The Legacy of Cain Read online

She closed and locked her Journal. By common consent we sought the relief of

  changing the subject. Eunice asked me if it was really necessary that I should

  return to London.

  I shrank from telling her that I could be of no further use to her father, while

  he regarded me with an enmity which I had not deserved. But I saw no reason for

  concealing that it was my purpose to see Philip Dunboyne.

  "You told me yesterday," I reminded her, "that I was to say you had forgiven

  him. Do you still wish me to do that?"

  "Indeed I do!"

  "Have you thought of it seriously? Are you sure of not having been hurried by a

  generous impulse into saying more than you mean?"

  "I have been thinking of it," she said, "through the wakeful hours of last

  night--and many things are plain to me, which I was not sure of in the time when

  I was so happy. He has caused me the bitterest sorrow of my life, but he can't

  undo the good that I owe to him. He has made a better girl of me, in the time

  when his love was mine. I don't forget that. Miserably as it has ended, I don't

  forget that."

  Her voice trembled; the tears rose in her eyes. It was impossible for me to

  conceal the distress that I felt. The noble creature saw it. "No," she said

  faintly; "I am not going to cry. Don't look so sorry for me." Her hand pressed

  my hand gently--she pitied me. When I saw how she struggled to control herself,

  and did control herself, I declare to God I could have gone down on my knees

  before her.

  She asked to be allowed to speak of Philip again, and for the last time.

  "When you meet with him in London, he may perhaps ask if you have seen Eunice."

  "My child! he is sure to ask."

  "Break it to him gently--but don't let him deceive himself. In this world, he

  must never hope to see me again."

  I tried--very gently--to remonstrate. "At your age, and at his age," I said,

  "surely there is hope?"

  "There is no hope." She pressed her hand on her heart. "I know it, I feel it,

  here."

  "Oh, Eunice, it's hard for me to say that!"

  "I will try to make it easier for you. Say that I have forgiven him--and say no

  more."

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  THE GOVERNOR ON HIS GUARD.

  AFTER leaving Eunice, my one desire was to be alone. I had much to think of, and

  I wanted an opportunity of recovering myself. On my way out of the house, in

  search of the first solitary place that I could discover, I passed the room in

  which we had dined. The door was ajar. Before I could get by it, Mrs. Tenbruggen

  stepped out and stopped me.

  "Will you come in here for a moment?" she said. "The farmer has been called

  away, and I want to speak to you."

  Very unwillingly--but how could I have refused without giving offense?--I

  entered the room.

  "When you noticed my keeping my name from you," Mrs. Tenbruggen began, "while

  Selina was with us, you placed me in an awkward position. Our little friend is

  an excellent creature, but her tongue runs away with her sometimes; I am obliged

  to be careful of taking her too readily into my confidence. For instance, I have

  never told her what my name was before I married. Won't you sit down?"

  I had purposely remained standing as a hint to her not to prolong the interview.

  The hint was thrown away; I took a chair.

  "Selina's letters had informed me," she resumed, "that Mr. Gracedieu was a

  nervous invalid. When I came to England, I had hoped to try what Massage might

  do to relieve him. The cure of their popular preacher might have advertised me

  through the whole of the Congregational sect. It was essential to my success

  that I should present myself as a stranger. I could trust time and change, and

  my married name (certainly not known to Mr. Gracedieu) to keep up my incognito.

  He would have refused to see me if he had known that I was once Miss Chance."

  I began to be interested.

  Here was an opportunity, perhaps, of discovering what the Minister had failed to

  remember when he had been speaking of this woman, and when I had asked if he had

  ever offended her. I was especially careful in making my inquiries.

  "I remember how you spoke to Mr. Gracedieu," I said, "when you and he met, long

  ago, in my rooms. But surely you don't think him capable of vindictively

  remembering some thoughtless words, which escaped you sixteen or seventeen years

  since?"

  "I am not quite such a fool as that, Mr. Governor. What I was thinking of was an

  unpleasant correspondence between the Minister and myself. Before I was so

  unfortunate as to meet with Mr. Tenbruggen, I obtained a chance of employment in

  a public Institution, on condition that I included a clergyman among my

  references. Knowing nobody else whom I could apply to, I rashly wrote to Mr.

