Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.The Last Straw.Oh Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,That changeth as the mone!My somer’s day in lusty MayIs derked before the none.The Not-Browne Mayd.There was no letter the next morning. “Gerald must have been too late,” thought Eugenia, trying to think she did not feel anxious. But the morning after that there was none either—none, at least, that she caught sight of at first. There was one with the Wareborough postmark, but it had a black seal and was addressed to her husband, and he prevented her seeing it till he knew its contents. Then he had to tell her. It was from Frank. Eugenia never knew or remembered distinctly anything more of that day, nor of several others that succeeded it. And Captain Chancellor never cared to repeat to any one the wild words of reproach which, in the first moment of agony, had escaped her. But, satisfied though he was that he had acted for the best, there were moments during those days when Beauchamp was thankful to recall the assurance which Sydney’s husband had had the generous thoughtfulness to give in this letter. “Even if Eugenia had returned with my brother it would have been too late;” an assurance which Eugenia’s stunned senses had failed to convey to her brain.This was the history of that day at Wareborough—the day, that is to say, of Gerald’s unsuccessful errand.As soon as he was satisfied that Eugenia had been sent for, Mr Laurence became calmer. He slept at intervals during the day, and when awake seemed so much better that Sydney almost regretted the precipitancy with which she had acted on what was, perhaps, after all, only an invalid’s passing fancy. But by evening she came to think differently. The nervous restlessness returned in an aggravated form. Every few minutes he asked her what o’clock it was, and she, understanding the real motive of the question, replied each time with a little addition of volunteered information.“Seven o’clock, dear papa; theymaybe here by nine, you know;” or, “a quarter to eight; they will be about half-way if they started by the later train.”Between eight and nine, to Sydney’s great relief, her father fell asleep again. She dared not leave him, but sat beside him, watching his restless slumber; wearied herself, she had all but fallen asleep; too, when she was startled by his suddenly addressing her.“Sydney,” he said, “tell me—Eugenia?” His voice was clear, and stronger than it had been of late, yet he seemed to find difficulty in expressing himself. A strange fear seized Sydney.“Not yet, dear father,” she said, consolingly. “She has not come yet. But very soon she must be here.”He looked at her earnestly, as if striving to take in the sense of her words. “No,” he said, at last, “no, it will be too late.” Then a smile broke over his face. “Good-bye, dear Sydney, dear child. Tell Eugenia not to grieve. It is not for long.”Sydney had seen death, but never a death-bed. Death, when all the life-like surroundings are removed, when the last tender offices have been performed, and the soulless form lies before us in solemn calm; in this guise death is easier to believe in—to realise. Butdying, the actual embrace of the grim phantom—a phantom only, thank God—she had never seen, and it came upon her with an awful shock. For some minutes—how many she never knew—she stood there beside the bed, in agonised bewilderment, almost amounting to unconsciousness. The first thing that brought her to herself was the sound of wheels rapidly driving along the street, suddenly stopping at their door.“Eugenia!” cried Sydney, “oh, poor Eugenia! She has come, and it is too late.” Then a mocking hope sprang up in her heart. “Perhaps he has only fainted,” it whispered. She knew it was not so, yet somehow the idea gave her momentary strength. She rang the bell violently. In another moment her husband and the servants were beside her. But in an instant they saw how it was—the good, kind father, the gentle-spirited scholar, the earnest philanthropist had passed through the awful doorway—had entered into “the better country.” And Eugenia had not come!Sydney did not see her brother-in-law that night, but the next day he told her all—not quite all, but enough to prevent her blaming Eugenia—to fill her with unspeakable pity for her sister. To Frank, Gerald was somewhat less communicative.“Fine lady airs and nonsense,” exclaimed the curate. “Not well enough, indeed! Think how Sydney has been travelling about with her father and wearing herself out, poor child. Still I am very sorry for Eugenia. It will be an awful blow to her.”And the letter he wrote to Beauchamp, deputing him, as was natural, to “break the sad tidings” to his wife, was kind and considerate in the extreme.Return of post brought no answer, considerably to their surprise, for Frank’s letter had contained particulars of the arrangements they proposed, among which Captain Chancellor’s presence at the funeral had of course been mentioned. Sydney felt anxious and uneasy; her husband tried to reassure her by reminding her that her nerves had been shaken, and she was inclined to be fanciful in consequence.“It must be some accidental delay,” he said. “Letters seldom go wrong, but when they do, it is sure to happen awkwardly. Besides, I think it just possible Chancellor may be bringing Eugenia over. She will probably wish it.”As he spoke there came a loud ringing at the bell. Sydney started. In the sad days of death’s actual presence in a house such sounds are rare. There were grounds for her apprehension. In another moment a telegram was in Frank’s hands.“From Captain Chancellor to Rev. F. Thurston.“Is it possible for Sydney to come at once? E— is very ill.”The husband and wife looked at each other.“My poor Sydney,” said Frank, “it is very hard upon you.”Within an hour, Sydney was on her way to Halswood. It was a strange, melancholy journey. Arrived at Chilworth, she found the Halswood carriage in waiting, on the chance of her early arrival, and drove off at once. How pretty and fresh, how mockingly bright, the country looked, in its as yet unsullied spring dress! How beautiful the park was, when the carriage turned in at the lodge, and there stretched out before her view, on each side, the broad, undulating sweep of grassy land, fringed round with noble trees! Sydney was town-bred; she loved the country with the yearning, enthusiastic, half-reverent love of one who seldom breathes the fresh, pure air, to whom the country sights and sounds are fascinatingly unfamiliar. In a moment’s forgetfulness she glanced at the baby by her side, asleep in the nurse’s arms: “How fortunate Eugenia is,” she thought, “to have her home here—to be able to look forward to bringing up her children in this lovely place.” Then she remembered all, leant back in her seat, and was conscious of no other feeling save the gnawing anxiety that had accompanied her all the way.When she reached the house, she learnt, somewhat to her surprise, that her brother-in-law was not in. He had only gone out for a stroll in the park, by the doctor’s advice, having been up for two nights and being much fatigued—of course, not thinking it would be possible for Mrs Thurston to arrive so early—was what Blinkhorn informed her, adding, in answer to her eager inquiry, as he condescendingly showed her into the morning-room, that his mistress was “Better—decidedly better. Good hopes were now entertained of her recovery.”Then Sydney had an interview with Mrs Grier, in her element of lugubrious excitement. In somewhat less sanguine terms, she confirmed the favourable report. “But the baby,” she went on to say, “was in a very sad way, poor lamb!—only just alive, and no more.”“The baby!” repeated Sydney, in amazement. “I had no idea—I had no thought of a baby for a long time to come.”“I or any one else, ma’am. It is very hard upon it, poor innocent! to have been hurried into this sad world, this valley of tears, so long before it should have been. But it cannot live, ma’am—they say it is quite impossible; and I am sure there are many of us—myself for one—that will feel it is to be envied.”“Has my sister seen it? A boy, is it?” asked Sydney.“No, ma’am—a girl, fortunately,” replied Mrs Grier, with a curious mingling of conventional sentiment with her unworldly aspirations. “My mistress has seen it, for a moment,—this morning early, when for the first time she seemed quite conscious. It was then she asked for you, and my master sent at once. Poor dear lady! how pleased we were, to be sure.”Real tears shone in the housekeeper’s eyes, and Sydney began to like her better.“I wonder how soon I may see my sister?” she was just saying, when a step in the hall caught her ear. It was Beauchamp. The door opened and he came in—came in, looking well and fresh and handsome—offensively well, thought Sydney; heartlessly cool and comfortable.“Thisiskind, truly kind,” he exclaimed, really meaning what he said, but unable to throw off the “amiable” manner and sweet tone habitual to him when addressing any woman, especially a young one. “I had no idea you could have come so quickly. You have heard, I hope, how much better Eugenia is. All will now, I trust, go on well. She must have had a narrow escape, though,” and his voice grew graver.“Yes,” said Sydney; “I am inexpressibly thankful. But,” she added, “the poor little baby?”“Ah, yes,” replied Beauchamp, indifferently, “poor little thing! It’s a good thing it’s a girl, is it not? You would like to see Eugenia soon, would you not? The doctor said there would be no objection; she wishes it so much. I can’t tell you,” he added, as he led the way upstairs, “I can’t tell you how thankful I have felt that I prevented her going to Wareborough that day. The shock of finding it too late on getting there would have been even worse, and after a fatiguing journey too. Yes, I am very thankful I put a stop to that.” Sydney said nothing. She did not wish to yield to prejudice or dislike, but half a dozen times in the course of this five minutes’ conversation, her brother-in-law had grated on her feelings. It was very inconsiderate of him to speak so of the journey to Wareborough, which he must know had been her dear dead father’s proposal. She almost wished Frank had not told him Eugenia would have been “too late.” She had expected to find Beauchamp full of sympathy, and possibly of self-reproach; here he was, on the contrary, priding himself on what he had done! At least he might have had the grace to refrain from any allusion to so painful a subject. But she said nothing. And soon, very soon, she forgot all about it for the time, in the sorrowful delight of seeing Eugenia again, of listening to her murmured words of intense, unaltered affection, of gratitude and piteous grief.“It was not the shock that did me harm,” she whispered to Sydney, later in the day; “it wasremorse. Oh, to think of what he must have thought of me! My kind, good father!”Then Sydney, who had hitherto dreaded the subject, saw that the time had come for delivering her father’s message. She did so, word for word as it had been given to her.“And so you see, dear Eugenia,” she added, in conclusion, “you need have no remorseful feeling.Henever thought you indifferent; and had you come, it would have been too late. Frank said so in his letter.”“Thank God!” whispered Eugenia; “and thank you, Sydney. I think now a faint remembrance recurs to me of Beauchamp saying my going would have been no use. But I took it as merely a vague consolation of his own. Had I understood it properly, I might have controlled myself better, and then perhaps I would not have been ill. I don’t mind for myself, but the little baby. Oh, Sydney, my poor little baby! They say she cannot live!”She turned her great sorrowful eyes to her sister, as if praying for a more hopeful verdict; but Sydney dared not give it. She had seen the poor little piteous atom of humanity. The only wonder to her was that it lived at all.“And it would have been such a pretty baby!” she murmured. Then another thought struck her. “Has it been baptised?” she asked.“Not yet. We sent to the Rectory, but Mr Dawes is away from home. Then I sent to Stebbing, and Mr Mervyn is coming—he will soon be here. That reminds me— let it be called ‘Sydney’—my mother’s name and yours.”“Will Captain Chancellor like it?” suggested Sydney, not without hesitation.“He need not be asked,” answered Eugenia, quickly. “He cares nothing about it—it is not aboy!” with bitter emphasis. “No, it is all my own—living it is mine—dying, doubly mine. You will do as I ask, Sydney dear?” she added, the almost fierceness of her tone melting again into gentleness.The little creature’s name never became a source of discussion. The feeble life flickered out that very night, leaving, short as had been its span, one sore, desolate heart behind it.Yet, physically, Eugenia made satisfactory progress towards recovery. Sydney began to think of returning home, where her presence was much needed. She did not feel that after the first she was of much comfort to her sister; for as she grew stronger, a cloud of reserve seemed to envelope Eugenia—she to whom it used to be impossible to conceal the most passing fancy. To Sydney she was most loving and affectionate, never wearied of talking over old days, full of interest in the Thurstons’ home-life and prospects. But of her own life and feelings she said hardly a word. It might be right and wise to say nothing, where there was nothing satisfactory to say, thought Sydney; but all the same, it made her very unhappy. Knowing of old Eugenia’s inclination to extremes, she doubted if her grounds for disappointment and dissatisfaction were altogether real and unexaggerated. But she could not urge an unwilling confidence—especially on a subject of which she felt she knew too little to be a wise adviser. For her brother-in-law was almost a complete stranger to her. He was very civil and attentive to her the few times they saw each other during this week, and more than once repeated his thanks for her prompt, response to his summons; but when she said she must fix the day of her return home, he did not press her to stay.“You must come again before long,” he said, “and by that time Eugenia will be all right again. I expect my sister here in a week or two, which will cheer us up a little. It will never do for Eugenia to yield to depression. The doctors assure me she will be all right if she will keep up her spirits, and Mrs Eyrecourt is just the person to discourage that sort of thing—low spirits and hypochondria.”Sydney sighed. She knew very little of Mrs Eyrecourt, but she felt an instinctive doubt of her sister’s “grief being med’cinable” by such doctoring.The day before she left, a little incident occurred which broke down temporarily one side of the barrier of reserve with which Eugenia had surrounded herself. Sydney was sitting by her sister’s bedside; the invalid lying so quietly, that the watcher thought she must be asleep. Suddenly an unexpected sound broke the stillness—an infant’s cry, once or twice repeated, then the sort of sobbing “refrain” with which a very sleepy little baby soothes itself to peace again.Much annoyed, Sydney rose quickly but softly from her seat, and was hastening across the room, when Eugenia’s voice recalled her.