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 I came to them, and they could study my wishes
too. Of course I was ready to go where they pleased. I asked Philip if
there was anything he would like to see, when we got into the streets
again.
Clever Helena suggested what seemed to be a strange amusement to offer
to Philip. “Let’s take him to the Girls’ School,” she said.
It appeared to be a matter of perfect indifference to him; he was, what
they call, ironical. “Oh, yes, of course. Deeply interesting! deeply
interesting!” He suddenly broke into the wildest good spirits, and
tucked my hand under his arm with a gayety which it was impossible
to resist. “What a boy you are!” Helena said, enjoying his delightful
hilarity as I did.