EDWARD AND EUGENIA;
OR THE EMBROIDERED BAG AND THE NEW COAT.
"Oh! I do love you so!" said Eugenia to little Agatha, herschoolfellow, to whom she had taken a violent fancy; and as she saidthis, she almost smothered her with kisses.
"And I love you very much too," said Agatha, disengaging herself fromher arms. "But why do you not like me to play with Fanny?"
"Because you would love her more than me."
"Is Fanny then more amiable?" asked one of the governesses, who hadoverheard her.
"Certainly not," said Eugenia, whom this supposition very muchdispleased. "But I do not wish her to love Fanny even as much as sheloves me."
"You do not then know how to be sufficiently amiable to make yourselfmore loved than another?"
"Oh! yes, I do," replied Eugenia, with increasing irritability, "butI do not wish her to play with Fanny." Thus saying, she took Agathaby the hand, and made her run with her in the walk before them. Thegoverness allowed them to go, quite sure of finding an opportunity ofrenewing the conversation. After they had run about for some time,Eugenia, feeling fatigued, as it was a holiday, seated herself on abench in the garden, with a book of tales, which had been given heron the previous evening, and which amused her very much. But Agatha,who was not fond of reading, wished to continue playing. She walkedround and round Eugenia, trod upon her dress, and pulled the markerof her book, in order to prevent her from reading. At length she camebehind her with a handful of grass, and holding it above her head,she let it fall before her eyes, upon her person, and upon the pagewith which she was occupied. Eugenia become angry, tore the grassfrom her hands, and told her to let her alone, for she annoyed her.
"Agatha, go and play with Fanny," said the governess, who was passingat the moment.
"Why do you wish her to go and play with Fanny," asked Eugenia,hastily rising, and ready to fly into a passion, had she dared to doso. At the same time, she threw down the book, in order to go andcatch Agatha, who had already set off.
"You do not wish to play with her; probably Fanny might be moreobliging...."
"But I have already been playing."
"It seems that it pleased you then, while it does not please you now.As you like to employ the time according to your own fancy, she has aright to employ it according to hers, and I advise her to go and lookfor Fanny."
Eugenia, who had nothing to urge, recommenced playing with Agatha,but in such ill humour, that she only tried to contradict her,making her run to the right and to the left against her inclination;pulling her arm sometimes forward, sometimes backward, sometimesupward, for she was taller than Agatha. Agatha got angry, tried invain to stop her, and not being able to extricate herself from herhands, cried out with all her might to be let go. But Eugenia stillwent on, saying, "You wished to run, then let us run."
They were, however, stopped at the entrance of an arbour, by thegoverness, who was walking on this side. "If I were you," she said,addressing Agatha, "I should go and play with Fanny; she would notpull you so roughly by the arm."
"What does she want?" replied Eugenia. "I am doing what she wishes."
"But you do not do it in the manner that she wishes, and since youhave no right over her, you can only retain her by doing whatever shepleases. Thus, the moment that you contradict her in the least thing,that you do not yield to all her whims, that you do not accommodateyourself to all her caprices, she will do quite right to go and playwith Fanny if Fanny suits her better."
"Very well, let her go," replied Eugenia. "She shall not touch mygreat doll any more, nor look at my book of prints; and she shall nothave the chaplet of horse-chestnuts that I was going to make for her."
"But I did not say that I would go and play with Fanny," repliedAgatha, almost crying at the thought of not having the chaplet ofhorse-chestnuts, "only do not pull my arm so violently." Peace wasmade. It was now the time for going in; besides, Agatha, dreadfullyfrightened at the thought of losing the chaplet, did all day justwhatever Eugenia pleased; so there were no more quarrels on thatoccasion.
But they soon recommenced. The mistress said to Eugenia, "Try to loveAgatha a little more if you would not have her prefer Fanny."
"And do I not love her enough?" said Eugenia. "I am constantly makingher presents, and only the day before yesterday, I gave her myprettiest work-box."
"Yes, after having refused it to her for three days, although you sawthat she longed for it very much! But when she thought of telling youthat Fanny had one quite as pretty, which she had almost promisedher, then with a very bad grace you gave her yours. You did not careabout giving her this pleasure, but you were afraid lest anothershould give it. If you took half the pains to make her love you, thatyou take to prevent her loving others, you would succeed much better."
