So far as I know, they are mostly old maids, and they waste the Minister's time.
When my father came in to tea, I began to feel some curiosity about the lady who had called on him. Visitors of that sort, in general, never appear to dwell on his mind after they have gone away; he sees too many of them, and is too well accustomed to what they have to say. On this particular evening, however, I perceived appearances that set me thinking; he looked worried and anxious.
"Has anything happened, father, to vex you?" I said.
"Yes."
"Is the lady concerned in it?"
"What lady, my dear?"
"The lady who called on you while I was out."
"Who told you she had called on me?"
"I asked Maria--"
"That will do, Helena, for the present."
He drank his tea and went back to his study, instead of staying a while, and talking pleasantly as usual. My respect submitted to his want of confidence in me; but my curiosity was in a state of revolt. I sent for Maria, and proceeded to make my own discoveries, with this result:
No other person had called at the house. Nothing had happened, except the visit of the mysterious lady. "She looked between young and old. And, oh dear me, she was certainly not pretty. Not dressed nicely, to my mind; but they do say dress is a matter of taste."
Try as I might, I could get no more than that out of our stupid young housemaid.
Later in the evening, the cook had occasion to consult me about supper. This was a person possessing the advantages of age and experience. I asked if she had seen the lady. The cook's reply promised something new: "I can't say I saw the lady; but I heard her."
"Do you mean that you heard her speaking?"
"No, miss--crying."
"Where was she crying?"
"In the master's study."
"How did you come to hear her?"
"Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect me of listening?"
Is a lie told by a look as bad as a lie told by words? I looked shocked at the bare idea of suspecting a respectable person of listening. The cook's sense of honor was satisfied; she readily explained herself: "I was passing the door, miss, on my way upstairs."
Here my discoveries came to an end. It was certainly possible that an afflicted member of my father's congregation might have called on him to be comforted. But he sees plenty of afflicted ladies, without looking worried and anxious after they leave him. Still suspecting something out of the ordinary course of events, I waited hopefully for our next meeting at supper-time. Nothing came of it. My father left me by myself again, when the meal was over. He is always courteous to his daughters; and he made an apology: "Excuse me, Helena, I want to think."
. . . . . . .
I went to bed in a vile humor, and slept badly; wondering, in the long wakeful hours, what new rebuff I should meet with on the next day.
At breakfast this morning I was agreeably surprised. No signs of anxiety showed themselves in my father's face. Instead of retiring to his study when we rose from the table, he proposed taking a turn in the garden: "You are looking pale, Helena, and you will be the better for a little fresh air. Besides, I have something to say to you."
Excitement, I am sure, is good for young women. I saw in his face, I heard in his last words, that the mystery of the lady was at last to be revealed. The sensation of languor and fatigue which follows a disturbed night left me directly.
My father gave me his arm, and we walked slowly up and down the lawn.
"When that lady called on me yesterday," he began, "you wanted to know who she was, and you were surprised and disappointed when I refused to gratify your curiosity. My silence was not a selfish silence, Helena. I was thinking of you and your sister; and I was at a loss how to act for the best. You shall hear why my children were in my mind, presently. I must tell you first that I have arrived at a decision; I hope and believe on reasonable grounds. Ask me any questions you please; my silence will be no longer an obstacle in your way."
This was so very encouraging that I said at once: "I should like to know who the lady is."
"The lady is related to me," he answered. "We are cousins."
Here was a disclosure that I had not anticipated. In the little that I have seen of the world, I have observed that cousins --when they happen to be brought together under interesting circumstances--can remember their relationship, and forget their relationship, just as it suits them. "Is your cousin a married lady?" I ventured to inquire.
"No."
Short as it was, that reply might perhaps mean more than appeared on the surface. The cook had heard the lady crying. What sort of tender agitation was answerable for those tears? Was it possible, barely possible, that Eunice and I might go to bed, one night, a widower's daughters, and wake up the next day to discover a stepmother?
"Have I or my sister ever seen the lady?" I asked.
"Never. She has been living abroad; and I have not seen her myself since we were both young people."
My excellent innocent father! Not the faintest idea of what I had been thinking of was in his mind. Little did he suspect how welcome was the relief that he had afforded to his daughter's wicked doubts of him. But he had not said a word yet about his cousin's personal appearance. There might be remains of good looks which the housemaid was too stupid to discover.
"After the long interval that has passed since you met," I said, "I suppose she has become an old woman?"
"No, my dear. Let us say, a middle-aged woman."
"Perhaps she is still an attractive person?"
He smiled. "I am afraid, Helena, that would never have been a very accurate description of her."
I now knew all that I wanted to know about this alarming person, excepting one last morsel of information which my father had strangely forgotten.
"We have been talking about the lady for some time," I said; "and you have not yet told me her name."
Father looked a little embarrassed "It's not a very pretty name," he answered. "My cousin, my unfortunate cousin, is--Miss Jillgall."
I burst out with such a loud "Oh!" that he laughed. I caught the infection, and laughed louder still. Bless Miss Jillgall! The interview promised to become an easy one for both of us, thanks to her name. I was in good spirits, and I made no attempt to restrain them. "The next time Miss Jillgall honors you with a visit," I said, "you must give me an opportunity of being presented to her."
He made a strange reply: "You may find your opportunity, Helena, sooner than you anticipate."
Did this mean that she was going to call again in a day or two? I am afraid I spoke flippantly. I said: "Oh, father, another lady fascinated by the popular preacher?"
The garden chairs were near us. He signed to me gravely to be seated by his side, and said to himself: "This is my fault."
"What is your fault?" I asked.
"I have left you in ignorance, my dear, of my cousin's sad story. It is soon told; and, if it checks your merriment, it will make amends by deserving your sympathy.