“What was that, Sydney?” she inquired. “I was not asleep.”“I am so sorry, dear,” said Sydney, looking very guilty, the colour mounting to her forehead, “I am afraid it is my little boy. You know I was obliged to bring him; but I hoped this would not have happened. Mrs Grier gave us rooms at the other end of the house on purpose; but I suppose nurse, thinking him safely asleep, ventured along the passage.”For a minute Eugenia did not speak. Then she said, gently, “Never mind, Sydney. Perhaps it is best. Kiss me, Sydney.” And when her sister’s face was closely pressed to her own, she whispered, “Even to you, dear, I can hardly tellhowterrible is my feeling of loss—loss of what I never had, you might almost say. But oh, if you knew how I looked forward to what that little life would be to me! Sydney, if you are ever inclined to blame me, pity me too. I need it sorely.”The sisters seemed almost to have changed places. Sydney could hardly answer for the tears that choked her. Eugenia was perfectly calm.“Poor Eugenia, dear Eugenia!” said Sydney at last; “I do know a little at least of what you must be feeling. There have even been times in the last few days when I have not wanted to see my baby—when I have felt almost angry with him for lookingsostrong and healthy. Oh, poor Eugenia!” Eugenia drew her sister’s face down and kissed her again.“Do you remember, Sydney,” she said, suddenly, “a day, long ago, when we were putting camelias in our hair? Mine fell off the stalk, and you said you would not wear yours either, because I had none.”“Yes,” said Sydney, “I remember.” Then they were both silent.“I should like to see your boy,” said Eugenia, in a little—“not to-day, perhaps, but before you go. Bring him to me the last thing, that I may kiss him.”Sydney did so, “the last thing” before leaving the next morning. And thus the sisters parted again.Three more weeks found Eugenia, comparatively speaking, almost well again, and beginning to resume her usual habits. It was the end of May by now; surely the loveliest season of the year, when the colours are brilliant yet tender with the dewy freshness wanting to them later in the year; when there is sunshine without glare, life in abundance with no attendant shadow of already encroaching decay. A season when happy people feel doubly so from nature’s apparent sympathy with their rejoicing, but a season of increased suffering to the sorrowful. Oh, but the sunshine can mock cruelly sometimes! And oh, the agony in the carols of the soulless little birds! And the flowers, even! How heartless the daffodils are, and the primroses, and worst of all, perhaps, the violets! How can you show your heads again, you terrible little blossoms, and in the self-same spots too, where last year my darling’s voice cried out in rapture that she had found you, hidden in the very lane where, day by day, in childish faith, she unweariedly sought you? Does she gather spring flowers now? Are there primroses and violets in the better land? There is “no need of the sun, neither of the moon” in that country, we are told; “there is no night there,” “neither death, nor sorrow, nor crying.” Should not this satisfy us? But it does not. We long, ah! how we long sometimes to know a little, however little more, to see if but for an instant the faces of the children playing in the golden street, by the banks of the crystal river.Eugenia’s little baby’s death had been a bitter disappointment, but in its momentary life there had been no time for the gathering of hereafter bitter associations. Yet the bright spring days added to her sadness and exaggerated her tendency to dwell upon her losses. They had been many and severe, she said to herself: the father whose affection had been tried and true; the infant in whose existence she had bound up many hopes for the future—and besides these, what more had she not lost? “Trust, hope, heart, and energy,” she sadly answered.One day, nearly a month after Sydney’s visit, Beauchamp told her with evident satisfaction, that he had heard from his sister; “she hopes to be here to-morrow,” he added.“To-morrow,” repeated Eugenia, aghast. She had heard something of an impending visit from Mrs Eyrecourt, but she had heard it vaguely. Absorbed in her own thoughts, it had never occurred to her that it was likely to take place so soon, or that the actual date would be fixed without her being further consulted.“Yes, certainly, to-morrow. Why not?” said Beauchamp, coolly. “And I am exceedingly glad she is coming. It is quite time you tried to rouse yourself a little, my dear Eugenia, and some fresh society will do you good.”“Society, Beauchamp?” answered Eugenia, reproachfully, “You cannot expect me to go into societyyet!”“I wasn’t speaking of going out, or anything of that kind. I dare say you are hardly up to that; but Dr Benyon says you would be ever so much better if you had some variety. When Gertrude comes, I want to arrange for going away somewhere.”“I did not mean with regard to my health,” said Eugenia. “I am well enough. I meant, considering other things; how recently—” she broke off, abruptly. “I would rather have been left alone a little longer; but, of course, a visit from your sister is different from any strangers coming.”Captain Chancellor looked slightly uneasy; an intuitive feeling had warned Eugenia that something more was to come. “Gertrude is coming alone,” he said; “but she asks me if we can have the Chancellor girls here a fortnight hence. They are going to stay with her at Winsley, and she would like them to be here part of the time. And of course, there is no possible objection to it? They know we are not going out just now. One or two small dinner-parties and a little croquet, or that sort of thing, will be all they will expect.”Eugenia made no reply. Beauchamp began to get vexed. “You surely are not going to make a new trouble out of such a simple thing as this?” he exclaimed.“I don’t want to make any trouble,” she answered, drearily. “I must do what you tell me; but I do think it cruel of you to put this upon me. I don’t expect you to sympathise in my greatest loss, but Icannotunderstand your not caring about our poor little baby.”Captain Chancellor gave vent to a muttered exclamation of impatience.“You are infatuated, Eugenia!” he exclaimed. “Do you never look at home as the cause of half the things you complain of? It is not true that I did not care about the poor little thing. I cared as much as was natural considering the circumstances, and that it was not a boy. But I detest exaggerated sentiment. And really, you have no right to reproach me. You must know you have no one to thank for this particular trouble but yourself; your own want of self-control and wild behaviour because I had prevented your going off to Wareborough in that insane way, were the cause of it all. I did not intend ever to have alluded to it; but you provoke me, I do believe, intentionally. I cannot express the least wish of late but you set yourself against it. It never seems to occur to you that I have my share of disagreeables to put up with. Do you think the sort of life I have had the last few months was what I looked forward to, or that any man would envy me a wife everlastingly in low spirits like you?”He left the room as he spoke, having, as usual, when he lost his temper, said more than he meant or really felt, regretting already that he had said so much, and at the same time mortified by the consciousness of his rudeness and unkindness. Eugenia remained where he had left her, some degrees more miserable than she had been before this conversation, though such painful scenes were not, unfortunately, so rare as to give any fresh direction to the current of her unhappiness. “Yes,” she thought to herself, “it is all true—it has been a wretched mistake for him too. It is all true, but ah! how terrible for him to be the one to say it.”The next day brought Mrs Eyrecourt—Mrs Eyrecourt, in brilliant spirits and beautiful attire. For the correct number of months of mourning for her cousins having expired some time ago, she had deserted the trailing crape in which her sister-in-law had last seen her, for less lugubrious plumage. And on Eugenia’s present mood, unfortunately, the bright though well assorted colours struck as discordantly as last year’s sable on the feelings of the bride. But there was an unexpected pleasure in store for Beauchamp’s wife. Out of the fly containing the luggage and the maids a small figure appeared. It was Floss—Floss, smaller, queerer, greener-eyed, and more defiant than ever; but internally, nevertheless, in a state of intense excitement and delight at the thought of seeing Aunty ’Genia again, hearing more dolls’ stories, possibly—who could say?—seeing those venerable ladies themselves.“Floss wouldn’t come in the carriage with her uncle and me,” said Gertrude, turning to Eugenia. “She is more of a little savage than ever, I fear.”“Poor Floss!” thought her aunt, as she kissed her.Gertrude was in a very amiable mood. She congratulated Eugenia on looking so well—“Ever so much better than she had expected to see her,” while wondering in her secret heart at the sad change in her sister-in-law’s looks. “It must be partly her clothes,” she decided, and marvelled more that her brother allowed her to wear such “atrociously made mourning.” She sighed as she reflected what a different wife she would have liked to see at the head of her brother’s table, and sighed again as she remembered her own short-sightedness in another direction. But her sighs were upstairs in her own room. Downstairs, she was amiability and liveliness itself. She talked, and laughed, and asked questions about the neighbours and neighbourhood, to which nearly all the answers came from Beauchamp—for in most instances Eugenia’s information was at fault, her interest palpably languid. Yet when Gertrude turned from her with a patronising “Oh, no, of course, you have not met them—it was when you were ill;” or “Ah, yes, I remember you were not there,” Eugenia felt unreasonably indignant. Altogether, this first evening left her with a mortifying sensation of being an outsider in her own home; she felt again the same sensation of loneliness and isolation, of being in no wise essential to her husband’s well-being, which had so depressed her the first evening at Winsley. And more bitterly than ever her thoughts went back over and over again to the irreparable past.“Aunty,” inquired Floss, a day or two after this, when she was alone with Eugenia, “are you as pwetty as you used to be?”The stare of the blue-green eyes was rather disconcerting.“I don’t know, Moss,” said Eugenia. “I daresay not, but it doesn’t matter. What makes you ask?”“What does ‘failed off’ mean?” continued Floss, pursuing her own train of thought.“I won’t answer silly questions, Floss,” replied her aunt, her face flushing, nevertheless.“’Tisn’t silly,” said Floss, indignantly. “Big people said it. Mamma said you had failed offtewibly, and Uncle Beachey looked cross and said it was your own fault. I don’t think Uncle Beachey is nice at all. He spoke so cwoss. I thought falling off meant tumbling and hurting yourself, but it doesn’t. It’s something about being pwetty and ugly. And mamma said she wished she hadn’t interfered once, and then somebody else who wouldn’t have failed off would have been here. Does it mean about widing? Everybody says Aunty Woma looks pwetty widing, and Iknowmamma meant her.”So far, in a sort of stupor of bewildered amazement, Eugenia had listened in silence to the child’s curiously jumbled revelation. Suddenly she recollected herself.“Floss,” she said, sternly, “you must not repeat what you were not meant to hear, and I will not listen to you.”“It wasn’t not meant for me not to hear. I was just playing with my new doll. I never listened behind the curtains. I never did,” said Floss, “not since the day I cut the worm up, and Uncle Beachey scolded me. The day Aunty Woma said she’d go away, and Uncle Beachey was angwy. And I never told that mamma scolded Aunty Woma till she cwied. Aunty Woma didn’t go away, but Uncle Beachey did, and when he comed back he bwought you, Aunty ’Genia, and I wish you wouldn’t look so gwave. Please don’t be angwy with me.” There was an “et tu, Brute,” inflection in the child’s tone which, through all her tumultuous feelings, touched Eugenia. She stooped to kiss Floss, promising her not to be angry if she would never again talk about what she heard big people say. Then she sent her away to her dolls, and sat by herself trying to think over what she had heard, calmly; trying to persuade herself the inference to be drawn from Floss’s garbled communication was not what her first instinct had told her it was; trying to believe itcouldnot be true that her husband had never really cared for her—that he had married her merely in a fit of mortified vanity, “out of pique.”Beauchamp was away that day. He had left home on a two days’ visit in the neighbourhood, in which, greatly to her disgust, Mrs Eyrecourt had not been invited to accompany him. Had he been at home, doubtless Eugenia, in her first impetuous excitement, would have rushed to him for confirmation or refutation of what her morbid imagination had already worked up into a plausible history of deception and concealment on his part—of cruel advantage taken of her inexperience and confiding trust—an explanation, she told herself, of his having so quickly grown weary of her, to which it now seemed to her innumerable, little-considered trifles pointed as the true one.“Not that I blame him for loving Roma,” she thought. “Oh no—not that. But he knew I was giving him my all, and he took it, sought it, knowing he had nothing to give me in return. Ah, it was cruel!”She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples and burning eyes. It was too late in the day for any relief by tears; she felt as if she could never cry again. For a long time she sat there motionless. Then a sudden thought struck her. “I will hear the whole truth,” she said, with a sudden fierce determination. “I will make his sister tell it all. There is nothing dishonourable in forcing her to tell me what he has wilfully concealed, if, as the child says, they talk together of the past, and wish now—now that I am his wife, the mother of his child,” (this thought, alas! bringing no softening influence with it) “that it could be undone. Yes, I will make her tell it all, and she shall see what she has done—ruined two lives, if not three.”But through her tremendous excitement she remembered one trifling consideration. She would not betray poor baby Floss. Mrs Eyrecourt should never know how she had learnt the truth.

