Chapter V: Part 5

"Don't say that," she remonstrated, gently; "I do not feel it so at all. When any one finds fault with me, on the contrary, I feel that it must--that they must--" she hesitated.

"That it must arise from no common interest in you?" he suggested. "And can you ever have doubted _my_ feeling such, Miss Laurence? No one, I suppose, is quite perfection; but surely you must know that to me you appear so near it that a word or a tone which I should never notice in another woman, from you acquires importance."

The words were dreadfully commonplace, but spoken in his peculiarly sweet, low voice, with his deep, expressive eyes looking unutterable things into hers, to Eugenia they sounded most "apt and gracious." Nor was Beauchamp, for the time being, insincere. He really felt what he said. As he looked at this young creature, so sweet, so _very_ pretty, so ready to believe in himself as the embodiment of every manly grace and excellence, a strange, altogether unprecedented rash, of feeling came over him. If he could but throw all to the winds--prospects and position and future and all--and clasp her in his arms and call her his darling, his "one woman in the world," and carry her off there and then to some beautiful, impossible castle in the air, where there was no "society," no growing old, no anybody or anything but each other!

It was but a moment's passing, insane, altogether ridiculous dream, and Beauchamp soon recovered himself, and Eugenia little suspected the cause of his sudden silence, for she was in a sweet dream of her own, the same in which for many days now she had been living, and from which she would not be very easily roused. Each day, each hour, almost, it was gaining more hold upon her; every circumstance, every trifling incident, seemed to bring her more and more under its influence; no shadow of misgiving had as yet dimmed its beauty and glowing perfection.

Yet she was a girl to whom such a description of her enchantment as that suggested by the vulgar words "madly in love" was altogether and essentially inapplicable. We want a word surely to describe this higher, yet passionate love--the love of a pure, enthusiastic, undisciplined nature, dreaming that it has found its ideal, that the days of "gods and godlike men" are not yet over, to whom in such a belief all self-sacrifice, all self-surrender, would be possible, to whom the destruction of its ideal would risk the destruction of all faith beside.

They walked on in silence for a little; then, by a slight quickening of their pace, Beauchamp managed to overtake Mr Thurston and Sydney, who were only a few steps before them, and for the next half mile the four kept together. It was better so, Beauchamp said to himself, for he was beginning to feel a little less confident in his own ability to draw back in time; his recent sensations had startled him considerably, and Roma's warning persisted in recurring most uncomfortably to his mind. Looking back over the wide range of his so-called "love affairs," he could not hit upon any which on _his_ side had threatened "to go so far." Roma herself, with all her attractions, had never roused in him a similar storm. He was as determined as ever to win her in spite of all opposition, but he owned to himself that by the time he met her again at Winsley, he might safely boast that his allegiance had been more sharply tested than even she had had any idea of.

Some way further along the road they came to the sharp turn known as Ayclough Bend. Here, a lane to the right led up the hill to the farm, the high road to the left pursuing its course to twenty-miles-off Bridgenorth.

"This is our way," said Mr Thurston, turning as he spoke in the direction of the lane, but both the girls had come to a stand beside a large stone lying at the side of the road.

"This is the Bride's stone," said Sydney, in an explanatory tone.

"Ah, yes, to be sure. Poor bride," said Gerald, coming back again.

"Who is the bride? Why do you call this her stone?" inquired Captain Chancellor of Eugenia.

She gravely related the story. Even to this day it had a curious fascination for her. "It was on this stone he was thrown when the coach upset. And it is here, they say, she is still to be seen sometimes," she said with a slight shudder. "Is it not a sad story?" she added, looking up with such pity in her eyes, that Beauchamp half fancied there were tears not far off. He didn't feel inclined to laugh at her, he was in a rather unusual mood to-day. Still less, however, was he inclined that Gerald or Sydney should have the benefit of his rare fit of genuine sentimentality. So he answered carelessly--

"Very sad, if true, which I should feel inclined to doubt. I have heard the same story at other places. Besides, if it were true, pity would be wasted on the lady. No doubt she married again very speedily if she was so lovely and charming."

Gerald hardly stayed to hear him finish the sentence. He walked on quickly, followed by Sydney, and both looked at each other as they heard Eugenia's voice answering her companion brightly and happily as usual.

"She is bewitched," said Gerald, abruptly, and Sydney by her silence seemed to agree with him. "Just the sort of thing that would have put her out for the day, if Frank had said it to tease her."

They had not seen the expression in Beauchamp's eyes which belied his careless words, giving her, even about this trifle, a feeling that his confidence, his deeper feelings, were reserved for her alone.

"Yes," said Sydney, with a sigh. "But, Gerald, I have come to see that there is nothing to be done. I tried once or twice to speak to Eugenia, some time ago, but it was no use. It only risked my losing her confidence altogether. Besides, what could I say? I know nothing against Captain Chancellor. I cannot even say I suspect anything; and I by no means dislike him. As an ordinary acquaintance I should like him very much."

"You disliked him at first," objected Gerald.

"No, not exactly," said Sydney, thoughtfully. "I was only rather afraid of liking him too readily. I doubted him before I ever saw him, from what Eugenia told me of him; I doubted, I mean to say, his being the sort of person I should have chosen for her. But that sounds very presumptuous. Sisters don't marry to please each other."

