Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1365 page)

“Then let me help you,” he said, with a patience which I had not deserved.

Up to that moment I had been leaning against the back of a garden chair. Something else now got between me and my chair. It stole round my waist — it held me gently — it strengthened its hold — it improved my temper — it made me fit to understand him. All done by what? Only an arm!

Philip went on:

“I want to ask your father to do me the greatest of all favors — and there is no time to lose. Every day, I expect to get a letter which may recall me to Ireland.”

My heart sank at this horrid prospect; and in some mysterious way my head must have felt it too. I mean that I found my head resting on his shoulder. He went on:

“How am I to get my opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gracedieu? I mustn’t call on him again as soon as to-morrow or next day. But I might meet him, out walking alone, if you will tell me how to do it. A note to my hotel is all I want. Don’t tremble, my sweet. If you are not present at the time, do you see any objection to my owning to your father that I love you?”

I felt his delicate consideration for me — I did indeed feel it gratefully. If he only spoke first, how well I should get on with papa afterward! The prospect before me was exquisitely encouraging. I agreed with Philip in everything; and I waited (how eagerly was only known to myself) to hear what he would say to me next. He prophesied next:

“When I have told your father that I love you, he will expect me to tell him something else. Can you guess what it is?”

If I had not been confused, perhaps I might have found the answer to this. As it was, I left him to reply to himself. He did it, in words which I shall remember as long as I live.

“Dearest Eunice, when your father has heard my confession, he will suspect that there is another confession to follow it — he will want to know if you love me. My angel, will my hopes be your hopes too, when I answer him?”

What there was in this to make my heart beat so violently that I felt as if I was being stifled, is more than I can tell. He leaned so close to me, so tenderly, so delightfully close, that our faces nearly touched. He whispered: “Say you love me, in a kiss!”

His lips touched my lips, pressed them, dwelt on them — oh, how can I tell of it! Some new enchantment of feeling ran deliciously through and through me. I forgot my own self; I only knew of one person in the world. He was master of my lips; he was master of my heart. When he whispered, “kiss me,” I kissed. What a moment it was! A faintness stole over me; I felt as if I was going to die some exquisite death; I laid myself back away from him — I was not able to speak. There was no need for it; my thoughts and his thoughts were one — he knew that I was quite overcome; he saw that he must leave me to recover myself alone. I pointed to the shrubbery gate. We took one long last look at each other for that day; the trees hid him; I was left by myself.

CHAPTER XX. EUNICE’S DIARY.

How long a time passed before my composure came back to me, I cannot remember now. It seemed as if I was waiting through some interval of my life that was a mystery to myself. I was content to wait, and feel the light evening air in the garden wafting happiness over me. And all this had come from a kiss! I can call the time to mind when I used to wonder why people made such a fuss about kissing.

I had been indebted to Maria for my first taste of Paradise. I was recalled by Maria to the world that I had been accustomed to live in; the world that was beginning to fade away in my memory already. She had been sent to the garden in search of me; and she had a word of advice to offer, after noticing my face when I stepped out of the shadow of the tree: “Try to look more like yourself, miss, before you let them see you at the tea-table.”

Papa and Miss Jillgall were sitting together talking, when I opened the door. They left off when they saw me; and I supposed, quite correctly as it turned out, that I had been one of the subjects in their course of conversation. My poor father seemed to be sadly anxious and out of sorts. Miss Jillgall, if I had been in the humour to enjoy it, would have been more amusing than ever. One of her funny little eyes persisted in winking at me; and her heavy foot had something to say to my foot, under the table, which meant a great deal perhaps, but which only succeeded in hurting me.

My father left us; and Miss Jillgall explained herself.

“I know, dearest Euneece, that we have only been acquainted for a day or two and that I ought not perhaps to have expected you to confide in me so soon. Can I trust you not to betray me if I set an example of confidence? Ah, I see I can trust you! And, my dear, I do so enjoy telling secrets to a friend. Hush! Your father, your excellent father, has been talking to me about young Mr. Dunboyne.”

She provokingly stopped there. I entreated her to go on. She invited me to sit on her knee. “I want to whisper,” she said. It was too ridiculous — but I did it. Miss Jillgall’s whisper told me serious news.

“The minister has some reason, Euneece, for disapproving of Mr. Dunboyne; but, mind this, I don’t think he has a bad opinion of the young man himself. He is going to return Mr. Dunboyne’s call. Oh, I do so hate formality; I really can’t go on talking of
Mr.
Dunboyne. Tell me his Christian name. Ah, what a noble name! How I long to be useful to him! Tomorrow, my dear, after the one o’clock dinner, your papa will call on Philip, at his hotel. I hope he won’t be out, just at the wrong time.”