  Gracedieu, and received one of those cold and cruel refusals which only the

  strictest religious principle can produce. I was mortally offended at the time;

  and if your friend the Minister had been within my reach--" She paused, and

  finished the sentence by a significant gesture.

  "Well," I said, "he is within your reach now."

  "And out of his mind," she added. "Besides, one's sense of injury doesn't last

  (except in novels and plays) through a series of years. I don't pity him--and if

  an opportunity of shaking his high position among his admiring congregation

  presented itself, I daresay I might make a mischievous return for his letter to

  me. In the meanwhile, we may drop the subject. I suppose you understand, now,

  why I concealed my name from you, and why I kept out of the house while you were

  in it."

  It was plain enough, of course. If I had known her again, or had heard her name,

  I might have told the Minister that Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss Chance were one and

  the same. And if I had seen her and talked with her in the house, my memory

  might have shown itself capable of improvement. Having politely presented the

  expression of my thanks, I rose to go.

  She stopped me at the door.

  "One word more," she said, "while Selina is out of the way. I need hardly tell

  you that I have not trusted her with the Minister's secret. You and I are, as I

  take it, the only people now living who know the truth about these two girls.

  And we keep our advantage."

  "What advantage?" I asked.

  "Don't you know?"

  "I don't indeed."

  "No more do I. Female folly, and a slip of the tongue; I am old and ugly, but I

  am still a woman. About Miss Eunice. Somebody has told the pretty little fool

  never to trust strangers. You would have been amused, if you had heard that sly

  young person prevaricating with me. In one respect, her appearance strikes me.

  She is not like either the wretch who was hanged, or the poor victim who was

  murdered. Can she be the adopted child? Or is it the other sister, whom I have

  not seen yet? Oh, come! come! Don't try to look as if you didn't know. That is

  really too ridiculous."

  "You alluded just now," I answered, "to our 'advantage' in being the only

  persons who know the truth about the two girls. Well, Mrs. Tenbruggen, I keep my <
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  advantage."

  "In other words," she rejoined, "you leave me to make the discovery myself.

  Well, my friend, I mean to do it!"

  . . . . . . .

  In the evening, my hotel offered to me the refuge of which I stood in need. I

  could think, for the first time that day, without interruption.

  Being resolved to see Philip, I prepared myself for the interview by consulting

  my extracts once more. The letter, in which Mrs. Tenbruggen figures, inspired me

  with the hope of protection for Mr. Gracedieu, attainable through no less a

  person than Helena herself.

  To begin with, she would certainly share Philip's aversion to the Masseuse, and

  her dislike of Miss Jillgall would, just as possibly, extend to Miss Jillgall's

  friend. The hostile feeling thus set up might be trusted to keep watch on Mrs.

  Tenbruggen's proceedings, with a vigilance not attainable by the coarser

  observation of a man. In the event, of an improvement in the Minister's health,

  I should hear of it both from the doctor and from Miss Jillgall, and in that

  case I should instantly return to my unhappy friend and put him on his guard.

  I started for London by the early train in the morning.

  My way home from the terminus took me past the hotel at which the elder Mr.

  Dunboyne was staying. I called on him. He was reported to be engaged; that is to

  say, immersed in his books. The address on one of Philip's letters had informed

  me that he was staying at another hotel. Pursuing my inquiries in this

  direction, I met with a severe disappointment. Mr. Philip Dunboyne had left the

  hotel that morning; for what destination neither the landlord nor the waiter

  could tell me.

  The next day's post brought with it the information which I had failed to

  obtain. Miss Jillgall wrote, informing me in her strongest language that Philip

  Dunboyne had returned to Helena. Indignant Selina added: "Helena means to make

  him marry her; and I promise you she shall fail, if I can stop it."

  In taking leave of Eunice, I had given her my address; had warned her to be

  careful, if she and Mrs. Tenbruggen happened to meet again, and had begged her

  to write to me, or to come to me, if anything happened to alarm her in my

  absence.