"No," said Gerald, with a slight laugh. "In that case Frank's chance might not have been so good."

"But Eugenia _respects_ Frank, though they are always sparring with each other. She trusts him too. Ah, there is just the difference," exclaimed Sydney, eagerly. "I don't feel as if I could trust Captain Chancellor with Eugenia. I don't suppose he will beat her or ill-use her," she went on smiling half sadly. "I think he is kind-hearted and easy tempered, and a good enough sort of a man in many ways. But he won't _understand_ her, and that sort of misery would be worse to her than any."

"But it would have been a great chance if she had married any one thoroughly congenial and suitable. Very few people do," said Gerald, thinking to himself if there might not in the future be disappointment in store even for the earnest, unselfish girl beside him, good sterling fellow though Frank was.

"I know that," answered Sydney, and then for a minute or two she remained silent. "Perhaps, Gerald," she went on, "to put it quite fairly, a good deal of our anxiety arises from Eugenia's side. I mean it is her own character that makes me afraid. I don't think I should have misgivings about any other girl's happiness if I heard she was going to marry Captain Chancellor. I don't know that I should have been afraid for myself even, (though it sounds an odd thing to say, and I certainly couldn't fancy myself caring for him). You see, Gerald, I expect so much less. With Eugenia it is always all or nothing."

"Yes, I understand," answered Gerald. "It is a question if such a nature _can_ escape intense suffering, though I had fancied--but it's no use thinking of that. There are some kinds of suffering which, it seems to me, would be ruinous to Eugenia, which she could not pass through without leaving the best of herself in the furnace. That is my worst fear, Sydney. I have never attempted to put it in words before. I could not have done so to any one but yourself."

"But we can't tell, Gerald," said Sydney, timidly. "We can't tell how what seems the worst training may turn out the best. We can't believe that in the end it will not all have been the best, even our own mistakes."

"The end is a very long way off," said Gerald, gloomily, "and it is sad work for lookers-on sometimes. Of course, I know what you mean, Sydney, and one must at bottom believe it; but still one constantly sees what look very like fatal mistakes, and it is very seldom given to us on this side of the gate to see that good came out of the bad after all."

Sydney did not answer. After awhile Mr Thurston spoke again, this time with evident hesitation.

"I am afraid you may be angry with me for what I am going to say, Sydney," he began, "but I think I should say it. All your fears seem to point one way. I mean to the unlikelihood of Captain Chancellor's satisfying Eugenia--suiting her--but have you never doubted him in any other way?"

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Sydney in vague alarm.

"Can't you understand? It's a horrid thing to say," said Gerald impatiently. "Are you quite sure he is in earnest? May he not be only what is called amusing himself--flirting, or trifling, or any of those detestable expressions?"

Sydney grew crimson.

"No, Gerald," she said, with immense indignation in her voice. "I certainly never for an instant supposed him capable of such baseness. I am surprised at you, Gerald. It is well you never hinted at anything of this kind before--or perhaps it is a pity you did not. I am exceedingly sorry I ever discussed the matter with you at all."

"You are unjust and unreasonable, Sydney, and unkind too," exclaimed Gerald, with a good deal of wounded feeling. "Don't you see how painful it is to me to suggest such a thing to _you_, who know what you do about me? But I am in earnest, Sydney. It is well you, at least, should be prepared for such a possibility. You cannot suppose that I have any selfish motive in suggesting it. You don't think that, _selfishly_ speaking, I should wish it to turn out so? If Captain Chancellor disappeared to-day, and was never heard of again, that would do _me_ no good. How could it?"

"I didn't think you had any selfish motive," answered Sydney, gently. "I only thought that--that--naturally perhaps you saw him worse than he is."

"Frank has said the same," replied Mr Thurston, in a but half mollified tone.

"Frank!" repeated Sydney, "Frank! Oh, no, Gerald! He likes Captain Chancellor; he thinks well of him."

"Well, I didn't say he disliked him. He, only looking at the thing in a careless, superficial, way, does not seem to think any blame could be attached to this man if--oh, how I hate these vulgar expressions!--if he simply does go away without, as it is called, `coming to the point' at all. Frank cannot see that he pays Eugenia any particular attentions. He only thinks her very likely to deceive herself in this sort of thing." Sydney looked dreadfully startled. If Frank thought so, must there not be some ground for this new anxiety? But if so, how despicably false Captain Chancellor must be! How false and how hatefully worldly-wise to have thus, as it were, screened himself beforehand by securing Frank's favourable opinion! For that he had _not_ deliberately set himself to gain Eugenia's affections from the first, Sydney could not for an instant allow. What on Eugenia would be the effect of the discovery of such treachery, poor Sydney dared not allow herself to imagine. But no, it could not be. After all, no man could be so coldblooded, so selfish, so wicked, as to crush the happiness out of a fair young life for the sake of a few weeks' amusement. Sydney had read of such things, but was loth to believe in them. Gerald's troubles had made him morbidly suspicious. Frank had spoken hastily, and, after all, Frank was far from being in a position to judge. So she endeavoured to reassure herself, and fancied she had done so.

She was unusually quiet, however, for the rest of the afternoon. The others--Frank and the boys, Eugenia and Captain Chancellor, that is to say--were in the highest spirits. Only Sydney and Mr Thurston seemed uninfluenced by the fresh keen air, the exhilarating amusement.

