The Legacy of Cain Page 6

a charming girl, in spite of her mind!

  THIRD DAY.

  The morning post has brought with it a promise of some little variety in our

  lives--or, to speak more correctly, in the life of my sister.

  Our new and nice friends, the Staveleys, have written to invite Eunice to pay

  them a visit at their house in London. I don't complain at being left at home.

  It would be unfilial, indeed, if we both of us forsook our father; and last year

  it was my turn to receive the first invitation, and to enjoy the change of

  scene. The Staveleys are excellent people--strictly pious members of the

  Methodist Connection--and exceedingly kind to my sister and me. But it was just

  as well for my moral welfare that I ended my visit to our friends when I did.

  With my fondness for music, I felt the temptation of the Evil One trying me,

  when I saw placards in the street announcing that the Italian Opera was open. I

  had no wish to be a witness of the shameful and sinful dancing which goes on (I

  am told) at the opera; but I did feel my principles shaken when I thought of the

  wonderful singers and the entrancing music. And this, when I knew what an

  atmosphere of wickedness people breathe who enter a theater! I reflect with

  horror on what might have happened if I had remained a little longer in London.

  Helping Eunice to pack up, I put her journal into the box.

  "You will find something to write about now," I told her. "While I record

  everything that happens at home, you will keep your diary of all that you do in

  London, and when you come back we will show each other what we have written." My

  sister is a dear creature. "I don't feel sure of being able to do it," she

  answered; "but I promise to try." Good Eunice!

  CHAPTER XII.

  EUNICE'S DIARY.

  THE air of London feels very heavy. There is a nasty smell of smoke in London.

  There are too many people in London. They seem to be mostly people in a hurry.

  The head of a country girl, when she goes into the streets, turns giddy--I

  suppose through not being used to the noise.

  I do hope that it is London that has put me out of temper. Otherwise, it must be

  I myself who am ill-tempered. I have not yet been one whole day in the

  Staveleys' house, and they have offended me already. I don't want Helena to hear

  of this from other people, and then to ask me why I concealed it from her. We

  are to read each other's journals when we are both at home again. Let her see

  what I have to say for myself here.

  There are seven Staveleys in all: Mr. and Mrs. (two); three young Masters

  (five); two young Misses (seven). An eldest miss and the second young Master are

  the only ones at home at the present time.

  Mr., Mrs., and Miss kissed me when I arrived. Young Master only shook hands. He

  looked as if he would have liked to kiss me too. Why shouldn't he? It wouldn't

  have mattered. I don't myself like kissing. What is the use of it? Where is the

  pleasure of it?

  Mrs. was so glad to see me; she took hold of me by both hands. She said: "My

  dear child, you are improving. You were wretchedly thin when I saw you last. Now

  you are almost as well-developed as your sister. I think you are prettier than

  your sister." Mr. didn't agree to that. He and his wife began to dispute about

  me before my face. I do call that an aggravating thing to endure.

  Mr. said: "She hasn't got her sister's pretty gray eyes."

  Mrs. said; "She has got pretty brown eyes, which are just as good."

  Mr. said: "You can't compare her complexion with Helena's."

  Mrs. said: "I like Eunice's pale complexion. So delicate."

  Young Miss struck in: "I admire Helena's hair--light brown."

  Young Master took his turn: "I prefer Eunice's hair--dark brown."

  Mr. opened his great big mouth, and asked a question: "Which of you two sisters

  is the oldest? I forget."

  Mrs. answered for me: "Helena is the oldest; she told us so when she was here

  last."

  I really could not stand that. "You must be mistaken," I burst out.

  "Certainly not, my dear."

  "Then Helena was mistaken." I was unwilling to say of my sister that she had

  been deceiving them, though it did seem only too likely.

  Mr. and Mrs. looked at each other. Mrs. said: "You seem to be very positive,

  Eunice. Surely, Helena ought to know."

  I said: "Helena knows a good deal; but she doesn't know which of us is the

  oldest of the two."

  Mr. put in another question: "Do you know?"

  "No more than Helena does."

  Mrs. said: "Don't you keep birthdays?"

