THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9118, 28 July 1888, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

BY WILKIK COLLINS, Author of "The Woman in White," "The Evil Genius," &c., &

[thb RIGHT OF translation is reserved.]

CHAPTER XXXVIII. RELATED BY THE GOVERNOR.

I waited a little, after the receipt of Mr.

Gracedieu's

idering, under

its new aspect, the position in which I found myself placed. Had the Minister's desire to see me been inspired by his daughter's betrayal of what I had unfortunately said to her ? Although he would certainly not consent to receive her personally, she would beat liberty to adopt a written method of communication with him, and the letter might be addressed in such a manner as to pique his curiosity. If Helena's vindictive purpose had been already accomplished— if Mr. Gracedieu left me no alternative but to present his unworthy wife in her true character—l can honestly say that I dreaded the consequences, not as they might affect myself, but as they might affect my unhappy friend in his enfeebled state of body and mind.

When I entered his room, he was still in bed. The bed-curtains were so drawn, on the tide nearest to the window, as to keep the light from falling too brightly on his weak eyes. In the shadow thus thrown on him it was not possible to see his face plainly enough, from the open side of the bed, to arrive at any definite conclusion as to what might be passing" 1 in his mind. After having been awake for some hours during the earlier part of the night, he had enjoyed a long and undisturbed sleep. "I feel stronger this morning," he said, and I wish to speak to you while my mind is clear." If the quiet tone of his voice was not an assumed tone, he was surely ignorant of all that had passed between his daughter and myself, " Eunice will be here soon," he proceeded, "and I ought to explain why I have sent for her to come and meet you. I have reasons, serious reasons, mind, for wishing you to compare her personal appearance with Helena's personal appearance. Wait, and hear why I want you to observe them carefully, and then to tell me which of the two, on a fair comparison, looks the oldest. Pray bear in mind that I attach the greatest importance to the conclusion at which you may arrive." He spoke more clearly and» collectedly than I had heard him speak yet. Here and there I detected hesitations and repetitions, which I have purposely passed over. The substance of what he said to me is all that I shall present in this place. Careful as I have been to keep my records of events within strict limits, I have written at a length which I was far indeed from contemplating when I accepted Mr. Gracedieu's invitation.

Having promised to comply with the strange request which he had addressed to me, 1 ventured to remind him of past occasions on which he had alluded to his daughters, and had pointedly abstained, when the subject presented itself, from speaking of their ages. " You have left it to my discretion," I added, "to decide a question in which you are seriously interested, relating to these two young ladies. Have I no excuse for regretting that I have not been admitted to your confidence a little more freely ?" " You have every excuse," he answered. " But you trouble me all the same. There was something else that I had to say to you and your curiosity gets in the way." • He said this with a sullen emphasis. . In my position, the worst of evils was suspense. I told him that my curiosity could wait; and I begged that he would relieve his mind of what was pressing on it at that moment. r; "Let me think a little," he said. I waited anxiously for the decision at which he might arrive. Nothing came of it to justify my misgiving. " Leave what I have in my mind to ripen in my mind," he said. "The mystery about the girls' ages seems to irritate you. If I put ,my good friend's temper to any further trial, lie will be of no use to me. Never mind if my head Bwims ; I'm used to that. Now listen !" Strange as the preface was, the explanation that followed was stranger yet._ I offer a shortened and simplified version, giving accurately the substance of what I eard.

The Minister entered without reserve on the mysterious subject of the ages. Eunice, he informed me, was nearly two years older than Helena. If she outwardly showed her superiority of age, any person acquainted with the circumstances under which the adopted infant had been received into Mr. Gracedieu's childless household, need only compare the so-called sisters in after life, and would thereupon identify the eldest-looking young lady of the two as the offspring of the woman who had been banged for murder. With such a misfortune as this presenting itself as a possible prospect, the Minister was bound to prevent the girls from ignorantly betraying each other by allusions to their ages and their birthdays. After, much thought, he had devised a desperate means of meeting the difficulty— ready made known, as I am told, for the information of strangers who may read the pages that have gone before mine. My friend's plan of proceeding had, by the nature of it, exposed him to injurious comment, to embarrassing questions, and to doubts and misconceptions, all patiently endured in consideration of the security that had been attained. Proud of his explanation, Mr. Gracedieu's vanity called upon mo to acknowledge that my curiosity had been satisfied, and my doubts completely set at rest. No; my obstinate common sense was not . reduced to submission, even yet. Looking back over a' lapse of seventeen years, I asked what had happened, in that long interval, to justify the anxieties which still appeared to trouble my friend. This time, my harmless curiosity could be gratified by a reply expressed in three words—nothing had happened. Then, what in Heaven's name was the Minister afraid of ? His voice dropped to a whisper. He eaid : "I am afraid of the women."

