suggested, 'by asking the Governor to help you?' That wonderful woman never
forgets anything. She had already applied to you, without success.
"In my next attempt to be useful, I did violence to my most cherished
convictions, by presenting the wretch Helena to the admirable Elizabeth. That
the former would be cold as ice, in her reception of any friend of mine, was
nothing wonderful. Mrs. Tenbruggen passed it over with the graceful composure of
a woman of the world. In the course of conversation with Helena, she slipped in
a question: 'Might I ask if you are older than your sister?' The answer was, of
course: 'I don't know.' And here, for once, the most deceitful girl in existence
spoke the truth.
"When we were alone again, Elizabeth made a remark: 'If personal appearance
could decide the question,' she said, 'the disagreeable young woman is the
oldest of the two. The next thing to be done is to discover if looks are to be
trusted in this case.'
"My friend's lawyer received confidential instructions (not shown to me, which
seems rather hard) to trace the two Miss Gracedieus' registers of birth.
Elizabeth described this proceeding (not very intelligibly to my mind) as a
means of finding out which of the girls could be identified by name as the elder
of the two.
"The report arrived this morning. I was only informed that the result, in one
case, had entirely defeated the inquiries. In the other case, Elizabeth had
helped her agent by referring him to a Birth, advertised in the customary
columns of the Times newspaper. Even here, there was a fatal obstacle. The name
of the place in which Mr. Gracedieu's daughter had been born was not added, as
usual.
"I still tried to be useful. Had my friend known the Minister's wife? My friend
had never even seen the Minister's wife. And, as if by a fatality, her portrait
was no longer in existence. I could only mention that Helena was like her
mother. But Elizabeth seemed to attach very little importance to my evidence, if
I may call it by so grand a name. 'People have such strange ideas about
likenesses,' she said, 'and arrive at such contradictory conclusions. One can
only trust one's own eyes in a matter of that kind.'
"My friend next asked me about our domestic establishment. We had only a cook
and a housemaid. If they were old servants who had known the girls as children,
they might be made of some use. Our luck was as steadily against us as ever.
They had both been engaged when Mr. Gracedieu assumed his new pastoral duties,
after having resided with his wife at her native place.
"I asked Elizabeth what she proposed to do next.
"She deferred her answer, until I had first told her whether the visit of the
doctor might be expected on that day. I could reply to this in the negative.
Elizabeth, thereupon, made a startling request; she begged me to introduce her
to Mr. Gracedieu.
"I said: 'Surely, you have forgotten the sad state of his mind?' No; she knew
perfectly well that he was imbecile. 'I want to try,' she explained, 'if I can
rouse him for a few minutes.'
" 'By Massage?' I inquired.
"She burst out laughing. 'Massage, my dear, doesn't act in that way. It is an
elaborate process, pursued patiently for weeks together. But my hands have more
than one accomplishment at their finger-ends. Oh, make your mind easy! I shall
do no harm, if I do no good. Take me. Selina, to the Minister.'
"We went to his room. Don't blame me for giving way; I am too fond of Elizabeth
to be able to disappoint her.
"It was a sad sight when we went in. He was quite happy, playing like a child,
at cup-and-ball. The attendant retired at my request. I introduced Mrs.
Tenbruggen. He smiled and shook hands with her. He said: 'Are you a Christian or
a Pagan? You are very pretty. How many times can you catch the ball in the cup?'
The effort to talk to her ended there. He went on with his game, and seemed to
forget that there was anybody in the room. It made my heart ache to remember
what he was--and to see him now.
"Elizabeth whispered: 'Leave me alone with him.'
"I don't know why I did such a rude thing--I hesitated.
"Elizabeth asked me if I had no confidence in her. I was ashamed of myself; I
left them together.
"A long half-hour passed. Feeling a little uneasy, I went upstairs again and
looked into the room. He was leaning back in his chair; his plaything was on the
floor, and he was looking vacantly at the light that came in through the window.
