THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9124, 4 August 1888, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

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

[THE eight of translation is reserved.]

CHAPTER XLI.

related by the governor. I t,ook hp at Eunice. She had risen, .titled by her first suspicion of the person who was approaching us through the shrub(ierv. but she kept her place near me, ~,;v changing her position so as to avoid "onfrontiiHT Helena. Her quickened breathing was all that told me of the effort that _i K > was making to preserve her selfcontrol. Entirely free from unbecoming signs of hurry and agitation, Helena opened her business with me by means of an apology. '• Pray excuse me for disturbing you. I .. n obliged to leave the house on one of nix tiresome domestic errands. If you will kindly permit- it 1 wish to express, before I •o. mv very sincere regret tor what 1 was nj.'le enough to say, when I last had the honour of seeing you. May I hope to be lor-riven ? How do you do, Eunice ? Have vou enjoyed your holiday in the country . Eunice neither moved nor answered. Having some doubt of what might, happen i: the two girls remained together, 1 proposed to Helena to leave the garden and to let me hear what she had to say in the

'• Quite needle??," she replied; ''Ishall not detain von for more than a minute. Please look at this." She offered to me the portfolio that she had been carrying:, and pointed to a morsel of patnrr attached to it. which contained this inscription : "Philip's Letters to -Me. Private. Helena (dracedieu. '■ I have a favour to ask, she said, " and 4 proof of confidence in you to oiler. W ill veu be so good a.- to look over what'- you t;; .; in my (Htrtfoiio? 1 am unwilling to :; ve up ie hopes that 1 had founded on interview, when 1 asked for it. llie V'ltvs will, I venture to think, plead my :\V, more convincingly than 1 was able to ~\i it for myself. 1 wish to forget what- ! '.'.'l- • between us to the last word. To f; ;. v .-t word." she repeated, emphatically I"w.ih a look which sufficiently informed me • : •. 1 had not been betrayed to her lather ■•Will you indulge me': she asked, :.„i Acted 'her portfolio for the second a more impudent bargain could not well j• ■ ea proposed to me. "iwas to read, and to be favourably im- ......... I hv Mr. Philip lhinboyne's letters ; . Miss' Helena was to say nothing of unlucky slip of the tongue, relating to i-r •; -.her. which she had discovered to be , . ■ ,u> act of self -betrayal—thanks to my -nfasion at the time. 11l had not thought . • Kuiiic*'. and of the desolate and loveless !•:' vi which the poor girl was so patiently , . 1 should have refused to read \T• i;race l lien's love-letters. • 1,-.:, as things were, I was influenced by the hour (innocently encouraged by Eunice i; that Philip Dunboyne might not be . wiuniv unworthy of the sweet girl whom he had' injured as 1 had hitherto been .. K.».-cd to believe. To act on this view v.i-'ii the purpose of promoting a reeont ji, was impossible unless I had the i, • of forming a correct estimate of the ::character. It seemed to me that I p. . found the means. A fair chance of , c ;t!:tsr his sincerity to a trustworthy test vv- «.:••. .v ottered 'by the letters (the con- • a'iai letters) which 1 had been requested - i read. To feel this as strongly as I felt i:. brought me at once to a decision. 1 (. n-euted to take the portfolio—on my o>v;i conditions. " Understand, Mis? Helena," I said, '■that I make no promises. I reserve my own opinion, and my own right of action. "I am not afraid of your opinions or vour actions," she answered, confidently, '•i: you will only read the letters. In the lae.iutime, let me relieve my sister, there, of rnv presence. I hope you will soon recever. Eunice, in the country air. If the object of the wretch was to exas--5 v-rate her * victim, she had completely tailed. Eunice remained as still as a statue. To all appearance, she had not even heard what had been said to her. _ Helena looked at me, and touched her forehead with a significant smile. "Sad, isn t it ! she said—and bowed. and went briskly away on iter household errand. We were alone again. Still, Eunice never moved. I spoke to hr. and produced no impression. Begin - i: ; _- to feel alarmed, I tried the eiiect of touching her. With a wild cry, she started into a state of animation. Almost a- the same moment she weakly swayed to i.nd fro as if the pleasant breeze in the ; : P-n moved her at its will, like the f"\vt-rs. I held her up, and led her to the " There is nothing to be afraid of,' I said. '' She has gone." Eunice's eyes rested on me in vacant "How do you know?" the asked. "I 1- her but I never see her. Do you ■■ My dear child ! of what person are you she answered : "Of no person. lam m -.iking of a Voice that whispers and '•.