"I thought your sister could skate too--at least, that she was learning, like you," said Beauchamp to Eugenia, who was just beginning to feel a little at home on the ice. "Doesn't she like it?"

"She skates better than I, a good deal," replied the girl. "I don't know what has come over her this afternoon. She looks so tired and out of spirits!" And as she spoke, she looked anxiously in Sydney's direction.

Captain Chancellor noticed the quick change of expression that came over her face. Five minutes before, he had thought nothing could be lovelier than Eugenia, laughing and merry; now it seemed to him this tenderly anxious expression showed the sweetness of her eyes to greater advantage. What a fascinating face the child had!--never two minutes the same, and each change bringing out some new beauty. He stood watching her, till he almost forgot where he was. She turned suddenly, and caught his gaze; blushed a little, and looked away again. Something in his face puzzled her--a perplexed, uneasy look, that she had never seen there before. Suddenly Bob Dalrymple wheeled up to where they were standing, and came to a halt.

"What a brilliant colour that ribbon of yours is, Miss Laurence!" said Captain Chancellor, abruptly. "Is scarlet your favourite colour? You generally have some of it about you."

"Only in winter," answered Eugenia, lightly. "In summer I can't bear it. My tastes change altogether with the seasons."

"So if you come back next summer, you'd better look out," said Bob, addressing Captain Chancellor, and grinning maliciously. "She won't like you then. It's a good thing you're going before the weather changes." And so saying, he skimmed off again.

"What does he mean?" exclaimed Eugenia, not disguising the shock the boy's words had given her. "You are not going away, Captain Chancellor?"

There was an unconscious entreaty in her voice, that gave Beauchamp a sudden thrill of pain and self-reproach.

"Not just yet, I hope. But my plans are a little--are not quite decided at present," he answered, confusedly. Then, notwithstanding his resolutions, the look in Eugenia's face tempted him to say more.

"You must know, Miss Laurence, how painful, how unendurable it will be to me to leave Wareborough," he said, in a low, hurried voice.

"Will you not come back again?" she asked, very quietly, striving hard to force back the intense eagerness with which she awaited his reply.

"I hope so. I earnestly hope I may be able to do so," he answered; and for the time the hope was sincere. "But I am not my own master. I can't explain all I mean. I am hampered in every direction. But some day, perhaps--No, it is no use--"

He stopped.

Eugenia stood beside him without speaking. He glanced half timidly at her face. Its expression puzzled him. It was getting late now; the rest of the party had taken off their skates, and were coming towards them across the pond, prepared evidently for the walk home. Beauchamp felt desperate. He might not have another opportunity of saying what he now felt he _must_ say.

"Miss Laurence--Eugenia," he exclaimed. She started a little. "I must ask you one thing: Will you think as well as you can of me, even if others may blame me? Will you not judge me by appearances more than you can help? My position is full of difficulty. As I said just now, I am not in any sense my own master; but--if I may hope for nothing else--I would at least like to think you would judge me leniently, even if I hardly seem to deserve it."

He was _quite_ in earnest now. He had never spoken so to any woman before. When he had left home this afternoon, he had not the slightest idea he should speak so to this woman to-day. He got his answer.

"You need not ask me to judge you leniently. I do not think it would be possible for me ever to judge you at all. Nothing--no one but yourself could ever make me think ill of you."

She looked up at him with a light in her beautiful eyes as she said these words, that made Beauchamp Chancellor feel strangely unlike his usual equable, comfortable self. Why did she trust him so? Why did she take things so deeply, so in earnest? Why was she not like the ninety-and-nine other girls he had flirted with, and thought pretty, and talked nonsense to, and left none the worse? He felt half provoked with her for being so different, yet a vague instinct whispered to him, that in this very difference lay her peculiar charm.

There were no more tetes-a-tetes. It was getting dusk as they walked home, and they all kept together, and the conversation was general. Sydney wondered a little why Eugenia was so quiet, but supposed she must be suffering from some amount of reaction from her high spirits earlier in the day.

Captain Chancellor bade them good-night at their own door. Sydney fancied his manner a little odd--more abrupt, less self-possessed than usual, when he shook hands with her. He did not call the next day, as she somehow half expected, nor the day after, and Eugenia did not seem surprised. She did not look well, Sydney fancied; and when urged by her sister to tell what was wrong, she confessed, to having felt over fatigued since Saturday's long walk.

"She has many and many a time walked to Ayclough and back without being tired," thought Sydney. "There must be something wrong. Can they have quarrelled?"

Possessed with this idea, she watched eagerly for Captain Chancellor's next appearance, and thought it doubly unlucky that Frank's absence from home for a day or two should have happened at this crisis, when through him she might have learnt something of what was the matter, and if anything lay within her power to do for her sister. To a superficial observer, poor Sydney, during these few days, would have looked the more anxious and unhappy of the two. It was as sad as strange to her to believe Eugenia in suffering, and to be in ignorance of the cause.

On Thursday evening the sisters were sitting by themselves in the drawing-room, their father busy writing in his own little room, when there came a ring at the front door bell. Up jumped Sydney, her heart beating considerably faster than its wont, her face full of eagerness.

