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, Helena, 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 might go to bed, one night, a widower’s daughters, and wake up the next day to discover a stepmother?
“Have I or my sister ever seen the lady?” I asked.
“Never. She has been living abroad; and I have not seen her myself since we were both young people.”
My excellent innocent father! Not the faintest idea of what I had been thinking of was in his mind. Little did he suspect how welcome was the relief that he had afforded to his daughter’s wicked doubts of him. But he had not said a word yet about his cousin’s personal appearance. There might be remains of good looks which the housemaid was too stupid to discover.
“After the long interval that has passed since you met,” I said, “I suppose she has become an old woman?”
“No, my dear. Let us say, a middle-aged woman.”
“Perhaps she is still an attractive person?”
He smiled. “I am afraid, Helena, that would never have been a very accurate description of her.”
I now knew all that I wanted to know about this alarming person, excepting one last morsel of information which my father had strangely forgotten.
“We have been talking about the lady for some time,” I said; “and you have not yet told me her name.”
Father looked a little embarrassed “It’s not a very pretty name,” he answered. “My cousin, my unfortunate cousin, is—Miss Jillgall.”
I burst out with such a loud “Oh!” that he laughed. I caught the infection, and laughed louder still. Bless Miss Jillgall! The interview promised to become an easy one for both of us, thanks to her name. I was in good spirits, and I made no attempt to restrain them. “The next time Miss Jillgall honors you with a visit,” I said, “you must give me an opportunity of being presented to her.”
He made a strange reply: “You may find your opportunity, Helena, sooner than you anticipate.”
Did this mean that she was going to call again in a day or two? I am afraid I spoke flippantly. I said: “Oh, father, another lady fascinated by the popular preacher?”
The garden chairs were near us. He signed to me gravely to be seated by his side, and said to himself: “This is my fault.”
“What is your fault?” I asked.
“I have left you in ignorance, my dear, of my cousin’s sad story. It is soon told; and, if it checks your merriment, it will make amends by deserving your sympathy. I was indebted to her father, when I was a boy, for acts of kindness which I can never forget. He was twice married. The death of his first wife left him with one child—once my playfellow; now the lady whose visit has excited your curiosity. His second wife was a Belgian. She persuaded him to sell his business in London, and to invest the money in a partnership with a brother of hers, established as a sugar-refiner at Antwerp. The little daughter accompanied her father to Belgium. Are you attending to me, Helena?”
I was waiting for the interesting part of the story, and was wondering when he would get to it.
“As time went on,” he resumed, “the new partner found that the value of the business at Antwerp had been greatly overrated. After a long struggle with adverse circumstances, he decided on withdrawing from the partnership before the whole of his capital was lost in a failing commercial speculation. The end of it was that he retired, with his daughter, to a small town in East Flanders; the wreck of his property having left him with an income of no more than two hundred pounds a year.”
I showed my father that I was attending to him now, by inquiring what had become of the Belgian wife. Those nervous quiverings, which Eunice has mentioned in her diary, began to appear in his face.
“It is too shameful a story,” he said, “to be told to a young girl. The marriage was dissolved by law; and the wife was the person to blame. I am sure, Helena, you don’t wish to hear any more of this part of the story.”
I did wish. But I saw that he expected me to say No—so I said it.
“The father and daughter,” he went on, “never so much as thought of returning to their own country. They were too poor to live comfortably in England. In Belgium their income was sufficient for their wants. On the father’s death, the daughter remained in the town. She had friends there, and friends nowhere else; and she might have lived abroad to the end of her days, but for a calamity to which we are all liable. A long and serious illness completely prostrated her. Skilled medical attendance, costing large sums of money for the doctors’ traveling expenses, was imperatively required. Experienced nurses, summoned from a distant hospital, were in attendance night and day. Luxuries, far beyond the reach of her little income, were absolutely required to support her wasted strength at the time of her tedious recovery. In one word, her resources were sadly diminished, when the poor creature had paid her debts, and had regained her hold on life. At that time, she unhappily met with the man who has ruined her.”