Oh Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,That changeth as the mone!My somer’s day in lusty MayIs derked before the none.The Not-Browne Mayd.

Oh Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,That changeth as the mone!My somer’s day in lusty MayIs derked before the none.The Not-Browne Mayd.

There was no letter the next morning. “Gerald must have been too late,” thought Eugenia, trying to think she did not feel anxious. But the morning after that there was none either—none, at least, that she caught sight of at first. There was one with the Wareborough postmark, but it had a black seal and was addressed to her husband, and he prevented her seeing it till he knew its contents. Then he had to tell her. It was from Frank. Eugenia never knew or remembered distinctly anything more of that day, nor of several others that succeeded it. And Captain Chancellor never cared to repeat to any one the wild words of reproach which, in the first moment of agony, had escaped her. But, satisfied though he was that he had acted for the best, there were moments during those days when Beauchamp was thankful to recall the assurance which Sydney’s husband had had the generous thoughtfulness to give in this letter. “Even if Eugenia had returned with my brother it would have been too late;” an assurance which Eugenia’s stunned senses had failed to convey to her brain.

This was the history of that day at Wareborough—the day, that is to say, of Gerald’s unsuccessful errand.

As soon as he was satisfied that Eugenia had been sent for, Mr Laurence became calmer. He slept at intervals during the day, and when awake seemed so much better that Sydney almost regretted the precipitancy with which she had acted on what was, perhaps, after all, only an invalid’s passing fancy. But by evening she came to think differently. The nervous restlessness returned in an aggravated form. Every few minutes he asked her what o’clock it was, and she, understanding the real motive of the question, replied each time with a little addition of volunteered information.

“Seven o’clock, dear papa; theymaybe here by nine, you know;” or, “a quarter to eight; they will be about half-way if they started by the later train.”

Between eight and nine, to Sydney’s great relief, her father fell asleep again. She dared not leave him, but sat beside him, watching his restless slumber; wearied herself, she had all but fallen asleep; too, when she was startled by his suddenly addressing her.

“Sydney,” he said, “tell me—Eugenia?” His voice was clear, and stronger than it had been of late, yet he seemed to find difficulty in expressing himself. A strange fear seized Sydney.

“Not yet, dear father,” she said, consolingly. “She has not come yet. But very soon she must be here.”

He looked at her earnestly, as if striving to take in the sense of her words. “No,” he said, at last, “no, it will be too late.” Then a smile broke over his face. “Good-bye, dear Sydney, dear child. Tell Eugenia not to grieve. It is not for long.”

Sydney had seen death, but never a death-bed. Death, when all the life-like surroundings are removed, when the last tender offices have been performed, and the soulless form lies before us in solemn calm; in this guise death is easier to believe in—to realise. Butdying, the actual embrace of the grim phantom—a phantom only, thank God—she had never seen, and it came upon her with an awful shock. For some minutes—how many she never knew—she stood there beside the bed, in agonised bewilderment, almost amounting to unconsciousness. The first thing that brought her to herself was the sound of wheels rapidly driving along the street, suddenly stopping at their door.

“Eugenia!” cried Sydney, “oh, poor Eugenia! She has come, and it is too late.” Then a mocking hope sprang up in her heart. “Perhaps he has only fainted,” it whispered. She knew it was not so, yet somehow the idea gave her momentary strength. She rang the bell violently. In another moment her husband and the servants were beside her. But in an instant they saw how it was—the good, kind father, the gentle-spirited scholar, the earnest philanthropist had passed through the awful doorway—had entered into “the better country.” And Eugenia had not come!

Sydney did not see her brother-in-law that night, but the next day he told her all—not quite all, but enough to prevent her blaming Eugenia—to fill her with unspeakable pity for her sister. To Frank, Gerald was somewhat less communicative.

“Fine lady airs and nonsense,” exclaimed the curate. “Not well enough, indeed! Think how Sydney has been travelling about with her father and wearing herself out, poor child. Still I am very sorry for Eugenia. It will be an awful blow to her.”

And the letter he wrote to Beauchamp, deputing him, as was natural, to “break the sad tidings” to his wife, was kind and considerate in the extreme.

Return of post brought no answer, considerably to their surprise, for Frank’s letter had contained particulars of the arrangements they proposed, among which Captain Chancellor’s presence at the funeral had of course been mentioned. Sydney felt anxious and uneasy; her husband tried to reassure her by reminding her that her nerves had been shaken, and she was inclined to be fanciful in consequence.

“It must be some accidental delay,” he said. “Letters seldom go wrong, but when they do, it is sure to happen awkwardly. Besides, I think it just possible Chancellor may be bringing Eugenia over. She will probably wish it.”

As he spoke there came a loud ringing at the bell. Sydney started. In the sad days of death’s actual presence in a house such sounds are rare. There were grounds for her apprehension. In another moment a telegram was in Frank’s hands.

“From Captain Chancellor to Rev. F. Thurston.

“Is it possible for Sydney to come at once? E— is very ill.”

“Is it possible for Sydney to come at once? E— is very ill.”

The husband and wife looked at each other.

“My poor Sydney,” said Frank, “it is very hard upon you.”

Within an hour, Sydney was on her way to Halswood. It was a strange, melancholy journey. Arrived at Chilworth, she found the Halswood carriage in waiting, on the chance of her early arrival, and drove off at once. How pretty and fresh, how mockingly bright, the country looked, in its as yet unsullied spring dress! How beautiful the park was, when the carriage turned in at the lodge, and there stretched out before her view, on each side, the broad, undulating sweep of grassy land, fringed round with noble trees! Sydney was town-bred; she loved the country with the yearning, enthusiastic, half-reverent love of one who seldom breathes the fresh, pure air, to whom the country sights and sounds are fascinatingly unfamiliar. In a moment’s forgetfulness she glanced at the baby by her side, asleep in the nurse’s arms: “How fortunate Eugenia is,” she thought, “to have her home here—to be able to look forward to bringing up her children in this lovely place.” Then she remembered all, leant back in her seat, and was conscious of no other feeling save the gnawing anxiety that had accompanied her all the way.

When she reached the house, she learnt, somewhat to her surprise, that her brother-in-law was not in. He had only gone out for a stroll in the park, by the doctor’s advice, having been up for two nights and being much fatigued—of course, not thinking it would be possible for Mrs Thurston to arrive so early—was what Blinkhorn informed her, adding, in answer to her eager inquiry, as he condescendingly showed her into the morning-room, that his mistress was “Better—decidedly better. Good hopes were now entertained of her recovery.”

Then Sydney had an interview with Mrs Grier, in her element of lugubrious excitement. In somewhat less sanguine terms, she confirmed the favourable report. “But the baby,” she went on to say, “was in a very sad way, poor lamb!—only just alive, and no more.”

“The baby!” repeated Sydney, in amazement. “I had no idea—I had no thought of a baby for a long time to come.”

“I or any one else, ma’am. It is very hard upon it, poor innocent! to have been hurried into this sad world, this valley of tears, so long before it should have been. But it cannot live, ma’am—they say it is quite impossible; and I am sure there are many of us—myself for one—that will feel it is to be envied.”

“Has my sister seen it? A boy, is it?” asked Sydney.

“No, ma’am—a girl, fortunately,” replied Mrs Grier, with a curious mingling of conventional sentiment with her unworldly aspirations. “My mistress has seen it, for a moment,—this morning early, when for the first time she seemed quite conscious. It was then she asked for you, and my master sent at once. Poor dear lady! how pleased we were, to be sure.”

Real tears shone in the housekeeper’s eyes, and Sydney began to like her better.

“I wonder how soon I may see my sister?” she was just saying, when a step in the hall caught her ear. It was Beauchamp. The door opened and he came in—came in, looking well and fresh and handsome—offensively well, thought Sydney; heartlessly cool and comfortable.

“Thisiskind, truly kind,” he exclaimed, really meaning what he said, but unable to throw off the “amiable” manner and sweet tone habitual to him when addressing any woman, especially a young one. “I had no idea you could have come so quickly. You have heard, I hope, how much better Eugenia is. All will now, I trust, go on well. She must have had a narrow escape, though,” and his voice grew graver.

“Yes,” said Sydney; “I am inexpressibly thankful. But,” she added, “the poor little baby?”

“Ah, yes,” replied Beauchamp, indifferently, “poor little thing! It’s a good thing it’s a girl, is it not? You would like to see Eugenia soon, would you not? The doctor said there would be no objection; she wishes it so much. I can’t tell you,” he added, as he led the way upstairs, “I can’t tell you how thankful I have felt that I prevented her going to Wareborough that day. The shock of finding it too late on getting there would have been even worse, and after a fatiguing journey too. Yes, I am very thankful I put a stop to that.” Sydney said nothing. She did not wish to yield to prejudice or dislike, but half a dozen times in the course of this five minutes’ conversation, her brother-in-law had grated on her feelings. It was very inconsiderate of him to speak so of the journey to Wareborough, which he must know had been her dear dead father’s proposal. She almost wished Frank had not told him Eugenia would have been “too late.” She had expected to find Beauchamp full of sympathy, and possibly of self-reproach; here he was, on the contrary, priding himself on what he had done! At least he might have had the grace to refrain from any allusion to so painful a subject. But she said nothing. And soon, very soon, she forgot all about it for the time, in the sorrowful delight of seeing Eugenia again, of listening to her murmured words of intense, unaltered affection, of gratitude and piteous grief.

“It was not the shock that did me harm,” she whispered to Sydney, later in the day; “it wasremorse. Oh, to think of what he must have thought of me! My kind, good father!”

Then Sydney, who had hitherto dreaded the subject, saw that the time had come for delivering her father’s message. She did so, word for word as it had been given to her.

“And so you see, dear Eugenia,” she added, in conclusion, “you need have no remorseful feeling.Henever thought you indifferent; and had you come, it would have been too late. Frank said so in his letter.”

“Thank God!” whispered Eugenia; “and thank you, Sydney. I think now a faint remembrance recurs to me of Beauchamp saying my going would have been no use. But I took it as merely a vague consolation of his own. Had I understood it properly, I might have controlled myself better, and then perhaps I would not have been ill. I don’t mind for myself, but the little baby. Oh, Sydney, my poor little baby! They say she cannot live!”

She turned her great sorrowful eyes to her sister, as if praying for a more hopeful verdict; but Sydney dared not give it. She had seen the poor little piteous atom of humanity. The only wonder to her was that it lived at all.

“And it would have been such a pretty baby!” she murmured. Then another thought struck her. “Has it been baptised?” she asked.

“Not yet. We sent to the Rectory, but Mr Dawes is away from home. Then I sent to Stebbing, and Mr Mervyn is coming—he will soon be here. That reminds me— let it be called ‘Sydney’—my mother’s name and yours.”

“Will Captain Chancellor like it?” suggested Sydney, not without hesitation.

“He need not be asked,” answered Eugenia, quickly. “He cares nothing about it—it is not aboy!” with bitter emphasis. “No, it is all my own—living it is mine—dying, doubly mine. You will do as I ask, Sydney dear?” she added, the almost fierceness of her tone melting again into gentleness.

The little creature’s name never became a source of discussion. The feeble life flickered out that very night, leaving, short as had been its span, one sore, desolate heart behind it.

