CHAPTER XVIII. EUNICE’S DIARY.
Here I am, writing my history of myself, once more, by my own bedside. Some unexpected events have happened while I have been away. One of them is the absence of my sister.
Helena has left home on a visit to a northern town by the seaside. She is staying in the house of a minister (one of papa’s friends), and is occupying a position of dignity in which I should certainly lose my head. The minister and his wife and daughters propose to set up a Girls’ Scripture Class, on the plan devised by papa; and they are at a loss, poor helpless people, to know how to begin. Helena has volunteered to set the thing going. And there she is now, advising everybody, governing everybody, encouraging everybody—issuing directions, finding fault, rewarding merit—oh, dear, let me put it all in one word, and say: thoroughly enjoying herself.
Another event has happened, relating to papa. It so distressed me that I even forgot to think of Philip—for a little while.
Traveling by railway (I suppose because I am not used to it) gives me the headache. When I got to our station here, I thought it would do me more good to walk home than to ride in the noisy omnibus. Half-way between the railway and the town, I met one of the doctors. He is a member of our congregation; and he it was who recommended papa, some time since, to give up his work as a minister and take a long holiday in foreign parts.
“I am glad to have met with you,” the doctor said. “Your sister, I find, is away on a visit; and I want to speak to one of you about your father.”
It seemed that he had been observing papa, in chapel, from what he called his own medical point of view. He did not conceal from me that he had drawn conclusions which made him feel uneasy. “It may be anxiety,” he said, “or it may be overwork. In either case, your father is in a state of nervous derangement, which is likely to lead to serious results—unless he takes the advice that I gave him when he last consulted me. There must be no more hesitation about it. Be careful not to irritate him—but remember that he must rest. You and your sister have some influence over him; he won’t listen to me.”
Poor dear papa! I did see a change in him for the worse—though I had only been away for so short a time.
When I put my arms round his neck, and kissed him, he turned pale, and then flushed up suddenly: the tears came into his eyes. Oh, it was hard to follow the doctor’s advice, and not to cry, too; but I succeeded in controlling myself. I sat on his knee, and made him tell me all that I have written here about Helena. This led to our talking next of the new lady, who is to live with us as a member of the family. I began to feel less uneasy at the prospect of being introduced to this stranger, when I heard that she was papa’s cousin. And when he mentioned her name, and saw how it amused me, his poor worn face brightened into a smile. “Go and find her,” he said, “and introduce yourself. I want to hear, Eunice, if you and my cousin are likely to get on well together.”
The servants told me that Miss Jillgall was in the garden.
I searched here, there, and everywhere, and failed to find her. The place was so quiet, it looked so deliciously pure and bright, after smoky dreary London, that I sat down at the further end of the garden and let my mind take me back to Philip. What was he doing at that moment, while I was thinking of him? Perhaps he was in the company of other young ladies, who drew all his thoughts away to themselves? Or perhaps he was writing to his father in Ireland, and saying something kindly and prettily about me? Or perhaps he was looking forward, as anxiously as I do, to our meeting next week.
I have had my plans, and I have changed my plans.
On the railway journey, I thought I would tell papa at once of the new happiness which seems to have put a new life into me. It would have been delightful to make my confession to that first and best and dearest of friends; but my meeting with the doctor spoiled it all. After what he had said to me, I discovered a risk. If I ventured to tell papa that my heart was set on a young gentleman who was a stranger to him, could I be sure that he would receive my confession favorably? There was a chance that it might irritate him—and the fault would then be mine of doing what I had been warned to avoid. It might be safer in every way to wait till Philip paid his visit, and he and papa had been introduced to each other and charmed with each other. Could Helena herself have arrived at a wiser conclusion? I declare I felt proud of my own discretion.
In this enjoyable frame of mind I was disturbed by a woman’s voice. The tone was a tone of distress, and the words reached my ears from the end of the garden: “Please, miss, let me in.”
A shrubbery marks the limit of our little bit of pleasure-ground. On the other side of it there is a cottage standing on the edge of the common. The most good-natured woman in the world lives here. She is our laundress—married to a stupid young fellow named Molly, and blessed with a plump baby as sweet-tempered at herself. Thinking it likely that the piteous voice which had disturbed me might be the voice of Mrs. Molly, I was astonished to hear her appealing to anybody (perhaps to me?) to “let her in.” So I passed through the shrubbery, wondering whether the gate had been locked during my absence in London. No; it was as easy to open as ever.
The cottage door was not closed.
I saw our amiable laundress in the passage, on her knees, trying to open an inner door which seemed to be locked. She had her eye at the keyhole; and, once again, she called out: “Please, miss, let me in.” I waited to see if the door would be opened—nothing happened. I waited again, to hear if some person inside would answer—nobody spoke. But somebody, or something, made a sound of splashing water on the other side of the door.
