The Legacy of Cain

by Wilkie Collins

"Yes--but then I have not many letters to write."

  "Only a few friends, Helena, but those few worthy to be loved? My own case

  exactly. Has your father told you of my troubles? Ah, I am glad of that. It

  spares me the sad necessity of confessing what I have suffered. Oh, how good my

  friends, my new friends, were to me in that dull little Belgian town! One of

  them was generosity personified--ah, she had suffered, too! A vile husband who

  had deceived and deserted her. Oh, the men! When she heard of the loss of my

  little fortune, that noble creature got up a subscription for me, and went round

  herself to collect. Think of what I owe to her! Ought I to let another day pass

  without writing to my benefactress? Am I not bound in gratitude to make her

  happy in the knowledge of my happiness--I mean the refuge opened to me in this

  hospitable house?"

  She twisted herself back again to the writing-table, and went on with her

  letter.

  I have not attempted to conceal my stupidity. Let me now record a partial

  recovery of my intelligence.

  It was not to be denied that Miss Jillgall had discovered a good reason for

  writing to her friend; but I was at a loss to understand why she should have

  been so anxious to mention the reason. Was it possible--after the talk which had

  passed between us--that she had something mischievous to say in her letter,

  relating to my father or to me? Was she afraid I might suspect this? And had she

  been so communicative for the purpose of leading my suspicions astray? These

  were vague guesses; but, try as I might, I could arrive at no clearer view of

  what was passing in Miss Jillgall's mind. What would I not have given to be able

  to look over her shoulder, without discovery!

  She finished her letter, and put the address, and closed the envelope. Then she

  turned round toward me again.

  "Have you got a foreign postage stamp, dear?"

  If I could look at nothing else, I was resolved to look at her envelope. It was

  only necessary to go to the study, and to apply to my father. I returned with

  the foreign stamp, and I stuck it on the envelope with my own hand.

  There was nothing to interest me in the address, as I ought to have foreseen, if

  I had not been too much excited for the exercise of a little common sense. Miss

  Jillgall's wonderful friend was only remarkable by her ugly foreign name--MRS.

  TENBRUGGEN.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  EUNICE'S DIARY.

  HERE I am, writing my history of myself, once more, by my own bedside. Some

  unexpected events have happened while I have been away. One of them is the

  absence of my sister.

  Helena has left home on a visit to a northern town by the seaside. She is

  staying in the house of a minister (one of papa's friends), and is occupying a

  position of dignity in which I should certainly lose my head. The minister and

  his wife and daughters propose to set up a Girls' Scripture Class, on the plan

  devised by papa; and they are at a loss, poor helpless people, to know how to

  begin. Helena has volunteered to set the thing going. And there she is now,

  advising everybody, governing everybody, encouraging everybody--issuing

  directions, finding fault, rewarding merit--oh, dear, let me put it all in one

  word, and say: thoroughly enjoying herself.

  Another event has happened, relating to papa. It so distressed me that I even

  forgot to think of Philip--for a little while.

  Traveling by railway (I suppose because I am not used to it) gives me the

  headache. When I got to our station here, I thought it would do me more good to

  walk home than to ride in the noisy omnibus. Half-way between the railway and

  the town, I met one of the doctors. He is a member of our congregation; and he

  it was who recommended papa, some time since, to give up his work as a minister

  and take a long holiday in foreign parts.

  "I am glad to have met with you," the doctor said. "Your sister, I find, is away

  on a visit; and I want to speak to one of you about your father."

  It seemed that he had been observing papa, in chapel, from what he called his

  own medical point of view. He did not conceal from me that he had drawn

  conclusions which made him feel uneasy. "It may be anxiety," he said, "or it may

  be overwork. In either case, your father is in a state of nervous derangement,

  which is likely to lead to serious results--unless he takes the advice that I

  gave him when he last consulted me. There must be no more hesitation about it.

  Be careful not to irritate him--but remember that he must rest. You and your

  sister have some influence over him; he won't listen to me."

