While my father remains in his present helpless condition, somebody must assume a position of command in this house. There cannot be a moment’s doubt that I am the person to do it.
In my agitated state of mind, sometimes doubtful of Philip, sometimes hopeful of him, I find Mrs. Tenbruggen simply unendurable. A female doctor is, under any circumstances, a creature whom I detest. She is, at her very best, a bad imitation of a man. The Medical Rubber is worse than this; she is a bad imitation of a mountebank. Her grinning good-humor, adopted no doubt to please the fools who are her patients, and her impudent enjoyment of hearing herself talk, make me regret for the first time in my life that I am a young lady. If I belonged to the lowest order of the population, I might take the first stick I could find, and enjoy the luxury of giving Mrs. Tenbruggen a good beating.
She literally haunts the house, encouraged, of course, by her wretched little dupe, Miss Jillgall. Only this morning, I tried what a broad hint would do toward suggesting that her visits had better come to an end.
“Really, Mrs. Tenbruggen,” I said, “I must request Miss Jillgall to moderate her selfish enjoyment of your company, for your own sake. Your time is too valuable, in a professional sense, to be wasted on an idle woman who has no sympathy with your patients, waiting for relief perhaps, and waiting in vain.”
She listened to this, all smiles and good-humor: “My dear, do you know how I might answer you, if I was an ill-natured woman?”
“I have no curiosity to hear it, Mrs. Tenbruggen.”
“I might ask you,” she persisted, “to allow me to mind my own business. But I am incapable of making an ungrateful return for the interest which you take in my medical welfare. Let me venture to ask if you understand the value of time.”
“Are you going to say much more, Mrs. Tenbruggen?”
“I am going to make a sensible remark, my child. If you feel tired, permit me—here is a chair. Father Time, dear Miss Gracedieu, has always been a good friend of mine, because I know how to make the best use of him. The author of the famous saying Tempus fugit (you understand Latin, of course) was, I take leave to think, an idle man. The more I have to do, the readier Time is to wait for me. Let me impress this on your mind by some interesting examples. The greatest conqueror of the century—Napoleon—had time enough for everything. The greatest novelist of the century—Sir Walter Scott—had time enough for everything. At my humble distance, I imitate those illustrious men, and my patients never complain of me.”
“Have you done?” I asked.
“Yes, dear—for the present.”
“You are a clever woman, Mrs. Tenbruggen and you know it. You have an eloquent tongue, and you know it. But you are something else, which you don’t seem to be aware of. You are a Bore.”
She burst out laughing, with the air of a woman who thoroughly enjoyed a good joke. I looked back when I left the room, and saw the friend of Father Time in the easy chair opening our newspaper.
This is a specimen of the customary encounter of our wits. I place it on record in my Journal, to excuse myself to myself. When she left us at last, later in the day, I sent a letter after her to the hotel. Not having kept a copy of it, let me present the substance, like a sermon, under three heads: I begged to be excused for speaking plainly; I declared that there was a total want of sympathy between us, on my side; and I proposed that she should deprive me of future opportunities of receiving her in this house. The reply arrived immediately in these terms: “Your letter received, dear girl. I am not in the least angry; partly because I am very fond of you, partly because I know that you will ask me to come back again. P. S.: Philip sends his love.”
This last piece of insolence was unquestionably a lie. Philip detests her. They are both staying at the same hotel. But I happen to know that he won’t even look at her, if they meet by accident on the stairs.
People who can enjoy the melancholy spectacle of human nature in a state of degradation would be at a loss which exhibition to prefer—an ugly old maid in a rage, or an ugly old maid in tears. Miss Jillgall presented herself in both characters when she heard what had happened. To my mind, Mrs. Tenbruggen’s bosom-friend is a creature not fit to be seen or heard when she loses her temper. I only told her to leave the room. To my great amusement, she shook her bony fist at me, and expressed a frantic wish: “Oh, if I was rich enough to leave this wicked house!” I wonder whether there is insanity (as well as poverty) in Miss Jillgall’s family?
Last night my mind was in a harassed state. Philip was, as usual, the cause of it.
