"Mr. Gracedieu," Philip began, "I wish to speak to you—"
Father interrupted him: "We are alone now, Mr. Dunboyne. I want to know why you consult me in private?"
"I am anxious to consult you, sir, on a subject—"
"On what subject? Any religious difficulty?"
"No."
"Anything I can do for you in the town?"
"Not at all. If you will only allow me—"
"I am still waiting, sir, to know what it is about."
Philip's voice suddenly became an angry voice. "Once for all, Mr. Gracedieu," he said, "will you let me speak? It's about your daughter—"
"No more of it, Mr. Dunboyne!" (My father was now as loud as Philip.) "I don't desire to hold a private conversation with you on the subject of my daughter."
"If you have any personal objection to me, sir, be so good as to state it plainly."
"You have no right to ask me to do that."
"You refuse to do it?"
"Positively."
"You are not very civil, Mr. Gracedieu."
"If I speak without ceremony, Mr. Dunboyne, you have yourself to thank for it."
Philip replied to this in a tone of savage irony. "You are a minister of religion, and you are an old man. Two privileges—and you presume on them both. Good-morning."
I drew back into a corner, just in time to escape discovery in the character of a listener. Eunice never moved. When Philip dashed into the room, banging the door after him, she threw herself impulsively on his breast: "Oh, Philip! Philip! what have you done? Why didn't you keep your temper?"
"Did you hear what your father said to me?" he asked.
"Yes, dear; but you ought to have controlled yourself—you ought, indeed, for my sake."
Her arms were still round him. It struck me that he felt her influence. "If you wish me to recover myself," he said, gently, "you had better let me go."
"Oh, how cruel, Philip, to leave me when I am so wretched! Why do you want to go?"
"You told me just now what I ought to do," he answered, still restraining himself. "If I am to get the better of my temper, I must be left alone."
"I never said anything about your temper, darling."
"Didn't you tell me to control myself?"
"Oh, yes! Go back to Papa, and beg him to forgive you."
"I'll see him damned first!"
If ever a stupid girl deserved such an answer as this, the girl was my sister. I had hitherto (with some difficulty) refrained from interfering. But when Eunice tried to follow Philip out of the house, I could hesitate no longer; I held her back. "You fool," I said; "haven't you made mischief enough already?"
"What am I to do?" she burst out, helplessly.
"Do what I told you to do yesterday—wait."
Before she could reply, or I could say anything more, the door that led to the landing was opened softly and slyly, and Miss Jillgall peeped in. Eunice instantly left me, and ran to the meddling old maid. They whispered to each other. Miss Jillgall's skinny arm encircled my sister's waist; they disappeared together.
I was only too glad to get rid of them both, and to take the opportunity of writing to Philip. I insisted on an explanation of his conduct while I was in the study—to be given within an hour's time, at a place which I appointed. "You are not to attempt to justify yourself in writing," I added in conclusion. "Let your reply merely inform me if you can keep the appointment. The rest, when we meet."
Maria took the letter to the hotel, with instructions to wait.
Philip's reply reached me without delay. It pledged him to justify himself as I had desired, and to keep the appointment. My own belief is that the event of to-day will decide his future and mine.
CHAPTER XXVII. EUNICE'S DIARY.
Indeed, I am a most unfortunate creature; everything turns out badly with me. My good, true friend, my dear Selina, has become the object of a hateful doubt in my secret mind. I am afraid she is keeping something from me.
Talking with her about my troubles, I heard for the first time that she had written again to Mrs. Tenbruggen. The object of her letter was to tell her friend of my engagement to young Mr. Dunboyne. I asked her why she had done this. The answer informed me that there was no knowing, in the present state of my affairs, how soon I might not want the help of a clever woman. I ought, I suppose, to have been satisfied with this. But there seemed to be something not fully explained yet.
Then again, after telling Selina what I heard in the study, and how roughly Philip had spoken to me afterward, I asked her what she thought of it. She made an incomprehensible reply: "My sweet child, I mustn't think of it—I am too fond of you."
It was impossible to make her explain what this meant. She began to talk of Philip; assuring me (which was quite needless) that she had done her best to fortify and encourage him, before he called on papa. When I asked her to help me in another way—that is to say, when I wanted to find out where Philip was at that moment—she had no advice to give me. I told her that I should not enjoy a moment's ease of mind until I and my dear one were reconciled. She only shook her head and declared that she was sorry for me. When I hit on the idea of ringing for Maria, this little woman, so bright, and quick and eager to help me at other times, said "I leave it to you, dear," and turned to the piano (close to which I was sitting), and played softly and badly stupid little tunes.
"Maria, did you open the door for Mr. Dunboyne when he went away just now?"
"No, miss."
Nothing but ill-luck for me! If I had been left to my own devices, I should now have let the housemaid go. But Selina contrived to give me a hint, on a strange plan of her own. Still at the piano, she began to confuse talking to herself with playing to herself. The notes went tinkle, tinkle—and the tongue mixed up words with the notes in this way: "Perhaps they have been talking in the kitchen about Philip?"
The suggestion was not lost on me. I said to Maria—who was standing at the other end of the room, near the door—"Did you happen to hear which way Mr. Dunboyne went when he left us?"
"I know where he was, miss, half an hour ago."
"Where was he?"
"At the hotel."
Selina went on with her hints in the same way as before. "How does she know—ah, how does she know?" was the vocal part of the performance this time. My clever inquiries followed the vocal part as before:
"How do you know that Mr. Dunboyne was at the hotel?"
"I was sent there with a letter for him, and waited for the answer."
There was no suggestion required this time. The one possible question was: "Who sent you?"
Maria replied, after first reserving a condition: "You won't tell upon me, miss?"
I promised not to tell. Selina suddenly left off playing.
"Well," I repeated, "who sent you?"
"Miss Helena."
Selina looked round at me. Her little eyes seemed to have suddenly become big, they stared me so strangely in the face. I don't know whether she was in a state of fright or of wonder. As for myself, I simply lost the use of my tongue. Maria, having no more questions to answer, discreetly left us together.
Why should Helena write to Philip at all—and especially without mentioning it to me? Here was a riddle which was more than I could guess. I asked Selina to help me. She might at least have tried, I thought; but she looked uneasy, and made excuses.
I said: "Suppose I go to Helena, and ask her why she wrote to Philip?" And Selina said: "Suppose you do, dear."
I rang for Maria once more: "Do you know where my sister is?"
"Just gone out, miss."
There was no help for it but to wait till she came back, and to get through the time in the interval as I best might. But for one circumstance, I might not have known what to do. The truth is, there was a feeling of shame in me when I remembered having listened at the study door. Curious notions come into one's head—one doesn't know how or why. It struck me that I might make a kind of atonement for having been mean enough to listen, if I went to papa, and offered to keep him company in his solitude. If we fell into pleasant talk, I had a sly idea of my own—I meant to put in a good word for poor Philip.