DISCOVERY.
A LITTLE later, on that eventful day, when I was most in need of all that your
wisdom and kindness could do to guide me, came the telegram which announced that
you were helpless under an attack of gout. As soon as I had in some degree got
over my disappointment, I remembered having told Euneece in my letter that I
expected her kind old friend to come to us. With the telegram in my hand I
knocked softly at Philip's door.
The voice that bade me come in was the gentle voice that I knew so well. Philip
was sleeping. There, by his bedside, with his hand resting in her hand, was
Euneece, so completely restored to her own sweet self that I could hardly
believe what I had seen, not an hour since. She talked of you, when I showed her
your message, with affectionate interest and regret. Look back, my admirable
friend, at what I have written on the two or three pages which precede this, and
explain the astounding contrast if you can.
I was left alone to watch by Philip, while Euneece went away to see her father.
Soon afterward, Maria took my place; I had been sent for to the next room to
receive the doctor.
He looked care-worn and grieved. I said I was afraid he had brought bad news
with him.
"The worst possible news," he answered. "A terrible exposure threatens this
family, and I am powerless to prevent it,"
He then asked me to remember the day when I had been surprised by the singular
questions which he had put to me, and when he had engaged to explain himself
after he had made some inquiries. Why, and how, he had set those inquiries on
foot was what he had now to tell. I will repeat what he said, in his own words,
as nearly as I can remember them. While he was in attendance on Philip, he had
observed symptoms which made him suspect that Digitalis had been given to the
young man, in doses often repeated. Cases of attempted poisoning by this
medicine were so rare, that he felt bound to put his suspicions to the test by
going round among the chemists's shops--excepting of course the shop at which
his own prescriptions were made up--and asking if they had lately dispensed any
preparation of Digitalis, ordered perhaps in a larger quantity than usual. At
the second shop he visited, the chemist laughed. "Why, doctor," he said, "have
you forgotten your own prescription?" After this, the prescription was asked
for, and produced. It was on the paper used by the doctor--paper which had his
address printed at the top, and a notice added, telling patients who came to
consult him for the second time to bring their prescriptions with them. Then,
there followed in writing: "Tincture of Digitalis, one ounce"--with his
signature at the end, not badly imitated, but a forgery nevertheless. The
chemist noticed the effect which this discovery had produced on the doctor, and
asked if that was his signature. He could hardly, as an honest man, have
asserted that a forgery was a signature of his own writing. So he made the true
reply, and asked who had presented the prescription. The chemist called to his
assistant to come forward. "Did you tell me that you knew, by sight, the young
lady who brought this prescription?" The assistant admitted it. "Did you tell me
she was Miss Helena Gracedieu?" "I did." "Are you sure of not having made any
mistake?" "Quite sure." The chemist then said: "I myself supplied the Tincture
of Digitalis, and the young lady paid for it, and took it away with her. You
have had all the information that I can give you, sir; and I may now ask, if you
can throw any light on the matter." Our good friend thought of the poor
Minister, so sorely afflicted, and of the famous name so sincerely respected in
the town and in the country round, and said he could not undertake to give an
immediate answer. The chemist was excessively angry. "You know as well as I do,"
he said, "that Digitalis, given in certain doses, is a poison, and you cannot
deny that I honestly believed myself to be dispensing your prescription. While
you are hesitating to give me an answer, my character may suffer; I may be
suspected myself." He ended in declaring he should consult his lawyer. The
doctor went home, and questioned his servant. The man remembered the day of Miss
Helena's visit in the afternoon, and the intention that she expressed of waiting
for his master's return. He had shown her into the parlor which opened into the
consulting-room. No other visitor was in the house at that time, or had arrived
during the rest of the day. The doctor's own experience, when he got home, led
him to conclude that Helena had gone into the consulting-room. He had entered
that room, for the purpose of writing some prescriptions, and had found the
leaves of paper that he used diminished in number. After what he had heard, and
what he had discovered (to say nothing of what he suspected), it occurred to him
to look along the shelves of his medical library. He found a volume (treating of
Poisons) with a slip of paper left between the leaves; the poison described at
the place so marked being Digitalis, and the paper used being one of his own
prescription-papers. "If, as I fear, a legal investigation into Helena's conduct
is a possible event," the doctor concluded, "there is the evidence that I shall
be obliged to give, when I am called as a witness."
It is my belief that I could have felt no greater dismay, if the long arm of the
Law had laid its hold on me while he was speaking. I asked what was to be done.
"If she leaves the house at once," the doctor replied, "she may escape the
infamy of being charged with an attempt at murder by poison; and, in her
absence, I can answer for Philip's life. I don't urge you to warn her, because
that might be a dangerous thing to do. It is for you to decide, as a member of
the family, whether you will run the risk."
I tried to speak to him of Euneece, and to tell him what I had already related
to yourself. He was in no humor to listen to me. "Keep it for a fitter time," he
answered; "and think of what I have just said to you." With that, he left me, on
his way to Philip's room.