It was getting interesting at last. “Ruined her?” I repeated. “Do you mean that he robbed her?”
“That, Helena, is exactly what I mean—and many and many a helpless woman has been robbed in the same way. The man of whom I am now speaking was a lawyer in large practice. He bore an excellent character, and was highly respected for his exemplary life. My cousin (not at all a discreet person, I am bound to admit) was induced to consult him on her pecuniary affairs. He expressed the most generous sympathy—offered to employ her little capital in his business—and pledged himself to pay her double the interest for her money, which she had been in the habit of receiving from the sound investment chosen by her father.”
“And of course he got the money, and never paid the interest?” Eager to hear the end, I interrupted the story in those inconsiderate words. My father’s answer quietly reproved me.
“He paid the interest regularly as long as he lived.”
“And what happened when he died?”
“He died a bankrupt; the secret profligacy of his life was at last exposed. Nothing, actually nothing, was left for his creditors. The unfortunate creature, whose ugly name has amused you, must get help somewhere, or must go to the workhouse.”
If I had been in a state of mind to attend to trifles, this would have explained the reason why the cook had heard Miss Jillgall crying. But the prospect before me—the unendurable prospect of having a strange woman in the house—had showed itself too plainly to be mistaken. I could think of nothing else. With infinite difficulty I assumed a momentary appearance of composure, and suggested that Miss Jillgall’s foreign friends might have done something to help her.
My father defended her foreign friends. “My dear, they were poor people, and did all they could afford to do. But for their kindness, my cousin might not have been able to return to England.”
“And to cast herself on your mercy,” I added, “in the character of a helpless woman.”
“No, Helena! Not to cast herself on my mercy—but to find my house open to her, as her father’s house was open to me in the bygone time. I am her only surviving relative; and, while I live, she shall not be a helpless woman.”
I began to wish that I had not spoken out so plainly. My father’s sweet temper—I do so sincerely wish I had inherited it!—made the kindest allowances for me.
“I understand the momentary bitterness of feeling that has escaped you,” he said; “I may almost say that I expected it. My only hesitation in this matter has been caused by my sense of what I owe to my children. It was putting your endurance, and your sister’s endurance, to a trial to expect you to receive a stranger (and that stranger not a young girl like yourselves) as one of the household, living with you in the closest intimacy of family life. The consideration which has decided me does justice, I hope, to you and Eunice, as well as to myself. I think that some allowance is due from my daughters to the father who has always made loving allowance for them. Am I wrong in believing that my good children have not forgotten this, and have only waited for the occasion to feel the pleasure of rewarding me?”
It was beautifully put. There was but one thing to be done—I kissed him. And there was but one thing to be said. I asked at what time we might expect to receive Miss Jillgall. “She is staying, Helena, at a small hotel in the town. I have already sent to say that we are waiting to see her. Perhaps you will look at the spare bedroom?”
“It shall be got ready, father, directly.”
I ran into the house; I rushed upstairs into the room that is Eunice’s and mine; I locked the door, and then I gave way to my rage, before it stifled me. I stamped on the floor, I clinched my fists, I cast myself on the bed, I reviled that hateful woman by every hard word that I could throw at her. Oh, the luxury of it! the luxury of it!
Cold water and my hairbrush soon made me fit to be seen again.
As for the spare room, it looked a great deal too comfortable for an incubus from foreign parts. The one improvement that I could have made, if a friend of mine had been expected, was suggested by the window-curtains. I was looking at a torn place in one of them, and determined to leave it unrepaired, when I felt an arm slipped round my waist from behind. A voice, so close that it tickled my neck, said: “Dear girl, what friends we shall be!” I turned round, and confronted Miss Jillgall.
If I am not a good girl, where is a good girl to be found? This is in Eunice’s style. It sometimes amuses me to mimic my simple sister.
