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 t
alking 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
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