Chapter XV: Part 15

"You are mistaking him, indeed you are, dear Eugenia," said Sydney, eagerly. "He is far, very far from blaming you only, and he is _very_ sorry 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 no _real_ grounds of complaint."

"I have not been beaten or starved, certainly," said Eugenia. Then, with a sudden change of tone, "Sydney, I did not think _you_ would 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 you _must_ believe 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 you _will_ write?" 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, _no_ link 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 am _quite_ sure 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 something _must_ be 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 you _could_ not 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.

VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER SEVEN.

ROMA TO THE RESCUE.

That he has his faults cannot be doubtful; for we believe it was
ascertained long ago, that there is no man free from them.

_Carlyle_.

It is dreary work--perhaps no one who has not had personal experience of it can imagine how dreary--to find oneself really alone in a strange place, with no customary daily duties to compel one's attention, however unwilling; no chance of a friendly face looking in to break the monotony of the empty day; no anticipation even of the post bringing distraction in the shape of news, good or bad. Such had been Eugenia's life for two days at Nunswell, and already in these two days she had many times been on the point of saying to herself she could not stand it much longer.

"And is this to be my life?" she thought with a shiver, for, in the excitement of flying from her home, she had taken no account of the loneliness and dreariness that lay beyond. Now, the unconcealed disapproval of her nearest friends, the realisation of her anomalous position alone in lodgings in a strange place, were already bringing home, even to her uncalculating inexperience, something of the personal suffering, the bitter deprivations, the indefinite suspicion which must attach themselves to even the purest and noblest of women, once she voluntarily abandons her home. There may be cases, doubtless there are such, where a wife has no choice, where duty itself, deaf to all suggestions of expediency, relentlessly points out the way to abandonment of the post bravely battled for to the last--but such cases are rare, and the women to whose bitter experience they fall must have suffered too terribly to be sensitive to loneliness, or monotony, or half-averted looks. Not so was it with Eugenia Chancellor. What she had learnt from her sister of Frank's opinion of her conduct had wounded her to the quick; her only idea had been at once to relieve her friends of her unwelcome presence, but she had altogether failed to realise the desolation and hopeless depression which seized upon her before she had been many hours in the Nunswell lodgings.

The morning after she had met Gerald, she woke with a slight sensation of expectation. She hoped she should see him again; she wanted to talk to him, and tell him how she had thought over his words; she did not feel indignant at his plain-speaking, for it was not contemptuous and unsympathising like Frank's, but sprang, she could not but feel, from genuine anxiety for her good, from single-minded incapability of advising her to act otherwise than as he believed to be right. "Still it is often impossible," she thought, "for one person to judge of right and wrong for another," and, more out of a feminine determination to prove herself justified in what she had done than from any vehement desire to persevere in her present course, she prepared herself mentally with a whole string of unanswerable arguments, of well-sounding sophistries with which to compel her old friend to acknowledge how exceptional was her position, how principle and self-respect, and unselfishness even, had driven her to this apparently undutiful step.

It was still early when Rachel tapped at her mistress's door. "A letter, ma'am," she announced, as she came in.

"A letter!" exclaimed Eugenia, not without excitement, "it must be a mistake. No one knows where--I mean, I have not sent my exact address yet." But notwithstanding her words, her heart beat with vague, unreasonable hope--what could it be?--could Sydney have found her out, and be coming to her at once?--could Beauchamp himself be on the way to beseech her to return to him, to entreat her forgiveness for all he had made her suffer, to assure her that this last misery, this worst trouble of all, had somehow or other been a mistake, a mischievous exaggeration of his sister's? As one possibility after another suggested itself to her imagination, Eugenia's heart beat faster and faster. "Give it me quickly, Rachel," she said impatiently. But as the girl brought it to her, she remarked, "It is not a letter by the post, ma'am. It is only a note--from the Spa Hotel, I believe," and Eugenia's hopes died within her. It was only a note--a few hurried words from Mr Thurston-- beginning "My dear Mrs Chancellor," to inform her of his being suddenly obliged to leave Nunswell on business, and to express his regret that he should not see her again. It was dated the previous evening. "As if he could have got any business letters after he saw me last night, and as if he would be likely to travel home about business on a Sunday," thought Eugenia, with a bitter incredulity; "no, he has just thought it over, and agrees with Frank. They don't want to have anything more to say to me." And this day was even more miserable than its predecessors. She would not go to church, she dreaded now even the thought of a stroll in the gardens; she sat alone in the dull drawing-room all day with no books to read, no letters to write, nothing to do, nothing to hope for. And when bedtime came and she knelt, more from the force of old habit than from any expectation of comfort, guidance, or peace of mind, to pray to the Father who understands us all so much better than we understand ourselves, she started back from the appealing attitude in horror. For the only prayer which rose with any spontaneity to her lips was that she might sleep and never wake again.

