Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1367 page)

No: I was not wondering about anything. It hurt me to hear of a strange woman exercising her ingenuity in guessing at mysteries in papa’s life.

But Miss Jillgall was too eagerly bent on setting forth the merits of her friend to notice this. I now heard that Mrs. T.’s marriage had turned out badly, and that she had been reduced to earn her own bread. Her manner of doing this was something quite new to me. She went about, from one place to another, curing people of all sorts of painful maladies, by a way she had of rubbing them with her hands. In Belgium she was called a “Masseuse.” When I asked what this meant in English, I was told, “Medical Rubber,” and that the fame of Mrs. T.’s wonderful cures had reached some of the medical newspapers published in London.

After listening (I must say for myself) very patiently, I was bold enough to own that my interest in what I had just heard was not quite so plain to me as I could have wished it to be.

Miss Jillgall looked shocked at my stupidity. She reminded me that there was a mystery in Mrs. Tenbruggen’s letter and a mystery in papa’s strange conduct toward Philip. “Put two and two together, darling,” she said; “and, one of these days, they may make four.”

If this meant anything, it meant that the reason which made papa keep Helena’s age and my age unknown to everybody but himself, was also the reason why he seemed to be so strangely unwilling to let me be Philip’s wife. I really could not endure to take such a view of it as that, and begged Miss Jillgall to drop the subject. She was as kind as ever.

“With all my heart, dear. But don’t deceive yourself — the subject will turn up again when we least expect it.”

CHAPTER XXIII. EUNICE’S DIARY.

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.

CHAPTER XXIV. EUNICE’S DIARY.

On entering the schoolroom we lost our gayety, all in a moment. Something unpleasant had evidently happened.

Two of the eldest girls were sitting together in a corner, separated from the rest, and looking most wickedly sulky. The teachers were at the other end of the room, appearing to be ill at ease. And there, standing in the midst of them, with his face flushed and his eyes angry — there was papa, sadly unlike his gentle self in the days of his health and happiness. On former occasions, when the exercise of his authority was required in the school, his forbearing temper always set things right. When I saw him now, I thought of what the doctor had said of his health, on my way home from the station.

Papa advanced to us the moment we showed ourselves at the door.

He shook hands — cordially shook hands — with Philip. It was delightful to see him, delightful to hear him say: “Pray don’t suppose, Mr. Dunboyne, that you are intruding; remain with us by all means if you like.” Then he spoke to Helena and to me, still excited, still not like himself: “You couldn’t have come here, my dears, at a time when your presence was more urgently needed.” He turned to the teachers. “Tell my daughters what has happened; tell them why they see me here — shocked and distressed, I don’t deny it.”

We now heard that the two girls in disgrace had broken the rules, and in such a manner as to deserve severe punishment.

One of them had been discovered hiding a novel in her desk. The other had misbehaved herself more seriously still — she had gone to the theater. Instead of expressing any regret, they had actually dared to complain of having to learn papa’s improved catechism. They had even accused him of treating them with severity, because they were poor girls brought up on charity. “If we had been young ladies,” they were audacious enough to say, “more indulgence would have been shown to us; we should have been allowed to read stories and to see plays.”

All this time I had been asking myself what papa meant, when he told us we could not have come to the schoolroom at a better time. His meaning now appeared. When he spoke to the offending girls, he pointed to Helena and to me.

“Here are my daughters,” he said. “You will not deny that they are young ladies. Now listen. They shall tell you themselves whether my rules make any difference between them and you. Helena! Eunice! do I allow you to read novels? do I allow you to go to the play?”

We said, “No” — and hoped it was over. But he had not done yet. He turned to Helena.

“Answer some of the questions,” he went on, “from my Manual of Christian Obligation, which the girls call my catechism.” He asked one of the questions: “If you are told to do unto others as you would they should do unto you, and if you find a difficulty in obeying that Divine Precept, what does your duty require?”

It is my belief that Helena has the materials in her for making another Joan of Arc. She rose, and answered without the slightest sign of timidity: “My duty requires me to go to the minister, and to seek for advice and encouragement.”

“And if these fail?”

“Then I am to remember that my pastor is my friend. He claims no priestly authority or priestly infallibility. He is my fellow-Christian who loves me. He will tell me how he has himself failed; how he has struggled against himself; and what a blessed reward has followed his victory — a purified heart, a peaceful mind.”