might go to bed, one night, a widower's daughters, and wake up the next day to
discover a stepmother?
"Have I or my sister ever seen the lady?" I asked.
"Never. She has been living abroad; and I have not seen her myself since we were
both young people."
My excellent innocent father! Not the faintest idea of what I had been thinking
of was in his mind. Little did he suspect how welcome was the relief that he had
afforded to his daughter's wicked doubts of him. But he had not said a word yet
about his cousin's personal appearance. There might be remains of good looks
which the housemaid was too stupid to discover.
"After the long interval that has passed since you met," I said, "I suppose she
has become an old woman?"
"No, my dear. Let us say, a middle-aged woman."
"Perhaps she is still an attractive person?"
He smiled. "I am afraid, Helena, that would never have been a very accurate
description of her."
I now knew all that I wanted to know about this alarming person, excepting one
last morsel of information which my father had strangely forgotten.
"We have been talking about the lady for some time," I said; "and you have not
yet told me her name."
Father looked a little embarrassed "It's not a very pretty name," he answered.
"My cousin, my unfortunate cousin, is--Miss Jillgall."
I burst out with such a loud "Oh!" that he laughed. I caught the infection, and
laughed louder still. Bless Miss Jillgall! The interview promised to become an
easy one for both of us, thanks to her name. I was in good spirits, and I made
no attempt to restrain them. "The next time Miss Jillgall honors you with a
visit," I said, "you must give me an opportunity of being presented to her."
He made a strange reply: "You may find your opportunity, Helena, sooner than you
anticipate."
Did this mean that she was going to call again in a day or two? I am afraid I
spoke flippantly. I said: "Oh, father, another lady fascinated by the popular
preacher?"
The garden chairs were near us. He signed to me gravely to be seated by his
side, and said to himself: "This is my fault."
"What is your fault?" I asked.
"I have left you in ignorance, my dear, of my cousin's sad story. It is soon
told; and, if it checks your merriment, it will make amends by deserving your
sympathy. I was indebted to her father, when I was a boy, for acts of kindness
which I can never forget. He was twice married. The death of his first wife left
him with one child--once my playfellow; now the lady whose visit has excited
your curiosity. His second wife was a Belgian. She persuaded him to sell his
business in London, and to invest the money in a partnership with a brother of
hers, established as a sugar-refiner at Antwerp. The little daughter accompanied
her father to Belgium. Are you attending to me, Helena?"
I was waiting for the interesting part of the story, and was wondering when he
would get to it.
"As time went on," he resumed, "the new partner found that the value of the
business at Antwerp had been greatly overrated. After a long struggle with
adverse circumstances, he decided on withdrawing from the partnership before the
whole of his capital was lost in a failing commercial speculation. The end of it
was that he retired, with his daughter, to a small town in East Flanders; the
wreck of his property having left him with an income of no more than two hundred
pounds a year."
I showed my father that I was attending to him now, by inquiring what had become
of the Belgian wife. Those nervous quiverings, which Eunice has mentioned in her
diary, began to appear in his face.
"It is too shameful a story," he said, "to be told to a young girl. The marriage
was dissolved by law; and the wife was the person to blame. I am sure, Helena,
you don't wish to hear any more of this part of the story."
I did wish. But I saw that he expected me to say No--so I said it.
"The father and daughter," he went on, "never so much as thought of returning to
their own country. They were too poor to live comfortably in England. In Belgium
their income was sufficient for their wants. On the father's death, the daughter
remained in the town. She had friends there, and friends nowhere else; and she
might have lived abroad to the end of her days, but for a calamity to which we
are all liable. A long and serious illness completely prostrated her. Skilled
medical attendance, costing large sums of money for the doctors' traveling
expenses, was imperatively required. Experienced nurses, summoned from a distant
hospital, were in attendance night and day. Luxuries, far beyond the reach of
her little income, were absolutely required to support her wasted strength at
the time of her tedious recovery. In one word, her resources were sadly
diminished, when the poor creature had paid her debts, and had regained her hold
on life. At that time, she unhappily met with the man who has ruined her."
It was getting interesting at last. "Ruined her?" I repeated. "Do you mean that
he robbed her?"
"That, Helena, is exactly what I mean--and many and many a helpless woman has
been robbed in the same way. The man of whom I am now speaking was a lawyer in
large practice. He bore an excellent character, and was highly respected for his
exemplary life. My cousin (not at all a discreet person, I am bound to admit)
was induced to consult him on her pecuniary affairs. He expressed the most
generous sympathy--offered to employ her little capital in his business--and
pledged himself to pay her double the interest for her money, which she had been
in the habit of receiving from the sound investment chosen by her father."
"And of course he got the money, and never paid the interest?" Eager to hear the
end, I interrupted the story in those inconsiderate words. My father's answer
quietly reproved me.
"He paid the interest regularly as long as he lived."
"And what happened when he died?"
"He died a bankrupt; the secret profligacy of his life was at last exposed.
Nothing, actually nothing, was left for his creditors. The unfortunate creature,
whose ugly name has amused you, must get help somewhere, or must go to the
workhouse."