Hours passed and still she lay awake, feverish, restless, and yet exhausted. When at last she fell asleep it seemed to her afterwards that it must have been close to morning. And the longed-for unconsciousness brought her but little repose, for it was broken by anxious distressing dreams, of which the only one she could recall with any distinctness was the last before she awoke. She dreamt that it was again the night of her father's death, she herself was hastening to him with Gerald Thurston; they were driving furiously along a road of which some features seemed familiar to her, though at the same time she felt perfectly certain she had never traversed it before; and from time to time her companion added to her feeling of indescribable bewilderment by asking her if it would not be better to turn now and go the other way. She never seemed to answer him, but every time he made the suggestion, the invisible driver appeared to respond by turning sharply, and driving away faster than ever in an apparently opposite direction. Suddenly the scene changed, and Eugenia found herself by her father's bedside, in the room she knew so well; and she became conscious of the strange dual existence familiar to us all in dreams, for while there in her father's presence, waiting for her own arrival, she was yet driving on with Gerald; again she heard his curious monotonous inquiry, "Don't you think we had better turn now and go the other way?" Another change; she was now in the old state bedroom at Halswood, where she had spent the night of her arrival there; she was still watching by a bedside, still waiting for her own appearance. Then the sound of the carriage wheels, of which all this time she had been conscious, grew louder and louder; she heard them rattling up the smooth carriage drive at Halswood as if it were a paved Wareborough street. A clock began to toll, the figure in the bed by which she was watching seemed to move, and a sudden horror seized her. In her dream-agony she rushed to the door of the room, and found it locked; in despair, it seemed to her, she screamed aloud with frantic vehemence, "Let me out, let me out;" and a voice, which she recognised as her husband's, answered from the other side--"Too late, too late. Better turn now and go the other way." And at this crisis she awoke.

It was broad daylight. Rachel was standing by her bedside, a cup of tea in her hand.

"What is the matter?" asked Eugenia, confusedly. Then, coming a little to herself, she sat up and looked at the girl. "My head is aching dreadfully," she said, laying it back among the pillows as she spoke; "is that why you have brought me some tea, Rachel? Oh, no; of course you could not know. But there is something the matter, Rachel; you look as if there were."

"No, indeed, ma'am, there isn't; nothing, that is to say, except your head being bad. I was awake very early this morning, and I had my breakfast sooner than usual, and I thought you might like a cup of tea."

"I am very glad of it," said Eugenia, languidly. "But what made you get up so early. Had you a bad night too?"

"Oh, no, ma'am, thank you. I was wakened, by some visitors arriving unexpectedly about five o'clock. One visitor, at least. A young lady."

"What an odd time to arrive," observed Eugenia, carelessly. But, glancing at Rachel as she spoke, something in the girl's manner again caught her attention. "_Who_ is the young lady?" she asked, quickly. "Is it some one to see me--is it my sister?"

"No, ma'am, it is not Mrs Thurston," replied Rachel, evidently afraid lest her words should cause disappointment. "It could not be Mrs Thurston, for she will only get your address this morning, you remember, ma'am. But it _is_ some one for you. It is--"

"It is I," interrupted a voice at the door. "May I come in, Eugenia?" and in a moment Roma Eyrecourt stood by the bedside. "You poor child," she went on, hurriedly, as if to cover some embarrassment, and without giving Eugenia time to speak; "how burning your hands are, and your head too! I am not going to tease you, dear. I have come to do exactly what you tell me, except go away. You won't send me away, Eugenia, will you?"