Who were the women ? Two of them actually proved to be the servants employed in Mr. Gracedieu s bouse, at the byegone time when he brought the child home with him from the prison ! To point out the absurdity of the reasons that he gave for fearing what female curiosity might yet attempt, if circumstances happened to encourage it, would have been a mere waste of words. Dismissing the subject, I next ascertained that the Minister's doubts extended even to the two female warders, who had been appointed to watch the murderess in turn, during her last days in prison. I easily relieved his mind in this case. One of the warders was dead. The other had married a farmer in Australia. Had we exhausted the list of suspected persons yet ? No ; there was one more left; and the Minister declared that he had first met with her in my official residence, at the time when I was Governor of the

prison. „ "She presented herself to me by name, he said; "and she spoke rudely. A Miss . " He paused to consult his memory, and made the effort in vain. Having been reminded of the name only a few years since I was able to help him. "Thata it! he cried—" Miss Chance." . My friend had interested me in his imaginary perils at last. It was just possible that he might have a formidable person to deal with now. . During my residence at Florence, the Chaplain and I had taken many a retrospective look (as old men will) at past events in our lives. My former colleague spoke of the time when he had performed clerical duty for his friend, the rector of a parish church in London. Neither he nor I had heard again of the " Miss Ghance of our disagreeable prison experience, whom lie ha married to the dashing Dutch gentleman, Mr. Tenbruggen. We could only wonder what had become of that mysterious married pair. ~ . Mr. Graccdieu being undoubtedly ignorant of the woman's marriage, it was not easy to say what the consequence might be, in his excitable state, if I informed him of It. He would, in all probability, conclude that I knew more of the woman than he did. I decided on keeping my own counsel for the present at least. Passing at once, therefore, to the one consideration of any importance, I endea-

voured to find out whether Mr. Gracedieu and Mrs. Tenbruggen had met, or had communicated with each other in any way, daring the long period of separation that had taken place between the Minister and myself. If he had been so unlucky as to offend her, she was beyond all doubt an enemy to be dreaded. Apart, however, from a misfortune of this kind, she would rank, in my opinion, with the other harmless objects of Mr. Gracedieu's morbid distrust. In making my inquiries, I found that I had an obstacle to contend with.

While he felt the renovating influence of the repose that he enjoyed, the Minister had been able to think and to express himself with less difficulty than usual. But the reserves of strength on which the useful exercise of his memory depended, began to fail him as the interview proceeded. He vaguely recollected that "something unpleasant had passed between that audacious woman and himself." But at what date— and whether by word of mouth or by correspondence— more than his memory could recall. He believed he was not mistaken in telling me that he "had been in two minds about her." At one time he was satisfied that he had taken wise measures for his own security, if she attempted to annoy him. But there was another and a later time, when doubts and fears laid hold of him again. If I wanted to know how this had happened, he fancied it was through a dream ; and if I asked what the dream was, it bewildered him to think of it. He could only beg and pray that I would spare his poor head. Unwilling even yet to submit unconditionally to defeat, it occurred to me to try a last experiment on my friend, without calling for any mental effort on his own part. The " Miss Chance" of former days might, by a bare possibility, have written to him. I asked accordingly if he was in the habit of keeping his letters, and if he would allow me (when he had rested a little) to lay them open before him, so that he could look at the signatures. " You might find the lost recollection in that way," 1 suggested, " at the bottom of one of your letters." He was in that state of weariness, poor fellow, in which a man will do anything for the sake of peace. Pointing to a cabinet in his room, he gave me a key taken from a little basket on his bed. " Look for yourself," he said. After some hesitation—for I naturally recoiled from examining another man's correspondence — decided cn opening the cabinet at any rate. The letters—a large collection—were, to my relief, all neatly folded, and endorsed with the names of the writers. I could run harmlessly through bundle after bundle in search of the one name that I wanted, and still respect the privacy of the letters. My perseverance deserved a reward —and failed to get it. The name I wanted steadily eluded my search. Arriving at the upper shelf of the cabinet, I found it so high that I could barely reach it with my hand. Instead of getting more letters to look over, I pulled down two newspapers. One of them was an old copy of the Times, dating back as far as the 13th December, 1858. It was carefully folded, longwise, with the title-page uppermost. On the first column at the left-hand side of the sheet appeared the customary anouncements of births. A mark with a blue pencil, against one of the advertisements, attracted my attention. I read these lines : — " On the 10th inst., the wife of the Rev. Abel Gracedieu of a daughter." The second newspaper, bearing the same date, was published in an English country townno doubt the town in, which Mr. Gracedieu was performing his duties at the time The announcement of the birth here was exactly similar to the announcement in the Times the name of the place in which the child was born being in bo.-h cases left out. I naturally assumed that the advertisements had been inserted at the desire of Mrs. Gracedieu; and, after all that I had heard, there was little difficulty in attributing the curious omission I had noticed to the caution of her husband. If Mrs. Tenbruggen (then Miss Chance) had happened to see the advertisement in the great London newspaper, Mr. Gracedieu might yet have good reason to congratulate himself on his prudent method of providing against accidents.

