The Legacy of Cain

from the wretch, who has tempted him once and may tempt him again, under

  pretense of using the interest of his friends in London to find a place under

  Government. He has not been very well for the last day or two, and the execution

  of our project is in consequence delayed.

  I have news of Mrs. Tenbruggen which will, I think, surprise you.

  She has kept away from us in a most unaccountable manner. I called on her at the

  hotel, and heard she was engaged with her lawyer. On the next day, she suddenly

  returned to her old habits, and paid the customary visit. I observed a similar

  alteration in her state of feeling. She is now coldly civil to Helena; and she

  asks after Eunice with a maternal interest touching to see--I said to her:

  "Elizabeth, you appear to have changed your opinion of the two girls, since I

  saw you." She answered, with a delightful candor which reminded me of old times:

  "Completely!" I said: "A woman of your intellectual caliber, dear, doesn't

  change her mind without a good reason for it." Elizabeth cordially agreed with

  me. I ventured to be a little more explicit: "You have no doubt made some

  interesting discovery." Elizabeth agreed again; and I ventured again: "I suppose

  I may not ask what the discovery is?" "No, Selina, you may not ask."

  This is curious; but it is nothing to what I have got to tell you next. Just as

  I was longing to take her to my bosom again as my friend and confidante,

  Elizabeth has disappeared. And, alas! alas! there is a reason for it which no

  sympathetic person can dispute.

  I have just received some overwhelming news, in the form of a neat parcel,

  addressed to myself.

  There has been a scandal at the hotel. That monster in human form, Elizabeth's

  husband, is aware of his wife's professional fame, has heard of the large sums

  of money which she earns as the greatest living professor of massage, has been

  long on the lookout for her, and has discovered her at last. He has not only

  forced his way into her sitting-room at the hotel; he insists on her living with

  him again; her money being the attraction, it is needless to say. If she

  refuses, he threatens her with the law, the barbarous law, which, to use his own

  coarse expression, will "restore his conjugal rights."

  All this I gather from the narrative of my unhappy friend, which forms one of

  the two inclosures in her parcel. She has already made her escape. Ha! the man

  doesn't live who can circumvent Elizabeth. The English Court of Law isn't built

  which can catch her when she roams the free and glorious Continent.

  The vastness of this amazing woman's mind is what I must pause to admire. In the

  frightful catastrophe that has befallen her, she can still think of Philip and

  Euneece. She is eager to hear of their marriage, and renounces Helena with her

  whole heart. "I too was deceived by that cunning young Woman," she writes.

  "Beware of her, Selina. Unless I am much mistaken, she is going to end badly.

  Take care of Philip, take care of Euneece. If you want help, apply at once to my

  favorite hero in real life, The Governor." I don't presume to correct

  Elizabeth's language. I should have called you The idol of the Women.

  The second inclosure contains, as I suppose, a wedding present. It is carefully

  sealed--it feels no bigger than an ordinary letter--and it contains an

  inscription which your highly-cultivated intelligence may be able to explain. I

  copy it as follows:

  "To be inclosed in another envelope, addressed to Mr. Dunboyne the elder, at

  Percy's Private Hotel, London, and delivered by a trustworthy messenger, on the

  day when Mr. Philip Dunboyne is married to Miss Eunice Gracedieu. Placed

  meanwhile under the care of Miss Selina Jillgall."

  Why is this mysterious letter to be sent to Philip's father? I wonder whether

  that circumstance will puzzle you as it has puzzled me.

  I have kept my report back, so as to send you the last news relating to Philip's

  state of health. To my great regret, his illness seems to have made a serious

  advance since yesterday. When I ask if he is in pain, he says: "It isn't exactly

  pain; I feel as if I was sinking. Sometimes I am giddy; and sometimes I find

  myself feeling thirsty and sick." I have no opportunity of looking after him as

  I could wish; for Helena insists on nursing him, assisted by the housemaid.

  Maria is a very good girl in her way, but too stupid to be of much use. If he is

  not better to-morrow, I shall insist on sending for the doctor.