-a.: it - me. when Helena is near." " What voice. Eunice?" "The whispering Voice. It called me ]'• .jnter when I first heard it. My father L :e —he has spoken, 1 dare say, to you --: my mother, the angel. That good K.irh has never come to me. from the better v. id. it i- a mock-mother who comes to i . -oine spirit of evil. Listen to this I '• .- awake in my bed. In the dark I h-viid the mock -mother whispering, close at lay ear. Shall 1 tell you what she said ? S.vr -ai'l : ' 1 am your mother.' Oh, 1 heard i". ' 1 '.member how I longed for light to *• . in-r by ; I prayed to her to show herself to me. She said 'My face was hidden '>■>.. a I passed from life to death ; my face 'i" mortal creature may see.' I have never •<—-ra her—how can you have seen her? bit i heard her again, just now. She whi.-j«red to ine when Helena was standing there—where you are standing. She freezes bi- ii:»- in me. Did she freeze the life in von ? bid you hear her tempting me P a t speak of it. if you did. Oh, not a v ' oil not a word !" A inan v. ho has governed a prison may say with Macbeth, "I have supped full ah horrors." Hardened as 1 was—or out! iit to have been—the efl'ecfc of what I Pal just- heard turned me cold. If i bad la, known it to be absolutely impossible, I tni'_'ht have believed that the crime and the death of the murderess were known to Eunice, as being the crime and the death of her mother, and that the horrid discovery had turned her brain. This was -imply impossible. What did it mean ? 'mod God ! what did it mean? My sense of my own helplessness was the first sense in me that recovered. I thought of Eunice's devoted little friend. A imams sympathy seemed to be needed now. I rose to lead the way out of the garden. "Selina will think we are lost," I said. '' Let us go and find Selina." " Not for the world !" she cried. "Why not?" "Because I don't feel sure of myself. I 'tight tell Selina something which she must never know; I should be so sorry to frighten her. Let me stop here with you." 1 resumed my place at her side. '' Let me take your hand." I gave her my hand. What composing itUiuunce this simple act may, or may not, have exercised, it is impossible to say. Hiia. was quiet, she was silent. After an interval I heard her breathe a long-drawn -igh of relief. "I am afraid I have surprised you," she said. "Helena brings the dreadful time hack to me—" She stopped, and shuddered. " Don't speak of Helena, my dear." 'But I am afraid you will think— because I have said strange things—that I nave been talking at random," she insisted. The Doctor will say that, if you meet him. He believes lam deluded by a J earn. I tried to think so myself. It was (a no use ; 1 am quite sure he is wrong." ■p, ■I privately determined to watch for the 'actor s arrival, and to consult with him. •Eunice went on : ( I, * lave the story of a terrible night to j you ! but I haven't the courage to tell ■.? ow ' hy shouldn't you come back - 1 mes to the place that I am stayliav Jn.'i, Popri ? tors of tlle - N Kw Zealand Heratd story

ing at— pleasant, farm-house, and such kind people? You might read the account of that night in my journal. I shall not. regret the misery of having written it, if it helps you to find out how this hateful second self of mine has come to me. Hush ! I want to ask you something. Do you think Helena is in the house? - ' t '• No—she has gone out." "Did she say that herself? Are you sure? - '

