The Legacy of Cain

her face.

  "Do you see anything," she asked, "which makes you fear that I am not in my

  right mind?"

  "Good God! how can you ask such a horrible question?

  She laid her head back on my shoulder with a sad little sigh of resignation. "I

  ought to have known better," she said; "there is no such easy way out of it as

  that. Tell me--is there one kind of wickedness more deceitful than another? Can

  it be hid in a person for years together, and show itself when a time of

  suffering--no; I mean when a sense of injury comes? Did you ever see that, when

  you were master in the prison?"

  I had seen it--and, after a moment's doubt, I said I had seen it.

  "Did you pity those poor wretches?"

  "Certainly! They deserved pity."

  "I am one of them!" she said. "Pity me. If Helena looks at me--if Helena speaks

  to me--if I only see Helena by accident--do you know what she does? She tempts

  me! Tempts me to do dreadful things! Tempts me--" The poor child threw her arms

  round my neck, and whispered the next fatal words in my ear.

  The mother! Prepared as I was for the accursed discovery, the horror of it shook

  me.

  She left me, and started to her feet. The inherited energy showed itself in

  furious protest against the inherited evil. "What does it mean?" she cried.

  "I'll submit to anything. I'll bear my hard lot patiently, if you will only tell

  me what it means. Where does this horrid transformation of me out of myself come

  from? Look at my good father. In all this world there is no man so perfect as he

  is. And oh, how he has taught me! there isn't a single good thing that I have

  not learned from him since I was a little child. Did you ever hear him speak of

  my mother? You must have heard him. My mother was an angel. I could never be

  worthy of her at my best--but I have tried! I have tried! The wickedest girl in

  the world doesn't have worse thoughts than the thoughts that have come to me.

  Since when? Since Helena--oh, how can I call her by her name as if I still loved

  her? Since my sister--can she be my sister, I ask myself sometimes! Since my

  enemy--there's the word for her--since my enemy took Philip away from me. What

  does it mean? I have asked in my prayers--and have got no answer. I ask you.

  What does it mean? You must tell me! You shall tell me! What does it mean?"

  Why did I not try to calm her? I had vainly tried to calm her--I who knew who

  her mother was, and what her mother had been.

  At last, she had forced the sense of my duty on me. The simplest way of calming

  her was to put her back in the place by my side that she had left. It was

  useless to reason with her, it was impossible to answer her. I had my own idea

  of the one way in which I might charm Eunice back to her sweeter self.

  "Let us talk of Philip," I said.

  The fierce flush on her face softened, the swelling trouble of her bosom began

  to subside, as that dearly-loved name passed my lips! But there was some

  influence left in her which resisted me.

  "No," she said; "we had better not talk of him."

  "Why not?"

  "I have lost all my courage. If you speak of Philip, you will make me cry."

  I drew her nearer to me. If she had been my own child, I don't think I could

  have felt for her more truly than I felt at that moment. I only looked at her; I

  only said:

  "Cry!"

  The love that was in her heart rose, and poured its tenderness into her eyes. I

  had longed to see the tears that would comfort her. The tears came.

  There was silence between us for a while. It was possible for me to think.

  In the absence of physical resemblance between parent and child, is an

  unfavorable influence exercised on the tendency to moral resemblance? Assuming

  the possibility of such a result as this, Eunice (entirely unlike her mother)

  must, as I concluded, have been possessed of qualities formed to resist, as well

  as of qualities doomed to undergo, the infection of evil. While, therefore, I

  resigned myself to recognize the existence of the hereditary maternal taint, I

  firmly believed in the counterbalancing influences for good which had been part

  of the girl's birthright. They had been derived, perhaps, from the better

  qualities in her father's nature; they had been certainly developed by the

  tender care, the religious vigilance, which had guarded the adopted child so

  lovingly in the Minister's household; and they had served their purpose until

  time brought with it the change, for which the tranquil domestic influences were

  not prepared. With the great, the vital transformation, which marks the ripening

  of the girl into the woman's maturity of thought and passion, a new power for

  Good, strong enough to resist the latent power for Evil, sprang into being, and

  sheltered Eunice under the supremacy of Love. Love ill-fated and

  ill-bestowed--but love that no profanation could stain, that no hereditary evil

  could conquer--the True Love that had been, and was, and would be, the guardian

  angel of Eunice's life.

