I had been writing, he smiled.
"Oh, my dear, what bad writing! I declare I can't read what I myself told you to
write. No! no! don't be downhearted about it. You are not used to writing from
dictation; and I daresay I have been too quick for you." He kissed me and
encouraged me. "You know how fond I am of my little girl," he said; "I am afraid
I like my Eunice just the least in the world more than I like my Helena. Ah, you
are beginning to look a little happier now!"
He had filled me with such confidence and such pleasure that I could not help
thinking of my sweetheart. Oh dear, when shall I learn to be distrustful of my
own feelings? The temptation to say a good word for Philip quite mastered any
little discretion that I possessed.
I said to papa: "If you knew how to make me happier than I have ever been in all
my life before, would you do it?"
"Of course I would."
"Then send for Philip, dear, and be a little kinder to him, this time."
His pale face turned red with anger; he pushed me away from him.
"That man again!" he burst out. "Am I never to hear the last of him? Go away,
Eunice. You are of no use here." He took up my unfortunate page of writing and
ridiculed it with a bitter laugh. "What is this fit for?" He crumpled it up in
his hand and tossed it into the fire.
I ran out of the room in such a state of mortification that I hardly knew what I
was about. If some hard-hearted person had come to me with a cup of poison, and
had said: "Eunice, you are not fit to live any longer; take this," I do believe
I should have taken it. If I thought of anything, I thought of going back to
Selina. My ill luck still pursued me; she had disappeared. I looked about in a
helpless way, completely at a loss what to do next--so stupefied, I may even
say, that it was some time before I noticed a little three-cornered note on the
table by which I was standing. The note was addressed to me:
"EVER-DEAREST EUNEECE--I have tried to make myself useful to you, and have
failed. But how can I see the sad sight of your wretchedness, and not feel the
impulse to try again? I have gone to the hotel to find Philip, and to bring him
back to you a penitent and faithful man. Wait for me, and hope for great things.
A. hundred thousand kisses to my sweet Euneece.
"S. J."
Wait for her, after reading that note! How could she expect it? I had only to
follow her, and to find Philip. In another minute, I was on my way to the hotel.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HELENA'S DIARY.
LOOKING at the last entry in my Journal, I see myself anticipating that the
event of to-day will decide Philip's future and mine. This has proved prophetic.
All further concealment is now at an end.
Forced to it by fate, or helped to it by chance, Eunice has made the discovery
of her lover's infidelity. "In all human probability" (as my father says in his
sermons), we two sisters are enemies for life.
I am not suspected, as Eunice is, of making appointments with a sweetheart. So I
am free to go out alone, and to go where I please. Philip and I were punctual to
our appointment this afternoon.
Our place of meeting was in a secluded corner of the town park. We found a
rustic seat in our retirement, set up (one would suppose) as a concession to the
taste of visitors who are fond of solitude. The view in front of us was bounded
by the park wall and railings, and our seat was prettily approached on one side
by a plantation of young trees. No entrance gate was near; no carriage road
crossed the grass. A more safe and more solitary nook for conversation, between
two persons desiring to be alone, it would be hard to find in most public parks.
Lovers are said to know it well, and to be especially fond of it toward evening.
We were there in broad daylight, and we had the seat to ourselves.
My memory of what passed between us is, in some degree, disturbed by the
formidable interruption which brought our talk to an end.
But among other things, I remember that I showed him no mercy at the outset. At
one time I was indignant; at another I was scornful. I declared, in regard to my
object in meeting him, that I had changed my mind, And had decided to shorten a
disagreeable interview by waiving my right to an explanation, and bidding him
farewell. Eunice, as I pointed out, had the first claim to him; Eunice was much
more likely to suit him, as a companion for life, than I was. "In short," I
said, in conclusion, "my inclination for once takes sides with my duty, and
leaves my sister in undisturbed possession of young Mr. Dunboyne." With this
satirical explanation, I rose to say good-by.
I had merely intended to irritate him. He showed a superiority to anger for
which I was not prepared.
"Be so kind as to sit down again," he said quietly.
He took my letter from his pocket, and pointed to that part of it which alluded
to his conduct, when we had met in my father 's study.
"You have offered me the opportunity of saying a word in my own defense," he
went on. "I prize that privilege far too highly to consent to your withdrawing
it, merely because you have changed your mind. Let me at least tell you what my
errand was, when I called on your father. Loving you, and you only, I had forced
myself to make a last effort to be true to your sister. Remember that, Helena,
and then say--is it wonderful if I was beside myself, when I found You in the
study?"
"When you tell me you were beside yourself," I said, "do you mean, ashamed of
yourself?"
That touched him. "I mean nothing of the kind," he burst out. "After the hell on
earth in which I have been living between you two sisters, a man hasn't virtue
enough left in him to be ashamed. He's half mad--that's what he is. Look at my
position! I had made up my mind never to see you again; I had made up my mind
(if I married Eunice) to rid myself of my own miserable life when I could endure
it no longer. In that state of feeling, when my sense of duty depended on my
speaking with Mr. Gracedieu alone, whose was the first face I saw when I entered
the room? If I had dared to look at you, or to speak to you, what do you think
would have become of my resolution to sacrifice myself?"