Perhaps I acted indiscreetly when I insisted on his leaving London, and returning to this place. But what else could I have done? It was not merely my interest, it was an act of downright necessity, to withdraw him from the influence of his hateful father—whom I now regard as the one serious obstacle to my marriage. There is no prospect of being rid of Mr. Dunboyne the elder by his returning to Ireland. He is trying a new remedy for his crippled hand—electricity. I wish it was lightning, to kill him! If I had given that wicked old man the chance, I am firmly convinced he would not have let a day pass without doing his best to depreciate me in his son’s estimation. Besides, there was the risk, if I had allowed Philip to remain long away from me, of losing—no, while I keep my beauty I cannot be in such danger as that—let me say, of permitting time and absence to weaken my hold on him. However sullen and silent he may be, when we meet—and I find him in that condition far too often—I can, sooner or later, recall him to his brighter self. My eyes preserve their charm, my talk can still amuse him, and, better even than that, I feel the answering thrill in him, which tells me how precious my kisses are—not too lavishly bestowed! But the time when I am obliged to leave him to himself is the time that I dread. How do I know that his thoughts are not wandering away to Eunice? He denies it; he declares that he only went to the farmhouse to express his regret for his own thoughtless conduct, and to offer her the brotherly regard due to the sister of his promised wife. Can I believe it? Oh, what would I not give to be able to believe it! How can I feel sure that her refusal to see him was not a cunning device to make him long for another interview, and plan perhaps in private to go back and try again. Marriage! Nothing will quiet these frightful doubts of mine, nothing will reward me for all that I have suffered, nothing will warm my heart with the delightful sense of triumph over Eunice, but my marriage to Philip. And what does he say, when I urge it on him?—yes, I have fallen as low as that, in the despair which sometimes possesses me. He has his answer, always the same, and always ready: “How are we to live? where is the money?” The maddening part of it is that I cannot accuse him of raising objections that don’t exist. We are poorer than ever here, since my father’s illness—and Philip’s allowance is barely enough to suffice him as a single man. Oh, how I hate the rich!
It was useless to think of going to bed. How could I hope to sleep, with my head throbbing, and my thoughts in this disturbed state? I put on my comfortable dressing-gown, and sat down to try what reading would do to quiet my mind.
I had borrowed the book from the Library, to which I have been a subscriber in secret for some time past. It was an old volume, full of what we should now call 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!
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 note: “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?
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 member of Parliament. When I have succeeded, you shall tell him the good news.”
What a vile humor I must have been in, at the time, not to have appreciated the delightful gayety of this good creature; I went to the other extreme now, and behaved like a gushing young miss fresh from school. I kissed her.
She burst out laughing. “What a sacrifice!” she cried. “A kiss for me, which ought to have been kept for Philip! By-the-by, do you know what I should do, Helena, in your place? I should take our handsome young man away from that hotel!”
“I will do anything that you advise,” I said.
“And you will do well, my child. In the first place, the hotel is too expensive for Philip’s small means. In the second place, two of the chambermaids have audaciously presumed to be charming girls; and the men, my dear—well! well! I will leave you to find that out for yourself. In the third place, you want to have Philip under your own wing; domestic familiarity will make him fonder of you than ever. Keep him out of the sort of company that he meets with in the billiard-room and the smoking-room. You have got a spare bed here, I know, and your poor father is in no condition to use his authority. Make Philip one of the family.”
This last piece of advice staggered me. I mentioned the Proprieties. Mrs. Tenbruggen laughed at the Proprieties.
“Make Selina of some use,” she suggested. “While you have got her in the house, Propriety is rampant. Why condemn poor helpless Philip to cheap lodgings? Time enough to cast him out to the feather-bed and the fleas on the night before your marriage. Besides, I shall be in and out constantly—for I mean to cure your father. The tongue of scandal is silent in my awful presence; an atmosphere of virtue surrounds Mamma Tenbruggen. Think of it.”