I found Mrs. Tenbruggen at the other end of the room, in the act of ringing the
bell. Nothing in the least out of the ordinary way seemed to have happened. When
the attendant had answered the bell, we left the room together. Mr. Gracedieu
took no notice of us.
" 'Well,' I said, 'how has it ended?'
"Quite calmly my noble Elizabeth answered: 'In total failure.'
" 'What did you say to him after you sent me away?'
" 'I tried, in every possible way, to get him to tell me which of his two
daughters was the oldest.'
" 'Did he refuse to answer?'
" 'He was only too ready to answer. First, he said Helena was the oldest--then
he corrected himself, and declared that Eunice was the oldest--then he said they
were twins--then he went back to Helena and Eunice. Now one was the oldest, and
now the other. He rang the changes on those two names, I can't tell you how
often, and seemed to think it a better game than cup-and-ball.'
" 'What is to be done?'
" 'Nothing is to be done, Selina.'
" 'What!' I cried, 'you give it up?'
"My heroic friend answered: 'I know when I am beaten, my dear--I give it up.'
She looked at her watch; it was time to operate on the muscles of one of her
patients. Away she went, on her glorious mission of Massage, without a murmur of
regret. What strength of mind! But, oh, dear, what a disappointment for poor
little me! On one thing I am determined. If I find myself getting puzzled or
frightened, I shall instantly write to you."
With that expression of confidence in me, Selina's narrative came to an end. I
wish I could have believed, as she did, that the object of her admiration had
been telling her the truth.
A few days later, Mrs. Tenbruggen honored me with a visit at my house in the
neighborhood of London. Thanks to this circumstance, I am able to add a
postscript which will complete the revelations in Miss Jillgall's letter.
The illustrious Masseuse, having much to conceal from her faithful Selina, was
well aware that she had only one thing to keep hidden from me; namely, the
advantage which she would have gained if her inquiries had met with success.
"I thought I might have got at what I wanted," she told me, "by mesmerizing our
reverend friend. He is as weak as a woman; I threw him into hysterics, and had
to give it up, and quiet him, or he would have alarmed the house. You look as if
you don't believe in mesmerism."
"My looks, Mrs. Tenbruggen, exactly express my opinion. Mesmerism is a humbug!"
"You amusing old Tory! Shall I throw yo
u into a state of trance? No! I'll give
you a shock of another kind--a shock of surprise. I know as much as you do about
Mr. Gracedieu's daughters. What do you think of that?"
"I think I should like to hear you tell me, which is the adopted child."
"Helena, to be sure!"
Her manner was defiant, her tone was positive; I doubted both. Under the surface
of her assumed confidence, I saw something which told me that she was trying to
read my thoughts in my face. Many other women had tried to do that. They
succeeded when I was young. When I had reached the wrong side of fifty, my face
had learned discretion, and they failed.
"How did you arrive at your discovery?" I asked. "I know of nobody who could
have helped you."
"I helped myself, sir! I reasoned it out. A wonderful thing for a woman to do,
isn't it? I wonder whether you could follow the process?"
My reply to this was made by a bow. I was sure of my command over my face; but
perfect control of the voice is a rare power. Here and there, a great actor or a
great criminal possesses it.
Mrs. Tenbruggen's vanity took me into her confidence. "In the first place," she
said, "Helena is plainly the wicked one of the two. I was not prejudiced by what
Selina had told me of her: I saw it, and felt it, before I had been five minutes
in her company. If lying tongues ever provoke her as lying tongues provoked her
mother, she will follow her mother's example. Very well. Now--in the second
place--though it is very slight, there is a certain something in her hair and
her complexion which reminds me of the murderess: there is no other resemblance,
I admit. In the third place, the girls' names point to the same conclusion. Mr.
Gracedieu is a Protestant and a Dissenter. Would he call a child of his own by
the name of a Roman Catholic saint? No! he would prefer a name in the Bible;
Eunice is his child. And Helena was once the baby whom I carried into the
prison. Do you deny that?"