If I had been in a state of mind to attend to trifles, this would have explained
the reason why the cook had heard Miss Jillgall crying. But the prospect before
me--the unendurable prospect of having a strange woman in the house--had showed
itself too plainly to be mistaken. I could think of nothing else. With infinite
difficulty I assumed a momentary appearance of composure, and suggested that
Miss Jillgall's foreign friends might have done something to help her.
My father defended her foreign friends. "My dear, they were poor people, and did
all they could afford to do. But for their kindness, my cousin might not have
been able to return to England."
"And to cast herself on your mercy," I added, "in the character of a helpless
woman."
"No, Helena! Not to cast herself on my mercy--but to find my house open to her,
r />
as her father's house was open to me in the bygone time. I am her only surviving
relative; and, while I live, she shall not be a helpless woman."
I began to wish that I had not spoken out so plainly. My father's sweet
temper--I do so sincerely wish I had inherited it!--made the kindest allowances
for me.
"I understand the momentary bitterness of feeling that has escaped you," he
said; "I may almost say that I expected it. My only hesitation in this matter
has been caused by my sense of what I owe to my children. It was putting your
endurance, and your sister's endurance, to a trial to expect you to receive a
stranger (and that stranger not a young girl like yourselves) as one of the
household, living with you in the closest intimacy of family life. The
consideration which has decided me does justice, I hope, to you and Eunice, as
well as to myself. I think that some allowance is due from my daughters to the
father who has always made loving allowance for them. Am I wrong in believing
that my good children have not forgotten this, and have only waited for the
occasion to feel the pleasure of rewarding me?"
It was beautifully put. There was but one thing to be done--I kissed him. And
there was but one thing to be said. I asked at what time we might expect to
receive Miss Jillgall.
"She is staying, Helena, at a small hotel in the town. I have already sent to
say that we are waiting to see her. Perhaps you will look at the spare bedroom?"
"It shall be got ready, father, directly."
I ran into the house; I rushed upstairs into the room that is Eunice's and mine;
I locked the door, and then I gave way to my rage, before it stifled me. I
stamped on the floor, I clinched my fists, I cast myself on the bed, I reviled
that hateful woman by every hard word that I could throw at her. Oh, the luxury
of it! the luxury of it!
Cold water and my hairbrush soon made me fit to be seen again.
As for the spare room, it looked a great deal too comfortable for an incubus
from foreign parts. The one improvement that I could have made, if a friend of
mine had been expected, was suggested by the window-curtains. I was looking at a
torn place in one of them, and determined to leave it unrepaired, when I felt an
arm slipped round my waist from behind. A voice, so close that it tickled my
neck, said: "Dear girl, what friends we shall be!" I turned round, and
confronted Miss Jillgall.
CHAPTER XV.
HELENA'S DIARY.
IF I am not a good girl, where is a good girl to be found? This is in Eunice's
style. It sometimes amuses me to mimic my simple sister.
I have just torn three pages out of my diary, in deference to the expression of
my father's wishes. He took the first opportunity which his cousin permitted him
to enjoy of speaking to me privately; and his object was to caution me against
hastily relying on first impressions of anybody--especially of Miss Jillgall.
"Wait for a day or two," he said; "and then form your estimate of the new member
of our household."
The stormy state of my temper had passed away, and had left my atmosphere calm
again. I could feel that I had received good advice; but unluckily it reached me
too late.
I had formed my estimate of Miss Jillgall, and had put it in writing for my own
satisfaction, at least an hour before my father found himself at liberty to
speak to me. I don't agree with him in distrusting first impressions; and I had
proposed to put my opinion to the test, by referring to what I had written about
his cousin at a later time. However, after what he had said to me, I felt bound
in filial duty to take the pages out of my book, and to let two days pass before
I presumed to enjoy the luxury of hating Miss Jillgall.
On one thing I am determined: Eunice shall not form a hasty opinion, either. She
shall undergo the same severe discipline of self-restraint to which her sister
is obliged to submit. Let us be just, as somebody says, before we are generous.
No more for to-day.
. . . . . . .
I open my diary again--after the prescribed interval has elapsed. The first
impression produced on me by the new member of our household remains entirely
unchanged.
Have I already made the remark that, when one removes a page from a book, it
does not necessarily follow that one destroys the page afterward? or did I leave
this to be inferred? In either case, my course of proceeding was the same. I
ordered some paste to be made. Then I unlocked a drawer, and found my poor
ill-used leaves, and put them back in my Journal. An act of justice is surely
not the less praiseworthy because it is an act of justice done to one's self.
My father has often told me that he revises his writings on religious subjects.
I may harmlessly imitate that good example, by revising my restored entry. It is
now a sufficiently remarkable performance to be distinguished by a title. Let me
call it:
Impressions of Miss Jillgall.
My first impression was a strong one--it was produced by the state of this
lady's breath. In other words, I was obliged to let her kiss me. It is a duty to
be considerate toward human infirmity. I will only say that I thought I should
have fainted.
My second impression draws a portrait, and produces a striking likeness.
