We both said good-night, and went up to our room with a new object in view. By our father’s advice we had resolved on keeping diaries, for the first time in our lives, and had pledged ourselves to begin before we went to bed.
Slowly and silently and lazily, my sister sauntered to her end of the room and seated herself at her writing-table. On the desk lay a nicely bound book, full of blank pages. The word “Journal” was printed on it in gold letters, and there was fitted to the covers a bright brass lock and key. A second journal, exactly similar in every respect to the first, was placed on the writing-table at my end of the room. I opened my book. The sight of the blank leaves irritated me; they were so smooth, so spotless, so entirely ready to do their duty. I took too deep a dip of ink, and began the first entry in my diary by making a blot. This was discouraging. I got up, and looked out of window.
“Helena!”
My sister’s voice could hardly have addressed me in a more weary tone, if her pen had been at work all night, relating domestic events. “Well!” I said. “What is it?”
“Have you done already?” she asked.
I showed her the blot. My sister Eunice (the strangest as well as the dearest of girls) always blurts out what she has in her mind at the time. She fixed her eyes gravely on my spoiled page, and said: “That comforts me.” I crossed the room, and looked at her book. She had not even summoned energy enough to make a blot. “What will papa think of us,” she said, “if we don’t begin to-night?”
“Why not begin,” I suggested, “by writing down what he said, when he gave us our journals? Those wise words of advice will be in their proper place on the first page of the new books.”
Not at all a demonstrative girl naturally; not ready with her tears, not liberal with her caresses, not fluent in her talk, Eunice was affected by my proposal in a manner wonderful to see. She suddenly developed into an excitable person—I declare she kissed me. “Oh,” she burst out, “how clever you are! The very thing to write about; I’ll do it directly.”
She really did it directly; without once stopping to consider, without once waiting to ask my advice. Line after line, I heard her noisy pen hurrying to the bottom of a first page, and getting three-parts of the way toward the end of a second page, before she closed her diary. I reminded her that she had not turned the key, in the lock which was intended to keep her writing private.
“It’s not worth while,” she answered. “Anybody who cares to do it may read what I write. Good-night.”
The singular change which I had noticed in her began to disappear, when she set about her preparations for bed. I noticed the old easy indolent movements again, and that regular and deliberate method of brushing her hair, which I can never contemplate without feeling a stupefying influence that has helped me to many a delicious night’s sleep. She said her prayers in her favorite corner of the room, and laid her head on the pillow with the luxurious little sigh which announces that she is falling asleep. This reappearance of her usual habits was really a relief to me. Eunice in a state of excitement is Eunice exhibiting an unnatural spectacle.
The next thing I did was to take the liberty which she had already sanctioned—I mean the liberty of reading what she had written. Here it is, copied exactly:
“I am not half so fond of anybody as I am of papa. He is always kind, he is always right. I love him, I love him, I love him.
“But this is not how I meant to begin. I must tell how he talked to us; I wish he was here to tell it himself.
“He said to me: ‘You are getting lazier than ever, Eunice.’ He said to Helena: ‘You are feeling the influence of Eunice’s example.’ He said to both of us: ‘You are too ready, my dear children, to sit with your hands on your laps, looking at nothing and thinking of nothing; I want to try a new way of employing your leisure time.’
“He opened a parcel on the table. He made each of us a present of a beautiful book, called ‘Journal.’ He said: ‘When you have nothing to do, my dears, in the evening, employ yourselves in keeping a diary of the events of the day. It will be a useful record in many ways, and a good moral discipline for young girls.’ Helena said: ‘Oh, thank you!’ I said the same, but not so cheerfully.
“The truth is, I feel out of spirits now if I think of papa; I am not easy in my mind about him. When he is very much interested, there is a quivering in his face which I don’t remember in past times. He seems to have got older and thinner, all on a sudden. He shouts (which he never used to do) when he threatens sinners at sermon-time. Being in dreadful earnest about our souls, he is of course obliged to speak of the devil; but he never used to hit the harmless pulpit cushion with his fist as he does now. Nobody seems to have seen these things but me; and now I have noticed them what ought I to do? I don’t know; I am certain of nothing, except what I have put in at the top of page one: I love him, I love him, I love him.”
.......
