The Legacy of Cain Page 34

DISCOVERY.

  A LITTLE later, on that eventful day, when I was most in need of all that your

  wisdom and kindness could do to guide me, came the telegram which announced that

  you were helpless under an attack of gout. As soon as I had in some degree got

  over my disappointment, I remembered having told Euneece in my letter that I

  expected her kind old friend to come to us. With the telegram in my hand I

  knocked softly at Philip's door.

  The voice that bade me come in was the gentle voice that I knew so well. Philip

  was sleeping. There, by his bedside, with his hand resting in her hand, was

  Euneece, so completely restored to her own sweet self that I could hardly

  believe what I had seen, not an hour since. She talked of you, when I showed her

  your message, with affectionate interest and regret. Look back, my admirable

  friend, at what I have written on the two or three pages which precede this, and

  explain the astounding contrast if you can.

  I was left alone to watch by Philip, while Euneece went away to see her father.

  Soon afterward, Maria took my place; I had been sent for to the next room to

  receive the doctor.

  He looked care-worn and grieved. I said I was afraid he had brought bad news

  with him.

  "The worst possible news," he answered. "A terrible exposure threatens this

  family, and I am powerless to prevent it,"

  He then asked me to remember the day when I had been surprised by the singular

  questions which he had put to me, and when he had engaged to explain himself

  after he had made some inquiries. Why, and how, he had set those inquiries on

  foot was what he had now to tell. I will repeat what he said, in his own words,

  as nearly as I can remember them. While he was in attendance on Philip, he had

  observed symptoms which made him suspect that Digitalis had been given to the

  young man, in doses often repeated. Cases of attempted poisoning by this

  medicine were so rare, that he felt bound to put his suspicions to the test by

  going round among the chemists's shops--excepting of course the shop at which

  his own prescriptions were made up--and asking if they had lately dispensed any

  preparation of Digitalis, ordered perhaps in a larger quantity than usual. At

  the second shop he visited, the chemist laughed. "Why, doctor," he said, "have

  you forgotten your own prescription?" After this, the prescription was asked

  for, and produced. It was on the paper used by the doctor--paper which had his

  address printed at the top, and a notice added, telling patients who came to

  consult him for the second time to bring their prescriptions with them. Then,

  there followed in writing: "Tincture of Digitalis, one ounce"--with his

  signature at the end, not badly imitated, but a forgery nevertheless. The

  chemist noticed the effect which this discovery had produced on the doctor, and

  asked if that was his signature. He could hardly, as an honest man, have

  asserted that a forgery was a signature of his own writing. So he made the true

  reply, and asked who had presented the prescription. The chemist called to his

  assistant to come forward. "Did you tell me that you knew, by sight, the young

  lady who brought this prescription?" The assistant admitted it. "Did you tell me

  she was Miss Helena Gracedieu?" "I did." "Are you sure of not having made any

  mistake?" "Quite sure." The chemist then said: "I myself supplied the Tincture

  of Digitalis, and the young lady paid for it, and took it away with her. You

  have had all the information that I can give you, sir; and I may now ask, if you

  can throw any light on the matter." Our good friend thought of the poor

  Minister, so sorely afflicted, and of the famous name so sincerely respected in

  the town and in the country round, and said he could not undertake to give an

  immediate answer. The chemist was excessively angry. "You know as well as I do,"

  he said, "that Digitalis, given in certain doses, is a poison, and you cannot

  deny that I honestly believed myself to be dispensing your prescription. While

  you are hesitating to give me an answer, my character may suffer; I may be

  suspected myself." He ended in declaring he should consult his lawyer. The

  doctor went home, and questioned his servant. The man remembered the day of Miss

  Helena's visit in the afternoon, and the intention that she expressed of waiting

  for his master's return. He had shown her into the parlor which opened into the

  consulting-room. No other visitor was in the house at that time, or had arrived

  during the rest of the day. The doctor's own experience, when he got home, led

  him to conclude that Helena had gone into the consulting-room. He had entered

  that room, for the purpose of writing some prescriptions, and had found the

  leaves of paper that he used diminished in number. After what he had heard, and

  what he had discovered (to say nothing of what he suspected), it occurred to him

  to look along the shelves of his medical library. He found a volume (treating of

  Poisons) with a slip of paper left between the leaves; the poison described at

  the place so marked being Digitalis, and the paper used being one of his own

  prescription-papers. "If, as I fear, a legal investigation into Helena's conduct

  is a possible event," the doctor concluded, "there is the evidence that I shall

  be obliged to give, when I am called as a witness."