Let me hasten to add that the protest of Propriety was duly entered, on the day before my promised husband arrived. Standing in the doorway—nothing would induce her to take a chair, or even to enter the room—Miss Jillgall delivered her opinion on Philip’s approaching visit. Mrs. Tenbruggen reported it in her pocket-book, as if she was representing a newspaper at a public meeting. Here it is, copied from her notes:
“Miss Helena Gracedieu, my first impulse under the present disgusting circumstances was to leave the house, and earn a bare crust in the cheapest garret I could find in the town. But my grateful heart remembers Mr. Gracedieu. My poor afflicted cousin was good to me when I was helpless. I cannot forsake him when he is helpless. At whatever sacrifice of my own self-respect, I remain under this roof, so dear to me for the Minister’s sake. I notice, miss, that you smile. I see my once dear Elizabeth, the friend who has so bitterly disappointed me—” she stopped, and put her handkerchief to her eyes, and went on again—“the friend who has so bitterly disappointed me, taking satirical notes of what I say. I am not ashamed of what I say. The virtue which will not stretch a little, where the motive is good, is feeble virtue indeed. I shall stay in the house, and witness horrors, and rise superior to them. Good-morning, Miss Gracedieu. Good-morning, Elizabeth.” She performed a magnificent curtsey, and (as Mrs. Tenbruggen’s experience of the stage informed me) made a very creditable exit.
A week has passed, and I have not opened my Diary.
My days have glided away in one delicious flow of happiness. Philip has been delightfully devoted to me. His fervent courtship, far exceeding any similar attentions which he may once have paid to Eunice, has shown such variety and such steadfastness of worship, that I despair of describing it. My enjoyment of my new life is to be felt—not to be coldly considered, and reduced to an imperfect statement in words.
For the first time I feel capable, if the circumstances encouraged me, of acts of exalted virtue. For instance, I could save my country if my country was worth it. I could die a martyr to religion if I had a religion. In one word, I am exceedingly well satisfied with myself. The little disappointments of life pass over me harmless. I do not even regret the failure of good Mrs. Tenbruggen’s efforts to find an employment for Philip, worthy of his abilities and accomplishments. The member of Parliament to whom she had applied has chosen a secretary possessed of political influence. That is the excuse put forward in his letter to Mrs. Tenbruggen. Wretched corrupt creature! If he was worth a thought I should pity him. He has lost Philip’s services.
Three days more have slipped by. The aspect of my heaven on earth is beginning to alter.
Perhaps the author of that wonderful French novel, “L’Ame Damne’e,” is right when he tells us that human happiness is misery in masquerade. It would be wrong to say that I am miserable. But I may be on the way to it; I am anxious.
To-day, when he did not know that I was observing him, I discovered a preoccupied look in Philip’s eyes. He laughed when I asked if anything had happened to vex him. Was it a natural laugh? He put his arm round me and kissed me. Was it done mechanically? I daresay I am out of humor myself. I think I had a little headache. Morbid, probably. I won’t think of it any more.
It has occurred to me this morning that he may dislike being left by himself, while I am engaged in my household affairs. If this is the case, intensely as I hate her, utterly as I loathe the idea of putting her in command over my domestic dominions, I shall ask Miss Jillgall to take my place as housekeeper.
I was away to-day in the kitchen regions rather longer than usual. When I had done with my worries, Philip was not to be found. Maria, looking out of one of the bedroom windows instead of doing her work, had seen Mr. Dunboyne leave the house. It was possible that he had charged Miss Jillgall with a message for me. I asked if she was in her room. No; she, too, had gone out. It was a fine day, and Philip had no doubt taken a stroll—but he might have waited till I could join him. There were some orders to be given to the butcher and the green-grocer. I, too, left the house, hoping to get rid of some little discontent, caused by thinking of what had happened. Returning by the way of High Street—I declare I can hardly believe it even now—I did positively see Miss Jillgall coming out of a pawnbroker’s shop!
The direction in which she turned prevented her from seeing me. She was quite unaware that I had discovered her; and I have said nothing about it since. But I noticed something unusual in the manner in which her watch-chain was hanging, and I asked her what o’clock it was. She said, “You have got your own watch.” I told her my watch had stopped. “So has mine,” she said. There is no doubt about it now; she has pawned her watch. What for? She lives here for nothing, and she has not had a new dress since I have known her. Why does she want money?
Philip had not returned when I got home. Another mysterious journey to London? No. After an absence of more than two hours, he came back.
