THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9064, 26 May 1888, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

BY WILKIE COLLINS, «,,iw of "The Woman in AVhito," "The Evil Autnor or Genius," &c, Ac. (TIIE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION 13 RESERVED.) CHAPTER XIII. . Eunice's diary. \ t OT long before I left homo I Heard one of our two servants telling the other about a person who had been "bewitched." Are vou bewitched when you don't understand vour own self? That has been my curious case since I roturned from tho picture show. This morning I took my drawing material* oud of my box and tried to make fl portrait of young Mr. Dunboyne from recollection. I succeeded pretty well with his frock coat and cane; but try as I might, his face was beyond me. I havo never drawn anything so badly since I was a little girl: I almost felt ready to cry. What a fool I am !

This morning I received a letter from papa—it was in reply to a letter that I had written to him —so kind, so beautifully expressed, so like himself that I felt inclined to send him a confession of the strange gtato of feeling that has come over me, and to ask him to comfort aad advise mo. Afraid of papa ! I am farther away from understanding myself than ever. Mi. Dunboyne paid us a visit in the afternoon. Fortunately, before we went out. I thonpht I would havo a good look at. him, so us to know his faco better than I bud known it yet. Another disappointment was in store for me. Without intending it, I am sure, he did what no other young rami has ever done—he made mo jei-1 confused. Instead of looking at him, I ;,at with my head down and listened to hi;' talk. His voice—this is high praise— reminded me of papa's voice. It seemed • i persuade me as papa persuades his congregation. ' 1 felt quite at ease again. When lie went away, we shook hands. He gave tnv hand a little squeeze. I gave him back the squeeze —without knowing why. When he w;u-i pone I wished I had not done it— without knowing why, either. 1 heard his Christian name for the first time bo-day. Mrs. Staveley said to me, " We are goin<j to have a dinner party. Shall I ask Phuip Dunboyno?" I said to Mrs. Staveley, " Oh, do !" She is an old woman ; her eyes aro dim. At times she can look mischievous. She looked at me mischievously now. j wished I had not been so eager to have Mr. Dunboyne asked to dinner. A fear has come to me that I may have degraded myself. My spirits are depressed. This, a≤ papa tells us in his sermons, is a miserable world. lam sorry I accepted Staveley's invitation. lam sorry I went to see the pictures. When that young man comes to dinner, 1 shall say I have got a headache, and shall stop upetairs by myself. I don't think I like his Christian name. I hate London. I hate everybody. What I wrote up above yesterday is nonsense. I think his Christian name is perfect. I like London. I love everybody. He came to dinner to-day. I sat next to Lin:. How beautiful a dress coat, is, and a white cravat ! We talked. He wanted to know what my Christian name was. I was so pleased when I found he was one of the few people who like it. Ilia hair curls naturally. In colour, it is something between my hair and Helena's. He wears his beard. How manly ! It curls naturally like his hair ; it smells deliciously of gome perfume which is new to me. He has white hands ; his nails look a.-* if he polished them : I should like to polish my nails, if I knew how. Whatever I said, he agreed with me : I felt satisfied with my own conversation for the first time in my life. Helena won't find mo a simpleton when I go home. What exquisite things dinner parties are. My sifter told me (when we said good-bye) to be particular in writing down my true opinion of the Stp.veleys. Helena wishes to compare what she thinks of them with what I think of them.

My opinion of Mi , . Staveley is—l don't like him. My opinion of Miss Staveley is —I can't endure her. As for Master Stoveley, my clever sister will understand that he is beneath notice. But, oh, what u, wonderful woman Mrs. Staveley is ! We went out together, after luncheon to-day, for a walk in Kensington Gardens. Never have I heard any conversation to compare with Mrs. Staveley"s. Helena shall enjoy it, at second hand. lam quite changed in two things. First, I think more of myself than I ever did before. Second, writing is no longer a difficulty to me. I could fill a hundred journals, without once stopping to think.

Mrs. Staveley began nicely : "I suppose, Eunice, you have often been told that you have a good figure, and that you walk well ■;■■'

