my part! What is religion? What is education? I read a horrible book once (I
forget who was the author); it called religion superstition, and education empty
form. I don't know; upon my word I don't know that the book may not--Oh, my
tongue! Why don't I keep a guard over my tongue? Are you a father, too? Don't
interrupt me. Put yourself in my place, and think of it. Heartless, deceitful,
and my daughter. Give me the pocketbook; I want to see which memorandum comes
first."
He had now wrought himself into a state of excitement, which relieved his
spirits of the depression that had weighed on them up to this time. His harmless
vanity, always, as I suspect, a latent quality in his kindly nature, had already
restored his confidence. With a self-sufficient smile he consulted his own
unintelligible entries, and made his own wild discoveries.
"Ah, yes; 'M' stands for Minister; I come first. Am I to blame? Am I--God
forgive me my many sins--am I heartless? Am I deceitful?"
"My good friend, not even your enemies could say that!"
"Thank you. Who comes next?" He consulted the book again. "Her mother, her
sainted mother, comes next. People say she is like her mother. Was my wife
heartless? Was the angel of my life deceitful?"
("That," I thought to myself, "is exactly what your wife was--and exactly what
reappears in your wife's child.")
"Where does her wickedness come from?" he went on. "Not from her mother; not
from me; not from a neglected education." He suddenly stepped up to me and laid
his hands on my shoulders; his voice dropped to hoarse, moaning, awestruck
tones. "Shall I tell you what it is? A possession of the devil."
It was so evidently desirable to prevent any continuation of such a train of
thought as this, that I could feel no hesitation in interrupting him.
"Will you hear what I have to say?" I asked bluntly.
His humor changed again; he made me a low bow, and went back to his chair. "I
will hear you with pleasure," he answered politely. "You are the most eloquent
man I know, with one exception--myself. Of course--myself."
"It is mere waste of time," I continued, "to regret the excellent education
which your daughter has misused." Making that reply, I was tempted to add
another word of truth. All education is at the mercy of two powerful
counter-influences: the influence of temperament, and the influence of
circumstances. But this was philosophy. How could I expect him to submit to
philosophy? "What we know of Miss Helena," I went on, "must be enough for us.
She has plotted, and she means to succeed. Stop her."
"Just my idea!" he declared firmly. "I refuse my consent to that abominable
marriage."
In the popular phrase, I struck while the iron was hot. "You must do more than
that, sir," I told him.
His vanity suddenly took the alarm--I was leading him rather too undisguisedly.
He handed his book back to me. "You will find," he said loftily, "that I have
put it all down there."
I pretended to find it, and read an imaginary entry to this effect: "After what
she has already done, Helena is capable of marrying in defiance of my wishes and
commands. This must be considered and provided against." So far, I had succeeded
in flattering him. But when (thinking of his paternal authority) I alluded next
to his daughter's age, his eyes rested on me with a look of downright terror.
"No more of that!" he said. "I won't talk of the girls' ages even with you."
What did he mean? It was useless to ask. I went on with the matter in
hand--still deliberately speaking to him, as I might have spoken to a man with
an intellect as clear as my own. In my experience, this practice generally
stimulates a weak intelligence to do its best. We all know how children receive
talk that is lowered, or books that are lowered, to their presumed level.
"I shall take it for granted," I continued, "that Miss Helena is still under
your lawful authority. She can only arrive at her ends by means of a runaway
marriage. In that case, much depends on the man. You told me you couldn't help
liking him. This was, of course, before you knew of the infamous manner in which
he has behaved. You must have changed your opinion now."
He seemed to be at a loss how to reply. "I am afraid," he said, "the young man
was drawn into it by Helena."
Here was Miss Jillgall's apology for Philip Dunboyne repeated in other words.
Despising and detesting the fellow as I did, I was forced to admit to myself
that he must be recommended by personal attractions which it would be necessary
to reckon with. I tried to get some more information from Mr. Gracedieu.
"The excuse you have just made for him," I resumed, "implies that he is a weak
man; easily persuaded, easily led."
The Minister answered by nodding his head.
"Such weakness as that," I persisted, "is a vice in itself. It has led already,
sir, to the saddest results."
He admitted this by another nod.
"I don't wish to shock you, Mr. Gracedieu; but I must recommend employing the
means that present themselves. You must practice on this man's weakness, for the
sake of the good that may come of it. I hear he is in London with his father.
Try the strong influence, and write to his father. There is another reason
besides for doing this. It is quite possible that the truth has been concealed
from Mr. Dunboyne the elder. Take care that he is informed of what has really
happened. Are you looking for pen, ink, and paper? Let me offer you the writing
materials which I use in traveling."
I placed them before him. He took up the pen; he arranged the paper; he was
eager to begin.
After writing a few words, he stopped--reflected--tried again--stopped
again--tore up the little that he had done--and began a new letter, ending in
the same miserable result. It was impossible to witness his helplessness, to see
how pitiably patient he was over his own incapacity, and to let the melancholy
spectacle go on. I proposed to write the letter; authenticating it, of course,
by his signature. When he allowed me to take the pen, he turned away his face,
ashamed to let me see what he suffered. Was this the same man, whose great
nature had so nobly asserted itself in the condemned cell? Poor mortality!