I have just torn three pages out of my diary, in deference to the expression of my father’s wishes. He took the first opportunity which his cousin permitted him to enjoy of speaking to me privately; and his object was to caution me against hastily relying on first impressions of anybody—especially of Miss Jillgall. “Wait for a day or two,” he said; “and then form your estimate of the new member of our household.”
The stormy state of my temper had passed away, and had left my atmosphere calm again. I could feel that I had received good advice; but unluckily it reached me too late.
I had formed my estimate of Miss Jillgall, and had put it in writing for my own satisfaction, at least an hour before my father found himself at liberty to speak to me. I don’t agree with him in distrusting first impressions; and I had proposed to put my opinion to the test, by referring to what I had written about his cousin at a later time. However, after what he had said to me, I felt bound in filial duty to take the pages out of my book, and to let two days pass before I presumed to enjoy the luxury of hating Miss Jillgall. On one thing I am determined: Eunice shall not form a hasty opinion, either. She shall undergo the same severe discipline of self-restraint to which her sister is obliged to submit. Let us be just, as somebody says, before we are generous. No more for to-day.
.......
I open my diary again—after the prescribed interval has elapsed. The first impression produced on me by the new member of our household remains entirely unchanged.
Have I already made the remark that, when one removes a page from a book, it does not necessarily follow that one destroys the page afterward? or did I leave this to be inferred? In either case, my course of proceeding was the same. I ordered some paste to be made. Then I unlocked a drawer, and found my poor ill-used leaves, and put them back in my Journal. An act of justice is surely not the less praiseworthy because it is an act of justice done to one’s self.
My father has often told me that he revises his writings on religious subjects. I may harmlessly imitate that good example, by revising my restored entry. It is now a sufficiently remarkable performance to be distinguished by a title. Let me call it:
Impressions of Miss Jillgall. My first impression was a strong one—it was produced by the state of this lady’s breath. In other words, I was obliged to let her kiss me. It is a duty to be considerate toward human infirmity. I will only say that I thought I should have fainted.
My second impression draws a portrait, and produces a striking likeness.
Figure, little and lean—hair of a dirty drab color which we see in string—small light gray eyes, sly and restless, and deeply sunk in the head—prominent cheekbones, and a florid complexion—an inquisitive nose, turning up at the end—a large mouth and a servile smile—raw-looking hands, decorated with black mittens—a misfitting white jacket and a limp skirt—manners familiar—temper cleverly hidden—voice too irritating to be mentioned. Whose portrait is this? It is the portrait of Miss Jillgall, taken in words.
Her true character is not easy to discover; I suspect that it will only show itself little by little. That she is a born meddler in other people’s affairs, I think I can see already. I also found out that she trusted to flattery as the easiest means of making herself agreeable. She tried her first experiment on myself.
“You charming girl,” she began, “your bright face encourages me to ask a favor. Pray make me useful! The one aspiration of my life is to be useful. Unless you employ me in that way, I have no right to intrude myself into your family circle. Yes, yes, I know that your father has opened his house and his heart to me. But I dare not found any claim—your name is Helena, isn’t it? Dear Helena, I dare not found any claim on what I owe to your father’s kindness.”
“Why not?” I inquired.
“Because your father is not a man—”
I was rude enough to interrupt her: “What is he, then?”
“An angel,” Miss Jillgall answered, solemnly. “A destitute earthly creature like me must not look up as high as your father. I might be dazzled.”
This was rather more than I could endure patiently. “Let us try,” I suggested, “if we can’t understand each other, at starting.”
Miss Jillgall’s little eyes twinkled in their bony caverns. “The very thing I was going to propose!” she burst out.
“Very well,” I went on; “then, let me tell you plainly that flattery is not relished in this house.”
“Flattery?” She put her hand to her head as she repeated the word, and looked quite bewildered. “Dear Helena, I have lived all my life in East Flanders, and my own language is occasionally strange to me. Can you tell me what flattery is in Flemish?”
“I don’t understand Flemish.”
