member of Parliament. When I have succeeded, you shall tell him the good news."
What a vile humor I must have been in, at the time, not to have appreciated the
delightful gayety of this good creature; I went to the other extreme now, and
behaved like a gushing young miss fresh from school. I kissed her.
She burst out laughing. "What a sacrifice!" she cried. "A kiss for me, which
ought to have been kept for Philip! By-the-by, do you know what I should do,
Helena, in your place? I should take our handsome young man away from that
hotel!"
"I will do anything that you advise," I said.
"And you will do well, my child. In the first place, the hotel is too expensive
for Philip's small means. In the second place, two of the chambermaids have
audaciously presumed to be charming girls; and the men, my dear--well! well! I
will leave you to find that out for yourself. In the third place, you want to
have Philip under your own wing; domestic familiarity will make him fonder of
you than ever. Keep him out of the sort of company that he meets with in the
billiard-room and the smoking-room. You have got a spare bed here, I know, and
your poor father is in no condition to use his authority. Make Philip one of the
family."
This last piece of advice staggered me. I mentioned the Proprieties. Mrs.
Tenbruggen laughed at the Proprieties.
"Make Selina of some use," she suggested. "While you have got her in the house,
Propriety is rampant. Why condemn poor helpless Philip to cheap lodgings? Time
enough to cast him out to the feather-bed and the fleas on the night before your
marriage. Besides, I shall be in and out constantly--for I mean to cure your
father. The tongue of scandal is silent in my awful presence; an atmosphere of
virtue surrounds Mamma Tenbruggen. Think of it."
CHAPTER LV.
HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.
I DID think of it. Philip came to us, and lived in our house.
Let me hasten to add that the protest of Propriety was duly entered, on the day
before my promised husband arrived. Standing in the doorway--nothing would
induce her to take a chair, or even to enter the room--Miss Jillgall delivered
her opinion on Philip's approaching visit. Mrs. Tenbruggen reported it in her
pocket-book, as if she was representing a newspaper at a public meeting. Here it
is, copied from her notes:
"Miss Helena Gracedieu, my first impulse under the present disgusting
circumstances was to leave the house, and earn a bare crust in the cheapest
garret I could find in the town. But my grateful heart remembers Mr. Gracedieu.
My poor afflicted cousin was good to me when I was helpless. I cannot forsake
him when he is helpless. At whatever sacrifice of my own self-respect, I remain
under this roof, so dear to me for the Minister's sake. I notice, miss, that you
smile. I see my once dear Elizabeth, the friend who has so bitterly disappointed
me--" she stopped, and put her handkerchief to her eyes, and went on again--"the
friend who has so bitterly disappointed me, taking satirical notes of what I
say. I am not ashamed of what I say. The virtue which will not stretch a little,
where the motive is good, is feeble virtue indeed. I shall stay in the house,
and witness horrors, and rise superior to them. Good-morning, Miss Gracedieu.
Good-morning, Elizabeth." She performed a magnificent curtsey, and (as Mrs.
Tenbruggen's experience of the stage informed me) made a very creditable exit.
A week has passed, and I have not opened my Diary.
My days have glided away in one delicious flow of happiness. Philip has been
delightfully devoted to me. His fervent courtship, far exceeding any similar
attentions which he may once have paid to Eunice, has shown such variety and
such steadfastness of worship, that I despair of describing it. My enjoyment of
my new life is to be felt--not to be coldly considered, and reduced to an
imperfect statement in words.
For the first time I feel capable, if the circumstances encouraged me, of acts
of exalted virtue. For instance, I could save my country if my country was worth
it. I could die a martyr to religion if I had a religion. In one word, I am
exceedingly well satisfied with myself. The little disappointments of life pass
over me harmless. I do not even regret the failure of good Mrs. Tenbruggen's
efforts to find an employment for Philip, worthy of his abilities and
accomplishments. The member of Parliament to whom she had applied has chosen a
secretary possessed of political influence. That is the excuse put forward in
his letter to Mrs. Tenbruggen. Wretched corrupt creature! If he was worth a
thought I should pity him. He has lost Philip's services.
Three days more have slipped by. The aspect of my heaven on earth is beginning
to alter.
Perhaps the author of that wonderful French novel, "L'Ame Damn?e," is right when
he tells us that human happiness is misery in masquerade. It would be wrong to
say that I am miserable. But I may be on the way to it; I am anxious.
To-day, when he did not know that I was observing him, I discovered a
preoccupied look in Philip's eyes. He laughed when I asked if anything had
happened to vex him. Was it a natural laugh? He put his arm round me and kissed
me. Was it done mechanically? I daresay I am out of humor myself. I think I had
a little headache. Morbid, probably. I won't think of it any more.
It has occurred to me this morning that he may dislike being left by himself,
while I am engaged in my household affairs. If this is the case, intensely as I
hate her, utterly as I loathe the idea of putting her in command over my
domestic dominions, I shall ask Miss Jillgall to take my place as housekeeper.
I was away to-day in the kitchen regions rather longer than usual. When I had
done with my worries, Philip was not to be found. Maria, looking out of one of
the bedroom windows instead of doing her work, had seen Mr. Dunboyne leave the
house. It was possible that he had charged Miss Jillgall with a message for me.
