After the heat of my anger had cooled, I made two discoveries. One cost
me a fee to a messenger, and the other exposed me to the insolence of
a servant. I pay willingly in my purse and my pride, when the gain is
peace of mind. Through my messenger I ascertained that Eunice had never
left the farm. Through my own inquiries, answered by the waiter with an
impudent grin, I heard that Philip had left orders to have his room kept
for him. What misery our stupid housemaid might have spared me, if she
had thought of putting that question when I sent her to the hotel!
The rest of the day passed in vain speculations on Philip’s motive for
this sudden departure. What poor weak creatures we are! I persuaded
myself to hope that anxiety for our marriage had urged him to make an
effort to touch the heart of his mean father. Shall I see him to-morrow?
And shall I have reason to be fonder of him than ever?
We met again to-day as usual. He has behaved infamously.
When I asked what had been his object in going to London, I was told
that it was “a matter of business.” He made that idiotic excuse as
coolly as if he really thought I should believe it. I submitted in
silence, rather than mar his return to me by the disaster of a quarrel.
But this was an unlucky day. A harder trial of my self-control was still
to come. Without the slightest appearance of shame, Philip informed me
that he was charged with a message from Mrs. Tenbruggen! She wanted some
Irish lace, and would I be so good as to tell her which was the best
shop at which she could buy it?
Was he really in earnest? “You,” I said, “who distrusted and detested
her--you are on friendly terms with that woman?”
He remonstrated with me. “My dear Helena, don’t speak in that way
of Mrs. Tenbruggen. We have both been mistaken about her. That good
creature has forgiven the brutal manner in which I spoke to her, when
she was in attendance on my father. She was the first to propose that
we should shake hands and forget it. My darling, don’t let all the good
feeling be on one side. You have no idea how kindly she speaks of you,
and how anxious she is to help us to be married. Come! come! meet her
half-way. Write down the name of the shop on my card, and I will take it
back to her.”
Sheer amazement kept me silent: I let him go on. He was a mere child in
the hands of Mrs. Tenbruggen: she had only to determine to make a fool
of him, and she could do it.
But why did she do it? What advantage had she to gain by insinuating
herself in this way into his good opinion, evidently with the intention
of urging him to reconcile us to each other? How could we two poor young
people be of the smallest use to the fashionable Masseuse?
My silence began to irritate Philip. “I never knew before how obstinate
you could be,” he said; “you seem to be doing your best--I can’t imagine
why--to lower yourself in my estimation.”
I held my tongue; I assumed my smile. It is all very well for men to
talk about the deceitfulness of women. What chance (I should like to ask
somebody who knows about it) do the men give us of making our lives with
them endurable, except by deceit! I gave way, of course, and wrote down
the address of the shop.
He was so pleased that he kissed me. Yes! the most fondly affectionate
kiss that he had given me, for weeks past, was my reward for submitting
to Mrs. Tenbruggen. She is old enough to be his mother, and almost as
ugly as Miss Jillgall--and she has made her interests his interests
already!
On the next day, I fully expected to receive a visit from Mrs.
Tenbruggen. She knew better than that. I only got a polite little note,
thanking me for the address, and adding an artless concession: “I earn
more money than I know what to do with; and I adore Irish lace.”
The next day came, and still she was careful not to show herself too
eager for a personal reconciliation. A splendid nosegay was sent to me,
with another little note: “A tribute, dear Helena, offered by one of my
grateful patients. Too beautiful a present for an old woman like me.
I agree with the poet: ‘Sweets to the sweet.’ A charming thought of
Shakespeare’s, is it not? I should like to verify the quotation. Would
you mind leaving the volume for me in the hall, if I call to-morrow?”
Well done, Mrs. Tenbruggen! She doesn’t venture to intrude on Miss
Gracedieu in the drawing-room; she only wants to verify a quotation
in the hall. Oh, goddess of Humility (if there is such a person), how
becomingly you are dressed when your milliner is an artful old woman!
While this reflection was passing through my mind, Miss Jillgall came
in--saw the nosegay on the table--and instantly pounced on it. “Oh, for
me! for me!” she cried. “I noticed it this morning on Elizabeth’s table.
How very kind of her!” She plunged her inquisitive nose into the poor
flowers, and looked up sentimentally at the ceiling. “The perfume of
goodness,” she remarked, “mingled with the perfume of flowers!” “When
you have quite done with it,” I said, “perhaps you will be so good as
to return my nosegay?” “_Your_ nosegay!” she exclaimed. “There is Mrs.
Tenbruggen’s letter,” I replied, “if you would like to look at it.”
She did look at it. All the bile in her body flew up into her eyes, and
turned them green; she looked as if she longed to scratch my face. I
gave the flowers afterward to Maria; Miss Jillgall’s nose had completely
spoiled them.
It would have been too ridiculous to have allowed Mrs. Tenbruggen to
consult Shakespeare in the hall. I had the honor of receiving her in my
own room. We accomplished a touching reconciliation, and we quite forgot
Shakespeare.
She troubles me; she does indeed trouble me.
Having set herself entirely right with Philip, she is determined on
performing the same miracle with me. Her reform of herself is already
complete. Her vulgar humor was kept under strict restraint; she was
quiet and well-bred, and readier to listen than to talk. This change was
not presented abruptly. She contrived to express her friendly interests
in Philip and in me by hints dropped here and there, assisted in their
effort by answers on my part, into which I was tempted so skillfully
that I only discovered the snare set for me, on reflection. What is it,
I ask again, that she has in view in taking all this trouble? Where is
her motive for encouraging a love-affair, which Miss Jillgall must have
denounced to her as an abominable wrong inflicted on Eunice? Money (even
if there was a prospect of such a thing, in our case) cannot be her
object; it is quite true that her success sets her above pecuniary
anxiety. Spiteful feeling against Eunice is out of the question. They
have only met once; and her opinion was expressed to me with evident
sincerity: “Your sister is a nice girl, but she is like other nice
girls--she doesn’t interest me.” There is Eunice’s character, drawn from
the life in few words. In what an irritating position do I find myself
placed! Never before have I felt so interested in trying to look into
a person’s secret mind; and never before have I been so completely
baffled.
I had written as far as this, and was on the point of closing my
Journal, when a third note arrived from Mrs. Tenbruggen.
She had been thinking about me at intervals (she wrote) all through the
rest of the day; and, kindly as I had received her, she was conscious
of being the object of doubts on my part which her visit had failed to
remove. Might she ask leave to call on me, in the hope of improving her
position in my estimation? An appointment followed for the next day.
What can she have to say to me which she has not already said? Is it
anything about Philip, I wonder?