Naturally enough, I asked what he had been about. He had been taking a long walk. For his health’s sake? No: to think. To think of what? Well, I might be surprised to hear it, but his idle life was beginning to weigh on his spirits; he wanted employment. Had he thought of an employment? Not yet. Which way had he walked? Anyway: he had not noticed where he went. These replies were all made in a tone that offended me. Besides, I observed there was no dust on his boots (after a week of dry weather), and his walk of two hours did not appear to have heated or tired him. I took an opportunity of consulting Mrs. Tenbruggen.
She had anticipated that I should appeal to her opinion, as a woman of the world.
I shall not set down in detail what she said. Some of it humiliated me; and from some of it I recoiled. The expression of her opinion came to this. In the absence of experience, a certain fervor of temperament was essential to success in the art of fascinating men. Either my temperament was deficient, or my intellect overpowered it. It was natural that I should suppose myself to be as susceptible to the tender passion as the most excitable woman living. Delusion, my Helena, amiable delusion! Had I ever observed or had any friend told me that my pretty hands were cold hands? I had beautiful eyes, expressive of vivacity, of intelligence, of every feminine charm, except the one inviting charm that finds favor in the eyes of a man. She then entered into particulars, which I don’t deny showed a true interest in helping me. I was ungrateful, sulky, self-opinionated. Dating from that day’s talk with Mrs. Tenbruggen, my new friendship began to show signs of having caught a chill. But I did my best to follow her instructions—and failed.
It is perhaps true that my temperament is overpowered by my intellect. Or it is possibly truer still that the fire in my heart, when it warms to love, is a fire that burns low. My belief is that I surprised Philip instead of charming him. He responded to my advances, but I felt that it was not done in earnest, not spontaneously. Had I any right to complain? Was I in earnest? Was I spontaneous? We were making love to each other under false pretenses. Oh, what a fool I was to ask for Mrs. Tenbruggen’s advice!
A humiliating doubt has come to me suddenly. Has his heart been inclining to Eunice again? After such a letter as she has written to him? Impossible!
Three events since yesterday, which I consider, trifling as they may be, intimations of something wrong.
First, Miss Jillgall, who at one time was eager to take my place, has refused to relieve me of my housekeeping duties. Secondly, Philip has been absent again, on another long walk. Thirdly, when Philip returned, depressed and sulky, I caught Miss Jillgall looking at him with interest and pity visible in her skinny face. What do these things mean?
I am beginning to doubt everybody. Not one of them, Philip included, cares for me—but I can frighten them, at any rate. Yesterday evening, I dropped on the floor as suddenly as if I had been shot: a fit of some sort. The doctor honestly declared that he was at a loss to account for it. He would have laid me under an eternal obligation if he had failed to bring me back to life again.
As it is, I am more clever than the doctor. What brought the fit on is well known to me. Rage—furious, overpowering, deadly rage—was the cause. I am now in the cold-blooded state, which can look back at the event as composedly as if it had happened to some other girl. Suppose that girl had let her sweetheart know how she loved him as she had never let him know it before. Suppose she opened the door again the instant after she had left the room, eager, poor wretch, to say once more, for the fiftieth time, “My angel, I love you!” Suppose she found her angel standing with his back toward her, so that his face was reflected in the glass. And suppose she discovered in that face, so smiling and so sweet when his head had rested on her bosom only the moment before, the most hideous expression of disgust that features can betray. There could be no doubt of it; I had made my poor offering of love to a man who secretly loathed me. I wonder that I survived my sense of my own degradation. Well! I am alive; and I know him in his true character at last. Am I a woman who submits when an outrage is offered to her? What will happen next? Who knows? I am in a fine humor. What I have just written has set me laughing at myself. Helena Gracedieu has one merit at least—she is a very amusing person.
I slept last night.
This morning, I am strong again, calm, wickedly capable of deceiving Mr. Philip Dunboyne, as he has deceived me. He has not the faintest suspicion that I have discovered him. I wish he had courage enough to kill somebody. How I should enjoy hiring the nearest window to the scaffold, and seeing him hanged!
Miss Jillgall is in better spirits than ever. She is going to take a little holiday; and the cunning creature makes a mystery of it. “Good-by, Miss Helena. I am going to stay for a day or two with a friend.” What friend? Who cares?
