The Legacy of Cain Page 26

you, must be told in writing.

  "Grieved as I am to distress you, in your present state of health, I must not

  hesitate to reveal what it has been my misfortune--I may even say my misery,

  when I think of my mother--to discover.

  "But let me make sure, in such a serious matter as this is, that I am not

  mistaken.

  "In those happy past days, when I was still dear to my father, you said you

  thought of writing to invite a dearly-valued friend to pay a visit to this

  house. You had first known him, as I understood, when my mother was still

  living. Many interesting things you told me about this old friend, but you never

  mentioned that he knew, or that he had even seen, my mother. I was left to

  suppose that those two had remained strangers to each other to the day of her

  death.

  "If there is any misinterpretation here of what you said, or perhaps of what you

  meant to say, pray destroy what I have written without turning to the next page;

  and forgive me for having innocently startled you by a false alarm."

  Mr. Gracedieu interrupted me.

  "Put it down!" he cried; "I won't wait till you have got to the end--I shall

  question you now. Give me the paper; it will help me to keep this mystery of

  iniquity clear in my own mind."

  I gave him the paper.

  He hesitated--and looked at the portrait once more. "Turn her away from me," he

  said; "I can't face my wife."

  I placed the picture with its back to him.

  He consulted the paper, reading it with but little of the confusion and

  hesitation which my experience of him had induced me to anticipate. Had the mad

  excitement that possessed him exercised an influence in clearing his mind,

  resembling in some degree the influence exercised by a storm in clearing the

  air? Whatever the right explanation may be, I can only report what I saw. I

  could hardly have mastered what his daughter had written more readily, if I had

  been reading it myself.

  "Helena tells me," he began, "that you said you knew her by her likeness to her

  mother. Is that true?"

  "Quite true."

  "And you made an excuse for leaving her--see! here it is, written down. You made

  an excuse, and left her when she asked for an explanation."

  "I did."

  He consulted the paper again.

  "My daughter says--No! I won't be hurried and I won't be interrupted--she says

  you were confused. Is that so?"

  "It is so. Let your questions wait for a moment. I wish to tell you why I was

  confused."

  "Haven't I said I won't be interrupted? Do you think you can shake my

  resolution?" He referred to the paper again. "I have lost the place. It's your

  fault--find it for me."

  The evidence which was intended to convict me was the evidence which I was

  expected to find! I pointed it out to him.

  His natural courtesy asserted itself in spite of his anger. He said "Thank you,"

  and questioned me the moment after as fiercely as ever. "Go back to the time,

  sir, when we met in your rooms at the prison. Did you know my wife then?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Did you and she see each other--ha! I've got it now--did you see each other

  after I had left the town? No prevarication! You own to telling Helena that you

  knew her by her likeness to her mother. You must have seen her mother. Where?"

  I made another effort to defend myself. He again refused furiously to hear me.

  It was useless to persist. Whatever the danger that threatened me might be, the

  sooner it showed itself the easier I should feel. I told him that Mrs. Gracedieu

  had called on me, after he and his wife had left the town.

  "Do you mean to tell me," he cried, "that She came to You?"

  "I do."

  After that answer, he no longer required the paper to help him. He threw it from

  him on the floor.

  "And you received her," he said, "without inquiring whether I knew of her visit

  or not? Guilty deception on your part--guilty deception on her part. Oh, the

  hideous wickedness of it!"

  When his mad suspicion that I had been his wife's lover betrayed itself in this

  way, I made a last attempt, in the face of my own conviction that it was

  hopeless, to place my conduct and his wife's conduct before him in the true

  light.

  "Mrs. Gracedieu's object was to consult me--" Before I could say the next words,

  I saw him put his hand into the pocket of his dressing-gown.

  "An innocent man," he sternly declared, "would have told me that my wife had

  been to see him--you kept it a secret. An innocent woman would have given me a

  reason for wishing to go to you--she kept it a secret, when she left my house;

  she kept it a secret when she came back."