But Eugenia did not understand this. She loved Agatha as a dollwhich amused her, and with which she did what she pleased. Shecarried her on her shoulders for her own sport, sent her to fetch herhandkerchief, or her work, when she had forgotten it, made herselfabsolute mistress of the little garden which had been given to themin common, and carefully watched that she did not obey the wishes ofothers, as she would then have been less attentive to hers. Agathaliked Eugenia because she made her presents, and gave her littlecard-board carriages and other things which amused her, but above allbecause, being much older, cleverer, and more advanced than herself,she did almost all her work for her unknown to the mistresses.Eugenia never restrained on her account either her ill-humour or hercaprices. She left her to weary herself when she was not disposedto amuse her, and when the others were too much occupied to do soin her place. She was especially jealous of Fanny, because she knewthat Fanny, who was sensible, and manifested a friendship for Agatha,would have paid her more attention than she herself cared to be atthe trouble of paying.
The holidays were at hand: Eugenia was going to pass three weeksin the country, at her home, but Agatha, whose parents resided ata great distance, could not go away. Eugenia felt sorry to leaveher, but she was consoled by the thought that Fanny was going aswell as herself. It so happened that Agatha after being completelyennuy?e during the first few days, took it into her head to work, inorder to amuse herself. As Eugenia was not there for her to dependupon, she endeavoured to succeed by herself. She was praised for herapplication; this encouraged her, and she became so fond of working,that she made, especially in embroidery, astonishing progress. Shementioned nothing of this in her letters to Eugenia, as she wishedto surprise her; but when the latter returned, Agatha showed her abeautiful bag that she had commenced. "It is very well," said Eugeniacoldly, for she never willingly gave praise; then taking the workout of her hands, she was going to do some of it; but Agatha nolonger wished any one to touch her work, and therefore prevented her.Eugenia became angry, and when Agatha asked her advice on some point,she said, "Oh, you can do very well without it, you have become soclever." Afterwards wishing to know for whom the work was intended,and Agatha refusing to tell her, she asserted that it was for Fanny,or for some new friend which she had made during her absence. Agathamerely laughed, and continued her work. However, she performed manylittle acts of friendship for Eugenia, who repelled them becauseshe saw her also kind to her other schoolfellows, whom she was veryglad to see again. The ill-humour of Eugenia was still furtherincreased by finding that Agatha, who was now more industrious andmore tractable, and disturbed the other girls less in their work andin their games, was better received among them, while she on herpart felt more pleasure in their society. Still she always preferredEugenia; but as the latter passed her time in quarrelling with her,they frequently separated in anger.
One day when Agatha had just finished her work-bag, had lined it withrose-colour, and had put in the strings, the girls showed it to oneanother, and admired it, and all were astonished at the progress shehad made. Agatha, greatly pleased, glanced at Eugenia, who ought tohave guessed her intention, but her ill temper completely blinded her.
"It is very tiresome," she said, "to hea
r people constantly talkingof the same thing."
"What!" replied Agatha, "are you sorry to hear them speak well of me?"
"What does it signify to me," said Eugenia, "since you no longerlove me." Then, taking the bag from the hands of the girl who heldit, "Let me see this beautiful bag," she continued, "I am the onlyone to whom you have not shown it!" then seizing it roughly, shecrumpled it, soiled it, and rolling it up into a little ball, shebegan running about and tossing it up in her hands. She thought itwas for Fanny, because for two days she and Agatha had held longconsultations together respecting the manner of putting in thestrings. Agatha ran after her crying, and quite in despair at seeingher work thus pulled about. All the other girls also pursued Eugenia,who seeing herself surrounded, wanted to put it under her feet, inorder to be able to retain it, or perhaps to tear it to pieces. Butjust at the moment, when she was stooping down for this purpose,one of the girls pulled her by the dress and made her fall upon thegrass. The bag was left free: Fanny picked it up and carried it intriumph to Agatha, who being the smallest had arrived the last. Shethrew herself upon Fanny's neck, exclaiming, "It was for Eugenia, itshall now be for you. It is you who shall be my friend." Eugenia,as she had only herself to blame, became all the more enraged, anddeclared that she would never have another friend.