There this very curious entry ended. It was easy enough to discover the influence which had made my slow-minded sister so ready with her memory and her pen—so ready, in short, to do anything and everything, provided her heart was in it, and her father was in it.
But Eunice is wrong, let me tell her, in what she says of myself.
I, too, have seen the sad change in my father; but I happen to know that he dislikes having it spoken of at home, and I have kept my painful discoveries to myself. Unhappily, the best medical advice is beyond our reach. The one really competent doctor in this place is known to be an infidel. But for that shocking obstacle I might have persuaded my father to see him. As for the other two doctors whom he has consulted, at different times, one talked about suppressed gout, and the other told him to take a year’s holiday and enjoy himself on the Continent.
The clock has just struck twelve. I have been writing and copying till my eyes are heavy, and I want to follow Eunice’s example and sleep as soundly as she does. We have made a strange beginning of this journalizing experiment. I wonder how long it will go on, and what will come of it.
SECOND DAY.
I begin to be afraid that I am as stupid—no; that is not a nice word to use—let me say as simple as dear Eunice. A diary means a record of the events of the day; and not one of the events of yesterday appears in my sister’s journal or in mine. Well, it is easy to set that mistake right. Our lives are so dull (but I would not say so in my father’s hearing for the world) that the record of one day will be much the same as the record of another. After family prayers and breakfast I suffer my customary persecution at the hands of the cook. That is to say, I am obliged, being the housekeeper, to order what we have to eat. Oh, how I hate inventing dinners! and how I admire the enviable slowness of mind and laziness of body which have saved Eunice from undertaking the worries of housekeeping in her turn! She can go and work in her garden, while I am racking my invention to discover variety in dishes without overstepping the limits of economy. I suppose I may confess it privately to myself—how sorry I am not to have been born a man!
My next employment leads me to my father’s study, to write under his dictation. I don’t complain of this; it flatters my pride to feel that I am helping so great a man. At the same time, I do notice that here again Eunice’s little defects have relieved her of another responsibility. She can neither keep dictated words in her memory, nor has she ever been able to learn how to put in her stops.
After the dictation, I have an hour’s time left for practicing music. My sister comes in from the garden, with her pencil and paint-box, and practices drawing. Then we go out for a walk—a delightful walk, if my father goes too. He has something always new to tell us, suggested by what we pass on the way. Then, dinner-time comes—not always a pleasant part of the day to me. Sometimes I hear paternal complaints (always gentle complaints) of my housekeeping; sometimes my sister (I won’t say the greedy sister) tells me I have not given her enough to eat. Poor father! Dear Eunice!
Dinner having reached its end, we stroll in the garden when the weather is fine. When it rains, we make flannel petticoats for poor old women. What a horrid thing old age is to look at! To be ugly, to be helpless, to be miserably unfit for all the pleasures of life—I hope I shall not live to be an old woman. What would my father say if he saw this? For his sake, to say nothing of my own feelings, I shall do well if I make it a custom to use the lock of my journal. Our next occupation is to join the Scripture class for girls, and to help the teacher. This is a good discipline for Eunice’s temper, and—oh, I don’t deny it!—for my temper, too. I may long to box the ears of the whole class, but it is my duty to keep a smiling face and to be a model of patience. From the Scripture class we sometimes go to my father’s lecture. At other times, we may amuse ourselves as well as we can till the tea is ready. After tea, we read books which instruct us, poetry and novels being forbidden. When we are tired of the books we talk. When supper is over, we have prayers again, and we go to bed. There is our day. Oh, dear me! there is our day.
.......
And how has Eunice succeeded in her second attempt at keeping a diary? Here is what she has written. It has one merit that nobody can deny—it is soon read:
“I hope papa will excuse me; I have nothing to write about to-day.”
Over and over again I have tried to point out to my sister the absurdity of calling her father by the infantile nickname of papa. I have reminded her that she is (in years, at least) no longer a child. “Why don’t you call him father, as I do?” I asked only the other day.
She made an absurd reply: “I used to call him papa when I was a little girl.”
“That,” I reminded her, “doesn’t justify you in calling him papa now.”
And she actually answered: “Yes it does.” What a strange state of mind! And what a charming girl, in spite of her mind!
THIRD DAY.
The morning post has brought with it a promise of some little variety in our lives—or, to speak more correctly, in the life of my sister.
