubts. Is the flippant nonsense which

  Philip has written inspired by the effervescent good spirits of a happy young

  man? Or is it assumed for a purpose? In this latter case, I should gladly

  conclude that he was regarding his conduct to Eunice with becoming emotions of

  sorrow and shame.

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  THE MASTERFUL MASSEUSE.

  My next quotations will suffer a process of abridgment. I intend them to present

  the substance of three letters, reduced as follows:

  Second Extract.

  Weak as he may be, Mr. Philip Dunboyne shows (in his second letter) that he can

  feel resentment, and that he can express his feelings, in replying to Miss

  Helena. He protests against suspicions which he has not deserved. That he does

  sometimes think of Eunice he sees no reason to deny. He is conscious of errors

  and misdeeds, which--traceable as they are to Helena's irresistible

  fascinations--may perhaps be considered rather his misfortune than his fault. Be

  that as it may, he does indeed feel anxious to hear good accounts of Eunice's

  health. If this honest avowal excites her sister's jealousy, he will be

  disappointed in Helena for the first time.

  His third letter shows that this exhibition of spirit has had its effect.

  The imperious young lady regrets that she has hurt his feelings, and is rewarded

  for the apology by receiving news of the most gratifying kind. Faithful Philip

  has told his father that he is engaged to be married to Miss Helena Gracedieu,

  daughter of the celebrated Congregational preacher--and so on, and so on. Has

  Mr. Dunboyne the elder expressed any objection to the young lady? Certainly not!

  He knows nothing of the other engagement to Eunice; and he merely objects, on

  principle, to looking forward. "How do we know," says the philosopher, "what

  accidents may happen, or what doubts and hesitations may yet turn up? I am not

  to burden my mind in this matter, till I know that I must do it. Let me hear

  when she is ready to go to church, and I will be ready with the settlements. My

  compliments to Miss and her papa, and let us wait a little." Dearest

  Helena--isn't he funny?

  The next letter has been already mentioned.

  In this there occurs the first startling reference to Mrs. Tenbruggen, by name.

  She is in London, finding her way to lucrative celebrity by twisting, turning,

  and pinching the flesh of credulous persons, afflicted with nervous disorders;

  and she has already paid a few medical visits to old Mr. Dunboyne. He persists

  in poring over his books while Mrs. Tenbruggen operates, sometimes on his

  cramped right hand, sometimes (in the fear that his brain may have something to

  do with it) on the back of his neck. One of them frowns over her rubbing, and

  the other frowns over his reading. It would be delightfully ridiculous, but for

  a drawback; Mr. Philip Dunboyne's first impressions of Mrs. Tenbruggen do not

  incline him to look at that lady from a humorous point of view.

  Helena's remarks follow, as usual. She has seen Mrs. Tenbruggen's name on the

  address of a letter written by Miss Jillgall--which is quite enough to condemn

  Mrs. Tenbruggen. As for Philip himself, she feels not quite sure of him, even

  yet. No more do I.

  Third Extract.

  The letter that follows must be permitted to speak for itself:

  I have flown into a passion, dearest Helena; and I am afraid I shall make you

  fly into a passion, too. Blame Mrs. Tenbruggen; don't blame me.

  On the first occasion when I found my father under the hands of the Medical

  Rubber, she took no notice of me. On the second occasion--when she had been in

  daily attendance on him for a week, at an exorbitant fee--she said in the

  coolest manner: "Who is this young gentleman?" My father laid down his book, for

  a moment only: "Don't interrupt me again, ma'am. The young gentleman is my son

  Philip." Mrs. Tenbruggen eyed me with an appearance of interest which I was at a

  loss to account for. I hate an impudent woman. My visit came suddenly to an end.

  The next time I saw my father, he was alone.

  I asked him how he got on with Mrs. Tenbruggen. As badly as possible, it

  appeared. "She takes liberties with my neck; she interrupts me in my reading;

  and she does me no good. I shall end, Philip, in applying a medical rubbing to

  Mrs. Tenbruggen."