" Quite sure." She decided on going buck to the farm, while Helena was out of the way. We left the garden together. For the first time, my companion noticed the portfolio. I happened to be carrying it in the hand that was nearest to her, as she walked by liiv side. " Where did you get t hat, ?" she asked. It was needless to reply in words. My hesitation spoke for me. " Carry it in your other hand," she said— the hand that's farthest away from me. I don't want to see it ! Do you mind waiting a moment while I find Selina ? You will go to the farm with us, won't von ?'' L had to look over the letters, in Eunice's own interests; and 1 begged her to let me defer my visit, to the farm until the next day. She consented, after making me promise to keep my appointment. It was of seme importance to her, she told me, that 1 should make acquaintance with the farmer and his wife and children, and tell her how I liked them. Her plans for the future depended on what those good people might be willing to do. When she had recovered her health it was impossible for her to go home again, while Helena remained in the house. She had resolved to earn her own living if she could get employment as a governess. The farmers children liked her ; she had already helped their mother in teaching them ; and there was ronton to hope that their father would see his way to employing' her permanently. His house' ottered the great, advantage of being near enough to the town to enable her to hear news" of the Minister's progress towards recovery, and to see him himself when safe opportunities ottered, from time to time. As for her salary, what did she care about money? Anything would be acceptable, if the good man would only realise her hopes for the future. It was disheartening to hear that hope at her aire began and ended within such narrow limits as these. No prudent man would have tried to persuade her, as I now did, that the idea of reconciliation offered the better hope of the two. "Suppose I see Mr. Philip Dunbeyne when I go back to London," 1 began, " what shall I say to him 5" •• Say 1 have forgiven him." "And suppose." 1 went on, "that the blame really rests, where you all believe it to rest, with Helena. If that young man returns to you, truly ashamed of himself, truly penitent, will you—7" Site resolutely interrupted me : " No !" ••Oh. Eunice, you surely mean Yes'.'" '• I mean No !' '• Why?" " Don't ask me ! Good-bye till tomorrow." CHAPTER XLII. No person came to my room, and nothing happened to interrupt me while 1 was reading Mr. Philip Dunboyne's letters. One of them, let me say at once, produced a very disagreeable impression on me. I have unexpectedly discovered Mrs. Tenbruggeis—in a postscript'. She is making a living as a Medical Rubber (or Masseuse), and is in professional attendance on Mr. Dunbeyne the elder. More of this a little farther on. Having gone through the whole collection of Young Dunboyne's letters, 1 set myself to review the differing conclusions which the correspondence had produced on my mind. 1 call the papers submitted to me a correspondence, because the greater part of Philip's letters exhibit notes in pencil, evidently added by Helena. These express, for the most part, the interpretation which she had placed on passages that perplexed or displeased her: and they have, as Philip's rejoinders show, been employed a*> materials when she wrote her replies. On reflection, I find myself troubled by complexities and contradictions in the view presented of this young man's character. To decide positively whether I can justify to myself and to my regard for Eunice an tempt to reunite the lovers requires more time for consideration than I can reasonably expect that Helenas patience will allow. Having a quiet hour or two si ill before me. 1 have determined to make extracts from the letters for my own use : with the intention of referring to them while 1 am still in doubt which way mv decision ought to incline. I shall [iresent them here, to speak for themselves. Is there any objection to this? None that I Call see. In the first place, these extracts have a value of their own. They add necessary information to the present history of events. In the second place, I am under no obligation to Mr. (Jracedieu's daughter which forbids me to make use of her portfolio. I told her that I only consented to receive it tinder reserve of my own right of action — and her assent to that stipulation was expressed in the clearest terms. EXTRACTS I'RO.M MR. PHILIP Dt'N 130YNK S LETTERS. I. You blame me, dear Helena, for not having paid proper attention to the. questions put to me in your last letter. 