I said, " Helena thinks my figure better than my face. But do I really walk well ? Nobody ever told me that." She answered ; " Philip Dunboyne thinks so. He said to me, ' I resi.-t the temptation, because I might be wanting in re*pect if I gave way to it. But I should like to follow her when she goes out—merely for die pleasure of seeing her walk.' :! I stood stock-still. I said nothing. When you are as proud as a peacock (which never happened to mo before), I find you Crtii't move and can't talk. You can only enjoy yourself. Kind Mrs. Staveley had more things to tell ine. She said, "I am interested in Philip. I lived near Fairmont in the time before I was married ; and in those day ahe was a child. I want him to marry a charming girl, and be happy." What marie me think directly of Miss Staveley? What made me mad to know if she waa the charming girl ? I was bold enough to ask the question. Mrs. Staveley turned to me, with that mischievous look which I have noticed already. 1 felt as if I had been running at the top of my speed, and had not got my breath again yet. But this good, motherly friend set me at my ea.se. She explained herself: "Philip ta not much liked, poor fellow, in our house. My husband considers him to be weak and vain and fickle. And my daughter agrees with her father. There are times when she is barely civil to Philip. He is too good natured to complain, but I neo it. Tell me, my dear, do you like Philip ?" "Of course I do !" Out it came in those words, before I could stop it. Was there something unbecoming to a young lady in saying what I had juet said ? Mrs. Staveley seemed to be more amused than angry with me. She took my arm kindly and led mo along with her. "My dear, you are aa clear as crystal and as true as steel. You are a favourite of mine already." What a delightful woman, as I said just now. I asked if she really liked me as well Uo she liked my sister." Hhe said, " Better." I didn't expect that, and didn't want it. Helena is my superior. She is prettier than I Hui, cleverer than I am, better worth liking than I am. Mrs. Staveley shifted the talk back to Philip. I ought to have said Mr. Philip. No, I won't; I shall call him Philip. If I had a heart of stone I should feel interested in him, after what Mrs. Staveley has told me. •Such a sad story, in some respects. Mother, brothers, sistere —all dead ; only the father left, and he lives a dismal lifo on a lonely, stormy coast. Not a severe old gentleman, for all that. His reasons for taking to retiremont are" reasons, so Mrs. otayeley says, which nobody knows. He buries himself among his books in an imtnenso library, and no appears to like it. "i" wn has not been brought up, like Dtiier young men, at school and college. He i« a great scholar, educated at home by "f father. To hear this account of hie learning depressed me. It seemed to put such a distance between us. I asked Mrs. otaveley if he thought me ignorant. As Jonjj aa I live I shall remember tho reply : tie thinks you charming." Any other girl would have beon satisfied w ;Wi this. lam the miserable creature who is always making mistakes. My stuPjtl curiosity spoilt the charm of Mrs. conversation. And yot ib seemed 10 be a harmless question ; I only said I would like to know what profession Philip to. si Mrs. Staveley answered : "No profeaJ foolishly put a wrong meaning on this. Isa id: "Is he idle?"

Mrs. Staveley laughed. "My dear, he 5a an only son—and his father is a rich man." That; stopped me—at last. We have enough to live on in comfort at home—no more. Papa has told us himself that he is not, and can never hope to be, a rich man. This is not the worst of it. Last year he refused to marry a young couple, both belonging to our congregation. This was very unlike his usual kind self. Helena and I asked him for his roasons.

They were reasons that did not take long to give. Tho young gentleman's fathor was a rich man. He had forbidden his son to marry a sweet girl—because she had no fortune. I have no fortune. And Philip's father is a rich man. Tho beet thing I can do is to wipe my pen and shut up my journal, and go home by tho next train. # • * * « I have a great mind to burn my journal. It tells me that I had bettor not think of Philip any more. On second thoughts, I won't destroy my journal; I will only put it away. If I live to be an old woman it may aniuso mo to open my book again, and see how foolish the poor wretch was when she was young. What is this aching pain in my heart ? I don't remember it at any other time in my life. Is it trouble ? How can I tell ?—I have had so little trouble. It must bo many years since I was wretched enough to cry. I don't even understand why lam crying now. My last sorrow, so far as lean remember, was tho toothache. Other girls' mothers comfort them when they are wretched. If my mother had lived — it's useless to think about that. We lost her while I and my sister were too young to understand our misfortune.

I wish I had never seen Philip. This seems an ungrateful wish. Seeing him at the picture snow was a now enjoyment. Sitting next to him at dinner was a happiness that I don't recollect feeling, even when papa has been most sweet and kind to me. 1 ought to be ashamed of myself to confess this. Shall I write to my' sister ? But how should she know what is the matter with me, when I don't know it myself? Besides, Helena is 'angry ; she wrote unkindly to me when she answered my last letter. There is a dreadful loneliness in this great house at night. I had better say my prayers, and try to sleep. If it doesn't make me feel happier, it. will prevent my spoiling my journal by dropping tears on it.

What an evening of evenings this has been ! Last night it was crying that kept me awake. To-night I can't sleep for joy. Philip called on us again to-day. He brought with him tickets for the performance of an oratorio. Sacred music is not forbidden music among our people. Mrs. Staveley and Miss Staveley went to the concert with us. Philip and I sat next to each other.

