The Legacy of Cain. Уилки Коллинз

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 him, after what Mrs. Staveley has told me.

      Such a sad story, in some respects. Mother dead; no brothers or sisters. Only the father left; he lives a dismal life on a lonely stormy coast. Not a severe old gentleman, for all that. His reasons for taking to retirement are reasons (so Mrs. Staveley says) which nobody knows. He buries himself among his books, in an immense library; and he appears to like it. His son has not been brought up like other young men, at school and college. He is a great scholar, educated at home by his father. To hear this account of his learning depressed me. It seemed to put such a distance between us. I asked Mrs. Staveley if he thought me ignorant. As long as I live I shall remember the reply: “He thinks you charming.”

      Any other girl would have been satisfied with this. I am the miserable creature who is always making mistakes. My stupid curiosity spoiled the charm of Mrs. Staveley’s conversation. And yet it seemed to be a harmless question; I only said I should like to know what profession Philip belonged to.

      Mrs. Staveley answered: “No profession.”

      I foolishly put a wrong meaning on this. I said: “Is he idle?”

      Mrs. Staveley laughed. “My dear, he is an only son—and his father is a rich man.”

      That stopped me—at last.

      We have enough to live on in comfort at home—no more. Papa has told us himself that he is not (and can never hope to be) a rich man. This is not the worst of it. Last year, he refused to marry a young couple, both belonging to our congregation. This was very unlike his usual kind self. Helena and I asked him for his reasons. They were reasons that did not take long to give. The young gentleman’s father was a rich man. He had forbidden his son to marry a sweet girl—because she had no fortune.

      I have no fortune. And Philip’s father is a rich man.

      The best thing I can do is to wipe my pen, and shut up my Journal, and go home by the next train.

      … . …

      I have a great mind to burn my Journal. It tells me that I had better not think of Philip any more.

      On second thoughts, I won’t destroy my Journal; I will only put it away. If I live to be an old woman, it may amuse me to open my book again, and see how foolish the poor wretch was when she was young.

      What is this aching pain in my heart?

      I don’t remember it at any other time in my life. Is it trouble? How can I tell?—I have had so little trouble. It must be many years since I was wretched enough to cry. I don’t even understand why I am crying now. My last sorrow, so far as I can remember, was the toothache. Other girls’ mothers comfort them when they are wretched. If my mother had lived—it’s useless to think about that. We lost her, while I and my sister were too young to understand our misfortune.

      I wish I had never seen Philip.

      This seems an ungrateful wish. Seeing him at the picture-show was a new enjoyment. Sitting next to him at dinner was a happiness that I don’t recollect feeling, even when Papa has been most sweet and kind to me. I ought to be ashamed of myself to confess this. Shall I write to my sister? But how should she know what is the matter with me, when I don’t know it myself? Besides, Helena is angry; she wrote unkindly to me when she answered my last letter.

      There is a dreadful loneliness in this great house at night. I had better say my prayers, and try to sleep. If it doesn’t make me feel happier, it will prevent me spoiling my Journal by dropping tears on it.

      … . …

      What an evening of evenings this has been! Last night it was crying that kept me awake. To-night I can’t sleep for joy.

      Philip called on us again to-day. He brought with him tickets for the performance of an Oratorio. Sacred music is not forbidden music among our people. Mrs. Staveley and Miss Staveley went to the concert with us. Philip and I sat next to each other.

      My sister is a musician—I am nothing. That sounds bitter; but I don’t mean it so. All I mean is, that I like simple little songs, which I can sing to myself by remembering the tune. There, my musical enjoyment ends. When voices and instruments burst out together by hundreds, I feel bewildered. I also get attacked by fidgets. This last misfortune is sure to overtake me when choruses are being performed. The unfortunate people employed are made to keep singing the same words, over and over and over again, till I find it a perfect misery to listen to them. The choruses were unendurable in the performance to-night. This is one of them: “Here we are all alone in the wilderness—alone in the wilderness—in СКАЧАТЬ