I want to know whether I have given you (and Miss Jillgall, of course) as much time as you want, and as many opportunities as you could desire?"
"Pray go on, Miss Helena."
"Have I not said enough already?"
"Not enough, I regret to say, to convey your meaning to me."
She drew her chair a little further away from me. "I am sadly disappointed," she said. "I had such a high opinion of your perfect candor. I thought to myself: There is such a striking expression of frankness in his face. Another illusion gone! I hope you won't think I am offended, if I say a bold word. I am only a young girl, to be sure; but I am not quite such a fool as you take me for. Do you really think I don't know that Miss Jillgall has been telling you everything that is bad about me; putting every mistake that I have made, every fault that I have committed, in the worst possible point of view? And you have listened to her--quite naturally! And you are prejudiced, strongly prejudiced, against me--what else could you be, under the circumstances? I don't complain; I have purposely kept out of your way, and out of Miss Jillgall's way; in short, I have afforded you every facility, as the prospectuses say. I only want to know if my turn has come at last. Once more, have I given you time enough, and opportunities enough?"
"A great deal more than enough."
"Do you mean that you have made up your mind about me without stopping to think?"
"That is exactly what I mean. An act of treachery, Miss Helena, is an act of treachery; no honest person need hesitate to condemn it. I am sorry you sent for me."
I got up to go. With an ironical gesture of remonstrance, she signed to me to sit down again.
"Must I remind you, dear sir, of our famous native virtue? Fair play is surely due to a young person who has nobody to take her part. You talked of treachery just how. I deny the treachery. Please give me a hearing."
I returned to my chair.
"Or would you prefer waiting," she went out, "till my sister comes here later in the day, and continues what Miss Jillgall has begun, with the great advantage of being young and nice-looking?"
When the female mind gets into this state, no wise man answers the female questions.
"Am I to take silence as meaning Go on?" Miss Helena inquired.
I begged her to interpret my silence in the sense most agreeable to herself.
This naturally encouraged her. She made a proposal:
"Do you mind changing places, sir?"
"Just as you like, Miss Helena."
We changed chairs; the light now fell full on her face. Had she deliberately challenged me to look into her secret mind if I could? Anything like the stark insensibility of that young girl to every refinement of feeling, to every becoming doubt of herself, to every customary timidity of her age and sex in the presence of a man who had not disguised his unfavorable opinion of her, I never met with in all my experience of the world and of women.
"I wish to be quite mistress of myself," she explained; "your face, for some reason which I really don't know, irritates me. The fact is, I have great pride in keeping my temper. Please make allowances. Now about Miss Jillgall. I suppose she told you how my sister first met with Philip Dunboyne?"
"Yes."
"She also mentioned, perhaps, that he was a highly-cultivated man?"
"She did."
"Now we shall get on. When Philip came to our town here, and saw me for the first time--Do you object to my speaking familiarly of him, by his Christian name?"
"In the case of any one else in your position, Miss Helena, I should venture to call it bad taste."
I was provoked into saying that. It failed entirely as a well-meant effort in the way of implied reproof. Miss Helena smiled.
"You grant me a liberty which you would not concede to another girl." That was how she viewed it. "We are getting on better already. To return to what I was saying. When Philip first saw me--I have it from himself, mind--he felt that I should have been his choice, if he had met with me before he met with my sister. Do you blame him?"
"If you will take my advice," I said, "you will not inquire too closely into my opinion of Mr. Philip Dunboyne."
"Perhaps you don't wish me to say anymore?" she suggested.
"On the contrary, pray go on, if you like."
After that concession, she was amiability itself. "Oh, yes," she assured me, "that's easily done." And she went on accordingly: "Philip having informed me of the state of his affections, I naturally followed his example. In fact, we exchanged confessions. Our marriage engagement followed as a matter of course. Do you blame me?"
"I will wait till you have done."
"I have no more to say."
She made that amazing reply with such perfect composure, that I began to fear there must have been some misunderstanding between us. "Is that really all you have to say for yourself?" I persisted.
Her patience with me was most exemplary. She lowered herself to my level. Not trusting to words only on this occasion, she (so to say) beat her meaning into my head by gesticulating on her fingers, as if she was educating a child.
"Philip and I," she began, "are the victims of an accident, which kept us apart when we ought to have met together--we are not responsible for an accident." She impressed this on me by touching her forefinger. "Philip and I fell in love with each other at first sight--we are not responsible for the feelings implanted in our natures by an all-wise Providence." She assisted me in understanding this by touching her middle finger. "Philip and I owe a duty to each other, and accept a responsibility under those circumstances--the responsibility of getting married." A touch on her third finger, and an indulgent bow, announced that the lesson was ended. "I am not a clever man like you," she modestly acknowledged, "but I ask you to help us, when you next see my father, with some confidence. You know exactly what to say to him, by this time. Nothing has been forgotten."
"Pardon me," I said, "a person has been forgotten."
"Indeed? What person?"
"Your sister."
A little perplexed at first, Miss Helena reflected, and recovered herself.
"Ah, yes," she said; "I was afraid I might be obliged to trouble you for an explanation--I see it now. You are shocked (very properly) when feelings of enmity exist between near relations; and you wish to be assured that I bear no malice toward Eunice. She is violent, she is sulky, she is stupid, she is selfish; and she cruelly refuses to live in the same house with me. Make your mind easy, sir, I forgive my sister."
Let me not attempt to disguise it--Miss Helena Gracedieu confounded me.
Ordinary audacity is one of those forms of insolence which mature experience dismisses with contempt. This girl's audacity struck down all resistance, for one shocking reason: it was unquestionably sincere. Strong conviction of her own virtue stared at me in her proud and daring eyes. At that time, I was not aware of what I have learned since. The horrid hardening of her moral sense had been accomplished by herself.