My sister is a musician—l am nothing. That sounds bitter, but 1 don't mean it so. All I mean this, that I like simple little songs, which I can siii'jr to myself by remembering tho tune. There, my musical enjoyment ends. When voices and instruments burst out together by hundreds, I feel bewildered. I also get attacked by fidgets. This last misfortune is sure to overtake me when choruses are being performed. The unfortunate people employed are made to keep singing the same words, over and over and over again, till I find it a perfect misery to listen to them. The choruses were unendurable in the performance to night. This is one of them ; "Here wo are nil alone in the wilderness —alone- in the wilderness —in the wilderness, alone, alone, alone—here we aro in the wilderness—alone in tho wilderness— all, all alone in the wilderness," and so on, till I felt inclined to call for the learned person who writes oratorioe and beg him to give the poor music a more generous allowance of words.

Whenever I looked at Philip, I found him looking at me. Perhaps he saw from the first that the music was wearying music to my ignorant ears. With his usual delicacy he said nothing for eomo time. But when he caught me yawning (though I did my best to hide it, for it looked like beiri" ungrateful for the tickets), then he could restrain himself no longer. He whispered in my ear: " You are getting tired of this. And so am I."

"I am trying to like it," I whispered back."'

"Don't try," he answered. "Lot's talk."

He meant, of course, talk in whispers. We were a pood deal annoyed— especially when the characters were all alone in the wilderness—by bursts of singing and playing which interrupted us at the most interesting moments. Philip persevered with a manly firmness. Whnfc could Ido but follow his example at a distance ? He said, "Is it really true that your visit to Mrs. Staveley is coming to an end ?"

I answered, " It comes to and end the day after to-morrow ?"

'' Are you sorry to be leaving your friends in London ?"

What I might have said if he had made that inquiry a day earlier, when I was the most miserable creature living, I would rather not try to guess. Being quite happy as things were, I could honestly tell him I wn-s sorry. " You can't possibly bo as sorry as I am, Eunice. May I call you by your pretty name ?" " Yes, if you please." " Eunice ?" "Yes." " You Avill leave a blank in my life when you go away—" There another chorus stopped him just as I was eager for more. It was such a delightfully new sensation to hear a young gentleman telling me that I had left a blank in his life. The next change in the oratorio brought up a young lady singing alone. Some people behind us grumbled at the smallness of her voice. We thought her voice perfect. It seemed to lend itself so nicely to our whispers. He siiid : "Will you help me to think of you while you are awny ? I want to imagine what your lifo is at homo. Do you live in a town or in tho country ?" I told him the name of our town. When we give a person information, I have always heard that we ought to make it com plete. So I mentioned our address in tho town. But I was troubled by a doubt. Perhaps he preferred the country. Being anxious about this I said, "Would you rather have heard that I live in the country ?" " Live where you may, Eunice, the place will be a favourite place of mine. Besides, your town is famous. It has a public attraction which brings visitors to it." I made another of thoeo mistakes which no sensiblo girl in my position would have committed. I asked if ho alluded to our new market place. He set me right in the sweetest manner : "I alluded to a building hundreds of years older than your market place—your beautiful cathedral." Fancy my not having thought of tho cathedral ? This is what comee of being a Wesleyan Methodiet. If I had belonged to the Church of England, I should have forgotten the market place and remembered the cathedral. Not that I want to belong to the Church of England. Papa's chapel is good enough for me. The song sung by tho lady with tho small voice was so pretty that tho audience encored it. Didn't Philip and I help them ! With the sweetest smilee tho lady sang it all over again. The people behind us left the concert.

Ho said, "Do you know, I take tho greatest interest in cathedrals. I propose to enjoy tho privilege and pleasure of seeing your cathedral early next week."

I had only to look afc him to see that I was the cathedral. It was no suprise to hear next that he thought of " paying his respects to Mr. Gracediou." He begged me to tell him what sort of reception he might hope to meet with when he called ab our house. I got so excited in doing justice to papa that I quite forgot to whisper when the next question came. Philip wanted to know if Mr. Gracedieu disliked strangers. When I answered, "Oh, dear, no !" I said it out loud, so that the peoplo heard me. Cruel, cruel people ! They all turned round and stared. One hideous old woman actually said " Silence !" Miss Staveley looked disgusted. Even kind Mrs. Staveley lifted her eyebrows in astonishment. Philip, dear Philip, protected and composed me. He held my hand devotedly till the end of the performance. When he put us into the carriage 1 was lasfc. Hβ whispered in my ear," Expectmenext week." Miss Staveley migbb bo as ill-natured aa sho pleased

