Philip's letters exhibit notes in pencil, evidently added by Helena. These
express, for the most part, the interpretation which she had placed on passages
that perplexed or displeased her; and they have, as Philip's rejoinders show,
been employed as materials when she wrote her replies.
On reflection, I find myself troubled by complexities and contradictions in the
view presented of this young man's character. To decide positively whether I can
justify to myself and to my regard for Eunice, an attempt to reunite the lovers,
requires more time for consideration than I can reasonably expect that Helena's
patience will allow. Having a quiet hour or two still before me, I have
determined to make extracts from the letters for my own use; with the intention
of referring to them while I am still in doubt which way my decision ought to
incline. I shall present them here, to speak for themselves. Is there any
objection to this? None that I can see.
In the first place, those extracts have a value of their own. They add necessary
information to the present history of events.
In the second place, I am under no obligation to Mr. Gracedieu's daughter which
forbids me to make use of her portfolio. I told her that I only consented to
receive it, under reserve of my own right of action--and her assent to that
stipulation was expressed in the clearest terms.
EXTRACTS FROM MR. PHILIP DUNBOYNE'S LETTERS.
First Extract.
You blame me, dear Helena, for not having paid proper attention to the questions
put to me in your last letter. I have only been waiting to make up my mind,
before I replied.
First question: Do I think it advisable that you should write to my father? No,
my dear; I beg you will defer writing, until you hear from me again.
Second question: Considering that he is still a stranger to you, is there any
harm in your asking me what sort of man my father is? No harm, my sweet one;
but, as you will presently see, I am afraid you have addressed yourself to the
wrong person.
My father is kind, in his own odd way--and learned, and rich--a more high-minded
and honorable man (as I have every reason to believe) doesn't live. But if you
ask me which he prefers, his books or his son, I hope I do him no injustice when
I answer, his books. His reading and his writing are obstacles between us which
I have never been able to overcome. This is the more to be regretted because he
is charming, on the few occasions when I find him disengaged. If you wish I knew
more about my father, we are in complete agreement as usual--I wish, too.
But there is a dear friend of yours and mine, who is just the person we want to
help us. Need I say that I allude to Mrs. Staveley?
I called on her yesterday, not long after she had paid a visit to my father.
Luck had favored her. She arrived just at the time when hunger had obliged him
to shut up his books, and ring for something to eat. Mrs. Staveley secured a
favorable reception with her customary tact and delicacy. He had a fowl for his
dinner. She knows his weakness of old; she volunteered to carve it for him.
If I can only repeat what this clever woman told me of their talk, you will have
a portrait of Mr. Dunboyne the elder--not perhaps a highly-finished picture,
but, as I hope and believe, a good likeness.
Mrs. Staveley began by complaining to him of the conduct of his son. I had
promised to write to her, and I had never kept my word. She had reasons for
being especially interested in my plans and prospects, just then; knowing me to
be attached (please take notice that I am quoting her own language) to a
charming friend of hers, whom I had first met at her house. To aggravate the
disappointment that I had inflicted, the young lady had neglected her, too. No
letters, no information. Perhaps my father would kindly enlighten her? Was the
affair going on? or was it broken off?
My father held out his plate and asked for the other wing of the fowl. "It isn't
a bad one for London," he said; "won't you have some yourself?"
"I don't seem to have interested you," Mrs. Staveley remarked.
"What did you expect me to be interested in?" my father inquired. "I was
absorbed in the fowl. Favor me by returning to the subject."
Mrs. Staveley admits that she answered this rather sharply: "The subject, sir,
was your son's admiration for a charming girl: one of the daughters of Mr.
Gracedieu, the famous preacher."
My father is too well-bred to speak to a lady while his attention is absorbed by
a fowl. He finished the second wing, and then he asked if "Philip was engaged to
be married."
"I am not quite sure," Mrs. Staveley confessed.
"Then, my dear friend, we will wait till we are sure."
