Here my discoveries came to an end. It was certainly possible that an afflicted member of my father's congregation might have called on him to be comforted. But he sees plenty of afflicted ladies, without looking worried and anxious after they leave him. Still suspecting something out of the ordinary course of events, I waited hopefully for our next meeting at supper-time. Nothing came of it. My father left me by myself again, when the meal was over. He is always courteous to his daughters; and he made an apology: 'Excuse me, Helena, I want to think.'
.......
I went to bed in a vile humor, and slept badly; wondering, in the long wakeful hours, what new rebuff I should meet with on the next day.
At breakfast this morning I was agreeably surprised. No signs of anxiety showed themselves in my father's face. Instead of retiring to his study when we rose from the table, he proposed taking a turn in the garden: 'You are looking pale, Helena, and you will be the better for a little fresh air. Besides, I have something to say to you.'
Excitement, I am sure, is good for young women. I saw in his face, I heard in his last words, that the mystery of the lady was at last to be revealed. The sensation of languor and fatigue which follows a disturbed night left me directly.
My father gave me his arm, and we walked slowly up and down the lawn.
'When that lady called on me yesterday,' he began, 'you wanted to know who she was, and you were surprised and disappointed when I refused to gratify your curiosity. My silence was not a selfish silence, Helena. I was thinking of you and your sister; and I was at a loss how to act for the best. You shall hear why my children were in my mind, presently. I must tell you first that I have arrived at a decision; I hope and believe on reasonable grounds. Ask me any questions you please; my silence will be no longer an obstacle in your way.'
This was so very encouraging that I said at once: 'I should like to know who the lady is.'
'The lady is related to me,' he answered. 'We are cousins.'
Here was a disclosure that I had not anticipated. In the little that I have seen of the world, I have observed that cousins—when they happen to be brought together under interesting circumstances—can remember their relationship, and forget their relationship, just as it suits them. 'Is your cousin a married lady?' I ventured to inquire.
'No.'
Short as it was, that reply might perhaps mean more than appeared on the surface. The cook had heard the lady crying. What sort of tender agitation was answerable for those tears? Was it possible, barely possible, that Eunice and I might go to bed, one night, a widower's daughters, and wake up the next day to discover a stepmother?
'Have I or my sister ever seen the lady?' I asked.
'Never. She has been living abroad; and I have not seen her myself since we were both young people.'
My excellent innocent father! Not the faintest idea of what I had been thinking of was in his mind. Little did he suspect how welcome was the relief that he had afforded to his daughter's wicked doubts of him. But he had not said a word yet about his cousin's personal appearance. There might be remains of good looks which the housemaid was too stupid to discover.
'After the long interval that has passed since you met,' I said, 'I suppose she has become an old woman?'
'No, my dear. Let us say, a middle-aged woman.'
'Perhaps she is still an attractive person?'
He smiled. 'I am afraid, Helena, that would never have been a very accurate description of her.'
I now knew all that I wanted to know about this alarming person, excepting one last morsel of information which my father had strangely forgotten.
'We have been talking about the lady for some time,' I said; 'and you have not yet told me her name.'
Father looked a little embarrassed 'It's not a very pretty name,' he answered. 'My cousin, my unfortunate cousin, is—Miss Jillgall.'
I burst out with such a loud 'Oh!' that he laughed. I caught the infection, and laughed louder still. Bless Miss Jillgall! The interview promised to become an easy one for both of us, thanks to her name. I was in good spirits, and I made no attempt to restrain them. 'The next time Miss Jillgall honors you with a visit,' I said, 'you must give me an opportunity of being presented to her.'
He made a strange reply: 'You may find your opportunity, Helena, sooner than you anticipate.'
Did this mean that she was going to call again in a day or two? I am afraid I spoke flippantly. I said: 'Oh, father, another lady fascinated by the popular preacher?'
The garden chairs were near us. He signed to me gravely to be seated by his side, and said to himself: 'This is my fault.'
'What is your fault?' I asked.
'I have left you in ignorance, my dear, of my cousin's sad story. It is soon told; and, if it checks your merriment, it will make amends by deserving your sympathy. I was indebted to her father, when I was a boy, for acts of kindness which I can never forget. He was twice married. The death of his first wife left him with one child—once my playfellow; now the lady whose visit has excited your curiosity. His second wife was a Belgian. She persuaded him to sell his business in London, and to invest the money in a partnership with a brother of hers, established as a sugar-refiner at Antwerp. The little daughter accompanied her father to Belgium. Are you attending to me, Helena?'
I was waiting for the interesting part of the story, and was wondering when he would get to it.
'As time went on,' he resumed, 'the new partner found that the value of the business at Antwerp had been greatly overrated. After a long struggle with adverse circumstances, he decided on withdrawing from the partnership before the whole of his capital was lost in a failing commercial speculation. The end of it was that he retired, with his daughter, to a small town in East Flanders; the wreck of his property having left him with an
