When I next heard from Miss Jillgall, the introductory part of her
letter merely reminded me that Philip Dunboyne was established in the
town, and that Helena was in daily communication with him. I shall do
Selina no injustice if my extract begins with her second page.
“You will sympathize, I am sure” (she writes), “with the indignation
which urged me to call on Philip, and tell him the way to the farmhouse.
Think of Helena being determined to marry him, whether he wants to or
not! I am afraid this is bad grammar. But there are occasions when even
a cultivated lady fails in her grammar, and almost envies the men their
privilege of swearing when they are in a rage. My state of mind is truly
indescribable. Grief mingles with anger, when I tell you that my
sweet Euneece has disappointed me, for the first time since I had the
happiness of knowing and admiring her. What can have been the motive of
her refusal to receive her penitent lover? Is it pride? We are told that
Satan fell through pride. Euneece satanic? Impossible! I feel inclined
to go and ask her what has hardened her heart against a poor young man
who bitterly regrets his own folly. Do you think it was bad advice from
the farmer or his wife? In that case, I shall exert my influence, and
take her away. You would do the same, wouldn’t you?
“I am ashamed to mention the poor dear Minister in a postscript. The
truth is, I don’t very well know what I am about. Mr. Gracedieu is
quiet, sleeps better than he did, eats with a keener appetite, gives no
trouble. But, alas, that glorious intellect is in a state of eclipse! Do
not suppose, because I write figuratively, that I am not sorry for him.
He understands nothing; he remembers nothing; he has my prayers.
“You might come to us again, if you would only be so kind. It would make
no difference now; the poor man is so sadly altered. I must add, most
reluctantly, that the doctor recommends your staying at home. Between
ourselves, he is little better than a coward. Fancy his saying; ‘No; we
must not run that risk yet.’ I am barely civil to him, and no more.
“In any other affair (excuse me for troubling you with a second
postscript), my sympathy with Euneece would have penetrated her motives;
I should have felt with her feelings. But I have never been in love;
no gentleman gave me the opportunity when I was young. Now I am
middle-aged, neglect has done its dreary work--my heart is an extinct
crater. Figurative again! I had better put my pen away, and say farewell
for the present.”
Miss Jillgall may now give place to Eunice. The same day’s post brought
me both letters.
I should be unworthy indeed of the trust which this affectionate girl
has placed in me, if I failed to receive her explanation of her conduct
toward Philip Dunboyne, as a sacred secret confided to my fatherly
regard. In those later portions of her letter, which are not addressed
to me confidentially, Eunice writes as follows:
“I get news--and what heartbreaking news!--of my father, by sending
a messenger to Selina. It is more than ever impossible that I can put
myself in the way of seeing Helena again. She has written to me
about Philip, in a tone so shockingly insolent and cruel, that I have
destroyed her letter. Philip’s visit to the farm, discovered I don’t
know how, seems to have infuriated her. She accuses me of doing all
that she might herself have done in my place, and threatens me--No! I am
afraid of the wicked whisperings of that second self of mine if I think
of it. They were near to tempting me when I read Helena’s letter. But
I thought of what you said, after I had shown you my Journal; and your
words took my memory back to the days when I was happy with Philip. The
trial and the terror passed away.
“Consolation has come to me from the best of good women. Mrs. Staveley
writes as lovingly as my mother might have written, if death had spared
her. I have replied with all the gratitude that I really feel, but
without taking advantage of the services which she offers. Mrs. Staveley
has it in her mind, as you had it in your mind, to bring Philip back to
me. Does she forget, do you forget, that Helena claims him? But you both
mean kindly, and I love you both for the interest that you feel in me.
“The farmer’s wife--dear good soul!--hardly understands me so well as
her husband does. She confesses to pitying Philip. ‘He is so wretched,’
she says. ‘And, dear heart, how handsome, and what nice, winning
manners! I don’t think I should have had your courage, in your place. To
tell the truth, I should have jumped for joy when I saw him at the door;
and I should have run down to let him in--and perhaps been sorry for it
afterward. If you really wish to forget him, my dear, I will do all I
can to help you.’
“These are trifling things to mention, but I am afraid you may think I
am unhappy--and I want to prevent that.
“I have so much to be thankful for, and the children are so fond of me.
Whether I teach them as well as I might have done, if I had been a more
learned girl, may perhaps be doubtful. They do more for their governess,
I am afraid, than their governess does for them. When they come into my
room in the morning, and rouse me with their kisses, the hour of waking,
which used to be so hard to endure after Philip left me, is now the
happiest hour of my day.”
With that reassuring view of her life as a governess, the poor child’s
letter comes to an end.