“I will wait till you have done.”
“I have no more to say.”
She made that amazing reply with such perfect composure, that I began to fear there must have been some misunderstanding between us. “Is that really all you have to say for yourself?” I persisted.
Her patience with me was most exemplary. She lowered herself to my level. Not trusting to words only on this occasion, she (so to say) beat her meaning into my head by gesticulating on her fingers, as if she was educating a child.
“Philip and I,” she began, “are the victims of an accident, which kept us apart when we ought to have met together—we are not responsible for an accident.” She impressed this on me by touching her forefinger. “Philip and I fell in love with each other at first sight—we are not responsible for the feelings implanted in our natures by an all-wise Providence.” She assisted me in understanding this by touching her middle finger. “Philip and I owe a duty to each other, and accept a responsibility under those circumstances—the responsibility of getting married.” A touch on her third finger, and an indulgent bow, announced that the lesson was ended. “I am not a clever man like you,” she modestly acknowledged, “but I ask you to help us, when you next see my father, with some confidence. You know exactly what to say to him, by this time. Nothing has been forgotten.”
“Pardon me,” I said, “a person has been forgotten.”
“Indeed? What person?”
“Your sister.”
A little perplexed at first, Miss Helena reflected, and recovered herself.
“Ah, yes,” she said; “I was afraid I might be obliged to trouble you for an explanation—I see it now. You are shocked (very properly) when feelings of enmity exist between near relations; and you wish to be assured that I bear no malice toward Eunice. She is violent, she is sulky, she is stupid, she is selfish; and she cruelly refuses to live in the same house with me. Make your mind easy, sir, I forgive my sister.”