Our new and nice friends, the Staveleys, have written to invite Eunice to pay them a visit at their house in London. I don’t complain at being left at home. It would be unfilial, indeed, if we both of us forsook our father; and last year it was my turn to receive the first invitation, and to enjoy the change of scene. The Staveleys are excellent people—strictly pious members of the Methodist Connection—and exceedingly kind to my sister and me. But it was just as well for my moral welfare that I ended my visit to our friends when I did. With my fondness for music, I felt the temptation of the Evil One trying me, when I saw placards in the street announcing that the Italian Opera was open. I had no wish to be a witness of the shameful and sinful dancing which goes on (I am told) at the opera; but I did feel my principles shaken when I thought of the wonderful singers and the entrancing music. And this, when I knew what an atmosphere of wickedness people breathe who enter a theater! I reflect with horror on what might have happened if I had remained a little longer in London.
Helping Eunice to pack up, I put her journal into the box. “You will find something to write about now,” I told her. “While I record everything that happens at home, you will keep your diary of all that you do in London, and when you come back we will show each other what we have written.” My sister is a dear creature. “I don’t feel sure of being able to do it,” she answered; “but I promise to try.” Good Eunice!
The air of London feels very heavy. There is a nasty smell of smoke in London. There are too many people in London. They seem to be mostly people in a hurry. The head of a country girl, when she goes into the streets, turns giddy—I suppose through not being used to the noise.
I do hope that it is London that has put me out of temper. Otherwise, it must be I myself who am ill-tempered. I have not yet been one whole day in the Staveleys’ house, and they have offended me already. I don’t want Helena to hear of this from other people, and then to ask me why I concealed it from her. We are to read each other’s journals when we are both at home again. Let her see what I have to say for myself here.
There are seven Staveleys in all: Mr. and Mrs. (two); three young Masters (five); two young Misses (seven). An eldest miss and the second young Master are the only ones at home at the present time.
Mr., Mrs., and Miss kissed me when I arrived. Young Master only shook hands. He looked as if he would have liked to kiss me too. Why shouldn’t he? It wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t myself like kissing. What is the use of it? Where is the pleasure of it?
Mrs. was so glad to see me; she took hold of me by both hands. She said: “My dear child, you are improving. You were wretchedly thin when I saw you last. Now you are almost as well-developed as your sister. I think you are prettier than your sister.” Mr. didn’t agree to that. He and his wife began to dispute about me before my face. I do call that an aggravating thing to endure.
Mr. said: “She hasn’t got her sister’s pretty gray eyes.”
Mrs. said; “She has got pretty brown eyes, which are just as good.”
Mr. said: “You can’t compare her complexion with Helena’s.”
Mrs. said: “I like Eunice’s pale complexion. So delicate.”
Young Miss struck in: “I admire Helena’s hair—light brown.”
Young Master took his turn: “I prefer Eunice’s hair—dark brown.”
Mr. opened his great big mouth, and asked a question: “Which of you two sisters is the oldest? I forget.”
Mrs. answered for me: “Helena is the oldest; she told us so when she was here last.”
I really could not stand that. “You must be mistaken,” I burst out.
“Certainly not, my dear.”
“Then Helena was mistaken.” I was unwilling to say of my sister that she had been deceiving them, though it did seem only too likely.
Mr. and Mrs. looked at each other. Mrs. said: “You seem to be very positive, Eunice. Surely, Helena ought to know.”
I said: “Helena knows a good deal; but she doesn’t know which of us is the oldest of the two.”
Mr. put in another question: “Do you know?”
“No more than Helena does.”
Mrs. said: “Don’t you keep birthdays?”
I said: “Yes; we keep both our birthdays on the same day.”
“On what day?”
“The first day of the New Year.”
Mr. tried again: “You can’t possibly be twins?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps Helena knows?”
“Not she!”
Mrs. took the next question out of her husband’s mouth: “Come, come, my dear! you must know how old you are.”
“Yes; I do know that. I’m eighteen.”
“And how old is Helena?”
“Helena’s eighteen.”
Mrs. turned round to Mr.: “Do you hear that?”
Mr. said: “I shall write to her father, and ask what it means.”
I said: “Papa will only tell you what he told us—years ago.”
“What did your father say?”
