EUNICE MORTON’S DILEMMA

Western Star, Issue 2164, 11 December 1897, Page 4

EUNICE MORTON’S DILEMMA

“ This to come now ! Now, after all these years—now, and not just a few months ago. Terrible !” And again, as Eunice Morton let her hands drop into her lap with a gesture of despair, she muttered “ Terrible i” Yet the letter which had brought this agony of tear upon her was not such as would have been thus received by most people. It was from her lawyer, enclosing a copy of a will which left her, Eunice Morton, the sum of £50,000. It was written in disjointed sentences and most informal terms ; still, as the solicitor assured her, it was absolutely legal, and could not be contested. “ I know something of the man’s family,” be wrote, “ and they will annoy us if they can ; but they would nob be so foolish as to try to take the matter into court.” What was to be done P Eunice s first mad impulse was to slip downstairs, drive to the ad • dress of the office from which the letter was dated,and beg the lawyer to fling the ill-omened document into the fire ; to make the fortune over as a gift to some hospital, on the one condition that no attempt was ever made to discover the identity of the giver ; to tell the dead man’s relatives that the whole sum was placed unreservedly at their disposal; to do anything rather than that this money should in any way be connected with herself. But would the lawyer—kindly old friend as he had always been—consent to this ? In consideration of his professional standing, could he do so if he would ? Eunice, wofully ignorant as all women are of legal matters, doubted it. One thing at least she had learnt, of which till that hour she had never been quite assured ; this was that the very memory of the old, mad love which she had once cherished for the man who had made the will was gone, its last baleful shadow lost in the horror of the disaster which ho had unwittingly brought upon her. A letter had been enclosed in the packet. Eunice took it up and read it through again. -At one time it might have touched her ; now selfishness and fear had made her bard, and she almost hated the shaking hand which had penned the words. “I learn that you are still unmarried. It is possible that the curse of poverty and dependence which weighed so heavily in the old days is still upon you. If so, may the gift I now make enable you to enter in some home of your T,wn —a home with one who, more happy than I . I But I will make no comparisons. Believe only, Eunice, that your influence has made the latter end of my life less evil than it would have been had I never met you. I owe you so much ” She read no farther, but flung the letter from her ; "He owes me so much, and in return he jias ruined me—speilt all my life. Was it not enough that, till my youth was almost gone, 1 cared for him only, strive as I would against it i—cared so much that to think of any other ■man was an impossibility ?” Here she paused in her stoimy reflections, interrupted by a voice without, while she thrust the torn, soiled sheet behind the sofa pillow, together with the long cover of tell-tale blue. “ Miss Morton alone ? I’ll go straight in, then. You need not annoudee me. ” Then a firm Jatep was heard along the corrider, the door Opened, and in came six feet of pleasant English humanity with all the assurance of an accepted Sever. / -

'• In the dark P ” he said, as he made his way •to her ; for Eunice’s swiftly moving hand had just extinguished the lamp at her elbow. “Let sue bring one of the other things near, I can’t <sea you.” “ Please don’t,” said Eunice, laying a detaining band on his ; “ I have a headache, I •fcan’t do with (ho light.” “ But I can do with a kiss—two, in fact, to prove yon are not angry with me for coming sialf an hour before my time,” said Brechin, the ijiew comer, who had been Eunice’s fianed for the last three weeks. There was plenty of good honest devotion in this young man, but not ■much sentiment, and the embraces which 'followed were given with at least as much itfgour as tenderness. He had a good deni to say of the race meeting he had been to that day, of his own and his rfriend’s losses, which sat very lightly on him ; ■of the cricket match,, in which he was to take part later on ;of the play, to which he was to Jake Eunice and. her friends the next day—of ■ T things that form the subjects of an ordinaryminded man who has no secrets to conceal in ; bis own life, and would not insult others by : suspecting them of having such in theirs.

The book of Eunice Morton’s life included no page on which was written the dark word ■shame, but a record of error lay hid there which wva« likely to be as disastrous in its consequences as though it were so. Long before, when the girl was barely nine'teen years of age, she had come under the of a man to whom all her heart had Wen too readily given. She had lived a desolate,uncared for life under the roof of relatives, who from the moment she arrived, a little, shrinking, wistful-i yed child of ten, had taken no pains to conceal how unwelcome was the burden which the death of her parents bad laid .upon them. This man was the first who had shown her kindness, to whom her young beauty and gentle ways had been things of moment. Time passed, and he came to believe that her devotion was such that no sacrifice would be too great for her to make for his sake. He asked her to ekipe with him, and she readily' consented ; for such was the distrust in which she held her relatives, that she believed them capable of preventing: her marriage merely because it might bring her happiness. At dawn, one dull November morning, Eunice closed the doors of the house,which had at least been a place of safety, behind her for the last time, then threw herself into her lover’s arms, believing that life was now to recompense her for all she bad hitherto missed. They crossed the Channel during the day, and at night arrived at the little Breton town where Eunice believed her marriage ceremony was to be performed. There the man, who had brought her thus far. conftsi-ed that his love and his fortune were all that he had to offer, for in his early youth he had liukea his life to one who was still his wife, though he had never seen her from six mouths after their unfortunate union took, plate. He was going to tell the girl the old false talc of the happiness that would be hers in the home he had prepared for her on the oth< r side of the world—a home where none could ever doubt her claim to the name she would bear—when the look ol bewilderment with which she had listened so far, instead ot giving way, as he had hoped, to one of loving and implicit reliance on him, changed to an expression of such deep horror that he paused, not daring to continue. The scene which followed it is needless to describe, and when Ralph Gordon went out an hour later his state of mind was hardly more enviable than that of the unfortunate child he left beind. He had loved her as deeply as a man of his stamp can love, and his experiences had been such that he fully believed that, when a woman’s heart was once given, her moral consciousness would die away, and she would accept her lover as her all. He had, therefore, never doubted that he would be able to compensate Eunice for what she had lost, while all that the loss might mean to her he was incapable of understanding. He realised now that if Eunice’s social position were to be in any manner preserved he