  He is no better; and he wishes to have medical help. Helena doesn't seem to

  understand his illness. It was not until Philip had insisted on seeing him that

  she consented to send for the doctor.

  You had some talk with this experienced physician when you were here, and you

  know what a clever man he is. When I tell you that he hesitates to say what is

  the matter with Philip, you will feel as much alarmed as I do. I will wait to

  send this to the post until I can write in a more definite way.

  Two days more have passed. The doctor has put two very strange questions to me.

  He asked, first, if there was anybody staying with us besides the regular

  members of the household. I said we had no visitor. He wanted to know, next, if

  Mr. Philip Dunboyne had made any enemies since he has been living in our town. I

  said none that I knew of--and I took the liberty of asking what he meant. He

  answered to this, that he has a few more inquiries to make, and that he will

  tell me what he means to-morrow.

  For God's sake come here as soon as you possibly can. The whole burden is thrown

  on me--and I am quite unequal to it.

  I received the doctor to-day in the drawing-room. To my amazement, he begged

  leave to speak with me in the garden. When I asked why, he answered: "I don't

  want to have a listener at the door. Come out on the lawn, where we can be sure

  that we are alone."

  When we were in the garden, he noticed that I was trembling.

  "Rouse your courage, Miss Jillgall," he said. "In the Minister's helpless state

  there is nobody whom I can speak to but yourself."

  I ventured to remind him that he might speak to Helena as well as to myself.

  He looked as black as thunder when I mentioned her name. All he said was, "No!"

  But, oh, if you had heard his voice--and he so gentle and sweet-tempered at

  other times--you would have felt, as I did, that he had Helena in his mind!

  "Now, listen to this," he went on. "Everything that my art can do for Mr. Philip

  Dunboyne, while I am at his bedside, is undone while I am away by some other

  person. He is worse to-day than I have seen him yet."

  "Oh, sir, do you think he will die?"

  "He will certainly die unless the right means are taken to save him, and taken

  at once. It is my duty not to flinch from telling you the truth. I have made a

  discovery since yesterday which satisfies me that I am right. Somebody is trying

  to poison Mr. Dunboyne; and somebody will succeed unless he is removed from this

  house."

  I am a poor feeble creature. The doctor caught me, or I should have dropped on

  the grass. It was not a fainting-fit. I only shook and shivered so that I was br />
  too weak to stand up. Encouraged by the doctor, I recovered sufficiently to be

  able to ask him where Philip was to be taken to. He said: "To the hospital. No

  poisoner can follow my patient there. Persuade him to let me take him away, when

  I call again in an hour's time."

  As soon as I could hold a pen, I sent a telegram to you. Pray, pray come by the

  earliest train. I also telegraphed to old Mr. Dunboyne, at the hotel in London.

  It was impossible for me to face Helena; I own I was afraid. The cook kindly

  went upstairs to see who was in Philip's room. It was the housemaid's turn to

  look after him for a while. I went instantly to his bedside.

  There was no persuading him to allow himself to be taken to the hospital. "I am

  dying," he said. "If you have any pity for me, send for Euneece. Let me see her

  once more, let me hear her say that she forgives me, before I die."

  I hesitated. It was too terrible to think of Euneece in the same house with her

  sister. Her life might be in danger! Philip gave me a look, a dreadful ghastly

  look. "If you refuse," he said wildly, "the grave won't hold me. I'll haunt you

  for the rest of your life."

  "She shall hear that you are ill," I answered--and ran out of the room before he

  could speak again.

  What I had promised to write, I did write. But, placed between Euneece's danger

  and Philip's danger, my heart was all for Euneece. Would Helena spare her, if

  she came to Philip's bedside? In such terror as I never felt before in my life,

  I added a word more, entreating her not to leave the farm. I promised to keep

  her regularly informed on the subject of Philip's illness; and I mentioned that

  I expected the Governor to return to us immediately. "Do nothing," I wrote,

  "without his advice." My letter having been completed, I sent the cook away with

  it, in a chaise. She belonged to the neighborhood, and she knew the farmhouse

  well.