  "Mr. Gracedieu, I insist on being heard! Your wife's motive--"

  He drew from his pocket the thing that he had hidden from me. This time, there

  was no concealment; he let me see that he was opening a razor. It was no time

  for asserting my innocence; I had to think of preserving my life. When a man is

  without firearms, what defense can avail against a razor in the hands of a

  madman? A chair was at my side; it offered the one poor means of guarding myself

  that I could see. I laid my hand on it, and kept my eye on him.

  He paused, looking backward and forward between the picture and me.

  "Which of them shall I kill first?" he said to himself. "The man who was my

  trusted friend? Or the woman whom I believed to be an angel on earth?" He

  stopped once more, in a state of fierce self-concentration, debating what he

  should do. "The woman," he decided. "Wretch! Fiend! Harlot! How I loved her!!!"

  With a yell of fury, he pounced on the picture--ripped the canvas out of the

  frame--and cut it malignantly into fragments. As they dropped from the razor on

  the floor, he stamped on them, and ground them under his foot. "Go, wife of my

  bosom," he cried, with a dreadful mockery of voice and look--"go, and burn

  everlastingly in the place of torment!" His eyes glared at me. "Your turn now,"

  he said--and rushed at me with his weapon ready in his hand. I hurled the chair

  at his right arm. The razor dropped on the floor. I caught him by the wrist.

  Like a wild animal he tried to bite me. With my free hand--if I had known how to

  defend myself in any other way, I would have taken that way--with my free hand I

  seized him by the throat; forced him back; and held him against the wall. My

  grasp on his throat kept him quiet. But the dread of seriously injuring him so

  completely overcame me, that I forgot I was a prisoner in the room, and was on

  the point of alarming the household by a cry for help.

  I was still struggling to preserve my self-control, when the sound of footsteps

  broke the silence outside. I heard the key turn in the lock, and saw the doctor

  at the open door.

  CHAPTER XLVI.

  THE CUMBERSOME LADIES.

  I CANNOT prevail upon myself to dwell at any length on the events that followed.

  We secured my unhappy friend, and carried him to his bed. It was necessary to

  have men in attendance who could perform the duty of watching him. The doctor

  sent for them, while I went downst
airs to make the best I could of the miserable

  news which it was impossible entirely to conceal.

  All that I could do to spare Miss Jillgall, I did. I was obliged to acknowledge

  that there had been an outbreak of violence, and that the portrait of the

  Minister's wife had been destroyed by the Minister himself. Of Helena's revenge

  on me I said nothing. It had led to consequences which even her merciless malice

  could not have contemplated. There were no obstacles in the way of keeping

  secret the attempt on my life. But I was compelled to own that Mr. Gracedieu had

  taken a dislike to me, which rendered it necessary that my visit should be

  brought to an end. I hastened to add that I should go to the hotel, and should

  wait there until the next day, in the hope of hearing better news.

  Of the multitude of questions with which poor Miss Jillgall overwhelmed me--of

  the wild words of sorrow and alarm that escaped her--of the desperate manner in

  which she held by my arm, and implored me not to go away, when I must see for

  myself that "she was a person entirely destitute of presence of mind"--I shall

  say nothing. The undeserved suffering that is inflicted on innocent persons by

  the sins of others demands silent sympathy; and, to that extent at least, I can

  say that I honestly felt for my quaint and pleasant little friend.

  In the evening the doctor called on me at the hotel. The medical treatment of

  his patient had succeeded in calming the maddened brain under the influence of

  sleep. If the night passed quietly, better news might be hoped for in the

  morning.

  On the next day I had arranged to drive to the farm, being resolved not to

  disappoint Eunice. But I shrank from the prospect of having to distress her as I

  had already distressed Miss Jillgall. The only alternative left was to repeat

  the sad story in writing, subject to the concealments which I had already

  observed. This I did, and sent the letter by messenger, overnight, so that

  Eunice might know when to expect me.

  The medical report, in the morning, justified some hope. Mr. Gracedieu had slept

  well, and there had been no reappearance of insane violence on his waking. But

  the doctor's opinion was far from encouraging when we spoke of the future. He

  did not anticipate the cruel necessity of placing the Minister under

  restraint--unless some new provocation led to a new outbreak. The misfortune to

  be feared was imbecility.

