The Legacy of Cain Read online

promised to take her far away from England, among people who have never even

  heard of her sister. Miss Jillgall has used her influence to help me. All in

  vain! There is no hope for us but in you. I am not thinking selfishly only of

  myself. She tries to conceal it--but, oh, she is broken-hearted! Ask the

  farmer's wife, if you don't believe me. Judge for yourself, sir. Go--for God's

  sake, go to the farm."

  I made him sit down and compose himself.

  "You may depend on my going to the farm," I answered. "I shall write to Eunice

  to-day, and follow my letter to-morrow." He tried to thank me; but I would not

  allow it. "Before I consent to accept the expression of your gratitude," I said,

  "I must know a little more of you than I know now. This is only the second

  occasion on which we have met. Let us look back a little, Mr. Philip Dunboyne.

  You were Eunice's affianced husband; and you broke faith with her. That was a

  rascally action. How do you defend it?"

  His head sank. "I am ashamed to defend it," he answered.

  I pressed him without mercy. "You own yourself," I said, "that it was a rascally

  action?"

  "Use stronger language against me, even than that, sir--I deserve it."

  "In plain words," I went on, "you can find no excuse for your conduct?"

  "In the past time," he said, "I might have found excuses."

  "But you can't find them now?"

  "I must not even look for them now."

  "Why not?"

  "I owe it to Eunice to leave my conduct at its worst; with nothing said--by

  me--to defend it."

  "What has Eunice done to have such a claim on you as that?"

  "Eunice has forgiven me."

  It was gratefully and delicately said. Ought I to have allowed this circumstance

  to weigh with me? I ask, in return, had I never committed any faults? As a

  fellow-mortal and fellow-sinner, had I any right to harden my heart against an

  expression of penitence which I felt to be sincere in its motive?

  But I was bound to think of Eunice. I did think of her, before I ventured to

  accept the position--the critical position, as I shall presently show--of

  Philip's friend.

  After more than an hour of questions put without reserve, and of answers given

  without prevarication, I had traveled over the whole ground laid out by the

  narratives which appear in these pages, and had arrived at my conclusion--so far

  as Philip Dunboyne was concerned.

  I found him to be a man with nothing absolutely wicked in him--but with a nature

  so perilously weak, in many respects, that it might drift into wickedness unless

  a stronger nature was at hand to bold it back. Married to a wife without force

  of character, the probabilities would point to him as likely to yield to

  examples which might make him a bad husband. Married to a wife with a will of

  her own, and with true love to sustain her--a wife who would know when to take

  the command and how to take the command--a wife who, finding him tempted to

  commit actions unworthy of his better self, would be far-sighted enough to

  perceive that her husband's sense of honor might sometimes lose its balance,

  without being on that account hopelessly depraved--then, and, in these cases

  only, the probabilities would point to Philip as a man likely to be the better

  and the happier for his situation, when the bonds of wedlock had got him.

  But the serious question was not answered yet.

  Could I feel justified in placing Eunice in the position toward Philip which I

  have just endeavored to describe? I dared not allow my mind to dwell on the

  generosity which had so nobly pardoned him, or on the force of character which

  had bravely endured the bitterest disappointment, the cruelest humiliation. The

  one consideration which I was bound to face, was the sacred consideration of her

  happiness in her life to come.

  Leaving Philip, with a few words of sympathy which might help him to bear his

  suspense, I went to my room to think.

  The time passed--and I could arrive at no positive conclusion. Either way--with

  or without Philip--the contemplation of Eunice's future harassed me with doubt.

  Even if I had conquered my own indecision, and had made up my mind to sanction

  the union of the two young people, the difficulties that now beset me would not

  have been dispersed. Knowing what I alone knew, I could certainly remove

  Eunice's one objection to the marriage. In other words, I had only to relate

  what had happened on the day when the Chaplain brought the Minister to the

  prison, and the obstacle of their union would be removed. But, without

  considering Philip, it was simply out of the question to do this, in mercy to

  Eunice herself. What was Helena's disgrace, compared with the infamy which

  stained the name of the poor girl's mother! The other alternative of telling her

  part of the truth only was before me, if I could persuade myself to adopt it. I

  failed to persuade myself; my morbid anxiety for her welfare made me hesitate

  again. Human patience could endure no more. Rashness prevailed and prudence

  yielded--I left my decision to be influenced by the coming interview with

  Eunice.