Yet, physically, Eugenia made satisfactory progress towards recovery. Sydney began to think of returning home, where her presence was much needed. She did not feel that after the first she was of much comfort to her sister; for as she grew stronger, a cloud of reserve seemed to envelope Eugenia—she to whom it used to be impossible to conceal the most passing fancy. To Sydney she was most loving and affectionate, never wearied of talking over old days, full of interest in the Thurstons’ home-life and prospects. But of her own life and feelings she said hardly a word. It might be right and wise to say nothing, where there was nothing satisfactory to say, thought Sydney; but all the same, it made her very unhappy. Knowing of old Eugenia’s inclination to extremes, she doubted if her grounds for disappointment and dissatisfaction were altogether real and unexaggerated. But she could not urge an unwilling confidence—especially on a subject of which she felt she knew too little to be a wise adviser. For her brother-in-law was almost a complete stranger to her. He was very civil and attentive to her the few times they saw each other during this week, and more than once repeated his thanks for her prompt, response to his summons; but when she said she must fix the day of her return home, he did not press her to stay.

“You must come again before long,” he said, “and by that time Eugenia will be all right again. I expect my sister here in a week or two, which will cheer us up a little. It will never do for Eugenia to yield to depression. The doctors assure me she will be all right if she will keep up her spirits, and Mrs Eyrecourt is just the person to discourage that sort of thing—low spirits and hypochondria.”

Sydney sighed. She knew very little of Mrs Eyrecourt, but she felt an instinctive doubt of her sister’s “grief being med’cinable” by such doctoring.

The day before she left, a little incident occurred which broke down temporarily one side of the barrier of reserve with which Eugenia had surrounded herself. Sydney was sitting by her sister’s bedside; the invalid lying so quietly, that the watcher thought she must be asleep. Suddenly an unexpected sound broke the stillness—an infant’s cry, once or twice repeated, then the sort of sobbing “refrain” with which a very sleepy little baby soothes itself to peace again.

Much annoyed, Sydney rose quickly but softly from her seat, and was hastening across the room, when Eugenia’s voice recalled her.

“What was that, Sydney?” she inquired. “I was not asleep.”

“I am so sorry, dear,” said Sydney, looking very guilty, the colour mounting to her forehead, “I am afraid it is my little boy. You know I was obliged to bring him; but I hoped this would not have happened. Mrs Grier gave us rooms at the other end of the house on purpose; but I suppose nurse, thinking him safely asleep, ventured along the passage.”

For a minute Eugenia did not speak. Then she said, gently, “Never mind, Sydney. Perhaps it is best. Kiss me, Sydney.” And when her sister’s face was closely pressed to her own, she whispered, “Even to you, dear, I can hardly tellhowterrible is my feeling of loss—loss of what I never had, you might almost say. But oh, if you knew how I looked forward to what that little life would be to me! Sydney, if you are ever inclined to blame me, pity me too. I need it sorely.”

The sisters seemed almost to have changed places. Sydney could hardly answer for the tears that choked her. Eugenia was perfectly calm.

“Poor Eugenia, dear Eugenia!” said Sydney at last; “I do know a little at least of what you must be feeling. There have even been times in the last few days when I have not wanted to see my baby—when I have felt almost angry with him for lookingsostrong and healthy. Oh, poor Eugenia!” Eugenia drew her sister’s face down and kissed her again.

“Do you remember, Sydney,” she said, suddenly, “a day, long ago, when we were putting camelias in our hair? Mine fell off the stalk, and you said you would not wear yours either, because I had none.”

“Yes,” said Sydney, “I remember.” Then they were both silent.

“I should like to see your boy,” said Eugenia, in a little—“not to-day, perhaps, but before you go. Bring him to me the last thing, that I may kiss him.”

Sydney did so, “the last thing” before leaving the next morning. And thus the sisters parted again.

Three more weeks found Eugenia, comparatively speaking, almost well again, and beginning to resume her usual habits. It was the end of May by now; surely the loveliest season of the year, when the colours are brilliant yet tender with the dewy freshness wanting to them later in the year; when there is sunshine without glare, life in abundance with no attendant shadow of already encroaching decay. A season when happy people feel doubly so from nature’s apparent sympathy with their rejoicing, but a season of increased suffering to the sorrowful. Oh, but the sunshine can mock cruelly sometimes! And oh, the agony in the carols of the soulless little birds! And the flowers, even! How heartless the daffodils are, and the primroses, and worst of all, perhaps, the violets! How can you show your heads again, you terrible little blossoms, and in the self-same spots too, where last year my darling’s voice cried out in rapture that she had found you, hidden in the very lane where, day by day, in childish faith, she unweariedly sought you? Does she gather spring flowers now? Are there primroses and violets in the better land? There is “no need of the sun, neither of the moon” in that country, we are told; “there is no night there,” “neither death, nor sorrow, nor crying.” Should not this satisfy us? But it does not. We long, ah! how we long sometimes to know a little, however little more, to see if but for an instant the faces of the children playing in the golden street, by the banks of the crystal river.

Eugenia’s little baby’s death had been a bitter disappointment, but in its momentary life there had been no time for the gathering of hereafter bitter associations. Yet the bright spring days added to her sadness and exaggerated her tendency to dwell upon her losses. They had been many and severe, she said to herself: the father whose affection had been tried and true; the infant in whose existence she had bound up many hopes for the future—and besides these, what more had she not lost? “Trust, hope, heart, and energy,” she sadly answered.

One day, nearly a month after Sydney’s visit, Beauchamp told her with evident satisfaction, that he had heard from his sister; “she hopes to be here to-morrow,” he added.

“To-morrow,” repeated Eugenia, aghast. She had heard something of an impending visit from Mrs Eyrecourt, but she had heard it vaguely. Absorbed in her own thoughts, it had never occurred to her that it was likely to take place so soon, or that the actual date would be fixed without her being further consulted.

“Yes, certainly, to-morrow. Why not?” said Beauchamp, coolly. “And I am exceedingly glad she is coming. It is quite time you tried to rouse yourself a little, my dear Eugenia, and some fresh society will do you good.”

“Society, Beauchamp?” answered Eugenia, reproachfully, “You cannot expect me to go into societyyet!”

“I wasn’t speaking of going out, or anything of that kind. I dare say you are hardly up to that; but Dr Benyon says you would be ever so much better if you had some variety. When Gertrude comes, I want to arrange for going away somewhere.”

“I did not mean with regard to my health,” said Eugenia. “I am well enough. I meant, considering other things; how recently—” she broke off, abruptly. “I would rather have been left alone a little longer; but, of course, a visit from your sister is different from any strangers coming.”

Captain Chancellor looked slightly uneasy; an intuitive feeling had warned Eugenia that something more was to come. “Gertrude is coming alone,” he said; “but she asks me if we can have the Chancellor girls here a fortnight hence. They are going to stay with her at Winsley, and she would like them to be here part of the time. And of course, there is no possible objection to it? They know we are not going out just now. One or two small dinner-parties and a little croquet, or that sort of thing, will be all they will expect.”

Eugenia made no reply. Beauchamp began to get vexed. “You surely are not going to make a new trouble out of such a simple thing as this?” he exclaimed.

“I don’t want to make any trouble,” she answered, drearily. “I must do what you tell me; but I do think it cruel of you to put this upon me. I don’t expect you to sympathise in my greatest loss, but Icannotunderstand your not caring about our poor little baby.”

Captain Chancellor gave vent to a muttered exclamation of impatience.

“You are infatuated, Eugenia!” he exclaimed. “Do you never look at home as the cause of half the things you complain of? It is not true that I did not care about the poor little thing. I cared as much as was natural considering the circumstances, and that it was not a boy. But I detest exaggerated sentiment. And really, you have no right to reproach me. You must know you have no one to thank for this particular trouble but yourself; your own want of self-control and wild behaviour because I had prevented your going off to Wareborough in that insane way, were the cause of it all. I did not intend ever to have alluded to it; but you provoke me, I do believe, intentionally. I cannot express the least wish of late but you set yourself against it. It never seems to occur to you that I have my share of disagreeables to put up with. Do you think the sort of life I have had the last few months was what I looked forward to, or that any man would envy me a wife everlastingly in low spirits like you?”

He left the room as he spoke, having, as usual, when he lost his temper, said more than he meant or really felt, regretting already that he had said so much, and at the same time mortified by the consciousness of his rudeness and unkindness. Eugenia remained where he had left her, some degrees more miserable than she had been before this conversation, though such painful scenes were not, unfortunately, so rare as to give any fresh direction to the current of her unhappiness. “Yes,” she thought to herself, “it is all true—it has been a wretched mistake for him too. It is all true, but ah! how terrible for him to be the one to say it.”

The next day brought Mrs Eyrecourt—Mrs Eyrecourt, in brilliant spirits and beautiful attire. For the correct number of months of mourning for her cousins having expired some time ago, she had deserted the trailing crape in which her sister-in-law had last seen her, for less lugubrious plumage. And on Eugenia’s present mood, unfortunately, the bright though well assorted colours struck as discordantly as last year’s sable on the feelings of the bride. But there was an unexpected pleasure in store for Beauchamp’s wife. Out of the fly containing the luggage and the maids a small figure appeared. It was Floss—Floss, smaller, queerer, greener-eyed, and more defiant than ever; but internally, nevertheless, in a state of intense excitement and delight at the thought of seeing Aunty ’Genia again, hearing more dolls’ stories, possibly—who could say?—seeing those venerable ladies themselves.

“Floss wouldn’t come in the carriage with her uncle and me,” said Gertrude, turning to Eugenia. “She is more of a little savage than ever, I fear.”

“Poor Floss!” thought her aunt, as she kissed her.

Gertrude was in a very amiable mood. She congratulated Eugenia on looking so well—“Ever so much better than she had expected to see her,” while wondering in her secret heart at the sad change in her sister-in-law’s looks. “It must be partly her clothes,” she decided, and marvelled more that her brother allowed her to wear such “atrociously made mourning.” She sighed as she reflected what a different wife she would have liked to see at the head of her brother’s table, and sighed again as she remembered her own short-sightedness in another direction. But her sighs were upstairs in her own room. Downstairs, she was amiability and liveliness itself. She talked, and laughed, and asked questions about the neighbours and neighbourhood, to which nearly all the answers came from Beauchamp—for in most instances Eugenia’s information was at fault, her interest palpably languid. Yet when Gertrude turned from her with a patronising “Oh, no, of course, you have not met them—it was when you were ill;” or “Ah, yes, I remember you were not there,” Eugenia felt unreasonably indignant. Altogether, this first evening left her with a mortifying sensation of being an outsider in her own home; she felt again the same sensation of loneliness and isolation, of being in no wise essential to her husband’s well-being, which had so depressed her the first evening at Winsley. And more bitterly than ever her thoughts went back over and over again to the irreparable past.

“Aunty,” inquired Floss, a day or two after this, when she was alone with Eugenia, “are you as pwetty as you used to be?”

The stare of the blue-green eyes was rather disconcerting.

“I don’t know, Moss,” said Eugenia. “I daresay not, but it doesn’t matter. What makes you ask?”

“What does ‘failed off’ mean?” continued Floss, pursuing her own train of thought.

“I won’t answer silly questions, Floss,” replied her aunt, her face flushing, nevertheless.

“’Tisn’t silly,” said Floss, indignantly. “Big people said it. Mamma said you had failed offtewibly, and Uncle Beachey looked cross and said it was your own fault. I don’t think Uncle Beachey is nice at all. He spoke so cwoss. I thought falling off meant tumbling and hurting yourself, but it doesn’t. It’s something about being pwetty and ugly. And mamma said she wished she hadn’t interfered once, and then somebody else who wouldn’t have failed off would have been here. Does it mean about widing? Everybody says Aunty Woma looks pwetty widing, and Iknowmamma meant her.”

So far, in a sort of stupor of bewildered amazement, Eugenia had listened in silence to the child’s curiously jumbled revelation. Suddenly she recollected herself.

“Floss,” she said, sternly, “you must not repeat what you were not meant to hear, and I will not listen to you.”