  In two days more, I received a line from Eunice, written evidently in the

  greatest agitation.

  "Philip has discovered me. He has been here, and has insisted on seeing me. I

  have refused. The good farmer has so kindly taken my part. I can write no more."

  CHAPTER L.

  THE NEWS FROM THE FARM.

  WHEN I next heard from Miss Jillgall, the introductory part of her letter merely

  reminded me that Philip Dunboyne was established in the town, and that Helena

  was in daily communication with him. I shall do Selina no injustice if my

  extract begins with her second page.

  "You will sympathize, I am sure" (she writes), "with the indignation which urged

  me to call on Philip, and tell him the way to the farmhouse. Think of Helena

  being determined to marry him, whether he wants to or not! I am afraid this is

  bad grammar. But there are occasions when even a cultivated lady fails in her

  grammar, and almost envies the men their privilege of swearing when they are in

  a rage. My state of mind is truly indescribable. Grief mingles with anger, when

  I tell you that my sweet Euneece has disappointed me, for the first time since I

  had the happiness of knowing and admiring her. What can have been the motive of

  her refusal to receive her penitent lover? Is it pride? We are told that Satan

  fell through pride. Euneece satanic? Impossible! I feel inclined to go and ask

  her what has hardened her heart against a poor young man who bitterly regrets

  his own folly. Do you think it was bad advice from the farmer or his wife? In

  that case, I shall exert my influence, and take her away. You would do the same,

  wouldn't you?

  "I am ashamed to mention the poor dear Minister in a postscript. The truth is, I

  don't very well know what I am about. Mr. Gracedieu is quiet, sleeps better than

  he did, eats with a keener appetite, gives no trouble. But, alas, that glorious

  intellect is in a state of eclipse! Do not suppose, because I write

  figuratively, that I am not sorry for him. He understands nothing; he remembers

  nothing; he has my prayers.

  "You might come to us again, if you would only be so kind. It would make no

  difference now; the poor man is so sadly altered. I must add, most reluctantly,

  that the doctor recommends your staying at home. Between ourselves, he is little

  better than a coward. Fancy his saying; 'No; we must not run that risk yet.' I

  am barely civil to him, and no more.

  "In any other affair (excuse me for troubling you with a second postscript), my

  sympathy with Euneece would have penetrated her motives; I should have felt with

  her feelings. But I have never been in love; no gentleman gave me the

  opportunity when I was young. Now I am middle-aged, neglect has done its dreary

  work--my heart is an extinct crater. Figurative again! I had better put my pen

  away, and say farewell for the present."

  Miss Jillgall may now give place to Eunice. The same day's post brought me both

  letters.

  I should be unworthy indeed of the trust which this affectionate girl has placed

  in me, if I failed to receive her explanation of her conduct toward Philip

  Dunboyne, as a sacred secret confided to my fatherly regard. In those later

  portions of her letter, which are not addressed to me confidentially, Eunice

  writes as follows:

  "I get news--and what heartbreaking news!--of my father, by sending a messenger

  to Selina. It is more than ever impossible that I can put myself in the way of

  seeing Helena again. She has written to me about Philip, in a tone so shockingly

  insolent and cruel, that I have destroyed her letter. Philip's visit to the

  farm, discovered I don't know how, seems to have infuriated her. She accuses me

  of doing all that she might herself have done in my place, and threatens me--No!

  I am afraid of the wicked whisperings of that second self of mine if I think of

  it. They were near to tempting me when I read Helena's letter. But I thought of

  what you said, after I had shown you my Journal; and your words took my memory

  back to the days when I was happy with Philip. The trial and the terror passed

  away.

  "Consolation has come to me from the best of good women. Mrs. Staveley writes as

  lovingly as my mother might have written, if death had spared her. I have

  replied with all the gratitude that I really feel, but without taking advantage

  of the services which she offers. Mrs. Staveley has it in her mind, as you had

  it in your mind, to bring Philip back to me. Does she forget, do you forget,

  that Helena claims him? But you both mean kindly, and I love you both for the

  interest that you feel in me.