There was some anxiety in her tone; she leant over towards Eugenia as she spoke, and looked earnestly into her face with her beautiful, bright dark eyes--not keen or contemptuous now, but tender and loving, and almost entreating in their expression. The struggle, if there were one, was quickly over with Eugenia. She threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her warmly. "It is very, very good of you to have come," she whispered. "I know it is pure goodness that has brought you. I have tried to fancy I hated you, but I don't. I love you and trust you. But, oh, Roma, I have been so miserable!"

"Too miserable, a great deal too miserable. I can fancy it all," said Roma, sympathisingly. "But, Eugenia, you do look so tired. I am sure you have not slept well. Do try to go to sleep again, and try to believe you are not going to be so miserable as you think. I will talk to you as much as ever you like when I see you looking better. I will tell you everything--what made me come here, and _anything_ more you like to ask me, if you will do what I tell you now. I have one or two letters to write for the early post. I will come back in a little, I promise you."

Soothed in spite of herself by Roma's kindness, comforted by the feeling that she was no longer alone, that one person, at least, in the world, still loved and cared for her, Eugenia fell asleep, and slept peacefully for two or three hours. Miss Eyrecourt, meantime, wrote her letters: one was addressed to Captain Chancellor at Halswood, another to Gerald Thurston, at Wareborough, a third to old Lady Dervock, whom she had quitted at rather short notice. Once or twice in writing she seemed somewhat at a loss.

"I don't want to exaggerate things," she said to herself, "but I really should not be surprised if Eugenia had a bad illness--brain fever, or something of the kind. However, I can judge better when I see her again."

Roma's fears were not fulfilled. Eugenia was much better when she saw her again. By the middle of the day she was up and dressed, and eager for the promised conversation. The mystery of the new-comer's sudden appearance was easily explained.

The "business" which had necessitated Gerald's leaving on Saturday night had taken him all the way up to Deepthorne, whence he had returned accompanied by Roma herself. It had seemed to him the best thing to do, he felt certain that he might rely on Miss Eyrecourt's friendship, and he felt certain too that in the end Eugenia would not blame him for his interference. By dint of hard travelling they had managed to reach Nunswell early on Monday morning, thence by the very next train, Gerald, already due at his post, had returned to Wareborough. This was all, so far, that Roma had to tell. Of what had taken place at Halswood she was in utter ignorance. "I have not heard from Gertrude for more than a week," she told Eugenia. "I half thought of writing to her just now while you were asleep, but I decided not to do so till I had spoken to you. I have written to your husband though, Eugenia," she added, with a little hesitation.

"To Beauchamp," exclaimed Beauchamp's wife, her cheeks flushing; "oh, Roma, why did you? Could you not have waited for that till you had spoken to me?"

"No, Eugenia," said Roma, gently but decidedly, "I purposely wanted to write _before_ seeing more of you. It was not betraying your secret, for Mr Thurston told me you had let your sister know where you were, and of course Beauchamp would go to her to inquire about you. I merely wrote to tell him that I was with you, ready to stay as long as you want me."

"I don't mind Beauchamp's knowing where I am," said Eugenia. "It will make no difference. He is not likely to seek me, for even if he cared about me, he will be too angry to take any such step."

Roma thought differently. Beauchamp's regard for appearances was likely to be a powerful motive with him, but she was wise enough to keep this consideration to herself, and to direct her attention to the root of the matter.

"How do you mean, `if he cared about you?'" she asked, quietly. "Do you doubt his caring for you?"

"Roma!" exclaimed Eugenia, reproachfully, the tears rushing to her eyes, "how can, you ask me? You, of all people!"

"You must tell me exactly what you mean, Eugenia," said Roma, anxiously. "Half confidences are no use in such a case, and I, in return, promise to tell you what I believe to be the exact truth."

So Eugenia told her all; more fully even than to Sydney she related the whole history of her hopes and disappointments, her golden anticipations, and the bitter realities in which they had ended. And Roma listened with a gravely attentive face, striving to the best of her power to distinguish between fact and fancy, between Eugenia's actual grounds for unhappiness, and her morbid inclination to exaggerate them. It was not for Roma so impossible as it might have been for many to arrive at a just comprehension of the state of matters, for the character of the one of the two persons chiefly concerned had been long ago gauged by her, that of the other had interested her greatly, and now every word and look and tone assisted her to a fuller understanding of its lights and shades, its beauties and defects. When Eugenia at last left off speaking, Miss Eyrecourt sat silent for a minute or two. Eugenia's heart was beating fast with anxiety. "Roma," she said at last, imploringly, "speak to me, do."

