Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1384 page)

“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 colour 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 cruelest 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.