The Legacy of Cain

separate one from the other, we left her to her companion—the hideous traitress who was my enemy and her friend.

CHAPTER XXIX. HELENA'S DIARY.

On reaching the street which led to Philip's hotel, we spoke to each other for the first time.

'What are we to do?' I said.

'Leave this place,' he answered.

'Together?' I asked.

'Yes.'

To leave us (for a while), after what had happened, might be the wisest thing which a man, in Philip's critical position, could do. But if I went with him—unprovided as I was with any friend of my own sex, whose character and presence might sanction the step I had taken—I should be lost beyond redemption. Is any man that ever lived worth that sacrifice? I thought of my father's house closed to me, and of our friends ashamed of me. I have owned, in some earlier part of my Journal, that I am not very patient under domestic cares. But the possibility of Eunice being appointed housekeeper, with my power, in my place, was more than I could calmly contemplate. 'No,' I said to Philip. 'Your absence, at such a time as this, may help us both; but, come what may of it, I must remain at home.'

He yielded, without an attempt to make me alter my mind. There was a sullen submission in his manner which it was not pleasant to see. Was he despairing already of himself and of me? Had Eunice aroused the watchful demons of shame and remorse?

'Perhaps you are right,' he said, gloomily. 'Good-by.'

My anxiety put the all-important question to him without hesitation.

'Is it good-by forever, Philip?'

His reply instantly relieved me: 'God forbid!'

But I wanted more: 'You still love me?' I persisted.

'More dearly than ever!'

'And yet you leave me!'

He turned pale. 'I leave you because I am afraid.'

'Afraid of what?'

'Afraid to face Eunice again.'

The only possible way out of our difficulty that I could see, now occurred to me. 'Suppose my sister can be prevailed on to give you up?' I suggested. 'Would you come back to us in that case?'

'Certainly!'

'And you would ask my father to consent to our marriage?'

'On the day of my return, if you like.'

'Suppose obstacles get in our way,' I said—'suppose time passes and tries your patience—will you still consider yourself engaged to me?'

'Engaged to you,' he answered, 'in spite of obstacles and in spite of time.'

'And while you are away from me,' I ventured to add, 'we shall write to each other?'

'Go where I may,' he said, 'you shall always hear from me.'

I could ask no more, and he could concede no more. The impression evidently left on him by Eunice's terrible outbreak, was far more serious than I had anticipated. I was myself depressed and ill at ease. No expressions of tenderness were exchanged between us. There was something horrible in our barren farewell. We merely clasped hands, at parting. He went his way—and I went mine.

There are some occasions when women set an example of courage to men. I was ready to endure whatever might happen to me, when I got home. What a desperate wretch! some people might say, if they could look into this diary!

Maria opened the door; she told me that my sister had already returned, accompanied by Miss Jillgall. There had been apparently some difference of opinion between them, before they entered the house. Eunice had attempted to go on to some other place; and Miss Jillgall had remonstrated. Maria had heard her say: 'No, you would degrade yourself'—and, with that, she had led Eunice indoors. I understood, of course, that my sister had been prevented from following Philip to the hotel. There was probably a serious quarrel in store for me. I went straight to the bedroom, expecting to find Eunice there, and prepared to brave the storm that might burst on me. There was a woman at Eunice's end of the room, removing dresses from the wardrobe. I could only see her back, but it was impossible to mistake that figure—Miss Jillgall. She laid the dresses on Eunice's bed, without taking the slightest notice of me. In significant silence I pointed to the door. She went on as coolly with her occupation as if the room had been, not mine but hers; I stepped up to her, and spoke plainly.

'You oblige me to remind you,' I said, 'that you are not in your own room.' There, I waited a little, and found that I had produced no effect. 'With every disposition,' I resumed, 'to make allowance for the disagreeable peculiarities of your character, I cannot consent to overlook an act of intrusion, committed by a Spy. Now, do you understand me?'

She looked round her. 'I see no third person here,' she said. 'May I ask if you mean me?'

'I mean you.'

'Will you be so good, Miss Helena, as to explain yourself?'