  Poor dear papa! I did see a change in him for the worse--though I had only been

  away for so short a time.

  When I put my arms round his neck, and kissed him, he turned pale, and then

  flushed up suddenly: the tears came into his eyes. Oh, it was hard to follow the

  doctor's advice, and not to cry, too; but I succeeded in controlling myself. I

  sat on his knee, and made him tell me all that I have written here about Helena.

  This led to our talking next of the new lady, who is to live with us as a member

  of the family. I began to feel less uneasy at the prospect of being introduced

  to this stranger, when I heard that she was papa's cousin. And when he mentioned

  her name, and saw how it amused me, his poor worn face brightened into a smile.

  "Go and find her," he said, "and introduce yourself. I want to hear, Eunice, if

  you and my cousin are likely to get on well together."

  The servants told me that Miss Jillgall was in the garden.

  I searched here, there, and everywhere, and failed to find her. The place was so

  quiet, it looked so deliciously pure and bright, after smoky dreary London, that

  I sat down at the further end of the garden and let my mind take me back to

  Philip. What was he doing at that moment, while I was thinking of him? Perhaps

  he was in the company of other young ladies, who drew all his thoughts away to

  themselves? Or perhaps he was writing to his father in Ireland, and saying

  something kindly and prettily about me? Or perhaps he was looking forward, as

  anxiously as I do, to our meeting next week.

  I have had my plans, and I have changed my plans.

  On the railway journey, I thought I would tell papa at once of the new happiness

  which seems to have put a new life into me. It would have been delightful to

  make my confession to that first and best and dearest of friends; but my meeting

  with the doctor spoiled it all. After what he had said to me, I discovered a

  risk. If I ventured to tell papa that my heart was set on a young gentleman who

  was a stranger to him, could I be sure that he would receive my confession

  favorably? There was a chance that it might irritate him--and the fault would

  then be mine of doing what I had been warned to avoid. It might be safer in

  every way to wait till Philip paid his visit, and he and papa had been

  introduced to each other and charmed with each other. Could Helena herself have

  arrived at a wiser conclusion? I declare I felt proud of my own discretion.

  In this enjoyable frame of mind I was disturbed by a
woman's voice. The tone was

  a tone of distress, and the words reached my ears from the end of the garden:

  "Please, miss, let me in."

  A shrubbery marks the limit of our little bit of pleasure-ground. On the other

  side of it there is a cottage standing on the edge of the common. The most

  good-natured woman in the world lives here. She is our laundress--married to a

  stupid young fellow named Molly, and blessed with a plump baby as sweet-tempered

  at herself. Thinking it likely that the piteous voice which had disturbed me

  might be the voice of Mrs. Molly, I was astonished to hear her appealing to

  anybody (perhaps to me?) to "let her in." So I passed through the shrubbery,

  wondering whether the gate had been locked during my absence in London. No; it

  was as easy to open as ever.

  The cottage door was not closed.

  I saw our amiable laundress in the passage, on her knees, trying to open an

  inner door which seemed to be locked. She had her eye at the keyhole; and, once

  again, she called out: "Please, miss, let me in." I waited to see if the door

  would be opened--nothing happened. I waited again, to hear if some person inside

  would answer--nobody spoke. But somebody, or something, made a sound of

  splashing water on the other side of the door.

  I showed myself, and asked what was the matter.

  Mrs. Molly looked at me helplessly. She said: "Miss Eunice, it's the baby."

  "What has the baby done?" I inquired.

  Mrs. Molly got on her feet, and whispered in my ear: "You know he's a fine

  child?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, miss, he's bewitched a lady."

  "What lady?"

  "Miss Jillgall."

  The very person I had been trying to find! I asked where she was.

  The laundress pointed dolefully to the locked door: "In there."

  "And where is your baby?"

  The poor woman still pointed to the door: "I'm beginning to doubt, miss, whether

  it is my baby."

  "Nonsense, Mrs. Molly. If it isn't yours, whose baby can it be?"

  "Miss Jillgall's."

