private interview, Helena; stay where you are."
Philip came in--handsomer than ever, beautifully dressed--and paid his respects
to my father with his customary grace. He was too well-bred to allow any visible
signs of embarrassment to escape him. But when he shook hands with me, I felt a
little trembling in his fingers, through the delicate gloves which fitted him
like a second skin. Was it the true object of his visit to try the experiment
designed by Eunice and himself, and deferred by the postponement of our
dinner-party? Impossible surely that my sister could have practiced on his
weakness, and persuaded him to return to his first love! I waited, in breathless
interest, for his next words. They were not worth listening to. Oh, the poor
commonplace creature!
"I am glad, Mr. Gracedieu, to see that you are well enough to be in your study
again," he said. The writing materials on the table attracted his attention. "Am
I one of the idle people," he asked, with his charming smile, "who are always
interrupting useful employment?"
He spoke to my father, and he was answered by my father. Not once had he
addressed a word to me--no, not even when we shook hands. I was angry enough to
force him into taking some notice of me, and to make an attempt to confuse him
at the same time.
"Have you seen my sister?" I asked.
"No."
It was the shortest reply that he could choose. Having flung it at me, he still
persisted in looking at my father and speaking to my father: "Do you think of
trying change of air, Mr. Gracedieu, when you feel strong enough to travel?"
"My duties keep me here," father answered; "and I cannot honestly say that I
enjoy traveling. I dislike manners and customs that are strange to me; I don't
find that hotels reward me for giving up the comforts of my own house. How do
you find the hotel here?"
"I submit to the hotel, sir. They are sad savages in the kitchen; they put
mushroom ketchup into their soup, and mustard and cayenne pepper into their
salads. I am half-starved at dinner-time, but I don't complain."
Every word he said was an offense to me. With or without reason, I attacked him
again.
"I have heard you acknowledge that the landlord and landlady are very obliging
people," I said. "Why don't you ask them to let you make your own soup and mix
your own salad?"
I wondered whether I should succeed in attracting his notice, after this. Even
in these private pages, my self-esteem finds it hard to confess what happened. I
succeeded in reminding Philip that he had his reasons for requesting me to leave
the room.
"Will you excuse me, Miss Helena," he said, "if I ask leave to speak to Mr.
Gracedieu in private?"
The right thing for me to do was, let me hope, the thing that I did. I rose, and
waited to see if my father would interfere. He looked at Philip with suspicion
in his face, as well as surprise. "May I ask," he said, coldly, "what is the
object of the interview?"
"Certainly," Philip answered, "when we are alone." This cool reply placed my
father between two alternatives; he must either give way, or be guilty of an act
of rudeness to a guest in his own house. The choice reserved for me was narrower
still--I had to decide between being told to go, or going of my own accord. Of
course, I left them together.
The door which communicated with the next room was pulled to, but not closed. On
the other side of it, I found Eunice.
"Listening!" I said, in a whisper.
"Yes," she whispered back. "You listen, too!"
I was so indignant with Philip, and so seriously interested in what was going on
in the study, that I yielded to temptation. We both degraded ourselves. We both
listened.
Eunice's base lover spoke first. Judging by the change in his voice, he must
have seen something in my father's face that daunted him. Eunice heard it, too.
"He's getting nervous," she whispered; "he'll forget to say the right thing at
the right time."
"Mr. Gracedieu," Philip began, "I wish to speak to you--"
Father interrupted him: "We are alone now, Mr. Dunboyne. I want to know why you
consult me in private?"
"I am anxious to consult you, sir, on a subject--"
"On what subject? Any religious difficulty?"
"No."
"Anything I can do for you in the town?"
"Not at all. If you will only allow me--"
"I am still waiting, sir, to know what it is about."
Philip's voice suddenly became an angry voice. "Once for all, Mr. Gracedieu," he
said, "will you let me speak? It's about your daughter--"
"No more of it, Mr. Dunboyne!" (My father was now as loud as Philip.) "I don't
desire to hold a private conversation with you on the subject of my daughter."
"If you have any personal objection to me, sir, be so good as to state it
plainly."
"You have no right to ask me to do that."
"You refuse to do it?"
"Positively."
"You are not very civil, Mr. Gracedieu."
"If I speak without ceremony, Mr. Dunboyne, you have yourself to thank for it."
Philip replied to this in a tone of savage irony. "You are a minister of
religion, and you are an old man. Two privileges--and you presume on them both.
Good-morning."
I drew back into a corner, just in time to escape discovery in the character of
a listener. Eunice never moved. When Philip dashed into the room, banging the
door after him, she threw herself impulsively on his breast: "Oh, Philip!
Philip! what have you done? Why didn't you keep your temper?"
"Did you hear what your father said to me?" he asked.
"Yes, dear; but you ought to have controlled yourself--you ought, indeed, for my
sake."
Her arms were still round him. It struck me that he felt her influence. "If you
wish me to recover myself," he said, gently, "you had better let me go."
"Oh, how cruel, Philip, to leave me when I am so wretched! Why do you want to
go?"
"You told me just now what I ought to do," he answered, still restraining
himself. "If I am to get the better of my temper, I must be left alone."