I showed myself, and asked what was the matter.
Mrs. Molly looked at me helplessly. She said: “Miss Eunice, it’s the baby.”
“What has the baby done?” I inquired.
Mrs. Molly got on her feet, and whispered in my ear: “You know he’s a fine child?”
“Yes.”
“Well, miss, he’s bewitched a lady.”
“What lady?”
“Miss Jillgall.”
The very person I had been trying to find! I asked where she was.
The laundress pointed dolefully to the locked door: “In there.”
“And where is your baby?”
The poor woman still pointed to the door: “I’m beginning to doubt, miss, whether it is my baby.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Molly. If it isn’t yours, whose baby can it be?”
“Miss Jillgall’s.”
Her puzzled face made this singular reply more funny still. The splashing of water on the other side of the door began again. “What is Miss Jillgall doing now?” I said.
“Washing the baby, miss. A week ago, she came in here, one morning; very pleasant and kind, I must own. She found me putting on the baby’s things. She says: ‘What a cherub!’ which I took as a compliment. She says: ‘I shall call again to-morrow.’ She called again so early that she found the baby in his crib. ‘You be a good soul,’ she says, ‘and go about your work, and leave the child to me.’ I says: ‘Yes, miss, but please to wait till I’ve made him fit to be seen.’ She says: ‘That’s just what I mean to do myself.’ I stared; and I think any other person would have done the same in my place. ‘If there’s one thing more than another I enjoy,’ she says, ‘it’s making myself useful. Mrs. Molly, I’ve taken a fancy to your boy-baby,’ she says, ‘and I mean to make myself useful to him.’ If you will believe me, Miss Jillgall has only let me have one opportunity of putting my own child tidy. She was late this morning, and I got my chance, and had the boy on my lap, drying him—when in she burst like a blast of wind, and snatched the baby away from me. ‘This is your nasty temper,’ she says; ‘I declare I’m ashamed of you!’ And there she is, with the door locked against me, washing the child all over again herself. Twice I’ve knocked, and asked her to let me in, and can’t even get an answer. They do say there’s luck in odd numbers; suppose I try again?” Mrs. Molly knocked, and the proverb proved to be true; she got an answer from Miss Jillgall at last: “If you don’t be quiet and go away, you shan’t have the baby back at all.” Who could help it?—I burst out laughing. Miss Jillgall (as I supposed from the tone of her voice) took severe notice of this act of impropriety. “Who’s that laughing?” she called out; “give yourself a name.” I gave my name. The door was instantly thrown open with a bang. Papa’s cousin appeared, in a disheveled state, with splashes of soap and water all over her. She held the child in one arm, and she threw the other arm round my neck. “Dearest Euneece, I have been longing to see you. How do you like Our baby?”
To the curious story of my introduction to Miss Jillgall, I ought perhaps to add that I have got to be friends with her already. I am the friend of anybody who amuses me. What will Helena say when she reads this?
CHAPTER XIX. EUNICE’S DIARY.
When people are interested in some event that is coming, do they find the dull days, passed in waiting for it, days which they are not able to remember when they look back? This is my unfortunate case. Night after night, I have gone to bed without so much as opening my Journal. There was nothing worth writing about, nothing that I could recollect, until the postman came to-day. I ran downstairs, when I heard his ring at the bell, and stopped Maria on her way to the study. There, among papa’s usual handful of letters, was a letter for me.
“DEAR MISS EUNICE: .......
“Yours ever truly.”
I quote the passages in Philip’s letter which most deeply interested me—I am his dear miss; and he is mine ever truly. The other part of the letter told me that he had been detained in London, and he lamented it. At the end was a delightful announcement that he was coming to me by the afternoon train. I ran upstairs to see how I looked in the glass.
My first feeling was regret. For the thousandth time, I was obliged to acknowledge that I was not as pretty as Helena. But this passed off. A cheering reflection occurred to me. Philip would not have found, in my sister’s face, what seems to have interested him in my face. Besides, there is my figure.
The pity of it is that I am so ignorant about some things. If I had been allowed to read novels, I might (judging by what papa said against them in one of his sermons) have felt sure of my own attractions; I might even have understood what Philip really thought of me. However, my mind was quite unexpectedly set at ease on the subject of my figure. The manner in which it happened was so amusing—at least, so amusing to me—that I cannot resist mentioning it.
My sister and I are forbidden to read newspapers, as well as novels. But the teachers at the Girls’ Scripture Class are too old to be treated in this way. When the morning lessons were over, one of them was reading the newspaper to the other, in the empty schoolroom; I being in the passage outside, putting on my cloak.