"That must be Frank," observed Eugenia, quietly.

For the time being, the sisters seemed to have changed characters.

"Frank!" exclaimed Sydney; and though it was five days since she had seen her _fiance_, at the supposition, her face fell. "Oh, no, it can't be Frank! He was not to return till Friday--that's to-morrow."

But Frank it was. No trace of disappointment was legible in Eugenia's countenance as she welcomed him rather more cordially than usual, whereas Sydney's manner was preoccupied and almost cold. Frank was tired, however, and very glad to be home again; and not being gifted with the quickest perception in the world, discovered nothing amiss. Eugenia rang for tea for him, and he drew in his chair near the fire, and sat there drinking it in comfortable content, telling them all about his journey and adventures, and what a charming little country parsonage he had been staying at--"The very place for you and me, Sydney, when we get old, and past hard work." And Sydney smiled, without seeming to hear what he was saying. Then a new thought struck Frank.

"Oh, by-the-bye," he exclaimed, "did you see Chancellor before he left? He went off quite in a hurry at the end. He told me on Saturday evening he was expecting to go soon, but he thought he would be here through this week. And this evening I got a letter from him from some place or other--Wins--something--his home, I suppose--saying how sorry he was not to have seen me, to say good-bye--some family arrangements, he said, had called him off in a hurry at the last."

"I saw a note in his handwriting addressed to papa on the hall-table. It came by this evening's post. No doubt, it was saying the same thing," said Eugenia.

She almost overdid it; even Frank looked up, struck by the strange unfamiliar monotone in which she spoke.

"But he is coming back again. He is certain to come back again, Frank? Tell me, isn't he quite _certain_ to come back again?" asked Sydney, with a quick, painful eagerness in her voice, as if entreating Frank not to answer no.

He stared at her for a moment, he did not understand her. Had he done so, he might have softened the bluntness of his reply, for he was far from callous or hardhearted to suffering in any shape.

"How interested you seem in his movements, Sydney. I have always thought you didn't particularly like him. You've changed your opinion rather suddenly, surely? Come back again? No, it is very unlikely indeed that he will ever come back again. The 203rd is sure to leave Bridgenorth before Captain Chancellor's leave is over, and, of course, the Wareborough detachment will go too. The regiment has been quite its time here. Chancellor was aide-de-camp to his cousin, General Conyers, somewhere in Ireland, till he came here--that's how he happened to be so short a time here."

"And where will the regiment go to?" inquired Sydney. The words seemed to form themselves mechanically on her lips; a strange feeling came over her that it was really Eugenia, not herself, who was speaking.

"Goodness knows," answered Frank. "Oh, yes, by-the-bye, I remember Chancellor saying they were next on the roster for foreign service. He said, a few months would see him in India, unless he sold out. I shouldn't much wonder if he did. I shouldn't much wonder if--" he hesitated. For the first time a slight misgiving seemed to come over him; he looked up in some little embarrassment. Eugenia was sitting perfectly still, looking just as usual. He felt reassured.

"If what?" asked Sydney, again with the same feeling of being forced by the intensity of her sister's anxiety to continue putting these questions against her own will.

"Oh, nothing," said Frank. "That is to say, it is only a fancy of mine that there may be something between Chancellor and that handsome Miss Eyrecourt. His cousin, isn't she? I never saw her, but he had rather a constrained way of alluding to her, I noticed, and he had half-a-dozen photographs of her in different attitudes and dresses."

"I should think it very likely," said somebody--for the moment Sydney actually did not recognise the voice as her sister's. "I wonder if papa wants any tea, Sydney. I think I'll go and see."

She rose from her seat almost as she spoke, walked quietly to the door, and left the room.

Five minutes later, on some pretext, Sydney followed her--not to Mr Laurence's study, up to Eugenia's own room. It was quite dark. Sydney had to feel her way across the floor.

"Eugenia," she said, softly.

No one answered. She groped her way to the bed. Down at one end a figure was kneeling or crouching, she could not tell which. She felt it was her sister. Round the poor child's quivering frame stole two clinging, clasping arms; all over her eyes and cheeks and mouth fell tears and kisses.

"Don't push me away, _don't_, Eugenia," entreated Sydney.

There was a moment's hesitation--a struggle between pride and old habit of love and confidence for the victory. But pride had had more than its share of work lately; it gave in.

"Oh, Sydney," came at last, with a convulsive grasp of her sister. "Oh, Sydney, how shall I bear it? I don't blame _him_. _He_ couldn't help it, but I do think my heart is broken."

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER NINE.

AT WINSLEY.

Breathe no love to me,
I will give none of mine.

It was late in the evening of the Tuesday succeeding the skating expedition to Ayclough when Captain Chancellor reached Winsley Grange, so late that the only person awake to receive him was a sleepy footman charged with his mistress's apologies for not having sat up to welcome her brother in person. Beauchamp received the apologies with philosophy, for he was not sorry to defer seeing Mrs Eyrecourt till the next day; he was tired and not quite as comfortable and complacent as usual, and Gertrude's eyes were dreadfully keen. Then there was Roma too. He had been preparing himself to meet them both, but it was a relief to find he should have a few hours to himself first; he wanted to think things over a little, quietly; he wanted quite thoroughly to satisfy himself of the truth of what he had many times already repeated to himself--that he had certainly acted for the best.

