I shrank from telling her that I could be of no further use to her father, while he regarded me with an enmity which I had not deserved. But I saw no reason for concealing that it was my purpose to see Philip Dunboyne.
“You told me yesterday,” I reminded her, “that I was to say you had forgiven him. Do you still wish me to do that?”
“Indeed I do!”
“Have you thought of it seriously? Are you sure of not having been hurried by a generous impulse into saying more than you mean?”
“I have been thinking of it,” she said, “through the wakeful hours of last night—and many things are plain to me, which I was not sure of in the time when I was so happy. He has caused me the bitterest sorrow of my life, but he can’t undo the good that I owe to him. He has made a better girl of me, in the time when his love was mine. I don’t forget that. Miserably as it has ended, I don’t forget that.”
Her voice trembled; the tears rose in her eyes. It was impossible for me to conceal the distress that I felt. The noble creature saw it. “No,” she said faintly; “I am not going to cry. Don’t look so sorry for me.” Her hand pressed my hand gently—she pitied me. When I saw how she struggled to control herself, and did control herself, I declare to God I could have gone down on my knees before her.
She asked to be allowed to speak of Philip again, and for the last time.
“When you meet with him in London, he may perhaps ask if you have seen Eunice.”
“My child! he is sure to ask.”
“Break it to him gently—but don’t let him deceive himself. In this world, he must never hope to see me again.”