Figure, little and lean--hair of a dirty drab color which we see in
string--small light gray eyes, sly and restless, and deeply sunk in the
head--prominent cheekbones, and a florid complexion--an inquisitive nose,
turning up at the end--a large mouth and a servile smile--raw-looking hands,
decorated with black mittens--a misfitting white jacket and a limp
skirt--manners familiar--temper cleverly hidden--voice too irritating to be
mentioned. Whose portrait is this? It is the portrait of Miss Jillgall, taken in
words.
Her true character is not easy to discover; I suspect that it will only show
itself little by little. That she is a born meddler in other people's affairs, I
think I can see already. I also found out that she trusted to flattery as the
easiest means of making herself agreeable. She tried her first experiment on
myself.
"You charming girl," she began, "your bright face encourages me to ask a favor.
Pray make me useful! The one aspiration of my life is to be useful. Unless you
employ me in that way, I have no right to intrude myself into your family
circle. Yes, yes, I know that your father has opened his house and his heart to
me. But I dare not found any claim--your name is Helena, isn't it? Dear Helena,
I dare not found any claim on what I owe to your father's kindness."
"Why not?" I inquired.
"Because your father is not a man--"
I was rude enough to interrupt her: "What is he, then?"
"An angel," Miss Jillgall answered, solemnly. "A destitute earthly creature like
me must not look up as high as your father. I might be dazzled."
This was rather more than I could endure patiently. "Let us try," I suggested,
"if we can't understand each other, at starting
."
Miss Jillgall's little eyes twinkled in their bony caverns. "The very thing I
was going to propose!" she burst out.
"Very well," I went on; "then, let me tell you plainly that flattery is not
relished in this house."
"Flattery?" She put her hand to her head as she repeated the word, and looked
quite bewildered. "Dear Helena, I have lived all my life in East Flanders, and
my own language is occasionally strange to me. Can you tell me what flattery is
in Flemish?"
"I don't understand Flemish."
"How very provoking! You don't understand Flemish, and I don't understand
Flattery. I should so like to know what it means. Ah, I see books in this lovely
room. Is there a dictionary among them?" She darted to the bookcase, and
discovered a dictionary. "Now I shall understand Flattery," she remarked--"and
then we shall understand each other. Oh, let me find it for myself!" She ran her
raw red finger along the alphabetical headings at the top of each page. " 'FAD.'
That won't do. 'FIE.' Further on still. 'FLE.' Too far the other way. 'FLA.'
Here we are! 'Flattery: False praise. Commendation bestowed for the purpose of
gaining favor and influence.' Oh, Helena, how cruel of you!" She dropped the
book, and sank into a chair--the picture, if such a thing can be, of a
broken-hearted old maid.
I should most assuredly have taken the opportunity of leaving her to her own
devices, if I had been free to act as I pleased. But my interests as a daughter
forbade me to make an enemy of my father's cousin, on the first day when she had
entered the house. I made an apology, very neatly expressed.
She jumped up--let me do her justice; Miss Jillgall is as nimble as a
monkey--and (Faugh!) she kissed me for the second time. If I had been a man, I
am afraid I should have called for that deadly poison (we are all temperance
people in this house) known by the name of Brandy.
"If you will make me love you," Miss Jillgall explained, "you must expect to be
kissed. Dear girl, let us go back to my poor little petition. Oh, do make me
useful! There are so many things I can do: you will find me a treasure in the
house. I write a good hand; I understand polishing furniture; I can dress hair
(look at my own hair); I play and sing a little when people want to be amused; I
can mix a salad and knit stockings--who is this?" The cook came in, at the
moment, to consult me; I introduced her. "And, oh," cried Miss Jillgall, in
ecstasy, "I can cook! Do, please, let me see the kitchen."
The cook's face turned red. She had come to me to make a confession; and she had
not (as she afterward said) bargained for the presence of a stranger. For the
first time in her life she took the liberty of whispering to me: "I must ask
you, miss, to let me send up the cauliflower plain boiled; I don't understand
the directions in the book for doing it in the foreign way."
Miss Jillgall's ears--perhaps because they are so large--possess a quickness of
hearing quite unparalleled in my experience. Not one word of the cook's
whispered confession had escaped her.
"Here," she declared, "is an opportunity of making myself useful! What is the
cook's name? Hannah? Take me downstairs, Hannah, and I'll show you how to do the
cauliflower in the foreign way. She seems to hesitate. Is it possible that she
doesn't believe me? Listen, Hannah, and judge for yourself if I am deceiving
you. Have you boiled the cauliflower? Very well; this is what you must do next.
Take four ounces of grated cheese, two ounces of best butter, the yolks of four
eggs, a little bit of glaze, lemon-juice, nutmeg--dear, dear, how black she
looks. What have I said to offend her?"
The cook passed over the lady who had presumed to instruct her, as if no such
person had been present, and addressed herself to me: "If I am to be interfered
with in my own kitchen, miss, I will ask you to suit yourself at a month's
notice."
Miss Jillgall wrung her hands in despair.
"I meant so kindly," she said; "and I seem to have made mischief. With the best