I turned towards the bed and looked at him. His eyes were closed. Was he sleeping? Or was he trying to remember what he had desired to say to me, when the demands of my curiosity had obliged him to wait for a later opportunity ? Either way, there was something that quickened my sympathies in the spectacle of his helpless repose. It suggested to me personal reasons tor his anxieties, which he had not mentioned, .and which I had- not thought of up to this time. If the discovery that he dreaded took place, his household would be broken up, and his position as pastor would suffer in the estimation of the flock. His own daughter would refuse to live under the same roof with the daughter of an infamous woman. Popular opinion, among his congregation, judging a man who had passed off the child of other parents as his own, would find that man guilty of an act of deliberate deceit. Still oppressed by _ reflections which pointed to the future in this discouraging way, I was startled by a voice outside the door—a sweet sad voice saying, "May I come in ?" , The Minister's eyes opened instantly ; he raised himself in his bed. "Eunice at last!" he cried. "Let her in." CHAPTER XXXIX. I opened the door. Eunice passed me with the suddeness almost of a flash of light. When I turned towards the bed, her arms were round her father's neck. " Oh, poor Papa, how ill you look !" Commonplace expressions of fondness, and no more ; but the tone gave them a charm that subdued me. Never had I felt so indulgent towards Mr. Gracedieu's unreasonable fears as when I saw him in the embrace of his adopted daughter. She had already reminded me of the bygone day when a bright little child had sat on my knee, and listeued to the ticking of my watch. The Minister gently lifted her head from his breast. "My darling," he said, "you don't see my old friend. Love him, and look up to him, Eunice. He wiil be your friend, too, when I am gone." j She came to me and offered her cheek to be kissed. It was sadly pale, poor soul and I could guess why. Bub her heart was now full of her father. " Do you think he is seriously ill ?" she whispered. What I ought to have said I don't know. Her eyes, the sweetest, truest, loveliest eyes I ever saw in a human face, were pleading with me. Let my enemies make the worst of it, if they like—l did certainly lie._ And if I deserved my punishment, I got it; the poor child believed me! "Now I am happier," she said, gratefully. " Only to hear your voice seems to encourage me. On our way here Selina did nothing but talk of you. She told mo I shouldn't have time to feel afraid of the great man; he would make me fond of him directly. I said ' Are you fond of him ?' She said : ' Madly in love with him, my dear.' My little friend really thinks you like her, and is very proud of it. There are some people who call her ugly. I hope you don't agree with them?" . I believe I should have lied again if Mr. Gracedieu had not called me to the bedside. " How does shestrikeyou V" he whispered, eagerly. " Is it too soon to ask if she shows her age in her face?" "Neither in her face nor her figure, I answered; " it astonishes me that you can ever have doubted it. No stranger, judging by personal appearance, could fail to make the mistake of thinking Helena the oldest of the two." . He looked fondly at Eunice. Her figure seems to bear out what you say, he went on. " Almost childish, isn't it?" I could not agree to that. Slim, supple, simply graceful in every movement, Eunice s figure, in the charm of first youth, still waited its perfect development. Most men, looking at her as she stood at the other end of the room with her back towards us, would have guessed her age to be sixteen. . . Finding that I failed to agree with him, Mr. Gracedieu's misgivings returned. " You speak very confidently," ho said, "considering that you have not seen the girls together. Think what a dreadful blow it "would be to me if you made a mistake." j , , I declared, with perfect sincerity, that there was no fear of a mistake. The bare idea of making the proposed comparison was hateful to me. If Helena and I had happened to meet at that moment, I should have turned away from her by instinctshe would have disturbed my impressions of Eunice. The Minister signed to me to move a little nearer to him. "I must say it," ho whispered, "and I am afraid of her hear-