“He said he had added our two ages together, and he meant to divide the product between us. It’s so long since, I don’t remember what the product was then. But I’ll tell you what the product is now. Our two ages come to thirty-six. Half thirty-six is eighteen. I get one half, and Helena gets the other. When we ask what it means, and when friends ask what it means, papa has got the same answer for everybody, ‘I have my reasons.’ That’s all he says—and that’s all I say.”
I had no intention of making Mr. angry, but he did get angry. He left off speaking to me by my Christian name; he called me by my surname. He said: “Let me tell you, Miss Gracedieu, it is not becoming in a young lady to mystify her elders.”
I had heard that it was respectful in a young lady to call an old gentleman, Sir, and to say, If you please. I took care to be respectful now. “If you please, sir, write to papa. You will find that I have spoken the truth.”
A woman opened the door, and said to Mrs. Staveley: “Dinner, ma’am.” That stopped this nasty exhibition of our tempers. We had a very good dinner.
.......
The next day I wrote to Helena, asking her what she had really said to the Staveleys about her age and mine, and telling her what I had said. I found it too great a trial of my patience to wait till she could see what I had written about the dispute in my journal. The days, since then, have passed, and I have been too lazy and stupid to keep my diary.
To-day it is different. My head is like a dark room with the light let into it. I remember things; I think I can go on again.
We have religious exercises in this house, morning and evening, just as we do at home. (Not to be compared with papa’s religious exercises.) Two days ago his answer came to Mr. Staveley’s letter. He did just what I had expected—said I had spoken truly, and disappointed the family by asking to be excused if he refrained from entering into explanations. Mr. said: “Very odd;” and Mrs. agreed with him. Young Miss is not quite as friendly now as she was at first. And young Master was impudent enough to ask me if “I had got religion.” To conclude the list of my worries, I received an angry answer from Helena. “Nobody but a simpleton,” she wrote, “would have contradicted me as you did. Who but you could have failed to see that papa’s strange objection to let it be known which of us is the elder makes us ridiculous before other people? My presence of mind prevented that. You ought to have been grateful, and held your tongue.” Perhaps Helena is right—but I don’t feel it so.
On Sunday we went to chapel twice. We also had a sermon read at home, and a cold dinner. In the evening, a hot dispute on religion between Mr. Staveley and his son. I don’t blame them. After being pious all day long on Sunday, I have myself felt my piety give way toward evening.
There is something pleasant in prospect for to-morrow. All London is going just now to the exhibition of pictures. We are going with all London.
.......
I don’t know what is the matter with me tonight. I have positively been to bed, without going to sleep! After tossing and twisting and trying all sorts of positions, I am so angry with myself that I have got up again. Rather than do nothing, I have opened my ink-bottle, and I mean to go on with my journal. Now I think of it, it seems likely that the exhibition of works of art may have upset me.
I found a dreadfully large number of pictures, matched by a dreadfully large number of people to look at them. It is not possible for me to write about what I saw: there was too much of it. Besides, the show disappointed me. I would rather write about a disagreement (oh, dear, another dispute!) I had with Mrs. Staveley. The cause of it was a famous artist; not himself, but his works. He exhibited four pictures—what they call figure subjects. Mrs. Staveley had a pencil. At every one of the great man’s four pictures, she made a big mark of admiration on her catalogue. At the fourth one, she spoke to me: “Perfectly beautiful, Eunice, isn’t it?”
I said I didn’t know. She said: “You strange girl, what do you mean by that?”
It would have been rude not to have given the best answer I could find. I said: “I never saw the flesh of any person’s face like the flesh in the faces which that man paints. He reminds me of wax-work. Why does he paint the same waxy flesh in all four of his pictures? I don’t see the same colored flesh in all the faces about us.” Mrs. Staveley held up her hand, by way of stopping me. She said: “Don’t speak so loud, Eunice; you are only exposing your own ignorance.”
A voice behind us joined in. The voice said: “Excuse me, Mrs. Staveley, if I expose my ignorance. I entirely agree with the young lady.”
I felt grateful to the person who took my part, just when I was at a loss what to say for myself, and I looked round. The person was a young gentleman.
He wore a beautiful blue frock-coat, buttoned up. I like a frock-coat to be buttoned up. He had light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a pretty cane. I like light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a pretty cane. What color his eyes were is more than I can say; I only know they made me hot when they looked at me. Not that I mind being made hot; it is surely better than being made cold. He and Mrs. Staveley shook hands.