Mental exertion was completely beyond me. Can you understand a poor middle-aged
spinster being frightened into doing a dangerous thing? That may seem to be
nonsense. But if you ask why I took a morsel of paper, and wrote the warning
which I was afraid to communicate by word of mouth--why I went upstairs with my
knees knocking together, and opened the door of Helena's room just wide enough
to let my hand pass through--why I threw the paper in, and banged the door to
again, and ran downstairs as I have never run since I was a little girl--I can
only say, in the way of explanation, what I have said already: I was frightened
into doing it.
What I have written, thus far, I shall send to you by to-night's post.
The doctor came back to me, after he had seen Philip, and spoken with Euneece.
He was very angry; and, I must own, not without reason. Philip had flatly
refused to let himself be removed to the hospital; and Euneece--"a mere
girl"--had declared that she would be answerable for consequences!
The doctor
warned me that he meant to withdraw from the case, and to make his declaration
before the magistrates. At my entreaties he consented to return in the evening,
and to judge by results before taking the terrible step that he had threatened.
While I remained at home on the watch, keeping the doors of both rooms locked,
Eunice went out to get Philip's medicine. She came back, followed by a boy
carrying a portable apparatus for cooking. "All that Philip wants, and all that
we want," she explained, "we can provide for ourselves. Give me a morsel of
paper to write on."
Unhooking the little pencil attached to her watch-chain, she paused and looked
toward the door. "Somebody listening," she whispered. "Let them listen." She
wrote a list of necessaries, in the way of things to eat and things to drink,
and asked me to go out and get them myself. "I don't doubt the servants," she
said, speaking distinctly enough to be heard outside; "but I am afraid of what a
Poisoner's cunning and a Poisoner's desperation may do, in a kitchen which is
open to her." I went away on my errand--discovering no listener outside, I need
hardly say. On my return, I found the door of communication with Philip's room
closed, but no longer locked. "We can now attend on him in turn," she said,
"without opening either of the doors which lead into the hall. At night we can
relieve each other, and each of us can get sleep as we want it in the large
armchair in the dining-room. Philip must be safe under our charge, or the doctor
will insist on taking him to the hospital. When we want Maria's help, from time
to time, we can employ her under our own superintendence. Have you anything
else, Selina, to suggest?"
There was nothing left to suggest. Young and inexperienced as she was, how (I
asked) had she contrived to think of all this? She answered, simply "I'm sure I
don't know; my thoughts came to me while I was looking at Philip."
Soon afterward I found an opportunity of inquiring if Helena had left the house.
She had just rung her bell; and Maria had found her, quietly reading, in her
room. Hours afterward, when I was on the watch at night, I heard Philip's door
softly tried from the outside. Her dreadful purpose had not been given up, even
yet.
The doctor came in the evening, as he had promised, and found an improvement in
Philip's health. I mentioned what precautions we had taken, and that they had
been devised by Euneece. "Are you going to withdraw from the case?" I asked. "I
am coming back to the case," he answered, "to-morrow morning."
It had been a disappointment to me to receive no answer to the telegram which I
had sent to Mr. Dunboyne the elder. The next day's post brought the explanation
in a letter to Philip from his father, directed to him at the hotel here. This
showed that my telegram, giving my address at this house, had not been received.
Mr. Dunboyne announced that he had returned to Ireland, finding the air of
London unendurable, after the sea-breezes at home. If Philip had already
married, his father would leave him to a life of genteel poverty with Helena
Gracedieu. If he had thought better of it, his welcome was waiting for him.
Little did Mr. Dunboyne know what changes had taken place since he and his son
had last met, and what hope might yet present itself of brighter days for poor
Euneece! I thought of writing to him. But how would that crabbed old man receive
a confidential letter from a lady who was a stranger?
My doubts were set at rest by Philip himself. He asked me to write a few lines
of reply to his father; declaring that his marriage with Helena was broken
off--that he had not given up all hope of being permitted to offer the sincere
expression of his penitence to Euneece--and that he would gladly claim his
welcome, as soon as he was well enough to undertake the journey to Ireland. When
he had signed the letter, I was so pleased that I made a smart remark. I said:
"This is a treaty of peace between father and son."
When the doctor arrived in the morning, and found the change for the better in
his patient confirmed, he did justice to us at last. He spoke kindly, and even
gratefully, to Euneece. No more allusions to the hospital as a place of safety
escaped him. He asked me cautiously for news of Helena. I could only tell him
that she had gone out at her customary time, and had returned at her customary
time. He did not attempt to conceal that my reply had made him uneasy.
"Are you still afraid that she may succeed in poisoning Philip?" I asked.
"I am afraid of her cunning," he said. "If she is charged with attempting to
poison young Dunboyne, she has some system of defense, you may rely on it, for
which we are not prepared. There, in my opinion, is the true reason for her
extraordinary insensibility to her own danger."
Two more days passed, and we were still safe under the protection of lock and
key.
On the evening of the second day (which was a Monday) Maria came to me in great
tribulation. On inquiring what was the matter, I received a disquieting reply:
"Miss Helena is tempting me. She is so miserable at being prevented from seeing
Mr. Philip, and helping to nurse him, that it is quite distressing to see her.
