“CONSCIENCE,” said I, “her conscience would have told her.”
“Yes,” said my father. “The strongest amongst the many objections to the
Roman Catholic doctrine of confession is that it weakens our dependence
on the conscience. If we seek for an external command to do what ought
to be done in obedience to that inward monitor, whose voice is always
clear if we will but listen, its authority will gradually be lost, and in
the end it will cease to speak.”
“Conscience,” said my grandmother musingly (turning to my father). “You
will remember Phyllis Eyre? She was one of my best friends, and it is
now two years since she died, unmarried. She was once governess to the
children of Sir Robert Walsh, but remained in the house as companion to
Lady Walsh long after her pupils had grown up. She was, in fact, more
than a companion, for Lady Walsh trusted her and loved her. She was by
birth a lady; she had been well educated, and, like her mistress, she was
devoutly and evangelically pious. She was also very handsome, and this
you may well believe, for, as you know, she was handsome as an old woman,
stately and erect, with beautiful, undimmed eyes. When Evelina Walsh,
the eldest daughter, was about one and twenty, Charles Fysshe, the young
heir to the Fysshe property, came to stay with her brother, and Phyllis
soon discovered, or thought she discovered, that he was in love with
Evelina. He seemed to court her society, and paid her attentions which
could be explained on one hypothesis only. Phyllis was delighted, for
the match in every way was most suitable, and must gladden the hearts of
Evelina’s parents. The young man would one day be the possessor of
twenty thousand acres; he had already taken a position in the county, and
his soul was believed to be touched with Divine grace. Evelina certainly
was in love with him, and Phyllis was not backward in urging his claims.
She congratulated herself, and with justice, that if the marriage should
ever take place, it would be acknowledged that she had had a hand in it.
It might even be doubted whether Evelina, without Phyllis’s approval,
would have permitted herself to indulge her passion, for she was by
nature diffident, and so beset with reasons for and against when she had
to make up her mind on any important matter, that a decision was always
most difficult to her.
“Charles stayed for about six weeks, and was then called home. He
promised that he would pay another visit of a week in the autumn, when
Sir Robert was to entertain the Lord Lieutenant and there were to be
grand doings at the Hall. Conversation naturally turned upon him during
his absence, and Phyllis, as usual, was warm in his praise. One evening,
after she had reached her own room and had lain down to sleep, a strange
apparition surprised her. It was something more than a suspicion that
she herself loved Charles. She strove to rid herself of this intrusion:
she called to mind the difference in their rank; that she was five years
his senior, and that if she yielded she would be guilty of treachery to
Evelina. It was all in vain; the more she resisted the more vividly did
his image present itself, and she was greatly distressed. What was the
meaning of this outbreak of emotion, not altogether spiritual, of this
loss of self-possession, such as she had never known before? Her usual
remedies against evil thoughts failed her, and, worst of all, there was
the constant suggestion that these particular thoughts were not evil.
Hitherto, when temptation had attacked her, she was sure whence it came,
but she was not sure now. It might be an interposition of Providence,
but how would it appear to Evelina? I myself, my dears, have generally
found that to resist the devil is not difficult if I am quite certain
that the creature before me is the devil, but it does tax my wits
sometimes to find out if he is really the enemy or not. When Apollyon
met Christian he was not in doubt for an instant, for the monster was
hideous to behold: he had scales like a fish, wings like a dragon, feet
like a bear, out of his belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as
the mouth of a lion. After some parleying he cast his dreadful dart, but
Christian, without more ado, put up his shield, drew his sword, and
presently triumphed. If Satan had turned himself, from his head to his
ankles, into a man, and had walked by Christian’s side, and had talked
with him, and had agreed with him in everything he had to say, the bear’s
claws might have peeped out, but Christian, instead of fighting, would
have begun to argue with himself whether the evidence of the face or the
foot was the stronger. He would have been just as likely to trust the
face, and in a few moments he would have been snapped up and carried off
to hell. To go on with my story: the night wore on in sophistry and
struggle, and no inner light dawned with the sun. Phyllis was much
agitated, for in the afternoon Charles was to return, and although amidst
the crowd of visitors she might be overlooked, she could not help seeing
him. She did see him, but did not speak to him. He sat next to Evelina
at dinner, who was happy and expectant. The next day there was a grand
meet of the hounds, and almost all the party disappeared. Phyllis
pleaded a headache, and obtained permission to stay at home. It was a
lovely morning in November, without a movement in the air, calm and
cloudless, one of those mornings not uncommon when the year begins to
die. She went into the woods at the outer edge of the park, and had
scarcely entered them, when lo! to her astonishment, there was Charles.
She could not avoid him, and he came up to her.
“‘Why, Miss Eyre, what are you doing here?’
“‘I had a headache; I could not go with the others, and came out for a
stroll.’
“‘I, too, was not very well, and have been left behind.’
“They walked together side by side.
“‘I wanted to speak to you, Miss Eyre. I wonder if you have suspected
anything lately.’
“‘Suspected? I do not quite comprehend: you are very vague.’
“‘Well, must I be more explicit? Have you fancied that I care more for
somebody you know than I care for all the world besides? I suppose you
have not, for I thought it better to hide as much as possible what I
felt.’
“‘I should be telling an untruth if I were to say I do not understand
you, and I trust you will pardon me if I tell you that a girl more worthy
of you than Evelina, and one more likely to make you happy, I have never
seen.’
“‘Gracious God! what have I done? what a mistake! Miss Eyre, it is you I
mean; it is you I love.’
“There was not an instant’s hesitation.
“‘Sir, I thank you, but I can answer at once. _Never_ can I be yours.
That decision is irrevocable. I admire you, but cannot love you.’
“She parted from him abruptly, but no sooner had she left him than she
was confounded, and wondered who or what it was which gave that answer.
She wavered, and thought of going back, but she did not. Later on in the
day she heard that Charles had gone home, summoned by sudden business.
Two years afterwards his engagement with Evelina was announced, and in
three years they were married. It was not what I should call a happy
marriage, although they never quarrelled and had five children. To the
day of her death Phyllis was not sure whether she had done right or
wrong, nor am I.”