“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 housekeeper3, with my power, in my place, was more than I could calmly contemplate4. “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 sullen5 submission6 in his manner which it was not pleasant to see. Was he despairing already of himself and of me? Had Eunice aroused the watchful7 demons8 of shame and remorse9?
“Perhaps you are right,” he said, gloomily. “Good-by.”
My anxiety put the all-important question to him without hesitation10.
“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 depressed11 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 wretch12! 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 apparently13 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 remonstrated14. 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 pointed2 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 peculiarities15 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 insolence16 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 sneer17! I haven’t got your good looks—and a vile18 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 persuasion19 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 distress20 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 judgment21 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. Smothered22 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 devouring23 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 unreasonable24 or how angry he may be when he hears what has happened. I begin already to feel hopeful of the future.
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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2
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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6
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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9
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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18
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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19
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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20
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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21
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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22
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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23
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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24
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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