  A few days later, I found the masterful "Masseuse" torturing the poor old

  gentleman's muscles again. She had the audacity to say to me: "Well, Mr. Philip,

  when are you going to marry Miss Eunice Gracedieu?" My father looked up.

  "Eunice?" he repeated. "When my son told me he was engaged to Miss Gracedieu, he

  said 'Helena'
! Philip, what does this mean?" Mrs. Tenbruggen was so obliging as

  to answer for me. "Some mistake, sir; it's Eunice he is engaged to." I confess I

  forgot myself. "How the devil do you know that?" I burst out. Mrs. Tenbruggen

  ignored me and my language. "I am sorry to see, sir, that your son's education

  has been neglected; he seems to be grossly ignorant of the laws of politeness."

  "Never mind the laws of politeness," says my father. "You appear to be better

  acquainted with my son's matrimonial prospects than he is himself. How is that?"

  Mrs. Tenbruggen favored him with another ready reply: "My authority is a letter,

  addressed to me by a relative of Mr. Gracedieu--my dear and intimate friend,

  Miss Jillgall." My father's keen eyes traveled backward and forward between his

  female surgeon and his son. "Which am I to believe?" he inquired. "I am

  surprised at your asking the question," I said. Mrs. Tenbruggen pointed to me.

  "Look at Mr. Philip, sir--and you will allow him one merit. He is capable of

  showing it, when he knows he has disgraced himself." Without intending it, I am

  sure, my father infuriated me; he looked as if he believed her. Out came one of

  the smallest and strongest words in the English language before I could stop it:

  "Mrs. Tenbruggen, you lie!" The illustrious Rubber dropped my father's hand--she

  had been operating on him all the time--and showed us that she could assert her

  dignity when circumstances called for the exertion: "Either your son or I, sir,

  must leave the room. Which is it to be?" She met her match in my father. Walking

  quietly to the door, he opened it for Mrs. Tenbruggen with a low bow. She

  stopped on her way out, and delivered her parting words: "Messieurs Dunboyne,

  father and son, I keep my temper, and merely regard you as a couple of

  blackguards." With that pretty assertion of her opinion, she left us.

  When we were alone, there was but one course to take; I made my confession. It

  is impossible to tell you how my father received it--for he sat down at his

  library table with his back to me. The first thing he did was to ask me to help

  his memory.

  "Did you say that the father of these girls was a parson?"

  "Yes--a Congregational Minister."

  "What does the Minister think of you?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  "Find out."

  That was all; not another word could I extract from him. I don't pretend to have

  discovered what he really has in his mind. I only venture on a suggestion. If

  there is any old friend in your town, who has some influence over your father,

  leave no means untried of getting that friend to say a kind word for us. And

  then ask your father to write to mine. This is, as I see it, our only chance.

  . . . . . . .

  There the letter ends. Helena's notes on it show that her pride is fiercely

  interested in securing Philip as a husband. Her victory over poor Eunice will,

  as she plainly intimates, be only complete when she is married to young

  Dunboyne. For the rest, her desperate resolution to win her way to my good

  graces is sufficiently intelligible, now.

  My own impressions vary. Philip rather gains upon me; he appears to have some

  capacity for feeling ashamed of himself. On the other hand, I regard the

  discovery of an intimate friendship existing between Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss

  Jillgall with the gloomiest views. Is this formidable Masseuse likely to ply her

  trade in the country towns? And is it possible that she may come to this town?

  God forbid!

  Of the other letters in the collection, I need take no special notice. I

  returned the whole correspondence to Helena, and waited to hear from her.

  The one recent event in Mr. Gracedieu's family, worthy of record, is of a

  melancholy nature. After paying his visit to-day, the doctor has left word that

  nobody but the nurse is to go near the Minister. This seems to indicate, but too

  surely, a change for the worse.

  Helena has been away all the evening at the Girls' School. She left a little