It was a report of “an application made to the magistrates by the lady of his worship the Mayor.” Hearing this, I stopped to listen. The lady of his worship (what a funny way of describing a man’s wife!) is reported to be a little too fond of notoriety, and to like hearing the sound of her own voice on public occasions. But this is only my writing; I had better get back to the report. “In her address to the magistrates, the Mayoress stated that she had seen a disgusting photograph in the shop window of a stationer, lately established in the town. She desired to bring this person within reach of the law, and to have all his copies of the shameless photograph destroyed. The usher of the court was thereupon sent to purchase the photograph.”—On second thoughts, I prefer going back to my own writing again; it is so uninteresting to copy other people’s writing. Two of the magistrates were doing justice. They looked at the photograph—and what did it represent? The famous statue called the Venus de’ Medici! One of the magistrates took this discovery indignantly. He was shocked at the gross ignorance which could call the classic ideal of beauty and grace a disgusting work. The other one made polite allowances. He thought the lady was much to be pitied; she was evidently the innocent victim of a neglected education. Mrs. Mayor left the court in a rage, telling the justices she knew where to get law. “I shall expose Venus,” she said, “to the Lord Chancellor.”
When the Scripture Class had broken up for the day, duty ought to have taken me home. Curiosity led me astray—I mean, led me to the stationer’s window.
There I found our two teachers, absorbed in the photograph; having got to the shop first by a short cut. They seemed to think I had taken a liberty whom I joined them. “We are here,” they were careful to explain, “to get a lesson in the ideal of beauty and grace.” There was quite a little crowd of townsfolk collected before the window. Some of them giggled; and some of them wondered whether it was taken from the life. For my own part, gratitude to Venus obliges me to own that she effected a great improvement in the state of my mind. She encouraged me. If that stumpy little creature—with no waist, and oh, such uncertain legs!—represented the ideal of beauty and grace, I had reason indeed to be satisfied with my own figure, and to think it quite possible that my sweetheart’s favorable opinion of me was not ill-bestowed.
I was at the bedroom window when the time approached for Philip’s arrival. Quite at the far end of the road, I discovered him. He was on foot; he walked like a king. Not that I ever saw a king, but I have my ideal. Ah, what a smile he gave me, when I made him look up by waving my handkerchief out of the window! “Ask for papa,” I whispered as he ascended the house-steps.
The next thing to do was to wait, as patiently as I could, to be sent for downstairs. Maria came to me in a state of excitement. “Oh, miss, what a handsome young gentleman, and how beautifully dressed! Is he—?” Instead of finishing what she had to say, she looked at me with a sly smile. I looked at her with a sly smile. We were certainly a couple of fools. But, dear me, how happy sometimes a fool can be!
My enjoyment of that delightful time was checked when I went into the drawing-room.
I had expected to see papa’s face made beautiful by his winning smile. He was not only serious; he actually seemed to be ill at ease when he looked at me. At the same time, I saw nothing to make me conclude that Philip had produced an unfavorable impression. The truth is, we were all three on our best behavior, and we showed it. Philip had brought with him a letter from Mrs. Staveley, introducing him to papa. We spoke of the Staveleys, of the weather, of the Cathedral—and then there seemed to be nothing more left to talk about.
In the silence that followed—what a dreadful thing silence is!—papa was sent for to see somebody who had called on business. He made his excuses in the sweetest manner, but still seriously. When he and Philip had shaken hands, would he leave us together? No; he waited. Poor Philip had no choice but to take leave of me. Papa then went out by the door that led into his study, and I was left alone.
Can any words say how wretched I felt?
I had hoped so much from that first meeting—and where were my hopes now? A profane wish that I had never been born was finding its way into my mind, when the door of the room was opened softly, from the side of the passage. Maria, dear Maria, the best friend I have, peeped in. She whispered: “Go into the garden, miss, and you will find somebody there who is dying to see you. Mind you let him out by the shrubbery gate.” I squeezed her hand; I asked if she had tried the shrubbery gate with a sweetheart of her own. “Hundreds of times, miss.”
Was it wrong for me to go to Philip, in the garden? Oh, there is no end to objections! Perhaps I did it because it was wrong. Perhaps I had been kept on my best behavior too long for human endurance.
How sadly disappointed he looked! And how rashly he had placed himself just where he could be seen from the back windows! I took his arm and led him to the end of the garden. There we were out of the reach of inquisitive eyes; and there we sat down together, under the big mulberry tree.
“Oh, Eunice, your father doesn’t like me!”
Those were his first words. In justice to papa (and a little for my own sake too) I told him he was quite wrong. I said: “Trust my father’s goodness, trust his kindness, as I do.”