They seemed to be old friends. I wished I had been an old friend—not for any bad reason, I hope. I only wanted to shake hands, too. What Mrs. Staveley said to him escaped me, somehow. I think the picture escaped me also; I don’t remember noticing anything except the young gentleman, especially when he took off his hat to me. He looked at me twice before he went away. I got hot again. I said to Mrs. Staveley: “Who is he?”
She laughed at me. I said again: “Who is he?” She said: “He is young Mr. Dunboyne.” I said: “Does he live in London?” She laughed again. I said again: “Does he live in London?” She said: “He is here for a holiday; he lives with his father at Fairmount, in Ireland.”
Young Mr. Dunboyne—here for a holiday—lives with his father at Fairmount, in Ireland. I have said that to myself fifty times over. And here it is, saying itself for the fifty-first time in my Journal. I must indeed be a simpleton, as Helena says. I had better go to bed again.
Not long before I left home, I heard one of our two servants telling the other about a person who had been “bewitched.” Are you bewitched when you don’t understand your own self? That has been my curious case, since I returned from the picture show. This morning I took my drawing materials out of my box, and tried to make a portrait of young Mr. Dunboyne from recollection. I succeeded pretty well with his frock-coat and cane; but, try as I might, his face was beyond me. I have never drawn anything so badly since I was a little girl; I almost felt ready to cry. What a fool I am!
This morning I received a letter from papa—it was in reply to a letter that I had written to him—so kind, so beautifully expressed, so like himself, that I felt inclined to send him a confession of the strange state of feeling that has come over me, and to ask him to comfort and advise me. On second thoughts, I was afraid to do it. Afraid of papa! I am further away from understanding myself than ever.
Mr. Dunboyne paid us a visit in the afternoon. Fortunately, before we went out.
I thought I would have a good look at him; so as to know his face better than I had known it yet. Another disappointment was in store for me. Without intending it, I am sure, he did what no other young man has ever done—he made me feel confused. Instead of looking at him, I sat with my head down, and listened to his talk. His voice—this is high praise—reminded me of papa’s voice. It seemed to persuade me as papa persuades his congregation. I felt quite at ease again. When he went away, we shook hands. He gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave him back the squeeze—without knowing why. When he was gone, I wished I had not done it—without knowing why, either.
I heard his Christian name for the first time to-day. Mrs. Staveley said to me: “We are going to have a dinner-party. Shall I ask Philip Dunboyne?” I said to Mrs. Staveley: “Oh, do!”
She is an old woman; her eyes are dim. At times, she can look mischievous. She looked at me mischievously now. I wished I had not been so eager to have Mr. Dunboyne asked to dinner.
A fear has come to me that I may have degraded myself. My spirits are depressed. This, as papa tells us in his sermons, is a miserable world. I am sorry I accepted the Staveleys’ invitation. I am sorry I went to see the pictures. When that young man comes to dinner, I shall say I have got a headache, and shall stop upstairs by myself. I don’t think I like his Christian name. I hate London. I hate everybody.
What I wrote up above, yesterday, is nonsense. I think his Christian name is perfect. I like London. I love everybody.
He came to dinner to-day. I sat next to him. How beautiful a dress-coat is, and a white cravat! We talked. He wanted to know what my Christian name was. I was so pleased when I found he was one of the few people who like it. His hair curls naturally. In color, it is something between my hair and Helena’s. He wears his beard. How manly! It curls naturally, like his hair; it smells deliciously of some perfume which is new to me. He has white hands; his nails look as if he polished them; I should like to polish my nails if I knew how. Whatever I said, he agreed with me; I felt satisfied with my own conversation, for the first time in my life. Helena won’t find me a simpleton when I go home. What exquisite things dinner-parties are!
My sister told me (when we said good-by) to be particular in writing down my true opinion of the Staveleys. Helena wishes to compare what she thinks of them with what I think of them.