"I never said anything about your temper, darling."
"Didn't you tell me to control myself?"
"Oh, yes! Go back to papa. and beg him to forgive you."
"I'll see him damned first!"
If ever a stupid girl deserved such an answer as this, the girl was my sister. I
had hitherto (with some difficulty) refrained from interfering. But when Eunice
tried to follow Philip out of the house, I could hesitate no longer; I held her
back. "You fool," I said; "haven't you made mischief enough already?"
"What am I to do?" she burst out, helplessly.
"Do what I told you to do yesterday--wait."
Before she could reply, or I could say anything more, the door that led to the
landing was opened softly and slyly, and Miss Jillgall peeped in. Eunice
instantly left me, and ran to the meddling old maid. They whispered to each
other. Miss Jillgall's skinny arm encircled my sister's waist; they disappeared
together.
/>
I was only too glad to get rid of them both, and to take the opportunity of
writing to Philip. I insisted on an explanation of his conduct while I was in
the study--to be given within an hour's time, at a place which I appointed. "You
are not to attempt to justify yourself in writing," I added in conclusion. "Let
your reply merely inform me if you can keep the appointment. The rest, when we
meet."
Maria took the letter to the hotel, with instructions to wait.
Philip's reply reached me without delay. It pledged him to justify himself as I
had desired, and to keep the appointment. My own belief is that the event of
to-day will decide his future and mine.
CHAPTER XXVII.
EUNICE'S DIARY.
INDEED, I am a most unfortunate creature; everything turns out badly with me. My
good, true friend, my dear Selina, has become the object of a hateful doubt in
my secret mind. I am afraid she is keeping something from me.
Talking with her about my troubles, I heard for the first time that she had
written again to Mrs. Tenbruggen. The object of her letter was to tell her
friend of my engagement to young Mr. Dunboyne. I asked her why she had done
this. The answer informed me that there was no knowing, in the present state of
my affairs, how soon I might not want the help of a clever woman. I ought, I
suppose, to have been satisfied with this. But there seemed to be something not
fully explained yet.
Then again, after telling Selina what I heard in the study, and how roughly
Philip had spoken to me afterward, I asked her what she thought of it. She made
an incomprehensible reply: "My sweet child, I mustn't think of it--I am too fond
of you."
It was impossible to make her explain what this meant. She began to talk of
Philip; assuring me (which was quite needless) that she had done her best to
fortify and encourage him, before he called on papa. When I asked her to help me
in another way--that is to say, when I wanted to find out where Philip was at
that moment--she had no advice to give me. I told her that I should not enjoy a
moment's ease of mind until I and my dear one were reconciled. She only shook
her head and declared that she was sorry for me. When I hit on the idea of
ringing for Maria, this little woman, so bright, and quick and eager to help me
at other times, said "I leave it to you, dear," and turned to the piano (close
to which I was sitting), and played softly and badly stupid little tunes.
"Maria, did you open the door for Mr. Dunboyne when he went away just now?"
"No, miss."
Nothing but ill-luck for me! If I had been left to my own devices, I should now
have let the housemaid go. But Selina contrived to give me a hint, on a strange
plan of her own. Still at the piano, she began to confuse talking to herself
with playing to herself. The notes went tinkle, tinkle--and the tongue mixed up
words with the notes in this way: "Perhaps they have been talking in the kitchen
about Philip?"
The suggestion was not lost on me. I said to Maria--who was standing at the
other end of the room, near the door--" Did you happen to hear which way Mr.
Dunboyne went when he left us?"
"I know where he was, miss, half an hour ago."
"Where was he?"
"At the hotel."
Selina went on with her hints in the same way as before. "How does she know--ah,
how does she know?" was the vocal part of the performance this time. My clever
inquiries followed the vocal part as before:
"How do you know that Mr. Dunboyne was at the hotel?"
"I was sent there with a letter for him, and waited for the answer."
There was no suggestion required this time. The one possible question was: "Who
sent you?"
Maria replied, after first reserving a condition: "You won't tell upon me,
miss?"
I promised not to tell. Selina suddenly left off playing.
"Well," I repeated, "who sent you?"
"Miss Helena."
Selina looked round at me. Her little eyes seemed to have suddenly become big,
they stared me so strangely in the face. I don't know whether she was in a state
of fright or of wonder. As for myself, I simply lost the use of my tongue.
Maria, having no more questions to answer, discreetly left us together.
Why should Helena write to Philip at all--and especially without mentioning it
to me? Here was a riddle which was more than I could guess. I asked Selina to
help me. She might at least have tried, I thought; but she looked uneasy, and
made excuses.
I said: "Suppose I go to Helena, and ask her why she wrote to Philip?" And
Selina said: "Suppose you do, dear."
I rang for Maria once more: "Do you know where my sister is?"
"Just gone out, miss."
There was no help for it but to wait till she came back, and to get through the
time in the interval as I best might. But for one circumstance, I might not have
known what to do. The truth is, there was a feeling of shame in me when I
remembered having listened at the study door. Curious notions come into one's
head--one doesn't know how or why. It struck me that I might make a kind of
atonement for having been mean enough to listen, if I went to papa, and offered
to keep him company in his solitude. If we fell into pleasant talk, I had a sly
idea of my own--I meant to put in a good word for poor Philip.