must leave the hotel to which Le bad conducted her without a moment’s delay. He km w, too, that, unless he wished to double the agony ot mind of the girl who hail trusted him, ho must not summon the relatives with whom she had resided. He did what he thought was best, and telegraphed for an old nurse to whom he was aware Eunice was attached. A second message went to her cousin, a girl who had the same Christian name and surname as herself, and who, through the absence of her father in India, was living practically alone. Then, sure that one of these would arrive within the next twenty-tour hours, be took the first train for Paris, leaving an address with the perplexed manager that he might conmunicate with him later.

The old attendant and Eunice’s cousin came ns soon as possible, but it was to find the unhappy girl laid up with an attack of braiu-fi-ver. After she recover* d, she still stayed on in Brittany with her cousin and the nurse ; for when a return home was mentioned, she went into such paroxysms of nervous terror that the subject could rot be pursued. Her relatives, who deelart d she should never be forgiven, were but too ready to consent to her remaining away.

A year after the first act of this tragedy which darkened the girl’s life was nlayed old Hannah died, and Eunice’s relatives were shamed into fending a cold invitation to their niece to once more accept their protection. Eunice refused this ; but it was finally arranged she should take up her abode permanently with her cousin and the father of the latter, who was now on the point of returning to England. Years went on, and Eunice met Ernest Brechin. His people disliked the proposed match, but they knew nothing of the episode of Eunice’s youth, and there was absolutely no reason why Brechin should consult any but himself in the matter of his marriage. When Eunice saw that he cared for her, she intended to tell him the truth. The truth ! But would he believe it ? At that thought she trembled and remained silent. Brechin proposed, and was accepted ; and again Eunice resolved that in some loving moment she would throw herself on his mercy, and tell him that which she knew it was a deep wrong to conceal. After all, though sinned against so deeply, she was absolutely unsinning, and Brechin, she thought, could not cast her off because, long years before she had ever heard Lis name, she had cared for another man, and had left her home believing, in her ignorance, that there was nothing to prevent her from being at once united to him at the altar. But at heart Eunice was a coward. Who, she urged, would not hesitate if the happiness found so late were risked by telling that which need never be disclosed P It was not, she said, hating herself for pursuing the line of thought; it was not as if it were one of those things which arc sure to come out some time, and which a guilty woman cannot long hope to conceal after the honour and name of some man has been placed in her keeping. So few had ever known the secret. The relations with whom she had lived had spread the story that she had left her home in a fit of childish petulance, and that they bad at once sent old Hannah to her. Brechin had heard the account given thus, and—for he knew something of what Eunice’s life had been—he declared, in his frank, downright manner, that she was perfectly right in what she bad done. One other only knew it—the second Eunice Morton, the dark Eunice, as they called her. to distinguish her from her cousin, the crown of whose fair hair above a pair of deep grey eyes was one of her chief beauties. “ She only knows this,” the uuhappy girl reflected, “ and she will never be tray me. She hopes too much for herself from my marriage with Ernest to do anything which might Linder it.” Then she made a plot—a poor, foolish, transparent plot—such os only a woman ac once utterly guileless and utterly wretched can make.

“ I will (ell Eunice, throw myself on her mercy. She is net unkind when she has nothing to lose by it, and here she shall gain—gain—infinitely much. There is nothing I will not do for her if she will only help me now.” “ Eunice,” she said, when she had called her cousin to her and told her the story of the will, “ will you pretend it was you who went there first, and that it was I who followed you p Our names are the same, our height and general appearance are not unlike ; who would inquire if it were the dark or the fair Eunice Morton who arrived first ?”

A disagreeable sneer came over the other girl’s lips. Why should I do this ?” she inquired, not waiting till her cousin finished her broken words.

“ I mean, of course ” said her companion, flushing crimson at her tone. “In that case, don’t you see, the £50,000 would belong to you, and you—you like money, Eunice.” 11 Fifty thousand pounds,” said the other, taking up the lawyer’s letter. “ But we must be sure of it. It would not do for me to run risks and then find there was no recompense for it.”

