"Yes--but then I have not many letters to write."
"Only a few friends, Helena, but those few worthy to be loved? My own case
exactly. Has your father told you of my troubles? Ah, I am glad of that. It
spares me the sad necessity of confessing what I have suffered. Oh, how good my
friends, my new friends, were to me in that dull little Belgian town! One of
them was generosity personified--ah, she had suffered, too! A vile husband who
had deceived and deserted her. Oh, the men! When she heard of the loss of my
little fortune, that noble creature got up a subscription for me, and went round
herself to collect. Think of what I owe to her! Ought I to let another day pass
without writing to my benefactress? Am I not bound in gratitude to make her
happy in the knowledge of my happiness--I mean the refuge opened to me in this
hospitable house?"
She twisted herself back again to the writing-table, and went on with her
letter.
I have not attempted to conceal my stupidity. Let me now record a partial
recovery of my intelligence.
It was not to be denied that Miss Jillgall had discovered a good reason for
writing to her friend; but I was at a loss to understand why she should have
been so anxious to mention the reason. Was it possible--after the talk which had
passed between us--that she had something mischievous to say in her letter,
relating to my father or to me? Was she afraid I might suspect this? And had she
been so communicative for the purpose of leading my suspicions astray? These
were vague guesses; but, try as I might, I could arrive at no clearer view of
what was passing in Miss Jillgall's mind. What would I not have given to be able
to look over her shoulder, without discovery!
She finished her letter, and put the address, and closed the envelope. Then she
turned round toward me again.
"Have you got a foreign postage stamp, dear?"
If I could look at nothing else, I was resolved to look at her envelope. It was
only necessary to go to the study, and to apply to my father. I returned with
the foreign stamp, and I stuck it on the envelope with my own hand.
There was nothing to interest me in the address, as I ought to have foreseen, if
I had not been too much excited for the exercise of a little common sense. Miss
Jillgall's wonderful friend was only remarkable by her ugly foreign name--MRS.
TENBRUGGEN.
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
disgustin
g 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