“It wasn’t not meant for me not to hear. I was just playing with my new doll. I never listened behind the curtains. I never did,” said Floss, “not since the day I cut the worm up, and Uncle Beachey scolded me. The day Aunty Woma said she’d go away, and Uncle Beachey was angwy. And I never told that mamma scolded Aunty Woma till she cwied. Aunty Woma didn’t go away, but Uncle Beachey did, and when he comed back he bwought you, Aunty ’Genia, and I wish you wouldn’t look so gwave. Please don’t be angwy with me.” There was an “et tu, Brute,” inflection in the child’s tone which, through all her tumultuous feelings, touched Eugenia. She stooped to kiss Floss, promising her not to be angry if she would never again talk about what she heard big people say. Then she sent her away to her dolls, and sat by herself trying to think over what she had heard, calmly; trying to persuade herself the inference to be drawn from Floss’s garbled communication was not what her first instinct had told her it was; trying to believe itcouldnot be true that her husband had never really cared for her—that he had married her merely in a fit of mortified vanity, “out of pique.”

Beauchamp was away that day. He had left home on a two days’ visit in the neighbourhood, in which, greatly to her disgust, Mrs Eyrecourt had not been invited to accompany him. Had he been at home, doubtless Eugenia, in her first impetuous excitement, would have rushed to him for confirmation or refutation of what her morbid imagination had already worked up into a plausible history of deception and concealment on his part—of cruel advantage taken of her inexperience and confiding trust—an explanation, she told herself, of his having so quickly grown weary of her, to which it now seemed to her innumerable, little-considered trifles pointed as the true one.

“Not that I blame him for loving Roma,” she thought. “Oh no—not that. But he knew I was giving him my all, and he took it, sought it, knowing he had nothing to give me in return. Ah, it was cruel!”

She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples and burning eyes. It was too late in the day for any relief by tears; she felt as if she could never cry again. For a long time she sat there motionless. Then a sudden thought struck her. “I will hear the whole truth,” she said, with a sudden fierce determination. “I will make his sister tell it all. There is nothing dishonourable in forcing her to tell me what he has wilfully concealed, if, as the child says, they talk together of the past, and wish now—now that I am his wife, the mother of his child,” (this thought, alas! bringing no softening influence with it) “that it could be undone. Yes, I will make her tell it all, and she shall see what she has done—ruined two lives, if not three.”

