“The father and daughter,” he went on, “never so much as thought of returning to their own country. They were too poor to live comfortably in England. In Belgium their income was sufficient for their wants. On the father’s death, the daughter remained in the town. She had friends there, and friends nowhere else; and she might have lived abroad to the end of her days, but for a calamity to which we are all liable. A long and serious illness completely prostrated her. Skilled medical attendance, costing large sums of money for the doctors’ traveling expenses, was imperatively required. Experienced nurses, summoned from a distant hospital, were in attendance night and day. Luxuries, far beyond the reach of her little income, were absolutely required to support her wasted strength at the time of her tedious recovery. In one word, her resources were sadly diminished, when the poor creature had paid her debts, and had regained her hold on life. At that time, she unhappily met with the man who has ruined her.”
It was getting interesting at last. “Ruined her?” I repeated. “Do you mean that he robbed her?”
“That, Helena, is exactly what I mean—and many and many a helpless woman has been robbed in the same way. The man of whom I am now speaking was a lawyer in large practice. He bore an excellent character, and was highly respected for his exemplary life. My cousin (not at all a discreet person, I am bound to admit) was induced to consult him on her pecuniary affairs. He expressed the most generous sympathy—offered to employ her little capital in his business—and pledged himself to pay her double the interest for her money, which she had been in the habit of receiving from the sound investment chosen by her father.”
“And of course he got the money, and never paid the interest?” Eager to hear the end, I interrupted the story in those inconsiderate words. My father’s answer quietly reproved me.
“He paid the interest regularly as long as he lived.”
“And what happened when he died?”
“He died a bankrupt; the secret profligacy of his life was at last exposed. Nothing, actually nothing, was left for his creditors. The unfortunate creature, whose ugly name has amused you, must get help somewhere, or must go to the workhouse.”
If I had been in a state of mind to attend to trifles, this would have explained the reason why the cook had heard Miss Jillgall crying. But the prospect before me—the unendurable prospect of having a strange woman in the house—had showed itself too plainly to be mistaken. I could think of nothing else. With infinite difficulty I assumed a momentary appearance of composure, and suggested that Miss Jillgall’s foreign friends might have done something to help her.
My father defended her foreign friends. “My dear, they were poor people, and did all they could afford to do. But for their kindness, my cousin might not have been able to return to England.”
“And to cast herself on your mercy,” I added, “in the character of a helpless woman.”