1 have only been waiting to make up my mind, before I replied. First question : Do I think if advisable that you should write to my father? No, my dear ; 1 beg you will defer writing, until you hoar from me again. Second question ; Considering that he is still a stranger to you, is there any harm in you asking me what sort of man my father is? No harm, my sweet one; but, as you will presently see, I am afraid you have addressed yourself to the wrong man. My father is kind, in his own odd way and learned, and rich—a more high-minded and honourable man (as I have every reason to believe) doesn't live. But if you ask me which he prefers, his books or his son, 1 do him no injustice when 1 answer, his books. His reading and his writing are obstacles between us which I have never been able to overcome. This is the more to be regretted because he is charming, on the few occasions when I find him disengaged. If you wish I knew more about my tat her, we are in complete agreement as usual—l wish, too. But there is a dear friend of yours and mine, who is just the person we want to help us. Need I say that I allude to Mrs. Staveley ? I called on her yesterday, not long after she had paid a visit to my father. Luck had favoured her. She arrived just at the time when hunger had obliged him to shut up his books, and ring for something to eat. Mrs. Staveley secured a favourable reception with her customary tact and delicacy. He had a fowl for his dinner. She knows his weakness of old; she volunteered to carve it for him. If I can only repeat what this clever woman fold me of their talk, you will have a portrait of Mr. Dunboyne the elder—not perhaps a highly-finished picture, but, as I hope and believe, a good likeness. Mrs. Staveley began by complaining to him of the conduct of his son. I had promised to write to her, and I had never kept my word. She had reasons for being especially interested in my plans and prospects, just then ; knowing me to be attached (please take notice that I am quoting her own language) to a charming friend of hers, whom I lyid first met at her house- To aggravate the disappointment that I had inflicted, the young lady had neglected her too. No letters, no information. Perhaps my father would kindly enlighten her ! Was the affair going on ? or was it broken off'? My father held out his plate and asked for the other wing of the fowl. "It isn't a bad one for London," he said; "won't you have some yourself ?" "I don't seem to have interested you," Mrs. Staveley remarked. " What did you expect me to be interested in?" my father inquired. "I was absorbed in the fowl. Favour me by returning to the subject." Mrs. Staveley admits that she answered this rather sharply : " The subject, sir, was your son's admiration for a charming girl; one of the daughters of Mr. Gracedieu, the famous preacher." My father is too well-bred to speak to a lady while his attention is absorbed by a fowl. He finished the second wing, and then he asked if " Philip was engaged to be married!"

" I am not quite sure," Mrs. Staveley confessed. " Then, my dear friend, we will wait) till we are sure." " But, Mr. Dunboyne, there is really no need to wait. I suppose your son comes here, now and then, to see you?" '' My son is most attentive. In course of time he will contrive to hit on the right hour for his visit. At present, poor fellow, he interrupts me every day." " Suppose he hits upon the right time tomorrow ?" "Yes ?" " You might ask him if he is engaged?" " Pardon me. I think I might wait till Philip mentions it without asking."" " What an extraordinary man you are !" "Oh, 110, no—only a philosopher." This tried Mrs. Staveley's temper. You know what a perfectly candid person our friend is. She owned to me that she felt inclined to make herself disagreeable. " That's thrown away upon me." she said : " 1 don't know what a philosopher is." Let me pause for a moment, dear Helena. I have inexcusably forgotten to speak of my father's personal appearance. It won take long. 1 need only notice one interesting feature, which, so to speak, lifts his face out of the common. lie lias an eloquent nose. Persons possessing this rare vantape are blest with powers of expression, not granted to their ordinary fellow - creatures. My father's nose is a mine of information to friends familiarly acquainted with it. It changes colour like a modest young lady's cheek. It works flexibly from 'side to side like the rudder of a ship. On the present occasion, Mrs. Staveley saw it shift towards the left-hand side of his face. A sigh escaped the poor lady. Experience told' her that my father was going to hold forth. . .. " You don't know what a philosopher is ? he repeated. "Be so kind as to look at me. I am a