  If I am asked whether I have ventured to found this opinion on what I have

  observed in one instance only, I reply that I have had other opportunities of

  investigation, and that my conclusions are derived from experience which refers

  to more instances than one.

  No man in his senses can doubt that physical qualities are transmitted from

  parents to children. But inheritance of moral qualities is less easy to trace.

  Here, the exploring mind finds its progress beset by obstacles. That those

  obstacles have been sometimes overcome I do not deny. Moral resemblances have

  been traced between parents and children. While, however, I admit this, I doubt

  the conclusion which sees, in inheritance of moral qualities, a positive

  influence exercised on moral destiny. There are inherent emotional forces in

  humanity to which the inherited influences must submit; they are essentially

  influences under control--influences which can be encountered and forced back.

  That we, who inhabit this little planet, may be the doomed creatures of

  fatality, from the cradle to the grave, I am not prepared to dispute. But I

  absolutely refuse to believe that it is a fatality with no higher origin than

  can be found in our accidental obligation to our fathers and mothers.

  Still absorbed in these speculations, I was disturbed by a touch on my arm.

  I looked up. Eunice's eyes were fixed on a shrubbery, at some little distance

  from us, which closed the view of the garden on that side. I noticed that she

  was trembling. Nothing to alarm her was visible that I could discover. I asked

  what she had seen to startle her. She pointed to the shrubbery.

  "Look again," she said.

  This time I saw a woman's dress among the shruhs. The woman herself appeared in

  a moment more. It was Helena. She carried a small portfolio, and she approached

  us with a smile.

  CHAPTER XLI.

  THE WHISPERING VOICE.

  I LOOKED at Eunice. She had risen, startled by her first suspicion of the person

  who was approaching us through the shrubbery; but she kept her place near me,

  only changing her position so as to av
oid confronting Helena. Her quickened

  breathing was all that told me of the effort she was making to preserve her

  self-control.

  Entirely free from unbecoming signs of hurry and agitation, Helena opened her

  business with me by means of an apology.

  "Pray excuse me for disturbing you. I am obliged to leave the house on one of my

  tiresome domestic errands. If you will kindly permit it, I wish to express,

  before I go, my very sincere regret for what I was rude enough to say, when I

  last had the honor of seeing you. May I hope to be forgiven? How-do-you-do,

  Eunice? Have you enjoyed your holiday in the country?"

  Eunice neither moved nor answered. Having some doubt of what might happen if the

  two girls remained together, I proposed to Helena to leave the garden and to let

  me hear what she had to say, in the house.

  "Quite needless," she replied; "I shall not detain you for more than a minute.

  Please look at this."

  She offered to me the portfolio that she had been carrying, and pointed to a

  morsel of paper attached to it, which contained this inscription:

  "Philip's Letters To Me. Private. Helena Gracedieu."

  "I have a favor to ask," she said, "and a proof of confidence in you to offer.

  Will you be so good as to look over what you find in my portfolio? I am

  unwilling to give up the hopes that I had founded on our interview, when I asked

  for it. The letters will, I venture to think, plead my cause more convincingly

  than I was able to plead it for myself. I wish to forget what passed between us,

  to the last word. To the last word," she repeated emphatically--with a look

  which sufficiently informed me that I had not been betrayed to her father yet.

  "Will you indulge me?" she asked, and offered her portfolio for the second time.

  A more impudent bargain could not well have been proposed to me.