Agatha, however, was grieved at having given her pain, and wished tobe reconciled to her; even Fanny, who was kind and gentle, wanted togive up the bag to her; but Eugenia, still angry, declared that ifshe took it, it would only be to throw it over the garden walls; norwould she speak to Agatha, except to call her _a little ungratefulthing_.
"Did she owe you then much gratitude?" asked the governess.
"Certainly she did, for all that I have done for her?"
"And what did she owe you for all that you have refused her?"
"Was I then obliged to yield to all her whims?"
"It would appear so, since you wished her to yield to all yours."
"That would have been a difficult matter to settle," said Eugeniapettishly.
"And you see that it has not been settled. What motive could Agathahave to induce her to comply with your wishes?"
"I complied with hers often enough."
"Yes, but when your inclinations were opposed, why should it be hersthat must yield? For myself I cannot see why."
"It was because she did not love me."
"And because you did not love her either, since you did not yield toher more."
"I certainly loved her much more than she loved me, for I alwayswished to be with her; but as for her, so long as she was amused, itwas much the same to her whether she was with me or not."
"You should then have tried to become necessary to her."
"I do not know how I should have done that."
"Nothing would have been more easy, if you had shown yourself pleasedwhenever she expressed pleasure, no matter whence that pleasure came.If, for instance, when Louisa called her to look at her book ofprints, instead of being angry at her leaving you, you had appearedglad that she was going to be amused, then as her joy would have beenincreased, by her seeing you pleased, she would never have looked ata picture without wishing to show it to you; for her pleasure couldnever be perfect unless you partook of it, and she would have endedquite naturally, by not desiring those enjoyments which you could notshare; but for this you ought to have begun by interesting yourselfin her pleasures rather than in your own."
"It was hardly worth the trouble of loving her," said Eugeniabitterly, "if it was to have been for her pleasure, and not for myown."
"Then it was yourself that you loved, and not her."
This conversation did not correct Eugenia. She perceived, indeed, thetruth of what had been said to her, but she was deficient in thatsentiment of friendship which leads us to think of others beforeourselves. As her first impulse, always, was to consider what shewished others to do for her, her second was a feeling of annoyanceat their not having acted sufficiently to her liking; in such acase, it was useless to hope that she would think of what she owedto them. Always commencing by imagining that they had acted wronglytowards her, she did not consider herself under any obligation tothem; she was ignorant of the delight that is experienced, in makinga sacrifice for those we love; and being constantly dissatisfied withothers, she never enjoyed the pleasure of feeling satisfied withherself.
She did not endeavour to make new friends in the school. Whathad passed between her and Agatha, and the conversations of thegoverness, had convinced her, that in order to do so, she had toomuch to overcome in her own disposition. Besides, the adventureof the embroidered bag had caused her companions to form a worseopinion of her than she deserved. She was therefore passing hertime very drearily, when a great misfortune befel her. She lost herfather, and this loss was the more grievous, as her mother had beenlong dead, and she was now consequently left quite an orphan. Hercompanions displayed much concern for her affliction, and especiallyFanny, who, grieved at having given her pain, on account of Agatha,was constantly seeking opportunities of being with her. For a time,as all were occupied about her, Eugenia was pleased with every one;and as this state of mind rendered her more gentle and considerate,they imagined that her character had altered, and again began tolove her. But when, after having occupied themselves for some timewith her griefs, her companions returned to their ordinary games andconversations, she was as much shocked at hearing them laugh, as ifthey had all lost their parents. The mistress one day found her intears, and complaining that no one any longer took an interest in hermisfortunes.
"Eugenia," said the governess, "who is there among your companionsfor whom, in a similar case, you would have interrupted for a longerperiod your ordinary occupations and amusements?"
Eugenia only replied by saying, "that no one loved her in thatschool, and that she wished she could leave it." This satisfactionwas soon granted to her. Her father's life had been shortened by thegrief occasioned by the bad state of his affairs. When he was dead,his creditors came together, and made a small annual allowanceto his children; this, however, was not sufficient to defray theexpenses of Eugenia's education, and that of her brother Edward, whowas pursuing his studies in one of the colleges of Germany. It wastherefore arranged that they should both be placed with a cousin, anelderly lady, who consented to be satisfied with the allowance made.Eugenia was transported with joy, at the thought of living with herbrother, whom she had not seen for ten years, but who wrote her suchcharming letters, and who besides, as she was his only sister, oughtcertainly to love her better than any one else in the world.