Yes, there could be no doubt that he had done so, he decided, as he sat with his pipe by the fire, after declining the sleepy footman's offers of "getting him anything"--he had dined in town on his way--he was very well out of it; it wasn't every man that would have had the strength of mind to cut it short decisively just as a crisis was approaching, for, no doubt, he confessed to himself he _had_ been hit, just the least in the world. She, too, would very soon be all right again, poor little soul; and by some curious code of morality of his own, the reflection that the tools with which he had been playing had scratched _him_, though it might be but slightly, greatly lessened the discomfort of the half-acknowledged suspicion that they had cut _her_ deeply.

Late as it was, however, he felt he should sleep better if he first wrote a few civil words to her father and to Frank Thurston of apology for, or rather explanation of, his abrupt departure. It must have looked odd, he feared, but he could easily make it all right. Besides, he had told Thurston he should be leaving soon; "family arrangements" had only hastened his movements by a few days; anything was better than the risk of a formal leave-taking, and Gertrude's letter had just come in the nick of time. So he wrote his notes, and calmly turned the last page of this short chapter in his history, and went to bed believing or imagining that he believed that the little "affaire" was well over, and no one the worse, no results left, as Roma had indirectly prophesied, that would in the least interfere with his old dream of winning _her_-- no results, at least, that she need ever discover, or that would be lasting. He would be quite himself again in a day or two; to-night he felt a little out of sorts, and somehow the old dream was hardly as attractive as usual. No wonder, he had not seen Roma for a good while, and she had bothered him a little the last time they met, and he hated being bothered; besides, is it not human nature to have temporary misgivings as to the excellence of the trellised grapes when the sweetest of strawberries within one's easy grasp have been a familiar sight?

When Beauchamp woke in the morning he felt already a different man. His spirits had recovered themselves amazingly. It was a bright day for one thing, and it was pleasant to glance lazily round the comfortable, familiar room, and feel he was at home again; to catch sight out of the window of the clear blue sky and the beautiful Winsley trees--beautiful even in winter--instead of leaden Wareborough clouds and grim Wareborough roofs. He was really attached to Winsley, and had reason for being so, for to him and his sister, if not the Grange itself, at least its immediate neighbourhood had always seemed home.

The root of the Chancellor family was to be found in quite another part of the country, but the personal associations of Beauchamp and Mrs Eyrecourt were all connected with Winsley. When they were little children their father had succeeded to the adjoining tiny little property of Winsedge, and there they had lived till, shortly before his death, Winsedge was sold to Mr Eyrecourt of the Grange. And before the young Chancellors had had time to realise that their connection with the neighbourhood was at an end, Gertrude's marriage to their former lord of the manor riveted it again more strongly than before, for the premature death of their mother, whose life had been a slow martyrdom of vain devotion to a selfish and extravagant husband, soon left Beauchamp, still a boy, with no near friend but his elder sister--no home but hers. And Mrs Eyrecourt had been very kind to her brother, and, while he lived, had influenced her husband to be the same, winning his goodwill towards Beauchamp in part, perhaps, by that which she herself showed to his step-sister, Roma, when she in turn came to be left motherless and homeless.

Winsley Grange was a thoroughly and really "desirable residence." A long, low, thick-walled, deep-windowed house of no particular architecture, sufficiently picturesque, with its gable ends and lattices, not to disappoint the expectations suggested by its name; old enough for respectability, but not for inconvenience; not too large for the size of the property, nor too grand to be comfortable. To these advantages it united that of a charming situation in the prettiest part of a pretty county, where the society, though undeniably "good," was-- thanks probably to the comparatively near neighbourhood of the capital-- but very slightly tainted by that spirit of stupid and indiscriminating exclusiveness so liable to flourish among the lords of the soil in more remote and isolated districts.

So it was--considering all things--only natural that Captain Chancellor should like his sister and his sister's house, and be always glad to return to them after absence.

"What a bore these people are coming to-day," he thought to himself, as he went downstairs. "We might have had a comfortable little time to ourselves; that is to say, if I find both Gertrude and Roma in a good humour."

They were both in very good humour, as he discovered almost immediately he entered the breakfast-room. Mrs Eyrecourt received him with even more than her usual cordiality; so warmly, indeed, as to give rise to a slight suspicion in his mind of there being "something in the wind." Roma's manner was cheerful and hearty--so free, apparently, from the slightest tinge of constraint or self-consciousness, that Beauchamp felt puzzled and not altogether pleased, but he took good care to conceal his incipient annoyance, and comported himself as faultlessly and serenely as ever.

"It was very good of you, Beauchamp, to come off so quickly," said his sister. "I hardly expected you would be able to manage it. How did you do about your leave?"

"Oh, quite easily," he replied. "I might have had it, you know, since the New-year if I had liked." Here he surprised a look of curiosity on Roma's part--a look of "I thought as much," too, it seemed to him. It hardly suited him now for her to suspect any rival attraction at Wareborough. Lightly as he treated the remembrance of Eugenia, the idea of making use of her as he had once intended had somehow grown distasteful to him, so he went on quietly with his answer to his sister: "I have been so long away from the regiment, I wanted to be as good-natured as I could, and my only taking half my leave was a convenience to one or two of them. I meant, any way, to have come here next week, but it suited me quite as well to come sooner. I got your letter on Saturday evening, and this is only Wednesday. I did not lose much time, did I?"

