The Legacy of Cain Read online

Gossip; relating strange adventures, and scandalous incidents in family history

  which had been concealed from public notice.

  One of these last romances in real life caught a strong hold on my interest.

  It was a strange case of intended poisoning, which had never been carried out. A

  young married lady of rank, whose name was concealed under an initial letter,

  had suffered some unendurable wrong (which was not mentioned) at the hands of

  her husband's mother. The wife was described as a woman of strong passions, who

  had determined on a terrible revenge by taking the life of her mother-in-law.

  There were difficulties in the way of her committing the crime without an

  accomplice to help her; and she decided on taking her maid, an elderly woman,

  into her confidence. The poison was secretly obtained by this person; and the

  safest manner of administering it was under discussion between the mistress and

  the maid, when the door of the room was suddenly opened. The husband,

  accompanied by his brother, rushed in, and charged his wife with plotting the

  murder of his mother. The young lady (she was only twenty-three) must have been

  a person of extraordinary courage and resolution. She saw at once that her maid

  had betrayed her, and, with astonishing presence of mind, she turned on the

  traitress, and said to her husband: "There is the wretch who has been trying to

  persuade me to poison your mother!" As it happened, the old lady's temper was

  violent and overbearing; and the maid had complained of being ill-treated by

  her, in the hearing of the other servants. The circumstances made it impossible

  to decide which of the two was really the guilty woman. The servant was sent

  away, and the husband and wife separated soon afterward, under the excuse of

  incompatibility of temper. Years passed; and the truth was only discovered by

  the death-bed confession of the wife. A remarkable story, which has made such an

  impression on me that I have written it in my Journal. I am not rich enough to

  buy the book.

  For the last two days, I have been confined to my room with a bad feverish

  cold--caught, as I suppose, by sitting at an open window reading my book till

  nearly three o'clock in the morning. I sent a note to Philip, telling him of my

  illness. On the first day, he called to inquire after me. On the second day, no

  visit, and no letter. Here is the third day--and no news of him as yet. I am

  better, but not fit to go out. Let me wait another hour, and, if that exertion

  of patience meets with no reward, I shall send a note to the hotel.

  No news of Philip. I have sent to the hotel. The servant has just returned,

  bringing me back my note. The waiter informed her that Mr. Dunboyne had gone

  away to London by the morning train. No apology or explanation left for me.

  Can he have deserted me? I am in such a frenzy of doubt and rage that I can

  hardly write that horrible question. Is it possible--oh, I feel it is possible

  that he has gone away with Eunice. Do I know where to find them? if I did know,

  what could I do? I feel as if I could kill them both!

  CHAPTER LIII.

  HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.

  AFTER the heat of my anger had cooled, I made two discoveries. One cost me a fee

  to a messenger, and the other exposed me to the insolence of a servant. I pay

  willingly in my purse and my pride, when the gain is peace of mind. Through my

  messenger I ascertained that Eunice had never left the farm. Through my own

  inquiries, answered by the waiter with an impudent grin, I heard that Philip had

  left orders to have his room kept for him. What misery our stupid housemaid

  might have spared me, if she had thought of putting that question when I sent

  her to the hotel!

  The rest of the day passed in vain speculations on Philip's motive for this

  sudden departure. What poor weak creatures we are! I persuaded myself to hope

  that anxiety for our marriage had urged him to make an effort to touch the heart

  of his mean father. Shall I see him to-morrow? And shall I have reason to be

  fonder of him than ever?

  We met again to-day as usual. He has behaved infamously.

  When I asked what had been his object in going to London, I was told that it was

  "a matter of business." He made that idiotic excuse as coolly as if he really

  thought I should believe it. I submitted in silence, rather than mar his return

  to me by the disaster of a quarrel. But this was an unlucky day. A harder trial

  of my self-control was still to come. Without the slightest appearance of shame,

  Philip informed me that he was charged with a message from Mrs. Tenbruggen! She

  wanted some Irish lace, and would I be so good as to tell her which was the best

  shop at which she could buy it?

