Much to think of, Eunice--too much to think of."
Leaving the sofa with a sigh. as if he was tired of it, he began walking up and down. He seemed to be still in good spirits. "Well, my dear," he said, "what can I do for you?"
"I came here, papa to see if there was anything I could do for You."
He looked at some sheets of paper, strung together, and laid on the table. They were covered with writing (from his dictation) in my sister's hand. "I ought to get on with my work," he said. "Where is Helena?"
I told him that she had gone out, and begged leave to try what I could do to supply her place.
The request seemed to please him; but he wanted time to think. I waited; noticing that his face grew gradually worried and anxious. There came a vacant look into his eyes which it grieved me to see; he appeared to have quite lost himself again. "Read the last page," he said, pointing to the manuscript on the table; "I don't remember where I left off."
I turned to the last page. As well as I could tell, it related to some publication, which he was recommending to religious persons of our way of thinking.
Before I had read half-way through it, he began to dictate, speaking so rapidly that my pen was not always able to follow him. My handwriting is as bad as bad can be when I am hurried. To make matters worse still, I was confused. What he was now saying seemed to have nothing to do with what I had been reading.
Let me try if I can call to mind the substance of it.
He began in the most strangely sudden way by asking: "Why should there be any fear of discovery, when every possible care had been taken to prevent it? The danger from unexpected events was far more disquieting. A man might find himself bound in honor to disclose what it had been the chief anxiety of his life to conceal. For example, could he let an innocent person be the victim of deliberate suppression of the truth--no matter how justifiable that suppression might appear to be? On the other hand, dreadful consequences might follow an honorable confession. There might be a cruel sacrifice of tender affection; there might be a shocking betrayal of innocent hope and trust."
I remember those last words, just as he dictated them, because he suddenly stopped there; looking, poor dear, distressed and confused. He put his hand to his head, and went back to the sofa.
"I'm tired," he said. "Wait for me while I rest."
In a few minutes he fell asleep. It was a deep repose that came to him now; and, though I don't think it lasted much longer than half an hour, it produced a wonderful change in him for the better when he woke. He spoke quietly and kindly; and when he returned to me at the table and looked at the page on which I had been writing, he smiled.
"Oh, my dear, what bad writing! I declare I can't read what I myself told you to write. No! no! don't be downhearted about it. You are not used to writing from dictation; and I daresay I have been too quick for you." He kissed me and encouraged me. "You know how fond I am of my little girl," he said; "I am afraid I like my Eunice just the least in the world more than I like my Helena. Ah, you are beginning to look a little happier now!"
He had filled me with such confidence and such pleasure that I could not help thinking of my sweetheart. Oh dear, when shall I learn to be distrustful of my own feelings? The temptation to say a good word for Philip quite mastered any little discretion that I possessed.
I said to papa: "If you knew how to make me happier than I have ever been in all my life before, would you do it?"
"Of course I would."
"Then send for Philip, dear, and be a little kinder to him, this time."
His pale face turned red with anger; he pushed me away from him.
"That man again!" he burst out. "Am I never to hear the last of him? Go away, Eunice. You are of no use here." He took up my unfortunate page of writing and ridiculed it with a bitter laugh. "What is this fit for?" He crumpled it up in his hand and tossed it into the fire.
I ran out of the room in such a state of mortification that I hardly knew what I was about. If some hard-hearted person had come to me with a cup of poison, and had said: "Eunice, you are not fit to live any longer; take this," I do believe I should have taken it. If I thought of anything, I thought of going back to Selina. My ill luck still pursued me; she had disappeared. I looked about in a helpless way, completely at a loss what to do next--so stupefied, I may even say, that it was some time before I noticed a little three-cornered note on the table by which I was standing. The note was addressed to me:
"EVER-DEAREST EUNEECE--I have tried to make myself useful to you, and have failed. But how can I see the sad sight of your wretchedness, and not feel the impulse to try again? I have gone to the hotel to find Philip, and to bring him back to you a penitent and faithful man. Wait for me, and hope for great things. A. hundred thousand kisses to my sweet Euneece.
"S. J."
Wait for her, after reading that note! How could she expect it? I had only to follow her, and to find Philip. In another minute, I was on my way to the hotel.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HELENA'S DIARY.
Looking at the last entry in my Journal, I see myself anticipating that the event of to-day will decide Philip's future and mine. This has proved prophetic. All further concealment is now at an end.
Forced to it by fate, or helped to it by chance, Eunice has made the discovery of her lover's infidelity. "In all human probability" (as my father says in his sermons), we two sisters are enemies for life.
I am not suspected, as Eunice is, of making appointments with a sweetheart. So I am free to go out alone, and to go where I please. Philip and I were punctual to our appointment this afternoon.
Our place of meeting was in a secluded corner of the town park. We found a rustic seat in our retirement, set up (one would suppose) as a concession to the taste of visitors who are fond of solitude. The view in front of us was bounded by the park wall and railings, and our seat was prettily approached on one side by a plantation of young trees. No entrance gate was near; no carriage road crossed the grass. A more safe and more solitary nook for conversation, between two persons desiring to be alone, it would be hard to find in most public parks. Lovers are said to know it well, and to be especially fon d of it toward evening. We were there in broad daylight, and we had the seat to ourselves.
My memory of what passed between us is, in some degree, disturbed by the formidable interruption which brought our talk to an end.
But among other things, I remember that I showed him no mercy at the outset. At one time I was indignant; at another I was scornful. I declared, in regard to my object in meeting him, that I had changed my mind, And had decided to shorten a disagreeable interview by waiving my right to an explanation, and bidding him farewell. Eunice, as I pointed out, had the first claim to him; Eunice was much more likely to suit him, as a companion for life, than I was.