My opinion of Mr. Staveley is—I don’t like him. My opinion of Miss Staveley is—I can’t endure her. As for Master Staveley, my clever sister will understand that he is beneath notice. But, oh, what a wonderful woman Mrs. Staveley is! We went out together, after luncheon today, for a walk in Kensington Gardens. Never have I heard any conversation to compare with Mrs. Staveley’s. Helena shall enjoy it here, at second hand. I am quite changed in two things. First: I think more of myself than I ever did before. Second: writing is no longer a difficulty to me. I could fill a hundred journals, without once stopping to think.
Mrs. Staveley began nicely; “I suppose, Eunice, you have often been told that you have a good figure, and that you walk well?”
I said: “Helena thinks my figure is better than my face. But do I really walk well? Nobody ever told me that.”
She answered: “Philip Dunboyne thinks so. He said to me, ‘I resist the temptation because I might be wanting in respect if I gave way to it. But I should like to follow her when she goes out—merely for the pleasure of seeing her walk.’”
I stood stockstill. I said nothing. When you are as proud as a peacock (which never happened to me before), I find you can’t move and can’t talk. You can only enjoy yourself.
Kind Mrs. Staveley had more things to tell me. She said: “I am interested in Philip. I lived near Fairmount in the time before I was married; and in those days he was a child. I want him to marry a charming girl, and be happy.”
What made me think directly of Miss Staveley? What made me mad to know if she was the charming girl? I was bold enough to ask the question. Mrs. Staveley turned to me with that mischievous look which I have noticed already. I felt as if I had been running at the top of my speed, and had not got my breath again, yet.
But this good motherly friend set me at my ease. She explained herself: “Philip is not much liked, poor fellow, in our house. My husband considers him to be weak and vain and fickle. And my daughter agrees with her father. There are times when she is barely civil to Philip. He is too good-natured to complain, but I see it. Tell me, my dear, do you like Philip?”
“Of course I do!” Out it came in those words, before I could stop it. Was there something unbecoming to a young lady in saying what I had just said? Mrs. Staveley seemed to be more amused than angry with me. She took my arm kindly, and led me along with her. “My dear, you are as clear as crystal, and as true as steel. You are a favorite of mine already.”
What a delightful woman! as I said just now. I asked if she really liked me as well as she liked my sister.
She said: “Better.”
I didn’t expect that, and didn’t want it. Helena is my superior. She is prettier than I am, cleverer than I am, better worth liking than I am. Mrs. Staveley shifted the talk back to Philip. I ought to have said Mr. Philip. No, I won’t; I shall call him Philip. If I had a heart of stone, I should feel interested in him, after what Mrs. Staveley has told me.
Such a sad story, in some respects. Mother dead; no brothers or sisters. Only the father left; he lives a dismal life on a lonely stormy coast. Not a severe old gentleman, for all that. His reasons for taking to retirement are reasons (so Mrs. Staveley says) which nobody knows. He buries himself among his books, in an immense library; and he appears to like it. His son has not been brought up like other young men, at school and college. He is a great scholar, educated at home by his father. To hear this account of his learning depressed me. It seemed to put such a distance between us. I asked Mrs. Staveley if he thought me ignorant. As long as I live I shall remember the reply: “He thinks you charming.”
Any other girl would have been satisfied with this. I am the miserable creature who is always making mistakes. My stupid curiosity spoiled the charm of Mrs. Staveley’s conversation. And yet it seemed to be a harmless question; I only said I should like to know what profession Philip belonged to.
Mrs. Staveley answered: “No profession.”
I foolishly put a wrong meaning on this. I said: “Is he idle?”
Mrs. Staveley laughed. “My dear, he is an only son—and his father is a rich man.”
That stopped me—at last.
We have enough to live on in comfort at home—no more. Papa has told us himself that he is not (and can never hope to be) a rich man. This is not the worst of it. Last year, he refused to marry a young couple, both belonging to our congregation. This was very unlike his usual kind self. Helena and I asked him for his reasons. They were reasons that did not take long to give. The young gentleman’s father was a rich man. He had forbidden his son to marry a sweet girl—because she had no fortune.
I have no fortune. And Philip’s father is a rich man.
The best thing I can do is to wipe my pen, and shut up my Journal, and go home by the next train.
.......
I have a great mind to burn my Journal. It tells me that I had better not think of Philip any more.
On second thoughts, I won’t destroy my Journal; I will only put it away. If I live to be an old woman, it may amuse me to open my book again, and see how foolish the poor wretch was when she was young.
What is this aching pain in my heart?