He made no reply. His silence was sufficiently expressive; he looked at me fondly.
I may be wrong, but fond looks surely require an acknowledgment of some kind? Is a young woman guilty of boldness who only follows her impulses? I slipped my hand into his hand. Philip seemed to like it. We returned to our conversation.
He began: “Tell me, dear, is Mr. Gracedieu always as serious as he is to-day?”
“Oh no!”
“When he takes exercise, does he ride? or does he walk?”
“Papa always walks.”
“By himself?”
“Sometimes by himself. Sometimes with me. Do you want to meet him when he goes out?”
“Yes.”
“When he is out with me?”
“No. When he is out by himself.”
Was it possible to tell me more plainly that I was not wanted? I did my best to express indignation by snatching my hand away from him. He was completely taken by surprise.
“Eunice! don’t you understand me?”
I was as stupid and as disagreeable as I could possibly be: “No; I don’t!”
“Then let me help you,” he said, with a patience which I had not deserved.
Up to that moment I had been leaning against the back of a garden chair. Something else now got between me and my chair. It stole round my waist—it held me gently—it strengthened its hold—it improved my temper—it made me fit to understand him. All done by what? Only an arm!
Philip went on:
“I want to ask your father to do me the greatest of all favors—and there is no time to lose. Every day, I expect to get a letter which may recall me to Ireland.”
My heart sank at this horrid prospect; and in some mysterious way my head must have felt it too. I mean that I found my head resting on his shoulder. He went on:
“How am I to get my opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gracedieu? I mustn’t call on him again as soon as to-morrow or next day. But I might meet him, out walking alone, if you will tell me how to do it. A note to my hotel is all I want. Don’t tremble, my sweet. If you are not present at the time, do you see any objection to my owning to your father that I love you?”
I felt his delicate consideration for me—I did indeed feel it gratefully. If he only spoke first, how well I should get on with papa afterward! The prospect before me was exquisitely encouraging. I agreed with Philip in everything; and I waited (how eagerly was only known to myself) to hear what he would say to me next. He prophesied next:
“When I have told your father that I love you, he will expect me to tell him something else. Can you guess what it is?”
If I had not been confused, perhaps I might have found the answer to this. As it was, I left him to reply to himself. He did it, in words which I shall remember as long as I live.
“Dearest Eunice, when your father has heard my confession, he will suspect that there is another confession to follow it—he will want to know if you love me. My angel, will my hopes be your hopes too, when I answer him?”
What there was in this to make my heart beat so violently that I felt as if I was being stifled, is more than I can tell. He leaned so close to me, so tenderly, so delightfully close, that our faces nearly touched. He whispered: “Say you love me, in a kiss!”
His lips touched my lips, pressed them, dwelt on them—oh, how can I tell of it! Some new enchantment of feeling ran deliciously through and through me. I forgot my own self; I only knew of one person in the world. He was master of my lips; he was master of my heart. When he whispered, “kiss me,” I kissed. What a moment it was! A faintness stole over me; I felt as if I was going to die some exquisite death; I laid myself back away from him—I was not able to speak. There was no need for it; my thoughts and his thoughts were one—he knew that I was quite overcome; he saw that he must leave me to recover myself alone. I pointed to the shrubbery gate. We took one long last look at each other for that day; the trees hid him; I was left by myself.
CHAPTER XX. EUNICE’S DIARY.
How long a time passed before my composure came back to me, I cannot remember now. It seemed as if I was waiting through some interval of my life that was a mystery to myself. I was content to wait, and feel the light evening air in the garden wafting happiness over me. And all this had come from a kiss! I can call the time to mind when I used to wonder why people made such a fuss about kissing.
I had been indebted to Maria for my first taste of Paradise. I was recalled by Maria to the world that I had been accustomed to live in; the world that was beginning to fade away in my memory already. She had been sent to the garden in search of me; and she had a word of advice to offer, after noticing my face when I stepped out of the shadow of the tree: “Try to look more like yourself, miss, before you let them see you at the tea-table.”
Papa and Miss Jillgall were sitting together talking, when I opened the door. They left off when they saw me; and I supposed, quite correctly as it turned out, that I had been one of the subjects in their course of conversation. My poor father seemed to be sadly anxious and out of sorts. Miss Jillgall, if I had been in the humor to enjoy it, would have been more amusing than ever. One of her funny little eyes persisted in winking at me; and her heavy foot had something to say to my foot, under the table, which meant a great deal perhaps, but which only succeeded in hurting me.
My father left us; and Miss Jillgall explained herself.
“I know, dearest Euneece, that we have only been acquainted for a day or two and that I ought not perhaps to have expected you to confide in me so soon. Can I trust you not to betray me if I set an example of confidence? Ah, I see I can trust you! And, my dear, I do so enjoy telling secrets to a friend. Hush! Your father, your excellent father, has been talking to me about young Mr. Dunboyne.”