ing me. Is there anything in her face that 1 reminds you of her miserable mother ?" [ I had hardly patience to answer the question; it was simply preposterous. Her hair was by many shades darker than her mother's hair; her eyes were of. a different colour. There was an exquisite tenderness and sincerity in their expression made additionally beautiful, to my mind, by a gentle, uncomplaining sadness. It was impossible even to think of the eyes of the murderess when I looked at her child. Eunice's lower features, again, had none of her mother's regularity of proportion. Her smile, simple and sweet, and soon passing away, was certainly not an inherited smile on the maternal side. Whether she resembled her father, I was unable to conjecture—having never seen him. The one thing certain was, that not the faintest trace, in feature or expression, of Eunice's mother was to be seen in Eunice herself. Of the two girls, Helenajudging by something in the colour of her hair, and by something in the shade of her complexion— might possibly have suggested, in those particulars only, the accidental resemblance to my terrible prisoner of past times, which was totally absent in the prisoner's own daughter. The revival of Mr. Gracedieu's spirits indicated a temporary change only, and was already beginning to pass away. The eyes which had looked lovingly at Eunice began to look languidly now ; his head sank on the pillow with a sigh of weak content. "My pleasure has been almost too much for me," he said. " Leave me for a while to rest, and get used to it." Eunice kissed his forehead—and we left the room. CHAPTER XL. When we stepped out on the landing, 1 observed that my companion paused. She looked at the two flights of stairs below us before she descended them. It occurred to me that there must be somebody in the house whom she was anxious to avoid.

Arrived at the lower hall, she paused again, and proposed in a whisper that we should go into the garden. As we advanced along the backward division of the hall, I saw her eyes turn distrustfully towards the door of the room in which Helena had received me. At last, my slow preceptions felt with her and understood her. Eunice's sensitive nature recoiled from a chance meeting with the wretch, who had laid waste all that had once been happy and hopeful in that harmless young life. " Will you come with me to the part of the garden that I am fondest of?" she asked.

I offered her my arm. She led me in silence to a rustic seat, placed under the shade of a mulberry tree. I saw a change in her face as we sat down— tender and beautiful change. At that moment, the girl's heart was far away from me. There was some association with this corner of the garden, on which I felt I must not intrude.

" I was once very happy here," she said. " When the time of the heartache came soon after. I was afraid to look at the old tree and the bench under it. But it is all over now. I like to remember the hours that were once dear to me, and to see the place that recalls them. Do you know who lam thinking of ? Don't be afraid of distressing me. I never cry now." "My dear child, I have heard your sad story—but I can't trust myself to speak of it."

" Because you are so sorry for me?" "No words can say how sorry I am !" " But you are not angry with Philip ?" "Not angry ! My poor dear, I am afraid to tell you how angry I am with him." " Oh, no ! You mustn't say that. If you wish to be kind to me—and I am sure you do wish it—don't think bitterly of Philip." When I remember that the first feeling she roused in me was nothing worthier of a professing Christian than astonishment, I drop in my own estimation to the level of a savage. "Do you really mean," I was base enough to ask, " that you have forgiven him?"