She was still more enchanted when she saw him. She was then fourteenyears of age, and her brother seventeen; he was tall and handsome,as well as mild, amiable, and intelligent. He was exceedingly kindto her, and promised to teach her all he knew himself; he told herthat since they had no fortune, he must try to make one for them, andbegan by giving her half the little money he had brought with himfrom Germany. Eugenia wept for joy at the kindness of her brother.When he was gone, she could talk of nothing else. She asked all hercompanions, whether they had seen him, and whether they did notthink him handsome; she related the slightest particular of theirconversation, and all that he had done and all that he had seen:there was not a town through which he had passed the name of whichshe did not pronounce with some emphasis. If she forgot anything,she said, "I will ask him to-morrow when he comes." "Is he coming,then?" said the little ones, who, always inquisitive, had formed theproject of putting themselves in ambuscade near the door, in orderto see what Eugenia's brother was like. "Oh! he cannot fail," saidEugenia, with an air of importance; she already seemed to think thather brother lived only for her convenience, and had nothing to do butto come and see her.
The next day came, but Edward did not make his appearance. Eugenia,greatly agitated, watched the door and the clock. "He must havemistaken the hour," said she. But it was not the hour apparently,but the day that he had mistaken, for it passed and still he didnot come. Neither did he
make his appearance on the following day.Eugenia's heart was bursting with grief and vexation, and herannoyance was increased by the derision of the little girls, whoincessantly repeated, "_Oh! he cannot fail to come_."
"I shall scold him well," said Eugenia, pretending to laugh. Thefollowing day she was sent for, as a person had come to take herto her cousin's house. She did not doubt that her brother had alsocome; but she only saw her cousin's old cook, who told her in agrumbling tone to make haste because the coach must only be keptan hour, and that it was already dear enough. But Eugenia did notunderstand her. Quite bewildered at not seeing Edward with her,she already thought herself forgotten and abandoned. She scarcelyembraced her companions, who had surrounded her to bid her farewell,but throwing herself into the coach began to weep, while the cookkept grumbling between her teeth, "that it was well worth the troubleof coming to eat other people's bread only to complain under theirvery eyes." It was nevertheless certain that the small sum paid forthe board of Eugenia and Edward was an advantage to their cousin,who was not rich; but the cook was avaricious, and out of humour,and did not reflect, so that thus she only saw the extra expense.Besides, she was accustomed to govern her mistress, who, providedshe had every day a dinner which suited her dog and her cat, freshchickweed for her birds, and nuts for her parrot, allowed the cook todo just as she pleased. The arrival of these two additional guestsquite disconcerted her. Eugenia felt distressed and humiliated, butdid not, however, dare to complain. She was no longer with personsto whom she had been accustomed to exhibit her ill humour, and hernew position intimidated her. As to her cousin, with whom she wasacquainted, she knew very well that she would not torment her, butshe also knew that she would in no way trouble herself about her;and it was especially requisite to Eugenia's happiness that peopleshould take an interest in her. Therefore it was of Edward alonethat she thought. It was he whom she was anxious to see, in order tolet the whole weight of her vexation fall upon him; it was on hisaccount that she was careful on entering not to conceal her eyes toomuch under her bonnet, so that he might clearly see that she had beenweeping.
She entered the room, but he was not there. The table was laid, butonly for two: she saw that Edward would not come, would not dine withher on the day of her arrival. She did not inquire for him, for shecould not speak. Her cousin wished her good morning, just as if shehad seen her on the previous evening, and did not even perceive thather eyes were red with crying. But the moment she began to eat herbosom swelled, and a sob escaped her which made her cousin raise hereyes.