“ But we will be sure,” said the fair-haired girl, with quick-drawn breath. •* We will go at once to Mr. Evans and have it verified. Even if it is only £30,000, it will be worth taking.” “Yes, £30,000 wouldbe better than nothing,” replied her cousin. “ And how shall [ account for the fortune ? I can’t have a stigma on my name.”

“ You can surely find a way to explain anything away,” replied Eunice in a tone of irony which was foreign to her nature, but which her cousin had power to draw out in her at times. “ Yes,” said her cousin, unmoved by the insult, “I am sure I could account for it easily. Why were you such a fool as not to do it yourself ? Even I need not have known—not that you have ever yet been able to conceal one thought that passes through your mind from me.” With that she rose and left the room, saying shortly she must think the subject over. The matter was more complicated than Brechin’s financee was aware. When the young man first came on the scene he had shown a decided pi eferencefor the society of the brighter and more lively of the two girls, and dark Eunice was equally hurt and dismayed when she found as time went on, though their visitor was still ready for a duet or a game of tennis at any time with her, it was to her cousin he invariably turned when there was a question of a twilight chat or a ramble through the woods which surrounded their home. She had, however, considerable powers of self-control, and no one had guessed what her mortification had been when Brechin, in boyish triumph and elation,announced that he had secured Eunice’s consent to an early marriage. Now, at a word from her, thought she, the old state of things might be restored. Brechin, she knew, was straightforward and outspoken almost to a fault. A hint of his finaucee’s reticence and duplicity, and he would be alienated from her for ever ; and who so likely to be chosen in her place as the girl who had saved him from a union with one who had a blot on her fame ?

Forty-eight hours later two men, each in his own quarter of the city, sat puzzling over the proceedings of two women. “ I don’t believe one word of tho story,” said Evans, the old lawyer, as he snapped his quill pen across and threw the pieces into the lire. I’ll take my oath it’s some device of that little dark witch. I never liked her, though she’s so clever, I can’t help admiring her. That money is not hers ; though if they both

agree in declaring that it is what 1 ana to do ? Eunice Morton of Monksido, Hetherington, sole legatee—that’s what that wretched document says, as if there could not be two Eunice Mortons of Monkside in the world. A prettily twisted case they could m»ke of it if both cousins chose to claim the money and went to law with each other. Women always give trouble, take them what way you will. Here have I already made a rough copy of little Mrs, Brechin’s settlements, and decided that half her money was to go to purchase that property m Shropshire, which would make Brechin’s estate one of the finest in that part of the country. Now, it seems, I'm to tell bis lawyer that my cli< nt is to go to his without a penny. And there would have been no unpleasantness, no scandal, with Gordon’s people. They had already half agreed to accept £IO,OOO thankfully and say no more about it—as I showed them, we lawyers know il is an everyday matter for a man to leave bis money to the woman he would so gladly have made his wife, had not some folly in his south prevented it.

•• Why is little Eunice doing it, that is what 1 want to know ? There can’t be anything she’s ashamed of. I have known her all her life, and I trust her as I would one of my own daughter#,” The other man took bis troubles more moodily. A letter which covered half a dozen sheets of paper lay.before him. It was signed Eunice Morton, but it was sot written by the right Eunice. There was a note from her, too, which hud happened to arrive by the same post —a mere line, which bade him come to see her that evening after dinner. <* Yes, I’ll go,” he said ; “ but it must be ray last call. Eunice, Eunice, why could you not have trusted me ? ” And he got up to look at a face on his mantelpiece, where grey eyes gazed beseechingly at him from beneath a tangle of fair hair.

An hour later he was paying the call which was to be bis last. He had instinctively taken his usual place at Eunice’s side when he wont in. Very early in the interview Eunice had risen from her seat, and she was now kneeling by the head of the couch, her face burkd in her bands. Bn chin, with all his affection and chivalry, was of a somewhat masterful nature, and it did not strike him that it was unseemly that she should be thus abased. Ha made no attempt to raise her, nor to help her through the story she was sobbing out. His was a matter-of-fact mind, and when she had finished he said in an odd, dry tone : “ You must have cared for me a good deal, Eunice, as you were willing to give up £50,000 for my sake.” Eunice raised a tear-stained face in wonder to his. This view was new to her. “ Care for you ! ” she repeated—she was a pi oud reserved girl, and never till this moment, when she had released Brechin from his engagement, had she allowed her accents to speak to her lover as they did now. “ But you will be a rich woman henceforth,” be went on. “ You were right. 1 was not worth the sacrifice you were prepared to make.” Eunice put out her hand and took from the table a brief and blotted line which she had addressed to Evans.' “ The money had done its worst,” she said dully. “It had parted me from you. Why should I keep it any longer ? ” Ths note said Gordon’s people were to have what the lawyer thought right. The rest was to go to some charity with the exception of £IO,OOO, which her cousin was to receive “ for her kindness in helping me in a plot of which I am now ashamed.” Brechin stood up, and, taking a bundle of closely-written pages from his pocket, twisted the letter to the lawyer up with them, then threw the whole into the fire. “ Eunice,” he said, " I’m not clever, but I’m a level-headed, practical sort of fellow, and I think you need a practical husband. And—and —I don’t like to see you kneeling there, darling. Come to me ! ” —“ The World.”