  I was just leaving the hotel to keep my appointment with Eunice, when the waiter

  announced the arrival of a young lady who wished to speak with me. Before I

  could ask if she had mentioned her name, the young lady herself walked

  in--Helena Gracedieu.

  She explained her object in calling on me, with the exasperating composure which

  was peculiarly her own. No parallel to it occurs to me in my official experience

  of shameless women.

  "I don't wish to speak of what happened yesterday, so far as I know anything

  about it," she began. "It is quite enough for me that you have been obliged to

  leave the house and to take refuge in this hotel. I have come to say a word

  about the future. Are you honoring me with your attention?"

  I signed to her to go on. If I had answered in words, I should have told her to

  leave the room.

  "At first," she resumed, "I thought of writing; but it occurred to me that you

  might keep my letter, and show it to Philip, by way of lowering me in his good

  opinion, as you have lowered me in the good opinion of his father. My object in

  coming here is to give you a word of warning. If you attempt to make mischief

  next between Philip and myself, I shall hear of it--and you know what to expect,

  when you have Me for an enemy. It is not worth while to say any more. We

  understand each other, I hope?"

  She was determined to have a reply--and she got it.

  "Not quite yet," I said. "I have been hitherto, as becomes a gentleman, always

  mindful of a woman's claims to forbearance. You will do well not to tempt me

  into forgetting that you are a woman, by prolonging your visit. Now, Miss Helena

  Gracedieu, we understand each other." She made me a low curtsey, and answered in

  her finest tone of irony: "I only desire to wish you a pleasant journey home."

  I rang for the waiter. "Show this lady out," I said.

  Even this failed to have the slightest effect on her. She sauntered to the door,

  as perfectly at her ease as if the room had been hers--not mine.

  I had thought of driving to the farm. Shall I confess it? My temper was so

  completely upset that active movement of some kind offered the one means of

  relief in which I could find refuge. The farm was not more than five miles

  distant, and I had been a good walker all my life. After making the needful

  inquiries, I set forth to visit Eunice on foot.

  My way through the town led me past the, Minister's house. I had left the door

  some fifty yards behind me, when I saw two ladies approaching. They were

  walking, in the friendliest manner, arm in arm. As they came nearer, I

  discovered Miss Jillgall. Her companion was the middle-aged lady who had

  declined to give her name, when we met accidentally at Mr. Gracedieu's door.

  Hysterically impulsive, Miss Jillgall seized both my hands, and overwhelmed me

  with entreaties that I would go back with her to the house. I listened rather

  absently. The middle-aged lady happened to be nearer to me now than on either of

  the former occasions on which I had seen her. There was something in the

  expression of her eyes which seemed to be familiar to me. But the effort of my

  memory was not helped by what I observed in the other parts of her face. The

  iron-gray hair, the baggy lower eyelids, the fat cheeks, the coarse complexion,

  and the double chin, were features, and very disagreeable features, too, which I

  had never seen at any former time.

  "Do pray come back with us," Miss Jillgall pleaded. "We were just talking of

  you. I and my friend--" There she stopped, evidently on the point of blurting

  out the name which she had been forbidden to utter in my hearing.

  The lady smiled; her provokingly familiar eyes rested on me with a humorous

  enjoyment of the scene.

  "My dear," she said to Miss Jillgall, "caution ceases to be a virtue when it

  ceases to be of any use. The Governor is beginning to remember me, and the

  inevitable recognition--with his quickness of perception--is likely to be a

  matter of minutes now." She turned to me. "In more ways than one, sir, women are

  hardly used by Nature. As they advance in years they lose more in personal

  appearance than the men do. You are white-haired, and (pray excuse me) you are

  too fat; and (allow me to take another liberty) you stoop at the shoulders--but

  you have not entirely lost your good looks. I am no longer recognizable. Allow

  me to prompt you, as they say on the stage. I am Mrs. Tenbruggen."

