My next quotations will suffer a process of abridgment. I intend them to
present the substance of three letters, reduced as follows:
Second Extract.
Weak as he may be, Mr. Philip Dunboyne shows (in 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 he does sometimes think of Eunice he sees no reason to
deny. He 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, he 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.
His third letter shows that this exhibition of spirit has had its
effect.
The imperious young lady regrets that she has 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 Gracedieu, daughter of the celebrated Congregational
preacher--and so on, and so on. Has Mr. Dunboyne the elder expressed
any objection to the young lady? Certainly not! He knows nothing of
the other engagement to Eunice; and he merely objects, on principle, 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
me 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 next 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 disorders; 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 Dunboyne’s first impressions of Mrs. Tenbruggen do
not incline him to look at that lady from a humorous point of view.
Helena’s remarks follow, as usual. She has seen Mrs. Tenbruggen’s name
on the address of a letter written by Miss Jillgall--which is quite
enough to condemn Mrs. Tenbruggen. As for Philip himself, she feels not
quite sure of him, even yet. No more do I. Third Extract.
The letter that follows 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
with 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 saw 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.”
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 are 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.” I confess I forgot myself.
“How the devil do you know that?” I burst out. Mrs. Tenbruggen ignored
me and my language. “I am sorry to see, sir, that your son’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 favored 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 traveled backward and forward between his female surgeon and
his son. “Which am I to believe?” he inquired. “I am surprised at your
asking the question,” I said. Mrs. Tenbruggen pointed to me. “Look at
Mr. 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 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--and showed us that she could assert her dignity when circumstances
called for the exertion: “Either your son or I, 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
Dunboyne, father and son, I 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 his memory.
“Did you say that the father of these girls was a parson?”
“Yes--a Congregational 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. I 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 some
influence over your father, leave no means untried of getting that
friend to say a kind word for us. And then ask your father to write to
mine. This is, as I 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 sufficiently intelligible, now.
My own impressions 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.
I returned the whole correspondence to Helena, and waited to hear from
her.
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 Girls’ School. She left a
little note, informing me of her wishes: “I shall expect to be favored
with your decision to-morrow 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 the cause was bad news from Mr. Philip Dunboyne,
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. A serious obstacle, as I suspect, in the way of her
marriage. Cheering, isn’t it?” As usual, good Selina expressed her
sentiments without reserve.
I had to keep my appointment; and the 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.
“I mean to come to the point at once,” she said.
“I am glad to hear it, Miss Helena.”
“May I count on your influence to help me? I want a positive answer.”
I gave her what she wanted. I said: “Certainly not.”
She took a crumpled 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 favor,” I answered, “you may depend on _that_.”
“The signature to the letter, Mr. Governor, is written by my father.
But the letter itself is in a different hand. Do you, by any chance,
recognize the writing?”
“I do.”
“Whose writing is it?”
“Mine.”