  Her puzzled face made this singular reply more funny still. The splashing of

  water on the other side of the door began again. "What is Miss Jillgall doing

  now?" I said.

  "Washing the baby, miss. A week ago, she came in here, one morning; very

  pleasant and kind, I must own. She found me putting on the baby's things. She

  says: 'What a cherub!' which I took as a compliment. She says: 'I shall call

  again to-morrow.' She called again so early that she found the baby in his crib.

  'You be a good soul,' she says, 'and go about your work, and leave the child to

  me.' I says: 'Yes, miss, but please to wait till I've made him fit to be seen.'

  She says: 'That's just what I mean to do myself.' I stared; and I think any

  other person would have done the same in my place. 'If there's one thing more

  than another I enjoy,' she says, 'it's making myself useful. Mrs. Molly, I've

  taken a fancy to your boy-baby,' she says, 'and I mean to make myself useful to

  him.' If you will believe me, Miss Jillgall has only let me have one opportunity

  of putting my own child tidy. She was late this morning, and I got my chance,

  and had the boy on my lap, drying him--when in she burst like a blast of wind,

  and snatched the baby away from me. 'This is your nasty temper,' she says; 'I

  declare I'm ashamed of you!' And there she is, with the door locked against me,

  washing the child all over again herself. Twice I've knocked, and asked her to

  let me in, and can't even get an answer. They do say there's luck in odd

  numbers; suppose I try again?" Mrs. Molly knocked, and the proverb proved to be

  true; she got an answer from Miss Jillgall at last: "If you don't be quiet and

  go away, you shan't have the baby back at all." Who could help it?--I burst out

  laughing. Miss Jillgall (as I supposed from the tone of her voice) took severe

  notice of this act of impropriety. "Who's that laughing?" she called out; "give

  yourself a name." I gave my name. The door was instantly thrown open with a

  bang. Papa's cousin appeared, in a disheveled state, with splashes of soap and

  water all over her. She held the child in one arm, and she threw the other arm

  round my neck. "Dearest Euneece, I have been longing to see you. How do you like

  Our baby?"

  To the curious story of my introduction to Miss Jillgall, I ought perhaps to add

  that I have got to be friends with her already. I am the friend of anybody who

  amuses me. What will Helena say when she reads this?

  CHAPTER XIX.

  EUNICE'S DIARY.

  WHEN people are interested in some event that is coming, do they find the dull

  days, passed in waiting for it, days which they are not able to remember when

  they look back? This is my unfortunate case. Night after night, I have gone to

  bed without so much as opening my Journal. There was nothing worth writing

  about, nothing that I could recollect, until the postman came to-day. I ran

  downstairs, when I heard his ring at the bell, and stopped Maria on her way to

  the study. There, among papa's usual handful of letters, was a letter for me.

  "DEAR MISS EUNICE:

  . . . . . . .

  "Yours ever truly."

  I quote the passages in Philip's letter which most deeply interested me--I am

  his dear miss; and he is mine ever truly. The other part of the letter told me

  that he had been detained in London, and he lamented it. At the end was a

  delightful announcement that he was coming to me by the afternoon train. I ran

  upstairs to see how I looked in the glass.

  My first feeling was regret. For the thousandth time, I was obliged to

  acknowledge that I was not as pretty as Helena. But this passed off. A cheering

  reflection occurred to me. Philip would not have found, in my sister's face,

  what seems to have interested him in my face. Besides, there is my figure.

  The pity of it is that I am so ignorant about some things. If I had been allowed

  to read novels, I might (judging by what papa said against them in one of his

  sermons) have felt sure of my own attractions; I might even have understood what

  Philip really thought of me. However, my mind was quite unexpectedly set at ease

  on the subject of my figure. The manner in which it happened was so amusing--at

  least, so amusing to me--that I cannot resist mentioning it.

  My sister and I are forbidden to read newspapers, as well as novels. But the

  teachers at the Girls' Scripture Class are too old to be treated in this way.

  When the morning lessons were over, one of them was reading the newspaper to the

  other, in the empty schoolroom; I being in the passage outside, putting on my

  cloak.

