have happened if I had remained a little longer in London.
Helping Eunice to pack up, I put her journal into the box. “You will find something to write about now,” I told her. “While I record everything that happens at home, you will keep your diary of all that you do in London, and when you come back we will show each other what we have written.” My sister is a dear creature. “I don’t feel sure of being able to do it,” she answered; “but I promise to try.” Good Eunice!
CHAPTER XII. EUNICE’S DIARY.
The air of London feels very heavy. There is a nasty smell of smoke in London. There are too many people in London. They seem to be mostly people in a hurry. The head of a country girl, when she goes into the streets, turns giddy—I suppose through not being used to the noise.
I do hope that it is London that has put me out of temper. Otherwise, it must be I myself who am ill-tempered. I have not yet been one whole day in the Staveleys’ house, and they have offended me already. I don’t want Helena to hear of this from other people, and then to ask me why I concealed it from her. We are to read each other’s journals when we are both at home again. Let her see what I have to say for myself here.
There are seven Staveleys in all: Mr. and Mrs. (two); three young Masters (five); two young Misses (seven). An eldest miss and the second young Master are the only ones at home at the present time.
Mr., Mrs., and Miss kissed me when I arrived. Young Master only shook hands. He looked as if he would have liked to kiss me too. Why shouldn’t he? It wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t myself like kissing. What is the use of it? Where is the pleasure of it?
Mrs. was so glad to see me; she took hold of me by both hands. She said: “My dear child, you are improving. You were wretchedly thin when I saw you last. Now you are almost as well-developed as your sister. I think you are prettier than your sister.” Mr. didn’t agree to that. He and his wife began to dispute about me before my face. I do call that an aggravating thing to endure.
Mr. said: “She hasn’t got her sister’s pretty gray eyes.”
Mrs. said; “She has got pretty brown eyes, which are just as good.”
Mr. said: “You can’t compare her complexion with Helena’s.”
Mrs. said: “I like Eunice’s pale complexion. So delicate.”
Young Miss struck in: “I admire Helena’s hair—light brown.”
Young Master took his turn: “I prefer Eunice’s hair—dark brown.”
Mr. opened his great big mouth, and asked a question: “Which of you two sisters is the oldest? I forget.”
Mrs. answered for me: “Helena is the oldest; she told us so when she was here last.”
I really could not stand that. “You must be mistaken,” I burst out.
“Certainly not, my dear.”
“Then Helena was mistaken.” I was unwilling to say of my sister that she had been deceiving them, though it did seem only too likely.
Mr. and Mrs. looked at each other. Mrs. said: “You seem to be very positive, Eunice. Surely, Helena ought to know.”
I said: “Helena knows a good deal; but she doesn’t know which of us is the oldest of the two.”
Mr. put in another question: “Do you know?”
“No more than Helena does.”
Mrs. said: “Don’t you keep birthdays?”
I said: “Yes; we keep both our birthdays on the same day.”
“On what day?”
“The first day of the New Year.”
Mr. tried again: “You can’t possibly be twins?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps Helena knows?”
“Not she!”
Mrs. took the next question out of her husband’s mouth: “Come, come, my dear! you must know how old you are.”
“Yes; I do know that. I’m eighteen.”
“And how old is Helena?”
“Helena’s eighteen.”
Mrs. turned round to Mr.: “Do you hear that?”
Mr. said: “I shall write to her father, and ask what it means.”
I said: “Papa will only tell you what he told us—years ago.”
“What did your father say?”
“He said he had added our two ages together, and he meant to divide the product between us. It’s so long since, I don’t remember what the product was then. But I’ll tell you what the product is now. Our two ages come to thirty-six. Half thirty-six is eighteen. I get one half, and Helena gets the other. When we ask what it means, and when friends ask what it means, papa has got the same answer for everybody, ‘I have my reasons.’ That’s all he says—and that’s all I say.”
I had no intention of making Mr. angry, but he did get angry. He left off speaking to me by my Christian name; he called me by my surname. He said: “Let me tell you, Miss Gracedieu, it is not becoming in a young lady to mystify her elders.”
I had heard that it was respectful in a young lady to call an old gentleman, Sir, and to say, If you please. I took care to be respectful now. “If you please, sir, write to papa. You will find that I have spoken the truth.”
A woman opened the door, and said to Mrs. Staveley: “Dinner, ma’am.” That stopped this nasty exhibition of our tempers. We had a very good dinner.
… . …
The next day I wrote to Helena, asking her what she had really said to the Staveleys about her age and mine, and telling her what I had said. I found it too great a trial of my patience to wait till she could see what I had written about the dispute in my journal. The days, since then, have passed, and I have been too lazy and stupid to keep my diary.
To-day it is different. My head is like a dark room with the light let into it. I remember things; I think I can go on again.
We have religious exercises in this house, morning and evening, just as we do at home. (Not to be compared with papa’s religious exercises.) Two days ago his answer came to Mr. Staveley’s letter. He did just what I had expected—said I had spoken truly, and disappointed the family by asking to be excused if he refrained from entering into explanations. Mr. said: “Very odd;” and Mrs. agreed with him. Young Miss is not quite as friendly now as she was at first. And young Master was impudent enough to ask me