She provokingly stopped there. I entreated her to go on. She invited me to sit on her knee. “I want to whisper,” she said. It was too ridiculous—but I did it. Miss Jillgall’s whisper told me serious news.
“The minister has some reason, Euneece, for disapproving of Mr. Dunboyne; but, mind this, I don’t think he has a bad opinion of the young man himself. He is going to return Mr. Dunboyne’s call. Oh, I do so hate formality; I really can’t go on talking of Mr. Dunboyne. Tell me his Christian name. Ah, what a noble name! How I long to be useful to him! Tomorrow, my dear, after the one o’clock dinner, your papa will call on Philip, at his hotel. I hope he won’t be out, just at the wrong time.”
I resolved to prevent that unlucky accident by writing to Philip. If Miss Jillgall would have allowed it, I should have begun my letter at once. But she had more to say; and she was stronger than I was, and still kept me on her knee.
“It all looks bright enough so far, doesn’t it, dear sister? Will you let me be your second sister? I do so love you, Euneece. Thank you! thank you! But the gloomy side of the picture is to come next! The minister—no! now I am your sister I must call him papa; it makes me feel so young again! Well, then, papa has asked me to be your companion whenever you go out. ‘Euneece is too young and too attractive to be walking about this great town (in Helena’s absence) by herself.’ That was how he put it. Slyly enough, if one may say so of so good a man. And he used your sister (didn’t he?) as a kind of excuse. I wish your sister was as nice as you are. However, the point is, why am I to be your companion? Because, dear child, you and your young gentleman are not to make appointments and to meet each other alone. Oh, yes—that’s it! Your father is quite willing to return Philip’s call; he proposes (as a matter of civility to Mrs. Staveley) to ask Philip to dinner; but, mark my words, he doesn’t mean to let Philip have you for his wife.”
I jumped off her lap; it was horrible to hear her. “Oh,” I said, “can you be right about it?” Miss Jillgall jumped up too. She has foreign ways of shrugging her shoulders and making signs with her hands. On this occasion she laid both hands on the upper part of her dress, just below her throat, and mysteriously shook her head.
“When my views are directed by my affections,” she assured me, “I never see wrong. My bosom is my strong point.”
She has no bosom, poor soul—but I understood what she meant. It failed to have any soothing effect on my feelings. I felt grieved and angry and puzzled, all in one. Miss Jillgall stood looking at me, with her hands still on the place where her bosom was supposed to be. She made my temper hotter than ever.
“I mean to marry Philip,” I said.
“Certainly, my dear Euneece. But please don’t be so fierce about it.”
“If my father does really object to my marriage,” I went on, “it must be because he dislikes Philip. There can be no other reason.”
“Oh, yes, dear—there can.”
“What is the reason, then?”
“That, my sweet girl, is one of the things that we have got to find out.”
.......
The post of this morning brought a letter from my sister. We were to expect her return by the next day’s train. This was good news. Philip and I might stand in need of clever Helena’s help, and we might be sure of getting it now.
In writing to Philip, I had asked him to let me hear how papa and he had got on at the hotel. I won’t say how often I consulted my watch, or how often I looked out of the window for a man with a letter in his hand. It will be better to get on at once to the discouraging end of it, when the report of the interview reached me at last. Twice Philip had attempted to ask for my hand in marriage—and twice my father had “deliberately, obstinately” (Philip’s own words) changed the subject. Even this was not all. As if he was determined to show that Miss Jillgall was perfectly right, and I perfectly wrong, papa (civil to Philip as long as he did not talk of Me) had asked him to dine with us, and Philip had accepted the invitation!
What were we to think of it? What were we to do?
I wrote back to my dear love (so cruelly used) to tell him that Helena was expected to return on the next day, and that her opinion would be of the greatest value to both of us. In a postscript I mentioned the hour at which we were going to the station to meet my sister. When I say “we,” I mean Miss Jillgall as well as myself.
.......
We found him waiting for us at the railway. I am afraid he resented papa’s incomprehensible resolution not to give him a hearing. He was silent and sullen. I could not conceal that to see this state of feeling distressed me. He showed how truly he deserved to be loved—he begged my pardon, and he became his own sweet self again directly. I am more determined to marry him than ever.
When the train entered the station, all the carriages were full. I went one way, thinking I had seen Helena. Miss Jillgall went the other way, under the same impression. Philip was a little way behind me.
