The Legacy of Cain

note, informing me of her wishes: "I shall expect to be favored with your

  decision to-morrow morning, in my housekeeping room."

  At breakfast time, the report of the poor Minister was still discouraging. I

  noticed that Helena was absent from the table. Miss Jillgall suspected that the

  cause was bad news from Mr. Philip Dunboyne, arriving by that morning's post.

  "If you will excuse the use of strong language by a lady," she said, "Helena

  looked perfectly devilish when she opened the letter. She rushed away, and

  locked herself up in her own shabby room. A serious obstacle, as I suspect, in

  the way of her marriage. Cheering, isn't it?" As usual, good Selina expressed

  her sentiments without reserve.

  I had to keep my appointment; and the sooner Helena Gracedieu and I understood

  each other the better.

  I knocked at the door. It was loudly unlocked, and violently thrown open.

  Helena's temper had risen to boiling heat; she stammered with rage when she

  spoke to me.

  "I mean to come to the point at once," she said.

  "I am glad to hear it, Miss Helena."

  "May I count on your influence to help me? I want a positive answer."

  I gave her what she wanted. I said: "Certainly not."

  She took a crumpled letter from her pocket, opened it, and smoothed it out on

  the table with a blow of her open hand.

  "Look at that," she said.

  I looked. It was the letter addressed to Mr. Dunboyne the elder, which I had

  written for Mr. Gracedieu--with the one object of preventing Helena's marriage.

  "Of course, I can depend on you to tell me the truth?" she continued.

  "Without fear or favor," I answered, "you may depend on that."

  "The signature to the letter, Mr. Governor, is written by my father. But the

  letter itself is in a different hand. Do you, by any chance, recognize the

  writing?"

  "I do."

  "Whose writing is it?"

  "Mine."

  CHAPTER XLIV.

  THE RESURRECTION OF THE PAST.

  AFTER having identified my handwriting, I waited with some curiosity to see

  whether Helena would let her anger honestly show itself, or whether she would

  keep it down. She kept it down.

  "Allow me to return good for evil." (The evil was uppermost, nevertheless, when

  Miss Gracedieu expressed herself in these self-denying terms.) "You are no doubt

  anxious to know if Philip's father has been won over to serve your purpose. Here

  is Philip's own account of it: the last of his letters that I shall trouble you

  to read."

  I looked it over. The memorandum follows which I made for my own use:

  An eccentric philosopher is as capable as the most commonplace human being in

  existence of behaving like an honorable man. Mr. Dunboyne read the letter which

  bore the Minister's signature, and handed it to his son. "Can you answer that?"

  was all he said. Philip's silence confessed that he was unable to answer it--and

  Philip himself, I may add, rose accordingly in my estimation. His father pointed

  to the writing-desk. "I must spare my cramped hand," the philosopher resumed,

  "and I must answer Mr. Gracedieu's letter. Write, and leave a place for my

  signature." He began to dictate his reply. "Sir--My son Philip has seen your

  letter, and has no defense to make. In this respect he has set an example of

  candor which I propose to follow. There is no excuse for him. What I can do to

  show that I feel for you, and agree with you, shall be done. At the age which

  this young man has reached, the laws of England abolish the authority of his

  father. If he is sufficiently infatuated to place his honor and his happiness at

  the mercy of a lady, who has behaved to her sister as your daughter has behaved

  to Miss Eunice, I warn the married couple not to expect a farthing of my money,

  either during my lifetime or after my death. Your faithful servant, DUNBOYNE,

  SENIOR." Having performed his duty as secretary, Philip received his dismissal:

  "You may send my reply to the post," his father said; "and you may keep Mr.

  Gracedieu's letter. Morally speaking, I regard that last document as a species

  of mirror, in which a young gentleman like yourself may see how ugly he looks."

  This, Philip declared, was his father's form of farewell.

  I handed back the letter to Helena. Not a word passed between us. In sinister

  silence she opened the door and left me alone in the room.

