I was afraid to tell him what I really did think.
He was not fifty years old yet; and he had just exhibited one of the sad symptoms which mark the broken memory of old age. Lead him back to the events of many years ago, and (as he had just proved to me) he could remember well and relate coherently. But let him attempt to recall circumstances which had only taken place a short time since, and forgetfulness and confusion presented the lamentable result, just as I have related it.
The effort that he had made, the agitation that he had undergone in talking to me, had confirmed my fears that he would overtask his wasted strength. He lay back in his chair. "Let us go on with our conversation," he murmured. "We haven't recovered what I had forgotten, yet." His eyes closed, and opened again languidly. "There was something I wanted to recall—" he resumed, "and you were helping me." His weak voice died away; his weary eyes closed again. After waiting until there could be no doubt that he was resting peacefully in sleep, I left the room.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LIVELY OLD MAID.
A perfect stranger to the interior of the house (seeing that my experience began and ended with the Minister's bedchamber), I descended the stairs, in the character of a guest in search of domestic information.
On my way down, I heard the door of a room on the ground floor opened, and a woman' s voice below, speaking in a hurry: "My dear, I have not a moment to spare; my patients are waiting for me." This was followed by a confidential communication, judging by the tone. "Mind! not a word about me to that old gentleman!" Her patients were waiting for her—had I discovered a female doctor? And there was some old gentleman whom she was not willing to trust—surely I was not that much-injured man?
Reaching the hall just as the lady said her last words, I caught a glimpse of her face, and discovered the middle-aged stranger who had called on "Miss Jillgall," and had promised to repeat her visit. A second lady was at the door, with her back to me, taking leave of her friend. Having said good-by, she turned round—and we confronted each other.
I found her to be a little person, wiry and active; past the prime of life, and ugly enough to encourage prejudice, in persons who take a superficial view of their fellow-creatures. Looking impartially at the little sunken eyes which rested on me with a comical expression of embarrassment, I saw signs that said: There is some good here, under a disagreeable surface, if you can only find it.
She saluted me with a carefully-performed curtsey, and threw open the door of a room on the ground floor.
"Pray walk in, sir, and permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Gracedieu's cousin—Miss Jillgall. Proud indeed to make the acquaintance of a gentleman distinguished in the service of his country—or perhaps I ought to say, in the service of the Law. The Governor offers hospitality to prisoners. And who introduces prisoners to board and lodging with the Governor?—the Law. Beautiful weather for the time of year, is it not? May I ask—have you seen your room?"
The embarrassment which I had already noticed had extended by this time to her voice and her manner. She was evidently trying to talk herself into a state of confidence. It seemed but too probable that I was indeed the person mentioned by her prudent friend at the door.
Having acknowledged that I had not seen my room yet, my politeness attempted to add that there was no hurry. The wiry little lady was of the contrary opinion; she jumped out of her chair as if she had been shot out of it. "Pray let me make myself useful. The dream of my life is to make myself useful to others; and to such a man as you—I consider myself honored. Besides, I do enjoy running up and down stairs. This way, dear sir; this way to your room."
She skipped up the stairs, and stopped on the first landing. "Do you know, I am a timid person, though I may not look like it. Sometimes, curiosity gets the better of me—and then I grow bold. Did you notice a lady who was taking leave of me just now at the house door?"
I replied that I had seen the lady for a moment, but not for the first time. "Just as I arrived here from the station," I said, "I found her paying a visit when you were not at home."
"Yes—and do tell me one thing more." My readiness in answering seemed to have inspired Miss Jillgall with confidence. I heard no more confessions of overpowering curiosity. "Am I right," she proceeded, "in supposing that Miss Helena accompanied you on your way here from the station?"
"Quite right."
"Did she say anything particular, when she saw the lady asking for me at the door?"
"Miss Helena thought," I said, "that the lady recognized me as a person whom she had seen before."
"And what did you think yourself?"
"I thought Miss Helena was wrong."
"Very extraordinary!" With that remark, Miss Jillgall dropped the subject. The meaning of her reiterated inquiries was now, as it seemed to me, clear enough. She was eager to discover how I could have inspired the distrust of me, expressed in the caution addressed to her by her friend.
When we reached the upper floor, she paused before the Minister's room.
"I believe many years have passed," she said, "since you last saw Mr. Gracedieu. I am afraid you have found him a sadly changed man? You won't be angry with me, I hope, for asking more questions? I owe Mr. Gracedieu a debt of gratitude which no devotion, on my part, can ever repay. You don't know what a favor I shall consider it, if you will tell me what you think of him. Did it seem to you that he was not quite himself? I don't mean in his looks, poor dear—I mean in his mind."
There was true sorrow and sympathy in her face. I believe I should hardly have thought her ugly, if we had first met at that moment. Thus far, she had only amused me. I began really to like Miss Jillgall now.
"I must not conceal from you," I replied, "that the state of Mr. Gracedieu's mind surprised and distressed me. But I ought also to tell you that I saw him perhaps at his worst. The subject on which he wished to speak with me would have agitated any man, in his state of health. He consulted me about his daughter's marriage."
Miss Jillgall suddenly turned pale.
"His daughter's marriage?" she repeated. "Oh, you frighten me!"
"Why should I frighten you?"
She seemed to find some difficulty in expressing herself. "I hardly know how to put it, sir. You will excuse me (won't you?) if I say what I feel. You have influence—not the sort of influence that finds places for people who don't deserve them, and gets mentioned in the newspapers—I only mean influence over Mr. Gracedieu. That's what frightens me. How do I know—? Oh, dear, I'm asking another question! Allow me, for once, to be plain and positive. I'm afraid, sir, you have encouraged the Minister to consent to Helena's marriage."
"Pardon me," I answered, "you mean Eunice's marriage."
"No, sir! Helena."
"No, madam! Eunice."
"What does he mean?" said Miss Jillgall to herself.
I heard her. "This is what I mean," I asserted, in my most positive manner. "The only subject on which the Minister has consulted me is Miss Eunice's marriage."