"I was only thinking how best to put in words what I want to say," said Roma. "Listen, Eugenia. I would say it was very wicked of Gertrude to tell you what she did, if I supposed that she at all realised what she was doing, or how you would take it. However, don't let us speak of her. I would rather not. She has been very kind to me, and she is more silly and small than malevolent. As to what she told you, it was a mixture of truth and falsehood, but the part that you cared about so deeply was untrue. It is quite untrue that Gertrude's interference separated Beauchamp and me. It was not required. I refused to marry him because I did not care for him in that way in the least, and also because I did not believe, and never shall, that he cared for me either. Even if I had cared for him, I don't know but what my dread of vexing Gertrude, of seeming to repay her kindness by ingratitude, would have been strong enough to stop me; but that was _not_ the reason. I simply did not care for him, except in a sisterly sort of way. And he--he fancied he cared for me, but he never did. It was greatly out of contradiction, and also because my indifference piqued him--he was so spoilt wherever he went, so sought after and petted! But I think I know the worst of him, and you may believe me, Eugenia, that he never cared as earnestly, as _truly_, for any woman as for you. I regretted your marriage, because, matter-of-fact as I am myself, I saw how different you were--I feared there would be sorrow in store for you--I feared Beauchamp would not understand you--but all the same, I never liked him so much as when I found how he _did_ care for you. He is not a grand character, Eugenia; I dare say what you tell me you suspect may have been true--that he thought it was very grand of him to marry for love, notwithstanding his great prospects, and I have no doubt Gertrude helped him to think so. But, all the same, he did marry for love, and he loves you still; and, dear Eugenia, you will come to see, I do believe, that there is still a fair share of happiness waiting for you. No one will ever have the same power for good over Beauchamp as you, and even if you begin again with little hope or heart, encouragement will come; all the more quickly, perhaps, because of your faint expectations. Now I have told you exactly what I think. I have gone against the old advice never to meddle between husband and wife. I allow that you have had a great deal to bear, not a little to complain of. But, knowing Beauchamp as I do, I must say he has had something to bear too. In the first place, he is innocent of your having imagined him a different character from what he really is; he could not possibly understand it if it was told him. There has been a sort of playing at cross-purposes; for you have not made the best of him from your mistaken notion of the material you had to work upon. _Now_, you can face things. Leave the past, and decide bravely to do the best with the present."

The tears were running down Eugenia's pale cheeks: "You forget, Roma," she said, sadly. "I have no present. I have cut myself away from it. I believe all you say, every word of it. I mean, I believe _you_. But if, as you allow, Beauchamp has not understood me hitherto, how could he ever understand the feelings which made me leave him? He must be a different man from what I now believe him to be if what I have done does not estrange us more than ever. For no mere surface peace would satisfy me, Roma. I mean, I could not agree to go back and begin again, merely for the sake of appearances, knowing that in reality there was no possibility of happiness for us."

"We shall see," said Roma. "Sometimes things turn out quite the other way from what we expect. But I do think, Eugenia, you should make up your mind to do what ever you come to see is right for you to do, and never mind about Beauchamp's motives for being willing, if he prove so, to meet you half-way."

Eugenia did not answer, and Roma thought it as well to leave her now to think things over in her own way. In her heart Miss Eyrecourt was not without a hope that this crisis might prove a turning-point; that the shock of finding Eugenia gone might open her husband's eyes to some part of the unhappiness she had endured, and that the way in which Gertrude had acted might lead him to a clearer understanding of the danger of her influence in his household. "Gertrude is sure to clear herself if she possibly can," thought Roma; "still Beauchamp must see she at least did not try to do any good. Besides, he must be conscious of how he has allowed her to speak of Eugenia, and how he has spoken himself. I wonder what happened when he came home and found his wife gone."

This was what had happened. It was on Thursday that Mrs Chancellor had left Halswood, where her husband was expected to return the next day. But the next day came and went, and it was not till pretty late on Saturday afternoon that he made his appearance. Mrs Eyrecourt in the meantime was suffering from no more painful feeling than annoyance, and some amount of indignation at her sister-in-law's unceremonious behaviour. Anxiety she felt none, for Eugenia had by no means allowed the whole depth of her feelings to appear during her conversation with her husband's sister, and the note which was given to Gertrude on her return home from a drive that Thursday afternoon, in explanation of her hostess's absence, had been carefully worded by Eugenia, and only left on her sister-in-law's mind the impression that she herself must be held of small account by her brother's wife if some unexplained summons from her Wareborough friends was considered of sufficient importance to justify so unheard-of a breach of hospitality.