  The next day I drove to the farm. Philip's entreaties persuaded me to let him be

  my companion, on one condition--that he waited in the carriage while I went into

  the house.

  I had carefully arranged my ideas, and had decided on proceeding with the

  greatest caution, before I ventured on saying the all-important words which,

  once spoken, were not to be recalled. The worst of those anxieties, under which

  the delicate health of Mr. Gracedieu had broken down, was my anxiety now. Could

  I reconcile it to my conscience to permit a man, innocent of all knowledge of

  the truth, to marry the daughter of a condemned murderess, without honestly

  telling him what he was about to do? Did I deserve to be pitied? did I deserve

  to be blamed?--my mind was still undecided when I entered the house.

  She ran to meet me as if she had been my daughter; she kissed me as if she had

  been my daughter; she fondly looked up at me as if she had been my daughter. At

  the sight of that sweet young face, so sorrowful, and so patiently enduring

  sorrow, all my doubts and hesitations, everything artificial about me with which

  I had entered the room, vanished in an instant.

  After she had thanked me for coming to see her, I saw her tremble a little. The

  uppermost interest in her heart was forcing its way outward to expression, try

  as she might to keep it back. "Have you seen Philip?" she asked. The tone in

  which she put that question decided me--I was resolved to let her marry him.

  Impulse! Yes, impulse, asserting itself inexcusably in a man at the end of his

  life. I ought to have known better than to have given way. Very likely. But am I

  the only mortal who ought to have known better--and did not?

  When Eunice asked if I had seen Philip, I owned that he was outside in the

  carriage. Before she could reproach me, I went on with what I had to say: "My

  child, I know what a sacrifice you have made; and I should honor your scruples,

  if you had any reason for feeling them."

  "Any reason
for feeling them?" She turned pale as she repeated the words.

  An idea came to me. I rang for the servant, and sent her to the carriage to tell

  Philip to come in. "My dear, I am not putting you to any unfair trial," I

  assured her; "I am going to prove that I love you as truly as if you were my own

  child."

  When they were both present, I resolved that they should not suffer a moment of

  needless suspense. Standing between them, I took Eunice's hand, and laid my

  other hand on Philip's shoulder, and spoke out plainly.

  "I am here to make you both happy," I said. "I can remove the only obstacle to

  your marriage, and I mean to do it. But I must insist on one condition. Give me

  your promise, Philip, that you will ask for no explanations, and that you will

  be satisfied with the one true statement which is all that I can offer to you."

  He gave me his promise, without an instant's hesitation.

  "Philip grants what I ask," I said to Eunice. "Do you grant it, too?"

  Her hand turned cold in mine; but she spoke firmly when she said: "Yes."

  I gave her into Philip's care. It was his privilege to console and support her.

  It was my duty to say the decisive words:

  "Rouse your courage, dear Eunice; you are no more affected by Helena's disgrace

  than I am. You are not her sister. Her father is not your father; her mother was

  not your mother. I was present, in the time of your infancy, when Mr.

  Gracedieu's fatherly kindness received you as his adopted child. This, I declare

  to you both, on my word of honor, is the truth."

  How she bore it I am not able to say. My foolish old eyes were filling with

  tears. I could just see plainly enough to find my way to the door, and leave

  them together.

  In my reckless state of mind, I never asked myself if Time would be my

  accomplice, and keep the part of the secret which I had not revealed--or be my

  enemy, and betray me. The chances, either way, were perhaps equal. The deed was

  done.

  CHAPTER LXIV.

  THE TRUTH TRIUMPHANT.

  THE marriage was deferred, at Eunice's request, as an expression of respect to

  the memory of Philip's father.