"What has become of it now?" I asked.
"Tell me first if I am forgiven," he said-- "and you shall know."
"Do you deserve to be forgiven?"
It has been discovered by wiser heads than mine that weak people are always in
extremes. So far, I had seen Philip in the vain and violent extreme. He now
shifted suddenly to the sad and submissive extreme. When I asked him if he
deserved to be forgiven, he made the humblest of all replies--he sighed and said
nothing.
"If I did my duty to my sister," I reminded him, "I should refuse to forgive
you, and send you back to Eunice."
"Your father's language and your father's conduct," he answered, "have released
me from that entanglement. I can never go back to Eunice. If you refuse to
forgive me, neither you nor she will see anything more of Philip Dunboy
ne; I
promise you that. Are you satisfied now?"
After holding out against him resolutely, I felt myself beginning to yield. When
a man has once taken their fancy, what helplessly weak creatures women are! I
saw through his vacillating weakness--and yet I trusted him, with both eyes
open. My looking-glass is opposite to me while I write. It shows me a
contemptible Helena. I lied, and said I was satisfied--to please him.
"Am I forgiven?" he asked.
It is absurd to put it on record. Of course, I forgave him. What a good
Christian I am, after all!
He took my willing hand. "My lovely darling," he said, "our marriage rests with
you. Whether your father approves of it or not, say the word; claim me, and I am
yours for life."
I must have been infatuated by his voice and his look; my heart must have been
burning under the pressure of his hand on mine. Was it my modesty or my
self-control that deserted me? I let him take me in his arms. Again, and again,
and again I kissed him. We were deaf to what we ought to have heard; we were
blind to what we ought to have seen. Before we were conscious of a movement
among the trees, we were discovered. My sister flew at me like a wild animal.
Her furious hands fastened themselves on my throat. Philip started to his feet.
When he touched her, in the act of forcing her back from me, Eunice's raging
strength became utter weakness in an instant. Her arms fell helpless at her
sides--her head drooped--she looked at him in silence which was dreadful, at
such a moment as that. He shrank from the unendurable reproach in those tearless
eyes. Meanly, he turned away from her. Meanly, I followed him. Looking back for
an instant, I saw her step forward; perhaps to stop him, perhaps to speak to
him. The effort was too much for her strength; she staggered back against the
trunk of a tree. Like strangers, walking separate one from the other, we left
her to her companion--the hideous traitress who was my enemy and her friend.
CHAPTER XXIX.
HELENA'S DIARY.
ON reaching the street which led to Philip's hotel, we spoke to each other for
the first time.
"What are we to do?" I said.
"Leave this place," he answered.
"Together?" I asked.
"Yes."
To leave us (for a while), after what had happened, might be the wisest thing
which a man, in Philip's critical position, could do. But if I went with
him--unprovided as I was with any friend of my own sex, whose character and
presence might sanction the step I had taken--I should be lost beyond
redemption. Is any man that ever lived worth that sacrifice? I thought of my
father's house closed to me, and of our friends ashamed of me. I have owned, in
some earlier part of my Journal, that I am not very patient under domestic
cares. But the possibility of Eunice being appointed housekeeper, with my power,
in my place, was more than I could calmly contemplate. "No," I said to Philip.
"Your absence, at such a time as this, may help us both; but, come what may of
it, I must remain at home."
He yielded, without an attempt to make me alter my mind. There was a sullen
submission in his manner which it was not pleasant to see. Was he despairing
already of himself and of me? Had Eunice aroused the watchful demons of shame
and remorse?
"Perhaps you are right," he said, gloomily. "Good-by."
My anxiety put the all-important question to him without hesitation.
"Is it good-by forever, Philip?"
His reply instantly relieved me: "God forbid!"
But I wanted more: "You still love me?" I persisted.
"More dearly than ever!"
"And yet you leave me!"
He turned pale. "I leave you because I am afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid to face Eunice again."
The only possible way out of our difficulty that I could see, now occurred to
me. "Suppose my sister can be prevailed on to give you up?" I suggested. "Would
you come back to us in that case?"
"Certainly!"
"And you would ask my father to consent to our marriage?"
"On the day of my return, if you like."
"Suppose obstacles get in our way," I said--"suppose time passes and tries your
patience--will you still consider yourself engaged to me?"
"Engaged to you," he answered, "in spite of obstacles and in spite of time."
"And while you are away from me," I ventured to add, "we shall write to each
other?"
"Go where I may," he said, "you shall always hear from me."
I could ask no more, and he could concede no more. The impression evidently left
on him by Eunice's terrible outbreak, was far more serious than I had
anticipated. I was myself depressed and ill at ease. No expressions of
tenderness were exchanged between us. There was something horrible in our barren
farewell. We merely clasped hands, at parting. He went his way--and I went mine.
There are some occasions when women set an example of courage to men. I was
ready to endure whatever might happen to me, when I got home. What a desperate
wretch! some people might say, if they could look into this diary!