"You are sorry to leave your school, my dear," she said; "that isquite natural, but you will soon get over that." Then, withoutthinking any more about it, or even troubling herself to see whetherEugenia was eating or not, she began to give the cat and dog theirdinners, and to talk to Catau, who, being very ill-mannered, eitherdid not reply at all or gave wrong answers, so that she had to repeatthe same question twenty times over. After dinner, an old lodgerin the house came up to play a game at piquet, which lasted untilthe evening. Eugenia could therefore torment or comfort herself,or sulk at her leisure, without there being any one to call her toaccount for it. At last she heard Edward arrive; she was so greatlydelighted, that she endeavoured to frown as much as possible onreceiving him, and succeeded so well in giving a gloomy expression toher face, that Edward, who ran eagerly to embrace her, drew back astep or two to inquire what was the matter with her.
"Oh! nothing is the matter with me," she said drily.
He insisted upon knowing, and as she persisted in giving similaranswers to his inquiries, he at last pretty well conjectured thecause of her annoyance, and explained to her that during the lastthree days he had been occupied in visiting some of his father'srelations, whom he wished to conciliate, in order to see if theycould obtain any employment for him; and on this day he had been tovisit one of them who lived at a considerable distance, and who couldnot be seen until four o'clock, so that he had been unable to returnby dinner-time. He then reminded her, that it was very unreasonableto be so vexed, and tried to joke with her; but seeing that sheneither yielded to reason nor pleasantry, he went off singing, andseated himself for a moment beside the piquet-players. Presentlyafter he went to his room, having first gaily kissed his sister, inorder to prove to her, that for his part he was not out of humour.
Eugenia was very much annoyed that he took the matter so easily;and although she had a little recovered, she thought she ought topreserve her dignity as an offended person. Thus, when Edward, onthe following morning, asked her whether she would like him to giveher some lessons in drawing, she replied coldly, "that she did notknow, that she would see." Edward, believing that she was indifferentabout the matter, did not urge it further, and she was very muchannoyed that he had taken quite literally what she had said. He wentout, and she became angry with him for leaving her, although shehad not accepted his proposition to remain. He returned to dinner,greatly delighted at having met one of his old companions. His friendhad introduced him to his father, and the latter had invited him tospend a few days with them in the country during the summer. Eugeniaobserved drily, that he was in a great hurry to leave them.
"It is not just now, and it is only for a few days," replied Edward."Would you not have taken advantage of a similar offer if it hadpresented itself to you?"
"Oh! as to that, no such offer would have been made to me."
"And is it then on this account that you are sorry I should profit byit?" said Edward, with still more gentleness than before.
Eugenia began to cry: she felt the injustice of that egotism, whichcould not endure that those she loved should enjoy any pleasure whichshe did not share; but it was in her heart, and she did not know howto conquer it. Edward kissed her, comforted her, and passed the wholeevening with her, talking to her of their affairs, of his projects,and of a thousand other rational subjects. Eugenia, quite delighted,thought, when she went to bed, that no one could have a more amiablebrother than herself. The following days passed off very well. Hehad proposed to her to employ a part of their mornings in readingEnglish together, and this they had done; but as he was very anxiousto gain information, he had been advised to attend some of the publiclectures, and to visit the manufactories. The mornings being thustaken up, he proposed to defer the English until the evening; butEugenia, who was displeased that the lesson did not take precedenceof everything else, replied that she did not like studying at night.Edward said no more about the matter.
By degrees he ceased altogether to speak about his affairs. He wouldhave had the greatest pleasure in giving her an account of hisproceedings, but Eugenia was always annoyed at those occupationswhich took him away from home, and listened to his accounts of themin so cold and listless a manner, and sometimes even she was so muchdispleased, that, fancying she took no interest in his pleasures,he soon became silent, and did not again recur to them. Certain ofnot being able to speak a word without giving her pain, he becameuncomfortable and constrained in her society. In the evening, afterhaving spent some time behind the piquet-table of his cousin, instudying his words, he either retired to his room, or went out. Asfor Eugenia, she could never go out, for her cousin was subject torheumatism, and would not have dared to expose herself to the air;and, besides, would not have put herself out of the way on Eugenia'saccount. Tears often started into Edward's eyes, when he looked uponhis sister, and thought of the melancholy life she led; but if hewished to speak a kind word to her, she repulsed him with so muchasperity, that he renounced the hope of ever being able to render herhappy.