I resolved to prevent that unlucky accident by writing to Philip. If Miss Jillgall would have allowed it, I should have begun my letter at once. But she had more to say; and she was stronger than I was, and still kept me on her knee.

“It all looks bright enough so far, doesn’t it, dear sister? Will you let me be your second sister? I do so love you, Euneece. Thank you! thank you! But the gloomy side of the picture is to come next! The minister — no! now I am your sister I must call him papa; it makes me feel so young again! Well, then, papa has asked me to be your companion whenever you go out. ‘Euneece is too young and too attractive to be walking about this great town (in Helena’s absence) by herself.’ That was how he put it. Slyly enough, if one may say so of so good a man. And he used your sister (didn’t he?) as a kind of excuse. I wish your sister was as nice as you are. However, the point is, why am I to be your companion? Because, dear child, you and your young gentleman are not to make appointments and to meet each other alone. Oh, yes — that’s it! Your father is quite willing to return Philip’s call; he proposes (as a matter of civility to Mrs. Staveley) to ask Philip to dinner; but, mark my words, he doesn’t mean to let Philip have you for his wife.”

I jumped off her lap; it was horrible to hear her. “Oh,” I said, “
can
you be right about it?” Miss Jillgall jumped up too. She has foreign ways of shrugging her shoulders and making signs with her hands. On this occasion she laid both hands on the upper part of her dress, just below her throat, and mysteriously shook her head.

“When my views are directed by my affections,” she assured me, “I never see wrong. My bosom is my strong point.”

She has no bosom, poor soul — but I understood what she meant. It failed to have any soothing effect on my feelings. I felt grieved and angry and puzzled, all in one. Miss Jillgall stood looking at me, with her hands still on the place where her bosom was supposed to be. She made my temper hotter than ever.

“I mean to marry Philip,” I said.

“Certainly, my dear Euneece. But please don’t be so fierce about it.”

“If my father does really object to my marriage,” I went on, “it must be because he dislikes Philip. There can be no other reason.”

“Oh, yes, dear — there can.”

“What is the reason, then?”

“That, my sweet girl, is one of the things that we have got to find out.”

.......

The post of this morning brought a letter from my sister. We were to expect her return by the next day’s train. This was good news. Philip and I might stand in need of clever Helena’s help, and we might be sure of getting it now.

In writing to Philip, I had asked him to let me hear how papa and he had got on at the hotel. I won’t say how often I consulted my watch, or how often I looked out of the window for a man with a letter in his hand. It will be better to get on at once to the discouraging end of it, when the report of the interview reached me at last. Twice Philip had attempted to ask for my hand in marriage — and twice my father had “deliberately, obstinately” (Philip’s own words) changed the subject. Even this was not all. As if he was determined to show that Miss Jillgall was perfectly right, and I perfectly wrong, papa (civil to Philip as long as he did not talk of Me) had asked him to dine with us, and Philip had accepted the invitation!

What were we to think of it? What were we to do?

I wrote back to my dear love (so cruelly used) to tell him that Helena was expected to return on the next day, and that her opinion would be of the greatest value to both of us. In a postscript I mentioned the hour at which we were going to the station to meet my sister. When I say “we,” I mean Miss Jillgall as well as myself.

.......

We found him waiting for us at the railway. I am afraid he resented papa’s incomprehensible resolution not to give him a hearing. He was silent and sullen. I could not conceal that to see this state of feeling distressed me. He showed how truly he deserved to be loved — he begged my pardon, and he became his own sweet self again directly. I am more determined to marry him than ever.

When the train entered the station, all the carriages were full. I went one way, thinking I had seen Helena. Miss Jillgall went the other way, under the same impression. Philip was a little way behind me.

Not seeing my sister, I had just turned back, when a young man jumped out of a carriage, opposite Philip, and recognised and shook hands with him. I was just near enough to hear the stranger say, “Look at the girl in our carriage.” Philip looked. “What a charming creature!” he said, and then checked himself for fear the young lady should hear him. She had just handed her traveling bag and wraps to a porter, and was getting out. Philip politely offered his hand to help her. She looked my way. The charming creature of my sweetheart’s admiration was, to my infinite amusement, Helena herself.

CHAPTER XXI. HELENA’S DIARY.

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.