The letter was easily written.
I had only to inform Mr. Dunboyne of his son's conduct; repeating, in the
plainest language that I could use, what Miss Jillgall had related to me.
Arrived at the conclusion, I contrived to make Mr. Gracedieu express himself in
these strong terms: "I protest against the marriage in justice to you, sir, as
well as to myself. We can neither of us content to be accomplices in an act of
domestic treason of the basest kind."
In silence, the Minister read the letter, and attached his signature to it. In
silence, he rose and took my arm. I asked if he wished to go to his room. He
only replied by a sign. I offered to sit with him, and try to cheer him.
Gratefully, he pressed my hand: gently, he put me back from the door. Crushed by
the miserable discovery of the decay of his ow
n faculties! What could I do? what
could I say? Nothing!
Miss Jillgall was in the drawing-room. With the necessary explanations, I showed
her the letter. She read it with breathless interest. "It terrifies one to think
how much depends on old Mr. Dunboyne," she said. "You know him. What sort of man
is he?"
I could only assure her (after what I remembered of his letter to me) that he
was a man whom we could depend upon.
Miss Jillgall possessed treasures of information to which I could lay no claim.
Mr. Dunboyne, she told me, was a scholar, and a writer, and a rich man. His
views on marriage were liberal in the extreme. Let his son find good principles,
good temper, and good looks, in a wife, and he would promise to find the money.
"I get these particulars," said Miss Jillgall, "from dear Euneece. They are
surely encouraging? That Helena may carry out Mr. Dunboyne's views in her
personal appearance is, I regret to say, what I can't deny. But as to the other
qualifications, how hopeful is the prospect! Good principles, and good temper?
Ha! ha! Helena has the principles of Jezebel, and the temper of Lady Macbeth."
After dashing off this striking sketch of character, the fair artist asked to
look at my letter again, and observed that the address was wanting. "I can set
this right for you," she resumed, "thanks, as before, to my sweet Euneece. And
(don't be in a hurry) I can make myself useful in another way. Oh, how I do
enjoy making myself useful! If you trust your letter to the basket in the hall,
Helena's lovely eyes--capable of the meanest conceivable actions--are sure to
take a peep at the address. In that case, do you think your letter would get to
London? I am afraid you detect a faint infusion of spitefulness in that
question. Oh, for shame! I'll post the letter myself."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE SHAMELESS SISTER.
FOR some reason, which my unassisted penetration was unable to discover, Miss
Helena Gracedieu kept out of my way.
At dinner, on the day of my arrival, and at breakfast on the next morning, she
was present of course; ready to make herself agreeable in a modest way, and
provided with the necessary supply of cheerful small-talk. But the meal having
come to an end, she had her domestic excuse ready, and unostentatiously
disappeared like a well-bred young lady. I never met her on the stairs, never
found myself intruding on her in the drawing-room, never caught her getting out
of my way in the garden. As much at a loss for an explanation of these mysteries
as I was, Miss Jillgall's interest in my welfare led her to caution me in a
vague and general way.
"Take my word for it, dear Mr. Governor, she has some design on you. Will you
allow an insignificant old maid to offer a suggestion? Oh, thank you; I will
venture to advise. Please look back at your experience of the very worst female
prisoner you ever had to deal with--and be guided accordingly if Helena catches
you at a private interview."
In less than half an hour afterward, Helena caught me. I was writing in my room,
when the maidservant came in with a message: "Miss Helena's compliments, sir,
and would you please spare her half an hour, downstairs?"
My first excuse was of course that I was engaged. This was disposed of by a
second message, provided beforehand, no doubt, for an anticipated refusal: "Miss
Helena wished me to say, sir, that her time is your time." I was still
obstinate; I pleaded next that my day was filled up. A third message had
evidently been prepared, even for this emergency: "Miss Helena will regret, sir,
having the pleasure deferred, but she will leave you to make your own
appointment for to-morrow." Persistency so inveterate as this led to a result
which Mr. Gracedieu's cautious daughter had not perhaps contemplated: it put me
on my guard. There seemed to be a chance, to say the least of it, that I might
serve Eunice's interests if I discovered what the enemy had to say. I locked up
my writing--declared myself incapable of putting Miss Helena to needless
inconvenience--and followed the maid to the lower floor of the house.
The room to which I was conducted proved to be empty. I looked round me.
If I had been told that a man lived there who was absolutely indifferent to
appearances, I should have concluded that his views were faithfully represented
by his place of abode. The chairs and tables reminded me of a railway
waiting-room. The shabby little bookcase was the mute record of a life
indifferent to literature. The carpet was of that dreadful drab color, still the
cherished favorite of the average English mind, in spite of every protest that
can be entered against it, on behalf of Art. The ceiling, recently whitewashed;
made my eyes ache when they looked at it. On either side of the window, flaccid
green curtains hung helplessly with nothing to loop them up. The writing-desk
and the paper-case, viewed as specimens of woodwork, recalled the ready-made
bedrooms on show in cheap shops. The books, mostly in slate-colored bindings,
were devoted to the literature which is called religious; I only discovered
three worldly publications among them--Domestic Cookery, Etiquette for Ladies,
and Hints on the Breeding of Poultry. An ugly little clock, ticking noisily in a
black case, and two candlesticks of base metal placed on either side of it,
completed the ornaments on the chimney-piece. Neither pictures nor prints hid
the barrenness of the walls. I saw no needlework and no flowers. The one object
in the place which showed any pretensions to beauty was a looking-glass in an
elegant gilt frame--sacred to vanity, and worthy of the office that it filled.