“How very provoking! You don’t understand Flemish, and I don’t understand Flattery. I should so like to know what it means. Ah, I see books in this lovely room. Is there a dictionary among them?” She darted to the bookcase, and discovered a dictionary. “Now I shall understand Flattery,” she remarked—“and then we shall understand each other. Oh, let me find it for myself!” She ran her raw red finger along the alphabetical headings at the top of each page. “‘FAD.’ That won’t do. ‘FIE.’ Further on still. ‘FLE.’ Too far the other way. ‘FLA.’ Here we are! ‘Flattery: False praise. Commendation bestowed for the purpose of gaining favor and influence.’ Oh, Helena, how cruel of you!” She dropped the book, and sank into a chair—the picture, if such a thing can be, of a broken-hearted old maid.
I should most assuredly have taken the opportunity of leaving her to her own devices, if I had been free to act as I pleased. But my interests as a daughter forbade me to make an enemy of my father’s cousin, on the first day when she had entered the house. I made an apology, very neatly expressed.
She jumped up—let me do her justice; Miss Jillgall is as nimble as a monkey—and (Faugh!) she kissed me for the second time. If I had been a man, I am afraid I should have called for that deadly poison (we are all temperance people in this house) known by the name of Brandy.
“If you will make me love you,” Miss Jillgall explained, “you must expect to be kissed. Dear girl, let us go back to my poor little petition. Oh, do make me useful! There are so many things I can do: you will find me a treasure in the house. I write a good hand; I understand polishing furniture; I can dress hair (look at my own hair); I play and sing a little when people want to be amused; I can mix a salad and knit stockings—who is this?” The cook came in, at the moment, to consult me; I introduced her. “And, oh,” cried Miss Jillgall, in ecstasy, “I can cook! Do, please, let me see the kitchen.”
The cook’s face turned red. She had come to me to make a confession; and she had not (as she afterward said) bargained for the presence of a stranger. For the first time in her life she took the liberty of whispering to me: “I must ask you, miss, to let me send up the cauliflower plain boiled; I don’t understand the directions in the book for doing it in the foreign way.”
Miss Jillgall’s ears—perhaps because they are so large—possess a quickness of hearing quite unparalleled in my experience. Not one word of the cook’s whispered confession had escaped her.
“Here,” she declared, “is an opportunity of making myself useful! What is the cook’s name? Hannah? Take me downstairs, Hannah, and I’ll show you how to do the cauliflower in the foreign way. She seems to hesitate. Is it possible that she doesn’t believe me? Listen, Hannah, and judge for yourself if I am deceiving you. Have you boiled the cauliflower? Very well; this is what you must do next. Take four ounces of grated cheese, two ounces of best butter, the yolks of four eggs, a little bit of glaze, lemon-juice, nutmeg—dear, dear, how black she looks. What have I said to offend her?”
The cook passed over the lady who had presumed to instruct her, as if no such person had been present, and addressed herself to me: “If I am to be interfered with in my own kitchen, miss, I will ask you to suit yourself at a month’s notice.”
Miss Jillgall wrung her hands in despair.
“I meant so kindly,” she said; “and I seem to have made mischief. With the best intentions, Helena, I have set you and your servant at variance. I really didn’t know you had such a temper, Hannah,” she declared, following the cook to the door. “I’m sure there’s nothing I am not ready to do to make it up with you. Perhaps you have not got the cheese downstairs? I’m ready to go out and buy it for you. I could show you how to keep eggs sweet and fresh for weeks together. Your gown doesn’t fit very well; I shall be glad to improve it, if you will leave it out for me after you have gone to bed. There!” cried Miss Jillgall, as the cook majestically left the room, without even looking at her, “I have done my best to make it up, and you see how my advances are received. What more could I have done? I really ask you, dear, as a friend, what more could I have done?”
I had it on the tip of my tongue to say: “The cook doesn’t ask you to buy cheese for her, or to teach her how to keep eggs, or to improve the fit of her gown; all she wants is to have her kitchen to herself.” But here again it was necessary to remember that this odious person was my father’s guest.
