The Legacy of Cain Read online

him, after what Mrs. Staveley has told me.

  Such a sad story, in some respects. Mother dead; no brothers or sisters. Only

  the father left; he lives a dismal life on a lonely stormy coast. Not a severe

  old gentleman, for all that. His reasons for taking to retirement are reasons

  (so Mrs. Staveley says) which nobody knows. He buries himself among his books,

  in an immense library; and he appears to like it. His son has not been brought

  up. like other young men, at school and college. He is a great scholar, educated

  at home by his father. To hear this account of his learning depressed me. It

  seemed to put such a distance between us. I asked Mrs. Staveley if he thought me

  ignorant. As long as I live I shall remember the reply: "He thinks you

  charming."

  Any other girl would have been satisfied with this. I am the miserable creature

  who is always making mistakes. My stupid curiosity spoiled the charm of Mrs.

  Staveley's conversation. And yet it seemed to be a harmless question; I only

  said I should like to know what profession Philip belonged to.

  Mrs. Staveley answered: "No profession."

  I foolishly put a wrong meaning on this. I said: "Is he idle?"

  Mrs. Staveley laughed. "My dear, he is an only son--and his father is a rich

  man."

  That stopped me--at last.

  We have enough to live on in comfort at home--no more. Papa has told us himself

  that he is not (and can never hope to be) a rich man. This is not the worst of

  it. Last year, he refused to marry a young couple, both belonging to our

  congregation. This was very unlike his usual kind self. Helena and I asked him

  for his reasons. They were reasons that did not take long to give. The young

  gentleman's father was a rich man. He had forbidden his son to marry a sweet

  girl--because she had no fortune.

  I have no fortune. And Philip's father is a rich man.

  The best thing I can do is to wipe my pen, and shut up my Journal, and go home

  by the next train.

  . . . . . . .

  I have a great mind to burn my Journal. It tells me that I had better not think

  of Philip any more.

  On second thoughts, I won't destroy my Journal; I will only put it away. If I

  live to be an old woman, it may amuse me to open my book again, and see how

  foolish the poor wretch was when she was young.

  What is this aching pain in my heart?

  I don't remember it at any other time in my life. Is it trouble? How can I

  tell?--I have had so little trouble. It must be many years since I was wretched

  enough to cry. I don't even understand why I am crying now. My last sorrow, so

  far as I can remember, was the toothache. Other girls' mothers comfort them when

  they are wretched. If my mother had lived--it's useless to think about that. We

  lost her, while I and my sister were too young to understand our misfortune.

  I wish I had never seen Philip.

  This seems an ungrateful wish. Seeing him at the picture-show was a new

  enjoyment. Sitting next to him at dinner was a happiness that I don't recollect

  feeling, even when Papa has been most sweet and kind to me. I ought to be

  ashamed of myself to confess this. Shall I write to my sister? But how should

  she know what is the matter with me, when I don't know it myself? Besides,

  Helena is angry; she wrote unkindly to me when she answered my last letter.

  There is a dreadful loneliness in this great house at night. I had better say my

  prayers, and try to sleep. If it doesn't make me feel happier, it will prevent

  me spoiling my Journal by dropping tears on it.

  . . . . . . .

  What an evening of evenings this has been! Last night it was crying that kept me

  awake. To-night I can't sleep for joy.

  Philip called on us again to-day. He brought with him tickets for the

  performance of an Oratorio. Sacred music is not forbidden music among our

  people. Mrs. Staveley and Miss Staveley went to the concert with us. Philip and

  I sat next to each other.

  My sister is a musician--I am nothing. That sounds bitter; but I don't mean it

  so. All I mean is, that I like simple little songs, which I can sing to myself

  by remembering the tune. There, my musical enjoyment ends. When voices and

  instruments burst out together by hundreds, I feel bewildered. I also get

  attacked by fidgets. This last misfortune is sure to overtake me when choruses

  are being performed. The unfortunate people employed are made to keep singing

  the same words, over and over and over again, till I find it a perfect misery to

  listen to them. The choruses were unendurable in the performance to-night. This

  is one of them: "Here we are all alone in the wilderness--alone in the

  wilderness--in the wilderness alone, alone, alone--here we are in the

  wilderness--alone in the wilderness--all all alone in the wilderness," and soon,

  till I felt inclined to call for the learned person who writes Oratorios, and

  beg him to give the poor music a more generous allowance of words.