  "The farmer's wife--dear good soul!--hardly understands me so well as her

  husband does. She confesses to pitying Philip. 'He is so wretched,' she says.

  'And, dear heart, how handsome, and what nice, winning manners! I don't think I

  should have had your co
urage, in your place. To tell the truth, I should have

  jumped for joy when I saw him at the door; and I should have run down to let him

  in--and perhaps been sorry for it afterward. If you really wish to forget him,

  my dear, I will do all I can to help you.'

  "These are trifling things to mention, but I am afraid you may think I am

  unhappy--and I want to prevent that.

  "I have so much to be thankful for, and the children are so fond of me. Whether

  I teach them as well as I might have done, if I had been a more learned girl,

  may perhaps be doubtful. They do more for their governess, I am afraid, than

  their governess does for them. When they come into my room in the morning, and

  rouse me with their kisses, the hour of waking, which used to be so hard to

  endure after Philip left me, is now the happiest hour of my day."

  With that reassuring view of her life as a governess, the poor child's letter

  comes to an end.

  CHAPTER LI.

  THE TRIUMPH OF MRS. TENBRUGGEN.

  MISS JILLGALL appears again, after an interval, on the field of my extracts. My

  pleasant friend deserves this time a serious reception. She informs me that Mrs.

  Tenbruggen has begun the inquiries which I have the best reason to dread--for I

  alone know the end which they are designed to reach.

  The arrival of this news affected me in two different ways.

  It was discouraging to find that circumstances had not justified my reliance on

  Helena's enmity as a counter-influence to Mrs. Tenbruggen. On the other hand, it

  was a relief to be assured that my return to London would serve, rather than

  compromise, the interests which it was my chief anxiety to defend. I had

  foreseen that Mrs. Tenbruggen would wait to set her enterprise on foot, until I

  was out of her way; and I had calculated on my absence as an event which would

  at least put an end to suspense by encouraging her to begin.

  The first sentences in Miss Jillgall's letter explain the nature of her interest

  in the proceedings of her friend, and are, on that account, worth reading.

  "Things are sadly changed for the worse" (Selina writes); "but I don't forget

  that Philip was once engaged to Euneece, and that Mr. Gracedieu's extraordinary

  conduct toward him puzzled us all. The mode of discovery which dear Elizabeth

  suggested by letter, at that time, appears to be the mode which she is following

  now. When I asked why, she said: 'Philip may return to Euneece; the Minister may

  recover--and will be all the more likely to do so if he tries Massage. In that

  case, he will probably repeat the conduct which surprised you; and your natural

  curiosity will ask me again to find out what it means. Am I your friend, Selina,

  or am I not?' This was so delightfully kind, and so irresistibly conclusive,

  that I kissed her in a transport of gratitude. With what breathless interest I

  have watched her progress toward penetrating the mystery of the girls' ages, it

  is quite needless to tell you."

  . . . . . . .

  Mrs. Tenbruggen's method of keeping Miss Jillgall in ignorance of what she was

  really about, and Miss Jillgall's admirable confidence in the integrity of Mrs.

  Tenbruggen, being now set forth on the best authority, an exact presentation of

  the state of affairs will be completed if I add a word more, relating to the

  positions actually occupied toward Mrs. Tenbruggen's enterprise, by my

  correspondent and myself.

  On her side, Miss Jillgall was entirely ignorant that one of the two girls was

  not Mr. Gracedieu's daughter, but his adopted child. On my side, I was entirely

  ignorant of Mrs. Tenbruggen's purpose in endeavoring to identify the daughter of

  the murderess. Speaking of myself, individually, let me add that I only waited

  the event to protect the helpless ones--my poor demented friend, and the orphan

  whom his mercy received into his heart and his home.

  Miss Jillgall goes on with her curious story, as follows:

  . . . . . . .

  "Always desirous of making myself useful, I thought I would give my dear

  Elizabeth a hint which might save time and trouble. 'Why not begin,' I