“Pray don’t distress yourself,” I began; “I am sure you are not to blame, Miss Jillgall—”
“Oh, don’t!”
“Don’t—what?”
“Don’t call me Miss Jillgall. I call you Helena. Call me Selina.”
I had really not supposed it possible that she could be more unendurable than ever. When she mentioned her Christian name, she succeeded nevertheless in producing that result. In the whole list of women’s names, is there any one to be found so absolutely sickening as “Selina”? I forced myself to pronounce it; I made another neatly-expressed apology; I said English servants were so very peculiar. Selina was more than satisfied; she was quite delighted.
“Is that it, indeed? An explanation was all I wanted. How good of you! And now tell me—is there no chance, in the house or out of the house, of my making myself useful? Oh, what’s that? Do I see a chance? I do! I do!”
Miss Jillgall’s eyes are more than mortal. At one time, they are microscopes. At another time, they are telescopes. She discovered (right across the room) the torn place in the window-curtain. In an instant, she snatched a dirty little leather case out of her pocket, threaded her needle and began darning the curtain. She sang over her work. “My heart is light, my will is free—” I can repeat no more of it. When I heard her singing voice, I became reckless of consequences, and ran out of the room with my hands over my ears.
When I reached the foot of the stairs, my father called me into his study.
I found him at his writing-table, with such a heap of torn-up paper in his waste-basket that it overflowed on to the floor. He explained to me that he had been destroying a large accumulation of old letters, and had ended (when his employment began to grow wearisome) in examining his correspondence rather carelessly. The result was that he had torn up a letter, and a copy of the reply, which ought to have been set aside as worthy of preservation. After collecting the fragments, he had heaped them on the table. If I could contrive to put them together again on fair sheets of paper, and fasten them in their right places with gum, I should be doing him a service, at a time when he was too busy to set his mistake right for himself.
Here was the best excuse that I could desire for keeping out of Miss Jillgall’s way. I cheerfully set to work on the restoration of the letters, while my father went on with his writing.
Having put the fragments together—excepting a few gaps caused by morsels that had been lost—I was unwilling to fasten them down with gum, until I could feel sure of not having made any mistakes; especially in regard to some of the lost words which I had been obliged to restore by guess-work. So I copied the letters, and submitted them, in the first place, to my father’s approval. He praised me in the prettiest manner for the care that I had taken. But, when he began, after some hesitation, to read my copy, I noticed a change. The smile left his face, and the nervous quiverings showed themselves again.
“Quite right, my child,” he said, in low sad tones.
On returning to my side of the table, I expected to see him resume his writing. He crossed the room to the window and stood (with his back to me) looking out.
When I had first discovered the sense of the letters, they failed to interest me. A tiresome woman, presuming on the kindness of a good-natured man to beg a favor which she had no right to ask, and receiving a refusal which she had richly deserved, was no remarkable event in my experience as my father’s secretary and copyist. But the change in his face, while he read the correspondence, altered my opinion of the letters. There was more in them evidently than I had discovered. I kept my manuscript copy—here it is:
From Miss Elizabeth Chance to the Rev. Abel Gracedieu.
(Date of year, 1859. Date of month, missing.)
“DEAR SIR—You have, I hope, not quite forgotten the interesting conversation that we had last year in the Governor’s rooms. I am afraid I spoke a little flippantly at the time; but I am sure you will believe me when I say that this was out of no want of respect to yourself. My pecuniary position being far from prosperous, I am endeavoring to obtain the vacant situation of housekeeper in a public institution the prospectus of which I inclose. You will see it is a rule of the place that a candidate must be a single woman (which I am), and must be recommended by a clergyman. You are the only reverend gentleman whom it is my good fortune to know, and the thing is of course a mere formality. Pray excuse this application, and oblige me by acting as my reference.
“Sincerely yours,
“ELIZABETH CHANCE.”
“P. S.—Please address: Miss E. Chance, Poste Restante, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, London.”
“From the Rev. Abel Gracedieu to Miss Chance.
(Copy.)