on the way homo. It didn't matter what she said. The Eunice of yesterday might have been mortified and offended ; the Eunice of to-day was indifferent to the sharpest things that could bo said to her. * * * .* * All through yesterday's delightful evening I never once thought of Philip's father. When I woke this morning I remembered that old Mr. Dunboyne was a rich man. I could eat no breakfast for thinking of the poor girl who was not allowed to marry her young gentleman because she had no money. Mrs. Stavoley waited to speak to me till the rest of them had left us together. I had expected her to notice that I loookod dull and dismal. No ; her cleverness got ab my secret in quite another way. She said, How do you feel after the concert ? You must be hard to please indeed if you were not satisfied with the accompaniments last night." "The accompaniments of the oratorio 1" " No, my dear. The accompaniments of Philip." I suppose I ought to have laughed. In my miserable state of mind it woe not to bo done. I said, "I hope Mr. Dunboyno's father will not hear how kind he was to me."

Mrs Staveloy asked why. My bitterness overflowed at my tongue. I said, " Because papa is a poor man." " And Philip's papa is a rich man," says Mrs. Stavoley, putting my own thought into words for me. "Whore do you get these ideas, Eunice ? Surely you are not allowed to read novols ?"

"Oh, no!" "And you have certainly never seen a play ?" " Never."

" Clear your head, child, of the nonsenso that has got into it—l can't think how. Rich Mr. Dunboyne has taught his hoir to despise the base act of marrying for money. He knows that Philip will meet young Indies at my house, and ho haa written to me on the .subject of his son's choice of a wife. ' Let Philip find good principles, good temper and good looks, and I promise beforehand to find tho money. . There is what ho says. Arc you satisfied with Philip's father now ?" I jumped up in a state of ecstacy. Just as I had thrown my arms round Mrs. Staveley's neck, the servant came in with a letter and handed it to me.

Helena had written again on this last day of my vieit. Her letter was full of instructions for buying things that she wants before I leave London. I read on quietly enough until I came to the postscript. Tho effect ot it on mo may be told in two words : I screamed. Mrs. Sfcaveley was naturally alarmed. " Bad news ?" she asked. Being quite unable to ofl'er an opinion, I read the postscript out loud, and let her judge for herself.

This whs Helena's news from home :— " I must prepare you for a surprise, bofore your return. You will find a strange lady established at home. Don't suppose there is any prospect of her bidding us good-bye, if wo only wait long enough. She is already aa much a member of the family as wo are. You shall form your own unbiased opinion of her, Eunice. For the present 1 say no more."

I asked Mrs. Staveley what she thought of my news from home. She said, " Bad news, my dear, especially if your father is concerned in it."

CHAPTER XIV. HELE NA ' S DI AK Y. To-day I went as usual to tho Scripture class for girls. It was harder work than ever teaching without Eunice to help mo. Indeed, I felt lonely all day without my sister. When I got home 1 rather hoped that sonic friond might havocomo to see us, and have been asked to stay to tea. The housemaid opened the door to ma I asked Maria if anybody had called. " Yes, miss ; a lady to see the master." " A stranger ?" "Never saw her beforo, miss, in all my life." I put no more questions. Many ladies visit my father. They call it consulting the Minister. He advises them in their troubles and guides them in their religious difficulties, and so on. They como and go in a sort of secrecy. So for as I know, they are mostly old maids, and they waato the Minister's time. When my father came in to tea, I began to feel some curiosity aboub the lady who had called on him. Visitors of that sort, in general, never appear to dwell on liia mind after they have gone away; ho sees too many of them, and is too well accustomed to what they have to say. On this particular evening, however, I perceived appearances that set me thinking ; he looked worried and anxious. " Ifas anything happened, father, to vex you ?" I said. " Yes." " Is the lady concerned In it?" " What lady, my dear ?" " The lady who called on you while I was out."

" Who told you she called on mo?" " I asked Maria—"

