cruel as her mother. That was how I understood Miss Helena Gracedieu, when our
carriage drew up at her father's house.
A middle-aged lady was on the doorstep, when we arrived, just ringing the bell.
She looked round at us both; being evidently as complete a stranger to my fair
companion as she was to me. When the servant opened the door, she said:
"Is Miss Jillgall at home?"
At the sound of that odd name, Miss Helena tossed her head disdainfully. She
took no sort of notice of the stranger-lady who was at the door of her father's
house. This young person's contempt for Miss Jillgall appeared to extend to Miss
Jillgall's friends.
In the meantime, the servant's answer was: "Not at home."
The middle aged lady said: "Do you expect her back soon?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I will call again, later in the day."
"What name, if you please?"
The lady stole another look at me, before she replied.
"Never mind the name," she said--and walked away.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE MINISTER'S MISFORTUNE.
"Do you know that lady?" Miss Helena asked, as we entered the house.
"She is a perfect stranger to me," I answered.
"Are you sure you have not forgotten her?"
"Why do you think I have forgotten her?"
"Because she evidently remembered you."
The lady had no doubt looked at me twice. If this meant that my face was
familiar to her, I could only repeat what I have already said. Never, to my
knowledge, had I seen her before.
Leading the way upstairs, Miss Helena apologized for taking me into her father's
bedroom. "He is able to sit up in an armchair," she said; "and he might do more,
as I think, if he would exert himself. He won't exert himself. Very sad. Would
you like to look at your room, before you see my father? It is quite ready for
you. We hope"--she favored me with a fascinating smile, devoted to winning my
heart when her interests required it--"we hope you will pay us a long visit; we
look on you as one of ourselves."
I thanked her, and said I would shake hands with my old friend before I went to
my room. We parted at the bedroom door.
It is out of my power to describe the shock that overpowered me when I first saw
the Minister again, after the long interval of time that had separated us.
Nothing that his daughter said, nothing that I myself anticipated, had prepared
me for that lamentable change. For the moment, I was not sufficiently master of
myself to be able to speak to him. He added to my embarrassment by the humility
of his manner, and the formal elaboration of his apologies.
"I feel painfully that I have taken a liberty with you," he said, "after the
long estrangement between us--for which my want of Christian forbearance is to
blame. Forgive it, sir, and forget it. I hope to show that necessity justifies
my presumption, in subjecting you to a wearisome journey for my sake."
Beginning to recover myself, I begged that he would make no more excuses. My
interruption seemed to confuse him.
"I wished to say," he went on, "that you are the one man who can understand me.
There is my only reason for asking to see you, and looking forward as I do to
your advice. You remember the night--or was it the day?--before that miserable
woman was hanged? You were the only person present when I agreed to adopt the
poor little creature, stained already (one may say) by its mother's infamy. I
think your wisdom foresaw what a terrible responsibility I was undertaking; you
tried to prevent it. Well! well! you have been in my confidence--you only. Mind!
nobody in this house knows that one of the two girls is not really my daughter.
Pray stop me, if you find me wandering from the point. My wish is to show that
you are the only man I can open my heart to. She--" He paused, as if in search
of a lost idea, and left the sentence uncompleted. "Yes," he went on, "I was
thinking of my adopted child. Did I ever tell you that I baptized her myself?
and by a good Scripture name too--Eunice. Ah, sir, that little helpless baby is
a grown-up girl now; of an age to inspire love, and to feel love. I blush to
acknowledge it; I have behaved with a want of self-control, with a cowardly
weakness.--No! I am, indeed, wandering this time. I ought to have told you first
that I have been brought face to face with the possibility of Eunice's marriage.
And, to make it worse still, I can't help liking the young man. He comes of a
good family--excellent manners, highly educated, plenty of money, a gentleman in
every sense of the word. And poor little Eunice is so fond of him! Isn't it
dreadful to be obliged to check her dearly-loved Philip? The young gentleman's
name is Philip. Do you like the name? I say I am obliged to cheek her sweetheart
in the rudest manner, when all he wants to do is to ask me modestly for my sweet
Eunice's hand. Oh, what have I not suffered, without a word of sympathy to
comfort me, before I had courage enough to write to you! Shall I make a dreadful
confession? If my religious convictions had not stood in my way, I believe I
should have committed suicide. Put yourself in my place. Try to see yourself
shrinking from a necessary explanation, when the happiness of a harmless
girl--so dutiful, so affectionate--depended on a word of kindness from your
lips. And that word you are afraid to speak! Don't take offense, sir; I mean
myself, not you. Why don't you say something?" he burst out fiercely, incapable
of perceiving that he had allowed me no opportunity of speaking to him. "Good
God! don't you understand me, after all?"
The signs of mental confusion in his talk had so distressed me, that I had not
been composed enough to feel sure of what he really meant, until he described
himself as "shrinking from a necessary explanation." Hearing those words, my
knowledge of the circumstances helped me; I realized what his situation really
was.
"Compose yourself," I said, "I understand you at last."
He had suddenly become distrustful.