  That Mrs. Gracedieu and I had met in the bygone time, and--this was the only

  serious part of it--had met in secret, would now be made known to the Minister.

  Was I to blame for having shrunk from distressing my good friend, by telling him

  that his wife had privately consulted me on the means of removing his adopted

  child from his house? And, even if I had been cruel enough to do this, would he

  have believed my statement against the positive denial with which the woman whom

  he loved and trusted would have certainly met it? No! let the consequences of

  the coming disclosure be what they might, I failed to see any valid reason for

  regretting my conduct in the past time.

  I found Miss Jillgall waiting in the passage to see me come out.

  Before I could tell her what had happened, there was a ring at the house-bell.

  The visitor proved to be Mr. Wellwood, the doctor. I was anxious to speak to him

  on the subject of Mr. Gracedieu's health. Miss Jillgall introduced me, as an old

  and dear friend of the Minister, and left us together in the dining-room.

  "What do I think of Mr. Gracedieu?" he said, repeating the first question that I

  put. "Well, sir, I think badly of him."

  Entering into details, after that ominous reply, Mr. Wellwood did not hesitate

  to say that his patient's nerves were completely shattered. Disease of the brain

  had, as he feared, been already set up. "As to the causes which have produced

  this lamentable break-down," the doctor continued, "Mr. Gracedieu has been in

  the habit of preaching extempore twice a day on Sundays, and sometimes in the

  week as well--and has uniformly refused to spare himself when he was in most

  urgent need of rest. If you have ever attended his chapel, you have seen a man

  in a state of fiery enthusiasm, feeling intensely every word that he utters.

  Think of such exhaustion as that implies going on for years together, and

  accumulating its wasting influences on a sensitively organized constitution. Add

  that he is tormented by personal anxieties, which he confesses to no one, not

  even to his own children and the sum of it all is that a worse case of its kind,

  I am grieved to say, has never occurred in my experience."

  Before the doctor left me to go to his patient, I asked leave to occupy a minute

  more of his time. My object was, of course, to speak about Eunice.

  The change of subject seemed to be agreeable to Mr. Wellwood. He smiled

  good-humoredly.

  "You need feel no alarm about the health of that interesting girl," he said.

  "When she complained to me--at her age!--of not being able to sleep, I should

  have taken it more seriously if I had been told that she too had her troubles,

  poor little soul. Love-troubles, most likely--but don't forget that my

  profession
al limits keep me in the dark! Have you heard that she took some

  composing medicine, which I had prescribed for her father? The effect (certain,

  in any case, to be injurious to a young girl) was considerably aggravated by the

  state of her mind at the time. A dream that frightened her, and something

  resembling delirium, seems to have followed. And she made matters worse, poor

  child, by writing in her diary about the visions and supernatural appearances

  that had terrified her. I was afraid of fever, on the day when they first sent

  for me. We escaped that complication, and I was at liberty to try the best of

  all remedies--quiet and change of air. I have no fears for Miss Eunice."

  With that cheering reply he went up to the Minister's room.

  All that I had found perplexing in Eunice was now made clear. I understood how

  her agony at the loss of her lover, and her keen sense of the wrong that she had

  suffered, had been strengthened in their disastrous influence by her experiment

  on the sleeping draught intended for her father. In mind and body, both, the

  poor girl was in the condition which offered its opportunity to the lurking

  hereditary taint. It was terrible to think of what might have happened, if the

  all-powerful counter-influence had not been present to save her.

  Before I had been long alone the servant-maid came in, and said the doctor

  wanted to see me.

  Mr. Wellwood was waiting in the passage, outside the Minister's bedchamber. He

  asked if he could speak to me without interruption, and without the fear of

  being overheard. I led him at once to the room which I occupied as a guest.

  "At the very time when it is most important to keep Mr. Gracedieu quiet," he

  said, "something has happened to excite--I might almost say to infuriate him. He

  has left his bed, and is walking up and down the room; and, I don't scruple to

  say, he is on the verge of madness. He insists on seeing you. Being wholly

  unable to control him in any other way, I have consented to this. But I must not

  allow you to place yourself in what may be a disagreeable position, without a

  word of warning. Judging by his tones and his looks, he seems to have no very

  friendly motive for wishing to see you."