  Whenever I looked at Philip, I found him looking at me. Perhaps he saw from the

  first that the music was wearying music to my ignorant ears. With his usual

  delicacy he said nothing for some time. But when he caught me yawning (though I

  did my best to hide it, for it looked like being ungrateful for the tickets),

  then he could restrain himself no longer. He whispered in my ear:

  "You are getting tired of this. And so am I."

  "I am trying to like it," I whispered back.

  "Don't try," he answered. "Let's talk."

  He meant, of course, talk in whispers. We were a good deal annoyed--especially

  when the characters were all alone in the wilderness--by bursts of singing and

  playing which interrupted us at the most interesting moments. Philip persevered

  with a manly firmness. What could I do but follow his example--at a distance?

  He said: "Is it really true that your visit to Mrs. Staveley is coming to an

  end?"

  I answered: "It comes to an end the day after to-morrow."

  "Are you sorry to be leaving your friends in London?"

  What I might have said if he had made that inquiry a day earlier, when I was the

  most miserable creature living, I would rather not try to guess. Being quite

  happy as things were, I could honestly tell him I was sorry.

  "You can't possibly be as sorry as I am, Eunice. May I call you by your pretty

  name?"

  "Yes, if you please."

  "Eunice!"

  "Yes."

  "You will leave a blank in my life when you go away--"

  There another chorus stopped him, just as I was eager for more. It was such a

  delightfully new sensation to hear a young gentleman telling me that I had left

  a blank in his life. The next change in the Oratorio brought up a young lady,

  singing alone. Some people behind us grumbled at the smallness of her voice. We

  thought her voice perfect. It seemed to lend itself so nicely to our whispers.

  He said: "Will you help me to think of you while you are away? I want to imagine

  what your life is at home. Do you live in a town or in the country?"

  I told him the name of our town. When we give a person information, I have

  always heard that we ought
to make it complete. So I mentioned our address in

  the town. But I was troubled by a doubt. Perhaps he preferred the country. Being

  anxious about this, I said: "Would you rather have heard that I live in the

  country?"

  "Live where you may, Eunice, the place will be a favorite place of mine.

  Besides, your town is famous. It has a public attraction which brings visitors

  to it."

  I made another of those mistakes which no sensible girl, in my position, would

  have committed. I asked if he alluded to our new market-place.

  He set me right in the sweetest manner: "I alluded to a building hundreds of

  years older than your market-place--your beautiful cathedral."

  Fancy my not having thought of the cathedral! This is what comes of being a

  Congregationalist. If I had belonged to the Church of England, I should have

  forgotten the market-place, and remembered the cathedral. Not that I want to

  belong to the Church of England. Papa's chapel is good enough for me.

  The song sung by the lady with the small voice was so pretty that the audience

  encored it. Didn't Philip and I help them! With the sweetest smiles the lady

  sang it all over again. The people behind us left the concert.

  He said: "Do you know, I take the greatest interest in cathedrals. I propose to

  enjoy the privilege and pleasure of seeing your cathedral early next week."

  I had only to look at him to see that I was the cathedral. It was no surprise to

  hear next that he thought of "paying his respects to Mr. Gracedieu." He begged

  me to tell him what sort of reception he might hope to meet with when he called

  at our house. I got so excited in doing justice to papa that I quite forgot to

  whisper when the next question came. Philip wanted to know if Mr. Gracedieu

  disliked strangers. When I answered, "Oh dear, no!" I said it out loud, so that

  the people heard me. Cruel, cruel people! They all turned round and stared. One

  hideous old woman actually said, "Silence!" Miss Staveley looked disgusted. Even

  kind Mrs. Staveley lifted her eyebrows in astonishment.