  It is my belief that I could have felt no greater dismay, if the long arm of the

  Law had laid its hold on me while he was speaking. I asked what was to be done.

  "If she leaves the house at once," the doctor replied, "she may escape the

  infamy of being charged with an attempt at murder by poison; and, in her

  absence, I can answer for Philip's life. I don't urge you to warn her, because

  that might be a dangerous thing to do. It is for you to decide, as a member of

  the family, whether you will run the risk."

  I tried to speak to him of Euneece, and to tell him what I had already related

  to yourself. He was in no humor to listen to me. "Keep it for a fitter time," he

  answered; "and think of what I have just said to you." With that, he left me, on

  his way to Philip's room.

  Mental exertion was completely beyond me. Can you understand a poor middle-aged

  spinster being frightened into doing a dangerous thing? That may seem to be

  nonsense. But if you ask why I took a morsel of paper, and wrote the warning

  which I was afraid to communicate by word of mouth--why I went upstairs with my

  knees knocking together, and opened the door of Helena's room just wide enough

  to let my hand pass through--why I threw the paper in, and banged the door to

  again, and ran downstairs as I have never run since I was a little girl--I can

  only say, in the way of explanation, what I have said already: I was frightened

  into doing it.

  What I have written, thus far, I shall send to you by to-night's post.

  The doctor came back to me, after he had seen Philip, and spoken with Euneece.

  He was very angry; and, I must own, not without reason. Philip had flatly

  refused to let himself be removed to the hospital; and Euneece--"a mere

  girl"--had declared that she would be answerable for consequences!
The doctor

  warned me that he meant to withdraw from the case, and to make his declaration

  before the magistrates. At my entreaties he consented to return in the evening,

  and to judge by results before taking the terrible step that he had threatened.

  While I remained at home on the watch, keeping the doors of both rooms locked,

  Eunice went out to get Philip's medicine. She came back, followed by a boy

  carrying a portable apparatus for cooking. "All that Philip wants, and all that

  we want," she explained, "we can provide for ourselves. Give me a morsel of

  paper to write on."

  Unhooking the little pencil attached to her watch-chain, she paused and looked

  toward the door. "Somebody listening," she whispered. "Let them listen." She

  wrote a list of necessaries, in the way of things to eat and things to drink,

  and asked me to go out and get them myself. "I don't doubt the servants," she

  said, speaking distinctly enough to be heard outside; "but I am afraid of what a

  Poisoner's cunning and a Poisoner's desperation may do, in a kitchen which is

  open to her." I went away on my errand--discovering no listener outside, I need

  hardly say. On my return, I found the door of communication with Philip's room

  closed, but no longer locked. "We can now attend on him in turn," she said,

  "without opening either of the doors which lead into the hall. At night we can

  relieve each other, and each of us can get sleep as we want it in the large

  armchair in the dining-room. Philip must be safe under our charge, or the doctor

  will insist on taking him to the hospital. When we want Maria's help, from time

  to time, we can employ her under our own superintendence. Have you anything

  else, Selina, to suggest?"

  There was nothing left to suggest. Young and inexperienced as she was, how (I

  asked) had she contrived to think of all this? She answered, simply "I'm sure I

  don't know; my thoughts came to me while I was looking at Philip."

  Soon afterward I found an opportunity of inquiring if Helena had left the house.