" That will do, Helena, for the present." He drank his tea and went back to his study, instead of staying awhile and talking pleasantly as usual. My respect submitted to his want of confidence in me; but my curiosity was in a state of revolt. I sent for Maria, and proceeded to make- my own discoveries, with this result. No other person had called at the house. Nothing had happened, except the visit of the mysterious lady. " She looked between young nnd old. And, oh, dear me, ahe was certainly not pretty. Not dressed nicely, to my mind ; but they do say dress is a matter of taste." Try as I might, I could get no more than that out of our stupid young housemaid. Later in the evening the cook had occasion to consult mo about supper. This was a person possessing the advantages of age and experience. I asked if she had seen the lady. The cook's reply promised something now: "I can't say I saw the lady; but I heard her." " Do you mean that you heard her speaking ?" "No, miss—crying." " Where was she crying?" "In the master's study." " How did you come to hear her ?" "Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect mo of listening?" Is a lie told by a look as bad as a lie told by words ? I looked shocked at the bare idea of suspecting a respectable person of listening. The cook's sense of honour wan satisfied ; she readily explained herself : "I was passing the door, mise, on my way upstairs." Here my discoveries came to an end. Ifc wae certainly possible that an afflicted member of my father's congregation might have called on him to be comforted. But he sees plenty of afflicted ladies without looking worried and anxious after they leuvo him. Still suspecting something out of the ordinary courso of ovents, I waited hopefully for our next meeting at anppor time. Nothinc camo of it. My father left me by myself again when the meal was over. Ho is always courteous to his daughters, and he made an apology : " Excuao mo, Helena, I want to think."

I went to bed in a vile humour and slept badly, wondering, in tho long, wakeful hours, what new rebuff I should meet with on tho next day. • » • • •

At breakfast this morning I was agroeably surprised. No signs of anxiety snowed themselves on my father's face. Instead of retiring to his study when wo rot*o from table he proposed a turn into the garden. "You are looking palo, Helena, and you will bo tho better for a littlo freah air. Besides, I have something to say to you." Excitement, I am sure, is good for young women. I saw in his face, I heard in his last words, that the mystery of the lady was afc last to be revealed. The sensation of langour and fatigue which follows a disturbed night left me directly. My father gave me his arm, and we walked slowly up and down tho lawn. " When that lady called on mo yestorday," he began, "you wanted to know who sho was, and you were surprised and disappointed when I refused to gratify your curiosity. My silence was not a selfish silence, Helena. I was thinking of you and ? r our sister ; and I was at a loss how to act or the best. You shall hear why my children were in my mind, presently. I must tell you first that I have arrived at a decision ; I hope and believe on reasonable grounds. Ask mo any questions you please ; my silence will be no longer an obstacle in your way." This was so very encouraging that I said at once : "I should liko to know who the lady is." " The lady is related to me," he answered. " We are cousins."

Here was a disclosure that I had not anticipated. In the little that I have seen of the world, I have observed that cousrins— when they happen to be brought together under interesting circumstances—can remember their relationship, and forget their relationship, just as it suits them. "Is your cousin a married lady ?" I ventured to inquire. "No." Short as it was, that reply might per haps mean more than appeared on the surface. My father's allusions to Eunice and to me, when he was explaining himself, were a little mysterious. Besides, tho cook had hoard the lady crying. What sort of tender agitation was answerable for those tears ? Was it possible, barely possible, that Eunice and I 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 excollent innocent father ! Not the faintest idea of what I had been thinking of was in his mind. Little did he suspect how welcome was tho relief that he had afforded to his daughter's wicked doubts of him. But ho had not said a word yet about his cousin's personal appearance. There might be re mains of good looks which the housemaid was too stupid to discover. "After the long interval that has passed since you mot," I said, "I supposo she has become an old women ?"

"No, my dear. Let us say, a middleaged woman." '' Perhaps she is still an attractive person ?" He smilod. '' lam 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 yot told mo her name." Father looked a little embarrassed. "It is not a very pretty namo," he answered. "My cousin, my unfortunato cousin is—Miss Jillgall." I burst out with such a loud " Oh !" thnt he laughed. I caught the infection, and laughed louder still. Bless Miss Jillgall ! The interview promised to bo 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 Jillgull honours you with a visit," I said, "you must give me an opportunity of being pre sented to her." He made a strange reply : " You may find your opportunity, Helena, sooner than you anticipate." Did this mean that sho was going to call again in a day or two ? lam afraid I spoke flippantly. " Oh, futhor, another lady fascinated by the popular preacher ?" The garden chairs wore near us. He signed to mo gravely to be seated by his side and said to himself: " This is my faulb." " 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 fathor 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 whoso visit has oxcited your curiosity. His second wife was a Belgian. Sho 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 roHnor at Antwerp. Tho little daughter accompanied her father to Belgium. Aro you attending to mo, Helena?" I was waiting for the interesting part of the story, ana was wondering when he would get to it. "As time went on," he resumed, "the new partner found that the value of the business had been greatly overrated. After a long struggle with adverse circumcumstnnces, he decided on withdrawing from t!«3 partnership before tho wholo of his capital wne lost in a failing commercial speculation. Tho end of it was that he retired, with his daughter, to ;v small town in East Flanders, the wreck of his property having left him with an income of not inoro than two hundred pounds a year." [To bo continued.]

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.