intentions, Helena, I have set you and your servant at variance. I really didn't
know you had such a temper, Hannah," she declared, following the cook to the
door. "I'm sure there's nothing I am not ready to do to make it up with you.
Perhaps you have not got the cheese downstairs? I'm ready to go out and buy it
for you. I could show you how to keep eggs sweet and fresh for weeks together.
Your gown doesn't fit very well; I shall be glad to improve it, if you will
leave it out for me after you have gone to bed. There!" cried Miss Jillgall, as
the cook majestically left the room, without even looking at her, "I have done
my best to make it up, and you see how my advances are received. What more could
I have done? I really ask you, dear, as a friend, what more could I have done?"
I had it on the tip of my tongue to say: "The cook doesn't ask you to buy cheese
for her, or to teach her how to keep eggs, or to improve the fit of her gown;
all she wants is to have her kitchen to herself." But here again it was
necessary to remember that this odious person was my father's guest.
"Pray don't distress yourself," I began; "I am sure you are not to blame, Miss
Jillgall--"
"Oh, don't!"
"Don't--what?"
"Don't call me Miss Jillgall. I call you Helena. Call me Selina."
I had really not supposed it possible that she could be more unendurable than
ever. When she mentioned her Christian name, she succeeded nevertheless in
producing that result. In the whole list of women's names, is there any one to
be found so absolutely sickening as "Selina"? I forced myself to pronounce it; I
made another neatly-expressed apology; I said English servants were so very
peculiar. Selina was more than satisfied; she was quite delighted.
"Is that it, indeed? An explanation was all I wanted. How good of you! And now
tell me--is there no chance, in the house or out of the house, of my making
myself useful? Oh, what's that? Do I see a chance? I do! I do!"
Miss Jillgall's eyes are more than mortal. At one time, they are microscopes. At
another time, they are telescopes. She discovered (right across the room) the
torn place in the window-curtain. In an instant, she snatched a dirty little
leather case out of her pocket, threaded her needle and began darning the
curtain. She sang over her work. "My heart is light, my will is free--" I can
repeat no more of it. When I heard her singing voice, I became reckless of
consequences, and ran out of the room with my hands over my ears.
CHAPTER XVI.
HELENA'S DIARY.
WHEN I reached the foot of the stairs, my father called me into his study.
I found him at his writing-table, with such a heap of torn-up paper in his
waste-basket that it overflowed on to the floor. He explained to me that he had
been destroying a large accumulation of old letters, and had ended (when his
employment began to grow wearisome) in examining his correspondence rather
carelessly. The result was that he had torn up a letter, and a copy of the
reply, which ought to have been set aside as worthy of preservation. After
collecting the fragments, he had heaped them on the table. If I could contrive
to put them together again on fair sheets of paper, and fasten them in their
right places with gum, I should be doing him a service, at a time when he was
too busy to set his mistake right for himself.
Here was the best excuse that I could desire for keeping out of Miss Jillgall's
way. I cheerfully set to work on the restoration of the letters, while my father
went on with his writing.
Having put the fragments together--excepting a few gaps caused by morsels that
had been lost--I was unwilling to fasten them down with gum, until I could feel
sure of not having made any mistakes; especially in regard to some of the lost
words which I had been obliged to restore by guess-work. So I copied the
letters, and submitted them, in the first place, to my father's approval.
He praised me in the prettiest manner for the care that I had taken. But, when
he began, after some hesitation, to read my copy, I noticed a change. The smile
left his face, and the nervous quiverings showed themselves again.
"Quite right, my child," he said, in low sad tones.
On returning to my side of the table, I expected to see him resume his writing.
He crossed the room to the window and stood (with his back to me) looking out.
When I had first discovered the sense of the letters, they failed to interest
me. A tiresome woman, presuming on the kindness of a good-natured man to beg a
favor which she had no right to ask, and receiving a refusal which she had
richly deserved, was no remarkable event in my experience as my father's
secretary and copyist. But the change in his face, while he read the
correspondence, altered my opinion of the letters. There was more in them
evidently than I had discovered. I kept my manuscript copy--here it is:
"From Miss Elizabeth Chance to the Rev. Abel Gracedieu.
(Date of year, 1859. Date of month, missing.)
"DEAR SIR--You have, I hope, not quite forgotten the interesting conversation
that we had last year in the Governor's rooms. I am afraid I spoke a little
flippantly at the time; but I am sure you will believe me when I say that this
was out of no want of respect to yourself. My pecuniary position being far from
prosperous, I am endeavoring to obtain the vacant situation of housekeeper in a
public institution the prospectus of which I inclose. You will see it is a rule
of the place that a candidate must be a single woman (which I am), and must be
recommended by a clergyman. You are the only reverend gentleman whom it is my
good fortune to know, and the thing is of course a mere formality. Pray excuse
this application, and oblige me by acting as my reference.
"Sincerely yours,
"ELIZABETH CHANCE."
"P. S.--Please address: Miss E. Chance, Poste Restante, St. Martin's-le-Grand,
London."
"From the Rev. Abel Gracedieu to Miss Chance.
(Copy.)