"I don't deny it."
Only four words! But they were deceitfully spoken, and the deceit--practiced in
Eunice's interest, it is needless to say--succeeded. Mrs. Tenbruggen's object in
visiting me was attained; I had confirmed her belief in the delusion that Helena
was the adopted child.
She got up to take her leave. I asked if she proposed remaining in London. No;
she was returning to her country patients that night.
As I attended her to the house-door, she turned to me with her mischievous
smile. "I have taken some trouble in finding the clew to the Minister's
mystery," she said. "Don't you wonder why?"
"If I did wonder," I answered, "would you tell me why?"
She laughed at the bare idea of it. "Another lesson," she said, "to assist a
helpless man in studying the weaker sex. I have already shown you that a woman
can reason. Learn next that a woman can keep a secret. Good-by. God bless you!"
Of the events which followed Mrs. Tenbruggen's visit it is not possible for me,
I am thankful to say, to speak from personal experience. Ought I to conclude
with an expression of repentance for the act of deception to which I have
already pleaded guilty? I don't know. Yes! the force of circumstances does
really compel me to say it, and say it seriously--I declare, on my word of
honor, I don't know.
----
Third period: 1876.
HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.
----
CHAPTER LII.
HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.
WHILE my father remains in his present helpless condition, somebody must assume
a position of command in this house. There cannot be a moment's doubt that I am
the person to do it.
In my agitated state of mind, sometimes doubtful of Philip, sometimes hopeful of
him, I find Mrs. Tenbruggen simply unendurable. A female doctor is, under any
circumstances, a creature whom I detest. She is, at her very best, a bad
imitation of a man. The Medical Rubber is worse than this; she is a bad
imitation of a mountebank. Her grinning good-humor, adopted no doubt to please
the fools who are her patients, and her impudent enjoyment of hearing herself
talk, make me regret for the first time in my life that I am a young lady. If I
belonged to the lowest order of the population, I might take the first stick I
could find, and enjoy the luxury of giving Mrs. Tenbruggen a good beating.
She literally haunts the house, encouraged, of course, by her wretched little
dupe, Miss Jillgall. Only this morning, I tried what a broad hint would do
toward suggesting that her visits had better come to an end.
"Really, Mrs. Tenbruggen," I said, "I must request Miss Jillgall to moderate her
selfish enjoyment of your company, for your own sake. Your time is too valuable,
in a professional sense, to be wasted on an idle woman who has no sympathy with
your patients, waiting for relief perhaps, and waiting in vain.
She listened to this, all smiles and good-humor: "My dear, do you know how I
might answer you, if I was an ill-natured woman?"
"I have no curiosity to hear it, Mrs. Tenbruggen."
"I might ask you," she persisted, "to allow me to mind my own business. But I am
incapable of making an ungrateful return for the interest which you take in my
medical welfare. Let me venture to ask if you understand the value of time."
"Are you going to say much more, Mrs. Tenbruggen?"
"I am going to make a sensible remark, my child. If you feel tired, permit
me--here is a chair. Father Time, dear Miss Gracedieu, has always been a good
friend of mine, because I know how to make the best use of him. The author of
the famous saying Tempus fugit (you understand Latin, of course) was, I take
leave to think, an idle man. The more I have to do, the readier Time is to wait
for me. Let me impress this on your mind by some interesting examples. The
greatest conqueror of the century--Napoleon--had time enough for everything. The
greatest novelist of the century--Sir Walter Scott--had time enough for
everything. At my humble distance, I imitate those illustrious men, and my
patients never complain of me."
"Have you done?" I asked.
"Yes, dear--for the present."
"You are a clever woman, Mrs. Tenbruggen and you know it. You have an eloquent
tongue, and you know it. But you are something else, which you don't seem to be
aware of. You are a Bore."
She burst out laughing, with the air of a woman who thoroughly enjoyed a good
joke. I looked back when I left the room, and saw the friend of Father Time in
the easy chair opening our newspaper.
