'Worthy of it? What do you mean?'
'Are you quite sure, my young friend, that you won't go back to Helena?'
'Go back to
'How did she set you against her? Did the wretch quarrel with you?'
'It might have been better for both of us if she had done that. Oh, her fulsome endearments! What a contrast to the charming modesty of Eunice! If I was rich, I would make it worth the while of the first poor fellow I could find to rid me of Helena by marrying her. I don't like saying such a thing of a woman, but if you will have the truth —'
'Well, Mr. Philip—and what is the truth?'
'Helena disgusts me.'
CHAPTER LVII. HELENA'S DIARY RESUMED.
So it was all settled between them. Philip is to throw me away, like one of his bad cigars, for this unanswerable reason: 'Helena disgusts me.' And he is to persuade Eunice to take my place, and be his wife. Yes! if I let him do it.
I heard no more of their talk. With that last, worst outrage burning in my memory, I left the place.
On my way back to the carriage, the dog met me. Truly, a grand creature. I called him by his name, and patted him. He licked my hand. Something made me speak to him. I said: 'If I was to tell you to tear Mr. Philip Dunboyne to pieces, would you do it?' The great good-natured brute held out his paw to shake hands. Well! well! I was not an object of disgust to the dog.
But the coachman was startled, when he saw me again. He said something, I did not know what it was; and he produced a pocket-flask, containing some spirits, I suppose. Perhaps he thought I was going to faint. He little knew me. I told him to drive back to the place at which I had hired the cab, and earn his money. He earned it.
On getting home, I found Mrs. Tenbruggen walking up and down the dining-room, deep in thought. She was startled when we first confronted each other. 'You look dreadfully ill,' she said.
I answered that I had been out for a little exercise, and had over-fatigued myself; and then changed the subject. 'Does my father seem to improve under your treatment?' I asked.
'Very far from it, my dear. I promised that I would try what Massage would do for him, and I find myself compelled to give it up.'
'Why?'
'It excites him dreadfully.'
'In what way?'
'He has been talking wildly of events in his past life. His brain is in some condition which is beyond my powers of investigation. He pointed to a cabinet in his room, and said his past life was locked up there. I asked if I should unlock it. He shook with fear; he said I should let out the ghost of his dead brother-in-law. Have you any idea of what he meant?'
The cabinet was full of old letters. I could tell her that—and could tell her no more. I had never heard of his brother-in-law. Another of his delusions, no doubt. 'Did you ever hear him speak,' Mrs. Tenbruggen went on, 'of a place called Low Lanes?'
She waited for my reply to this last inquiry with an appearance of anxiety that surprised me. I had never heard him speak of Low Lanes.
'Have you any particular interest in the place?' I asked.
'None whatever.'
She went away to attend on a patient. I retired to my bedroom, and opened my Diary. Again and again, I read that remarkable story of the intended poisoning, and of the manner in which it had ended. I sat thinking over this romance in real life till I was interrupted by the announcement of dinner.
Mr. Philip Dunboyne had returned. In Miss Jillgall's absence we were alone at the table. My appetite was gone. I made a pretense of eating, and another pretense of being glad to see my devoted lover. I talked to him in the prettiest manner. As a hypocrite, he thoroughly matched me; he was gallant, he was amusing. If baseness like ours had been punishable by the law, a prison was the right place for both of us.
Mrs. Tenbruggen came in again after dinner, still not quite easy about my health. 'How flushed you are!' she said. 'Let me feel your pulse.' I laughed, and left her with Mr. Philip Dunboyne.
Passing my father's door, I looked in, anxious to see if he was in the excitable state which Mrs. Tenbruggen had described. Yes; the effect which she had produced on him—how, she knows best—had not passed away yet: he was still talking. The attendant told me it had gone on for hours together. On my approaching his chair, he called out: 'Which are you? Eunice or Helena?' When I had answered him, he beckoned me to come nearer. 'I am getting stronger every minute,' he said. 'We will go traveling to-morrow, and see the place where you were born.'
Where had I been born? He had never told me where. Had he mentioned the place in Mrs. Tenbruggen's hearing? I asked the attendant if he had been present while she was in the room. Yes; he had remained at his post; he had also heard the allusion to the place with the odd name. Had Mr. Gracedieu said anything more about that place? Nothing more; the poor Minister's mind had wandered off to other things. He was wandering now. Sometimes, he was addressing his congregation; sometimes, he wondered what they would give him for supper; sometimes, he talked of the flowers in the garden. And then he looked at me, and frowned, and said I prevented him from thinking.
I went back to my bedroom, and opened my Diary, and read the story again.
Was the poison of which that resolute young wife proposed to make use something that acted slowly, and told the doctors nothing if they looked for it after death?
