The Legacy of Cain

"There are some medical men who are honorable exceptions to the general rule; and he may be one of them," Mrs. Tenbruggen admitted. "Don't be too hopeful. As a doctor, he belongs to the most tyrannical trades-union in existence. May I make a personal remark?"

"Certainly."

"I find something in your manner—pray don't suppose that I am angry—which looks like distrust; I mean, distrust of me."

Miss Jillgall's ever ready kindness interfered in my defense: "Oh, no, Elizabeth! You are not often mistaken; but indeed you are wrong now. Look at my distinguished friend. I remember my copy book, when I was a small creature learning to write, in England. There were first lines that we copied, in big letters, and one of them said, 'Distrust Is Mean.' I know a young person, whose name begins with H, who is one mass of meanness. But"—excellent Selina paused, and pointed to me with a gesture of triumph—"no meanness there!"

Mrs. Tenbruggen waited to hear what I had to say, scornfully insensible to Miss Jillgall's well-meant interruption.

"You are not altogether mistaken," I told her. "I can't say that my mind is in a state of distrust, but I own that you puzzle me."

"How, if you please?"

"May I presume that you remember the occasion when we met at Mr. Gracedieu's house-door? You saw that I failed to recognize you, and you refused to give your name when the servant asked for it. A few days afterward, I heard you (quite accidentally) forbid Miss Jillgall to mention your name in my hearing. I am at a loss to understand it."

Before she could answer me, the chaise drew up at the gate of the farmhouse. Mrs. Tenbruggen carefully promised to explain what had puzzled me, at the first opportunity. "If it escapes my memory," she said, "pray remind me of it."

I determined to remind her of it. Whether I could depend on her to tell me the truth, might be quite another thing.

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DECISION OF EUNICE.

Eunice ran out to meet us, and opened the gate. She was instantly folded in Miss Jillgall's arms. On her release, she came to me, eager for news of her father's health. When I had communicated all that I thought it right to tell her of the doctor's last report, she noticed Mrs. Tenbruggen. The appearance of a stranger seemed to embarrass her. I left Miss Jillgall to introduce them to each other.

"Darling Euneece, you remember Mrs. Tenbruggen's name, I am sure? Elizabeth, this is my sweet girl; I mentioned her in my letters to you."

"I hope she will be my sweet girl, when we know each other a little better. May I kiss you, dear? You have lovely eyes; but I am sorry to see that they don't look like happy eyes. You want Mamma Tenbruggen to cheer you. What a charming old house!"

She put her arm round Eunice's waist and led her to the house door. Her enjoyment of the creepers that twined their way up the pillars of the porch was simply perfection as a piece of acting. When the farmer's wife presented herself, Mrs. Tenbruggen was so irresistibly amiable, and took such flattering notice of the children, that the harmless British matron actually blushed with pleasure. "I'm sure, ma'am, you must have children of your own," she said. Mrs. Tenbruggen cast her eyes on the floor, and sighed with pathetic resignation. A sweet little family, and all cruelly swept away by death. If the performance meant anything, it did most assuredly mean that.

"What wonderful self-possession!" somebody whispered in my ear. The children in the room were healthy, well-behaved little creatures—but the name of the innocent one among them was Selina.

Before dinner we were shown over the farm.

The good woman of the house led the way, and Miss Jillgall and I accompanied her. The children ran on in front of us. Still keeping possession of Eunice, Mrs. Tenbruggen followed at some distance behind. I looked back, after no very long interval, and saw that a separation had taken place. Mrs. Tenbruggen passed me, not looking so pleasantly as usual, joined the children, and walked with two of them, hand in hand, a pattern of maternal amiability. I dropped back a little, and gave Eunice an opportunity of joining me; having purposely left her to form her own opinion, without any adverse influence exercised on my part.

"Is that lady a friend of yours?" she asked. "No; only an acquaintance. What do you think of her?"

"I thought I should like her at first; she was so kind, and seemed to take such an interest in me. But she said such strange things—asked if I was reckoned like my mother, and which of us was the eldest, my sister or myself, and whether we were my father's only two children, and if one of us was more his favorite than the other. What I could tell her, I did tell. But when I said I didn't know which of us was the oldest, she gave me an impudent tap on the cheek, and said, 'I don't believe you, child,' and left me. How can Selina be so fond of her? Don't mention it to any one else; I hope I shall never see her again."