I asked if she was in her room. No; she, too, had gone out. It was a fine day,
and Philip had no doubt taken a stroll--but he might have waited till I could
join him. There were some orders to be given to the butcher and the
green-grocer. I, too, left the house, hoping to get rid of some little
discontent, caused by thinking of what had happened. Returning by the way of
High Street--I declare I can hardly believe it even now--I did positively see
Miss Jillgall coming out of a pawnbroker's shop!
The direction in which she turned prevented her from seeing me. She was quite
unaware that I had discovered her; and I have said nothing about it since. But I
noticed something unusual in the manner in which her watch-chain was hanging,
and I asked her what o'clock it was. She said, "You have got your own watch." I
told her my watch had stopped. "So has mine," she said. There is no doubt about
it now; she has pawned her watch. What for? She lives here for nothing, and she
has not had a new dress since I have known her. Why does she want money?
Philip had not returned when I got home. Another mysterio
us journey to London?
No. After an absence of more than two hours, he came back.
Naturally enough, I asked what he had been about. He had been taking a long
walk. For his health's sake? No: to think. To think of what? Well, I might be
surprised to hear it, but his idle life was beginning to weigh on his spirits;
he wanted employment. Had he thought of an employment? Not yet. Which way had he
walked? Anyway: he had not noticed where he went. These replies were all made in
a tone that offended me. Besides, I observed there was no dust on his boots
(after a week of dry weather), and his walk of two hours did not appear to have
heated or tired him. I took an opportunity of consulting Mrs. Tenbruggen.
She had anticipated that I should appeal to her opinion, as a woman of the
world.
I shall not set down in detail what she said. Some of it humiliated me; and from
some of it I recoiled. The expression of her opinion came to this. In the
absence of experience, a certain fervor of temperament was essential to success
in the art of fascinating men. Either my temperament was deficient, or my
intellect overpowered it. It was natural that I should suppose myself to be as
susceptible to the tender passion as the most excitable woman living. Delusion,
my Helena, amiable delusion! Had I ever observed or had any friend told me that
my pretty hands were cold hands? I had beautiful eyes, expressive of vivacity,
of intelligence, of every feminine charm, except the one inviting charm that
finds favor in the eyes of a man. She then entered into particulars, which I
don't deny showed a true interest in helping me. I was ungrateful, sulky,
self-opinionated. Dating from that day's talk with Mrs. Tenbruggen, my new
friendship began to show signs of having caught a chill.
But I did my best to follow her instructions--and failed.
It is perhaps true that my temperament is overpowered by my intellect. Or it is
possibly truer still that the fire in my heart, when it warms to love, is a fire
that burns low. My belief is that I surprised Philip instead of charming him. He
responded to my advances, but I felt that it was not done in earnest, not
spontaneously. Had I any right to complain? Was I in earnest? Was I spontaneous?
We were making love to each other under false pretenses. Oh, what a fool I was
to ask for Mrs. Tenbruggen's advice!
A humiliating doubt has come to me suddenly. Has his heart been inclining to
Eunice again? After such a letter as she has written to him? Impossible!
Three events since yesterday, which I consider, trifling as they may be,
intimations of something wrong.
First, Miss Jillgall, who at one time was eager to take my place, has refused to
relieve me of my housekeeping duties. Secondly, Philip has been absent again, on
another long walk. Thirdly, when Philip returned, depressed and sulky, I caught
Miss Jillgall looking at him with interest and pity visible in her skinny face.
What do these things mean?
I am beginning to doubt everybody. Not one of them, Philip included, cares for
me--but I can frighten them, at any rate. Yesterday evening, I dropped on the
floor as suddenly as if I had been shot: a fit of some sort. The doctor honestly
declared that he was at a loss to account for it. He would have laid me under an
eternal obligation if he had failed to bring me back to life again.
As it is, I am more clever than the doctor. What brought the fit on is well
known to me. Rage--furious, overpowering, deadly rage--was the cause. I am now
in the cold-blooded state, which can look back at the event as composedly as if
it had happened to some other girl. Suppose that girl had let her sweetheart
know how she loved him as she had never let him know it before. Suppose she
opened the door again the instant after she had left the room, eager, poor
wretch, to say once more, for the fiftieth time, "My angel, I love you!" Suppose
she found her angel standing with his back toward her, so that his face was
reflected in the glass. And suppose she discovered in that face, so smiling and
so sweet when his head had rested on her bosom only the moment before, the most
hideous expression of disgust that features can betray. There could be no doubt
of it; I had made my poor offering of love to a man who secretly loathed me. I
wonder that I survived my sense of my own degradation. Well! I am alive; and I
know him in his true character at last. Am I a woman who submits when an outrage
is offered to her? What will happen next? Who knows? I am in a fine humor. What
I have just written has set me laughing at myself. Helena Gracedieu has one
merit at least--she is a very amusing person.
I slept last night.
This morning, I am strong again, calm, wickedly capable of deceiving Mr. Philip
Dunboyne, as he has deceived me. He has not the faintest suspicion that I have
discovered him. I wish he had courage enough to kill somebody. How I should
enjoy hiring the nearest window to the scaffold, and seeing him hanged!