  I said: "Yes; we keep both our birthdays on the same day."

  "On what day?"

  "The first day of the New Year."

  Mr. tried again: "You can't possibly be twins?"

  "I don't know."

  "Perhaps Helena knows?"

  "Not she!"

  Mrs. took the next question out of her husband's mouth: "Come, come, my dear!

  you must know how old you are."

  "Yes; I do know that. I'm eighteen."

  "And how old is Helena?"

  "Helena's eighteen."

  Mrs. turned round to Mr.: "Do you hear that?"

  Mr. said: "I shall write to her father, and ask what it means."

  I said: "Papa will only tell you what he told us--years ago."

  "What did your father say?"

  "He said he had added our two ages together, and he meant to divide the product

  between us. It's so long since, I don't remember what the product was then. But

  I'll tell you what the product is now. Our two ages come to thirty-six. Half

  thirty-six is eighteen. I get one half, and Helena gets the other. When we ask

  what it means, and when friends ask what it means, papa has got the same answer

  for everybody, 'I have my reasons.' That's all he says--and that's all I say."

  I had no intention of making Mr. angry, but he did get angry. He left off

  speaking to me by my Christian name; he called me by my surname. He said: "Let

  me tell you, Miss Gracedieu, it is not becoming in a young lady to mystify her

  elders."

  I had heard that it was respectful in a young lady to call an old gentleman,

  Sir, and to say, If you please. I took care to be respectful now. "If you

  please, sir, write to papa. You will find that I have spoken the truth."

  A woman opened the door, and said to Mrs. Staveley: "Dinner, ma'am." That

  stopped this nasty exhibition of our tempers. We had a very good dinner.

  . . . . . . .

  The next day I wrote to Helena, asking her what she had really said to the

  Staveleys about her age and mine, and telling her what I had said. I found it

  too great a trial of my patience to wait till she could see what I had written

  about the dispute in my journal. The days, since then, have passed, and I have

  been too lazy and stupid to keep my diary.

  To-day it is different. My head is like a dark room with the light let into it.

  I remember things; I think I can go on again.

  We have religious exercises in this house, morning and evening, just as we do at

  home. (Not to be compared with papa's religious exercises.) Two days ago his

  answer came to Mr. Staveley's letter. He did just what I had expected--said I

/>   had spoken truly, and disappointed the family by asking to be excused if he

  refrained from entering into explanations. Mr. said: "Very odd;" and Mrs. agreed

  with him. Young Miss is not quite as friendly now as she was at first. And young

  Master was impudent enough to ask me if "I had got religion." To conclude the

  list of my worries, I received an angry answer from Helena. "Nobody but a

  simpleton," she wrote, "would have contradicted me as you did. Who but you could

  have failed to see that papa's strange objection to let it be known which of us

  is the elder makes us ridiculous before other people? My presence of mind

  prevented that. You ought to have been grateful, and held your tongue." Perhaps

  Helena is right--but I don't feel it so.

  On Sunday we went to chapel twice. We also had a sermon read at home, and a cold

  dinner. In the evening, a hot dispute on religion between Mr. Staveley and his

  son. I don't blame them. After being pious all day long on Sunday, I have myself

  felt my piety give way toward evening.

  There is something pleasant in prospect for to-morrow. All London is going just

  now to the exhibition of pictures. We are going with all London.

  . . . . . . .

  I don't know what is the matter with me tonight. I have positively been to bed,

  without going to sleep! After tossing and twisting and trying all sorts of

  positions, I am so angry with myself that I have got up again. Rather than do

  nothing, I have opened my ink-bottle, and I mean to go on with my journal.

  Now I think of it, it seems likely that the exhibition of works of art may have

  upset me.

  I found a dreadfully large number of pictures, matched by a dreadfully large

  number of people to look at them. It is not possible for me to write about what

  I saw: there was too much of it. Besides, the show disappointed me. I would

  rather write about a disagreement (oh, dear, another dispute!) I had with Mrs.

  Staveley. The cause of it was a famous artist; not himself, but his works. He

  exhibited four pictures--what they call figure subjects. Mrs. Staveley had a

  pencil. At every one of the great man's four pictures, she made a big mark of

  admiration on her catalogue. At the fourth one, she spoke to me: "Perfectly

  beautiful, Eunice, isn't it?"