"MADAM--The brief conversation to which your letter alludes, took place at an
accidental meeting between us. I then saw you for the first time, and I have not
seen you since. It is impossible for me to assert the claim of a perfect
stranger, like yourself, to fill a situation of trust. I must beg to decline
acting as your reference.
"Your obedient servant,
"ABEL GRACEDIEU."
. . . . . . .
My father was still at the window.
In that idle position he could hardly complain of me for interrupting him, if I
ventured to talk about the letters which I had put together. If my curiosity
displeased him, he had only to say so, and there would be an end to any
allusions of mine to the subject. My first idea was to join him at the window.
On reflection, and still perceiving that he kept his back turned on me, I
thought it might be more prudent to remain at the table.
"This Miss Chance seems to be an impudent person?" I said.
"Yes."
"Was she a young woman, when you met with her?"
"Yes.
"
"What sort of a woman to look at? Ugly?"
"No."
Here were three answers which Eunice herself would have been quick enough to
interpret as three warnings to say no more. I felt a little hurt by his keeping
his back turned on me. At the same time, and naturally, I think, I found my
interest in Miss Chance (I don't say my friendly interest) considerably
increased by my father's unusually rude behavior. I was also animated by an
irresistible desire to make him turn round and look at me.
"Miss Chance's letter was written many years ago," I resumed. "I wonder what has
become of her since she wrote to you."
"I know nothing about her."
"Not even whether she is alive or dead?"
"Not even that. What do these questions mean, Helena?"
"Nothing, father."
I declare he looked as if he suspected me!
"Why don't you speak out?" he said. "Have I ever taught you to conceal your
thoughts? Have I ever been a hard father, who discouraged you when you wished to
confide in him? What are you thinking about? Do you know anything of this
woman?"
"Oh, father, what a question! I never even heard of her till I put the torn
letters together. I begin to wish you had not asked me to do it."
"So do I. It never struck me that you would feel such extraordinary--I had
almost said, such vulgar--curiosity about a worthless letter."
This roused my temper. When a young lady is told that she is vulgar, if she has
any self-conceit--I mean self-respect--she feels insulted. I said something
sharp in my turn. It was in the way of argument. I do not know how it may be
with other young persons, I never reason so well myself as when I am angry.
"You call it a worthless letter," I said, "and yet you think it worth
preserving."
"Have you nothing more to say to me than that?" he asked.
"Nothing more," I answered.
He changed again. After having looked unaccountably angry, he now looked
unaccountably relieved.
"I will soon satisfy you," he said, "that I have a good reason for preserving a
worthless letter. Miss Chance, my dear, is not a woman to be trusted. If she saw
her advantage in making a bad use of my reply, I am afraid she would not
hesitate to do it. Even if she is no longer living, I don't know into what vile
hands my letter may not have fallen, or how it might be falsified for some
wicked purpose. Do you see now how a correspondence may become accidentally
important, though it is of no value in itself?"
I could say "Yes" to this with a safe conscience.
But there were some perplexities still left in my mind. It seemed strange that
Miss Chance should (apparently) have submitted to the severity of my father's
reply. "I should have thought," I said to him, "that she would have sent you
another impudent letter--or perhaps have insisted on seeing you, and using her
tongue instead of her pen."
"She could do neither the one nor the other, Helena. Miss Chance will never find
out my address again; I have taken good care of that."
He spoke in a loud voice, with a flushed face--as if it was quite a triumph to
have prevented this woman from discovering his address. What reason could he
have for being so anxious to keep her away from him? Could I venture to conclude
that there was a mystery in the life of a man so blameless, so truly pious? It
shocked one even to think of it.
There was a silence between us, to which the housemaid offered a welcome
interruption. Dinner was ready.
He kissed me before we left the room. "One word more, Helena," he said, "and I
have done. Let there be no more talk between us about Elizabeth Chance."
CHAPTER XVII
HELENA'S DIARY.
MISS JILLGALL joined us at the dinner-table, in a state of excitement, carrying
a book in her hand.
I am inclined, on reflection, to suspect that she is quite clever enough to have
discovered that I hate her--and that many of the aggravating things she says and
does are assumed, out of retaliation, for the purpose of making me angry. That
ugly face is a double face, or I am much mistaken.
To return to the dinner-table, Miss Jillgall addressed herself, with an air of
playful penitence, to my father.
"Dear cousin, I hope I have not done wrong. Helena left me all by myself. When I
had finished darning the curtain, I really didn't know what to do. So I opened
all the bedroom doors upstairs and looked into the rooms. In the big room with
two beds--oh, I am so ashamed--I found this book. Please look at the first
page."
My father looked at the title-page: "Doctor Watts's Hymns. Well, Selina, what is
there to be ashamed of in this?"
"Oh, no! no! It's the wrong page. Do look at the other page--the one that comes
first before that one."
My patient father turned to the blank page.
"Ah," he said quietly, "my other daughter's name is written in it--the daughter
whom you have not seen. Well?"
Miss Jillgall clasped her hands distractedly. "It's my ignorance I'm so ashamed
of. Dear cousin, forgive me, enlighten me. I don't know how to pronounce your
other daughter's name. Do you call her Euneece?"