Such was Helena Gracedieu's sitting-room. I really could not help thinking: How
like her!
She came in with a face perfectly adapted to the circumstances--pleased and
smiling; amiably deferential, in consideration of the claims of her father's
guest--and, to my surprise, in some degree suggestive of one of those
incorrigible female prisoners, to whom Miss Jillgall had referred me when she
offered a word of advice.
"How kind of you to come so soon! Excuse my receiving you in my
housekeeping-room; we shall not be interrupted here. Very plainly furnished, is
it not? I dislike ostentation and display. Ornaments are out of place in a room
devoted to domestic necessities. I hate domestic necessities. You notice the
looking-glass? It's a present. I should never have put such a thing up. Perhaps
my vanity excuses it."
She pointed the last remark by a look at herself in the glass; using it, while
she despised it. Yes: there was a handsome face, paying her its reflected
compliment--but not so well matched as it might have been by a handsome figure.
Her feet were too large; her shoulders were too high; the graceful undulations
of a well-made girl were absent when she walked; and her bosom was, to my mind,
unduly developed for her time of life.
She sat down by me with her back to the light. Happening to be opposite to the
window, I offered her the advantage of a clear view of my face. S
he waited for
me, and I waited for her--and there was an awkward pause before we spoke. She
set the example.
"Isn't it curious?" she remarked. "When two people have something particular to
say to each other, and nothing to hinder them, they never seem to know how to
say it. You are the oldest, sir. Why don't you begin?"
"Because I have nothing particular to say."
"In plain words, you mean that I must begin?"
"If you please."
"Very well. I want to know whether I have given you (and Miss Jillgall, of
course) as much time as you want, and as many opportunities as you could
desire?"
"Pray go on, Miss Helena."
"Have I not said enough already?"
"Not enough, I regret to say, to convey your meaning to me."
She drew her chair a little further away from me. "I am sadly disappointed," she
said. "I had such a high opinion of your perfect candor. I thought to myself:
There is such a striking expression of frankness in his face. Another illusion
gone! I hope you won't think I am offended, if I say a bold word. I am only a
young girl, to be sure; but I am not quite such a fool as you take me for. Do
you really think I don't know that Miss Jillgall has been telling you everything
that is bad about me; putting every mistake that I have made, every fault that I
have committed, in the worst possible point of view? And you have listened to
her--quite naturally! And you are prejudiced, strongly prejudiced, against
me--what else could you be, under the circumstances? I don't complain; I have
purposely kept out of your way, and out of Miss Jillgall's way; in short, I have
afforded you every facility, as the prospectuses say. I only want to know if my
turn has come at last. Once more, have I given you time enough, and
opportunities enough?"
"A great deal more than enough."
"Do you mean that you have made up your mind about me without stopping to
think?"
"That is exactly what I mean. An act of treachery, Miss Helena, is an act of
treachery; no honest person need hesitate to condemn it. I am sorry you sent for
me."
I got up to go. With an ironical gesture of remonstrance, she signed to me to
sit down again.
"Must I remind you, dear sir, of our famous native virtue? Fair play is surely
due to a young person who has nobody to take her part. You talked of treachery
just how. I deny the treachery. Please give me a hearing."
I returned to my chair.
"Or would you prefer waiting," she went out, "till my sister comes here later in
the day, and continues what Miss Jillgall has begun, with the great advantage of
being young and nice-looking?"
When the female mind gets into this state, no wise man answers the female
questions.
"Am I to take silence as meaning Go on?" Miss Helena inquired.
I begged her to interpret my silence in the sense most agreeable to herself.
This naturally encouraged her. She made a proposal:
"Do you mind changing places, sir?"
"Just as you like, Miss Helena."
We changed chairs; the light now fell full on her face. Had she deliberately
challenged me to look into her secret mind if I could? Anything like the stark
insensibility of that young girl to every refinement of feeling, to every
becoming doubt of herself, to every customary timidity of her age and sex in the
presence of a man who had not disguised his unfavorable opinion of her, I never
met with in all my experience of the world and of women.
"I wish to be quite mistress of myself," she explained; "your face, for some
reason which I really don't know, irritates me. The fact is, I have great pride
in keeping my temper. Please make allowances. Now about Miss Jillgall. I suppose
she told you how my sister first met with Philip Dunboyne?"
"Yes."
"She also mentioned, perhaps, that he was a highly-cultivated man?"
"She did."
"Now we shall get on. When Philip came to our town here, and saw me for the
first time--Do you object to my speaking familiarly of him, by his Christian