For some reason, which my unassisted penetration was unable to discover, Miss Helena Gracedieu kept out of my way.
At dinner, on the day of my arrival, and at breakfast on the next morning, she was present of course; ready to make herself agreeable in a modest way, and provided with the necessary supply of cheerful small-talk. But the meal having come to an end, she had her domestic excuse ready, and unostentatiously disappeared like a well-bred young lady. I never met her on the stairs, never found myself intruding on her in the drawing-room, never caught her getting out of my way in the garden. As much at a loss for an explanation of these mysteries as I was, Miss Jillgall’s interest in my welfare led her to caution me in a vague and general way.
“Take my word for it, dear Mr. Governor, she has some design on you. Will you allow an insignificant old maid to offer a suggestion? Oh, thank you; I will venture to advise. Please look back at your experience of the very worst female prisoner you ever had to deal with—and be guided accordingly if Helena catches you at a private interview.”
In less than half an hour afterward, Helena caught me. I was writing in my room, when the maidservant came in with a message: “Miss Helena’s compliments, sir, and would you please spare her half an hour, downstairs?”
My first excuse was of course that I was engaged. This was disposed of by a second message, provided beforehand, no doubt, for an anticipated refusal: “Miss Helena wished me to say, sir, that her time is your time.” I was still obstinate; I pleaded next that my day was filled up. A third message had evidently been prepared, even for this emergency: “Miss Helena will regret, sir, having the pleasure deferred, but she will leave you to make your own appointment for to-morrow.” Persistency so inveterate as this led to a result which Mr. Gracedieu’s cautious daughter had not perhaps contemplated: it put me on my guard. There seemed to be a chance, to say the least of it, that I might serve Eunice’s interests if I discovered what the enemy had to say. I locked up my writing—declared myself incapable of putting Miss Helena to needless inconvenience—and followed the maid to the lower floor of the house.
The room to which I was conducted proved to be empty. I looked round me.
If I had been told that a man lived there who was absolutely indifferent to appearances, I should have concluded that his views were faithfully represented by his place of abode. The chairs and tables reminded me of a railway waiting-room. The shabby little bookcase was the mute record of a life indifferent to literature. The carpet was of that dreadful drab color, still the cherished favorite of the average English mind, in spite of every protest that can be entered against it, on behalf of Art. The ceiling, recently whitewashed; made my eyes ache when they looked at it. On either side of the window, flaccid green curtains hung helplessly with nothing to loop them up. The writing-desk and the paper-case, viewed as specimens of woodwork, recalled the ready-made bedrooms on show in cheap shops. The books, mostly in slate-colored bindings, were devoted to the literature which is called religious; I only discovered three worldly publications among them—Domestic Cookery, Etiquette for Ladies, and Hints on the Breeding of Poultry. An ugly little clock, ticking noisily in a black case, and two candlesticks of base metal placed on either side of it, completed the ornaments on the chimney-piece. Neither pictures nor prints hid the barrenness of the walls. I saw no needlework and no flowers. The one object in the place which showed any pretensions to beauty was a looking-glass in an elegant gilt frame—sacred to vanity, and worthy of the office that it filled. Such was Helena Gracedieu’s sitting-room. I really could not help thinking: How like her!
She came in with a face perfectly adapted to the circumstances—pleased and smiling; amiably deferential, in consideration of the claims of her father’s guest—and, to my surprise, in some degree suggestive of one of those incorrigible female prisoners, to whom Miss Jillgall had referred me when she offered a word of advice.
“How kind of you to come so soon! Excuse my receiving you in my housekeeping-room; we shall not be interrupted here. Very plainly furnished, is it not? I dislike ostentation and display. Ornaments are out of place in a room devoted to domestic necessities. I hate domestic necessities. You notice the looking-glass? It’s a present. I should never have put such a thing up. Perhaps my vanity excuses it.”
She pointed the last remark by a look at herself in the glass; using it, while she despised it. Yes: there was a handsome face, paying her its reflected compliment—but not so well matched as it might have been by a handsome figure. Her feet were too large; her shoulders were too high; the graceful undulations of a well-made girl were absent when she walked; and her bosom was, to my mind, unduly developed for her time of life.