"But, Mr. Dunboyne, there is really no need to wait. I suppose your son comes
here, now and then, to see you?"
"My son is most attentive. In course of time he will contrive to hit on the
right hour for his visit. At present, poor fellow, he interrupts me every day."
"Suppose he hits upon the right time to-morrow?"
"Yes?"
"You might ask him if he is engaged?"
"Pardon me. I think I might wait till Philip mentions it without asking."
"What an extraordinary man you are!"
"Oh, no, no--only a philosopher."
This tried Mrs. Staveley's temper. You know what a perfectly candid person our
friend is. She owned to me that she felt inclined to make herself disagreeable.
"That's thrown away upon me," she said: "I don't know what a philosopher is."
Let me pause for a moment, dear Helena. I have inexcusably forgotten to speak of
my father's personal appearance. It won't take long. I need only notice one
interesting feature which, so to speak, lifts his face out of the common. He has
an eloquent nose. Persons possessing this rare advantage are blest with powers
of expression not granted to their ordinary fellow-creatures. My father's nose
is a mine of information to friends familiarly acquainted with it. It changes
color like a modest young lady's cheek. It works flexibly from side to side like
the rudder of a ship. On the present occasion, Mrs. Staveley saw it shift toward
the left-hand side of his face. A sigh escaped the poor lady. Experience told
her that my father was going to hold forth.
"You don't know what a philosopher is!" he repeated. "Be so kind as to look at
Me. I am a philosopher."
Mrs. Staveley bowed.
"And a philosopher, my charming friend, is a man who has discovered a system of
life. Some systems assert themselves in volumes--my system asserts itself in two
words: Never think of anything until you have first asked yourself if there is
an absolute necessity for doing it, at that particular moment. Thinking of
things, when things needn't be thought of, is offering an opportunity to Worry;
and Worry is the favorite agent of Death when the destroyer handles his work in
a lingering way, and achieves premature results. Never look back, and never look
forward, as long as you can possibly help it. Looking back leads the way to
sorrow. And looking forward ends in the cru
elest of all delusions: it encourages
hope. The present time is the precious time. Live for the passing day: the
passing day is all that we can be sure of. You suggested, just now, that I
should ask my son if he was engaged to be married. How do we know what wear and
tear of your nervous texture I succeeded in saving when I said. 'Wait till
Philip mentions it without asking?' There is the personal application of my
system. I have explained it in my time to every woman on the list of my
acquaintance, including the female servants. Not one of them has rewarded me by
adopting my system. How do you feel about it?"
Mrs. Staveley declined to tell me whether she had offered a bright example of
gratitude to the rest of the sex. When I asked why, she declared that it was my
turn now to tell her what I had been doing.
You will anticipate what followed. She objected to the mystery in which my
prospects seemed to be involved. In plain English, was I, or was I not, engaged
to marry her dear Eunice? I said, No. What else could I say? If I had told Mrs.
Staveley the truth, when she insisted on my explaining myself, she would have
gone back to my father, and would have appealed to his sense of justice to
forbid our marriage. Finding me obstinately silent, she has decided on writing
to Eunice. So we parted. But don't be disheartened. On my way out of the house,
I met Mr. Staveley coming in, and had a little talk with him. He and his wife
and his family are going to the seaside, next week. Mrs. Staveley once out of
our way, I can tell my father of our engagement without any fear of
consequences. If she writes to him, the moment he sees my name mentioned, and
finds violent language associated with it, he will hand the letter to me. "Your
business, Philip: don't interrupt me." He will say that, and go back to his
books. There is my father, painted to the life! Farewell, for the present.
. . . . . . .
Remarks by H. G.--Philip's grace and gayety of style might be envied by any
professional Author. He amuses me, but he rouses my suspicion at the same time.