  She had just rung her bell; and Maria had found her, quietly reading, in her

  room. Hours afterward, when I was on the watch at night, I heard Philip's door

  softly tried from the outside. Her dreadful purpose had not been given up, even

  yet.

  The doctor came in the evening, as he had promised, and found an improvement in

  Philip's health. I mentioned what precautions we had taken, and that they had

  been devised by Euneece. "Are you going to withdraw from the case?" I asked. "I

  am coming back to the case," he answered, "to-morrow morning."

  It had been a disappointment to me to receive no answer to the telegram which I

  had sent to Mr. Dunboyne the elder. The next day's post brought the explanation

  in a letter to Philip from his father, directed to him at the hotel here. This

  showed that my telegram, giving my address at this house, had not been received.

  Mr. Dunboyne announced that he had returned to Ireland, finding the air of

  London unendurable, after the sea-breezes at home. If Philip had already

  married, his father would leave him to a life of genteel poverty with Helena

  Gracedieu. If he had thought better of it, his welcome was waiting for him.

  Little did Mr. Dunboyne know what changes had taken place since he and his son

  had last met, and what hope might yet present itself of brighter days for poor

  Euneece! I thought of writing to him. But how would that crabbed old man receive

  a confidential letter from a lady who was a stranger?

  My doubts were set at rest by Philip himself. He asked me to write a few lines

  of reply to his father; declaring that his marriage with Helena was broken

  off--that he had not given up all hope of being permitted to offer the sincere

  expression of his penitence to Euneece--and that he would gladly claim his

  welcome, as soon as he was well enough to undertake the journey to Ireland. When

  he had signed the letter, I was so pleased that I made a smart remark. I said:

  "This is a treaty of peace between father and son."

  When the doctor arrived in the morning, and found the change for the better in

  his patient confirmed, he did justice to us at last. He spoke kindly, and even

  gratefully, to Euneece. No more allusions to the hospital as a place of safety

  escaped him. He asked me cautiously for news of Helena. I could only tell him

  that she had gone out at her customary time, and had returned at her customary

  time. He did not attempt to conceal that my reply had made him uneasy.

  "Are you still afraid that she may succeed in poisoning Philip?" I asked.

  "I am afraid of her cunning," he said. "If she is charged with attempting to

  poison young Dunboyne, she has some system of defense, you may rely on it, for

  which we are not prepared. There, in my opinion, is the true reason for her

  extraordinary insensibility to her own danger."

  Two more days passed, and we were still safe under the protection of lock and

  key.

  On the evening of the second day (which was a Monday) Maria came to me in great

  tribulation. On inquiring what was the matter, I received a disquieting reply:

  "Miss Helena is tempting me. She is so miserable at being prevented from seeing

  Mr. Philip, and helping to nurse him, that it is quite distressing to see her.

  At the same time, miss, it's hard on a poor servant. She asks me to take the key

  secretly out of the door, and lend it to her at night for a few minutes only.

  I'm really afraid I shall be led into doing it, if she goes on persuading me

  much longer."

  I commended Maria for feeling scruples which proved her to be the best of good

  girls, and promised to relieve her from all fear of future temptation. This was

  easily done. Euneece kept the key of Philip's door in her pocket; and I kept the

  key of the dining-room door in mine.

  CHAPTER LXI.

  ATROCITY.

  ON the next day, a Tuesday in the week, an event took place which Euneece and I

  viewed with distrust. Early in the afternoon, a young man called with a note for

  Helena. It was to be given to her immediately, and no answer was required.

  Maria had just closed the house door, and was on her way upstairs with the

  letter, when she was called back by another ring at the bell. Our visitor was

  the doctor. He spoke to Maria in the hall:

  "I think I see a note in your hand. Was it given to you by the young man who has

  just left the house?"

  "Yes, sir.

  "If he's your sweetheart, my dear, I have nothing more to say."

  "Good gracious, doctor, how you do talk! I never saw the young man before in my

  life."

  "In that case, Maria, I will ask you to let me look at the address. Aha!

  Mischief!"