She said gently : " How could I help forgiving him i" The man who could have been blest with such love as this, and who could have cast it away from him, can have been nothing but an idiot. On that ground—though I dare not confess it to Eunice—l forgave him too. " Do I surprise you V she asked, simply. " Perhaps love will bear any humiliation. Or perhaps I am only a poor weak creature. You don't know what a comfort it was to me to keep the few letters that I received from Philip. When I heard that he had gone away, I gave his letters the kiss that bade him good-bye. That was the time I thin when my poor bruised heart got used to tk pain ; I began to feel that there was one consolation still left for me—l might end in forgiving him. Why do I tell you all this ? I think you must have bewitched me. Is this really the first time I have seen you 1" She put her little trembling hand into mine ; I lifted it to my lips, and kissed it. Sorely was I tempted to own that I had pitied and loved her in her infancy. It was almost on my lips to say: "I remember you an easily-pleased little creature, amusing yourself with the broken toys which were once the playthings of my own children." I believe I should have said it, if I could have trusted myself to speak composedly to her. This was not to be done. Old as I was, versed as I was in the hard knowledge of how to keep the mask on in the hour"of need, this was not to be done. Still trying to understand that I was little better than a stranger to her, and still bent on finding the secret of the sympathy that united us, Eunice put a strange question to me. " When you were young yourself, she said, "did you know what it was to love, and to be —and then to lose it all ? '

It is not given to many men to marry the woman who has been the object of their first love. My early life had boon darkened by a sad story ; never confided to any living creature ; banished resolutely from my own thoughts. For forty years -past-that part of my buried self had lain quiet in its grave —and the chance touch of an innocent hand had raised the dead, and set us face to face again ! Did I know what it was to love, and to be loved, and then to lose it all? " Too well, my child ; too well !" That was all I could say to her. In the last days of my life, I shrank from speaking of it. When I had first felt that calamity, and had felt it most keenly, I might have given an answer worthier of me, and worthier of her. She dropped my hand, and sat by me in silence, thinking. Had I—without meaning it, God knows !—had I disappointed her ? ii j " Did you expect me to tell my own sad story," I said, "as frankly and as trustfully as you have told yours ?" "Oh, don't think that! I know what an effort it was to you to answer me at all. Yes, indeed ! I wonder whether I may ask something. The sorrow you have just told me of is not the only oneis it? You have had other troubles ?" " Many of them." " There aro times," she went on, when one can't help thinking of one's own miserable self. I try to bo cheerful, but those times come now and then." She stopped, and looked at me with a pale fear confessing itself in her face. " You know who Selina is ?" she resumed. My friend ! The only friend I had, till you came here." . I guessed that she was speaking of the Quaint, kindly little woman, whose ugly surname had been hitherto the only name known to me. , T " Selina has, I dare say, told you that I have been ill," she continued, and that I am staying in the country for the benefit of my health." that she had something to It was plain that she had something to say to me, far more important than this, and that she was dwelling on trifles to gain ime and courage. Hoping to help her, I dwelt on trifles too ; asking commonplace questions about the part of the country in which she was staying. She answered absentlythen, little by little, impatiently. The one poor proof of kindness that I could offer, now, was to say no more. I "Do you know what a strange creature I am ?" she broke out. " Shall I make you angry with mo? or shall I make you laugh at me ? What I have shrunk from confessing to Selina—what I dare not confess to my father—l must, and will, confess to You . There was a look of horror in her « that alarmed me. I drew her to me so that she could rest her head on my shoulder. My own agitation threatened to get the better of me. For the first time since 1 had seen ' this sweet girl, I found myself thinking of tho blood that ran in her veins, and or tne nature of tho mother who had borno hor. !' the Do you recollect her veins, and ot upnature of the mother who had borne her. " Do you recollect what happened upstairs?" she said. "I mean when wo left my father, and came out on the landing.

It was easily recollected; I begged her to go on. " Before I went downstairs," she proceeded, " you saw me look and listen. Did you think I was afraid of meeting some person ? and did you guess who it was I wanted to avoid ?"

" I guessed that—and I understood you." "No! You are not wicked enough to understand me, Will you do me a favour ? I want you to look at me." It was said seriously. She lifted her head for a moment, so that I could examine her face. "Do you see anything," she asked, " which makes you fear that lam not in my right; mind ?" "Good God! How can you ask such a horrible question ?" She laid her head back on my shoulder with a sad little sigh of resignation, "I ought to have known better," she said ; there is no such easy way out of it as that. Tell me— there one kind of wickedness more deceitful than another ? Can it lie hid in a person for years together, and show itself when a time of suffering comes ? Did you ever see that, when you were master in the prison ?" I had seen —and, after a moment's doubt, I said I had seen it.

