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 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.