  When the time of delay had passed, it was arranged that the wedding ceremony

  should be held--after due publication of Banns--at the parish church of the

  London suburb in which my house was situated. Miss Jillgall was bridesmaid, and

  I gave away the bride. Before we set out for the church, Eunice asked leave to

  speak with me for a moment in private.

  "Don't think," she said, "that I am forgetting my promise to be content with

  what you have told me about myself. I am not so ungrateful as that. But I do

  want, before I consent to be Philip's wife, to feel sure that I am not quite

  unworthy of him. Is it because I am of mean birth that you told me I was Mr.

  Gracedieu's adopted child--and told me no more?"

  I could honestly satisfy her, so far. "Certainly not!" I said.

  She put her arms round my neck. "Do you say that," she asked, "to make my mind

  easy? or do you say it on your word of honor?"

  "On my word of honor."

  We arrived at the church. Let Miss Jillgall describe the marriage, in her own

  inimitable way.

  "No wedding breakfast, when you don't want to eat it. No wedding speeches, when

  nobody wants to make them, and nobody wants to hear them. And no false

  sentiment, shedding tears and reddening noses, on the happiest day in the whole

  year. A model marriage! I could desire nothing better, if I had any prospect of

  being a bride myself."

  They went away for their honeymoon to a quiet place by the seaside, not very far

  from the town in which Eunice had passed some of the happiest and the

  wretchedest days in her life. She persisted in thinking it possible that Mr.

  Gracedieu might recover the use of his faculties, at the last, and might wish to

  see her on his death-bed. "His adopted daughter," she gently reminded me, "is

  his only daughter now." The doctor shook his head when I told him what Eunice

  had said to me--and, the sad truth must be told, the doctor was right.

  Miss Jillgall returned, on the wedding-day, to take care of the good man who had

  befriended her in her hour of need.

  Before the end of the week, I heard from her, and was disagreeably reminded of

  an incident which we had both forgotten, absorbed as we were in other and

  greater interests, at the time.

  Mrs. Tenbruggen had again appeared on the scene! She had written to Miss

  Jillgall, from Paris, to say that she had heard of old Mr.. Dunboyne's death,

  and that she wished to have the letter returned, which she had left for delivery

  to Philip's father on the day when Philip and Eunice were married. I had my own

  suspicions of what that letter might contain; and I regretted that Miss Jillgall

  had sent it back without first waiting to consult me. My misgivings, thus

  excited, were increased by more news of no very welcome kind. Mrs. Tenbruggen

  had decided on returning to her professional pursuits in England. Massage, now

  the fashion everywhere, had put money into her pocket among the foreigners; and

  her husband, finding that she persisted in keeping out of his reach, had

  consented to a compromise. He was ready to submit to a judicial separation; in

  consideration of a little income which his wife had consented to settle on him,

  under the advice of her lawyer.

  Some days later, I received a delightful letter from Philip and Eunice;

  reminding me that I had engaged to pay them a visit at the seaside. My room was

  ready for me, and I was left to choose my own day. I had just begun to write my

  reply, gladly accepting the invitation, when an ominous circumstance occurred.

  My servant announced "a lady"; and I found myself face to face with--Mrs.

  Tenbruggen!

  She was as cheerful as ever, and as eminently agreeable as ever.

  "I have heard it all from Selina," she said. "Philip's marriage to Eunice (I

  shall go and congratulate them, of course), and the catastrophe (how dramatic!)

  of Helena Gracedieu. I warned. Selina that Miss Helena would end badly. To tell

  the truth, she frightened me. I don't deny that I am a mischievous woman when I

  find myself affronted, quite capable of taking my revenge in my own small

  spiteful way. But poison and murder--ah, the frightful subject! let us drop it,

  and talk of something that doesn't make my hair (it's really my own hair) stand

  on end. Has Selina told you that I have got rid of my charming husband, on easy

  pecuniary terms? Oh, you know that? Very well. I will tell you something that

  you don't know. Mr. Governor, I have found you out."