"Prove it," he muttered, with a furtive look at me. "I want to be satisfied that
you understand my position."
"This is your position," I told him. "You are placed between two deplorable
alternatives. If you tell this young gentleman that Miss Eunice's mother was a
criminal hanged for murder, his family--even if he himself doesn't recoil from
it--will unquestionably forbid the marriage; and your adopted daughter's
happiness will be the sacrifice."
"True!" he said. "Frightfully true! Go on."
"If, on the other hand, you sanction the marriage, and conceal the truth, you
commit a deliberate act of deceit; and you leave the lives of the young couple
at the mercy of a possible discovery, which might part husband and wife--cast a
slur on their children--and break up the household."
He shuddered while he listened to me. "Come to the end of it," he cried.
I had no more to say, and I was obliged to answer him to that effect.
"No more to say?" he replied. "You have not told me yet what I most want to
know."
I did a rash thing; I asked what it
was that he most wanted to know.
"Can't you see it for yourself?" he demanded indignantly. "Suppose you were put
between those two alternatives which you mentioned just now."
"Well?"
"What would you do, sir, in my place? Would you own the disgraceful
truth--before the marriage--or run the risk, and keep the horrid story to
yourself?"
Either way, my reply might lead to serious consequences. I hesitated.
He threatened me with his poor feeble hand. It was only the anger of a moment;
his humor changed to supplication. He reminded me piteously of bygone days: "You
used to be a kind-hearted man. Has age hardened you? Have you no pity left for
your old friend? My poor heart is sadly in want of a word of wisdom, spoken
kindly."
Who could have resisted this? I took his hand: "Be at ease, dear Minister. In
your place I should run the risk, and keep that horrid story to myself."
He sank back gently in his chair. "Oh, the relief of it!" he said. "How can I
thank you as I ought for quieting my mind?"
I seized the opportunity of quieting his mind to good purpose by suggesting a
change of subject. "Let us have done with serious talk for the present," I
proposed. "I have been an idle man for the last five years, and I want to tell
you about my travels."
His attention began to wander, he evidently felt no interest in my travels. "Are
you sure," he asked anxiously, "that we have said all we ought to say? No!" he
cried, answering his own question. "I believe I have forgotten something--I am
certain I have forgotten something. Perhaps I mentioned it in the letter I wrote
to you. Have you got my letter?"
I showed it to him. He read the letter, and gave it back to me with a heavy
sigh. "Not there!" he said despairingly. "Not there!"
"Is the lost remembrance connected with anybody in the house?" I asked, trying
to help him. "Does it relate, by any chance, to one of the young ladies?"
concerns one of the girls. Stop! Let me get at it by myself. Surely it relates
to Helena?" He hesitated; his face clouded over with an expression of anxious
thought. "Yes; it relates to Helena," he repeated "but how?" His eyes filled
with tears. "I am ashamed of my weakness," he said faintly. "You don't know how
dreadful it is to forget things in this way."
The injury that his mind had sustained now assumed an aspect that was serious
indeed. The subtle machinery, which stimulates the memory, by means of the
association of ideas, appeared to have lost its working power in the intellect
of this unhappy man. I made the first suggestion that occurred to me, rather
than add to his distress by remaining silent.
"If we talk of your daughter," I said, "the merest accident--a word spoken at
random by. you or me--may be all your memory wants to rouse it."
He agreed eagerly to this: "Yes! Yes! Let me begin. Helena met you, I think, at
the station. Of course, I remember that; it only happened a few hours since.
Well?" he went on, with a change in his manner to parental pride, which it was
pleasant to see, "did you think my daughter a fine girl? I hope Helena didn't
disappoint you?"
"Quite the contrary." Having made that necessary reply, I saw my way to keeping
his mind occupied by a harmless subject. "It must, however, be owned," I went
on, "that your daughter surprised me."
"In what way?"
"When she mentioned her name. Who could have supposed that you--an inveterate
enemy to the Roman Catholic Church--would have christened your daughter by the
name of a Roman Catholic Saint?"
He listened to this with a smile. Had I happily blundered on some association
which his mind was still able to pursue?
"You happen to be wrong this time," he said pleasantly. "I never gave my girl
the name of Helena; and, what is more, I never baptized her. You ought to know
that. Years and years ago, I wrote to tell you that my poor wife had made me a
proud and happy father. And surely I said that the child was born while she was
on a visit to her brother's rectory. Do you remember the name of the place? I
told you it was a remote little village, called-- Suppose we put your memory to
a test? Can you remember the name?" he asked, with a momentary appearance of
triumph showing itself, poor fellow, in his face.
After the time that had elapsed, the name had slipped my memory. When I
confessed this, he exulted over me, with an unalloyed pleasure which it was
cheering to see.
"Your memory is failing you now," he said. "The name is Long Lanes. And what do
you think my wife did--this is so characteristic of her!--when I presented
myself at her bedside. Instead of speaking of our own baby, she reminded me of
the name that I had given to our adopted daughter when I baptized the child.
'You chose the ugliest name that a girl can have,' she said. I begged her to
remember that 'Eunice' was a name in Scripture. She persisted in spite of me.