philosopher." Mrs. Staveley bowed. "And a philosopher, my charming friend, is a man who has discovered a system of li/e. Some systems assert themselves in volumes —my system asserts itself in two words: Never think of anything until you have first asked yourself if there is an absolute necessity for doing it, at that particular moment. Thinking of things, when things needn't be thought of, "is offering an opportunity to Worry : and Worry is the favourite agent of Death when the destroyer handles his work in a lingering way, and achieves premature results. .Never look back, and never look forward, as long as you can possibly help it. Looking back leads the wav to sorrow. And looking forward ends in the cruellest way of all delusions; it encourages hope. The present time is the precious time. Live for the passing day : flic passing day is all that we can lie sure of. You suggested, just now, that I should ask mv son it he was engaged to be married. How do we know what wear and tear of vour nervous texture I succeeded in saving when 1 said : ' Wait till Philip mentionsit without asking 1 There is a personal application of my system. I have explained it in my time to every woman on the list of my acquaintance, including the female servants. ' Not one of them has rewarded _me by adopting my system. How do you fee! about it V" Mrs. Staveley declined to say whether she had otlered a bright example of gratitude to the rest of the .-.ex. When 1 asked why, she declared that it was my turn now to tell her what 1 had been doing. You will anticipate what followed. She objected to the mystery in which my prospects seemed to be involved. In plain English, was I, or was 1 not engaged to marry her dear Eunice. I said No. \\ hat else could I say? If 1 had told Mrs. Staveley the truth, when she insisted on my explaining myself, she would have gone hack to my father, anil would have appealed to his sense of justice to forbid our marriage. Finding me obstinately silent, she has decided on writing to Eunice. So we parted. But don't be disheartened. On mv wav out of the house, I met Mr. Staveley coming in, and had a little talk with him. He and his wife and his family are going to the seaside next week. .Mrs. Staveley once out of our way, 1 can tell my father of our engagement without any fear of consequences. If she writes to him. the moment he sees my name mentioned, and and finds violent language associated with it, he will hand the letter to me. "Your business. Philip: don't interrupt me." lie will say that, and go back to his books. There is my father, painted to the life ! Farewell, for the present. Remarks by H. G. —Philip's grace and gaiety of style might be envied by any professional author, lie amuses me, but he rouses my suspicion at the same time. This slippcrv lover of mine tells me to defer writing to his father, and gives no reason for offering that strange advice to the voting lady who is soon to be a member of "the family. Is this merely one more instance of the weakness of his character? Or, now that he is away from my influence, is lie beginning to regret Eunice already'.' Added by the Governor.—l too have my doubts. Is the flippant nonsense which Philip has written inspired by the effervescent good spirits of a happy young man ? Or is it assumed for a purpose? In •his latter case, 1 should gladly conclude that he was regarding his conduct to Eunice with becoming emotions of sorrow and shame. CHAPTER XLIII. My next quotations will suffer a process of abridgement. 1 intend them to present the substance of three letters, reduced as follows : — 11. Weak as he may be, Mr. Philip Dunboyne shows fin his second letter) that he can feel resentment, and that he can express his feelings, in replying to Miss Helena. He protests against suspicions which he has not deserved. That lie docs sometimes think of Eunice he sees no reason to deny. lie is conscious of errors and misdeeds, which —traceable as they are to Helena's irresistible fascinations—may perhaps be considered rather his misfortune than his fault. Be that as it may, lie does indeed feel anxious to hear good accounts of Eunice's health. If this honest, avowal excites her sister's jealousy, he will be disappointed in Helena for the first time. The third letter shows that this exhibition of spirit has had its effect. His imperious young lady regrets that she lias hurt his feelings, and is rewarded for the apology