  As a man of the world, I ought to have been capable of concealing my

  astonishment and dismay. She struck me dumb.

  Mrs. Tenbruggen in the town! The one woman whose appearance Mr. Gracedieu had

  dreaded, and justly dreaded, stood before me--free, as a f
riend of his

  kinswoman, to enter his house, at the very time when he was a helpless man,

  guarded by watchers at his bedside. My first clear idea was to get away from

  both the women, and consider what was to be done next. I bowed--and begged to be

  excused--and said I was in a hurry, all in a breath.

  Hearing this, the best of genial old maids was unable to restrain her curiosity.

  "Where are you going?" she asked.

  Too confused to think of an excuse, I said I was going to the farm.

  "To see my dear Euneece?" Miss Jillgall burst out. "Oh, we will go with you!"

  Mrs. Tenbruggen's politeness added immediately, "With the greatest pleasure."

  CHAPTER XLVII.

  THE JOURNEY TO THE FARM.

  MY first ungrateful impulse was to get rid of the two cumbersome ladies who had

  offered to be my companions. It was needless to call upon my invention for an

  excuse; the truth, as I gladly perceived, would serve my purpose. I had only to

  tell them that I had arranged to walk to the farm.

  Lean, wiry, and impetuous, Miss Jillgall received my excuse with the sincerest

  approval of it, as a new idea. "Nothing could be more agreeable to me," she

  declared; "I have been a wonderful walker all my life." She turned to her

  friend. "We will go with him, my dear, won't we?"

  Mrs. Tenbruggen's reception of this proposal inspired me with hope; she asked

  how far it was to the farm. "Five miles!" she repeated. "And five miles back

  again, unless the farmer lends us a cart. My dear Selina, you might as well ask

  me to walk to the North Pole. You have got rid of one of us, Mr. Governor," she

  added, pleasantly; "and the other, if you only walk fast enough, you will leave

  behind you on the road. If I believed in luck--which I don't--I should call you

  a fortunate man."

  But companionable Selina would not hear of a separation. She asked, in her most

  irresistible manner, if I objected to driving instead of walking. Her heart's

  dearest wish, she said, was to make her bosom friend and myself better

  acquainted with each other. To conclude, she reminded me that there was a

  cab-stand in the next street.

  Perhaps I might have been influenced by my distrust of Mrs. Tenbruggen, or

  perhaps by my anxiety to protect Eunice. It struck me that I might warn the

  defenseless girl to be on her guard with Mrs. Tenbruggen to better purpose, if

  Eunice was in a position to recognize her in any future emergency that might

  occur. To my mind, this dangerous woman was doubly formidable--and for a good

  reason; she was the bosom friend of that innocent and unwary person, Miss

  Jillgall.

  So I amiably consented to forego my walk, yielding to the superior attraction of

  Mrs. Tenbruggen's company. On that day the sunshine was tempered by a delightful

  breeze. If we had been in the biggest and worst-governed city on the civilised

  earth, we should have found no public vehicle, open to the air, which could

  offer accommodation to three people. Being only in a country town, we had a

  light four-wheeled chaise at our disposal, as a matter of course.

  No wise man expects to be mercifully treated, when he is shut into a carriage

  with a mature single lady, inflamed by curiosity. I was not unprepared for Miss

  Jillgall when she alluded, for the second time, to the sad events which had

  happened in the house on the previous day--and especially to the destruction by

  Mr. Gracedieu of the portrait of his wife.

  "Why didn't he destroy something else?" she pleaded, piteously. "It is such a

  disappointment to Me. I never liked that picture myself. Of course I ought to

  have admired the portrait of the wife of my benefactor. But no--that

  disagreeable painted face was too much for me. I should have felt inexpressibly

  relieved, if I could have shown it to Elizabeth, and heard her say that she

  agreed with me."

  "Perhaps I saw it when I called on you," Mrs. Tenbruggen suggested. "Where did

  the picture hang?"

  "My dear! I received you in the dining-room, and the portrait hung in Mr.