I know I was wrong, my dear, to let my love and pity close my lips.
But remember how happy you were at the time. The thought of making you
miserable was more than I could endure--I am so fond of you! Yes; I
began to suspect them, on the day when they first met at the station.
And, I am afraid, I thought it just likely that you might be as cunning
as I was, and have noticed them, too."

Oh, how ignorant she must have been of my true thoughts and feelings!
How strangely people seem to misunderstand their dearest friends!
knowing, as I did, that I could never love any man but Philip, could I
be wicked enough to suppose that Philip would love any woman but me?

I explained to Selina how he had spoken to me, when we were walking
together on the bank of the river. Shall I ever forget those exquisite
words? "I wish I was a better man, Eunice; I wish I was good enough to
be worthy of you." I asked Selina if she thought he was deceiving me
when he said that. She comforted me by owning that he must have been in
earnest, at the time--and then she distressed me by giving the reason
why.

"My love, you must have innocently said something to him, when you
and he were alone, which touched his conscience (when he _had_ a
conscience), and made him ashamed of himself. Ah, you were too fond of
him to see how he changed for the worse, when your vile sister joined
you, and took possession of him again. It made my heart ache to see
you so unsuspicious of them. You asked me, my poor dear, if they had
quarreled--you believed they were tired of walking by the river, when it
was you they were tired of--and you wondered why Helena took him to see
the school. My child! she was the leading spirit at the school, and you
were nobody. Her vanity saw the chance of making him compare you at a
disadvantage with your clever sister. I declare, Euneece, I lose my head
if I only think of it! All the strong points in my character seem to
slip away from me. Would you believe it?--I have neglected that sweet
infant at the cottage; I have even let Mrs. Molly have her baby back
again. If I had the making of the laws, Philip Dunboyne and Helena
Gracedieu should be hanged together on the same gallows. I see I shock
you. Don't let us talk of it! Oh, don't let us talk of it!"

And here am I writing of it! What I had determined not to do, is what I
have done. Am I losing my senses already? The very names that I was most
anxious to keep out of my memory stare me in