As he was extremely sensible for his age, his father's friendshad introduced him into several families, where he had been wellreceived, and was sometimes invited to spend the evening with them.The idea that he could amuse himself while she was wearied to death,threw Eugenia into despair. The house that he mostly frequented, wasthat of Fanny's aunt, with whom Fanny had resided since she leftschool, as her mother had been long dead. Eugenia was indignant thatFanny had not sought to renew their acquain
tance, though Edward hadassured her that she had the greatest wish to do so, but was notpermitted by her aunt, on account of their old cousin, whom she didnot like. Eugenia persuaded herself, however, that Fanny had not doneas much as she could have done. She was angry with the aunt, with theniece, and with Edward, who took pleasure in their society, and whono longer dared to speak to her of Fanny's amiability and kindness,as on two or three occasions he had attempted to do.
Eugenia sometimes saw Mademoiselle Beno?t. This lady was thegoverness who had so vainly endeavoured to make her more reasonable.Her griefs were the only topic of their conversation, and Edward wasthe text.
"Oh! my poor Eugenia," said Mademoiselle Beno?t, with an air ofcompassion, "why do you not love him more? You would then take aninterest in his pleasures."
"No," replied Eugenia warmly; "it is because I love him, that Icannot endure that he should abandon me, to go and amuse himself andforget me."
Her disposition became daily more and more morose: a profoundmelancholy seemed to take possession of her mind; she no longer tookpleasure in anything, and even her health began to give way. Edwardperceived all this with the deepest grief, but without knowing howto remedy it. On the other hand, a situation which he had hoped toobtain had been given to another; an office in which he had beenpromised an engagement was never established; the money he hadbrought with him from Germany was all gone, and he saw nothing beforehim but unhappiness for both. Their mutual friendship would havealleviated it, but Eugenia's disposition marred everything.
One morning, when she was in the hall, she heard Edward, in thepassage, talking to the cook.
"Catherine," said he, in a low voice, "could you not occasionallylook to my linen? Nothing has been done to it since I have been here,and soon I shall not have a shirt that is not torn."
"Indeed," cried Catherine, in a very loud voice, probably thatEugenia might hear her, "I have so much time to amuse myself in thatway! Give them to Mademoiselle Eugenia; she might very well undertaketo keep them in order, but she thinks of nothing but playing the finelady."
"Catherine," replied Edward, in a very firm though low voice,"Eugenia gives you no trouble, she asks no favours of you; andconsequently, what she does, or what she leaves undone, does notconcern you in any manner."
Eugenia, who had approached the door, did not lose a word of thisreply: her heart beat with a joy such as she had not experienced fora long time. She would gladly have gone and embraced her brother,but she did not dare to do so; some undefinable feeling restrainedher. However, she opened the door, when a servant came from Fanny'saunt, to invite Edward to pass the evening with them. He said that hewould go. The heart of Eugenia was again oppressed: she closed thedoor. "That does not prevent him from going out to enjoy himself,"she said. And she threw herself into a chair weeping, and thinkingherself more unhappy than ever. The bare idea of what the cook hadsaid, threw her into a violent passion, without, however, leading herto regret her negligence, so much did the thought of her own wrongsprevent her from thinking of those which she inflicted upon others.
At dinner she was more than usually sad, and Edward appeared sad too.A short time after they had left the table, he said that he was goingto his own room to study; "And then to spend the evening out?" saidEugenia, with that tone of bitterness which had become habitual toher.
"No," said Edward, "I shall not go."
"And by what wonderful chance?"
Edward told her, that when he was going to dress, he had found hiscoat so much torn, that he was obliged to resolve on remaining athome.
"That," said Eugenia, "is what happens to me every day."