Not seeing my sister, I had just turned back, when a young man jumped out of a carriage, opposite Philip, and recognized and shook hands with him. I was just near enough to hear the stranger say, “Look at the girl in our carriage.” Philip looked. “What a charming creature!” he said, and then checked himself for fear the young lady should hear him. She had just handed her traveling bag and wraps to a porter, and was getting out. Philip politely offered his hand to help her. She looked my way. The charming creature of my sweetheart’s admiration was, to my infinite amusement, Helena herself.
CHAPTER XXI. HELENA’S DIARY.
The day of my return marks an occasion which I am not likely to forget. Hours have passed since I came home—and my agitation still forbids the thought of repose.
As I sit at my desk I see Eunice in bed, sleeping peacefully, except when she is murmuring enjoyment in some happy dream. To what end has my sister been advancing blindfold, and (who knows?) dragging me with her, since that disastrous visit to our friends in London? Strange that there should be a leaven of superstition in my nature! Strange that I should feel fear of something—I hardly know what!
I have met somewhere (perhaps in my historical reading) with the expression: “A chain of events.” Was I at the beginning of that chain, when I entered the railway carriage on my journey home?
Among the other passengers there was a young gentleman, accompanied by a lady who proved to be his sister. They were both well-bred people. The brother evidently admired me, and did his best to make himself agreeable. Time passed quickly in pleasant talk, and my vanity was flattered—and that was all. My fellow-travelers were going on to London. When the train reached our station the young lady sent her brother to buy some fruit, which she saw in the window of the refreshment-room. The first man whom he encountered on the platform was one of his friends; to whom he said something which I failed to hear. When I handed my traveling bag and my wraps to the porter, and showed myself at the carriage door, I heard the friend say: “What a charming creature!” Having nothing to conceal in a journal which I protect by a lock, I may own that the stranger’s personal appearance struck me, and that what I felt this time was not flattered vanity, but gratified pride. He was young, he was remarkably handsome, he was a distinguished-looking man.
All this happened in one moment. In the moment that followed, I found myself in Eunice’s arms. That odious person, Miss Jillgall, insisted on embracing me next. And then I was conscious of an indescribable feeling of surprise. Eunice presented the distinguished-looking gentleman to me as a friend of hers—Mr. Philip Dunboyne.
“I had the honor of meeting your sister,” he said, “in London, at Mr. Staveley’s house.” He went on to speak easily and gracefully of the journey I had taken, and of his friend who had been my fellow-traveler; and he attended us to the railway omnibus before he took his leave. I observed that Eunice had something to say to him confidentially, before they parted. This was another example of my sister’s childish character; she is instantly familiar with new acquaintances, if she happens to like them. I anticipated some amusement from hearing how she had contrived to establish confidential relations with a highly-cultivated man like Mr. Dunboyne. But, while Miss Jillgall was with us, it was just as well to keep within the limits of commonplace conversation.
Before we got out of the omnibus I had, however, observed one undesirable result of my absence from home. Eunice and Miss Jillgall—the latter having, no doubt, finely flattered the former—appeared to have taken a strong liking to each other.
Two curious circumstances also caught my attention. I saw a change to, what I call self-assertion, in my sister’s manner; something seemed to have raised her in her own estimation. Then, again, Miss Jillgall was not like her customary self. She had delightful moments of silence; and when Eunice asked how I liked Mr. Dunboyne, she listened to my reply with an appearance of interest in her ugly face which was quite a new revelation in my experience of my father’s cousin.
These little discoveries (after what I had already observed at the railway-station) ought perhaps to have prepared me for what was to come, when my sister and I were alone in our room. But Eunice, whether she meant to do it or not, baffled my customary penetration. She looked as if she had plenty of news to tell me—with some obstacle in the way of doing it, which appeared to amuse instead of annoying her. If there is one thing more than another that I hate, it is being puzzled. I asked at once if anything remarkable had happened during Eunice’s visit to London.
She smiled mischievously. “I have got a delicious surprise for you, my dear; and I do so enjoy prolonging it. Tell me, Helena, what did you propose we should both do when we found ourselves at home again?”
My memory was at fault. Eunice’s good spirits became absolutely boisterous. She called out: “Catch!” and tossed her journal into my hands, across the whole length of the room. “We were to read each other’s diaries,” she said. “There is mine to begin with.”
Innocent of any suspicion of the true state of affairs, I began the reading of Eunice’s journal. If I had not seen the familiar handwriting, nothing would have induced me to believe that a girl brought up in a pious household, the well-beloved daughter of a distinguished Congregational Minister, could have written that shameless record of passions unknown to young ladies in respectable English life. What to say, what to do, when I had closed the book, was more than I felt myself equal to decide. My wretched sister spared me the anxiety which I might otherwise have felt. It was she who first opened her lips, after the silence that had fallen on us while I was reading. These were literally the words that she said:
“My darling, why don’t you congratulate me?”