This slippery lover of mine tells me to defer writing to his father, and gives
no reason for offering that strange advice to the young lady who is soon to be a
member of the family. Is this merely one more instance of the weakness of his
character? Or, now that he is away from my influence, is he beginning to regret
Eunice already?
Added by the Governor.--I too have my doubts. Is the flippant nonsense which
Philip has written inspired by the effervescent good spirits of a happy young
man? Or is it assumed for a purpose? In this latter case, I should gladly
conclude that he was regarding his conduct to Eunice with becoming emotions of
sorrow and shame.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE MASTERFUL MASSEUSE.
My next quotations will suffer a process of abridgment. I intend them to present
the substance of three letters, reduced as follows:
Second Extract.
Weak as he may be, Mr. Philip Dunboyne shows (in his second letter) that he can
feel resentment, and that he can express his feelings, in replying to Miss
Helena. He protests against suspicions which he has not deserved. That he does
sometimes think of Eunice he sees no reason to deny. He is conscious of errors
and misdeeds, which--traceable as they are to Helena's irresistible
fascinations--may perhaps be considered rather his misfortune than his fault. Be
that as it may, he does indeed feel anxious to hear good accounts of Eunice's
health. If this honest avowal excites her sister's jealousy, he will be
disappointed in Helena for the first time.
His third letter shows that this exhibition of spirit has had its effect.
The imperious young lady regrets that she has hurt his feelings, and is rewarded
for the apology by receiving news of the most gratifying kind. Faithful Philip
has told his father that he is engaged to be married to Miss Helena Gracedieu,
daughter of the celebrated Congregational preacher--and so on, and so on. Has
Mr. Dunboyne the elder expressed any objection to the young lady? Certainly not!
He knows nothing of the other engagement to Eunice; and he merely objects, on
principle, to looking forward. "How do we know," says the philosopher, "what
accidents may happen, or what doubts and hesitations may yet turn up? I am not
to burden my mind in this matter, till I know that I must do it. Let me hear
when she is ready to go to church, and I will be ready with the settlements. My
compliments to Miss and her papa, and let us wait a little." Dearest
Helena--isn't he funny?
The next letter has been already mentioned.
In this there occurs the first startling reference to Mrs. Tenbruggen, by name.
She is in London, finding her way to lucrative celebrity by twisting, turning,
and pinching the flesh of credulous persons, afflicted with nervous disorders;
and she has already paid a few medical visits to old Mr. Dunboyne. He persists
in poring over his books while Mrs. Tenbruggen operates, sometimes on his
cramped right hand, sometimes (in the fear that his brain may have something to
do with it) on the back of his neck. One of them frowns over her rubbing, and
the other frowns over his reading. It would be delightfully ridiculous, but for
a drawback; Mr. Philip Dunboyne's first impressions of Mrs. Tenbruggen do not
incline him to look at that lady from a humorous point of view.
Helena's remarks follow, as usual. She has seen Mrs. Tenbruggen's name on the
address of a letter written by Miss Jillgall--which is quite enough to condemn
Mrs. Tenbruggen. As for Philip himself, she feels not quite sure of him, even
yet. No more do I.
Third Extract.
The letter that follows must be permitted to speak for itself:
I have flown into a passion, dearest Helena; and I am afraid I shall make you
fly into a passion, too. Blame Mrs. Tenbruggen; don't blame me.
On the first occasion when I found my father under the hands of the Medical
Rubber, she took no notice of me. On the second occasion--when she had been in
daily attendance on him for a week, at an exorbitant fee--she said in the
coolest manner: "Who is this young gentleman?" My father laid down his book, for
a moment only: "Don't interrupt me again, ma'am. The young gentleman is my son
Philip." Mrs. Tenbruggen eyed me with an appearance of interest which I was at a
loss to account for. I hate an impudent woman. My visit came suddenly to an end.
The next time I saw my father, he was alone.