by receiving news of the most gratifying kind. Faithful Philip has told his father that he is engaged to be married to Miss Helena Gracedicu, daughter of the celebrated Wesleyan preacher—and so on, and so on. Has Mr. Dunboyne the elder expressed any objection to the young lady? Certainly not-. He merely objects, on prin ciple, to looking forward. " How do we know," says the philosopher " what accidents may happen or what doubts and hesitations may yet turn up. I am not to burden my mind in this matter) till I know that I must do it. Let mo hear when she is ready to go to church, and I will be ready with the settlements. My compliments to Miss and her Papa, and let us wait a little." Dearest Helena, isn't he funny ? The fourth letter has been already mentioned. In this there occurs the first startling reference to Mrs. Tenbruggen by name. She is in London, finding her way to lucrative celebrity by twisting, turning, and pinching the flesh of credulous persons, afflicted with nervous dis orders ; and she has already paid a few medical visits to old Mr. Dunboyne. He persists in poring over his books while Mrs. Tenbruggen operates, sometimes on his cramped right hand, sometimes (in the fear that his brain may have something to do with it) on the back of his neck. One of them frowns over her rubbing, and the other frowns over his reading. It would be delightfully ridiculous, but for a drawback : Mr. Philip Dunboyno's first impressions of Mrs Tenbruggen do not incline him to look at that lady from a humorous point of view. Helena's remarks appear again on these letters. She feels not quite sure of Philip, even yet. No more do I. 111. The fifth letter must be permitted to speak for itself: — I have flown into a passion, dearest Helena ; and I am afraid I shall make you fly into a passion too. Blame Mrs Tenbruggen ; don't blame me. On the first occasion when I found my father under the hands of the Medical Rubber, she took no notice of me. On the second occasion—when she had been in daily attendance on him for a week, at an exorbitant fee—she said, in the coolest

manner : " Who is this young gentleman ? My father laid down his book, for a, moment only : " Don't interrupt me again, Ma'am. The young gentleman is my son Philip. Mrs. Tenbruggen eyed me V'ith an appearance of interest which I was at a loss to account for. I hate an impudent woman. My visit came suddenly to an end. The next time I |aw my father he was alone. '

I asked him how he got on with Mrs. Tenbruggen. As badly as possible, it appeared. " She takes liberties with my neck ; she interrupts me in my reading ; and she does me no good. I shall end, Philip, in applying a medical rubbing to Mrs. Tenbruggen.' 1 A few days later, I found the masterful " Masseuse" torturing the poor old gentleman's muscles again. She had the audacity to say to me : " Well, Mr. Philip, when aro you going to marry Miss Eunice Gracedieu?" My father looked up. "Eunice?" he repeated. " When my son told me he was engaged to Miss Gracedieu, he said ' Helena !' Philip, what does this mean ?" Mrs. Tenbruggen was so obliging as to answer for me. "Some mistake, sir ; it's Eunice he is engaged to." 1 confess I forgot, myself. "How the devil do you know that?" I burst out. Mrs. Tenbruggen ig--1101 ed me and my language. "I am sorry to see, sir, that your soil's education has been neglected ; he seems to be grossly ignorant of the laws of politeness." " Never mind the laws of politeness," says my father. " You appear to be better acquainted with my son's matrimonial prospects than he is himself. How is that ?" Mrs. Tenbruggen favoured him with another ready reply : My authority is a letter, addressed to me by a relative of Mr. Gracedieu—my dear and intimate friend, Miss Jillgall." My father's keen eyes travelled backwards and forwards between his female surgeon and his son. " Which am 1 to believe?" he inquired. "I am surprised at your asking the question," I said. Mrs. Tenbruggen pointed to me. "Look at IS Jr. Philip, sir—and you will allow him one merit. He is capable of showing it, when he knows he has disgraced himself." Without intending it, I am sure, my father infuriated me; he looked as if he believed her. Out of my mouth came one of the smallest and strongest words in the English language, before I could stop it. " Mrs Tenbruggen you lie !" The illustrious Rubber dropped my father's hand—she had been operating on him all the time—ami showed us that she could assert, her dignity when circumstances called for the exertion: " Either your son or ], sir, must, leave the room. Which is it to be?" She met her match in my father. Walking quietly to the door, he opened it for Mrs. Tenbruggen with a low bow. She stopped on- her way out, and delivered her parting words : " Messieurs Punboyne, father and son, I have but one iling to say. Nobody has ever yet insulted me without, having reason, sooner or later, to regret it. In the meantime 1 keep my temper, and merely regard you as a couple of blackguards." 