The Legacy of Cain

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