Beauchamp's non-appearance the next day irritated her still further. She was by no means in the sweetest of tempers when Captain Chancellor came home. He came back in a more than usually kindly frame of mind towards his wife. He had enjoyed his visit very much. Everybody had been very civil to him, and several people had inquired pointedly for Eugenia, whose troubles and serious illness had awakened the sympathy and interest--sincere and genuine so far as they go--which, after all, selfish and conventional as we nineteenth-century people are supposed to have become, are not yet difficult to awaken in the hearts of many of those among whom we live. Lady Hereward had been of the party, and her peculiar interest in the young mother's bereavement had caused her to single out Beauchamp in a gratifying manner.

"I cannot tell you," she had said to him, drawing him aside for a moment--"I cannot tell you how much I have been thinking lately of that beautiful young wife of yours, Captain Chancellor. I was very nearly writing to her when I heard of her--her disappointment, but I feared it might seem intrusive. Will you tell her so? And whenever she feels equal to it, I do hope you will bring her to spend a few quiet days with me. You must be very good to her--you will forgive an old woman's impertinence?--you must be _very_ good to her. No doubt you are, but I doubt if even the best of husbands can _quite_ enter into her sorrow. It is not to be expected they should, perhaps. And following so quickly on her father's death too! Ah, yes, it was very sad! And she has no mother! Give her my messages, and tell her of my sympathy, and be very patient with her, even if her grief seems exaggerated. There, now, I have kept up my character as a meddlesome old woman, have I not?"

But Beauchamp felt by no means offended. The interest was too evidently genuine, the sympathy too womanly for the words to annoy. And then the speaker was Lady Hereward! Captain Chancellor thought over what she had said, and was all the better for it.

No one was to be seen in Eugenia's sitting-room when he reached home on Saturday afternoon. "She must be out," he thought; and the sound of Mrs Eyrecourt's voice as he passed an open window confirmed his supposition. He was hastening out to join them by the door opening from his own "den" on to the sort of terrace below, when a letter, addressed to him in Eugenia's handwriting, placed conspicuously on the mantelpiece, caught his eye. In another moment he had opened and read it. His bright complexion turned to a grey pallor; a look of wild distress replaced the expression of smiling indifference habitual to him; all the nerve and spring seemed to melt out of his bearing; for "she has gone out of her mind," was the first thought that occurred to him--"grief has driven her insane," as Lady Hereward's words returned to his mind. "Good heavens! and this note is dated Thursday! What may not have happened by now?" Then his sister's voice, gay and careless as usual, again reached his ear. "Gertrude must know it. What is she thinking of? What is the meaning of it all?"

A sort of giddiness came over him. He had to sit down for a moment to prevent himself falling. Then he went forward to the window from which steps led to the walk below, and called to Mrs Eyrecourt.

"Gertrude," he said, "come here at once. I want you."

Full of her own grievances, which the sight of her brother recalled freshly to her mind, Mrs Eyrecourt hardly relished the authoritative summons. She came up the steps slowly, calling to her dog, whose company she much preferred to that of her daughter.

"So you have come back at last, Beauchamp!" she said, as she drew near him. "I was very nearly setting off home this morning, I can tell you. I wonder what you asked me to come to see you for!"

Her pettishness was quite lost on her brother.

"Gertrude," he said, excitedly, as if he had not heard her words, "do you not know, or _do_ you know about Eugenia? What has happened?"

"What has happened?" she repeated, looking a little startled; "nothing that I know of, except that she has gone to her friends at Wareborough-- her sister, or aunt, or somebody--for a day or two. I suppose she often goes there, does she not? though I certainly thought she might have waited till my visit was over."

"Is _that_ all you know?" said Beauchamp, impatiently. "Do you not know with what intention she left this--that she went, never to return?"

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs Eyrecourt, now for the first time taking alarm. "You don't mean to say she has run away--run away _with_ some one? How frightful! What a scandal! Oh, Beauchamp, how terribly you have been deceived!"

