Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1364 page)

The cottage door was not closed.

I saw our amiable laundress in the passage, on her knees, trying to open an inner door which seemed to be locked. She had her eye at the keyhole; and, once again, she called out: “Please, miss, let me in.” I waited to see if the door would be opened — nothing happened. I waited again, to hear if some person inside would answer — nobody spoke. But somebody, or something, made a sound of splashing water on the other side of the door.

I showed myself, and asked what was the matter.

Mrs. Molly looked at me helplessly. She said: “Miss Eunice, it’s the baby.”

“What has the baby done?” I inquired.

Mrs. Molly got on her feet, and whispered in my ear: “You know he’s a fine child?”

“Yes.”

“Well, miss, he’s bewitched a lady.”

“What lady?”

“Miss Jillgall.”

The very person I had been trying to find! I asked where she was.

The laundress pointed dolefully to the locked door: “In there.”

“And where is your baby?”

The poor woman still pointed to the door: “I’m beginning to doubt, miss, whether it is my baby.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Molly. If it isn’t yours, whose baby can it be?”

“Miss Jillgall’s.”

Her puzzled face made this singular reply more funny still. The splashing of water on the other side of the door began again. “What is Miss Jillgall doing now?” I said.

“Washing the baby, miss. A week ago, she came in here, one morning; very pleasant and kind, I must own. She found me putting on the baby’s things. She says: ‘What a cherub!’ which I took as a compliment. She says: ‘I shall call again to-morrow.’ She called again so early that she found the baby in his crib. ‘You be a good soul,’ she says, ‘and go about your work, and leave the child to me.’ I says: ‘Yes, miss, but please to wait till I’ve made him fit to be seen.’ She says: ‘That’s just what I mean to do myself.’ I stared; and I think any other person would have done the same in my place. ‘If there’s one thing more than another I enjoy,’ she says, ‘it’s making myself useful. Mrs. Molly, I’ve taken a fancy to your boy-baby,’ she says, ‘and I mean to make myself useful to
him
.’ If you will believe me, Miss Jillgall has only let me have one opportunity of putting my own child tidy. She was late this morning, and I got my chance, and had the boy on my lap, drying him — when in she burst like a blast of wind, and snatched the baby away from me. ‘This is your nasty temper,’ she says; ‘I declare I’m ashamed of you!’ And there she is, with the door locked against me, washing the child all over again herself. Twice I’ve knocked, and asked her to let me in, and can’t even get an answer. They do say there’s luck in odd numbers; suppose I try again?” Mrs. Molly knocked, and the proverb proved to be true; she got an answer from Miss Jillgall at last: “If you don’t be quiet and go away, you shan’t have the baby back at all.” Who could help it? — I burst out laughing. Miss Jillgall (as I supposed from the tone of her voice) took severe notice of this act of impropriety. “Who’s that laughing?” she called out; “give yourself a name.” I gave my name. The door was instantly thrown open with a bang. Papa’s cousin appeared, in a disheveled state, with splashes of soap and water all over her. She held the child in one arm, and she threw the other arm round my neck. “Dearest Euneece, I have been longing to see you. How do you like Our baby?”

To the curious story of my introduction to Miss Jillgall, I ought perhaps to add that I have got to be friends with her already. I am the friend of anybody who amuses me. What will Helena say when she reads this?

CHAPTER XIX. EUNICE’S DIARY.

When people are interested in some event that is coming, do they find the dull days, passed in waiting for it, days which they are not able to remember when they look back? This is my unfortunate case. Night after night, I have gone to bed without so much as opening my Journal. There was nothing worth writing about, nothing that I could recollect, until the postman came to-day. I ran downstairs, when I heard his ring at the bell, and stopped Maria on her way to the study. There, among papa’s usual handful of letters, was a letter for me.

“DEAR MISS EUNICE:

.......

“Yours ever truly.”

I quote the passages in Philip’s letter which most deeply interested me — I am his dear miss; and he is mine ever truly. The other part of the letter told me that he had been detained in London, and he lamented it. At the end was a delightful announcement that he was coming to me by the afternoon train. I ran upstairs to see how I looked in the glass.

My first feeling was regret. For the thousandth time, I was obliged to acknowledge that I was not as pretty as Helena. But this passed off. A cheering reflection occurred to me. Philip would not have found, in my sister’s face, what seems to have interested him in my face. Besides, there is my figure.

The pity of it is that I am so ignorant about some things. If I had been allowed to read novels, I might (judging by what papa said against them in one of his sermons) have felt sure of my own attractions; I might even have understood what Philip really thought of me. However, my mind was quite unexpectedly set at ease on the subject of my figure. The manner in which it happened was so amusing — at least, so amusing to me — that I cannot resist mentioning it.

My sister and I are forbidden to read newspapers, as well as novels. But the teachers at the Girls’ Scripture Class are too old to be treated in this way. When the morning lessons were over, one of them was reading the newspaper to the other, in the empty schoolroom; I being in the passage outside, putting on my cloak.