  Was he really in earnest? "You," I said, "who distrusted and detested her--you

  are on friendly terms with that woman?"

  He remonstrated with me. "My dear Helena, don't speak in that way of Mrs.

  Tenbruggen. We have both been mistaken about her. That good creature has

  forgiven the brutal manner in which I spoke to her, when she was in attendance

  on my father. She was the first to propose that we should shake hands and forget

  it. My darling, don't let all the good feeling be on one side. You have no idea

  how kindly she speaks of you, and how anxious she is to help us to be married.

  Come! come! meet her half-way. Write down the name of the shop on my card, and I

  will take it back to her."

  Sheer amazement kept me silent: I let him go on. He was a mere child in the

  hands of Mrs. Tenbruggen: she had only to determine to make a fool of him, and

  she could do it.

  But why did she do it? What advantage had she to gain by insinuating herself in

  this way into his good opinion, evidently with the intention of urging him to

  reconcile us to each other? How could we two poor young people be of the

  smallest use to the fashionable Masseuse?

  My silence began to irritate Philip. "I never knew before how obstinate you

  could be," he said; "you seem to be doing your best--I can't imagine why--to

  lower yourself in my estimation."

  I held my tongue; I assumed my smile. It is all very well for men to talk about

  the deceitfulness of women. What chance (I should like to ask somebody who knows

  about it) do the men give us of making our lives with them endurable, except by

  deceit! I gave way, of course, and wrote down the address of the shop.

  He was so pleased that he kissed me. Yes! the most fondly affectionate kiss that

  he had given me, for weeks past, was my reward for submitting to Mrs.

  Tenbruggen. She is old enough to be his mother, and almost as ugly as Miss

  Jillgall--and she has made her interests his interests already!

  On the next day, I fully expected to receive a visit from Mrs. Tenbruggen. She

  knew better than that. I only got a polite little note, thanking me for the

  address, and adding an artless concession: "I earn more money than I know what

  to do with; and I adore Irish lace."

  The next day came, and still she was careful not to show herself too eager for a

  personal reconciliation. A splendid nosegay was sent to me, with another little

  not
e: "A tribute, dear Helena, offered by one of my grateful patients. Too

  beautiful a present for an old woman like me. I agree with the poet: 'Sweets to

  the sweet.' A charming thought of Shakespeare's, is it not? I should like to

  verify the quotation. Would you mind leaving the volume for me in the hall, if I

  call to-morrow?"

  Well done, Mrs. Tenbruggen! She doesn't venture to intrude on Miss Gracedieu in

  the drawing-room; she only wants to verify a quotation in the hall. Oh, goddess

  of Humility (if there is such a person), how becomingly you are dressed when

  your milliner is an artful old woman!

  While this reflection was passing through my mind, Miss Jillgall came in--saw

  the nosegay on the table--and instantly pounced on it. "Oh, for me! for me!" she

  cried. "I noticed it this morning on Elizabeth's table. How very kind of her!"

  She plunged her inquisitive nose into the poor flowers, and looked up

  sentimentally at the ceiling. "The perfume of goodness," she remarked, "mingled

  with the perfume of flowers!" "When you have quite done with it," I said,

  "perhaps you will be so good as to return my nosegay?" "Your nosegay!" she

  exclaimed. "There is Mrs. Tenbruggen's letter," I replied, "if you would like to

  look at it." She did look at it. All the bile in her body flew up into her eyes,

  and turned them green; she looked as if she longed to scratch my face. I gave

  the flowers afterward to Maria; Miss Jillgall's nose had completely spoiled

  them.

  It would have been too ridiculous to have allowed Mrs. Tenbruggen to consult

  Shakespeare in the hall. I had the honor of receiving her in my own room. We

  accomplished a touching reconciliation, and we quite forgot Shakespeare.

  She troubles me; she does indeed trouble me.