Did you pity those poor wretches ?'* " Certainly ! They deserved pity." "I am one of them!" she said. "Pity me. If Helena looks at me—if Helena speaks to me—if I only see Helena by accidentdo you know what she does She tempts me ! Tempts me to do dreadful things ! Tempts me—" The poor child threw her arms round my neck, and whispered the next fatal words in my ear.

The mother ! Prepared as I was for the accursed discovery, the horror of it shook me.

She left me, and started to her feet. The inherited energy showed itself in furious protest against the inherited evil. " What does it mean?" she cried. "I'll submit to anything. I'll bear my hard lot patiently, if you will only tell me what it means. Where does this horrid transformation of me out of myself come from ? Look at my good father. In all this world there is no man so perfect as he is. And oh, how he has 'taught me there isn't a single good thing that I have not learnt from him since I was a litttle child. Did you ever hear him speak of my mother? You must have heard him. My mother was an angel. I could never be worthy of her at my best — but I have tried ! I have, tried ! The wickedest girl in the world doesn't have worse thoughts than the thoughts that have come to me. Since when ! Since Helena—oh, how can I call her by her name as if I still loved her ? Since my —can she be my sister, I ask myself sometimes ! Since my enemy—there's the word for her— my enemy took Philip away from me. What does it mean ? I have asked in my prayers, and have got no answer* I ask you. What does it mean? You must tell me! You shall tell me ! What does it mean ?"

Why did I not try to calm her ? I had vainly tried to calm herl who knew who her nother was, and what her mother had

At last, she had forced the sense of my duty on me. In mercy to her, I used the strong hand, and put her back in the place by my side that she had left. It was useless to reason with her, it was impossible to answer her. I had my own idea of the one way in which it might be possible to charm Eunice back to her sweeter self. " Let us talk of Philip," I said. The fierce flush in her face softened, the

swelling trouble of her bosom began to subside, as that dearly-loved name passed my lips ! There was some influence left in her which resisted rae. Her voice sank, but she said the word :

"No!" Why not?" "I have lost all my courage. If you talk to me of Philip, you will make me cry." I drew her nearer to me. If she had

been my own child, I don't think I could have felt for her more truly than I felt at that moment. I only looked at her ; I only

said :

" Cry !" The love that was in her heart rose, and poured its tenderness into her eyes. I had longed to see the tears that would comfort her. The tears came. There was silence between us for a while. It was possible for me to think. In the absence of physical resemblance between parent and child, is an unfavourable influence exercised on the tendency to moral resemblance Assuming the possibility of such a result as this, Eunice (entirely unlike her mother) must, as I concluded, have been possessed of qualities formed to resist, as well as of qualities doomed to undergo, the infection of evil. While, therefore, I resigned myself to recognise the existence of the hereditary maternal taint, I firmly believed in the counterbalancing influences for good which had been part of the girl's birthright. They had been derived, perhaps, from the better qualities in her father's nature; they had been certainly developed by the tender care, the religious vigilance which had guarded the adopted child so lovingly in the Minister's household ; and they had served their purpose until time brought with it the change, for which the tranquil domestic influences were not prepared. With the great, the vital transformation, which marks the ripening of the girl into the woman's maturity of thought and passion, the new power for Good, strong enough to resist the new power for Evil, sprang into being, and sheltered Eunice under the supremecy of Love. Love illfated and ill-bestowed —but love that no profanation could stain, that no hereditary evil could conquerthe True Love that had been, and was and would be, the guardian angel of Eunice's life. Still absorbed in these speculations, I was disturbed by a touch on my arm. I looked up. Eunice's eyes were fixed on a shrubbery, at somo little distance from us, which closed the view of the garden on that side. I noticed that she was trembling. Nothing to alarm her was visible that I could discover. I asked what she had seen to startle her. She pointed to the shrubbery. " Look again," she said. This time I saw a woman's dress among the shrubs. The woman herself appeared in a moment more. It was Helena. Sho carried a small portfolio, and she approached us with a suiile. (To be continued.]