'With that, pretty assertion of her opinion, she left us. When we were alone, there was but one course to take ; I made my confession It is impossible to tell you how my father received it.—for he sat down at his library table with his back to me. The first thing he did was to ask me to help bis memory. " Did you say that the father of these girls was a parson?" "Yes—a Wesleyan Minister." " What does the Minister think of you?" " I don't know, sir." " Find out." That was all ; not another word could I extract from him. 1 don't pretend to have discovered what he really has in his mind. I only venture on a suggestion. If there is any old friend in your town, who has any influence over vour father, leave no means untried of getting that friend to say a kind word for us. And tlien ask your father to write to mine. This is, as 1 see it, our only chance. There the letter ends. Helena's notes on it show that her pride is fiercely interested in securing Philip as a husband. Her victory over poor Eunice will, as she plainly intimates, be only complete when she is married to young Dunboyne. For the rest, her desperate resolution to win her way to my good graces is sulliciently intelligible, now. My own impressions, derived from the lift letter, vary. Philip rather gains upon me; he appears to have some capacity for feeling ashamed of himself. On the other hand, I regard the discovery of an intimate friendship existing between Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss .Jillgall with the gloomiest views. Is this formidable Masseuse likely to ply her trade in the country towns ? And is it possible that she may come to this town? God forbid ! Of the other letters in the collection, I need take no special notice in this place. The one recent event in Mr. Gracedieu's family, worthy of record, is of a melancholy nature. After paying his visit to-day, the Doctor has left word that nobody but the nurse is to go near the Minister. This seems to indicate, but too surely, a change for the worse. Helena has been away all the evening at the Girl's School. She left a little note, informing me of her wishes : "1 shall expect. to be favoured with your decision tomorrow morning, in my housekeeping room." At breakfast time, the report of the poor Minister was still discouraging. I noticed that Helena was absent- from the table. Miss Jillgall suspected that tho cause was bad news from Mr. Philip Punboyne, arriving by that morning's post. "If you will excuse the use of strong language by a lady," she said, " Helena looked perfectly devilish when she opened the letter. She rushed away, and locked herself up in her own shabby room. Cheering, isn't, it.?" As usual, good Selina expressed her sentiments without reserve. I had to keep my appointment ; and tho sooner Helena Gracedieu and I understood each other the better. I knocked at the door. It was loudly unlocked, and violently thrown open. Helena's temper had risen to boiling heat, ; she stammered with rage when she spoke to me. '• Have you read Philip's letters ?" , " Yes," "" " May we count on yonr influence to help us? I want a positive answer.' I gave her what she wanted. I said : " Certainly not." She took a letter from her pocket, opened it, and smoothed it out on the table with a blow of her open hand. " Look at that," she said. I looked. It was the letter addressed to Mr. Dunboyne the elder, which I had written for Mr. Gracedieu ; with the one object of preventing Helena's marriage. " Of course, I can depend on you to tell me the truth she continued. " Without fear or favour, Miss Helena, you may depend on that." " The signature to the letter, Mr. Governor, is written by my father. But the letter it,self is in a different hand. Do you, J)}' any chance, recognise the writing?" " I do." " Whose writing is it?" " Mine."

[To be continued.)