I don’t remember it at any other time in my life. Is it trouble? How can I tell?—I have had so little trouble. It must be many years since I was wretched enough to cry. I don’t even understand why I am crying now. My last sorrow, so far as I can remember, was the toothache. Other girls’ mothers comfort them when they are wretched. If my mother had lived—it’s useless to think about that. We lost her, while I and my sister were too young to understand our misfortune.
I wish I had never seen Philip.
This seems an ungrateful wish. Seeing him at the picture-show was a new enjoyment. Sitting next to him at dinner was a happiness that I don’t recollect feeling, even when Papa has been most sweet and kind to me. I ought to be ashamed of myself to confess this. Shall I write to my sister? But how should she know what is the matter with me, when I don’t know it myself? Besides, Helena is angry; she wrote unkindly to me when she answered my last letter.
There is a dreadful loneliness in this great house at night. I had better say my prayers, and try to sleep. If it doesn’t make me feel happier, it will prevent me spoiling my Journal by dropping tears on it.
.......
What an evening of evenings this has been! Last night it was crying that kept me awake. To-night I can’t sleep for joy.
Philip called on us again to-day. He brought with him tickets for the performance of an Oratorio. Sacred music is not forbidden music among our people. Mrs. Staveley and Miss Staveley went to the concert with us. Philip and I sat next to each other.
My sister is a musician—I am nothing. That sounds bitter; but I don’t mean it so. All I mean is, that I like simple little songs, which I can sing to myself by remembering the tune. There, my musical enjoyment ends. When voices and instruments burst out together by hundreds, I feel bewildered. I also get attacked by fidgets. This last misfortune is sure to overtake me when choruses are being performed. The unfortunate people employed are made to keep singing the same words, over and over and over again, till I find it a perfect misery to listen to them. The choruses were unendurable in the performance to-night. This is one of them: “Here we are all alone in the wilderness—alone in the wilderness—in the wilderness alone, alone, alone—here we are in the wilderness—alone in the wilderness—all all alone in the wilderness,” and soon, till I felt inclined to call for the learned person who writes Oratorios, and beg him to give the poor music a more generous allowance of words.
Whenever I looked at Philip, I found him looking at me. Perhaps he saw from the first that the music was wearying music to my ignorant ears. With his usual delicacy he said nothing for some time. But when he caught me yawning (though I did my best to hide it, for it looked like being ungrateful for the tickets), then he could restrain himself no longer. He whispered in my ear:
“You are getting tired of this. And so am I.”
“I am trying to like it,” I whispered back.
“Don’t try,” he answered. “Let’s talk.”
He meant, of course, talk in whispers. We were a good deal annoyed—especially when the characters were all alone in the wilderness—by bursts of singing and playing which interrupted us at the most interesting moments. Philip persevered with a manly firmness. What could I do but follow his example—at a distance?
He said: “Is it really true that your visit to Mrs. Staveley is coming to an end?”
I answered: “It comes to an end the day after to-morrow.”
“Are you sorry to be leaving your friends in London?”
What I might have said if he had made that inquiry a day earlier, when I was the most miserable creature living, I would rather not try to guess. Being quite happy as things were, I could honestly tell him I was sorry.
“You can’t possibly be as sorry as I am, Eunice. May I call you by your pretty name?”
“Yes, if you please.”
“Eunice!”
“Yes.”
“You will leave a blank in my life when you go away—”
There another chorus stopped him, just as I was eager for more. It was such a delightfully new sensation to hear a young gentleman telling me that I had left a blank in his life. The next change in the Oratorio brought up a young lady, singing alone. Some people behind us grumbled at the smallness of her voice. We thought her voice perfect. It seemed to lend itself so nicely to our whispers.
He said: “Will you help me to think of you while you are away? I want to imagine what your life is at home. Do you live in a town or in the country?”
I told him the name of our town. When we give a person information, I have always heard that we ought to make it complete. So I mentioned our address in the town. But I was troubled by a doubt. Perhaps he preferred the country. Being anxious about this, I said: “Would you rather have heard that I live in the country?”
“Live where you may, Eunice, the place will be a favorite place of mine. Besides, your town is famous. It has a public attraction which brings visitors to it.”
I made another of those mistakes which no sensible girl, in my position, would have committed. I asked if he alluded to our new market-place.
