The Legacy of Cain

'I shall never be quite happy,' she resumed, 'till I know what it is that you kept from me on that memorable day. I don't like having a secret from my husband—though it is not my secret.'

'Remember your promise,' I said

'I don't forget it,' she answered. 'I can only wish that my promise would keep back the thoughts that come to me in spite of myself.'

'What thoughts?'

'There is something, as I fear, in the story of my parents which you are afraid to confide to me. Why did Mr. Gracedieu allow me to believe and leave everybody to believe, that I was his own child?'

'My dear, I relieved your mind of those doubts on the morning of your marriage.'

'No. I was only thinking of myself at that time. My mother—the doubt of her is the doubt that torments me now.'

'What do you mean?'

She put her arm in mine, and held by it with both hands.

'The mock-mother!' she whispered. 'Do you remember that dreadful Vision, that horrid whispering temptation in the dead of night? Was it a mock-mother? Oh, pity me! I don't know who my mother was. One horrid thought about her is a burden on my mind. If she was a good woman, you who love me would surely have made me happy by speaking of her?'

Those words decided me at last. Could she suffer more than she had suffered already, if I trusted her with the truth? I ran the risk. There was a time of silence that filled me with terror. The interval passed. She took my hand, and put it to her heart. 'Does it beat as if I was frightened?' she asked.

No! It was beating calmly.

'Does it relieve your anxiety?'

It told me that I had not surprised her. That unforgotten Vision of the night had prepared her for the worst, after the time when I had told her that she was an adopted child. 'I know,' I said, 'that those whispered temptations overpowered you again, when you and Helena met on the stairs, and you forbade her to enter Philip's room. And I know that love had conquered once more, when you were next seen sitting by Philip's bedside. Tell me—have you any misgivings now? Is there fear in your heart of the return of that tempting spirit in you, in the time to come?'

'Not while Philip lives!'

There, where her love was—there her safety was. And she knew it! She suddenly left me. I asked where she was going.

'To tell Philip,' was the reply.

She was waiting for me at the door, when I followed her to the house.

'Is it done?' I said.

'It is done,' she answered.

'What did he say?'

'He said: 'My darling, if I could be fonder of you than ever, I should be fonder of you now.''

I have been blamed for being too ready to confide to Philip the precious trust of Eunice's happiness. If that reply does not justify me, where is justification to be found?

POSTSCRIPT.

Later in the day, Mrs. Tenbruggen arrived to offer her congratulations. She asked for a few minutes with Philip alone. As a cat elaborates her preparations for killing a mouse, so the human cat elaborated her preparations for killing Philip's happiness, he remained uninjured by her teeth and her claws. 'Somebody,' she said, 'has told you of it already?' And Philip answered: 'Yes; my wife.'

For some months longer, Mr. Gracedieu lingered. One morning, he said to Eunice: 'I want to teach you to knit. Sit by me, and see me do it.' His hands fell softly on his lap; his head sank little by little on her shoulder. She could just hear him whisper: 'How pleasant it is to sleep!' Never was Death's dreadful work more gently done.

Our married pair live now on the paternal estate in Ireland; and Miss Jillgall reigns queen of domestic affairs. I am still strong enough to pass my autumn holidays in that pleasant house.

At times, my memory reverts to Helena Gracedieu, and to what I discovered when I had seen her diary.

How little I knew of that terrible creature when I first met with her, and fancied that she had inherited her mother's character! It was weak indeed to compare the mean vices of Mrs. Gracedieu with the diabolical depravity of her daughter. Here the doctrine of hereditary transmission of moral qualities must own that it has overlooked the fertility (for growth of good and for growth of evil equally) which is inherent in human nature. There are virtues that exalt us, and vices that degrade us, whose mysterious origin is, not in our parents, but in ourselves. When I think of Helena, I ask myself, where is the trace which reveals that the first murder in the world was the product of inherited crime?

The criminal left the prison, on the expiration of her sentence, so secretly that it was impossible to trace her. Some months later, Miss Jillgall received an illustrated newspaper published in the United States. She showed me one of the portraits in it.

'Do you recognize the illustrious original?' she asked, with indignant emphasis on the last two words. I recognized Helena. 'Now read her new title,' Miss Jillgall continued.

I read: 'The Reverend Miss Gracedieu.'

The biographical notice followed. Here is an extract: 'This eminent lady, the victim of a shocking miscarriage of