(What firmness of character!) 'I detest the name of Eunice!' she said; 'and now
that I have a girl of my own, it's my turn to choose the name; I claim it as my
right.' She was beginning to get excited; I allowed her to have her own way, of
course. 'Only let me know,' I said, 'what the name is to be when you have
thought of it.' My dear sir, she had the name ready, without thinking about it:
'My baby shall be called by the name that is sweetest in my ears, the name of my
dear lost mother.' We had--what shall I call it?--a slight difference of opinion
when I heard that the name was to be Helena. I really could not reconcile it to
my conscience to baptize a child of mine by the name of a Popish saint. My
wife's brother set things right between us. A worthy good man; he died not very
long ago--I forget the date. Not to detain you any longer, the rector of Long
Lanes baptized our daughter. That is how she comes by her un-English name; and
so it happens that her birth is registered in a village which her father has
never inhabited. I hope, sir, you think a little better of my memory now?"
I was afraid to tell him what I really did think.
He was not fifty years old yet; and he had just exhibited one of the sad
symptoms which mark the broken memory of old age. Lead him back to the events of
many years ago, and (as he had just proved to me) he could remember well and
relate coherently. But let him attempt to recall circumstances which had only
taken place a short time since, and forgetfulness and confusion presented the
lamentable result, just as I have related it.
The effort that he had made, the agitation that he had undergone in talking to
me, had confirmed my fears that he would overtask his wasted strength. He lay
haven't recovered what I had forgotten, yet." His eyes closed, and opened again
languidly. "There was something I wanted to recall--" he resumed, "and you were
helping me." His weak voice died away; his weary eyes closed again. After
waiting until there co
uld be no doubt that he was resting peacefully in sleep, I
left the room.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE LIVELY OLD MAID.
A PERFECT stranger to the interior of the house (seeing that my experience began
and ended with the Minister's bedchamber), I descended the stairs, in the
character of a guest in search of domestic information.
On my way down, I heard the door of a room on the ground floor opened, and a
woman' s voice below, speaking in a hurry: "My dear, I have not a moment to
spare; my patients are waiting for me." This was followed by a confidential
communication, judging by the tone. "Mind! not a word about me to that old
gentleman!" Her patients were waiting for her--had I discovered a female doctor?
And there was some old gentleman whom she was not willing to trust--surely I was
not that much-injured man?
Reaching the hall just as the lady said her last words, I caught a glimpse of
her face, and discovered the middle-aged stranger who had called on "Miss
Jillgall," and had promised to repeat her visit. A second lady was at the door,
with her back to me, taking leave of her friend. Having said good-by, she turned
round--and we confronted each other.
I found her to be a little person, wiry and active; past the prime of life, and
ugly enough to encourage prejudice, in persons who take a superficial view of
their fellow-creatures. Looking impartially at the little sunken eyes which
rested on me with a comical expression of embarrassment, I saw signs that said:
There is some good here, under a disagreeable surface, if you can only find it.
She saluted me with a carefully-performed curtsey, and threw open the door of a
room on the ground floor.
"Pray walk in, sir, and permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Gracedieu's
cousin--Miss Jillgall. Proud indeed to make the acquaintance of a gentleman
distinguished in the service of his country--or perhaps I ought to say, in the
service of the Law. The Governor offers hospitality to prisoners. And who
introduces prisoners to board and lodging with the Governor?--the Law. Beautiful
weather for the time of year, is it not? May I ask--have you seen your room?"
The embarrassment which I had already noticed had extended by this time to her
voice and her manner. She was evidently trying to talk herself into a state of
confidence. It seemed but too probable that I was indeed the person mentioned by
her prudent friend at the door.
Having acknowledged that I had not seen my room yet, my politeness attempted to
add that there was no hurry. The wiry little lady was of the contrary opinion;
she jumped out of her chair as if she had been shot out of it. "Pray let me make
myself useful. The dream of my life is to make myself useful to others; and to
such a man as you--I consider myself honored. Besides, I do enjoy running up and
down stairs. This way, dear sir; this way to your room."
She skipped up the stairs, and stopped on the first landing. "Do you know, I am
a timid person, though I may not look like it. Sometimes, curiosity gets the
better of me--and then I grow bold. Did you notice a lady who was taking leave
of me just now at the house door?"
I replied that I had seen the lady for a moment, but not for the first time.
"Just as I arrived here from the station," I said, "I found her paying a visit
when you were not at home."
"Yes--and do tell me one thing more." My readiness in answering seemed to have
inspired Miss Jillgall with confidence. I heard no more confessions of
overpowering curiosity. "Am I right," she proceeded, "in supposing that Miss
Helena accompanied you, on your way here from the station?"
"Quite right."
"Did she say anything particular, when she saw the lady asking for me at the
door?"
"Miss Helena thought," I said, "that the lady recognized me as a person whom she
had seen before."
"And what did you think yourself?"
"I thought Miss Helena was wrong."
"Very extraordinary!" With that remark, Miss Jillgall dropped the subject. The