He set me right in the sweetest manner: “I alluded to a building hundreds of years older than your market-place—your beautiful cathedral.”
Fancy my not having thought of the cathedral! This is what comes of being a Congregationalist. If I had belonged to the Church of England, I should have forgotten the market-place, and remembered the cathedral. Not that I want to belong to the Church of England. Papa’s chapel is good enough for me.
The song sung by the lady with the small voice was so pretty that the audience encored it. Didn’t Philip and I help them! With the sweetest smiles the lady sang it all over again. The people behind us left the concert.
He said: “Do you know, I take the greatest interest in cathedrals. I propose to enjoy the privilege and pleasure of seeing your cathedral early next week.”
I had only to look at him to see that I was the cathedral. It was no surprise to hear next that he thought of “paying his respects to Mr. Gracedieu.” He begged me to tell him what sort of reception he might hope to meet with when he called at our house. I got so excited in doing justice to papa that I quite forgot to whisper when the next question came. Philip wanted to know if Mr. Gracedieu disliked strangers. When I answered, “Oh dear, no!” I said it out loud, so that the people heard me. Cruel, cruel people! They all turned round and stared. One hideous old woman actually said, “Silence!” Miss Staveley looked disgusted. Even kind Mrs. Staveley lifted her eyebrows in astonishment.
Philip, dear Philip, protected and composed me.
He held my hand devotedly till the end of the performance. When he put us into the carriage, I was last. He whispered in my ear: “Expect me next week.” Miss Staveley might be as ill-natured as she pleased, on the way home. It didn’t matter what she said. The Eunice of yesterday might have been mortified and offended. The Eunice of to-day was indifferent to the sharpest things that could be said to her.
.......
All through yesterday’s delightful evening, I never once thought of Philip’s father. When I woke this morning, I remembered that old Mr. Dunboyne was a rich man. I could eat no breakfast for thinking of the poor girl who was not allowed to marry her young gentleman, because she had no money.
Mrs. Staveley waited to speak to me till the rest of them had left us together. I had expected her to notice that I looked dull and dismal. No! her cleverness got at my secret in quite another way.
She said: “How do you feel after the concert? You must be hard to please indeed if you were not satisfied with the accompaniments last night.”
“The accompaniments of the Oratorio?”
“No, my dear. The accompaniments of Philip.”
I suppose I ought to have laughed. In my miserable state of mind, it was not to be done. I said: “I hope Mr. Dunboyne’s father will not hear how kind he was to me.”
Mrs. Staveley asked why.
My bitterness overflowed at my tongue. I said: “Because papa is a poor man.”
“And Philip’s papa is a rich man,” says Mrs. Staveley, putting my own thought into words for me. “Where do you get these ideas, Eunice? Surely, you are not allowed to read novels?”
“Oh no!”
“And you have certainly never seen a play?”
“Never.”
“Clear your head, child, of the nonsense that has got into it—I can’t think how. Rich Mr. Dunboyne has taught his heir to despise the base act of marrying for money. He knows that Philip will meet young ladies at my house; and he has written to me on the subject of his son’s choice of a wife. ‘Let Philip find good principles, good temper, and good looks; and I promise beforehand to find the money.’ There is what he says. Are you satisfied with Philip’s father, now?”
I jumped up in a state of ecstasy. Just as I had thrown my arms round Mrs. Staveley’s neck, the servant came in with a letter, and handed it to me.
Helena had written again, on this last day of my visit. Her letter was full of instructions for buying things that she wants, before I leave London. I read on quietly enough until I came to the postscript. The effect of it on me may be told in two words: I screamed. Mrs. Staveley was naturally alarmed. “Bad news?” she asked. Being quite unable to offer an opinion, I read the postscript out loud, and left her to judge for herself.
This was Helena’s news from home:
“I must prepare you for a surprise, before your return. You will find a strange lady established at home. Don’t suppose there is any prospect of her bidding us good-by, if we only wait long enough. She is already (with father’s full approval) as much a member of the family as we are. You shall form your own unbiased opinion of her, Eunice. For the present, I say no more.”
I asked Mrs. Staveley what she thought of my news from home. She said: “Your father approves of the lady, my dear. I suppose it’s good news.”
But Mrs. Staveley did not look as if she believed in the good news, for all that.