"No, indeed," responded Mrs Eyrecourt, very graciously. "I can't tell you how glad I was to find you were coming. It is so very much nicer to have you here when the Chancellors come, particularly as they are our own relations, you know, and they would have been away by next week."

"I can't make out what brings them here, or where you came across them. You condescended to no explanations in your letter--you only said the Halswood Chancellors were coming. I had to think for some time before I could remember anything about them. I had almost forgotten that there was such a place as Halswood," said Beauchamp.

"I had no idea myself of their coming, till the day I wrote to you," replied Gertrude. "You see I wrote to Herbert Chancellor when I saw the announcement of the grandfather's death, to con--"

"Gratulate him," suggested Roma, for her sister-in-law had hesitated a little over her condolences.

"I wrote to him," continued Mrs Eyrecourt, without condescending to notice the interruption, "and of course I said if ever they were in our neighbourhood I should be very much pleased to see them here. Mr Chancellor answered very civilly, and the other day I accidentally heard they were staying at Ferrivale, not twenty miles from here, so I wrote again, making my general invitation a special one, and they accepted it at once. That's the whole story. You will see them for yourself this afternoon."

"But who are `they'?" cross-questioned her brother. "Mr Chancellor and his wife and all the little Chancellors?"

"There are no little Chancellors. That is to say, only one girl of fourteen or so, besides the eldest daughter, who is out, and the son-- there is only one, I thought there were two--who is at Eton," replied Mrs Eyrecourt.

"Oh, indeed; so it is only Herbert and his wife who are coming," said Beauchamp, as if he now knew all about it, for he had got scent at last, and wished to provoke his sister into letting him see all that was in her mind.

"Of course not, Beauchamp; how stupid you are!" exclaimed Gertrude. "Why should Herbert and his wife go about the country paying visits, and leave their grown-up daughter at home? She is past eighteen, and out, I told you. And very pretty," she added, injudiciously.

"Oh, indeed, I understand now," answered Beauchamp, meekly, and looking across the table, the expression in Roma's eyes told him that she knew he now _did_ understand.

"Poor dear Gertrude! So _that_ is why I was sent for in such a hurry," he observed, when, breakfast being over, Roma and he were left by themselves for a short time. "Couldn't you make her comprehend, Roma, that she might save herself the trouble?"

Miss Eyrecourt was standing by the window, looking over her letters. She seemed perfectly cool and comfortable, in no way embarrassed by finding herself, for the first time for some months, alone with her would-be lover. She looked up at him when he spoke to her, and answered quietly and deliberately--

"No, Beauchamp, I certainly could not do anything of the kind. If you have anything to say to Gertrude, you must say it yourself. I am not going to come between you two in any way. I don't want to meddle in your affairs at all; no advice of mine is likely to do good. Now, Beauchamp," she went on, in a different tone, half remonstrating, half coaxing, "do let us be nice and comfortable together. And do try not to vex Gertrude, that's a good boy. If her plans don't please you, there is time enough to say so, and you need not vex her by seeming determined to thwart her beforehand. Those sorts of schemes generally right themselves--very likely Addie Chancellor is already out of your reach-- she _it_ pretty, I have seen her. There, now, after all, I have begun advising and warning you, and I vowed I would never do so again."

She looked very handsome this morning. She was, as usual, beautifully dressed, and it was some time since Beauchamp had been in the company of a perfectly attired, perfectly well-bred, self-possessed woman of Roma's order. Beside her, Eugenia Laurence, lovely as she was, rose to his mind's eye as an unformed child. He was in a mood to be very sensitive to Miss Eyrecourt's particular attractions, and something in her manner impressed him pleasantly. She seemed softer and less satirical than her wont. There was a half playfulness, a coaxingness in her way of speaking to him which, in his opinion, became her marvellously.

"And why shouldn't you advise and warn me, Roma?" he asked, softly, going a little nearer her. "You know very well there is no, one in the world I should take advice from half so willingly. Why will you always misunderstand me?"

His tone was growing dangerously tender.

"Oh, silly Beauchamp!" said Roma to herself. Then looking up, "I am glad to hear it," she observed, rather coldly. "Your have thoroughly acted up to the last piece of advice I gave you, have you not? You remember what it was--that night at the Dalrymples?"

As she spoke, Beauchamp, though looking down, felt conscious that her keen dark eyes were regarding him searchingly. He could not pretend not to understand her, little as he had been prepared for this embarrassing cross-examination, and to his intense annoyance he felt himself slightly change colour. It was very slightly, so slightly that no other eyes would have perceived it, but looking up again boldly to brave out this home-thrust, the ready words died on his lips; he saw that Roma was watching him with an expression not very unlike contempt.

"That Mrs Dalrymple has been writing to her, and she wants to show me she won't stand it," thought Beauchamp. He was quite mistaken. Roma knew very little of his life at Wareborough, and, selfishly speaking, cared very little with whom, or to what extent, he chose to flirt. But she did care about the possibly serious results to himself, his sister, and, even indirectly, to herself, of his folly. And she had never been able to forget the bright, sweet face of Eugenia Laurence. She had, however, promised Gertrude to be most discreet in her conduct to Beauchamp. She had no wish to quarrel with him. She was resolved cautiously to steer clear of any sort of "scene." There was no saying in what contradictory way an explanation with her might affect him, and her great desire was that, without any such crisis, he should gradually arrive at a tacit understanding of her complete indifference.