It was a report of “an application made to the magistrates by the lady of his worship the Mayor.” Hearing this, I stopped to listen. The lady of his worship (what a funny way of describing a man’s wife!) is reported to be a little too fond of notoriety, and to like hearing the sound of her own voice on public occasions. But this is only my writing; I had better get back to the report. “In her address to the magistrates, the Mayoress stated that she had seen a disgusting photograph in the shop window of a stationer, lately established in the town. She desired to bring this person within reach of the law, and to have all his copies of the shameless photograph destroyed. The usher of the court was thereupon sent to purchase the photograph.” — On second thoughts, I prefer going back to my own writing again; it is so uninteresting to copy other people’s writing. Two of the magistrates were doing justice. They looked at the photograph — and what did it represent? The famous statue called the Venus de’ Medici! One of the magistrates took this discovery indignantly. He was shocked at the gross ignorance which could call the classic ideal of beauty and grace a disgusting work. The other one made polite allowances. He thought the lady was much to be pitied; she was evidently the innocent victim of a neglected education. Mrs. Mayor left the court in a rage, telling the justices she knew where to get law. “I shall expose Venus,” she said, “to the Lord Chancellor.”

When the Scripture Class had broken up for the day, duty ought to have taken me home. Curiosity led me astray — I mean, led me to the stationer’s window.

There I found our two teachers, absorbed in the photograph; having got to the shop first by a short cut. They seemed to think I had taken a liberty whom I joined them. “We are here,” they were careful to explain, “to get a lesson in the ideal of beauty and grace.” There was quite a little crowd of townsfolk collected before the window. Some of them giggled; and some of them wondered whether it was taken from the life. For my own part, gratitude to Venus obliges me to own that she effected a great improvement in the state of my mind. She encouraged me. If that stumpy little creature — with no waist, and oh, such uncertain legs! — represented the ideal of beauty and grace, I had reason indeed to be satisfied with my own figure, and to think it quite possible that my sweetheart’s favorable opinion of me was not ill-bestowed.

I was at the bedroom window when the time approached for Philip’s arrival. Quite at the far end of the road, I discovered him. He was on foot; he walked like a king. Not that I ever saw a king, but I have my ideal. Ah, what a smile he gave me, when I made him look up by waving my handkerchief out of the window! “Ask for papa,” I whispered as he ascended the house-steps.

The next thing to do was to wait, as patiently as I could, to be sent for downstairs. Maria came to me in a state of excitement. “Oh, miss, what a handsome young gentleman, and how beautifully dressed! Is he — ?” Instead of finishing what she had to say, she looked at me with a sly smile. I looked at her with a sly smile. We were certainly a couple of fools. But, dear me, how happy sometimes a fool can be!

My enjoyment of that delightful time was checked when I went into the drawing-room.

I had expected to see papa’s face made beautiful by his winning smile. He was not only serious; he actually seemed to be ill at ease when he looked at me. At the same time, I saw nothing to make me conclude that Philip had produced an unfavorable impression. The truth is, we were all three on our best behavior, and we showed it. Philip had brought with him a letter from Mrs. Staveley, introducing him to papa. We spoke of the Staveleys, of the weather, of the Cathedral — and then there seemed to be nothing more left to talk about.

In the silence that followed — what a dreadful thing silence is! — papa was sent for to see somebody who had called on business. He made his excuses in the sweetest manner, but still seriously. When he and Philip had shaken hands, would he leave us together? No; he waited. Poor Philip had no choice but to take leave of me. Papa then went out by the door that led into his study, and I was left alone.

Can any words say how wretched I felt?

I had hoped so much from that first meeting — and where were my hopes now? A profane wish that I had never been born was finding its way into my mind, when the door of the room was opened softly, from the side of the passage. Maria, dear Maria, the best friend I have, peeped in. She whispered: “Go into the garden, miss, and you will find somebody there who is dying to see you. Mind you let him out by the shrubbery gate.” I squeezed her hand; I asked if she had tried the shrubbery gate with a sweetheart of her own. “Hundreds of times, miss.”

Was it wrong for me to go to Philip, in the garden? Oh, there is no end to objections! Perhaps I did it
because
it was wrong. Perhaps I had been kept on my best behavior too long for human endurance.

How sadly disappointed he looked! And how rashly he had placed himself just where he could be seen from the back windows! I took his arm and led him to the end of the garden. There we were out of the reach of inquisitive eyes; and there we sat down together, under the big mulberry tree.

“Oh, Eunice, your father doesn’t like me!”

Those were his first words. In justice to papa (and a little for my own sake too) I told him he was quite wrong. I said: “Trust my father’s goodness, trust his kindness, as I do.”

He made no reply. His silence was sufficiently expressive; he looked at me fondly.

I may be wrong, but fond looks surely require an acknowledgment of some kind? Is a young woman guilty of boldness who only follows her impulses? I slipped my hand into his hand. Philip seemed to like it. We returned to our conversation.

He began: “Tell me, dear, is Mr. Gracedieu always as serious as he is to-day?”

“Oh no!”

“When he takes exercise, does he ride? or does he walk?”

“Papa always walks.”

“By himself?”

“Sometimes by himself. Sometimes with me. Do you want to meet him when he goes out?”

“Yes.”

“When he is out with me?”

“No. When he is out by himself.”

Was it possible to tell me more plainly that I was not wanted? I did my best to express indignation by snatching my hand away from him. He was completely taken by surprise.

“Eunice! don’t you understand me?”

I was as stupid and as disagreeable as I could possibly be: “No; I don’t!”