  Nearly two hours afterward, I heard the chaise stop at the door, and ran out,

  impatient to hear how my sweet girl had received my letter. God help us all!

  When I opened the door, the first person whom I saw was Euneece herself.

  CHAPTER LIX.

  DEFENSE.

  ONE surprise followed another, after I had encountered Euneece at the door.

  When my fondness had excused her for setting the well-meant advice in my letter

  at defiance, I was conscious of expecting to see her in tears; eager,

  distressingly eager, to hear what hope there might be of Philip's recovery. I

  saw no tears, I heard no inquiries. She was pale, and quiet, and silent. Not a

  word fell from her when we met, not a word when she kissed me, not a word when

  she led the way into the nearest room--the dining-room. It was only when we were

  shut in together that she spoke.

  "Which is Philip's room?" she asked.

  Instead of wanting to know how he was, she desired to know where he was! I

  pointed toward the back dining-room, which had been made into a bedroom for

  Philip. He had chosen it himself, when he first came to stay with us, because

  the window opened into the garden. and he could slip out and smoke at any hour

  of the day or night, when he pleased.

  "Who is with him now?" was the next strange thing this sadly-changed girl said

  to me.

  "Maria is taking her turn," I answered; "she assists in nursing Philip."

  "Where is--?" Euneece got no further than that. Her breath quickened, her color

  faded away. I had seen people look as she was looking now, when they suffered

  under some sudden pain. Before I could offer to help her, she rallied, and went

  on: "Where," she began again, "is the other nurse?"

  "You mean Helena?" I said.

  "I mean the Poisoner."

  When I remind you, dear Mr. Governor, that my letter had carefully concealed

  from her the horrible discovery made by the doctor, your imagination will

  picture my state of mind. She saw that I was overpowered. Her sweet nature, so

  strangely frozen up thus far, melted at last. "You don't know what I have

  heard," she said, "you don't know what thoughts have been roused in me." She

  left her chair, and sat on my knee with the familiarity of the dear old times,

  and took the letter that I had written to her from her pocket.

  "Look at it yourself," she said, "and tell me if anybody could read it, and not

  see that you were concealing something. My dear, I have driven round by the

  doctor's house--I have seen him--I have persuaded him, or perhaps I ought to say

  surprised him, into telling me the truth. But the kind old man is obstinate. He

  wouldn't believe me when I told him I was on my way here to save Philip's life.

  He said: 'My child, you will only put your own life in jeopardy. If I had not

  seen that danger, I should never have told you of the dreadful state of things

  at home. Go back to the good people at the farm, and leave the saving of Philip

  to me.' "

  "He was right, Euneece, entirely right."

  "No, dear, he was wrong. I begged him to come here, and judge for himself; and I

  ask you to do the same."

  I was obstinate. "Go back!" I persisted. "Go back to the farm!"

  "Can I see Philip?" she asked.

  I have heard some insolent men say that women are like cats. If they mean that

  we do, figuratively speaking, scratch at times, I am afraid they are not

  altogether wrong. An irresistible impulse made me say to poor Euneece: "This is

  a change indeed, since you refused to receive Philip."

  "Is there no change in the circumstances?" she asked sadly. "Isn't he ill and in

  danger?"

  I begged her to forgive me; I said I meant no harm.

  "I gave him up to my sister," she continued, "when I believed that his happiness

  depended, not on me, but on her. I take him back to myself, when he is at the

  mercy of a demon who threatens his life. Come, Selina, let us go to Philip."

  She put her arm round me, and made me get up from my chair. I was so easily

  persuaded by her, that the fear of what Helena's jealousy and Helena's anger

  might do was scarcely present in my thoughts. The door of communication was

  locked on the side of the bedchamber. I went into the hall, to enter Philip's

  room by the other door. She followed, waiting behind me. I heard what passed

  between them when Maria went out to her.

  "Where is Miss Gracedieu?"

  "Resting upstairs, miss, in her room."

  "Look at the clock, and tell me when you expect her to come down here."

  "I am to call her, miss, in ten minutes more."

