I dared not confess to Eunice that the influence of her murderess-mother might, as I thought possible, have been supernaturally present when she heard temptation whispering in her ear; but I dared not deny it to myself. All that I could say to satisfy and sustain her, I did say. And when I declared--with my whole heart declared--that the noble passion which had elevated her whole being, and had triumphed over the sorest trials that desertion could inflict, would still triumph to the end, I saw hope, in that brave and true heart, showing its bright promise for the future in Eunice's eyes.
She closed and locked her Journal. By common consent we sought the relief of changing the subject. Eunice asked me if it was really necessary that I should return to London.
I shrank from telling her that I could be of no further use to her father, while he regarded me with an enmity which I had not deserved. But I saw no reason for concealing that it was my purpose to see Philip Dunboyne.
"You told me yesterday," I reminded her, "that I was to say you had forgiven him. Do you still wish me to do that?"
"Indeed I do!"
"Have you thought of it seriously? Are you sure of not having been hurried by a generous impulse into saying more than you mean?"
"I have been thinking of it," she said, "through the wakeful hours of last night--and many things are plain to me, which I was not sure of in the time when I was so happy. He has caused me the bitterest sorrow of my life, but he can't undo the good that I owe to him. He has made a better girl of me, in the time when his love was mine. I don't forget that. Miserably as it has ended, I don't forget that."
Her voice trembled; the tears rose in her eyes. It was impossible for me to conceal the distress that I felt. The noble creature saw it. "No," she said faintly; "I am not going to cry. Don't look so sorry for me." Her hand pressed my hand gently--she pitied me. When I saw how she struggled to control herself, and did control herself, I declare to God I could have gone down on my knees before her.
She asked to be allowed to speak of Philip again, and for the last time.
"When you meet with him in London, he may perhaps ask if you have seen Eunice."
"My child! he is sure to ask."
"Break it to him gently--but don't let him deceive himself. In this world, he must never hope to see me again."
I tried--very gently--to remonstrate. "At your age, and at his age," I said, "surely there is hope?"
"There is no hope." She pressed her hand on her heart. "I know it, I feel it, here."
"Oh, Eunice, it's hard for me to say that!"
"I will try to make it easier for you. Say that I have forgiven him--and say no more."
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE GOVERNOR ON HIS GUARD.
After leaving Eunice, my one desire was to be alone. I had much to think of, and I wanted an opportunity of recovering myself. On my way out of the house, in search of the first solitary place that I could discover, I passed the room in which we had dined. The door was ajar. Before I could get by it, Mrs. Tenbruggen stepped out and stopped me.
"Will you come in here for a moment?" she said. "The farmer has been called away, and I want to speak to you."
Very unwillingly--but how could I have refused without giving offense?--I entered the room.
"When you noticed my keeping my name from you," Mrs. Tenbruggen began, "while Selina was with us, you placed me in an awkward position. Our little friend is an excellent creature, but her tongue runs away with her sometimes; I am obliged to be careful of taking her too readily into my confidence. For instance, I have never told her what my name was before I married. Won't you sit down?"
I had purposely remained standing as a hint to her not to prolong the interview. The hint was thrown away; I took a chair.
"Selina's letters had informed me," she resumed, "that Mr. Gracedieu was a nervous invalid. When I came to England, I had hoped to try what massage might do to relieve him. The cure of their popular preacher might have advertised me through the whole of the Congregational sect. It was essential to my success that I should present myself as a stranger. I could trust time and change, and my married name (certainly not known to Mr. Gracedieu) to keep up my incognito. He would have refused to see me if he had known that I was once Miss Chance."
I began to be interested.
Here was an opportunity, perhaps, of discovering what the Minister had failed to remember when he had been speaking of this woman, and when I had asked if he had ever offended her. I was especially careful in making my inquiries.
"I remember how you spoke to Mr. Gracedieu," I said, "when you and he met, long ago, in my rooms. But surely you don't think him capable of vindictively remembering some thoughtless words, which escaped you sixteen or seventeen years since?"
"I am not quite such a fool as that, Mr. Governor. What I was thinking of was an unpleasant correspondence between the Minister and myself. Before I was so unfortunate as to meet with Mr. Tenbruggen, I obtained a chance of employment in a public Institution, on condition that I included a clergyman among my references. Knowing nobody else whom I could apply to, I rashly wrote to Mr. Gracedieu, and received one of those cold and cruel refusals which only the strictest religious principle can produce. I was mortally offended at the time; and if your friend the Minister had been within my reach--" She paused, and finished the sentence by a significant gesture.
"Well," I said, "he is within your reach now."
"And out of his mind," she added. "Besides, one's sense of injury doesn't last (except in novels and plays) through a series of years. I don't pity him--and if an opportunity of shaking his high position among his admiring congregation presented itself, I daresay I might make a mischievous return for his letter to me. In the meanwhile, we may drop the subject. I suppose you understand, now, why I concealed my name from you, and why I kept out of the house while you were in it."
It was plain enough, of course. If I had known her again, or had heard her name, I might have told the Minister that Mrs. Tenbruggen and Miss Chance were one and the same. And if I had seen her and talked with her in the house, my memory might have shown itself capable of improvement. Having politely presented the expression of my thanks, I rose to go.
She stopped me at the door.
"One word more," she said, "while Selina is out of the way. I need hardly tell you that I have not trusted her with the Minister's secret. You and I are, as I take it, the only people now living who know the truth about these two girls. And we keep our advantage."
"What advantage?" I asked.
"Don't you know?"
"I don't indeed."
"No more do I. Female folly, and a slip of the tongue; I am old and ugly, but I am still a woman. About Miss Eunice. Somebody has told the pretty little fool never to trust strangers. You would have been amused, if you had heard that sly young person prevaricating with me.