“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. When I asked him if he deserved to be forgiven, he made the humblest of all replies—he sighed and said nothing.
“If I did my duty to my sister,” I reminded him, “I should refuse to forgive you, and send you back to Eunice.”
“Your father’s language and your father’s conduct,” he answered, “have released me from that entanglement. I can never go back to Eunice. If you refuse to forgive me, neither you nor she will see anything more of Philip Dunboyne; I promise you that. Are you satisfied now?”
After holding out against him resolutely, I felt myself beginning to yield. When a man has once taken their fancy, what helplessly weak creatures women are! I saw through his vacillating weakness—and yet I trusted him, with both eyes open. My looking-glass is opposite to me while I write. It shows me a contemptible Helena. I lied, and said I was satisfied—to please him.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
It is absurd to put it on record. Of course, I forgave him. What a good Christian I am, after all!
He took my willing hand. “My lovely darling,” he said, “our marriage rests with you. Whether your father approves of it or not, say the word; claim me, and I am yours for life.”