  "Wait in the dining-room, Maria, till I come back to you. "

  She joined me. I held the door open for her to go into Philip's room. It was not

  out of curiosity; the feeling that urged me was sympathy, when I waited a moment

  to see their first meeting. She bent over the poor, pallid, trembling, suffering

  man, and raised him in her arms, and laid his head on her bosom. "My Philip!"

  She murmured those words in a kiss. I closed the door, I had a good cry; and,

  oh, how it comforted me!

  There was only a minute to spare when she came out of the room. Maria was

  waiting for her. Euneece said, as quietly as ever: "Go and call Miss Gra
cedieu."

  The girl looked at her, and saw--I don't know what. Maria became alarmed. But

  she went up the stairs, and returned in haste to tell us that her young mistress

  was coming down.

  The faint rustling of Helena's dress as she left her room reached us in the

  silence. I remained at the open door of the dining-room, and Maria approached

  and stood near me. We were both frightened. Euneece stepped forward, and stood

  on the mat at the foot of the stairs, waiting. Her back was toward me; I could

  only see that she was as still as a statue. The rustling of the dress came

  nearer. Oh, heavens! what was going to happen? My teeth chattered in my head; I

  held by Maria's shoulder. Drops of perspiration showed themselves on the girl's

  forehead; she stared in vacant terror at the slim little figure, posted firm and

  still on the mat.

  Helena turned the corner of the stairs, and waited a moment on the last landing,

  and saw her sister.

  "You here?" she said. "What do you want?"

  There was no reply. Helena descended, until she reached the last stair but one.

  There, she stopped. Her staring eyes grew large and wild; her hand shook as she

  stretched it out, feeling for the banister; she staggered as she caught at it,

  and held herself up. The silence was still unbroken. Something in me, stronger

  than myself, drew my steps along the hall nearer and nearer to the stair, till I

  could see the face which had struck that murderous wretch with terror.

  I looked.

  No! it was not my sweet girl; it was a horrid transformation of her. I saw a

  fearful creature, with glittering eyes that threatened some unimaginable

  vengeance. Her lips were drawn back; they showed her clinched teeth. A burning

  red flush dyed her face. The hair of her head rose, little by little, slowly.

  And, most dreadful sight of all, she seemed, in the stillness of the house, to

  be listening to something. If I could have moved, I should have fled to the

  first place of refuge I could find. If I could have raised my voice, I should

  have cried for help. I could do neither the one nor the other. I could only

  look, look, look; held by the horror of it with a hand of iron.

  Helena must have roused her courage, and resisted her terror. I heard her speak:

  "Let me by!"

  "No."

  Slowly, steadily, in a whisper, Euneece made that reply.

  Helena tried once more--still fighting against her own terror: I knew it by the

  trembling of her voice.

  "Let me by," she repeated; "I am on my way to Philip's room."

  "You will never enter Philip's room again."

  "Who will stop me?"

  "I will."

  She had spoken in the same steady whisper throughout--but now she moved. I saw

  her set her foot on the first stair. I saw the horrid glitter in her eyes flash

  close into Helena's face. I heard her say:

  "Poisoner, go back to your room."

  Silent and shuddering, Helena shrank away from her--daunted by her glittering

  eyes; mastered by her lifted hand pointing up the stairs.

  Helena slowly ascended till she reached the landing. She turned and looked down;

  she tried to speak. The pointing hand struck her dumb, and drove her up the next

  flight of stairs. She was lost to view. Only the small rustling sound of the

  dress was to be heard, growing fainter and fainter; then an interval of

  stillness; then the noise of a door opened and closed again; then no sound

  more--but a change to be seen: the transformed creature was crouching on her

  knees, still and silent, her face covered by her hands. I was afraid to approach

  her; I was afraid to speak to her. After a time, she rose. Suddenly, swiftly,

  with her head turned away from me, she opened the door of Philip's room--and was

  gone.

  I looked round. There was only Maria in the lonely hall. Shall I try to tell you

  what my sensations were? It may sound strangely, but it is true--I felt like a

  sleeper, who has half-awakened from a dream.

  CHAPTER LX.