  I said I didn't know. She said: "You strange girl, what do you mean by that?"

  It would have been rude not to have given the best answer I could find. I said:

  "I never saw the flesh of any person's face like the flesh in the faces which

  that man paints. He reminds me of wax-work. Why does he paint the same waxy

  flesh in all four of his pictures? I don't see the same colored flesh in all the

  faces about us." Mrs. Staveley held up her hand, by way of stopping me. She

  said: "Don't speak so loud, Eunice; you are only exposing your own ignorance."

  A voice behind us joined in. The voice said: "Excuse me, Mrs. Staveley, if I

  expose my ignorance. I entirely agree with the young lady."

  I felt grateful to the person who took my part, just when I was at a loss what

  to say for myself, and I looked round. The person was a young gentleman.

  He wore a beautiful blue frock-coat, buttoned up. I like a frock-coat to be

  buttoned up. He had light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a pretty cane. I

  like light-colored trousers and gray gloves and a pretty cane. What color his

  eyes were is more than I can say; I only know they made me hot when they looked

  at me. Not that I mind being made hot; it is surely better than being made cold.

  He and Mrs. Staveley shook hands.

  They seemed to be old friends. I wished I had been an old friend--not for any

  bad reason, I hope. I only wanted to shake hands, too. What Mrs. Staveley said

  to him escaped me, somehow. I think the picture escaped me also; I don't

  remember noticing anything except the young gentleman, especially when he took

  off his hat to me. He looked at me twice before he went away. I got hot again. I

  said to Mrs. Staveley: "Who is he?"

  She laughed at me. I said again: "Who is he?" She said: "He is young Mr.

  Dunboyne." I said: "Does he live in London?" She laughed again. I said again:

  "Does he live in London?" She said: "He is here for a holiday; he lives with his

  father at Fairmount, in Ireland."

  Young Mr. Dunboyne--here for a holiday--lives with his father at Fairmount, in

  Ireland. I have said that to myself fifty times over. And here it is, saying

  itself for the fifty-first time in my Journal. I must indeed be a simpleton, as

  Helena says. I had better go to bed again.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  EUNICE'S DIARY.

  NOT long before I left home, I heard one of our two servants telling the other

  about a person who had been "bewitched." Are you bewitched when you don't

  understand your own self? That has been my curious case, since I returned from

  the picture show. This morning I took my drawing materials out of my box, and

  tried to make a portrait of young Mr. Dunboyne from recollection. I succeeded

  pretty well with his frock-coat and cane; but, try as I might, his face was

  beyond me. I have never drawn anything so badly since I was a little girl; I

  almost felt ready to cry. What a fool I am!

  This morning I received a letter from papa--it was in reply to a letter that I

  had written to him--so kind, so beautifully expressed, so like himself, that I

  felt inclined to send him a confession of the strange state of feeling that has

  come over me, and to ask him to comfort and advise me. On second thoughts, I was

  afraid to do it. Afraid of papa! I am further away from understanding myself

  than ever.

  Mr. Dunboyne paid us a visit in the afternoon. Fortunately, before we went out.

  I thought I would have a good look at him; so as to know his face better than I

  had known it yet. Another disappointment was in store for me. Without intending

  it, I am sure, he did what no other young man has ever done--he made me feel

  confused. Instead of looking at him, I sat with my head down, and listened to

  his talk. His voice--this is high praise--reminded me of papa's voice. It seemed

  to persuade me as papa persuades his congregation. I felt quite at ease again.

  When he went away, we shook hands. He gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave him

  back the squeeze--without knowing why. When he was gone, I wished I had not done

  it--without knowing why, either.

  I heard his Christian name for the first time to-day. Mrs. Staveley said to me:

  "We are going to have a dinner-party. Shall I ask Philip Dunboyne?" I said to

  Mrs. Staveley: "Oh, do!"

  She is an old woman; her eyes are dim. At times, she can look mischievous. She

  looked at me mischievously now. I wished I had not been so eager to have Mr.