"Well, Eugenia," he replied, "if that can console you, it willhenceforward also happen to me every day." With these words, he wentout of the room. Eugenia saw that she had grieved him, and, for thefirst time in her life, she thought she might be in the wrong. Itwas, also, the first time she had seen Edward sad and unhappy, andthis circumstance so occupied her mind, that she was prevented fromthinking so much of herself. Nevertheless, she was not very sorrythat he was obliged to remain in the house. When she returned toher room, she heard Catherine, who was very cross with him, cryingout, that Madame did not understand having so many candles burnt,that there were none in the house, and that she would not give himany. Until that time, both Edward and Eugenia had bought candles forthemselves, in order to avoid Catherine's ill temper; but now Edwardhad no money left. Whilst Catherine went away grumbling, Edwardremained leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his headbent down. He was pale from the effort he had made to prevent himselffrom answering Catherine. Although it was beginning to get dark,Eugenia was so struck with the pallid and melancholy expression ofhis usually animated countenance, that at that moment she would havegiven the world to prevent his wanting anything. She timidly proposedto him to come and sit in her room, as she had still some candleleft. He took his book, and commenced reading. Eugenia was carefulnot to interrupt him; it seemed as if she were afraid, that byhearing him speak, she should discover the extent of his melancholy;and, besides, what she most wished at this time, was to have Edwardto do as he pleased. Two notes of invitation were brought to him, oneto a concert, which was to take place the following day, and to whichhe had a great wish to go, the other to a ball, where he was to havedanced with Fanny. He threw them into the fire. "All that is past;"he said, "I must think no more of it."
Oh, how these words pierced the heart of Eugenia! How she reproachedherself for what she had said, and for the joy she had at firstexperienced. Edward went to bed early. As for herself, she could notsleep all night; she thought how wrong she had been in neglectingEdward's wardrobe, and she remembered that he had never evenreproached her. She determined not to lose a moment in putting itin order. If she could also mend his coat! If he could go to theconcert! She waited with great impatience until it was daylight, anduntil Edward had gone out in his morning wrapper. She then ran andtook his coat, sought among her wools for one to match it, found one,and full of zeal, began her work; but the hole was so large, that shetried in vain to cover it. A dozen times she unpicked what she haddone, and did it over again; but this kind of work upon a worn-outmaterial only increased the evil. Greatly excited, all flushed andheated, the more she tried to get on, the less she advanced. Atlength, when she had almost lost all hope of success, she heardEdward return. She began to cry, and when he entered, he saw her withthe coat upon her knees, and her eyes filled with tears.
"Here," said she, "I had hoped you might have been able to go to theconcert, and I have only made the hole larger." Edward embraced hertenderly; he was delighted to find her attentive, and occupied abouthim; he called her his dear, his good Eugenia, but all these marks ofaffection only increased her tears. She could not reconcile herselfto the thought of Edward's passing the whole winter without going out.
"I shall be like you then, my dear Eugenia," said Edward.
"Oh, don't think about me."
This was the first time she had made use of such an expression. Itwas the first time such a sentiment had entered her heart; but shehad at length discovered that the griefs of those we love are muchmore distressing than our own.
As soon as Edward had left her room, she ran to her drawers, gatheredtogether her few trinkets, and a louis that still remained of themoney that Edward had given her, and wrote to Mademoiselle Beno?t,telling her that she wanted most urgently to see her. MademoiselleBeno?t came that very evening. Eugenia told her everything, and saidthat with her trinkets and this money she must buy a coat for Edward;but the trinkets were of too little value to answer the purpose.Eugenia was in despair. Mademoiselle Beno?t proposed a plan to her.
"I have taught you to make flowers," she said; "buy some materials,and I will lend you some instruments, and also assist you. The winteris coming on, ornaments will be required, we shall sell cheap, andshall have as many customers as we desire."
Eugenia embraced Mademoiselle Beno?t in a transport of joy. Allthe vivacity she had formerly employed in maki
ng Agatha and hercompanions angry, now returned, and she determined to commence on thefollowing day. She sometimes worked while Edward was present, but thegreater part of her work was executed in his absence. She would notlose an instant. All her cheerfulness and bloom returned, and Edwardwas astonished at the change. He thought it arose from her being nolonger jealous at seeing him go out without her; and notwithstandinghis kindness, he would sometimes have been tempted to be a littlevexed, if the uneasiness she manifested when she saw him sad, andthe industry with which she occupied herself, when not busy with herflowers, in putting his linen in order, had not led him to forgivewhat he regarded as a weakness.
At length, after two months' work, the necessary sum was completed.The coat was ordered, made, brought home, and placed upon Edward'sbed. Eugenia had learned from Mademoiselle Beno?t, that Fanny's auntwas to give a ball, and she got Edward invited. He came home; she sawhim pass, and trembled for joy. He beheld the coat, and could notconceive where it came from. Eugenia had no wish to conceal herself.