  Philip, dear Philip, protected and composed me.

  He held my hand devotedly till the end of the performance. When he put us into

  the carriage, I was last. He whispered in my ear: "Expect me next week." Miss

  Staveley might be as ill-natured as she pleased, on the way home. It didn't

  matter what she said. The Eunice of yesterday might have been mortified and

  offended. The Eunice of to-day was indifferent to the sharpest things that could

  be said to her.

  . . . . . . .

  All through yesterday's delightful evening, I never once thought of Philip's

  father. When I woke this morning, I remembered that old Mr. Dunboyne was a rich

  man. I could eat no breakfast for thinking of the poor girl who was not allowed

  to marry her young gentleman, because she had no money.

  Mrs. Staveley waited to speak to me till the rest of them had left us together.

  I had expected her to notice that I looked dull and dismal. No! her cleverness

  got at my secret in quite another way.

  She said: "How do you feel after the concert? You must be hard to please indeed

  if you were not satisfied with the accompaniments last night."

  "The accompaniments of the Oratorio?"

  "No, my dear. The accompaniments of Philip."

  I suppose I ought to have laughed. In my miserable state of mind, it was not to

  be done. I said: "I hope Mr. Dunboyne's father will not hear how kind he was to

  me."

  Mrs. Staveley asked why.

  My bitterness overflowed at my tongue. I said: "Because papa is a poor man."

  "And Philip's papa is a rich man," says Mrs. Staveley, putting my own thought

  into words for me. "Where do you get these ideas, Eunice? Surely, you are not

  allowed to read novels?"

  "Oh no!"

  "And you have certainly never seen a play?"

  "Never."

  "Clear your head, child, of the nonsense that has got into it--I can't think

  how. Rich Mr. Dunboyne has taught his heir to despise the base act of marrying

  for money. He knows that Philip will meet young ladies at my house; and he has

  written to me on the subject of his son's choice of a wife. 'Let Philip find

  good principles, good temper, and good looks; and I promise beforehand to find

  the money.' There is what he says. Are you satisfied with Philip's father, now?"

  I jumped up in a state of ecstasy. Just as I had thrown my arms round Mrs.

  Staveley's neck, the servant came in with a letter, and handed it to me.

  Helena had written again, on this last day of my visit. Her letter was full of

  instructions for buying things that she wants, before I leave London. I read on

  quietly enough until I came to the postscript. The effect of it on me may be

  told in two words: I screamed. Mrs. Staveley was naturally alarmed. "Bad news?"

  she asked. Being quite unable to offer an opinion, I read the postscript out

  loud, and left her to judge for herself.

  This was Helena's news from home:

  "I must prepare you for a surprise, before your return. You will find a strange

  lady established at home. Don't suppose there is any prospect of her bidding us

  good-by, if we only wait long enough. She is already (with father's full

  approval) as much a member of the family as we are. You shall form your own

  unbiased opinion of her, Eunice. For the present, I say no more."

  I asked Mrs. Staveley what she thought of my news from home. She said: "Your

  father approves of the lady, my dear. I suppose it's good news."

  But Mrs. Staveley did not look as if she believed in the good news, for all

  that.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  HELENA'S DIARY.

  TO-DAY I went as usual to the Scripture-class for girls. It was harder work than

  ever, teaching without Eunice to help me. Indeed, I felt lonely all day without

  my sister. When I got home, I rather hoped that some friend might have come to

  see us, and have been asked to stay to tea. The housemaid opened the door to me.

  I asked Maria if anybody had called.

  "Yes, miss; a lady, to see the master."

  "A stranger?"

  "Never saw her before, miss, in all my life." I put no more questions. Many

  ladies visit my father. They call it consulting the Minister. He advises them in

  their troubles, and guides them in their religious difficulties, and so on. They

  come and go in a sort of secrecy. So far as I know, they are mostly old maids,

  and they waste the Minister's time.