Maria opened the door; she told me that my sister had already returned,
accompanied by Miss Jillgall. There had been apparently some difference of
opinion between them, before they entered the house. Eunice had attempted to go
on to some other place; and Miss Jillgall had remonstrated. Maria had heard her
say: "No, you would degrade yourself"--and, with that, she had led Eunice
indoors. I understood, of course, that my sister had been prevented from
following Philip to the hotel. There was probably a serious quarrel in store for
me. I went straight to the bedroom, expecting to find Eunice there, and prepared
to brave the storm that might burst on me. There was a woman at Eunice's end of
the room, removing dresses from the wardrobe. I could only see her back, but it
was impossible to mistake that figure--Miss Jillgall.
She laid the dresses on Eunice's bed, without taking the slightest notice of me.
In significant silence I pointed to the door. She went on as coolly with her
occupation as if the room had been, not mine but hers; I stepped up to her, and
spoke plainly.
"You oblige me to remind you," I said, "that you are not in your own room."
There, I waited a little, and found that I had produced no effect. "With every
disposition," I resumed, "to make allowance for the disagreeable peculiarities
of your character, I cannot consent to overlook an act of intrusion, committed
by a Spy. Now, do you understand me?"
She looked round her. "I see no third person here," she said. "May I ask if you
mean me?"
"I mean you."
"Will you be so good, Miss Helena, as to explain yourself?"
Moderation of language would have been thrown away on this woman. "You followed
me to the park," I said. "It was you who found me with Mr. Dunboyne, and
betrayed me to my sister. You are a Spy, and you know it. At this very moment
you daren't look me in the face."
Her insolence forced its way out of
her at last. Let me record it--and repay it,
when the time comes.
"Quite true," she replied. "If I ventured to look you in the face, I am afraid I
might forget myself. I have always been brought up like a lady, and I wish to
show it even in the company of such a wretch as you are. There is not one word
of truth in what you have said of me. I went to the hotel to find Mr. Dunboyne.
Ah, you may sneer! I haven't got your good looks--and a vile use you have made
of them. My object was to recall that base young man to his duty to my dear
charming injured Euneece. The hotel servant told me that Mr. Dunboyne had gone
out. Oh, I had the means of persuasion in my pocket! The man directed me to the
park, as he had already directed Mr. Dunboyne. It was only when I had found the
place, that I heard some one behind me. Poor innocent Euneece had followed me to
the hotel, and had got her directions, as I had got mine. God knows how hard I
tried to persuade her to go back, and how horribly frightened I was--No! I won't
distress myself by saying a word more. It would be too humiliating to let you
see an honest woman in tears. Your sister has a spirit of her own, thank God!
She won't inhabit the same room with you; she never desires to see your false
face again. I take the poor soul's dresses and things away--and as a religious
person I wait, confidently wait, for the judgment that will fall on you!"
She caught up the dresses all together; some of them were in her arms, some of
them fell on her shoulders, and one of them towered over her head. Smothered in
gowns, she bounced out of the room like a walking milliner's shop. I have to
thank the wretched old creature for a moment of genuine amusement, at a time of
devouring anxiety. The meanest insect, they say, has its use in this world--and
why not Miss Jillgall?
In half an hour more, an unexpected event raised my spirits. I heard from
Philip.
On his return to the hotel he had found a telegram waiting for him. Mr. Dunboyne
the elder had arrived in London; and Philip had arranged to join his father by
the next train. He sent me the address, and begged that I would write and tell
him my news from home by the next day's post.
Welcome, thrice welcome, to Mr. Dunboyne the elder! If Philip can manage, under
my advice, to place me favorably in the estimation of this rich old man, his
presence and authority may do for us what we cannot do for ourselves. Here is
surely an influence to which my father must submit, no matter how unreasonable
or how angry he may be when he hears what has happened. I begin already to feel
hopeful of the future.
CHAPTER XXX.
EUNICE'S DIARY.
THROUGH the day, and through the night, I feel a misery that never leaves me--I
mean the misery of fear.
I am trying to find out some harmless means of employing myself, which will keep
evil remembrances from me. If I don't succeed, my fear tells me what will
happen. I shall be in danger of going mad.
I dare not confide in any living creature. I don't know what other persons might
think of me, or how soon I might find myself perhaps in an asylum. In this
helpless condition, doubt and fright seem to be driving me back to my Journal. I
wonder whether I shall find harmless employment here.
I have heard of old people losing their memories. What would I not give to be
old! I remember! oh, how I remember! One day after another I see Philip, I see
Helena, as I first saw them when I was among the trees in the park. My
sweetheart's arms, that once held me, hold my sister now. She kisses him, kisses
him, kisses him.
Is there no way of making myself see something else? I want to get back to
remembrances that don't burn in my head and tear at my heart. How is it to be
done?
I have tried books--no! I have tried going out to look at the shops--no! I have
tried saying my prayers--no! And now I am making my last effort; trying my pen.
My black letters fall from it, and take their places on the white paper. Will my