Last night, I was wakeful. In the darkness a daring idea came to me. To-day, I have carried out the idea. Something has followed which is well worth entering in my Diary.
I left the room at the usual hour for attending to my domestic affairs. The obstinate cook did me a service; she was insolent; she wanted to have her own way. I gave her her own way. In less than five minutes I was on the watch in the pantry, which has a view of the house door. My hat and my parasol were waiting for me on the table, in case of my going out, too.
In a few minutes more, I heard the door opened. Mr. Philip Dunboyne stepped out. He was going to take another of his long walks.
I followed him to the street in which the cabs stand. He hired the first one on the rank, an open chaise; while I kept myself hidden in a shop door.
The moment he started on his drive, I hired a closed cab. “Double your fare,” I said to the driver, “whatever it may be, if you follow that chaise cleverly, and do what I tell you.”
He nodded and winked at me. A wicked-looking old fellow; just the man I wanted.
We followed the chaise.
When we had left the town behind us, the coachman began to drive more slowly. In my ignorance, I asked what this change in the pace meant. He pointed with his whip to the open road and to the chaise in the distance.
“If we keep too near the gentleman, miss, he has only got to look back, and he’ll see we are following him. The safe thing to do is to let the chaise get on a bit. We can’t lose sight of it, out here.”
I had felt inclined to trust in the driver’s experience, and he had already justified my confidence in him. This encouraged me to consult his opinion on a matter of some importance to my present interests. I could see the necessity of avoiding discovery when we had followed the chaise to its destination; but I was totally at a loss to know how it could be done. My wily old man was ready with his advice the moment I asked for it.
“Wherever the chaise stops, miss, we must drive past it as if we were going somewhere else. I shall notice the place while we go by; and you will please sit back in the corner of the cab so that the gentleman can’t see you.”
“Well,” I said, “and what next?”
“Next, miss, I shall pull up, wherever it may be, out of sight of the driver of the chaise. He bears an excellent character, I don’t deny it; but I’ve known him for years—and we had better not trust him. I shall tell you where the gentleman stopped; and you will go back to the place (on foot, of course), and see for yourself what’s to be done, specially if there happens to be a lady in the case. No offense, miss; it’s in my experience that there’s generally a lady in the case. Anyhow, you can judge for yourself, and you’ll know where to find me waiting when you want me again.”
“Suppose something happens,” I suggested, “that we don’t expect?”
“I shan’t lose my head, miss, whatever happens.”
“All very well, coachman; but I have only your word for it.” In the irritable state of my mind, the man’s confident way of thinking annoyed me.
“Begging your pardon, my young lady, you’ve got (if I may say so) what they call a guarantee. When I was a young man, I drove a cab in London for ten years. Will that do?”
“I suppose you mean,” I answered, “that you have learned deceit in the wicked ways of the great city.”
He took this as a compliment. “Thank you, miss. That’s it exactly.”
After a long drive, or so it seemed to my impatience, we passed the chaise drawn up at a lonely house, separated by a front garden from the road. In two or three minutes more, we stopped where the road took a turn, and descended to lower ground. The farmhouse which we had left behind us was known to the driver. He led the way to a gate at the side of the road, and opened it for me.
“In your place, miss,” he said slyly, “the private way back is the way I should wish to take. Try it by the fields. Turn to the right when you have passed the barn, and you’ll find yourself at the back of the house.” He stopped, and looked at his big silver watch. “Half-past twelve,” he said, “the Chawbacons—I mean the farmhouse servants, miss—will be at their dinner. All in your favor, so far. If the dog happens to be loose, don’t forget that his name’s Grinder; call him by his name, and pat him before he has time enough to think, and he’ll let you be. When you want me, here you’ll find me waiting for orders.”
I looked back as I crossed the field. The driver was sitting on the gate, smoking his pipe, and the horse was nibbling the grass at the roadside. Two happy animals, without a burden on their minds!