"It is I!" she exclaimed. "It is from my work--from my flowers; andhere is a note inviting you to a ball at Fanny's this evening."
"What!" said Edward, "are you occupying yourself about my pleasures,while leading so dreary a life?"
"Oh! do not make yourself uneasy; I have discovered a plan of amusingmyself; I shall work for you."
Edward was deeply moved; he could not express to his sister all thetenderness he felt for her, nor the esteem with which her conductinspired him. She would let him have no peace, however, until hewas dressed; until he had cast aside his old soiled coat, for thebeautiful new one. She was never tired of looking at him, so muchdid she think him improved. She arranged his cravat and his hair.She was anxious that everything should be in order, and she hurriedhim to the ball, where she imagined that every one must be delightedto see him, and she felt inexpressible joy at beholding him depart.Mademoiselle Beno?t, who came that evening to see her, found her asmuch animated as if she had been at the ball herself.
"Do you think you love your brother as much now," she said, smiling,"as when you were annoyed at his leaving you?"
"Oh! a great deal more."
"And have you had to complain of him during these two months?"
"I have never even thought of such a thing."
"I think, indeed, my dear child," said Mademoiselle Beno?t, "thatan excellent plan to avoid complaining of people is to endeavour torender them pleased with us."
Edward returned home early. Eugenia scolded him for doing so; buthe came because he had good news to tell her. Although, from afeeling of proper pride, he did not like to speak of his happiness,he, nevertheless, was not proud with Fanny, who was so kind andsensible; besides, he wanted to tell her what Eugenia had done forhim. Whilst he was relating the affair, one of Fanny's relations,who was behind them, heard a part of what was said, and wished tolearn the remainder. As he was Fanny's guardian, and a person in whomshe had great confidence, she related the circumstance to him, andspoke, moreover, of Edward's position. This guardian was an excellentman; he conversed with Edward, and found that he possessed bothintelligence and good feelings: he was a banker, and he told him thathe would take him into his counting-house and give him a salary: and,indeed, Edward entered on his new duties the following day. His firstmonth's salary was partly employed in purchasing a dress for Eugenia.She was sorry for it, though not excessively so, for the dress was sopretty, and it was so long since she had a new one. But the followingmonth he bought her a bonnet to match the dress. This time, shescolded him seriously.
"Very well," said he, "take my money, and let us spend it in common."
Eugenia became his manager; she bought nothing for herself, but shewas delighted when she could put in order or mend any of Edward'sclothes. She purchased, bargained, and economised for him, and wasso careful of his money, that she would not always let him have somewhen he asked for it, so that he sometimes tried to steal a part ofit from her, in order to make her presents.
Edward related to her every evening, what he had seen and what he haddone. If sometimes she felt disposed to be a little vexed because hereturned home rather later than usual, she took one of his shirts tomend, and thought no more of her ill humour. Mademoiselle Beno?t,finding her once thus occupied, said to her, "You must allow, thatwhen we make our happiness consist in the attentions which othersbestow upon us, we may often be disappointed, because they are notalways disposed to grant these attentions; whereas, when we make itconsist in what we do for them, we have it always at our own command."
The banker's wife, who was as kind as her husband, had just returnedfrom a journey; Edward soon spoke to her of Eugenia. She wished tosee her: called on her, took her to her house, where Eugenia evenpassed some days with her, while their cousin, delighted at havingsaved her favourite canary from a violent attack of the cramp,troubled herself as little at seeing her go out as she had done atseeing her stay within, wasting away with _ennui_. The banker's wifealso introduced her to Fanny's aunt, and the two girls were soonunited in the most tender friendship.
The affairs of Edward and Eugenia were arranged, they succeeded toa small inheritance, and are now in easy circumstances. A marriageis spoken of between Edward and Fanny, and it is also possiblethat Eugenia may marry the banker's son. She is very happy, sinceaffection has conquered the defects of her character. She stillfinds them starting up occasionally, but when she feels disposed tobe irritable, jealous, or exacting, she always succeeds, by dint ofreasoning, in convincing herself that her ill humour is unjust; andif it be directed against any one she loves, she says, "_I suppose Ido not yet love them sufficiently._"
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