After leaving Eunice, my one desire was to be alone. I had much to think
of, and I wanted an opportunity of recovering myself. On my way out of
the house, in search of the first solitary place that I could discover,
I passed the room in which we had dined. The door was ajar. Before I
could get by it, Mrs. Tenbruggen stepped out and stopped me.
“Will you come in here for a moment?” she said. “The farmer has been
called away, and I want to speak to you.”
Very unwillingly--but how could I have refused without giving
offense?--I entered the room.
“When you noticed my keeping my name from you,” Mrs. Tenbruggen began,
“while Selina was with us, you placed me in an awkward position. Our
little friend is an excellent creature, but her tongue runs away with
her sometimes; I am obliged to be careful of taking her too readily
into my confidence. For instance, I have never told her what my name was
before I married. Won’t you sit down?”
I had purposely remained standing as a hint to her not to prolong the
interview. The hint was thrown away; I took a chair.
“Selina’s letters had informed me,” she resumed, “that Mr. Gracedieu
was a nervous invalid. When I came to England, I had hoped to try what
massage might do to relieve him. The cure of their popular preacher
might have advertised me through the whole of the Congregational
sect. It was essential to my success that I should present myself as a
stranger. I could trust time and change, and my married name (certainly
not known to Mr. Gracedieu) to keep up my incognito. He would have
refused to see me if he had known that I was once Miss Chance.”
I began to be interested.
Here was an opportunity, perhaps, of discovering what the Minister had
failed to remember when he had been speaking of this woman, and when
I had asked if he had ever offended her. I was especially careful in
making my inquiries.
“I remember how you spoke to Mr. Gracedieu,” I said, “when you and he
met, long ago, in my rooms. But surely you don’t think him capable
of vindictively remembering some thoughtless words, which escaped you
sixteen or seventeen years since?”
“I am not quite such a fool as that, Mr. Governor. What I was thinking
of was an unpleasant correspondence between the Minister and myself.
Before I was so unfortunate as to meet with Mr. Tenbruggen, I obtained
a chance of employment in a public Institution, on condition that I
included a clergyman among my references. Knowing nobody else whom I
could apply to, I rashly wrote to Mr. Gracedieu, and received one
of those cold and cruel refusals which only the strictest religious
principle can produce. I was mortally offended at the time; and if your
friend the Minister had been within my reach--” She paused, and finished
the sentence by a significant gesture.
“Well,” I said, “he is within your reach now.”
“And out of his mind,” she added. “Besides, one’s sense of injury
doesn’t last (except in novels and plays) through a series of years. I
don’t pity him--and if an opportunity of shaking his high position among
his admiring congregation presented itself, I daresay I might make a
mischievous return for his letter to me. In the meanwhile, we may drop
the subject. I suppose you understand, now, why I concealed my name from
you, and why I kept out of the house while you were in it.”
It was plain enough, of course. If I had known her again, or had heard
her name, I might have told the Minister that Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss
Chance were one and the same. And if I had seen her and talked with her
in the house, my memory might have shown itself capable of improvement.
Having politely presented the expression of my thanks, I rose to go.
She stopped me at the door.
“One word more,” she said, “while Selina is out of the way. I need
hardly tell you that I have not trusted her with the Minister’s secret.
You and I are, as I take it, the only people now living who know the
truth about these two girls. And we keep our advantage.”
“What advantage?” I asked.
“Don’t you know?”
“I don’t indeed.”
“No more do I. Female folly, and a slip of the tongue; I am old and
ugly, but I am still a woman. About Miss Eunice. Somebody has told the
pretty little fool never to trust strangers. You would have been amused,
if you had heard that sly young person prevaricating with me. In one
respect, her appearance strikes me. She is not like either the wretch
who was hanged, or the poor victim who was murdered. Can she be the
adopted child? Or is it the other sister, whom I have not seen yet? Oh,
come! come! Don’t try to look as if you didn’t know. That is really too
ridiculous.”
“You alluded just now,” I answered, “to our ‘advantage’ in being
the only persons who know the truth about the two girls. Well, Mrs.
Tenbruggen, I keep _my_ advantage.”
“In other words,” she rejoined, “you leave me to make the discovery
myself. Well, my friend, I mean to do it!”
.......
In the evening, my hotel offered to me the refuge of which I stood in
need. I could think, for the first time that day, without interruption.
Being resolved to see Philip, I prepared myself for the interview by
consulting my extracts once more. The letter, in which Mrs. Tenbruggen
figures, inspired me with the hope of protection for Mr. Gracedieu,
attainable through no less a person than Helena herself.
To begin with, she would certainly share Philip’s aversion to the
Masseuse, and her dislike of Miss Jillgall would, just as possibly,
extend to Miss Jillgall’s friend. The hostile feeling thus set up
might be trusted to keep watch on Mrs. Tenbruggen’s proceedings, with
a vigilance not attainable by the coarser observation of a man. In the
event, of an improvement in the Minister’s health, I should hear of it
both from the doctor and from Miss Jillgall, and in that case I should
instantly return to my unhappy friend and put him on his guard.
I started for London by the early train in the morning.
My way home from the terminus took me past the hotel at which the
elder Mr. Dunboyne was staying. I called on him. He was reported to be
engaged; that is to say, immersed in his books. The address on one of
Philip’s letters had informed me that he was staying at another
hotel. Pursuing my inquiries in this direction, I met with a severe
disappointment. Mr. Philip Dunboyne had left the hotel that morning; for
what destination neither the landlord nor the waiter could tell me.
The next day’s post brought with it the information which I had failed
to obtain. Miss Jillgall wrote, informing me in her strongest language
that Philip Dunboyne had returned to Helena. Indignant Selina added:
“Helena means to make him marry her; and I promise you she shall fail,
if I can stop it.”
In taking leave of Eunice, I had given her my address; had warned her to
be careful, if she and Mrs. Tenbruggen happened to meet again, and had
begged her to write to me, or to come to me, if anything happened to
alarm her in my absence.
In two days more, I received a line from Eunice, written evidently in
the greatest agitation.
“Philip has discovered me. He has been here, and has insisted on seeing
me. I have refused. The good farmer has so kindly taken my part. I can
write no more.”