No argument could have persuaded me, as this persuaded me, that all sisterly remonstrance on my part would be completely thrown away.
“My dear Eunice,” I said, “let me beg you to excuse me. I am waiting—”
There she interrupted me—and, oh, in what an impudent manner! She took my chin between her finger and thumb, and lifted my downcast face, and looked at me with an appearance of eager expectation which I was quite at a loss to understand.
“You have been away from home, too,” she said. “Do I see in this serious face some astonishing news waiting to overpower me? Have you found a sweetheart? Are you engaged to be married?”
I only put her hand away from me, and advised her to return to her chair. This perfectly harmless proceeding seemed absolutely to frighten her.
“Oh, my dear,” she burst out, “surely you are not jealous of me?”
There was but one possible reply to this: I laughed at it. Is Eunice’s head turned? She kissed me!
“Now you laugh,” she said, “I begin to understand you again; I ought to have known that you are superior to jealousy. But, do tell me, would it be so very wonderful if other girls found something to envy in my good luck? Just think of it! Such a handsome man, such an agreeable man, such a clever man, such a rich man—and, not the least of his merits, by-the-by, a man who admires You. Come! if you won’t congratulate me, congratulate yourself on having such a brother-in-law in prospect!”
Her head was turned. I drew the poor soul’s attention compassionately to what I had said a moment since.
“Pardon me, dear, for reminding you that I have not yet refused to offer my congratulations. I only told you I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“Waiting, of course, to hear what my father thinks of your wonderful good luck.”
This explanation, offered with the kindest intentions, produced another change in my very variable sister. I had extinguished her good spirits as I might have extinguished a light. She sat down by me, and sighed in the saddest manner. The heart must be hard indeed which can resist the distress of a person who is dear to us. I put my arm round her; she was becoming once more the Eunice whom I so dearly loved.
“My poor child,” I said, “don’t distress yourself by speaking of it; I understand. Your father objects to your marrying Mr. Dunboyne.”
She shook her head. “I can’t exactly say, Helena, that papa does that. He only behaves very strangely.”
“Am I indiscreet, dear, if I ask in what way father’s behavior has surprised you?”
She was quite willing to enlighten me. It was a simple little story which, to my mind, sufficiently explained the strange behavior that had puzzled my unfortunate sister.
There could indeed be no doubt that my father considered Eunice far too childish in character, as yet, to undertake the duties of matrimony. But, with his customary delicacy, and dread of causing distress to others, he had deferred the disagreeable duty of communicating his opinion to Mr. Dunboyne. The adverse decision must, however, be sooner or later announced; and he had arranged to inflict disappointment, as tenderly as might be, at his own table.
Considerately leaving Eunice in the enjoyment of any vain hopes which she may have founded on the event of the dinner-party, I passed the evening until supper-time came in the study with my father.
Our talk was mainly devoted to the worthy people with whom I had been staying, and whose new schools I had helped to found. Not a word was said relating to my sister, or to Mr. Dunboyne. Poor father looked so sadly weary and ill that I ventured, after what the doctor had said to Eunice, to hint at the value of rest and change of scene to an overworked man. Oh, dear me, he frowned, and waved the subject away from him impatiently, with a wan, pale hand.
After supper, I made an unpleasant discovery. Not having completely finished the unpacking of my boxes, I left Miss Jillgall and Eunice in the drawing-room, and went upstairs. In half an hour I returned, and found the room empty. What had become of them? It was a fine moonlight night; I stepped into the back drawing-room, and looked out of the window. There they were, walking arm-in-arm with their heads close together, deep in talk. With my knowledge of Miss Jillgall, I call this a bad sign.
An odd thought has just come to me. I wonder what might have happened, if I had been visiting at Mrs. Staveley’s, instead of Eunice, and if Mr. Dunboyne had seen me first.
Absurd! if I was not too tired to do anything more, those last lines should be scratched out.
CHAPTER XXII. EUNICE’S DIARY.
I said so to Miss Jillgall, and I say it again here. Nothing will induce me to think ill of Helena.
My sister is a good deal tired, and a little out of temper after the railway journey. This is exactly what happened to me when I went to London. I attribute her refusal to let me read her journal, after she had read mine, entirely to the disagreeable consequences of traveling by railway. Miss Jillgall accounted for it otherwise, in her own funny manner: “My sweet child, your sister’s diary is full of abuse of poor me.” I humored the joke: “Dearest Selina, keep a diary of your own, and fill it with abuse of my sister.” This seemed to be a droll saying at the time. But it doesn’t look particularly amusing, now it is written down. We had ginger wine at supper, to celebrate Helena’s return. Although I only drank one glass, I daresay it may have got into my head.