I asked him how he got on with Mrs. Tenbruggen. As badly as possible, it
appeared. "She takes liberties with my neck; she interrupts me in my reading;
and she does me no good. I shall end, Philip, in applying a medical rubbing to
Mrs. Tenbruggen."
A few days later, I found the masterful "Masseuse" torturing the poor old
gentleman's muscles again. She had the audacity to say to me: "Well, Mr. Philip,
when are you going to marry Miss Eunice Gracedieu?" My father looked up.
"Eunice?" he repeated. "When my son told me he was engaged to Miss Gracedieu, he
said 'Helena'
! Philip, what does this mean?" Mrs. Tenbruggen was so obliging as
to answer for me. "Some mistake, sir; it's Eunice he is engaged to." I confess I
forgot myself. "How the devil do you know that?" I burst out. Mrs. Tenbruggen
ignored me and my language. "I am sorry to see, sir, that your son's education
has been neglected; he seems to be grossly ignorant of the laws of politeness."
"Never mind the laws of politeness," says my father. "You appear to be better
acquainted with my son's matrimonial prospects than he is himself. How is that?"
Mrs. Tenbruggen favored him with another ready reply: "My authority is a letter,
addressed to me by a relative of Mr. Gracedieu--my dear and intimate friend,
Miss Jillgall." My father's keen eyes traveled backward and forward between his
female surgeon and his son. "Which am I to believe?" he inquired. "I am
surprised at your asking the question," I said. Mrs. Tenbruggen pointed to me.
"Look at Mr. Philip, sir--and you will allow him one merit. He is capable of
showing it, when he knows he has disgraced himself." Without intending it, I am
sure, my father infuriated me; he looked as if he believed her. Out came one of
the smallest and strongest words in the English language before I could stop it:
"Mrs. Tenbruggen, you lie!" The illustrious Rubber dropped my father's hand--she
had been operating on him all the time--and showed us that she could assert her
dignity when circumstances called for the exertion: "Either your son or I, sir,
must leave the room. Which is it to be?" She met her match in my father. Walking
quietly to the door, he opened it for Mrs. Tenbruggen with a low bow. She
stopped on her way out, and delivered her parting words: "Messieurs Dunboyne,
father and son, I keep my temper, and merely regard you as a couple of
blackguards." With that pretty assertion of her opinion, she left us.
When we were alone, there was but one course to take; I made my confession. It
is impossible to tell you how my father received it--for he sat down at his
library table with his back to me. The first thing he did was to ask me to help
his memory.
"Did you say that the father of these girls was a parson?"
"Yes--a Congregational Minister."
"What does the Minister think of you?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Find out."
That was all; not another word could I extract from him. I don't pretend to have
discovered what he really has in his mind. I only venture on a suggestion. If
there is any old friend in your town, who has some influence over your father,
leave no means untried of getting that friend to say a kind word for us. And
then ask your father to write to mine. This is, as I see it, our only chance.
. . . . . . .
There the letter ends. Helena's notes on it show that her pride is fiercely
interested in securing Philip as a husband. Her victory over poor Eunice will,
as she plainly intimates, be only complete when she is married to young
Dunboyne. For the rest, her desperate resolution to win her way to my good
graces is sufficiently intelligible, now.
My own impressions vary. Philip rather gains upon me; he appears to have some
capacity for feeling ashamed of himself. On the other hand, I regard the
discovery of an intimate friendship existing between Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss
Jillgall with the gloomiest views. Is this formidable Masseuse likely to ply her
trade in the country towns? And is it possible that she may come to this town?
God forbid!
Of the other letters in the collection, I need take no special notice. I
returned the whole correspondence to Helena, and waited to hear from her.
The one recent event in Mr. Gracedieu's family, worthy of record, is of a
melancholy nature. After paying his visit to-day, the doctor has left word that
nobody but the nurse is to go near the Minister. This seems to indicate, but too
surely, a change for the worse.
Helena has been away all the evening at the Girls' School. She left a little
The Legacy of Cain Page 24