But through her tremendous excitement she remembered one trifling consideration. She would not betray poor baby Floss. Mrs Eyrecourt should never know how she had learnt the truth.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.Friends in Need.Did I speak once angrily......You woman I loved so well,Who married the other?R. Browning.The days were almost at their longest, but it was late enough to be nearly dark one evening, when a fly rattled along the street in Wareborough where the Thurstons lived, and drew up at the curate’s door. Frank was out: he had been sent for by a dying parishioner, and had warned his wife he might be detained till late—she had better not sit up for him. Sydney had just made up her mind to act upon this injunction, and was gathering her feminine odds-and-ends about her, previous to going to bed, when the unexpected sound of an arrival startled her in the midst of her housewifely “redding up.”She was standing in the middle of her pretty little drawing-room, her work-basket in one hand, the book she had been reading in the other, the lamplight falling softly on her fair, quiet face and deep mourning dress—a peaceful, home-like picture, it seemed to the stranger, who suddenly came in upon the scene. A tall, black figure, with veiled face and shrouding drapery, stood in the doorway. Sydney was not hysterical, so she did not scream, but for a moment or two her heart beat fast, and her breathing seemed short and irregular. Who could it be?“Sydney,” said the veiled woman, “don’t be startled, dear. It is only I.”“Eugenia!” exclaimed the sister, scarcely less startled than before. “Can it be you, Eugenia? Oh, what is wrong? What is the matter?”Before answering, the new-comer turned to the door, said a word to the servant waiting just outside—a word of directions as to paying the driver, for which purpose she handed her purse to Sydney’s mystified handmaiden—then, re-entering the room, she carefully closed the door.“Can you take me in for a night, Sydney?” she asked. “You see, I have made sure of your doing so. I had nowhere else to go to.” She sat down, as she spoke, on the nearest chair: her attitude told of extreme dejection, her voice sounded faint and weary.“Take you in, dearest? Of course we can, and with the greatest pleasure,” said Sydney, warmly. “Only—only—I fear—is there something wrong?”“Yes,” replied Eugenia. “At least, I suppose you will call it something wrong. It is just that I have left him—left my husband—for ever.”“Oh, Eugenia, oh, dearest sister, do not say so. It is too dreadful to be true. It cannot be so bad as that,” exclaimed Sydney, in horrified amazement. “Surely, dear, you don’t mean what you say—you cannot!”“I do, though,” said Eugenia. “I left Halswood secretly this afternoon, and I never shall return there. It is done now; there is no turning back.”“And why?” asked Sydney, striving to speak calmly, half inclined to think her sister’s brain was affected, yet, on the other hand, shrinking from the thought of what miserable story she might not be going to hear of terrible delinquency on Captain Chancellor’s part which had driven his outraged wife to this fatally decisive step. “I don’t like to ask you, Eugenia,” she went on, “but I suppose I must.”“I will tell you all. I have been longing to do so,” returned Eugenia. “But, if you don’t mind, I should like to go upstairs and go to bed. I amsotired. Then I will tell you everything. May I have a cup of tea or a glass of wine? I have eaten nothing since the morning. I am so sorry to trouble you, dear,” as Sydney hastened away in search of the sorely-needed refreshment. “Frank is out, I suppose?”Half an hour later, somewhat refreshed and revived by Sydney’s care, Eugenia told her story—told Sydney “all,” from the first faint misgiving as to the prospects of her married life—the first shadowy suspicion of her estimate of Beauchamp’s character having been a mistaken and illusory one; down through the long, painful struggle to blind herself to the truth, through the sad history of disunion and disagreement, of ever-increasing alienation, to the discovery of to-day—the discovery that, as she expressed it, “the one thing I clung to through all—the belief in his love for me, in his having loved me at least, was but a dream too—a part of the whole illusion—of the whole terrible mistake. For he never really cared for me, Sydney. When he left Wareborough that Christmas he had no thought of ever seeing me again; he had only been amusing himself. What happened at Nunswell was a mere chance—a mere impulse. He was in a mortified, wounded state from Roma’s rejection, and my evident devotion offered itself opportunely. I dare say he wassorryfor me, too—pleasant to think of, is it not? I see it all as plainly as possible; the only thing that puzzles me now is, how I could ever have been so infatuated as to see it differently.”“And did Mrs Eyrecourt really tell you all this?” inquired Sydney, for Eugenia had made no secret of the sources of her information. “When you taxed her, I mean, with the inferences to be drawn from the little girl’s chatter? I can hardly understand how your sister-in-lawdaredto say such things. Surely she might have tried to soften the facts!” She spoke indignantly, nevertheless she was conscious of a strong suspicion that her sister’s excited imagination had had to do with the filling in of some of the details which gave colour and consistency to the whole story.“Imadeher tell me all,” answered Eugenia. “Not that she wanted to soften it, but at first she was a little frightened. Afterwards I do believe she enjoyed telling me, though all the while affecting to do it so reluctantly. She cannot understand where I learnt what I already knew, and she shall never know. Oh, Sydney, she said hateful things! When I asked her how she could have interfered between her brother and Roma, when I told her that by so doing she had ruinedthreelives, she said something about my romantic ideas, and hinted that if Beauchamp had known that he was to succeed his cousin, when he met me again at Nunswell, he would never have thrown himself away as he did. But I don’t think I minded that; it seemed too coarse to touch me. Then, at the end, she seemed to get frightened again, and tried to soothe me down. She reminded me that no wife should expect her husband’s full confidence as to the past, and she said that no girl could be so foolish as to imagine that a man like Beauchamp could have lived twenty-eight years in the world without love affairs of some kind. If it had not been Roma, it would have been some one else; I should think myself fortunate I had nothing worse to complain of. I dare say there is a sort of coarse truth in it—the world is a dreadful, miserable place; and, oh, Sydney, I wish I were dead!”There was nothing for it but to soothe and caress her into temporary calm. She was too utterly worn out to be capable of being reasoned with; it would have been cruel to attempt it. Much as Sydney felt for her—intensely as she pitied her—she could not for a moment deceive herself into thinking that Eugenia had acted well or wisely. It had been a wild impulse that had urged her to this foolish, undignified step—so her best friends would say, and the world would say yet harsher things—yet, oh, poor Eugenia, how well Sydney understood the tumult of her feelings—the peculiar agony to her nature and disposition of the wounds she had received, the bitter anguish of the disappointments she had had to endure! It was with a very sore heart Sydney left her for the night; it was with no small uneasiness she reflected on what she had to tell her husband, and tried to imagine what course he would determine on pursuing. For in certain directions Frank could see but one road; rough and thorny though it might be, he sometimes showed but scant tenderness for those who, he decided, must walk therein. He was a good man—a good and true-hearted man, but of some kinds of trial and temptation he knew as little as his own baby son.Sydney’s misgivings proved to be not unfounded. Eugenia slept till late the next morning, for the first part of the night sleep had deserted her altogether. It was so late when she woke that Frank had already left the house, Sydney told her.“He has gone again to that sick man, and there is a meeting of some kind at one, so he will not be back till the afternoon; but he hopes to see you then,” she added.“And was that the only message he left for me? Could you explain things to him at all—do you think he enters into my feelings?” asked Eugenia, anxiously.“He was exceedingly surprised, and of course distressed,” answered Sydney, a little evasively. “We talked a great deal. Frank is very anxious about you, and very desirous of advising you for the best. Indeed he is, Eugenia; you must try to believe this, whether you agree with him or not.”“That means, he blames me, and me alone, for my misery,” exclaimed Eugenia, impetuously. “You need not try to soften it to me, Sydney. Tell me all he said, plainly; though, truly, I think he might have had the manliness to say it to me himself, and not give you the pain of doing so.”“You are mistaking him, indeed you are, dear Eugenia,” said Sydney, eagerly. “He is far, very far from blaming you only, and he isverysorry for you. All he says is, that this step that you have taken so impulsively is a sadly unwise one, and can do no good; and he says, your husband must be told where you are, immediately.”“Has he gone, to tell him?” inquired Eugenia, bitterly. “He won’t find him at home. Beauchamp does not return till to-morrow.”“Of course he has not gone. He would not do anything of the kind without telling you,” answered Sydney, with a little wifely indignation. “What Frank has made up his mind to is this—I was just going on to tell you,—either you or he, he says, must write to your husband to-night, telling him where you are, and asking him to come here to-morrow, or whenever he can, and then things must be talked over.”“And I shall be taken home again—that is to say, if Beauchamp condescends to forgive me, like a naughty child?”“Eugenia, don’t,” said Sydney, imploringly. “Frank will tell you what he thinks himself. He hopes indeed to show you that returning home is the only right course, but he does not think of you as you fancy. He is only so very anxious to show you what terrible harm may be done if this goes further, if—if it were to be talked about. For you know you have norealgrounds of complaint.”“I have not been beaten or starved, certainly,” said Eugenia. Then, with a sudden change of tone, “Sydney, I did not thinkyouwould have been persuaded to see things so. But suppose I refuse to be guided by Frank’s advice?”“I won’t suppose it,” said Sydney; “Eugenia, you will think differently after a while. You don’t realise how terrible a thing you propose; you would be the last person to bear philosophically the sort of odium that always attaches itself to a woman in the position that yours would be. I do feel for you intensely; still I cannot but think there was exaggeration in this last trouble—I mean in what Mrs Eyrecourt told you. Things may yet be happier with you. But youmustbelieve that both Frank and I are earnest in our anxiety about you. Of course Frank’s being a clergyman makes him express himself very decidedly, and he may seem hard to you. He has to be so very careful, too, to avoid the least appearance of—of anything that people could say ill-natured things about.” This last was an unfortunate admission. “I quite understand Frank’s feelings,” observed Eugenia. “I shall act with consideration for them.”Her tone of voice was peculiar. Sydney could not understand it. “Then youwillwrite?” she said, timidly, “or shall Frank?”“He can do so if he likes,” answered Eugenia. “But there is no mystery about what I have done. I left a note for Beauchamp, and one for Mrs Eyrecourt. I made no attempt to conceal where I was going. I only came away quietly because I did not want any discussion. I should have brought Rachel with me, but she was here already. She came to Wareborough for a holiday last week. I must let her know I am here.”It all sounded as if Eugenia meant to be reasonable, but Sydney felt far from satisfied. She thought it wiser, however, to say no more at present; not to irritate her sister by attempting to extort any promises. She was rewarded by Eugenia’s increased gentleness of manner. The rest of the morning passed peacefully; Eugenia seemed interested in seeing over Sydney’s house, and of her own accord proposed a visit to the nursery, where it went to her sister’s heart to see how she fondled and caressed her little nephew.“And she used to hate babies so,” thought Sydney. “I wish Frank could see her now. Poor Eugenia!”After luncheon Sydney was obliged to go out for an hour. She was distressed at having to leave her sister, but the engagement was one which could not be deferred, and Eugenia assured her she “did not mind being left alone.”“I shall not be long,” said Sydney; “very likely I shall meet Frank, and we shall come back together.”Eugenia kissed her as she was setting off, kissed her affectionately, and thanked her “for being so good to her.” So Sydney departed in much better spirits.She did not meet Frank; her business detained her somewhat longer than she expected, an hour and a half had passed before she found herself at her own door again.“Is Mrs Chancellor in the drawing-room?” she inquired of the servant, as she went in.The girl’s wits were not of the brightest at any time. Now she looked confused and frightened. “I thought you knew, ma’am,” she exclaimed, “I fetched a fly immediately you had gone out, for the lady. She has gone.”“Gone!” cried Sydney, in dismay, forgetful of everything except the shock of distress and disappointment.“She left this note for you, ma’am,” added the servant.“Perhaps she has gone home,” thought Sydney, with sudden hope. She tore open the envelope.“Thank you, dearest Sydney,” said the note, “for your love and kindness. After what you have told me, however, of your husband’s feelings, I cannot stay longer with you. But do not be uneasy about me. I will write to you in a day or two. I cannot tell you where I am going, for I do not know myself. I am very miserable and very desolate; but I am not so selfish as to wish, to make you unhappy too.“Your affectionate Eugenia.”“What else is she doing than making me miserable too?” thought Sydney. “Oh, Eugenia, this is very cruel of you.”Frank came in almost immediately. He too was greatly distressed, and at first a little alarmed, and in consequence of these feelings, after the manner of men, he relieved himself by scolding his wife.“You must have irritated her,” he exclaimed. “I really thought you were more judicious, Sydney. It would have been far better to have said nothing till I came in, and then I would have put the whole before her clearly, but not so as to hurt her.” Sydney took the undeserved blame meekly, nor did she remind her husband that, in saying what she had, she had acted by his express injunctions.“I blame myself for leaving her,” she said, sadly.Then they set to work to think what was best to do. Frank’s first impulse was to trace his sister-in-law at once. There would be little difficulty in finding her, he said. It would be easy to discover the driver of the fly, and learn from him to what station he had taken her—for Wareborough boasted no less than three—and, once certain of the railway by which she had travelled, the rest would be easy.“For it is not,” he said, “as if she had any particular reason for mystery. She is sure in any case to write to us in a day or two.”In this Sydney agreed, so after talking it over a little more, they decided it would be best to take no such steps as Frank had at first proposed.“The publicity of making any inquiries about her,” he said, “is one of the things most to be avoided. Besides I hardly feel that I have a right to take any such steps. I will write to Chancellor at once; I shall write very carefully, you may be sure. But don’t be uneasy, Sydney. We shall hear from her in a day or two, you’ll see.” Sydney sighed. There was nothing for it but patience.“I wish Gerald were at home,” she thought. But he was not, and the next day or two passed very anxiously with Eugenia’s sister.The elder Mr Thurston was at this time away on a fishing expedition, having allowed himself the rare luxury of a fortnight’s holiday. He had been fishing up, or down, the stream from which Nunswell takes its name, and for the last few days had made this little watering-place his headquarters. It was a Friday when Eugenia left Wareborough, and late on the following day, Gerald, having returned to Nunswell, there to spend Sunday in decorous fashion, was strolling in the public gardens—the very gardens where he had sat and talked with Eugenia, some fifteen or sixteen months ago—the same gardens where, the very next day, “time and chance combining,” Beauchamp Chancellor and she had met again—when something familiar, something indefinably suggestive in the gait and bearing of a lady walking slowly a little way in front of him, caught Mr Thurston’s attention. He was thinking of Eugenia at the moment. The resemblance of the figure before him to the object of his thoughts struck him suddenly as the explanation of his vague sensation.“If Eugenia were dead,” he said to himself, “I should shrink from dispelling the illusion, as no doubt many a ghost could be dispelled; but believing her to be alive and well, I think I should like to see the face of that tall, black-robed lady. Very likely she is old and ugly.” And half smiling at his own fancies, he quietly quickened his steps so as to overtake her. It was not difficult to do so. The part of the garden where the two were walking was retired and unfrequented. There was hardly another person within sight. As Gerald’s increased pace brought him quickly on a line with the solitary lady, the sounds of his footsteps caught her ear. Just as he passed her, she mechanically turned her face in his direction. Mr Thurston’s nerves were under good control, but the start of almost incredulous surprise at seeing his own wild fancy realised, betrayed him into a sudden exclamation.“Eugenia!” he said, impetuously, “Eugenia, is it really you?” And even while he spoke, he looked at her again more closely, with a new fear of being the victim of some extraordinarily strong accidental resemblance. But it was not so. Eugenia’s surprise, though considerable, was less overpowering than Gerald’s, and she answered him composedly enough.“Yes,” she said, with a little smile—a smile that somehow, however, failed to lighten up her face as of old—a poor, pitiful, unsatisfactory attempt at a smile only. “Yes, it is certainly I. Are you very much astonished to see me? Where have you sprung from?”“I have been fishing down the Nun,” he replied. “Are you staying here? Is Captain Chancellor here?”“Yes and no,” she answered, with a very forced attempt at playfulness. “I am staying here, but alone.”“Alone!” he exclaimed in surprise.“Yes, alone,” she repeated. “Why do you cross-question me so, Gerald? Why do you look at me so? I am not a baby. You are as bad as Frank. I wish I hadn’t met you. I didn’t want you to speak to me. I don’t want any one to speak to me. I have no friends, and I don’t want any.”Then suddenly, to his utter amazement, she finished up this petulant, incoherent speech by bursting into tears. They were the first she had shed since she left Halswood; and once released from the unnatural restraint in which they had been pent up, they took revenge on it by the violence with which they poured forth. The position was by no means a pleasant one for Mr Thurston, though he did not share Captain Chancellor’s exaggerated horror of tears, or believe with him that they were invariably the precursors of hysterics. “Something must be wrong, very wrong, I fear,” he thought, and his unselfish anxiety and genuine pity for the suffering woman by his side quickened his instincts on her behalf. For a minute or two he walked on beside her in silence. Then, as they were approaching the more frequented part of the gardens, and her sobs gave no sign of subsiding, he spoke to her—quietly and kindly, but with a slight inference of authority in his tone, which, excited as she was, she instinctively obeyed.“Suppose we turn and walk back again a little way,” he said. “You have over-tired yourself, I am afraid.”She did not speak at once, but turned as he directed. He could see now that she was making strong efforts to control herself. When she thought that she could trust her voice, she spoke.“I am ashamed of myself, Gerald, utterly ashamed of myself,” she said at last. “What must you think of me? I suppose I have over-tired myself. I have been walking about here nearly all day. I had nothing else to do.”“And you are really alone here?” he inquired.“Yes, except my maid, Rachel Brand; you remember her?—I am quite alone.”“And how—how is it so?” he was going to ask, but stopped. “No,” he went on, “I will not presume on our old friendship to ask questions you may not care to answer; only tell me, Eugenia, can I be of any service to you?”“None, thank you,” she answered sadly. “No one can help me. Even Sydney no longer feels with me—that is why I am here alone.”“Your doubting Sydney makes me doubt if things are so bad as they seem to you,” he said, with a little smile.“Don’t doubt it,” she said quickly. “They could not be worse, Gerald,” she added, after a little pause. “You have known a good deal about me—more perhaps almost than any one else. I will tell you the worst sting of my misery—I have come to know that my husband does not care for me—that he never has done so—that never a woman made a more fatal mistake than I when I married.”Mr Thurston started violently; a sort of spasm of pain contracted his forehead—pain of the past, not of the present, so far as he himself was concerned.“Eugenia,” he said, gravely, “from you, these are terrible words.”“I know they are,” she said bitterly, “but I believe they are true. I married under a double delusion. But I believe I could have endured the one great disappointment of finding how I had overestimated my—my—never mind. I say, I think I could have learnt to bear my many disappointments, and make the best of my materials, had my other belief, my sheet anchor, not failed me as it has done. By the light of what I now know, I can see that for some time its hold has been growing feeble and uncertain on me, and in consequence my strength has decreased, my good resolutions have faded, till now I have nothing to hold to. I hardly care where I drift—what does it matter?”“What does it matter?” broke out Gerald, indignantly. “Eugenia, do you know what you are saying? Oh, you foolish, presumptuous child! Does duty depend on inclination, do obligations cease to bind us when they become difficult or painful? Allowing that you have been deceived, allowing that you have found your life essentially other than you expected, does that set you free from responsibility? The world is bad enough already, but what it would be if we all regulated our conduct by your principles, I should shudder to think. And the cowardliness of it too! Eugenia, I thought you a woman incapable of thus deserting your post!”The colour had mounted to Eugenia’s pale face, but the tears had ceased to flow. “You are very hard, Gerald,” she said at last. “You cannot possibly estimate my position correctly. I left my husband because I felt I should grow worse if I stayed, grow worse myself, and make him grow so too. For my belief in him once shattered,nolink remained between us, no common ground on which we could meet. What could be the end of such a life?”“What will be the end of the one you have chosen for yourself, and forced upon him?” asked Gerald. “Duties once discarded, we are not immediately allowed to console ourselves with others of our own choosing, as you will find to your cost. What are you intending to do—why did you come here?”“I don’t know. It just came into my mind. I meant to wait here till something could be settled for the future. My husband is not the sort of man to force me to return: he is too proud. I don’t want any money from him. I have enough of my own. I suppose some sort of separation could be agreed upon. I have heard of such things.”She spoke with a sort of dreary indifference.“And, in the meantime, why come here alone? Why not go to Sydney.”“I did,” she said. Then she went on to tell him why she had left his brother’s house. “Frank evidently disapproved of me altogether,” she remarked, “and even Sydney seemed to think I greatly exaggerated things.”“As to that I can’t judge. I don’t wish to judge,” said Gerald, quickly. “Of course, I should suppose you have reason to trust implicitly the sources of the information on which you acted?” he looked at her keenly as he spoke. Eugenia slightly changed colour.“My own instincts are not likely to deceive me,” she said, hotly. But her honesty pushed itself in, with some misgiving. “There is one person I should like to see—a person I trust thoroughly. Of course she can only confirm what I discovered, but still, strictly speaking, I suppose I should have her confirmation before I can say I amquitesure of what I acted upon.”“Do you mean Miss Eyrecourt?” said Gerald.“Yes,” answered Eugenia, looking up with some surprise at his correct guess.“I am glad you trust her,” he said, briefly. They had turned again by now, and from time to time other strollers passed them, glancing at them in one or two cases, with the slight, indolent curiosity with which watering-place loungers inspect each other. Eugenia’s veil was drawn down, but her tall figure in its deep mourning garments could not but be somewhat conspicuous. Gerald chose the quietest paths, but still he grew uneasy. He did not like to leave his companion till he had seen her safely to her own door; his terror lest she should suspect him of suggesting the expediency of their separating, made it impossible for him to find any plausible excuse for saying good-bye: yet at every step he realised more painfully the awkwardness that might attend their recognition. “Ever so many Wareborough people come here,” he reflected, “and who knows but what by this time there is full hue and cry after the missing Mrs Chancellor. It is frightful to think what she is exposing herself to,” and, glancing at her as the thought crossed his mind, some irritation mingled with his pity. “She is too absorbed to understand it, but somethingmustbe done at once.”“Does Sydney know where you are now?” he asked.“No,” she replied, “not yet. But I am going to write to her to-night.”When they had reached the house where she had taken rooms, Mr Thurston held out his hand in farewell.“Won’t you come in, Gerald?” Eugenia asked.“No, thank you. I have letters to write, and the post leaves early. You must take care your letter is in time.”“Yes,” she answered, absently, adding, “If you won’t come in to-night, will you come and see me to-morrow? I—I will try to think of what you have said, if it is not too late.”“Then you don’t think me hard and cruel?” he said, gently.“No, oh no. I only thought youcouldnot understand.”“This much I understand,” he replied. “You have suffered a great deal, where many women would have suffered little. It is your nature to, do so. Therefore, I dread for you, with unspeakable intensity, the deeper suffering you would bring upon yourself—most of all the knowledge, which, sooner or later must come to you that you had done wrong, grievously wrong—for it is not a case where duty is difficult of recognition.”She did not answer, but sometimes silence is better than words. She went upstairs to the neat, bare, unhomelike lodging-house drawing-room, and sat down to think. She thought and thought so long and so deeply, that poor Rachel knocked several times before she was heard, and, unfortunately, it was past post-time! So no letter reached Wareborough the next morning.