  The moment I heard that I threw open the dining-room door. Curiosity is not

  easily satisfied. When it hears, it wants to see; when it sees, it wants to

  know. Every lady will agree with me in this observation.

  "Pray come in," I said.

  "One minute, Miss Jillgall. My girl, when you give Miss Helena that note, try to

  get a sly look at her when she opens it, and come and tell me what you have

  seen." He joined me in the dinin
g-room, and closed the door. "The other day," he

  went on, "when I told you what I had discovered in the chemist's shop, I think I

  mentioned a young man who was called to speak to a question of identity--an

  assistant who knew Miss Helena Gracedieu by sight."

  "Yes, yes!"

  "That young man left the note which Maria has just taken upstairs."

  "Who wrote it, doctor, and what does it say?"

  "Questions naturally asked, Miss Jillgall--and not easily answered. Where is

  Eunice? Her quick wit might help us."

  She had gone out to buy some fruit and flowers for Philip.

  The doctor accepted his disappointment resignedly. "Let us try what we can do

  without her," he said. "That young man's master has been in consultation (you

  may remember why) with his lawyer, and Helena may be threatened by an

  investigation before the magistrates. If this wild guess of mine turns out to

  have hit the mark, the poisoner upstairs has got a warning."

  I asked if the chemist had written the note. Foolish enough of me when I came to

  think of it. The chemist would scarcely act a friendly part toward Helena, when

  she was answerable for the awkward position in which he had placed himself.

  Perhaps the young man who had left the warning was also the writer of the

  warning. The doctor reminded me that he was all but a stranger to Helena. "We

  are not usually interested," he remarked, "in a person whom we only know by

  sight."

  "Remember that he is a young man," I ventured to say. This was a strong hint,

  but the doctor failed to see it. He had evidently forgotten his own youth. I

  made another attempt.

  "And vile as Helena is," I continued, "we cannot deny that this disgrace to her

  sex is a handsome young lady."

  He saw it at last. "Woman's wit!" he cried. "You have hit it, Miss Jillgall. The

  young fool is smitten with her, and has given her a chance of making her

  escape."

  "Do you think she will take the chance?"

  "For all our sakes, I pray God she may! But I don't feel sure about it."

  "Why?"

  "Recollect what you and Eunice have done. You have shown your suspicion of her

  without an attempt to conceal it. If you had put her in prison you could not

  have more completely defeated her infernal design. Do you think she is a likely

  person to submit to that, without an effort to be even with you?"

  Just as he said those terrifying words, Maria came back to us. He asked at once

  what had kept her so long upstairs.

  The girl had evidently something to say, which had inflated her (if I may use

  such an expression) with a sense of her own importance.

  "Please to let me tell it, sir," she answered, "in my own way. Miss Helena

  turned as pale as ashes when she opened the letter, and then she took a turn in

  the room, and then she looked at me with a smile--well, miss, I can only say

  that I felt that smile in the small of my back. I tried to get to the door. She

  stopped me. She says: 'Where's Miss Eunice?' I says: 'Gone out.' She says: 'Is

  there anybody in the drawing-room?' I says: 'No, miss.' She says: 'Tell Miss

  Jillgall I want to speak to her, and say I am waiting in the drawing-room.' It's

  every word of it true! And, if a poor servant may give an opinion, I don't like

  the look of it."

  The doctor dismissed Maria. "Whatever it is," he said to me, "you must go and

  hear it."

  I am not a courageous woman; I expressed myself as being willing to go to her,

  if the doctor went with me. He said that was impossible; she would probably

  refuse to speak before any witness; and certainly before him. But he promised to

  look after Philip in my absence, and to wait below if it really so happened that

  I wanted him. I need only ring the bell, and he would come to me the moment he

  heard it. Such kindness as this roused my courage, I suppose. At any rate, I

  went upstairs.

  She was standing by the fire-place, with her elbow on the chimney-piece, and her

  head, resting on her hand. I stopped just inside the door, waiting to hear what