After passing the barn, I saw nothing of the dog. Far or near, no living creature appeared; the servants must have been at dinner, as the coachman had foreseen. Arriving at a wooden fence, I opened a gate in it, and found myself on a bit of waste ground. On my left, there was a large duck-pond. On my right, I saw the fowl-house and the pigstyes. Before me was a high impenetrable hedge; and at some distance behind it—an orchard or a garden, as I supposed, filling the intermediate space—rose the back of the house. I made for the shelter of the hedge, in the fear that some one might approach a window and see me. Once sheltered from observation, I might consider what I should do next. It was impossible to doubt that this was the house in which Eunice was living. Neither could I fail to conclude that Philip had tried to persuade her to see him, on those former occasions when he told me he had taken a long walk.
As I crouched behind the hedge, I heard voices approaching on the other side of it. At last fortune had befriended me. The person speaking at the moment was Miss Jillgall; and the person who answered her was Philip.
“I am afraid, dear Mr. Philip, you don’t quite understand my sweet Euneece. Honorable, high minded, delicate in her feelings, and, oh, so unselfish! I don’t want to alarm you, but when she hears you have been deceiving Helena—”
“Upon my word, Miss Jillgall, you are so provoking! I have not been deceiving Helena. Haven’t I told you what discouraging answers I got, when I went to see the Governor? Haven’t I shown you Eunice’s reply to my letter? You can’t have forgotten it already?”
“Oh, yes, I have. Why should I remember it? Don’t I know poor Euneece was in your mind, all the time?”
“You’re wrong again! Eunice was not in my mind all the time. I was hurt—I was offended by the cruel manner in which she had treated me. And what was the consequence? So far was I from deceiving Helena—she rose in my estimation by comparison with her sister.”
“Oh, come, come, Mr. Philip! that won’t do. Helena rising in anybody’s estimation? Ha! ha! ha!”
“Laugh as much as you like, Miss Jillgall, you won’t laugh away the facts. Helena loved me; Helena was true to me. Don’t be hard on a poor fellow who is half distracted. What a man finds he can do on one day, he finds he can’t do on another. Try to understand that a change does sometimes come over one’s feelings.”
“Bless my soul, Mr. Philip, that’s just what I have been understanding all the time! I know your mind as well as you know it yourself. You can’t forget my sweet Euneece.”
“I tell you I tried to forget her! On my word of honor as a gentleman, I tried to forget her, in justice to Helena. Is it my fault that I failed? Eunice was in my mind, as you said just now. Oh, my friend—for you are my friend, I am sure—persuade her to see me, if it’s only for a minute!”
(Was there ever a man’s mind in such a state of confusion as this! First, I rise in his precious estimation, and Eunice drops. Then Eunice rises, and I drop. Idiot! Mischievous idiot! Even Selina seemed to be disgusted with him, when she spoke next.)
“Mr. Philip, you are hard and unreasonable. I have tried to persuade her, and I have made my darling cry. Nothing you can say will induce me to distress her again. Go back, you very undetermined man—go back to your Helena.”
“Too late.”
“Nonsense!”
“I say too late. If I could have married Helena when I first went to stay in the house, I might have faced the sacrifice. As it is, I can’t endure her; and (I tell you this in confidence) she has herself to thank for what has happened.”
“Is that really true?”
“Quite true.”
“Tell me what she did.
“Oh, don’t talk of her! Persuade Eunice to see me. I shall come back again, and again, and again till you bring her to me.”
“Please don’t talk nonsense. If she changes her mind, I will bring her with pleasure. If she still shrinks from it, I regard Euneece’s feelings as sacred. Take my advice; don’t press her. Leave her time to think of you, and to pity you—and that true heart may be yours again, if you are worthy of it.”
“Worthy of it? What do you mean?”
“Are you quite sure, my young friend, that you won’t go back to Helena?”
“Go back to her? I would cut my throat if I thought myself capable of doing it!”
“How did she set you against her? Did the wretch quarrel with you?”
“It might have been better for both of us if she had done that. Oh, her fulsome endearments! What a contrast to the charming modesty of Eunice! If I was rich, I would make it worth the while of the first poor fellow I could find to rid me of Helena by marrying her. I don’t like saying such a thing of a woman, but if you will have the truth—”
“Well, Mr. Philip—and what is the truth?”
“Helena disgusts me.”