Eunice's base lover spoke first. Judging by the change in his voice, he must have seen something in my father's face that daunted him. Eunice heard it, too. 'He's getting nervous,' she whispered; 'he'll forget to say the right thing at the right time.'
'Mr. Gracedieu,' Philip began, 'I wish to speak to you—'
Father interrupted him: 'We are alone now, Mr. Dunboyne. I want to know why you consult me in private?'
'I am anxious to consult you, sir, on a subject—'
'On what subject? Any religious difficulty?'
'No.'
'Anything I can do for you in the town?'
'Not at all. If you will only allow me—'
'I am still waiting, sir, to know what it is about.'
Philip's voice suddenly became an angry voice. 'Once for all, Mr. Gracedieu,' he said, 'will you let me speak? It's about your daughter—'
'No more of it, Mr. Dunboyne!' (My father was now as loud as Philip.) 'I don't desire to hold a private conversation with you on the subject of my daughter.'
'If you have any personal objection to me, sir, be so good as to state it plainly.'
'You have no right to ask me to do that.'
'You refuse to do it?'
'Positively.'
'You are not very civil, Mr. Gracedieu.'
'If I speak without ceremony, Mr. Dunboyne, you have yourself to thank for it.'
Philip replied to this in a tone of savage irony. 'You are a minister of religion, and you are an old man. Two privileges—and you presume on them both. Good-morning.'
I drew back into a corner, just in time to escape discovery in the character of a listener. Eunice never moved. When Philip dashed into the room, banging the door after him, she threw herself impulsively on his breast: 'Oh, Philip! Philip! what have you done? Why didn't you keep your temper?'
'Did you hear what your father said to me?' he asked.
'Yes, dear; but you ought to have controlled yourself—you ought, indeed, for my sake.'
Her arms were still round him. It struck me that he felt her influence. 'If you wish me to recover myself,' he said, gently, 'you had better let me go.'
'Oh, how cruel, Philip, to leave me when I am so wretched! Why do you want to go?'
'You told me just now what I ought to do,' he answered, still restraining himself. 'If I am to get the better of my temper, I must be left alone.'
'I never said anything about your temper, darling.'
'Didn't you tell me to control myself?'
'Oh, yes! Go back to Papa, and beg him to forgive you.'
'I'll see him damned first!'
If ever a stupid girl deserved such an answer as this, the girl was my sister. I had hitherto (with some difficulty) refrained from interfering. But when Eunice tried to follow Philip out of the house, I could hesitate no longer; I held her back. 'You fool,' I said; 'haven't you made mischief enough already?'
'What am I to do?' she burst out, helplessly.
'Do what I told you to do yesterday—wait.'
Before she could reply, or I could say anything more, the door that led to the landing was opened softly and slyly, and Miss Jillgall peeped in. Eunice instantly left me, and ran to the meddling old maid. They whispered to each other. Miss Jillgall's skinny arm encircled my sister's waist; they disappeared together.
I was only too glad to get rid of them both, and to take the opportunity of writing to Philip. I insisted on an explanation of his conduct while I was in the study—to be given within an hour's time, at a place which I appointed. 'You are not to attempt to justify yourself in writing,' I added in conclusion. 'Let your reply merely inform me if you can keep the appointment. The rest, when we meet.'
Maria took the letter to the hotel, with instructions to wait.
Philip's reply reached me without delay. It pledged him to justify himself as I had desired, and to keep the appointment. My own belief is that the event of to-day will decide his future and mine.
CHAPTER XXVII. EUNICE'S DIARY.
Indeed, I am a most unfortunate creature; everything turns out badly with me. My good, true friend, my dear Selina, has become the object of a hateful doubt in my secret mind. I am afraid she is keeping something from me.
Talking with her about my troubles, I heard for the first time that she had written again to Mrs. Tenbruggen. The object of her letter was to tell her friend of my engagement to young Mr. Dunboyne. I asked her why she had