When I confided my design to Selina, she shut up the piano and ran across the
room to me. But somehow she was not like her old self again, yet.
"You good little soul, you are always right. Look at me again, Euneece. Are you
beginning to doubt me? Oh, my darling, don't do that! It isn't using me fairly.
I can't bear it--I can't bear it!"
I took her hand; I was on the point of speaking to her with the kindness she
deserved from me. On a sudden she snatched her hand away and ran back to the
piano. When she was seated on the music-stool, her face was hidden from me. At
that moment she broke into a strange cry--it began like a laugh, and it ended
like a sob.
"Go away to papa! Don't mind me--I'm a creature of impulse--ha! ha! ha! a little
hysterical--the state of the weather--I get rid of these weaknesses, my dear, by
singing to myself. I have a favorite song: 'My heart is light, my will is
free.'--Go away! oh, for God's sake, go away!"
I had heard of hysterics, of course; knowing nothing about them, however, by my
own experience. What could have happened to agitate her in this extraordinary
manner?
Had Helena's letter anything to do with it? Was my sister indignant with Philip
for swearing in my presence; and had she written him an angry letter, in her
zeal on my behalf? But Selina could not possibly have seen the letter-- and
Helena (who is often hard on me when I do stupid things) showed little
indulgence for me, when I was so unfortunate as to irritate Philip. I gave up
the hopeless attempt to get at the truth by guessing, and went away to forget my
troubles, if I could, in my father's society.
After knocking twice at the door of the study, and receiving no reply, I
r /> ventured to look in.
The sofa in this room stood opposite the door. Papa was resting on it, but not
in comfort. There were twitching movements in his feet, and he shifted his arms
this way and that as if no restful posture could he found for them. But what
frightened me was this. His eyes, staring straight at the door by which I had
gone in, had an inquiring expression, as if he actually did not know me! I stood
midway between the door and the sofa, doubtful about going nearer to him.
He said: "Who is it?" This to me--to his own daughter. He said: "What do you
want?"
I really could not bear it. I went up to him. I said: "Papa, have you forgotten
Eunice?"
My name seemed (if one may say such a thing) to bring him to himself again. He
sat upon the sofa--and laughed as he answered me.
"My dear child, what delusion has got into that pretty little head of yours?
Fancy her thinking that I had forgotten my own daughter! I was lost in thought,
Eunice. For the moment, I was what they call an absent man. Did I ever tell you
the story of the absent man? He went to call upon some acquaintance of his; and
when the servant said, 'What name, sir?' He couldn't answer. He was obliged to
confess that he had forgotten his own name. The servant said, 'That's very
strange.' The absent man at once recovered himself. 'That's it!' he said: 'my
name is Strange.' Droll, isn't it? If I had been calling on a friend to-day, I
daresay I might have forgotten my name, too. Much to think of, Eunice--too much
to think of."
Leaving the sofa with a sigh. as if he was tired of it, he began walking up and
down. He seemed to be still in good spirits. "Well, my dear," he said, "what can
I do for you?"
"I came here, papa to see if there was anything I could do for You."
He looked at some sheets of paper, strung together, and laid on the table. They
were covered with writing (from his dictation) in my sister's hand. "I ought to
get on with my work," he said. "Where is Helena?"
I told him that she had gone out, and begged leave to try what I could do to
supply her place.
The request seemed to please him; but he wanted time to think. I waited;
noticing that his face grew gradually worried and anxious. There came a vacant
look into his eyes which it grieved me to see; he appeared to have quite lost
himself again. "Read the last page," he said, pointing to the manuscript on the
table; "I don't remember where I left off."
I turned to the last page. As well as I could tell, it related to some
publication, which he was recommending to religious persons of our way of
thinking.
Before I had read half-way through it, he began to dictate, speaking so rapidly
that my pen was not always able to follow him. My handwriting is as bad as bad
can be when I am hurried. To make matters worse still, I was confused. What he
was now saying seemed to have nothing to do with what I had been reading.
Let me try if I can call to mind the substance of it.
He began in the most strangely sudden way by asking: "Why should there be any
fear of discovery, when every possible care had been taken to prevent it? The
danger from unexpected events was far more disquieting. A man might find himself
bound in honor to disclose what it had been the chief anxiety of his life to
conceal. For example, could he let an innocent person be the victim of
deliberate suppression of the truth--no matter how justifiable that suppression
might appear to be? On the other hand, dreadful consequences might follow an
honorable confession. There might be a cruel sacrifice of tender affection;
there might be a shocking betrayal of innocent hope and trust."
I remember those last words, just as he dictated them, because he suddenly
stopped there; looking, poor dear, distressed and confused. He put his hand to
his head, and went back to the sofa.
"I'm tired," he said. "Wait for me while I rest."
In a few minutes he fell asleep. It was a deep repose that came to him now; and,
though I don't think it lasted much longer than half an hour, it produced a
wonderful change in him for the better when he woke. He spoke quietly and
kindly; and when he returned to me at the table and looked at the page on which