  Dunboyne asked to dinner.

  A fear has come to me that I may have degraded myself. My spirits are depressed.

  This, as papa tells us in his sermons, is a miserable world. I am sorry I

  accepted the Staveleys' invitation. I am sorry I went to see the pictures. When

  that young man comes to dinner, I shall say I have got a headache, and shall

  stop upstairs by myself. I don't think I like his Christian name. I hate London.


  I hate everybody.

  What I wrote up above, yesterday, is nonsense. I think his Christian name is

  perfect. I like London. I love everybody.

  He came to dinner to-day. I sat next to him. How beautiful a dress-coat is, and

  a white cravat! We talked. He wanted to know what my Christian name was. I was

  so pleased when I found he was one of the few people who like it. His hair curls

  naturally. In color, it is something between my hair and Helena's. He wears his

  beard. How manly! It curls naturally, like his hair; it smells deliciously of

  some perfume which is new to me. He has white hands; his nails look as if he

  polished them; I should like to polish my nails if I knew how. Whatever I said,

  he agreed with me; I felt satisfied with my own conversation, for the first time

  in my life. Helena won't find me a simpleton when I go home. What exquisite

  things dinner-parties are!

  My sister told me (when we said good-by) to be particular in writing down my

  true opinion of the Staveleys. Helena wishes to compare what she thinks of them

  with what I think of them.

  My opinion of Mr. Staveley is--I don't like him. My opinion of Miss Staveley

  is--I can't endure her. As for Master Staveley, my clever sister will understand

  that he is beneath notice. But, oh, what a wonderful woman Mrs. Staveley is! We

  went out together, after luncheon today, for a walk in Kensington Gardens. Never

  have I heard any conversation to compare with Mrs. Staveley's. Helena shall

  enjoy it here, at second hand. I am quite changed in two things. First: I think

  more of myself than I ever did before. Second: writing is no longer a difficulty

  to me. I could fill a hundred journals, without once stopping to think.

  Mrs. Staveley began nicely; "I suppose, Eunice, you have often been told that

  you have a good figure, and that you walk well?"

  I said: "Helena thinks my figure is better than my face. But do I really walk

  well? Nobody ever told me that."

  She answered: "Philip Dunboyne thinks so. He said to me, 'I resist the

  temptation because I might be wanting in respect if I gave way to it. But I

  should like to follow her when she goes out--merely for the pleasure of seeing

  her walk.' "

  I stood stockstill. I said nothing. When you are as proud as a peacock (which

  never happened to me before), I find you can't move and can't talk. You can only

  enjoy yourself.

  Kind Mrs. Staveley had more things to tell me. She said: "I am interested in

  Philip. I lived near Fairmount in the time before I was married; and in those

  days he was a child. I want him to marry a charming girl, and be happy."

  What made me think directly of Miss Staveley? What made me mad to know if she

  was the charming girl? I was bold enough to ask the question. Mrs. Staveley

  turned to me with that mischievous look which I have noticed already. I felt as

  if I had been running at the top of my speed, and had not got my breath again,

  yet.

  But this good motherly friend set me at my ease. She explained herself: "Philip

  is not much liked, poor fellow, in our house. My husband considers him to be

  weak and vain and fickle. And my daughter agrees with her father. There are

  times when she is barely civil to Philip. He is too good-natured to complain,

  but I see it. Tell me, my dear, do you like Philip?"

  "Of course I do!" Out it came in those words, before I could stop it. Was there

  something unbecoming to a young lady in saying what I had just said? Mrs.

  Staveley seemed to be more amused than angry with me. She took my arm kindly,

  and led me along with her. "My dear, you are as clear as crystal, and as true as

  steel. You are a favorite of mine already."

  What a delightful woman! as I said just now. I asked if she really liked me as

  well as she liked my sister.

  She said: "Better."

  I didn't expect that, and didn't want it. Helena is my superior. She is prettier

  than I am, cleverer than I am, better worth liking than I am. Mrs. Staveley

  shifted the talk back to Philip. I ought to have said Mr. Philip. No, I won't; I

  shall call him Philip. If I had a heart of stone, I should feel interested in