"Not that I ever have believed, or ever shall believe, he really cares about me," she had said to her sister-in-law. "It is half of it contradiction, and the other half the accident of our having been so often thrown together when he had no better occupation. Beauchamp would not be Beauchamp if he had not some little affair on hand, and I daresay I am the only woman who has never in the least appreciated his attentions."

She agreed with Mrs Eyrecourt, that if he would but have the sense to take a fancy to Adelaide Chancellor, it would be the best thing he could do; and she felt not a little provoked with Gertrude for showing her cards so plainly. It could not be helped, however, and now she felt conscious that she too had been foolish in approaching the subject of Eugenia.

"Whatever he has been doing, I cannot make it any better," she thought, "and I may make it worse."

So, though she was certain that he perfectly understood to what she referred, she expressed no incredulity when he calmly assured her he did not know to what special piece of advice she was alluding.

"Very well. If you have forgotten it so quickly, we will hope that in this case the cap didn't fit," she said, lightly.

And then she went on talking about other things with so evident a determination to avoid all subjects of close personal interest, that Beauchamp could not but follow her lead. And she made herself so pleasant that there was no excuse for his growing sulky. He said to himself she was perverse and tiresome--very few fellows would put up with it as he did, and so on; but in his inmost heart he was not sorry that just at present no love-making seemed to be expected of him; for, after all, he did not feel quite as much inclined for it as usual. More than once during the day his spirits seemed suddenly to desert him. He would find his thoughts straying to the dull house in the outskirts of Wareborough, where, ignore it as he would, he knew full well a girlish heart was growing heavy at his unwonted absence.

"Her father will get my note to-morrow," he reflected; "and then she won't expect me any more, and she will soon be all right. Besides, I prepared her for it on Saturday, and she did not seem much surprised. There is nothing to bother about. I have acted for the best, only she is such a queer sort of girl--takes things to heart so. And Roma has evidently not forgotten about her."

Very evidently Roma had not forgotten about her. Two or three times in the course of the day, she surprised Beauchamp in an absent fit, and disgusted him greatly by inquiring what he was thinking about, what was the matter, what had become of his good spirits, etc, etc, so that by the afternoon, Captain Chancellor had come to feel almost glad that their family party was to be augmented by the expected guests.

As the hour drew near at which the Chancellors were to arrive, Mrs Eyrecourt got quite into a flutter of excitement. Such a state of things was very unusual with her, well accustomed as she was to society and its usages. Beauchamp felt amused. "It is all on my account, I fear, that poor Gertrude is in such a fuss. She is only laying up disappointment for herself. I do wish she would leave me to manage my own affairs," he thought to himself, though to please her he hung about the house idle all the afternoon, in case of the Halswood party possibly appearing before their time. Gertrude's excitement was not only on his account, keenly anxious though she was that he and Adelaide Chancellor should impress each other agreeably; there was to Mrs Eyrecourt a peculiar and not unnatural feeling of gratification in receiving as her guests for the first time the head of the family--Mr Chancellor of Halswood himself--and his belongings. For, undoubted as was the position of the Winsley Eyrecourts in their own county and among their own set, that of the owner of Halswood was several pegs higher in the social scale, and Herbert Chancellor had more reason than many people for thinking himself rather a big man. But this second cause of his sister's "fuss," Beauchamp's less excitable, more individually selfish nature neither suspected nor would have sympathised with. It was all very well to "call cousins" with the Halswood people; but Gertrude sometimes bothered herself unnecessarily. In her place, Beauchamp said to himself, he certainly would not have gone out of his way to invite these strangers to take up their abode with them for a whole week. He felt bored even in anticipation. He hoped certainly Roma's attention would be distracted from teasing him with those silly questions of hers, but he more than half wished he was back at Wareborough.

Things improved, however, to some extent, when the visitors arrived. Mr Chancellor proved to be a pleasant looking, pleasant feeling man, a little too palpably prosperous perhaps, but with sufficient tact and refinement to steer clear of being offensively so; Mrs Chancellor--a still handsome woman, large and fair and languid, was several degrees more a fine lady, than her husband was a fine gentleman, but for this there was the excuse of her having been an heiress, and possessed of a property which she thought far more of than of twenty Halswoods, in days when Herbert had been landless and, comparatively speaking, penniless. And Adelaide, the daughter of this fortunate pair, amiable, pretty, commonplace and silly, was, on the whole, however, rather better than might have been expected. All three were evidently prepared to be pleased, and were graciousness itself to their cousins, and quite sufficiently civil to Miss Eyrecourt, who smiled to herself at the thought of Beauchamp's desperate position, should it actually prove the case that Gertrude's scheme was tacitly approved of by the authorities on the other side also.

"It almost looks like it," she thought, "yet why the Chancellors should wish it, I hardly understand."

