The Legacy of Cain. Уилки Коллинз
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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.