  I was to read, and to be favorably impressed by, Mr. Philip Dunboyne's letters;

  and Miss Helena was to say nothing of that unlucky slip of the tongue, relating

  to her mother, which she had discovered to be a serious act of

  self-betrayal--thanks to my confusion at the time. If I had not thought of

  Eunice, and of the desolate and loveless life to which the poor girl was so

  patiently resigned, I should have refused to read Miss Gracedieu's love-letters.

  But, as things were, I was influenced by the hope (innocently encouraged by

  Eunice herself) that Philip Dunboyne might not be so wholly unworthy of the

  sweet girl whom he had injured as I had hitherto been too hastily disposed to

  believe. To act on this view with the purpose of promoting a reconciliation was

  impossible, unless I had the means of forming a correct estimate of the man's

  character. It seemed to me that I had found the means. A fair chance of putting

  his sincerity to a trustworthy test, was surely offered by the letters (the

  confidential letters) which I had been requested to read. To feel this as

  strongly as I felt it, brought me at once to a decision. I consented to take the

  portfolio--on my own conditions.

  "Understand, Miss Helena," I said, "that I make no promises. I reserve my own

  opinion, and my own right of action."

  "I am not afraid of your opinions or your actions," she answered confidently,

  "if you will only read the letters. In the meantime, let me relieve my sister,

  there, of my presence. I hope you will soon recover, Eunice, in the country

  air."

  If the object of the wretch was to exasperate her victim, she had completely

  failed. Eunice remained as still as a statue. To all appearance, she had not

  even heard what had been said to her. Helena looked at me, and touched her

  forehead with a significant smile. "Sad, isn't it?" she said--and bowed, and

  went briskly away on her household errand.

  We were alone again.

  Still, Eunice never moved. I spoke to her, and produced no impression. Beginning

  to feel alarmed, I tried the effect of touching her. With a wild cry, she

  started into a state of animation. Almost at the same moment, she weakly swayed

  to and fro as if the pleasant breeze in the garden moved her at its will, like

  the flowers. I held her up, and led her to the seat.

  "There is nothing to be afraid of," I said. "She has gone."

  Eunice's eyes rested on me in vacant surprise. "How do you know?" she asked. "I

  hear her; but I never see her. Do you see her?"

  "My dear child! of what person are you speaking?"

  She answered: "Of no person. I am speaking of a Voice that whispers and tempts

  me, when Helena is near."

  "What voice, Eunice?"

  "The whispering Voice. It said to me, 'I am your mother;' it called me Daughter

  when I first heard it. My father speaks of my mother, the angel. That good

  spirit has never come to me from the better world. It is a mock-mother who comes

  to me--some spirit of evil. Listen to this. I was awake in my bed. In the dark I

  heard the mock-mother whispering, close at my ear. Shall I tell you how she

  answered me, when I longed for light to see her by, when I prayed to her to show

  herself to me? She said: 'My face was hidden when I passed from life to death;

  my face no mortal creature may see.' I have never seen her--how can you have

  seen her? But I heard her again, just now. She whispered to me when Helena was

  standing there--where you are standing. She freezes the life in me. Did she

  freeze the life in you? Did you hear her tempting me? Don't speak of it, if you

  did. Oh, not a word! not a word!"

  A man who has governed a prison may say with Macbeth, "I have supped full with

  horrors." Hardened as I was--or ought to have been--the effect of what I had

  just heard turned me cold. If I had not known it to be absolutely impossible, I

  might have believed that the crime and the death of the murderess were known to

  Eunice, as being the crime and the death of her mother, and that the horrid

  discovery had turned her brain. This was simply impossible. What did it mean?

  Good God! what did it mean?

  My sense of my own helplessness was the first sense in me that recovered. I

  thought of Eunice's devoted little friend. A woman's sympathy seemed to be

  needed now. I rose to lead the way out of the garden.

  "Selina will think we are lost," I said. "Let us go and find Selina."

  "Not for the world," she cried.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't feel sure of myself. I might tell Selina something which she

  must never know; I should be so sorry to frighten her. Let me stop here with

  you."

  I resumed my place at her side.

  "Let me take your hand."