Did I speak once angrily......You woman I loved so well,Who married the other?R. Browning.

Did I speak once angrily......You woman I loved so well,Who married the other?R. Browning.

The days were almost at their longest, but it was late enough to be nearly dark one evening, when a fly rattled along the street in Wareborough where the Thurstons lived, and drew up at the curate’s door. Frank was out: he had been sent for by a dying parishioner, and had warned his wife he might be detained till late—she had better not sit up for him. Sydney had just made up her mind to act upon this injunction, and was gathering her feminine odds-and-ends about her, previous to going to bed, when the unexpected sound of an arrival startled her in the midst of her housewifely “redding up.”

She was standing in the middle of her pretty little drawing-room, her work-basket in one hand, the book she had been reading in the other, the lamplight falling softly on her fair, quiet face and deep mourning dress—a peaceful, home-like picture, it seemed to the stranger, who suddenly came in upon the scene. A tall, black figure, with veiled face and shrouding drapery, stood in the doorway. Sydney was not hysterical, so she did not scream, but for a moment or two her heart beat fast, and her breathing seemed short and irregular. Who could it be?

“Sydney,” said the veiled woman, “don’t be startled, dear. It is only I.”

“Eugenia!” exclaimed the sister, scarcely less startled than before. “Can it be you, Eugenia? Oh, what is wrong? What is the matter?”

Before answering, the new-comer turned to the door, said a word to the servant waiting just outside—a word of directions as to paying the driver, for which purpose she handed her purse to Sydney’s mystified handmaiden—then, re-entering the room, she carefully closed the door.

“Can you take me in for a night, Sydney?” she asked. “You see, I have made sure of your doing so. I had nowhere else to go to.” She sat down, as she spoke, on the nearest chair: her attitude told of extreme dejection, her voice sounded faint and weary.

“Take you in, dearest? Of course we can, and with the greatest pleasure,” said Sydney, warmly. “Only—only—I fear—is there something wrong?”

“Yes,” replied Eugenia. “At least, I suppose you will call it something wrong. It is just that I have left him—left my husband—for ever.”

“Oh, Eugenia, oh, dearest sister, do not say so. It is too dreadful to be true. It cannot be so bad as that,” exclaimed Sydney, in horrified amazement. “Surely, dear, you don’t mean what you say—you cannot!”

“I do, though,” said Eugenia. “I left Halswood secretly this afternoon, and I never shall return there. It is done now; there is no turning back.”

“And why?” asked Sydney, striving to speak calmly, half inclined to think her sister’s brain was affected, yet, on the other hand, shrinking from the thought of what miserable story she might not be going to hear of terrible delinquency on Captain Chancellor’s part which had driven his outraged wife to this fatally decisive step. “I don’t like to ask you, Eugenia,” she went on, “but I suppose I must.”

“I will tell you all. I have been longing to do so,” returned Eugenia. “But, if you don’t mind, I should like to go upstairs and go to bed. I amsotired. Then I will tell you everything. May I have a cup of tea or a glass of wine? I have eaten nothing since the morning. I am so sorry to trouble you, dear,” as Sydney hastened away in search of the sorely-needed refreshment. “Frank is out, I suppose?”

Half an hour later, somewhat refreshed and revived by Sydney’s care, Eugenia told her story—told Sydney “all,” from the first faint misgiving as to the prospects of her married life—the first shadowy suspicion of her estimate of Beauchamp’s character having been a mistaken and illusory one; down through the long, painful struggle to blind herself to the truth, through the sad history of disunion and disagreement, of ever-increasing alienation, to the discovery of to-day—the discovery that, as she expressed it, “the one thing I clung to through all—the belief in his love for me, in his having loved me at least, was but a dream too—a part of the whole illusion—of the whole terrible mistake. For he never really cared for me, Sydney. When he left Wareborough that Christmas he had no thought of ever seeing me again; he had only been amusing himself. What happened at Nunswell was a mere chance—a mere impulse. He was in a mortified, wounded state from Roma’s rejection, and my evident devotion offered itself opportunely. I dare say he wassorryfor me, too—pleasant to think of, is it not? I see it all as plainly as possible; the only thing that puzzles me now is, how I could ever have been so infatuated as to see it differently.”

“And did Mrs Eyrecourt really tell you all this?” inquired Sydney, for Eugenia had made no secret of the sources of her information. “When you taxed her, I mean, with the inferences to be drawn from the little girl’s chatter? I can hardly understand how your sister-in-lawdaredto say such things. Surely she might have tried to soften the facts!” She spoke indignantly, nevertheless she was conscious of a strong suspicion that her sister’s excited imagination had had to do with the filling in of some of the details which gave colour and consistency to the whole story.

“Imadeher tell me all,” answered Eugenia. “Not that she wanted to soften it, but at first she was a little frightened. Afterwards I do believe she enjoyed telling me, though all the while affecting to do it so reluctantly. She cannot understand where I learnt what I already knew, and she shall never know. Oh, Sydney, she said hateful things! When I asked her how she could have interfered between her brother and Roma, when I told her that by so doing she had ruinedthreelives, she said something about my romantic ideas, and hinted that if Beauchamp had known that he was to succeed his cousin, when he met me again at Nunswell, he would never have thrown himself away as he did. But I don’t think I minded that; it seemed too coarse to touch me. Then, at the end, she seemed to get frightened again, and tried to soothe me down. She reminded me that no wife should expect her husband’s full confidence as to the past, and she said that no girl could be so foolish as to imagine that a man like Beauchamp could have lived twenty-eight years in the world without love affairs of some kind. If it had not been Roma, it would have been some one else; I should think myself fortunate I had nothing worse to complain of. I dare say there is a sort of coarse truth in it—the world is a dreadful, miserable place; and, oh, Sydney, I wish I were dead!”

There was nothing for it but to soothe and caress her into temporary calm. She was too utterly worn out to be capable of being reasoned with; it would have been cruel to attempt it. Much as Sydney felt for her—intensely as she pitied her—she could not for a moment deceive herself into thinking that Eugenia had acted well or wisely. It had been a wild impulse that had urged her to this foolish, undignified step—so her best friends would say, and the world would say yet harsher things—yet, oh, poor Eugenia, how well Sydney understood the tumult of her feelings—the peculiar agony to her nature and disposition of the wounds she had received, the bitter anguish of the disappointments she had had to endure! It was with a very sore heart Sydney left her for the night; it was with no small uneasiness she reflected on what she had to tell her husband, and tried to imagine what course he would determine on pursuing. For in certain directions Frank could see but one road; rough and thorny though it might be, he sometimes showed but scant tenderness for those who, he decided, must walk therein. He was a good man—a good and true-hearted man, but of some kinds of trial and temptation he knew as little as his own baby son.

Sydney’s misgivings proved to be not unfounded. Eugenia slept till late the next morning, for the first part of the night sleep had deserted her altogether. It was so late when she woke that Frank had already left the house, Sydney told her.

“He has gone again to that sick man, and there is a meeting of some kind at one, so he will not be back till the afternoon; but he hopes to see you then,” she added.

“And was that the only message he left for me? Could you explain things to him at all—do you think he enters into my feelings?” asked Eugenia, anxiously.

“He was exceedingly surprised, and of course distressed,” answered Sydney, a little evasively. “We talked a great deal. Frank is very anxious about you, and very desirous of advising you for the best. Indeed he is, Eugenia; you must try to believe this, whether you agree with him or not.”

“That means, he blames me, and me alone, for my misery,” exclaimed Eugenia, impetuously. “You need not try to soften it to me, Sydney. Tell me all he said, plainly; though, truly, I think he might have had the manliness to say it to me himself, and not give you the pain of doing so.”

“You are mistaking him, indeed you are, dear Eugenia,” said Sydney, eagerly. “He is far, very far from blaming you only, and he isverysorry for you. All he says is, that this step that you have taken so impulsively is a sadly unwise one, and can do no good; and he says, your husband must be told where you are, immediately.”

“Has he gone, to tell him?” inquired Eugenia, bitterly. “He won’t find him at home. Beauchamp does not return till to-morrow.”

“Of course he has not gone. He would not do anything of the kind without telling you,” answered Sydney, with a little wifely indignation. “What Frank has made up his mind to is this—I was just going on to tell you,—either you or he, he says, must write to your husband to-night, telling him where you are, and asking him to come here to-morrow, or whenever he can, and then things must be talked over.”

“And I shall be taken home again—that is to say, if Beauchamp condescends to forgive me, like a naughty child?”

“Eugenia, don’t,” said Sydney, imploringly. “Frank will tell you what he thinks himself. He hopes indeed to show you that returning home is the only right course, but he does not think of you as you fancy. He is only so very anxious to show you what terrible harm may be done if this goes further, if—if it were to be talked about. For you know you have norealgrounds of complaint.”

“I have not been beaten or starved, certainly,” said Eugenia. Then, with a sudden change of tone, “Sydney, I did not thinkyouwould have been persuaded to see things so. But suppose I refuse to be guided by Frank’s advice?”

“I won’t suppose it,” said Sydney; “Eugenia, you will think differently after a while. You don’t realise how terrible a thing you propose; you would be the last person to bear philosophically the sort of odium that always attaches itself to a woman in the position that yours would be. I do feel for you intensely; still I cannot but think there was exaggeration in this last trouble—I mean in what Mrs Eyrecourt told you. Things may yet be happier with you. But youmustbelieve that both Frank and I are earnest in our anxiety about you. Of course Frank’s being a clergyman makes him express himself very decidedly, and he may seem hard to you. He has to be so very careful, too, to avoid the least appearance of—of anything that people could say ill-natured things about.” This last was an unfortunate admission. “I quite understand Frank’s feelings,” observed Eugenia. “I shall act with consideration for them.”

Her tone of voice was peculiar. Sydney could not understand it. “Then youwillwrite?” she said, timidly, “or shall Frank?”

“He can do so if he likes,” answered Eugenia. “But there is no mystery about what I have done. I left a note for Beauchamp, and one for Mrs Eyrecourt. I made no attempt to conceal where I was going. I only came away quietly because I did not want any discussion. I should have brought Rachel with me, but she was here already. She came to Wareborough for a holiday last week. I must let her know I am here.”

It all sounded as if Eugenia meant to be reasonable, but Sydney felt far from satisfied. She thought it wiser, however, to say no more at present; not to irritate her sister by attempting to extort any promises. She was rewarded by Eugenia’s increased gentleness of manner. The rest of the morning passed peacefully; Eugenia seemed interested in seeing over Sydney’s house, and of her own accord proposed a visit to the nursery, where it went to her sister’s heart to see how she fondled and caressed her little nephew.

“And she used to hate babies so,” thought Sydney. “I wish Frank could see her now. Poor Eugenia!”

After luncheon Sydney was obliged to go out for an hour. She was distressed at having to leave her sister, but the engagement was one which could not be deferred, and Eugenia assured her she “did not mind being left alone.”

“I shall not be long,” said Sydney; “very likely I shall meet Frank, and we shall come back together.”

Eugenia kissed her as she was setting off, kissed her affectionately, and thanked her “for being so good to her.” So Sydney departed in much better spirits.

She did not meet Frank; her business detained her somewhat longer than she expected, an hour and a half had passed before she found herself at her own door again.

“Is Mrs Chancellor in the drawing-room?” she inquired of the servant, as she went in.

The girl’s wits were not of the brightest at any time. Now she looked confused and frightened. “I thought you knew, ma’am,” she exclaimed, “I fetched a fly immediately you had gone out, for the lady. She has gone.”

“Gone!” cried Sydney, in dismay, forgetful of everything except the shock of distress and disappointment.

