Maria opened the door; she told me that my sister had already returned, accompanied by Miss Jillgall. There had been apparently some difference of opinion between them, before they entered the house. Eunice had attempted to go on to some other place; and Miss Jillgall had remonstrated. Maria had heard her say: “No, you would degrade yourself”—and, with that, she had led Eunice indoors. I understood, of course, that my sister had been prevented from following Philip to the hotel. There was probably a serious quarrel in store for me. I went straight to the bedroom, expecting to find Eunice there, and prepared to brave the storm that might burst on me. There was a woman at Eunice’s end of the room, removing dresses from the wardrobe. I could only see her back, but it was impossible to mistake that figure—Miss Jillgall. She laid the dresses on Eunice’s bed, without taking the slightest notice of me. In significant silence I pointed to the door. She went on as coolly with her occupation as if the room had been, not mine but hers; I stepped up to her, and spoke plainly.
“You oblige me to remind you,” I said, “that you are not in your own room.” There, I waited a little, and found that I had produced no effect. “With every disposition,” I resumed, “to make allowance for the disagreeable peculiarities of your character, I cannot consent to overlook an act of intrusion, committed by a Spy. Now, do you understand me?”
She looked round her. “I see no third person here,” she said. “May I ask if you mean me?”
“I mean you.”
“Will you be so good, Miss Helena, as to explain yourself?”
Moderation of language would have been thrown away on this woman. “You followed me to the park,” I said. “It was you who found me with Mr. Dunboyne, and betrayed me to my sister. You are a Spy, and you know it. At this very moment you daren’t look me in the face.”
Her insolence forced its way out of her at last. Let me record it—and repay it, when the time comes.
“Quite true,” she replied. “If I ventured to look you in the face, I am afraid I might forget myself. I have always been brought up like a lady, and I wish to show it even in the company of such a wretch as you are. There is not one word of truth in what you have said of me. I went to the hotel to find Mr. Dunboyne. Ah, you may sneer! I haven’t got your good looks—and a vile use you have made of them. My object was to recall that base young man to his duty to my dear charming injured Euneece. The hotel servant told me that Mr. Dunboyne had gone out. Oh, I had the means of persuasion in my pocket! The man directed me to the park, as he had already directed Mr. Dunboyne. It was only when I had found the place, that I heard some one behind me. Poor innocent Euneece had followed me to the hotel, and had got her directions, as I had got mine. God knows how hard I tried to persuade her to go back, and how horribly frightened I was—No! I won’t distress myself by saying a word more. It would be too humiliating to let you see an honest woman in tears. Your sister has a spirit of her own, thank God! She won’t inhabit the same room with you; she never desires to see your false face again. I take the poor soul’s dresses and things away—and as a religious person I wait, confidently wait, for the judgment that will fall on you!”
She caught up the dresses all together; some of them were in her arms, some of them fell on her shoulders, and one of them towered over her head. Smothered in gowns, she bounced out of the room like a walking milliner’s shop. I have to thank the wretched old creature for a moment of genuine amusement, at a time of devouring anxiety. The meanest insect, they say, has its use in this world—and why not Miss Jillgall?
In half an hour more, an unexpected event raised my spirits. I heard from Philip.