At the same time, miss, it's hard on a poor servant. She asks me to take the key
secretly out of the door, and lend it to her at night for a few minutes only.
I'm really afraid I shall be led into doing it, if she goes on persuading me
much longer."
I commended Maria for feeling scruples which proved her to be the best of good
girls, and promised to relieve her from all fear of future temptation. This was
easily done. Euneece kept the key of Philip's door in her pocket; and I kept the
key of the dining-room door in mine.
CHAPTER LXI.
ATROCITY.
ON the next day, a Tuesday in the week, an event took place which Euneece and I
viewed with distrust. Early in the afternoon, a young man called with a note for
Helena. It was to be given to her immediately, and no answer was required.
Maria had just closed the house door, and was on her way upstairs with the
letter, when she was called back by another ring at the bell. Our visitor was
the doctor. He spoke to Maria in the hall:
"I think I see a note in your hand. Was it given to you by the young man who has
just left the house?"
"Yes, sir.
"If he's your sweetheart, my dear, I have nothing more to say."
"Good gracious, doctor, how you do talk! I never saw the young man before in my
life."
"In that case, Maria, I will ask you to let me look at the address. Aha!
Mischief!"
The moment I heard that I threw open the dining-room door. Curiosity is not
easily satisfied. When it hears, it wants to see; when it sees, it wants to
know. Every lady will agree with me in this observation.
"Pray come in," I said.
"One minute, Miss Jillgall. My girl, when you give Miss Helena that note, try to
get a sly look at her when she opens it, and come and tell me what you have
seen." He joined me in the dinin
g-room, and closed the door. "The other day," he
went on, "when I told you what I had discovered in the chemist's shop, I think I
mentioned a young man who was called to speak to a question of identity--an
assistant who knew Miss Helena Gracedieu by sight."
"Yes, yes!"
"That young man left the note which Maria has just taken upstairs."
"Who wrote it, doctor, and what does it say?"
"Questions naturally asked, Miss Jillgall--and not easily answered. Where is
Eunice? Her quick wit might help us."
She had gone out to buy some fruit and flowers for Philip.
The doctor accepted his disappointment resignedly. "Let us try what we can do
without her," he said. "That young man's master has been in consultation (you
may remember why) with his lawyer, and Helena may be threatened by an
investigation before the magistrates. If this wild guess of mine turns out to
have hit the mark, the poisoner upstairs has got a warning."
I asked if the chemist had written the note. Foolish enough of me when I came to
think of it. The chemist would scarcely act a friendly part toward Helena, when
she was answerable for the awkward position in which he had placed himself.
Perhaps the young man who had left the warning was also the writer of the
warning. The doctor reminded me that he was all but a stranger to Helena. "We
are not usually interested," he remarked, "in a person whom we only know by
sight."
"Remember that he is a young man," I ventured to say. This was a strong hint,
but the doctor failed to see it. He had evidently forgotten his own youth. I
made another attempt.
"And vile as Helena is," I continued, "we cannot deny that this disgrace to her
sex is a handsome young lady."
He saw it at last. "Woman's wit!" he cried. "You have hit it, Miss Jillgall. The
young fool is smitten with her, and has given her a chance of making her
escape."
"Do you think she will take the chance?"
"For all our sakes, I pray God she may! But I don't feel sure about it."
"Why?"
"Recollect what you and Eunice have done. You have shown your suspicion of her
without an attempt to conceal it. If you had put her in prison you could not
have more completely defeated her infernal design. Do you think she is a likely
person to submit to that, without an effort to be even with you?"
Just as he said those terrifying words, Maria came back to us. He asked at once
what had kept her so long upstairs.
The girl had evidently something to say, which had inflated her (if I may use
such an expression) with a sense of her own importance.
"Please to let me tell it, sir," she answered, "in my own way. Miss Helena
turned as pale as ashes when she opened the letter, and then she took a turn in
the room, and then she looked at me with a smile--well, miss, I can only say
that I felt that smile in the small of my back. I tried to get to the door. She
stopped me. She says: 'Where's Miss Eunice?' I says: 'Gone out.' She says: 'Is
there anybody in the drawing-room?' I says: 'No, miss.' She says: 'Tell Miss
Jillgall I want to speak to her, and say I am waiting in the drawing-room.' It's
every word of it true! And, if a poor servant may give an opinion, I don't like
the look of it."
The doctor dismissed Maria. "Whatever it is," he said to me, "you must go and
hear it."
I am not a courageous woman; I expressed myself as being willing to go to her,
if the doctor went with me. He said that was impossible; she would probably
refuse to speak before any witness; and certainly before him. But he promised to
look after Philip in my absence, and to wait below if it really so happened that
I wanted him. I need only ring the bell, and he would come to me the moment he
heard it. Such kindness as this roused my courage, I suppose. At any rate, I
went upstairs.
She was standing by the fire-place, with her elbow on the chimney-piece, and her
head, resting on her hand. I stopped just inside the door, waiting to hear what