I looked at Eunice. She had risen, startled by her first suspicion of
the person who was approaching us through the shrubbery; but she kept
her place near me, only changing her position so as to avoid confronting
Helena. Her quickened breathing was all that told me of the effort she
was making to preserve her self-control. 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 am obliged to leave the house on
one of my tiresome domestic errands. If you will kindly permit it, I
wish to express, before I go, my very sincere regret for what I was rude
enough to say, when I last had the honor of seeing you. May I hope to
be forgiven? How-do-you-do, Eunice? Have you enjoyed your holiday in the
country?”
Eunice neither moved nor answered. Having some doubt of what might
happen if the two girls remained together, I proposed to Helena to leave
the garden and to let me hear what she had to say, in the house.
“Quite needless,” she replied; “I shall not detain you 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 paper attached to it, which contained this inscription:
“Philip’s Letters To Me. Private. Helena Gracedieu.”
“I have a favor to ask,” she said, “and a proof of confidence in you
to offer. Will you be so good as to look over what you find in my
portfolio? I am unwilling to give up the hopes that I had founded on our
interview, when I asked for it. The letters will, I venture to think,
plead my cause more convincingly than I was able to plead it for myself.
I wish to forget what passed between us, to the last word. To the
last word,” she repeated emphatically--with a look which sufficiently
informed me that I had not been betrayed to her father yet. “Will you
indulge me?” she asked, and offered her portfolio for the second time.
A more impudent bargain could not well have been proposed to me.
I was to read, and to be favorably impressed by, Mr. Philip Dunboyne’s
letters; and Miss Helena was to say nothing of that unlucky slip of the
tongue, relating to her mother, which she had discovered to be a serious
act of self-betrayal--thanks to my confusion at the time. If I had not
thought of Eunice, and of the desolate and loveless life to which the
poor girl was so patiently resigned, I should have refused to read Miss
Gracedieu’s love-letters.
But, as things were, I was influenced by the hope (innocently encouraged
by Eunice herself) that Philip Dunboyne might not be so wholly unworthy
of the sweet girl whom he had injured as I had hitherto been too hastily
disposed to believe. To act on this view with the purpose of promoting
a reconciliation was impossible, unless I had the means of forming a
correct estimate of the man’s character. It seemed to me that I had
found the means. A fair chance of putting his sincerity to a trustworthy
test, was surely offered by the letters (the confidential letters) which
I had been requested to read. To feel this as strongly as I felt it,
brought me at once to a decision. I consented to take the portfolio--on
my own conditions.
“Understand, Miss 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 your actions,” she answered
confidently, “if you will only read the letters. In the meantime, let me
relieve my sister, there, of my presence. I hope you will soon recover,
Eunice, in the country air.”
If the object of the wretch was to exasperate her victim, she had
completely failed. 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 her household
errand.
We were alone again.
Still, Eunice never moved. I spoke to her, and produced no impression.
Beginning to feel alarmed, I tried the effect of touching her. With
a wild cry, she started into a state of animation. Almost at the same
moment, she weakly swayed to and fro as if the pleasant breeze in the
garden moved her at its will, like the flowers. I held her up, and led
her to the seat.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” I said. “She has gone.”
Eunice’s eyes rested on me in vacant surprise. “How do you know?” she
asked. “I hear her; but I never see her. Do you see her?”
“My dear child! of what person are you speaking?”
She answered: “Of no person. I am speaking of a Voice that whispers and
tempts me, when Helena is near.”
“What voice, Eunice?”
“The whispering Voice. It said to me, ‘I am your mother;’ it called
me Daughter when I first heard it. My father speaks of my mother, the
angel. That good spirit has never come to me from the better world. It
is a mock-mother who comes to me--some spirit of evil. Listen to this.
I was awake in my bed. In the dark I heard the mock-mother whispering,
close at my ear. Shall I tell you how she answered me, when I longed
for light to see her by, when I prayed to her to show herself to me? She
said: ‘My face was hidden when I passed from life to death; my face no
mortal creature may see.’ I have never seen her--how can _you_ have seen
her? But I heard her again, just now. She whispered to me when Helena
was standing there--where you are standing. She freezes the life in me.
Did she freeze the life in _you?_ Did you hear her tempting me? Don’t
speak of it, if you did. Oh, not a word! not a word!”
A man who has governed a prison may say with Macbeth, “I have supped
full with horrors.” Hardened as I was--or ought to have been--the effect
of what I had just heard turned me cold. If I had not known it to be
absolutely impossible, I might 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 simply impossible. What did it mean? Good 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 woman’s
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 might tell Selina something
which she must never know; I should be so sorry to frighten her. Let me
stop here with you.”
I resumed my place at her side.
“Let me take your hand.”
I gave her my hand. What composing influence this simple act may, or
may not, have exercised, it is impossible to say. She was quiet, she
was silent. After an interval, I heard her breathe a long-drawn sigh of
relief.
“I am afraid I have surprised you,” she said. “Helena brings the
dreadful time back 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 have been talking at random,” she insisted. “The doctor
will say that, if you meet with him. He believes I am deluded by a
dream. I tried to think so myself. It was of no use; I am quite sure he
is wrong.”
I privately determined to watch for the doctor’s arrival, and to consult
with him. Eunice went on:
“I have the story of a terrible night to tell you; but I haven’t the
courage to tell it now. Why shouldn’t you come back with me to the place
that I am staying at? A 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?”
“No--she has gone out.”
“Did she say that herself? Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
She decided on going back 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 my side.
“Where did you get that?” 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 furthest 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 you?”
I had to look over the letters, in Eunice’s own interests; and I
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
some importance to her, she told me, that I 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 farmer’s children liked her; she had already helped their
mother in teaching them; and there was reason to hope that their father
would see his way to employing her permanently. His house offered the
great advantage of being near enough to the town to enable her to hear
news of the Minister’s progress toward recovery, and to see him herself
when safe opportunities offered, from time to time. As for her salary,
what did she care about money? Anything would be acceptable, if the good
man would only realize her hopes for the future.
It was disheartening to hear that hope, at her age, 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 Dunboyne when I go back to London,” I began,
“what shall I say to him?”
“Say I have forgiven him.”
“And suppose,” I 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--?”
She resolutely interrupted me: “No!”
“Oh, Eunice, you surely mean Yes?”
“I mean No!”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me! Good-by till to-morrow.”