cornful. I
declared, in regard to my object in meeting him, that I had changed my
mind, And had decided to shorten a disagreeable interview by waiving my
right to an explanation, and bidding him farewell. Eunice, as I pointed
out, had the first claim to him; Eunice was much more likely to suit
him, as a companion for life, than I was. "In short," I said, in
conclusion, "my inclination for once takes sides with my duty, and
leaves my sister in undisturbed possession of young Mr. Dunboyne." With
this satirical explanation, I rose to say good-by.

I had merely intended to irritate him. He showed a superiority to anger
for which I was not prepared.

"Be so kind as to sit down again," he said quietly.

He took my letter from his pocket, and pointed to that part of it which
alluded to his conduct, when we had met in my father's study.

"You have offered me the opportunity of saying a word in my own
defense," he went on. "I prize that privilege far too highly to consent
to your withdrawing it, merely because you have changed your mind. Let
me at least tell you what my errand was, when I called on your father.
Loving you, and you only, I had forced myself to make a last effort
to be true to your sister. Remember that, Helena, and then say--is it
wonderful if I was beside myself, when I found You in the study?"

"When you tell me you were beside yourself," I said, "do you mean,
ashamed of yourself?"

That touched him. "I mean nothing of the kind," he burst out. "After the
hell on earth in which I have been living between you two sisters, a man
hasn't virtue enough left in him to be ashamed. He's half mad--that's
what he is. Look at my position! I had made up my mind never to see you
again; I had made up my mind (if I married Eunice) to rid myself of my
own miserable life when I could endure it no longer. In that state
of feeling, when my sense of duty depended on my speaking with Mr.
Gracedieu alone, whose was the first face I saw when I entered the room?
If I had dared to look at you, or to speak to you, what do you think
would have become of my resolution to sacrifice myself?"

"What has become of it now?" I asked.

"Tell me first if I am forgiven," he said--"and you shall know."

"Do you deserve to be forgiven?"

It has been discovered by wiser heads than mine that weak people are
always in extremes. So far, I had seen Philip in the vain and violent
extreme. He now shifted suddenly to the sad and submissive extreme