  Knowing perfectly well what had happened, and being one of those impatient

  people who can never endure suspense--I offered to go at once to Mr. Gracedieu's

  room. The doctor asked leave to say one word more.

  "Pray be careful that you neither say nor do anything to thwart him," Mr.

  Wellwood resumed. "If he expresses an opinion, agree with him. If he is insolent

  and overbearing, don't answer him. In the state of his brain, the one hopeful

  course to take is to let him have his own way. Pray remember that. I will be

  within call, in case of your wanting me."

  CHAPTER XLV.

  THE FATAL PORTRAIT.

  I KNOCKED at the bedroom door.

  "Who's there?"

  Only two words--but the voice that uttered them, hoarse and peremptory, was

  altered almost beyond recognition. If I had not known whose room it was, I might

  have doubted whether the Minister had really spoken to me.

  At the instant when I answered him, I was allowed to pass in. Having admitted

  me, he closed the door, and placed himself with his back against it. The

  customary pallor of his face had darkened to a deep red; there was an expression

  of ferocious mockery in his eyes. Helena's vengeance had hurt her unhappy father

  far more severely than it seemed likely to hurt me. The doctor had said he was

  on the verge of madness. To my thinking, he had already passed the boundary

  line.

  He received me with a boisterous affectation of cordiality.

  "My excellent friend! My admirable, honorable, welcome guest, you don't know how

  glad I am to see you. Stand a little nearer to the light; I want to admire you."

  Remembering the doctor's advice, I obeyed him in silence.

  "Ah, you were a handsome fellow when I first knew you," he said, "and you have

  some remains of it still left. Do you remember the time when you were a favorite

  with the ladies? Oh, don't pretend to be modest; don't turn your back, now you

  are old, on what you were in the prime of your life. Do you own that I am

  right?"

  What his object might be in saying this--if, indeed, he had an object--it was

  impossible to guess. The doctor's advice left me no alternative; I hastened to

  own that he was right. As I made that answer, I observed that he held something

  in his hand which was half hidden up the sleeve of his dressing-gown. What the

  nature of the object was I failed to discover.

  "And when I happened to speak of you somewhere," he went on, "I forget where--a

  member of my congregation--I don't recollect who it was--told me you were

  connected with the aristocracy. How were you connected?"

  He surprised me; but, however he had got his information, he had not been

  deceived. I told him that I was connected, through my mother, with the family to

  which he had alluded.

  "The aristocracy!" he repeated. "A race of people who are rich without earning

  their money, and noble because their great-grandfathers were noble before them.

  They live in idleness and luxury--profligates who gratify their passions without

  shame and without remorse. Deny, if you dare, that this is a true description of

  them."

  It was really pitiable. Heartily sorry for him, I pacified him again.

  "And don't suppose I forget that you are one of them. Do you hear me, my noble

  friend?"

  There was no help for it--I made another conciliatory reply.

  "So far," he resumed, "I don't complain of you. You have not attempted to

  deceive me--yet. Absolute silence is what I require next. Though you may not

  suspect it, my mind is in a ferment; I must try to think."

  To some extent at least, his thoughts betrayed themselves in his actions. He put

  the object that I had half seen in his hand into the pocket of his

  dressing-gown, and moved to the toilet-table. Opening one of the drawers, he

  took from it a folded sheet of paper, and came back to me.

  "A minister of the Gospel," he said, "is a sacred man, and has a horror of

  crime. You are safe, so far--provided you obey me. I have a solemn and terrible

  duty to perform. This is not the right place for it. Follow me downstairs."

  He led the way out. The doctor, waiting in the passage, was not near the stairs,

  and so escaped notice. "What is it?" Mr. Wellwood whispered. In the same guarded

  way, I said: "He has not told me yet; I have been careful not to irritate him."