The dinner was getting cold. I was provoked into saying: "No, we don't."
She had evidently not forgiven me for leaving her by herself. "Pardon me,
Helena, when I want information I don't apply to you: I sit, as it were, at the
feet of your learned father. Dear cousin, is it--"
Even my father declined to wait for his dinner any longer. "Pronounce it as you
like, Selina. Here we say Eun?ce--with the accent on the 'i' and with the final
'e' sounded: Eu-n?-see. Let me give you some soup."
Miss Jillgall groaned. "Oh, how difficult it seems to be! Quite beyond my poor
brains! I shall ask the dear girl's leave to call her Euneece. What very strong
soup! Isn't it rather a waste of meat? Give me a little more, please."
I discovered another of Miss Jillgall's peculiarities. Her appetite was
enormous, and her ways were greedy. You heard her eat her soup. She devoured the
food on her plate with her eyes before she put it into her mouth; and she
criticised our English cookery in the most impudent manner, under pretense of
asking humbly how it was done. There was, however, some temporary compensation
for this. We had less of her talk while she was eating her dinner.
With the removal of the cloth, she recovered the use of her tongue; and she hit
on the one subject of all others which proves to be the sorest trial to my
father's patience.
"And now, dear cousin, let us talk of your other daughter, our absent Euneece. I
do so long to see her. When is she coming back?"
"In a few days more."
"How glad I am! And do tell me--which is she? Your oldest girl or your
youngest?"
"Neither the one nor the other, Selina."
"Oh, my head! my head! This is even worse than the accent on the 'i' and the
final 'e.' Stop! I am cleverer than I thought I was. You mean that the girls are
twins. Are they both so exactly like each other that I
shan't know which is
which? What fun!"
When the subject of our ages was unluckily started at Mrs. Staveley's, I had
slipped out of the difficulty easily by assuming the character of the eldest
sister--an example of ready tact which my dear stupid Eunice doesn't understand.
In my father's presence, it is needless to say that I kept silence, and left it
to him. I was sorry to be obliged to do this. Owing to his sad state of health,
he is easily irritated--especially by inquisitive strangers.
"I must leave you," he answered, without taking the slightest notice of what
Miss Jillgall had said to him. "My work is waiting for me."
She stopped him on his way to the door. "Oh, tell me--can't I help you?"
"Thank you; no."
"Well--but tell me one thing. Am I right about the twins?"
"You are wrong."
Miss Jillgall's demonstrative hands flew up into the air again, and expressed
the climax of astonishment by quivering over her head. "This is positively
maddening," she declared. "What does it mean?"
"Take my advice, cousin. Don't attempt to find out what it means."
He left the room. Miss Jillgall appealed to me. I imitated my father's wise
brevity of expression: "Sorry to disappoint you, Selina; I know no more about it
than you do. Come upstairs."
Every step of the way up to the drawing-room was marked by a protest or an
inquiry. Did I expect her to believe that I couldn't say which of us was the
elder of the two? that I didn't really know what my father's motive was for this
extraordinary mystification? that my sister and I had submitted to be robbed, as
it were, of our own ages, and had not insisted on discovering which of us had
come into the world first? that our friends had not put an end to this sort of
thing by comparing us personally, and discovering which was the elder sister by
investigation of our faces? To all this I replied: First, that I did certainly
expect her to believe whatever I might say: Secondly, that what she was pleased
to call the "mystification" had begun when we were both children; that habit had
made it familiar to us in the course of years; and above all, that we were too
fond of our good father to ask for explanations which we knew by experience
would distress him: Thirdly, that friends did try to discover, by personal
examination, which was the elder sister, and differed perpetually in their
conclusions; also that we had amused ourselves by trying the same experiment
before our looking-glasses, and that Eunice thought Helena was the oldest, and
Helena thought Eunice was the oldest: Fourthly (and finally), that the Reverend
Mr. Gracedieu's cousin had better drop the subject, unless she was bent on
making her presence in the house unendurable to the Reverend Mr. Gracedieu
himself.
I write it with a sense of humiliation; Miss Jillgall listened attentively to
all I had to say--and then took me completely by surprise. This inquisitive,
meddlesome, restless, impudent woman suddenly transformed herself into a perfect
model of amiability and decorum. She actually said she agreed with me, and was
much obliged for my good advice!
A stupid young woman, in my place, would have discovered that this was not
natural, and that Miss Jillgall was presenting herself to me in disguise, to
reach some secret end of her own. I am not a stupid young woman; I ought to have
had at my service penetration enough to see through and through Cousin Selina.
Well! Cousin Selina was an impenetrable mystery to me.
The one thing to be done was to watch her. I was at least sly enough to take up
a book, and pretend to be reading it. How contemptible!
She looked round the room, and discovered our pretty writing-table; a present to
my father from his congregation. After a little consideration, she sat down to
write a letter.
"When does the post go out?" she asked.
I mentioned the hour; and she began her letter. Before she could have written
more than the first two or three lines, she turned round on her seat, and began
talking to me.
"Do you like writing letters, my dear?"