“MADAM—The brief conversation to which your letter alludes, took place at an accidental meeting between us. I then saw you for the first time, and I have not seen you since. It is impossible for me to assert the claim of a perfect stranger, like yourself, to fill a situation of trust. I must beg to decline acting as your reference.
“Your obedient servant,
“ABEL GRACEDIEU.” .......
My father was still at the window.
In that idle position he could hardly complain of me for interrupting him, if I ventured to talk about the letters which I had put together. If my curiosity displeased him, he had only to say so, and there would be an end to any allusions of mine to the subject. My first idea was to join him at the window. On reflection, and still perceiving that he kept his back turned on me, I thought it might be more prudent to remain at the table.
“This Miss Chance seems to be an impudent person?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Was she a young woman, when you met with her?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of a woman to look at? Ugly?”
“No.”
Here were three answers which Eunice herself would have been quick enough to interpret as three warnings to say no more. I felt a little hurt by his keeping his back turned on me. At the same time, and naturally, I think, I found my interest in Miss Chance (I don’t say my friendly interest) considerably increased by my father’s unusually rude behavior. I was also animated by an irresistible desire to make him turn round and look at me.
“Miss Chance’s letter was written many years ago,” I resumed. “I wonder what has become of her since she wrote to you.”
“I know nothing about her.”
“Not even whether she is alive or dead?”
“Not even that. What do these questions mean, Helena?”
“Nothing, father.”
I declare he looked as if he suspected me!
“Why don’t you speak out?” he said. “Have I ever taught you to conceal your thoughts? Have I ever been a hard father, who discouraged you when you wished to confide in him? What are you thinking about? Do you know anything of this woman?”
“Oh, father, what a question! I never even heard of her till I put the torn letters together. I begin to wish you had not asked me to do it.”
“So do I. It never struck me that you would feel such extraordinary—I had almost said, such vulgar—curiosity about a worthless letter.”
This roused my temper. When a young lady is told that she is vulgar, if she has any self-conceit—I mean self-respect—she feels insulted. I said something sharp in my turn. It was in the way of argument. I do not know how it may be with other young persons, I never reason so well myself as when I am angry.
“You call it a worthless letter,” I said, “and yet you think it worth preserving.”
“Have you nothing more to say to me than that?” he asked.
“Nothing more,” I answered.
He changed again. After having looked unaccountably angry, he now looked unaccountably relieved.
“I will soon satisfy you,” he said, “that I have a good reason for preserving a worthless letter. Miss Chance, my dear, is not a woman to be trusted. If she saw her advantage in making a bad use of my reply, I am afraid she would not hesitate to do it. Even if she is no longer living, I don’t know into what vile hands my letter may not have fallen, or how it might be falsified for some wicked purpose. Do you see now how a correspondence may become accidentally important, though it is of no value in itself?”
I could say “Yes” to this with a safe conscience.
But there were some perplexities still left in my mind. It seemed strange that Miss Chance should (apparently) have submitted to the severity of my father’s reply. “I should have thought,” I said to him, “that she would have sent you another impudent letter—or perhaps have insisted on seeing you, and using her tongue instead of her pen.”
“She could do neither the one nor the other, Helena. Miss Chance will never find out my address again; I have taken good care of that.”
He spoke in a loud voice, with a flushed face—as if it was quite a triumph to have prevented this woman from discovering his address. What reason could he have for being so anxious to keep her away from him? Could I venture to conclude that there was a mystery in the life of a man so blameless, so truly pious? It shocked one even to think of it.
There was a silence between us, to which the housemaid offered a welcome interruption. Dinner was ready.
He kissed me before we left the room. “One word more, Helena,” he said, “and I have done. Let there be no more talk between us about Elizabeth Chance.”
Miss Jillgall joined us at the dinner-table, in a state of excitement, carrying a book in her hand.
I am inclined, on reflection, to suspect that she is quite clever enough to have discovered that I hate her—and that many of the aggravating things she says and does are assumed, out of retaliation, for the purpose of making me angry. That ugly face is a double face, or I am much mistaken.
