“‘Why, Miss Eyre, what are you doing here?’
“‘I had a headache; I could not go with the others, and came out for a stroll.’
“‘I, too, was not very well, and have been left behind.’
“‘I wanted to speak to you, Miss Eyre. I wonder if you have suspected anything lately.’
“‘Suspected? I do not quite comprehend: you are very vague.’
“‘Well, must I be more explicit? Have you fancied that I care more for somebody you know than I care for all the world besides? I suppose you have not, for I thought it better to hide as much as possible what I felt.’
“‘I should be telling an untruth if I were to say I do not understand you, and I trust you will pardon me if I tell you that a girl more worthy of you than Evelina, and one more likely to make you happy, I have never seen.’
“‘Gracious God! what have I done? what a mistake! Miss Eyre, it is you I mean; it is you I love.’
“‘Sir, I thank you, but I can answer at once. _Never_ can I be yours. That decision is irrevocable. I admire you, but cannot love you.’
“She parted from him abruptly, but no sooner had she left him than she was confounded, and wondered who or what it was which gave that answer. She wavered, and thought of going back, but she did not. Later on in the day she heard that Charles had gone home, summoned by sudden business. Two years afterwards his engagement with Evelina was announced, and in three years they were married. It was not what I should call a happy marriage, although they never quarrelled and had five children. To the day of her death Phyllis was not sure whether she had done right or wrong, nor am I.”
IN the year 1850 I was living as governess in the small watering-place S., on the south coast of England. Amongst my friends was a young doctor, B., who had recently come to the town. He had not bought a practice, but his family was known to one or two of the principal inhabitants, and he had begun to do well. He deserved his success, for he was skilful, frank, and gentle, and he did not affect that mystery which in his elder colleagues was already suspected to be nothing but ignorance. He was one of the early graduates of the University of London, and representative of the new school of medical science, relying not so much upon drugs as upon diet and regimen. I was one of his first patients. I had a severe illness lasting for nearly three months; he watched over me carefully and cured me. As I grew better he began to talk on other matters than my health when he visited me. We found that we were both interested in the same books: he lent me his and I lent him mine. It is almost impossible, I should think, for a young man and a young woman to be friends and nothing more, and I confess that my sympathy with him in his admiration of the Elizabethan poets, and my gratitude to him for my recovery passed into affection. I am sure also that he felt affection for me. He became confidential, and told me all his history and troubles. There was one peculiarity in his conversation which was new to me: he never talked down to me, and he was not afraid at times to discuss subjects that in the society to which I had been accustomed were prohibited. Not a word that was improper ever escaped his lips, but he treated me in a measure as if I were a man, and I was flattered that he should put me on a level with himself. It is true that sometimes I fancied he was so unreserved with me because he was sure he was quite safe, for I was poor, and although I was not ugly I was not handsome. However, on the whole, I was very happy in his society, and there was more than a chance that I should become his wife.