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."
CHAPTER XXIII.
EUNICE'S DIARY.
ONLY two days now, before we give our little dinner-party, and Philip finds his
opportunity of speaking to papa. Oh, how I wish that day had come and gone!
I try not to take gloomy views of things; but I am not quite so happy as I had
expected to be when my dear was in the same town with me. If papa had encouraged
him to call again, we might have had some precious time to ourselves. As it is,
we can only meet in the different show-places in the town--with Helena on one
side, and Miss Jillgall on the other, to take care of us. I do call it cruel not
to let two young people love each other, without setting third persons to watch
them. If I was Queen of England, I would have pretty private bowers made for
lovers, in the summer, and nice warm little rooms to hold two, in the winter.
Why not? What harm could come of it, I should like to know?
The cathedral is the place of meeting which we find most convenient, under the
circumstances. There are delightful nooks and corners about this celebrated
building in which lovers can lag behind. If we had been in papa's chapel I
should have hesitated to turn it to such a profane use as this; the cathedral
doesn't so much matter.
Shall I own that I felt my inferiority to Helena a little keenly? She could tell
Philip so many things that I should have liked to tell him first. My clever
sister taught him how to pronounce the name of the bishop who began building the
cathedral; she led him over the crypt, and told him how old it was. He was
interested in the crypt; he talked to Helena (not to me) of his ambition to
write a work on cathedral architecture in England; he made a rough little sketch
in his book of our famous tomb of some king. Helena knew the late royal
personage's name, and Philip showed his sketch to her before he showed it to me.
How can I blame him, when I stood there the picture of stupidity, trying to
recollect something that I might tell him, if it was only the Dean's name?
Helena might have whispered it to me, I think. She remembered it, not I--and
mentioned it to Philip, of course. I kept close by him all the time, and now and
then he gave me a look which raised my spirits. He might have given me something
better than that--I mean a kiss--when we had left the cathedral, and were by
ourselves for a moment in a corner of the Dean's garden. But he missed the
opportunity. Perhaps he was afraid of the Dean himself coming that way, and
happening to see us. However, I am far from thinking the worse of Philip. I gave
his arm a little squeeze--and that was better than nothing.
. . . . . . .
He and I took a walk along the bank of the river to-day; my sister and Miss
Jillgall looking after us as usual.
On our
way through the town, Helena stopped to give an order at a shop. She
asked us to wait for her. That best of good creatures, Miss Jillgall, whispered
in my ear: "Go on by yourselves, and leave me to wait for her." Philip
interpreted this act of kindness in a manner which would have vexed me, if I had
not understood that it was one of his jokes. He said to me: "Miss Jillgall sees
a chance of annoying your sister, and enjoys the prospect."
Well, away we went together; it was just what I wanted; it gave me an
opportunity of saying something to Philip, between ourselves.
I could now beg of him, in his interests and mine, to make the best of himself
when he came to dinner. Clever people, I told him, were people whom papa liked
and admired. I said: "Let him see, dear, how clever you are, and how many things
you know--and you can't imagine what a high place you will have in his opinion.
I hope you don't think I am taking too much on myself in telling you how to
behave."
He relieved that doubt in a manner which I despair of describing. His eyes
rested on me with such a look of exquisite sweetness and love that I was obliged
to hold by his arm, I trembled so with the pleasure of feeling it.
"I do sincerely believe," he said, "that you are the most innocent girl, the
sweetest, truest girl that ever lived. I wish I was a better man, Eunice; I wish
I was good enough to be worthy of you!"
To hear him speak of himself in that way jarred on me. If such words had fallen
from any other man's lips, I should have been afraid that he had done something,
or thought something, of which he had reason to feel ashamed. With Philip this
was impossible.
He was eager to walk on rapidly, and to turn a corner in the path, before we
could be seen. "I want to be alone with you," he said.
I looked back. We were too late; Helena and Miss Jillgall had nearly overtaken
us. My sister was on the point of speaking to Philip, when she seemed to change
her mind, and only looked at him. Instead of looking at her in return, he kept
his eyes cast down and drew figures on the pathway with his stick. I think
Helena was out of temper; she suddenly turned my way. "Why didn't you wait for
me?" she asked.
Philip took her up sharply. "If Eunice likes seeing the river better than
waiting in the street," he said, "isn't she free to do as she pleases?"
Helena said nothing more; Philip walked on slowly by himself. Not knowing what
to make of it, I turned to Miss Jillgall.
"Surely Philip can't have quarreled with Helena?" I said.
Miss Jillgall answered in an odd off-hand manner: "Not he! He is a great deal
more likely to have quarreled with himself."
"Why?"
"Suppose you ask him why?"
It was not to be thought of; it would have looked like prying into his thoughts.
"Selina!" I said, "there is something odd about you to-day. What is the matter?
I don't understand you."
"My poor dear, you will find yourself understanding me before long." I thought I
saw something like pity in her face when she said that.
"My poor dear?" I repeated. "What makes you speak to me in that way?"
"I don't know--I'm tired; I'm an old fool-- I'll go back to the house."
Without another word, she left me. I turned to look for Philip, and saw that my
sister had joined him while I had been speaking to Miss Jillgall. It pleased me
to find that they were talking in a friendly way when I joined them. A quarrel
between Helena and my husband that is to be--no, my husband that shall be--would
have been too distressing, too unnatural I might almost call it.
Philip looked along the backward path, and asked what had become of Miss
Jillgall. "Have you any objection to follow her example?" he said to me, when I
told him that Selina had returned to the town. "I don't care for the banks of
this river."
Helena, who used to like the river at other times, was as ready as Philip to
leave it now. I fancy they had both been kindly waiting to change our walk, till