  I gave her my hand. What composing influence this simple act may, or may not,

  have exercised, it is impossible to say. She was quiet, she was silent. After an

  interval, I heard her breathe a long-drawn sigh of relief.

  "I am afraid I have surprised you," she said. "Helena brings the dreadful time

  back to me--" She stopped and shuddered.

  "Don't speak of Helena, my dear."

  "But I am afraid you will think--because I have said strange things--that I have

  been talking at random," she insisted. "The doctor will say that, if you meet
/>
  with him. He believes I am deluded by a dream. I tried to think so myself. It

  was of no use; I am quite sure he is wrong."

  I privately determined to watch for the doctor's arrival, and to consult with

  him. Eunice went on:

  "I have the story of a terrible night to tell you; but I haven't the courage to

  tell it now. Why shouldn't you come back with me to the place that I am staying

  at? A pleasant farm-house, and such kind people. You might read the account of

  that night in my journal. I shall not regret the misery of having written it, if

  it helps you to find out how this hateful second self of mine has come to me.

  Hush! I want to ask you something. Do you think Helena is in the house?"

  "No--she has gone out."

  "Did she say that herself? Are you sure?"

  "Quite sure."

  She decided on going back to the farm, while Helena was out of the way. We left

  the garden together. For the first time, my companion noticed the portfolio. I

  happened to be carrying it in the hand that was nearest to her, as she walked by

  my side.

  "Where did you get that?" she asked.

  It was needless to reply in words. My hesitation spoke for me.

  "Carry it in your other hand," she said--"the hand that's furthest away from me.

  I don't want to see it! Do you mind waiting a moment while I find Selina? You

  will go to the farm with us, won't you?"

  I had to look over the letters, in Eunice's own interests; and I begged her to

  let me defer my visit to the farm until the next day. She consented, after

  making me promise to keep my appointment. It was of some importance to her, she

  told me, that I should make acquaintance with the farmer and his wife and

  children, and tell her how I liked them. Her plans for the future depended on

  what those good people might be willing to do. When she had recovered her

  health, it was impossible for her to go home again while Helena remained in the

  house. She had resolved to earn her own living, if she could get employment as a

  governess. The farmer's children liked her; she had already helped their mother

  in teaching them; and there was reason to hope that their father would see his

  way to employing her permanently. His house offered the great advantage of being

  near enough to the town to enable her to hear news of the Minister's progress

  toward recovery, and to see him herself when safe opportunities offered, from

  time to time. As for her salary, what did she care about money? Anything would

  be acceptable, if the good man would only realize her hopes for the future.

  It was disheartening to hear that hope, at her age, began and ended within such

  narrow limits as these. No prudent man would have tried to persuade her, as I

  now did, that the idea of reconciliation offered the better hope of the two.

  "Suppose I see Mr. Philip Dunboyne when I go back to London," I began, "what

  shall I say to him?"

  "Say I have forgiven him."

  "And suppose," I went on, "that the blame really rests, where you all believe it

  to rest, with Helena. If that young man returns to you, truly ashamed of

  himself, truly penitent, will you--?"

  She resolutely interrupted me: "No!"

  "Oh, Eunice, you surely mean Yes?"

  "I mean No!"

  "Why?"

  "Don't ask me! Good-by till to-morrow."

  CHAPTER XLII.

  THE QUAINT PHILOSOPHER.

  No person came to my room, and nothing happened to interrupt me while I was

  reading Mr. Philip Dunboyne's letters.

  One of them, let me say at once, produced a very disagreeable impression on me.

  I have unexpectedly discovered Mrs. Tenbruggen--in a postscript. She is making a

  living as a Medical Rubber (or Masseuse), and is in professional attendance on

  Mr. Dunboyne the elder. More of this, a little further on.

  Having gone through the whole collection of young Dunboyne's letters, I set

  myself to review the differing conclusions which the correspondence had produced

  on my mind.

  I call the papers submitted to me a correspondence, because the greater part of