When I reached the foot of the stairs, my father called me into his
study.
I found him at his writing-table, with such a heap of torn-up paper in
his waste-basket that it overflowed on to the floor. He explained to me
that he had been destroying a large accumulation of old letters, and
had ended (when his employment began to grow wearisome) in examining his
correspondence rather carelessly. The result was that he had torn up a
letter, and a copy of the reply, which ought to have been set aside as
worthy of preservation. After collecting the fragments, he had heaped
them on the table. If I could contrive to put them together again on
fair sheets of paper, and fasten them in their right places with gum, I
should be doing him a service, at a time when he was too busy to set his
mistake right for himself.
Here was the best excuse that I could desire for keeping out of Miss
Jillgall’s way. I cheerfully set to work on the restoration of the
letters, while my father went on with his writing.
Having put the fragments together--excepting a few gaps caused by
morsels that had been lost--I was unwilling to fasten them down with
gum, until I could feel sure of not having made any mistakes; especially
in regard to some of the lost words which I had been obliged to restore
by guess-work. So I copied the letters, and submitted them, in the first
place, to my father’s approval. He praised me in the prettiest
manner for the care that I had taken. But, when he began, after some
hesitation, to read my copy, I noticed a change. The smile left his
face, and the nervous quiverings showed themselves again.
“Quite right, my child,” he said, in low sad tones.
On returning to my side of the table, I expected to see him resume his
writing. He crossed the room to the window and stood (with his back to
me) looking out.
When I had first discovered the sense of the letters, they failed
to interest me. A tiresome woman, presuming on the kindness of a
good-natured man to beg a favor which she had no right to ask, and
receiving a refusal which she had richly deserved, was no remarkable
event in my experience as my father’s secretary and copyist. But the
change in his face, while he read the correspondence, altered my opinion
of the letters. There was more in them evidently than I had discovered.
I kept my manuscript copy--here it is:
From Miss Elizabeth Chance to the Rev. Abel Gracedieu.
(Date of year, 1859. Date of month, missing.)
“DEAR SIR--You have, I hope, not quite forgotten the interesting
conversation that we had last year in the Governor’s rooms. I am afraid
I spoke a little flippantly at the time; but I am sure you will believe
me when I say that this was out of no want of respect to yourself. My
pecuniary position being far from prosperous, I am endeavoring to
obtain the vacant situation of housekeeper in a public institution the
prospectus of which I inclose. You will see it is a rule of the place
that a candidate must be a single woman (which I am), and must be
recommended by a clergyman. You are the only reverend gentleman whom it
is my good fortune to know, and the thing is of course a mere formality.
Pray excuse this application, and oblige me by acting as my reference.
“Sincerely yours,
“ELIZABETH CHANCE.”
“P. S.--Please address: Miss E. Chance, Poste Restante, St.
Martin’s-le-Grand, London.”
“From the Rev. Abel Gracedieu to Miss Chance.
(Copy.)
“MADAM--The brief conversation to which your letter alludes, took place
at an accidental meeting between us. I then saw you for the first time,
and I have not seen you since. It is impossible for me to assert the
claim of a perfect stranger, like yourself, to fill a situation of
trust. I must beg to decline acting as your reference.
“Your obedient servant,
“ABEL GRACEDIEU.”
.......
My father was still at the window.
In that idle position he could hardly complain of me for interrupting
him, if I ventured to talk about the letters which I had put together.
If my curiosity displeased him, he had only to say so, and there would
be an end to any allusions of mine to the subject. My first idea was to
join him at the window. On reflection, and still perceiving that he kept
his back turned on me, I thought it might be more prudent to remain at
the table.
“This Miss Chance seems to be an impudent person?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Was she a young woman, when you met with her?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of a woman to look at? Ugly?”
“No.”
Here were three answers which Eunice herself would have been quick
enough to interpret as three warnings to say no more. I felt a little
hurt by his keeping his back turned on me. At the same time, and
naturally, I think, I found my interest in Miss Chance (I don’t say my
friendly interest) considerably increased by my father’s unusually rude
behavior. I was also animated by an irresistible desire to make him turn
round and look at me.
“Miss Chance’s letter was written many years ago,” I resumed. “I wonder
what has become of her since she wrote to you.”
“I know nothing about her.”
“Not even whether she is alive or dead?”
“Not even that. What do these questions mean, Helena?”
“Nothing, father.”
I declare he looked as if he suspected me!
“Why don’t you speak out?” he said. “Have I ever taught you to conceal
your thoughts? Have I ever been a hard father, who discouraged you when
you wished to confide in him? What are you thinking about? Do _you_ know
anything of this woman?”
“Oh, father, what a question! I never even heard of her till I put the
torn letters together. I begin to wish you had not asked me to do it.”
“So do I. It never struck me that you would feel such extraordinary--I
had almost said, such vulgar--curiosity about a worthless letter.”
This roused my temper. When a young lady is told that she is vulgar,
if she has any self-conceit--I mean self-respect--she feels insulted. I
said something sharp in my turn. It was in the way of argument. I do
not know how it may be with other young persons, I never reason so well
myself as when I am angry.
“You call it a worthless letter,” I said, “and yet you think it worth
preserving.”
“Have you nothing more to say to me than that?” he asked.
“Nothing more,” I answered.
He changed again. After having looked unaccountably angry, he now looked
unaccountably relieved.
“I will soon satisfy you,” he said, “that I have a good reason for
preserving a worthless letter. Miss Chance, my dear, is not a woman to
be trusted. If she saw her advantage in making a bad use of my reply,
I am afraid she would not hesitate to do it. Even if she is no longer
living, I don’t know into what vile hands my letter may not have fallen,
or how it might be falsified for some wicked purpose. Do you see now how
a correspondence may become accidentally important, though it is of no
value in itself?”
I could say “Yes” to this with a safe conscience.
But there were some perplexities still left in my mind. It seemed
strange that Miss Chance should (apparently) have submitted to the
severity of my father’s reply. “I should have thought,” I said to him,
“that she would have sent you another impudent letter--or perhaps have
insisted on seeing you, and using her tongue instead of her pen.”
“She could do neither the one nor the other, Helena. Miss Chance will
never find out my address again; I have taken good care of that.”
He spoke in a loud voice, with a flushed face--as if it was quite a
triumph to have prevented this woman from discovering his address. What
reason could he have for being so anxious to keep her away from him?
Could I venture to conclude that there was a mystery in the life of a
man so blameless, so truly pious? It shocked one even to think of it.
There was a silence between us, to which the housemaid offered a welcome
interruption. Dinner was ready.
He kissed me before we left the room. “One word more, Helena,” he said,
“and I have done. Let there be no more talk between us about Elizabeth
Chance.”