The Legacy of Cain

I asked if she had tried the shrubbery gate with a sweetheart of her own. 'Hundreds of times, miss.'

Was it wrong for me to go to Philip, in the garden? Oh, there is no end to objections! Perhaps I did it because it was wrong. Perhaps I had been kept on my best behavior too long for human endurance.

How sadly disappointed he looked! And how rashly he had placed himself just where he could be seen from the back windows! I took his arm and led him to the end of the garden. There we were out of the reach of inquisitive eyes; and there we sat down together, under the big mulberry tree.

'Oh, Eunice, your father doesn't like me!'

Those were his first words. In justice to papa (and a little for my own sake too) I told him he was quite wrong. I said: 'Trust my father's goodness, trust his kindness, as I do.'

He made no reply. His silence was sufficiently expressive; he looked at me fondly.

I may be wrong, but fond looks surely require an acknowledgment of some kind? Is a young woman guilty of boldness who only follows her impulses? I slipped my hand into his hand. Philip seemed to like it. We returned to our conversation.

He began: 'Tell me, dear, is Mr. Gracedieu always as serious as he is to-day?'

'Oh no!'

'When he takes exercise, does he ride? or does he walk?'

'Papa always walks.'

'By himself?'

'Sometimes by himself. Sometimes with me. Do you want to meet him when he goes out?'

'Yes.'

'When he is out with me?'

'No. When he is out by himself.'

Was it possible to tell me more plainly that I was not wanted? I did my best to express indignation by snatching my hand away from him. He was completely taken by surprise.

'Eunice! don't you understand me?'

I was as stupid and as disagreeable as I could possibly be: 'No; I don't!'

'Then let me help you,' he said, with a patience which I had not deserved.

Up to that moment I had been leaning against the back of a garden chair. Something else now got between me and my chair. It stole round my waist—it held me gently—it strengthened its hold—it improved my temper—it made me fit to understand him. All done by what? Only an arm!

Philip went on:

'I want to ask your father to do me the greatest of all favors—and there is no time to lose. Every day, I expect to get a letter which may recall me to Ireland.'

My heart sank at this horrid prospect; and in some mysterious way my head must have felt it too. I mean that I found my head resting on his shoulder. He went on:

'How am I to get my opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gracedieu? I mustn't call on him again as soon as to- morrow or next day. But I might meet him, out walking alone, if you will tell me how to do it. A note to my hotel is all I want. Don't tremble, my sweet. If you are not present at the time, do you see any objection to my owning to your father that I love you?'

I felt his delicate consideration for me—I did indeed feel it gratefully. If he only spoke first, how well I should get on with papa afterward! The prospect before me was exquisitely encouraging. I agreed with Philip in everything; and I waited (how eagerly was only known to myself) to hear what he would say to me next. He prophesied next:

'When I have told your father that I love you, he will expect me to tell him something else. Can you guess what it is?'

If I had not been confused, perhaps I might have found the answer to this. As it was, I left him to reply to himself. He did it, in words which I shall remember as long as I live.

'Dearest Eunice, when your father has heard my confession, he will suspect that there is another confession to follow it—he will want to know if you love me. My angel, will my hopes be your hopes too, when I answer him?'

What there was in this to make my heart beat so violently that I felt as if I was being stifled, is more than I can tell. He leaned so close to me, so tenderly, so delightfully close, that our faces nearly touched. He whispered: 'Say you love me, in a kiss!'

His lips touched my lips, pressed them, dwelt on them—oh, how can I tell of it! Some new enchantment of feeling ran deliciously through and through me. I forgot my own self; I only knew of one person in the world. He was master of my lips; he was master of my heart. When he whispered, 'kiss me,' I kissed. What a moment it was! A faintness stole over me; I felt as if I was going to die some exquisite death; I laid myself back away from him—I was not able to speak. There was no need for it; my thoughts and his thoughts were one—he knew that I was quite overcome; he saw that he must leave me to recover myself alone. I pointed to the shrubbery gate. We took one long last look at each other for that day; the trees hid him; I was left by myself.

CHAPTER XX. EUNICE'S DIARY.

How long a time passed before my composure came back to me, I cannot remember now. It seemed as if I was waiting through some interval of my life that was a mystery to myself. I was content to wait, and feel the light