This is a specimen of the customary encounter of our wits. I place it on record
in my Journal, to excuse myself to myself. When she left us at last, later in
the day, I sent a letter after her to the hotel. Not having kept a copy of it,
let me present the substance, like a sermon, under three heads: I begged to be
excused for speaking plainly; I declared that there was a total want of sympathy
between us, on my side; and I proposed that she should deprive me of future
opportunities of receiving her in this house. The reply arrived immediat
ely in
these terms: "Your letter received, dear girl. I am not in the least angry;
partly because I am very fond of you, partly because I know that you will ask me
to come back again. P. S--Philip sends his love."
This last piece of insolence was unquestionably a lie. Philip detests her. They
are both staying at the same hotel. But I happen to know that he won't even look
at her, if they meet by accident on the stairs.
People who can enjoy the melancholy spectacle of human nature in a state of
degradation would be at a loss which exhibition to prefer--an ugly old maid in a
rage, or an ugly old maid in tears. Miss Jillgall presented herself in both
characters when she heard what had happened. To my mind, Mrs. Tenbruggen's
bosom-friend is a creature not fit to be seen or heard when she loses her
temper. I only told her to leave the room. To my great amusement, she shook her
bony fist at me, and expressed a frantic wish: "Oh, if I was rich enough to
leave this wicked house!" I wonder whether there is insanity (as well as
poverty) in Miss Jillgall's family?
Last night my mind was in a harassed state. Philip was, as usual, the cause of
it.
Perhaps I acted indiscreetly when I insisted on his leaving London, and
returning to this place. But what else could I have done? It was not merely my
interest, it was an act of downright necessity, to withdraw him from the
influence of his hateful father--whom I now regard as the one serious obstacle
to my marriage. There is no prospect of being rid of Mr. Dunboyne the elder by
his returning to Ireland. He is trying a new remedy for his crippled
hand--electricity. I wish it was lightning, to kill him! If I had given that
wicked old man the chance, I am firmly convinced he would not have let a day
pass without doing his best to depreciate me in his son's estimation. Besides,
there was the risk, if I had allowed Philip to remain long away from me, of
losing--no, while I keep my beauty I cannot be in such danger as that--let me
say, of permitting time and absence to weaken my hold on him. However sullen and
silent he may be, when we meet--and I find him in that condition far too
often--I can, sooner or later, recall him to his brighter self. My eyes preserve
their charm, my talk can still amuse him, and, better even than that, I feel the
answering thrill in him, which tells me how precious my kisses are--not too
lavishly bestowed! But the time when I am obliged to leave him to himself is the
time that I dread. How do I know that his thoughts are not wandering away to
Eunice? He denies it; he declares that he only went to the farmhouse to express
his regret for his own thoughtless conduct, and to offer her the brotherly
regard due to the sister of his promised wife. Can I believe it? Oh, what would
I not give to be able to believe it! How can I feel sure that her refusal to see
him was not a cunning device to make him long for another interview, and plan
perhaps in private to go back and try again. Marriage! Nothing will quiet these
frightful doubts of mine, nothing will reward me for all that I have suffered,
nothing will warm my heart with the delightful sense of triumph over Eunice, but
my marriage to Philip. And what does he say, when I urge it on him?--yes, I have
fallen as low as that, in the despair which sometimes possesses me. He has his
answer, always the same, and always ready: "How are we to live? where is the
money?" The maddening part of it is that I cannot accuse him of raising
objections that don't exist. We are poorer than ever here, since my father's
illness--and Philip's allowance is barely enough to suffice him as a single man.
Oh, how I hate the rich!
It was useless to think of going to bed. How could I hope to sleep, with my head
throbbing, and my thoughts in this disturbed state? I put on my comfortable
dressing-gown, and sat down to try what reading would do to quiet my mind.
I had borrowed the book from the Library, to which I have been a subscriber in
secret for some time past. It was an old volume, full of what we should now call