To return to the dinner-table, Miss Jillgall addressed herself, with an air of playful penitence, to my father.
“Dear cousin, I hope I have not done wrong. Helena left me all by myself. When I had finished darning the curtain, I really didn’t know what to do. So I opened all the bedroom doors upstairs and looked into the rooms. In the big room with two beds—oh, I am so ashamed—I found this book. Please look at the first page.”
My father looked at the title-page: “Doctor Watts’s Hymns. Well, Selina, what is there to be ashamed of in this?”
“Oh, no! no! It’s the wrong page. Do look at the other page—the one that comes first before that one.”
My patient father turned to the blank page.
“Ah,” he said quietly, “my other daughter’s name is written in it—the daughter whom you have not seen. Well?”
Miss Jillgall clasped her hands distractedly. “It’s my ignorance I’m so ashamed of. Dear cousin, forgive me, enlighten me. I don’t know how to pronounce your other daughter’s name. Do you call her Euneece?”
The dinner was getting cold. I was provoked into saying: “No, we don’t.”
She had evidently not forgiven me for leaving her by herself. “Pardon me, Helena, when I want information I don’t apply to you: I sit, as it were, at the feet of your learned father. Dear cousin, is it—”
Even my father declined to wait for his dinner any longer. “Pronounce it as you like, Selina. Here we say Euni’ce—with the accent on the ‘i’ and with the final ‘e’ sounded: Eu-ni’-see. Let me give you some soup.”
Miss Jillgall groaned. “Oh, how difficult it seems to be! Quite beyond my poor brains! I shall ask the dear girl’s leave to call her Euneece. What very strong soup! Isn’t it rather a waste of meat? Give me a little more, please.”
I discovered another of Miss Jillgall’s peculiarities. Her appetite was enormous, and her ways were greedy. You heard her eat her soup. She devoured the food on her plate with her eyes before she put it into her mouth; and she criticised our English cookery in the most impudent manner, under pretense of asking humbly how it was done. There was, however, some temporary compensation for this. We had less of her talk while she was eating her dinner.
With the removal of the cloth, she recovered the use of her tongue; and she hit on the one subject of all others which proves to be the sorest trial to my father’s patience.
“And now, dear cousin, let us talk of your other daughter, our absent Euneece. I do so long to see her. When is she coming back?”
“In a few days more.”
“How glad I am! And do tell me—which is she? Your oldest girl or your youngest?”
“Neither the one nor the other, Selina.”
“Oh, my head! my head! This is even worse than the accent on the ‘i’ and the final ‘e.’ Stop! I am cleverer than I thought I was. You mean that the girls are twins. Are they both so exactly like each other that I shan’t know which is which? What fun!”
When the subject of our ages was unluckily started at Mrs. Staveley’s, I had slipped out of the difficulty easily by assuming the character of the eldest sister—an example of ready tact which my dear stupid Eunice doesn’t understand. In my father’s presence, it is needless to say that I kept silence, and left it to him. I was sorry to be obliged to do this. Owing to his sad state of health, he is easily irritated—especially by inquisitive strangers.
“I must leave you,” he answered, without taking the slightest notice of what Miss Jillgall had said to him. “My work is waiting for me.”
She stopped him on his way to the door. “Oh, tell me—can’t I help you?”
“Thank you; no.”
“Well—but tell me one thing. Am I right about the twins?”
“You are wrong.”
Miss Jillgall’s demonstrative hands flew up into the air again, and expressed the climax of astonishment by quivering over her head. “This is positively maddening,” she declared. “What does it mean?”
“Take my advice, cousin. Don’t attempt to find out what it means.”
He left the room. Miss Jillgall appealed to me. I imitated my father’s wise brevity of expression: “Sorry to disappoint you, Selina; I know no more about it than you do. Come upstairs.”