“She left this note for you, ma’am,” added the servant.

“Perhaps she has gone home,” thought Sydney, with sudden hope. She tore open the envelope.

“Thank you, dearest Sydney,” said the note, “for your love and kindness. After what you have told me, however, of your husband’s feelings, I cannot stay longer with you. But do not be uneasy about me. I will write to you in a day or two. I cannot tell you where I am going, for I do not know myself. I am very miserable and very desolate; but I am not so selfish as to wish, to make you unhappy too.“Your affectionate Eugenia.”

“Thank you, dearest Sydney,” said the note, “for your love and kindness. After what you have told me, however, of your husband’s feelings, I cannot stay longer with you. But do not be uneasy about me. I will write to you in a day or two. I cannot tell you where I am going, for I do not know myself. I am very miserable and very desolate; but I am not so selfish as to wish, to make you unhappy too.“Your affectionate Eugenia.”

“What else is she doing than making me miserable too?” thought Sydney. “Oh, Eugenia, this is very cruel of you.”

Frank came in almost immediately. He too was greatly distressed, and at first a little alarmed, and in consequence of these feelings, after the manner of men, he relieved himself by scolding his wife.

“You must have irritated her,” he exclaimed. “I really thought you were more judicious, Sydney. It would have been far better to have said nothing till I came in, and then I would have put the whole before her clearly, but not so as to hurt her.” Sydney took the undeserved blame meekly, nor did she remind her husband that, in saying what she had, she had acted by his express injunctions.

“I blame myself for leaving her,” she said, sadly.

Then they set to work to think what was best to do. Frank’s first impulse was to trace his sister-in-law at once. There would be little difficulty in finding her, he said. It would be easy to discover the driver of the fly, and learn from him to what station he had taken her—for Wareborough boasted no less than three—and, once certain of the railway by which she had travelled, the rest would be easy.

“For it is not,” he said, “as if she had any particular reason for mystery. She is sure in any case to write to us in a day or two.”

In this Sydney agreed, so after talking it over a little more, they decided it would be best to take no such steps as Frank had at first proposed.

“The publicity of making any inquiries about her,” he said, “is one of the things most to be avoided. Besides I hardly feel that I have a right to take any such steps. I will write to Chancellor at once; I shall write very carefully, you may be sure. But don’t be uneasy, Sydney. We shall hear from her in a day or two, you’ll see.” Sydney sighed. There was nothing for it but patience.

“I wish Gerald were at home,” she thought. But he was not, and the next day or two passed very anxiously with Eugenia’s sister.

The elder Mr Thurston was at this time away on a fishing expedition, having allowed himself the rare luxury of a fortnight’s holiday. He had been fishing up, or down, the stream from which Nunswell takes its name, and for the last few days had made this little watering-place his headquarters. It was a Friday when Eugenia left Wareborough, and late on the following day, Gerald, having returned to Nunswell, there to spend Sunday in decorous fashion, was strolling in the public gardens—the very gardens where he had sat and talked with Eugenia, some fifteen or sixteen months ago—the same gardens where, the very next day, “time and chance combining,” Beauchamp Chancellor and she had met again—when something familiar, something indefinably suggestive in the gait and bearing of a lady walking slowly a little way in front of him, caught Mr Thurston’s attention. He was thinking of Eugenia at the moment. The resemblance of the figure before him to the object of his thoughts struck him suddenly as the explanation of his vague sensation.

“If Eugenia were dead,” he said to himself, “I should shrink from dispelling the illusion, as no doubt many a ghost could be dispelled; but believing her to be alive and well, I think I should like to see the face of that tall, black-robed lady. Very likely she is old and ugly.” And half smiling at his own fancies, he quietly quickened his steps so as to overtake her. It was not difficult to do so. The part of the garden where the two were walking was retired and unfrequented. There was hardly another person within sight. As Gerald’s increased pace brought him quickly on a line with the solitary lady, the sounds of his footsteps caught her ear. Just as he passed her, she mechanically turned her face in his direction. Mr Thurston’s nerves were under good control, but the start of almost incredulous surprise at seeing his own wild fancy realised, betrayed him into a sudden exclamation.

“Eugenia!” he said, impetuously, “Eugenia, is it really you?” And even while he spoke, he looked at her again more closely, with a new fear of being the victim of some extraordinarily strong accidental resemblance. But it was not so. Eugenia’s surprise, though considerable, was less overpowering than Gerald’s, and she answered him composedly enough.

“Yes,” she said, with a little smile—a smile that somehow, however, failed to lighten up her face as of old—a poor, pitiful, unsatisfactory attempt at a smile only. “Yes, it is certainly I. Are you very much astonished to see me? Where have you sprung from?”

“I have been fishing down the Nun,” he replied. “Are you staying here? Is Captain Chancellor here?”

“Yes and no,” she answered, with a very forced attempt at playfulness. “I am staying here, but alone.”

“Alone!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes, alone,” she repeated. “Why do you cross-question me so, Gerald? Why do you look at me so? I am not a baby. You are as bad as Frank. I wish I hadn’t met you. I didn’t want you to speak to me. I don’t want any one to speak to me. I have no friends, and I don’t want any.”

Then suddenly, to his utter amazement, she finished up this petulant, incoherent speech by bursting into tears. They were the first she had shed since she left Halswood; and once released from the unnatural restraint in which they had been pent up, they took revenge on it by the violence with which they poured forth. The position was by no means a pleasant one for Mr Thurston, though he did not share Captain Chancellor’s exaggerated horror of tears, or believe with him that they were invariably the precursors of hysterics. “Something must be wrong, very wrong, I fear,” he thought, and his unselfish anxiety and genuine pity for the suffering woman by his side quickened his instincts on her behalf. For a minute or two he walked on beside her in silence. Then, as they were approaching the more frequented part of the gardens, and her sobs gave no sign of subsiding, he spoke to her—quietly and kindly, but with a slight inference of authority in his tone, which, excited as she was, she instinctively obeyed.

“Suppose we turn and walk back again a little way,” he said. “You have over-tired yourself, I am afraid.”

She did not speak at once, but turned as he directed. He could see now that she was making strong efforts to control herself. When she thought that she could trust her voice, she spoke.

“I am ashamed of myself, Gerald, utterly ashamed of myself,” she said at last. “What must you think of me? I suppose I have over-tired myself. I have been walking about here nearly all day. I had nothing else to do.”

“And you are really alone here?” he inquired.

“Yes, except my maid, Rachel Brand; you remember her?—I am quite alone.”

“And how—how is it so?” he was going to ask, but stopped. “No,” he went on, “I will not presume on our old friendship to ask questions you may not care to answer; only tell me, Eugenia, can I be of any service to you?”

“None, thank you,” she answered sadly. “No one can help me. Even Sydney no longer feels with me—that is why I am here alone.”

“Your doubting Sydney makes me doubt if things are so bad as they seem to you,” he said, with a little smile.

“Don’t doubt it,” she said quickly. “They could not be worse, Gerald,” she added, after a little pause. “You have known a good deal about me—more perhaps almost than any one else. I will tell you the worst sting of my misery—I have come to know that my husband does not care for me—that he never has done so—that never a woman made a more fatal mistake than I when I married.”

Mr Thurston started violently; a sort of spasm of pain contracted his forehead—pain of the past, not of the present, so far as he himself was concerned.

“Eugenia,” he said, gravely, “from you, these are terrible words.”

“I know they are,” she said bitterly, “but I believe they are true. I married under a double delusion. But I believe I could have endured the one great disappointment of finding how I had overestimated my—my—never mind. I say, I think I could have learnt to bear my many disappointments, and make the best of my materials, had my other belief, my sheet anchor, not failed me as it has done. By the light of what I now know, I can see that for some time its hold has been growing feeble and uncertain on me, and in consequence my strength has decreased, my good resolutions have faded, till now I have nothing to hold to. I hardly care where I drift—what does it matter?”

“What does it matter?” broke out Gerald, indignantly. “Eugenia, do you know what you are saying? Oh, you foolish, presumptuous child! Does duty depend on inclination, do obligations cease to bind us when they become difficult or painful? Allowing that you have been deceived, allowing that you have found your life essentially other than you expected, does that set you free from responsibility? The world is bad enough already, but what it would be if we all regulated our conduct by your principles, I should shudder to think. And the cowardliness of it too! Eugenia, I thought you a woman incapable of thus deserting your post!”

The colour had mounted to Eugenia’s pale face, but the tears had ceased to flow. “You are very hard, Gerald,” she said at last. “You cannot possibly estimate my position correctly. I left my husband because I felt I should grow worse if I stayed, grow worse myself, and make him grow so too. For my belief in him once shattered,nolink remained between us, no common ground on which we could meet. What could be the end of such a life?”

“What will be the end of the one you have chosen for yourself, and forced upon him?” asked Gerald. “Duties once discarded, we are not immediately allowed to console ourselves with others of our own choosing, as you will find to your cost. What are you intending to do—why did you come here?”

“I don’t know. It just came into my mind. I meant to wait here till something could be settled for the future. My husband is not the sort of man to force me to return: he is too proud. I don’t want any money from him. I have enough of my own. I suppose some sort of separation could be agreed upon. I have heard of such things.”

She spoke with a sort of dreary indifference.

“And, in the meantime, why come here alone? Why not go to Sydney.”

“I did,” she said. Then she went on to tell him why she had left his brother’s house. “Frank evidently disapproved of me altogether,” she remarked, “and even Sydney seemed to think I greatly exaggerated things.”

“As to that I can’t judge. I don’t wish to judge,” said Gerald, quickly. “Of course, I should suppose you have reason to trust implicitly the sources of the information on which you acted?” he looked at her keenly as he spoke. Eugenia slightly changed colour.

“My own instincts are not likely to deceive me,” she said, hotly. But her honesty pushed itself in, with some misgiving. “There is one person I should like to see—a person I trust thoroughly. Of course she can only confirm what I discovered, but still, strictly speaking, I suppose I should have her confirmation before I can say I amquitesure of what I acted upon.”

“Do you mean Miss Eyrecourt?” said Gerald.

“Yes,” answered Eugenia, looking up with some surprise at his correct guess.

“I am glad you trust her,” he said, briefly. They had turned again by now, and from time to time other strollers passed them, glancing at them in one or two cases, with the slight, indolent curiosity with which watering-place loungers inspect each other. Eugenia’s veil was drawn down, but her tall figure in its deep mourning garments could not but be somewhat conspicuous. Gerald chose the quietest paths, but still he grew uneasy. He did not like to leave his companion till he had seen her safely to her own door; his terror lest she should suspect him of suggesting the expediency of their separating, made it impossible for him to find any plausible excuse for saying good-bye: yet at every step he realised more painfully the awkwardness that might attend their recognition. “Ever so many Wareborough people come here,” he reflected, “and who knows but what by this time there is full hue and cry after the missing Mrs Chancellor. It is frightful to think what she is exposing herself to,” and, glancing at her as the thought crossed his mind, some irritation mingled with his pity. “She is too absorbed to understand it, but somethingmustbe done at once.”

“Does Sydney know where you are now?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, “not yet. But I am going to write to her to-night.”

When they had reached the house where she had taken rooms, Mr Thurston held out his hand in farewell.

“Won’t you come in, Gerald?” Eugenia asked.

“No, thank you. I have letters to write, and the post leaves early. You must take care your letter is in time.”

“Yes,” she answered, absently, adding, “If you won’t come in to-night, will you come and see me to-morrow? I—I will try to think of what you have said, if it is not too late.”

“Then you don’t think me hard and cruel?” he said, gently.

“No, oh no. I only thought youcouldnot understand.”

“This much I understand,” he replied. “You have suffered a great deal, where many women would have suffered little. It is your nature to, do so. Therefore, I dread for you, with unspeakable intensity, the deeper suffering you would bring upon yourself—most of all the knowledge, which, sooner or later must come to you that you had done wrong, grievously wrong—for it is not a case where duty is difficult of recognition.”

She did not answer, but sometimes silence is better than words. She went upstairs to the neat, bare, unhomelike lodging-house drawing-room, and sat down to think. She thought and thought so long and so deeply, that poor Rachel knocked several times before she was heard, and, unfortunately, it was past post-time! So no letter reached Wareborough the next morning.

Back to IndexNext