I found him to be a man with nothing absolutely wicked in him—but with a nature so perilously weak, in many respects, that it might drift into wickedness unless a stronger nature was at hand to bold it back. Married to a wife without force of character, the probabilities would point to him as likely to yield to examples which might make him a bad husband. Married to a wife with a will of her own, and with true love to sustain her—a wife who would know when to take the command and how to take the command—a wife who, finding him tempted to commit actions unworthy of his better self, would be far-sighted enough to perceive that her husband's sense of honor might sometimes lose its balance, without being on that account hopelessly depraved—then, and, in these cases only, the probabilities would point to Philip as a man likely to be the better and the happier for his situation, when the bonds of wedlock had got him.
But the serious question was not answered yet.
Could I feel justified in placing Eunice in the position toward Philip which I have just endeavored to describe? I dared not allow my mind to dwell on the generosity which had so nobly pardoned him, or on the force of character which had bravely endured the bitterest disappointment, the cruelest humiliation. The one consideration which I was bound to face, was the sacred consideration of her happiness in her life to come.
Leaving Philip, with a few words of sympathy which might help him to bear his suspense, I went to my room to think.
The time passed—and I could arrive at no positive conclusion. Either way—with or without Philip—the contemplation of Eunice's future harassed me with doubt. Even if I had conquered my own indecision, and had made up my mind to sanction the union of the two young people, the difficulties that now beset me would not have been dispersed. Knowing what I alone knew, I could certainly remove Eunice's one objection to the marriage. In other words, I had only to relate what had happened on the day when the Chaplain brought the Minister to the prison, and the obstacle of their union would be removed. But, without considering Philip, it was simply out of the question to do this, in mercy to Eunice herself. What was Helena's disgrace, compared with the infamy which stained the name of the poor girl's mother! The other alternative of telling her part of the truth only was before me, if I could persuade myself to adopt it. I failed to persuade myself; my morbid anxiety for her welfare made me hesitate again. Human patience could endure no more. Rashness prevailed and prudence yielded—I left my decision to be influenced by the coming interview with Eunice.
The next day I drove to the farm. Philip's entreaties persuaded me to let him be my companion, on one condition—that he waited in the carriage while I went into the house.
I had carefully arranged my ideas, and had decided on proceeding with the greatest caution, before I ventured on saying the all-important words which, once spoken, were not to be recalled. The worst of those anxieties, under which the delicate health of Mr. Gracedieu had broken down, was my anxiety now. Could I reconcile it to my conscience to permit a man, innocent of all knowledge of the truth, to marry the daughter of a condemned murderess, without honestly telling him what he was about to do? Did I deserve to be pitied? did I deserve to be blamed?—my mind was still undecided when I entered the house.
She ran to meet me as if she had been my daughter; she kissed me as if she had been my daughter; she fondly looked up at me as if she had been my daughter. At the sight of that sweet young face, so sorrowful, and so patiently enduring sorrow, all my doubts and hesitations, everything artificial about me with which I had entered the room, vanished in an instant.
After she had thanked me for coming to see her, I saw her tremble a little. The uppermost interest in her heart was forcing its way outward to expression, try as she might to keep it back. 'Have you seen Philip?' she asked. The tone in which she put that question decided me—I was resolved to let her marry him. Impulse! Yes, impulse, asserting itself inexcusably in a man at the end of his life. I ought to have known better than to have given way. Very likely. But am I the only mortal who ought to have known better—and did not?
When Eunice asked if I had seen Philip, I owned that he was outside in the carriage. Before she could reproach me, I went on with what I had to say: 'My child, I know what a sacrifice you have made; and I should honor your scruples, if you had any reason for feeling them.'
'Any reason for feeling them?' She turned pale as she repeated the words.
An idea came to me. I rang for the servant, and sent her to the carriage to tell Philip to come in. 'My dear, I am not putting you to any unfair trial,' I assured her; 'I am going to prove that I love you as truly as if you were my own child.'
When they were both present, I resolved that they should not suffer a moment of needless suspense. Standing between them, I took Eunice's hand, and laid my other hand on Philip's shoulder, and spoke out plainly.
'I am here to make you both happy,' I said. 'I can remove the only obstacle to your marriage, and I mean to do it. But I must insist on one condition. Give me your promise, Philip, that you will ask for no explanations, and that you will be satisfied with the one true statement which is all that I can offer to you.'
He gave me his promise, without an instant's hesitation.
'Philip grants what I ask,' I said to Eunice. 'Do you grant it, too?'
Her hand turned cold in mine; but she spoke firmly when she said: 'Yes.'
I gave her into Philip's care. It was his privilege to console and support her. It was my duty to say the decisive words:
'Rouse your courage, dear Eunice; you are no more affected by Helena's disgrace than I am. You are not her sister. Her father is not your father; her mother was not your mother. I was present, in the time of your infancy, when Mr. Gracedieu's fatherly kindness received you as his adopted child. This, I declare to you both, on my word of honor, is the truth.'
How she bore it I am not able to say. My foolish old eyes were filling with tears. I could just see plainly enough to find my way to the door, and leave them together.
In my reckless state of mind, I never asked myself if Time would be my accomplice, and keep the part of the secret which I had not revealed—or be my enemy, and betray me. The chances, either way, were perhaps equal. The deed was done.
CHAPTER LXIV. THE TRUTH TRIUMPHANT.
The marriage was deferred, at Eunice's request, as an expression of respect to the memory of Philip's father.