Every step of the way up to the drawing-room was marked by a protest or an inquiry. Did I expect her to believe that I couldn’t say which of us was the elder of the two? that I didn’t really know what my father’s motive was for this extraordinary mystification? that my sister and I had submitted to be robbed, as it were, of our own ages, and had not insisted on discovering which of us had come into the world first? that our friends had not put an end to this sort of thing by comparing us personally, and discovering which was the elder sister by investigation of our faces? To all this I replied: First, that I did certainly expect her to believe whatever I might say: Secondly, that what she was pleased to call the “mystification” had begun when we were both children; that habit had made it familiar to us in the course of years; and above all, that we were too fond of our good father to ask for explanations which we knew by experience would distress him: Thirdly, that friends did try to discover, by personal examination, which was the elder sister, and differed perpetually in their conclusions; also that we had amused ourselves by trying the same experiment before our looking-glasses, and that Eunice thought Helena was the oldest, and Helena thought Eunice was the oldest: Fourthly (and finally), that the Reverend Mr. Gracedieu’s cousin had better drop the subject, unless she was bent on making her presence in the house unendurable to the Reverend Mr. Gracedieu himself.
I write it with a sense of humiliation; Miss Jillgall listened attentively to all I had to say—and then took me completely by surprise. This inquisitive, meddlesome, restless, impudent woman suddenly transformed herself into a perfect model of amiability and decorum. She actually said she agreed with me, and was much obliged for my good advice!
A stupid young woman, in my place, would have discovered that this was not natural, and that Miss Jillgall was presenting herself to me in disguise, to reach some secret end of her own. I am not a stupid young woman; I ought to have had at my service penetration enough to see through and through Cousin Selina. Well! Cousin Selina was an impenetrable mystery to me.
The one thing to be done was to watch her. I was at least sly enough to take up a book, and pretend to be reading it. How contemptible!
She looked round the room, and discovered our pretty writing-table; a present to my father from his congregation. After a little consideration, she sat down to write a letter.
“When does the post go out?” she asked.
I mentioned the hour; and she began her letter. Before she could have written more than the first two or three lines, she turned round on her seat, and began talking to me.
“Do you like writing letters, my dear?”
“Yes—but then I have not many letters to write.”
“Only a few friends, Helena, but those few worthy to be loved? My own case exactly. Has your father told you of my troubles? Ah, I am glad of that. It spares me the sad necessity of confessing what I have suffered. Oh, how good my friends, my new friends, were to me in that dull little Belgian town! One of them was generosity personified—ah, she had suffered, too! A vile husband who had deceived and deserted her. Oh, the men! When she heard of the loss of my little fortune, that noble creature got up a subscription for me, and went round herself to collect. Think of what I owe to her! Ought I to let another day pass without writing to my benefactress? Am I not bound in gratitude to make her happy in the knowledge of my happiness—I mean the refuge opened to me in this hospitable house?”
She twisted herself back again to the writing-table, and went on with her letter.
I have not attempted to conceal my stupidity. Let me now record a partial recovery of my intelligence.
It was not to be denied that Miss Jillgall had discovered a good reason for writing to her friend; but I was at a loss to understand why she should have been so anxious to mention the reason. Was it possible—after the talk which had passed between us—that she had something mischievous to say in her letter, relating to my father or to me? Was she afraid I might suspect this? And had she been so communicative for the purpose of leading my suspicions astray? These were vague guesses; but, try as I might, I could arrive at no clearer view of what was passing in Miss Jillgall’s mind. What would I not have given to be able to look over her shoulder, without discovery!
She finished her letter, and put the address, and closed the envelope. Then she turned round toward me again.
“Have you got a foreign postage stamp, dear?”
If I could look at nothing else, I was resolved to look at her envelope. It was only necessary to go to the study, and to apply to my father. I returned with the foreign stamp, and I stuck it on the envelope with my own hand.
There was nothing to interest me in the address, as I ought to have foreseen, if I had not been too much excited for the exercise of a little common sense. Miss Jillgall’s wonderful friend was only remarkable by her ugly foreign name—MRS. TENBRUGGEN.