She sat down by me with her back to the light. Happening to be opposite to the window, I offered her the advantage of a clear view of my face. She waited for me, and I waited for her—and there was an awkward pause before we spoke. She set the example.
“Isn’t it curious?” she remarked. “When two people have something particular to say to each other, and nothing to hinder them, they never seem to know how to say it. You are the oldest, sir. Why don’t you begin?”
“Because I have nothing particular to say.”
“In plain words, you mean that I must begin?”
“If you please.”
“Very well. I want to know whether I have given you (and Miss Jillgall, of course) as much time as you want, and as many opportunities as you could desire?”
“Pray go on, Miss Helena.”
“Have I not said enough already?”
“Not enough, I regret to say, to convey your meaning to me.”
She drew her chair a little further away from me. “I am sadly disappointed,” she said. “I had such a high opinion of your perfect candor. I thought to myself: There is such a striking expression of frankness in his face. Another illusion gone! I hope you won’t think I am offended, if I say a bold word. I am only a young girl, to be sure; but I am not quite such a fool as you take me for. Do you really think I don’t know that Miss Jillgall has been telling you everything that is bad about me; putting every mistake that I have made, every fault that I have committed, in the worst possible point of view? And you have listened to her—quite naturally! And you are prejudiced, strongly prejudiced, against me—what else could you be, under the circumstances? I don’t complain; I have purposely kept out of your way, and out of Miss Jillgall’s way; in short, I have afforded you every facility, as the prospectuses say. I only want to know if my turn has come at last. Once more, have I given you time enough, and opportunities enough?”
“A great deal more than enough.”
“Do you mean that you have made up your mind about me without stopping to think?”
“That is exactly what I mean. An act of treachery, Miss Helena, is an act of treachery; no honest person need hesitate to condemn it. I am sorry you sent for me.”
I got up to go. With an ironical gesture of remonstrance, she signed to me to sit down again.
“Must I remind you, dear sir, of our famous native virtue? Fair play is surely due to a young person who has nobody to take her part. You talked of treachery just how. I deny the treachery. Please give me a hearing.”
I returned to my chair.
“Or would you prefer waiting,” she went out, “till my sister comes here later in the day, and continues what Miss Jillgall has begun, with the great advantage of being young and nice-looking?”
When the female mind gets into this state, no wise man answers the female questions.
“Am I to take silence as meaning Go on?” Miss Helena inquired.
I begged her to interpret my silence in the sense most agreeable to herself.
This naturally encouraged her. She made a proposal:
“Do you mind changing places, sir?”
“Just as you like, Miss Helena.”
We changed chairs; the light now fell full on her face. Had she deliberately challenged me to look into her secret mind if I could? Anything like the stark insensibility of that young girl to every refinement of feeling, to every becoming doubt of herself, to every customary timidity of her age and sex in the presence of a man who had not disguised his unfavorable opinion of her, I never met with in all my experience of the world and of women.
“I wish to be quite mistress of myself,” she explained; “your face, for some reason which I really don’t know, irritates me. The fact is, I have great pride in keeping my temper. Please make allowances. Now about Miss Jillgall. I suppose she told you how my sister first met with Philip Dunboyne?”
“Yes.”
“She also mentioned, perhaps, that he was a highly-cultivated man?”
“She did.”
“Now we shall get on. When Philip came to our town here, and saw me for the first time—Do you object to my speaking familiarly of him, by his Christian name?”
“In the case of any one else in your position, Miss Helena, I should venture to call it bad taste.”
I was provoked into saying that. It failed entirely as a well-meant effort in the way of implied reproof. Miss Helena smiled.
“You grant me a liberty which you would not concede to another girl.” That was how she viewed it. “We are getting on better already. To return to what I was saying. When Philip first saw me—I have it from himself, mind—he felt that I should have been his choice, if he had met with me before he met with my sister. Do you blame him?”
“If you will take my advice,” I said, “you will not inquire too closely into my opinion of Mr. Philip Dunboyne.”
“Perhaps you don’t wish me to say anymore?” she suggested.
“On the contrary, pray go on, if you like.”
After that concession, she was amiability itself. “Oh, yes,” she assured me, “that’s easily done.” And she went on accordingly: “Philip having informed me of the state of his affections, I naturally followed his example. In fact, we exchanged confessions. Our marriage engagement............