"Take care what you say, Gertrude," said Captain Chancellor, sternly. "Run away _with_ any one--my wife--Eugenia! What are you thinking of? Read that!"

He thrust into her hand the letter he had found on his mantelpiece, and while watching her read it, he almost laughed, not with standing his distress, at the utter incompatibility of his sister's coarsely commonplace supposition with the perfect guilelessness, the transparency and innocence, he had often been half inclined to look upon as but a part of his wife's childishness and inexperience.

Eugenia's note to her husband was as follows:--

"I am going away because I am too hopeless and miserable to bear my
life longer. Hitherto I have clung to hope and to you through all my
suffering, believing that at least you _had_ loved me. Now I know the
whole bitter truth. I am going to my own friends. I will agree to
any arrangements you like to make, but I do not want any money, except
what I have of my own. I cannot think that you will in any way miss
me, but I trust you will be happier without me than you have been with
me.

"Eugenia."

Mrs Eyrecourt did not speak when she had finished reading this. Beauchamp, observing her closely, fancied she looked pale and frightened.

"Can you explain any of this to me?" he asked, impatiently. "Has anything happened in my absence, to explain it? Or must I think she has gone out of her mind?"

Gertrude hesitated a little. "There was--we had a rather disagreeable conversation the day you left," she began. "I don't know who in the world could have put it in her head--_truly_ I don't, Beauchamp--but all of a sudden Eugenia challenged me with having been the cause of your _not_ marrying Roma, and by some peculiar reasoning of her own, from that she went on to argue that I was the cause of your hasty proposal to her, which she seems to look upon as the misfortune of her life."

"And what did you tell her?"

"What could I tell her but the truth? She seemed to have a very fair notion of it to begin with. I could not have deceived her. Certainly she is the most hot-headed exaggerated person I ever knew. She talked of having been deceived and all sorts of things. She must have been infatuated to think that you, with your prospects--and altogether--could have _deliberately_ chosen her, or that your friends could have approved of your doing so, though of course both you and they were too honourable to try to draw back once the thing was actually done."

Captain Chancellor laughed. There was a slight incredulousness in his laugh which made Gertrude very irate. "Then what you have told me is about the general substance of what you told her?" he said.

"I suppose so," said Mrs Eyrecourt, sulkily. "I did not begin it. I do not consider myself in any way responsible for what she has done. She seemed all right again at luncheon, and as you must have seen, I never even associated this foolish fit of jealousy of hers with her sudden visit to her friends."

But Beauchamp was not yet satisfied. For almost the first time in his life, he felt that he had his sister in his power, and he used it to the utmost. Little by little he extracted from her a full account of what had passed between her and his wife, including what she had told Eugenia of her really mistaken impression of the true relations that had existed between himself and Roma Eyrecourt, and when he had learnt all that she had to tell, he turned from her with a bitter "Thank you, Gertrude. You have certainly done your best to ruin any chances of happiness I had. I never before had a conception how spiteful a spiteful woman could be. You disliked Eugenia from the first, because she was my choice and not yours, and in the pleasure of making her miserable you have cared little what became of me."

Mrs Eyrecourt was so offended that she first burst into tears, and then decided upon setting off to join Addie and her mother that very afternoon, leaving Floss behind her till she sent directions for her journey home. Captain Chancellor did not care. Before his sister had fixed her train, he was half-way to Wareborough, where, however, disappointment awaited him in the shape of the Thurstons' complete ignorance of Eugenia's whereabouts. The interview with his wife's relations threatened at first to be a stormy one, for, in his increasing anxiety and perplexity, he was more than half inclined to blame them for this new complication. But they were patient and judicious; the sight of his unfeigned distress inclined Sydney to judge him more leniently than she had ever done, and new hopes began to spring in her heart, that if only Eugenia were with them again, all might yet be well. In the end, Beauchamp went home again to Halswood, by Frank's advice, to wait there quietly till they heard from their sister.

"I am certain we shall have a letter from her to-morrow or Monday," said Frank, "for even if she were ill, her maid Rachel, who, we were glad to find, is with her, would write. And it is better for you to go home, and look as if nothing were wrong. Your staying here would only make a talk, and I shall telegraph instantly we hear."