  Having set herself entirely right with Philip, she is determined on performing

  the same miracle with me. Her reform of herself is already complete. Her vulgar

  humor was kept under strict restraint; she was quiet and well-bred, and readier

  to listen than to talk. This change was not presented abruptly. She contrived to

  express her friendly interests in Philip and in me by hints dropped here and

  there, assisted in their effort by answers on my part, into which I was tempted

  so skillfully that I only discovered the snare set for me, on reflection. What

  is it, I ask again, that she has in view in taking all this trouble? Where is

  her motive for encouraging a love-affair, which Miss Jillgall must have

  denounced to her as an abominable wrong inflicted on Eunice? Money (even if

  there was a prospect of such a thing, in our case) cannot be her object; it is

  quite true that her success sets her above pecuniary anxiety. Spiteful feeling

  against Eunice is out of the question. They have only met once; and her opinion

  was expressed to me with evident sincerity: "Your sister is a nice girl, but she

  is like other nice girls--she doesn't interest me." There is Eunice's character,

  drawn from the life in few words. In what an irritating position do I find

  myself placed! Never before have I felt so interested in trying to look into a

  person's secret mind; and never before have I been so completely baffled.

  I had written as far as this, and was on the point of closing my Journal, when a

  third note arrived from Mrs. Tenbruggen.

  She had been thinking about me at intervals (she wrote) all through the rest of

  the day; and, kindly as I had received her, she was conscious of being the

  object of doubts on my part which her visit had failed to remove. Might she ask

  leave to call on me, in the hope of improving her position in my estimation? An

  appointment followed for the next day.

  What can she have to say to me which she has not already said? Is it anything

  about Philip, I wonder?

  CHAPTER LIV.

  HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.

  AT our interview of the next day, Mrs. Tenbruggen's capacity for self-reform

  appeared under a new aspect. She dropped all familiarity with me, and she stated

  the object of her visit without a superfluous word of explanation or apology.

  I thought this a remarkable effort for a woman; and I recognized the merit of it

  by leaving the lion's share of the talk to my visitor. In these terms she opened

  her business with me:

  "Has Mr. Philip Dunboyne told you why he went to London?"

  "He made a commonplace excuse," I answered. "Business, he said, took him to

  London. I know no more."

  "You have a fair prospect of happiness, Miss Helena, when you are married--your

  future husband is evidently afraid of you. I am not afraid of you; and I shall

  confide to your private ear something which you have an interest in knowing. The

  business which took young Mr. Dunboyne to London was to consult a competent

  person, on a matter concerning himself. The competent person is the sagacious

  (not to say sly) old gentleman--whom we used to call the Governor. You know him,

  I believe?"

  "Yes. But I am at a loss to imagine why Philip should have consulted him."

  "Have you ever heard or read, Miss Helena, of such a thing as 'an old man's

  fancy'?"

  "I think I have."

  "Well, the Governor has taken an old man's fancy to your sister. They appeared

  to understand each other perfectly when I was at the farmhouse."

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Tenbruggen, that is what I know already. Why did Philip go to

  the Governor?"

  She smiled. "If anybody is acquainted with the true state of your sister's

  feelings, the Governor is the man. I sent Mr. Dunboyne to consult him--and there

  is the reason for it."

  This open avowal of her motives perplexed and offended me. After declaring

  herself to be interested in my marriage-engagement had she changed her mind, and

  resolved on favoring Philip's return to Eunice? What right had he to consult

  anybody about the state of that girl's feelings? My feelings form the only

  subject of inquiry that was properly open to him. I should have said something

  which I might have afterward regretted, if Mrs. Tenbruggen had allowed me the

  opportunity. Fortunately for both of us, she went on with her narrative of her

  own proceedings.

  "Philip Dunboyne is an excellent fellow," she continued; "I really like him--but

  he has his faults. He sadly wants strength of purpose; and, like weak men in

  general, he only knows his own mind when a resolute friend takes him in hand and

  guides him. I am his resolute friend. I saw him veering about between you and

  Eunice; and I decided for his sake--may I say for your sake also?--on putting an

  end to that mischievous state of indecision. You have the claim on him; you are

  the right wife for him, and the Governor was (as I thought likely from what I

  had myself observed) the man to make him see it. I am not in anybody's secrets;

  it was pure guesswork on my part, and it has succeeded. There is no more doubt

  now about Miss Eunice's sentiments. The question is settled."