  When my father came in to tea, I began to feel some curiosity about the lady who

  had called on him. Visitors of that sort, in general, never appear to dwell on

  his mind after they have gone away; he sees too many of them, and is too well

  accustomed to what they have to say. On this particular evening, however, I

  perceived appearances that set me thinking; he looked worried and anxious.

  "Has anything happened, father, to vex you?" I said.

  "Yes."

  "Is the lady concerned in it?"

  "What lady, my dear?"

  "The lady who called on you while I was out."

  "Who told you she had called on me?"

  "I asked Maria--"

  "That will do, H
elena, for the present."

  He drank his tea and went back to his study, instead of staying a while, and

  talking pleasantly as usual. My respect submitted to his want of confidence in

  me; but my curiosity was in a state of revolt. I sent for Maria, and proceeded

  to make my own discoveries, with this result:

  No other person had called at the house. Nothing had happened, except the visit

  of the mysterious lady. "She looked between young and old. And, oh dear me, she

  was certainly not pretty. Not dressed nicely, to my mind; but they do say dress

  is a matter of taste."

  Try as I might, I could get no more than that out of our stupid young housemaid.

  Later in the evening, the cook had occasion to consult me about supper. This was

  a person possessing the advantages of age and experience. I asked if she had

  seen the lady. The cook's reply promised something new: "I can't say I saw the

  lady; but I heard her."

  "Do you mean that you heard her speaking?"

  "No, miss--crying."

  "Where was she crying?"

  "In the master's study."

  "How did you come to hear her?"

  "Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect me of listening?"

  Is a lie told by a look as bad as a lie told by words? I looked shocked at the

  bare idea of suspecting a respectable person of listening. The cook's sense of

  honor was satisfied; she readily explained herself: "I was passing the door,

  miss, on my way upstairs."

  Here my discoveries came to an end. It was certainly possible that an afflicted

  member of my father's congregation might have called on him to be comforted. But

  he sees plenty of afflicted ladies, without looking worried and anxious after

  they leave him. Still suspecting something out of the ordinary course of events,

  I waited hopefully for our next meeting at supper-time. Nothing came of it. My

  father left me by myself again, when the meal was over. He is always courteous

  to his daughters; and he made an apology: "Excuse me, Helena, I want to think."

  . . . . . . .

  I went to bed in a vile humor, and slept badly; wondering, in the long wakeful

  hours, what new rebuff I should meet with on the next day.

  At breakfast this morning I was agreeably surprised. No signs of anxiety showed

  themselves in my father's face. Instead of retiring to his study when we rose

  from the table, he proposed taking a turn in the garden: "You are looking pale,

  Helena, and you will be the better for a little fresh air. Besides, I have

  something to say to you."

  Excitement, I am sure, is good for young women. I saw in his face, I heard in

  his last words, that the mystery of the lady was at last to be revealed. The

  sensation of languor and fatigue which follows a disturbed night left me

  directly.

  My father gave me his arm, and we walked slowly up and down the lawn.

  "When that lady called on me yesterday," he began, "you wanted to know who she

  was, and you were surprised and disappointed when I refused to gratify your

  curiosity. My silence was not a selfish silence, Helena. I was thinking of you

  and your sister; and I was at a loss how to act for the best. You shall hear why

  my children were in my mind, presently. I must tell you first that I have

  arrived at a decision; I hope and believe on reasonable grounds. Ask me any

  questions you please; my silence will be no longer an obstacle in your way."

  This was so very encouraging that I said at once: "I should like to know who the

  lady is."

  "The lady is related to me," he answered. "We are cousins."

  Here was a disclosure that I had not anticipated. In the little that I have seen

  of the world, I have observed that cousins--when they happen to be brought

  together under interesting circumstances--can remember their relationship, and

  forget their relationship, just as it suits them. "Is your cousin a married

  lady?" I ventured to inquire.

  "No."

  Short as it was, that reply might perhaps mean more than appeared on the

  surface. The cook had heard the lady crying. What sort of tender agitation was

  answerable for those tears? Was it possible, barely possible, that Eunice and I