  When we descended the stairs, the doctor followed us at a safe distance. He

  mended his pace when the Minister opened the door of the study, and when he saw

  us both pass in. Before he could follow, the door was closed and locked in his

  face. Mr. Gracedieu took out the key and threw it through the open window, into

  the garden below.

  Turning back into the room, he laid the folded sheet of paper on the table. That

  done, he spoke to me.

  "I distrust my own weakness," he said. "A dreadful necessity confronts me--I

  might shrink from the horrid idea, and, if I could open t
he door, might try to

  get away. Escape is impossible now. We are prisoners together. But don't suppose

  that we are alone. There is a third person present, who will judge between you

  and me. Look there!"

  He pointed solemnly to the portrait of his wife. It was a small picture, very

  simply framed; representing the face in a "three-quarter" view, and part of the

  figure only. As a work of art it was contemptible; but, as a likeness, it

  answered its purpose. My unhappy friend stood before it, in an attitude of

  dejection, covering his face with his hands.

  In the interval of silence that followed, I was reminded that an unseen friend

  was keeping watch outside.

  Alarmed by having heard the key turned in the lock, and realizing the

  embarrassment of the position in which I was placed, the doctor had discovered a

  discreet way of communicating with me. He slipped one of his visiting-cards

  under the door, with these words written on it: "How can I help you?"

  I took the pencil from my pocketbook, and wrote on the blank side of the card:

  "He has thrown the key into the garden; look for it under the window." A glance

  at the Minister, before I returned my reply, showed that his attitude was

  unchanged. Without being seen or suspected, I, in my turn, slipped the card

  under the door.

  The slow minutes followed each other--and still nothing happened.

  My anxiety to see how the doctor's search for the key was succeeding, tempted me

  to approach the window. On my way to it, the tail of my coat threw down a little

  tray containing pens and pencils, which had been left close to the edge of the

  table. Slight as the noise of the fall was, it disturbed Mr. Gracedieu. He

  looked round vacantly.

  "I have been comforted by prayer," he told me. "The weakness of poor humanity

  has found strength in the Lord." He pointed to the portrait once more: "My hands

  must not presume to touch it, while I am still in doubt. Take it down."

  I removed the picture and placed it, by his directions, on a chair that stood

  midway between us. To my surprise his tones faltered; I saw tears rising in his

  eyes. "You may think you see a picture there," he said. "You are wrong. You see

  my wife herself. Stand here, and look at my wife with me."

  We stood together, with our eyes fixed on the portrait.

  Without anything said or done on my part to irritate him, he suddenly turned to

  me in a state of furious rage. "Not a sign of sorrow!" he burst out. "Not a

  blush of shame! Wretch, you stand condemned by the atrocious composure that I

  see in your face!"

  A first discovery of the odious suspicion of which I was the object, dawned on

  my mind at that moment. My capacity for restraining myself completely failed me.

  I spoke to him as if he had been an accountable being. "Once for all," I said,

  "tell me what I have a right to know. You suspect me of something. What is it?"

  Instead of directly replying, he seized my arm and led me to the table. "Take up

  that paper," he said. "There is writing on it. Read--and let Her judge between

  us. Your life depends on how you answer me."

  Was there a weapon concealed in the room? or had he got it in the pocket of his

  dressing-gown? I listened for the sound of the doctor's returning footsteps in

  the passage outside, and heard nothing. My life had once depended, years since,

  on my success in heading the arrest of an escaped prisoner. I was not conscious,

  then, of feeling my energies weakened by fear. But that man was not mad; and I

  was younger, in those days, by a good twenty years or more. At my later time of

  life, I could show my old friend that I was not afraid of him--but I was

  conscious of an effort in doing it.

  I opened the paper. "Am I to read this to myself?" I asked. "Or am I to read it

  aloud?"

  "Read it aloud!"

  In these terms, his daughter addressed him:

  "I have been so unfortunate, dearest father, as to displease you, and I dare not

  hope that you will consent to receive me. What it is my painful duty to tell