  "In my favor?"

  "Certainly in your favor--or I should not have said a word about it."

  "Was Philip's visit kindly received? Or did the old wretch laugh at him?"

  "My dear Miss Gracedieu, the old wretch is a
man of the world, and never makes

  mistakes of that sort. Before he could open his lips, he had to satisfy himself

  that your lover deserved to be taken into his confidence, on the delicate

  subject of Eunice's sentiments. He arrived at a favorable conclusion. I can

  repeat Philip's questions and the Governor's answers after putting the young man

  through a stiff examination just as they passed: 'May I inquire, sir, if she has

  spoken to you about me?' 'She has often spoken about you.' 'Did she seem to be

  angry with me?' 'She is too good and too sweet to be angry with you.' 'Do you

  think she will forgive me?' 'She has forgiven you.' 'Did she say so herself?'

  'Yes, of her own free will.' 'Why did she refuse to see me when I called at the

  farm?' 'She had her own reasons--good reasons.' 'Has she regretted it since?'

  'Certainly not.' 'Is it likely that she would consent, if I proposed a

  reconciliation?' 'I put that question to her myself.' 'How did she take it,

  sir?' 'She declined to take it.' 'You mean that she declined a reconciliation?'

  'Yes.' 'Are you sure she was in earnest?' 'I am positively sure.' That last

  answer seems, by young Dunboyne's own confession, to have been enough, and more

  than enough for him. He got up to go--and then an odd thing happened. After

  giving him the most unfavorable answers, the Governor patted him paternally on

  the shoulder, and encouraged him to hope. 'Before we say good-by, Mr. Philip,

  one word more. If I was as young as you are, I should not despair.' There is a

  sudden change of front! Who can explain it?"

  The Governor's mischievous resolution to reconcile Philip and Eunice explained

  it, of course. With the best intentions (perhaps) Mrs. Tenbruggen had helped

  that design by bringing the two men together. "Go on," I said; "I am prepared to

  hear next that Philip has paid another visit to my sister, and has been received

  this time."

  I must say this for Mrs. Tenbruggen: she kept her temper perfectly.

  "He has not been to the farm," she said, "but he has done something nearly as

  foolish. He has written to your sister."

  "And he has received a favorable reply, of course?"

  She put her hand into the pocket of her dress.

  "There is your sister's reply," she said.

  Any persons who have had a crushing burden lifted, unexpectedly and instantly,

  from off their minds, will know what I felt when I read the reply. In the most

  positive language, Eunice refused to correspond with Philip, or to speak with

  him. The concluding words proved that she was in earnest. "You are engaged to

  Helena. Consider me as a stranger until you are married. After that time you

  will be my brother-in-law, and then I may pardon you for writing to me."

  Nobody who knows Eunice would have supposed that she possessed those two

  valuable qualities--common-sense and proper pride. It is pleasant to feel that I

  can now send cards to my sister, when I am Mrs. Philip Dunboyne.

  I returned the letter to Mrs. Tenbruggen, with the sincerest expressions of

  regret for having doubted her. "I have been unworthy of your generous interest

  in me," I said; "I am almost ashamed to offer you my hand."

  She took my hand, and gave it a good, heady shake.

  "Are we friends?" she asked, in the simplest and prettiest manner. "Then let us

  be easy and pleasant again," she went on. "Will you call me Elizabeth; and shall

  I call you Helena? Very well. Now I have got something else to say; another

  secret which must be kept from Philip (I call him by his name now, you see) for

  a few days more. Your happiness, my dear, must not depend on his miserly old

  father. He must have a little income of his own to marry on. Among the hundreds

  of unfortunate wretches whom I have relieved from torture of mind and body,

  there is a grateful minority. Small! small! but there they are. I have influence

  among powerful people; and I am trying to make Philip private secretary to a