However that may be, when the lovely moonlight tempted us into the garden, there was an end to our jokes. We had something to talk about which still dwells disagreeably on my mind.
Miss Jillgall began it.
“If I trust you, dearest Euneece, with my own precious secrets, shall I never, never, never live to repent it?”
I told my good little friend that she might depend on me, provided her secrets did no harm to any person whom I loved.
She clasped her hands and looked up at the moon—I can only suppose that her sentiments overpowered her. She said, very prettily, that her heart and my heart beat together in heavenly harmony. It is needless to add that this satisfied me.
Miss Jillgall’s generous confidence in my discretion was, I am afraid, not rewarded as it ought to have been. I found her tiresome at first.
She spoke of an excellent friend (a lady), who had helped her, at the time when she lost her little fortune, by raising a subscription privately to pay the expenses of her return to England. Her friend’s name—not very attractive to English ears—was Mrs. Tenbruggen; they had first become acquainted under interesting circumstances. Miss Jillgall happened to mention that my father was her only living relative; and it turned out that Mrs. Tenbruggen was familiar with his name, and reverenced his fame as a preacher. When he had generously received his poor helpless cousin under his own roof, Miss Jillgall’s gratitude and sense of duty impelled her to write and tell Mrs. Tenbruggen how happy she was as a member of our family.
Let me confess that I began to listen more attentively when the narrative reached this point.
“I drew a little picture of our domestic circle here,” Miss Jillgall said, describing her letter; “and I mentioned the mystery in which Mr. Gracedieu conceals the ages of you two dear girls. Mrs. Tenbruggen—shall we shorten her ugly name and call her Mrs. T.? Very well—Mrs. T. is a remarkably clever woman, and I looked for interesting results, if she would give her opinion of the mysterious circumstance mentioned in my letter.”
By this time, I was all eagerness to hear more.
“Has she written to you?” I asked.
Miss Jillgall looked at me affectionately, and took the reply out of her pocket.
“Listen, Euneece; and you shall hear her own words. Thus she writes:
“‘Your letter, dear Selina, especially interests me by what it says about the two Miss Gracedieus. ‘—Look, dear; she underlines the word Two. Why, I can’t explain. Can you? Ah, I thought not. Well, let us get back to the letter. My accomplished friend continues in these terms:
“‘I can understand the surprise which you have felt at the strange course taken by their father, as a means of concealing the difference which there must be in the ages of these young ladies. Many years since, I happened to discover a romantic incident in the life of your popular preacher, which he has his reasons, as I suspect, for keeping strictly to himself. If I may venture on a bold guess, I should say that any person who could discover which was the oldest of the two daughters, would be also likely to discover the true nature of the romance in Mr. Gracedieu’s life.’—Isn’t that very remarkable, Euneece? You don’t seem to see it—you funny child! Pray pay particular attention to what comes next. These are the closing sentences in my friend’s letter:
“‘If you find anything new to tell me which relates to this interesting subject, direct your letter as before—provided you write within a week from the present time. Afterward, my letters will be received by the English physician whose card I inclose. You will be pleased to hear that my professional interests call me to London at the earliest moment that I can spare.’—There, dear child, the letter comes to an end. I daresay you wonder what Mrs. T. means, when she alludes to her professional interests?”
No: I was not wondering about anything. It hurt me to hear of a strange woman exercising her ingenuity in guessing at mysteries in papa’s life.
But Miss Jillgall was too eagerly bent on setting forth the merits of her friend to notice this. I now heard that Mrs. T.‘s marriage had turned out badly, and that she had been reduced to earn her own bread. Her manner of doing this was something quite new to me. She went about, from one place to another, curing people of all sorts of painful maladies, by a way she had of rubbing them with her hands. In Belgium she was called a “Masseuse.” When I asked what this meant in English, I was told, “Medical Rubber,” and that the fame of Mrs. T.‘s wonderful cures had reached some of the medical newspapers published in London.
After listening (I must say for myself) very patiently, I was bold enough to own that my interest in what I had just heard was not quite so plain to me as I could have wished it to be.
Miss Jillgall looked shocked at my stupidity. She reminded me that there was a mystery in Mrs. Tenbruggen’s letter and a mystery in papa’s strange conduct toward Philip. “Put two and two together, darling,” she said; “and, one of these days, they may make four.”
If this meant anything, it meant that the reason which made papa keep Helena’s age and my age unknown to everybody but himself, was also the reason why he seemed to be so strangely unwilling to let me be Philip’s wife. I really could not endure to take such a view of it as that, and begged Miss Jillgall to drop the subject. She was as kind as ever.
“With all my heart, dear. But don’t deceive yourself—the subject will turn up again when we least expect it.”