  It was a report of "an application made to the magistrates by the lady of his

  worship the Mayor." Hearing this, I stopped to listen. The lady of his worship

  (what a funny way of describing a man's wife!) is reported to be a little too

  fond of notoriety, and to like hearing the sound of her own voice on public

  occasions. But this is only my writing; I had better get back to the report. "In

  her address to the magistrates, the Mayoress stated that she had seen a

  disgustin
g photograph in the shop window of a stationer, lately established in

  the town. She desired to bring this person within reach of the law, and to have

  all his copies of the shameless photograph destroyed. The usher of the court was

  thereupon sent to purchase the photograph."--On second thoughts, I prefer going

  back to my own writing again; it is so uninteresting to copy other people's

  writing. Two of the magistrates were doing justice. They looked at the

  photograph--and what did it represent? The famous statue called the Venus de'

  Medici! One of the magistrates took this discovery indignantly. He was shocked

  at the gross ignorance which could call the classic ideal of beauty and grace a

  disgusting work. The other one made polite allowances. He thought the lady was

  much to be pitied; she was evidently the innocent victim of a neglected

  education. Mrs. Mayor left the court in a rage, telling the justices she knew

  where to get law. "I shall expose Venus," she said, "to the Lord Chancellor."

  When the Scripture Class had broken up for the day, duty ought to have taken me

  home. Curiosity led me astray--I mean, led me to the stationer's window.

  There I found our two teachers, absorbed in the photograph; having got to the

  shop first by a short cut. They seemed to think I had taken a liberty whom I

  joined them. "We are here," they were careful to explain, "to get a lesson in

  the ideal of beauty and grace." There was quite a little crowd of townsfolk

  collected before the window. Some of them giggled; and some of them wondered

  whether it was taken from the life. For my own part, gratitude to Venus obliges

  me to own that she effected a great improvement in the state of my mind. She

  encouraged me. If that stumpy little creature--with no waist, and oh, such

  uncertain legs!--represented the ideal of beauty and grace, I had reason indeed

  to be satisfied with my own figure, and to think it quite possible that my

  sweetheart's favorable opinion of me was not ill-bestowed.

  I was at the bedroom window when the time approached for Philip's arrival.

  Quite at the far end of the road, I discovered him. He was on foot; he walked

  like a king. Not that I ever saw a king, but I have my ideal. Ah, what a smile

  he gave me, when I made him look up by waving my handkerchief out of the window!

  "Ask for papa," I whispered as he ascended the house-steps.

  The next thing to do was to wait, as patiently as I could, to be sent for

  downstairs. Maria came to me in a state of excitement. "Oh, miss, what a

  handsome young gentleman, and how beautifully dressed! Is he--?" Instead of

  finishing what she had to say, she looked at me with a sly smile. I looked at

  her with a sly smile. We were certainly a couple of fools. But, dear me, how

  happy sometimes a fool can be!

  My enjoyment of that delightful time was checked when I went into the

  drawing-room.

  I had expected to see papa's face made beautiful by his winning smile. He was

  not only serious; he actually seemed to be ill at ease when he looked at me. At

  the same time, I saw nothing to make me conclude that Philip had produced an

  unfavorable impression. The truth is, we were all three on our best behavior,

  and we showed it. Philip had brought with him a letter from Mrs. Staveley,

  introducing him to papa. We spoke of the Staveleys, of the weather, of the

  Cathedral--and then there seemed to be nothing more left to talk about.

  In the silence that followed--what a dreadful thing silence is!--papa was sent

  for to see somebody who had called on business. He made his excuses in the

  sweetest manner, but still seriously. When he and Philip had shaken hands, would

  he leave us together? No; he waited. Poor Philip had no choice but to take leave

  of me. Papa then went out by the door that led into his study, and I was left

  alone.

  Can any words say how wretched I felt?

  I had hoped so much from that first meeting--and where were my hopes now? A

  profane wish that I had never been born was finding its way into my mind, when