Miss Jillgall is in better spirits than ever. She is going to take a little
holiday; and the cunning creature makes a mystery of it. "Good-by, Miss Helena.
I am going to stay for a day or two with a friend." What friend? Who cares?
Last night, I was wakeful. In the darkness a daring idea came to me. To-day, I
have carried out the idea. Something has followed which is well worth entering
in my Diary.
I left the room at the usual hour for attending to my domestic affairs. The
obstinate cook did me a service; she was insolent; she wanted to have her own
way. I gave her her own way. In less than five minutes I was on the watch in the
pantry, which has a view of the house door. My hat and my parasol were waiting
for me on the table, in case of my going out, too.
In a few minutes more, I heard the door opened. Mr. Philip Dunboyne stepped out.
He was going to take another of his long walks.
I followed him to the street in which the cabs stand. He hired the first one on
the rank, an open chaise; while I kept myself hidden in a. shop door.
The moment he started on his drive, I hired a closed cab. "Double your fare," I
said to the driver, "whatever it may be, if you follow that chaise cleverly, and
do what I tell you."
He nodded and winked at me. A wicked-looking old fellow; just the man I wanted.
We followed the chaise.
CHAPTER LVI.
HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.
WHEN we had left the town behind us, the coachman began to drive more slowly. In
my ignorance, I asked what this change in the pace meant. He pointed with his
whip to the open road and to the chaise in the distance.
"If we keep too near the gentleman, miss, he has only got to look back, and
he'll see we are following him. The safe thing to do is to let the chaise get on
a bit. We can't lose sight of it, out here."
I had felt inclined to trust in the driver's experience, and he had already
justified my confidence in him. This encouraged me to consult his opinion on a
matter of some importance to my present interests. I could see the necessity of
avoiding disc
overy when we had followed the chaise to its destination; but I was
totally at a loss to know how it could be done. My wily old man was ready with
his advice the moment I asked for it.
"Wherever the chaise stops, miss, we must drive past it as if we were going
somewhere else. I shall notice the place while we go by; and you will please sit
back in the corner of the cab so that the gentleman can't see you."
"Well," I said, "and what next?"
"Next, miss, I shall pull up, wherever it may be, out of sight of the driver of
the chaise. He bears an excellent character, I don't deny it; but I've known him
for years--and we had better not trust him. I shall tell you where the gentleman
stopped; and you will go back to the place (on foot, of course), and see for
yourself what's to be done, specially if there happens to be a lady in the case.
No offense, miss; it's in my experience that there's generally a lady in the
case. Anyhow, you can judge for yourself, and you'll know where to find me
waiting when you want me again."
"Suppose something happens," I suggested, "that we don't expect?"
"I shan't lose my head, miss, whatever happens."
"All very well, coachman; but I have only your word for it." In the irritable
state of my mind, the man's confident way of thinking annoyed me.
"Begging your pardon, my young lady, you've got (if I may say so) what they call
a guarantee. When I was a young man, I drove a cab in London for ten years. Will
that do?"
"I suppose you mean," I answered, "that you have learned deceit in the wicked
ways of the great city."
He took this as a compliment. "Thank you, miss. That's it exactly."
After a long drive, or so it seemed to my impatience, we passed the chaise drawn
up at a lonely house, separated by a front garden from the road. In two or three
minutes more, we stopped where the road took a turn, and descended to lower
ground. The farmhouse which we had left behind us was known to the driver. He
led the way to a gate at the side of the road, and opened it for me.
"In your place, miss," he said slyly, "the private way back is the way I should
wish to take. Try it by the fields. Turn to the right when you have passed the
barn, and you'll find yourself at the back of the house." He stopped, and looked
at his big silver watch. "Half-past twelve," he said, "the Chawbacons--I mean
the farmhouse servants, miss--will be at their dinner. All in your favor, so
far. If the dog happens to be loose, don't forget that his name's Grinder; call
him by his name, and pat him before he has time enough to think, and he'll let
you be. When you want me, here you'll find me waiting for orders."
I looked back as I crossed the field. The driver was sitting on the gate,
smoking his pipe, and the horse was nibbling the grass at the roadside. Two
happy animals, without a burden on their minds!
After passing the barn, I saw nothing of the dog. Far or near, no living
creature appeared; the servants must have been at dinner, as the coachman had
foreseen. Arriving at a wooden fence, I opened a gate in it, and found myself on
a bit of waste ground. On my left, there was a large duck-pond. On my right, I
saw the fowl-house and the pigstyes. Before me was a high impenetrable hedge;
and at some distance behind it--an orchard or a garden, as I supposed, filling
the intermediate space--rose the back of the house. I made for the shelter of
the hedge, in the fear that some one might approach a window and see me. Once
sheltered from observation, I might consider what I should do next. It was
impossible to doubt that this was the house in which Eunice was living. Neither
could I fail to conclude that Philip had tried to persuade her to see him, on
those former occasions when he told me he had taken a long walk.
As I crouched behind the hedge, I heard voices approaching on the other side of