  "May I venture to ask how?"

  "When I guessed which was which of those two girls," she answered, "and guessed

  wrong, you deliberately encouraged the mistake. Very clever, but you overdid it.

  From that moment, though I kept it to myself, I began to fear I might be wrong.

  Do you remember Low Lanes, my dear sir? A charming old church. I have had

  another consultation with my lawyer. His questions led me into mentioning how it

  happened that I heard of Low Lanes. After looking again at his memorandum of the
/>   birth advertised in the newspaper without naming the place--he proposed trying

  the church register at Low Lanes. Need I tell you the result? I know, as well as

  you do, that Philip has married the adopted child. He has had a mother-in-law

  who was hanged, and, what is more, he has the honor, through his late father, of

  being otherwise connected with the murderess by marriage--as his aunt!"

  Bewilderment and dismay deprived me of my presence of mind. "How did you

  discover that?" I was foolish enough to ask.

  "Do you remember when I brought the baby to the prison?" she said. "The

  father--as I mentioned at the time--had been a dear and valued friend of mine.

  No person could be better qualified to tell me who had married his wife's

  sister. If that lady had been living, I should never have been troubled with the

  charge of the child. Any more questions?"

  "Only one. Is Philip to hear of this?"

  "Oh, for shame! I don't deny that Philip insulted me grossly, in one way; and

  that Philip's late father insulted me grossly, in another way. But Mamma

  Tenbruggen is a Christian. She returns good for evil, and wouldn't for the world

  disturb the connubial felicity of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Dunboyne."

  The moment the woman was out of my house, I sent a telegram to Philip to say

  that he might expect to see me that night. I caught the last train in the

  evening; and I sat down to supper with those two harmless young creatures,

  knowing I must prepare the husband for what threatened them, and weakly

  deferring it, when I found myself in their presence, until the next day. Eunice

  was, in some degree, answerable for this hesitation on my part. No one could

  look at her husband, and fail to see that he was a supremely happy man. But I

  detected signs of care in the wife's face.

  Before breakfast the next morning I was out on the beach, trying to decide how

  the inevitable disclosure might be made. Eunice joined me. Now, when we were

  alone, I asked if she was really and completely happy. Quietly and sadly she

  answered: "Not yet."

  I hardly knew what to say. My face must have expressed disappointment and

  surprise.

  "I shall never be quite happy," she resumed, "till I know what it is that you

  kept from me on that memorable day. I don't like having a secret from my

  husband--though it is not my secret."

  "Remember your promise," I said

  "I don't forget it," she answered. "I can only wish that my promise would keep

  back the thoughts that come to me in spite of myself."

  "What thoughts?"

  "There is something, as I fear, in the story of my parents which you are afraid

  to confide to me. Why did Mr. Gracedieu allow me to believe and leave everybody

  to believe, that I was his own child?"

  "My dear, I relieved your mind of those doubts on the morning of your marriage."

  "No. I was only thinking of myself at that time. My mother--the doubt of her is

  the doubt that torments me now."

  "What do you mean?"

  She put her arm in mine, and held by it with both hands.

  "The mock-mother!" she whispered. "Do you remember that dreadful Vision, that

  horrid whispering temptation in the dead of night? Was it a mock-mother? Oh,

  pity me! I don't know who my mother was. One horrid thought about her is a

  burden on my mind. If she was a good woman, you who love me would surely have

  made me happy by speaking of her?"

  Those words decided me at last. Could she suffer more than she had suffered

  already, if I trusted her with the truth? I ran the risk. There was a time of

  silence that filled me with terror. The interval passed. She took my hand, and

  put it to her heart. "Does it beat as if I was frightened?" she asked.

  No! It was beating calmly.

  "Does it relieve your anxiety?"

  It told me that I had not surprised her. That unforgotten Vision of the night

  had prepared her for the worst, after the time when I had told her that she was

  an adopted child. "I know," I said, "that those whispered temptations

  overpowered you again, when you and Helena met on the stairs, and you forbade