Can any words say how wretched I felt?
I had hoped so much from that first meeting—and where were my hopes now? A profane wish that I had never been born was finding its way into my mind, when the door of the room was opened softly, from the side of the passage. Maria, dear Maria, the best friend I have, peeped in. She whispered: “Go into the garden, miss, and you will find somebody there who is dying to see you. Mind you let him out by the shrubbery gate.” I squeezed her hand; 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!”