She was not long left in the dark. The party at dinner this first day consisted only of themselves and the three visitors. Captain Chancellor, who had so far shown plainly enough to his sister and Roma, a determination to bestow none of his attentions on Adelaide, talked principally to her mother, and with such good effect that when the ladies retired to the drawing-room, the great lady quite forgot her languor in enthusiastic praise of Beauchamp's charms.

"It is so odd we have never met before," she remarked, "for Beauchamp--I must call you both by your Christian names, my dear Gertrude--Beauchamp tells me he has often been staying within a few miles of Wylingham. He knows the Prudhoe-Bettertons, of Prudhoe Castle, I find; charming people. He must not treat us so shabbily when he is next in our neighbourhood. By September, at latest, we shall be settled at home again, and I shall count upon your coming to us--I shall, positively. Beauchamp says he has half promised the Bettertons a few days about then."

"But we shall be at Halswood then, mamma," said Adelaide.

"Oh, nonsense, my dear. We shall certainly not be there before Christmas; at least, I devoutly hope not. Halswood is all very well in its way, but at present it is really uninhabitable. You never saw anything so frightful as the state of the house, my dear Gertrude. It wants refurnishing from top to bottom. I _should_ like you to see Wylingham."

Depreciation of Halswood rather jarred on Mrs Eyrecourt's Chancellor loyalty. But there was no time for her guest to observe any hesitation in her reply, for just then a loud squeal from the other end of the room made all the ladies jump, and effectually distracted Mrs Chancellor's attention.

"Floss, you naughty child, what are you screaming in that dreadful way for? Why are you not in bed? I told you to run upstairs as soon as we came out of the dining-room? What _is_ the matter?" exclaimed Gertrude, at no loss to pitch upon the invisible offender.

There was no answer for a minute. Then, a ball consisting of white muslin, blue ribbons, shaggy hair and bare legs, seemed to roll out from under a sofa into the middles of the room, when it shook itself into form, and stood erect, red-faced and defiant.

"Quin pulled my hair," was all the explanation it vouchsafed.

Quintin came forward from behind the curtains to answer for himself.

"Well, and if I did, I'd like to know who bit and scratched and kicked?" he exclaimed, wrathfully.

"'Cos you said you'd tell I was hiding in the curtains; tell-tale boy," returned Floss, with supreme contempt.

"And why were you hiding in the curtains? Why didn't you go up to bed when I sent you?" demanded her mother.

"Quin said there was a bear behind the glass door in the hall, and I was fwightened it would eat me," replied Floss, her defiance subsiding.

"I only said bears eat naughty children. It says so in the Bible," said Quin, virtuously.

Adelaide began to laugh.

"How silly you are!" thought Roma, regretfully. "I fear Beauchamp will soon be bored by you." But she liked the girl better when she rose from her seat, and asked Gertrude if she might not convoy poor Floss across the dreaded hall. It was more than Roma would have troubled herself to do: she looked upon all children as necessary evils, and considered her niece a peculiarly aggravated form of the infliction.

Gertrude was profuse in her thanks, but Floss hung back.

"I don't like you," she said calmly, looking up into Miss Chancellor's face. "You're too fat, and you've got stawey eyes."

Adelaide laughed again, but this time more faintly. An ominous frown darkened Mrs Eyrecourt's face.

"You naughty, naughty, rude child," she began, sternly. Quintin's better feelings were aroused.

"I'll take her upstairs, mamma. Come, Floss," and, already frightened at her own audacity, the cross-grained little mortal clutched at her brother's hand, and the two left the room together. Upstairs Quin read Floss a lecture on the enormity of her offence. Overcome by his goodness in escorting her to the nursery, she hugged him vehemently-- getting into fresh disgrace for crushing his collar; but maintained stoutly that "the new young lady wasn't nice or pretty at all, not the least tiny bit."

"What a nice boy Quintin is, and so handsome," began Miss Chancellor, gushingly.

"Yes," said Roma, to whom the remark was addressed; "he's not a bad child, as children go. I detest children."

Adelaide looked shocked.

"_Do_ you?" she exclaimed. "Well, of course," she went on, as if desirous of modifying her evident disapproval, "I daresay it makes a difference when one has not had younger brothers and sisters."

"Do you love yours so much?" inquired Roma. She felt a lazy pleasure in drawing out this model young lady a little.

"_Of course_," replied Miss Chancellor; "Victoria is much younger than I, you know, but we are great friends. I don't think there is anything she looks forward to as much as to being my bridesmaid. She is rather dark, so I have promised her she shall wear rose colour, or pink, if it is in summer."

Roma looked astonished. "I didn't know," she began, "I had not heard of anything being fixed about your marriage."

Adelaide burst out laughing. "Fixed," she repeated, "of course, not. But I am sure to be married some time or other. Don't you think it is great fun to think about what you will choose for yourself and your bridesmaids to wear? I have decided half-a-dozen times at least."

Roma confessed that the subject was one that had not hitherto much occupied her thoughts.

"You have a brother too, have you not?" she inquired, by way of making conversation.

"Oh, yes, Roger," replied Adelaide. "He comes next to me. He is sixteen, but, poor boy, he is so dreadfully delicate. When he was a little child they never thought he could live, and even now we often think he won't grow up. It is very unfortunate, isn't it, when one thinks of Wylingham and all mamma's property, though of course it would come to me--the money I mean. Wylingham would go to a distant cousin; so stupid of my grandfather to leave it so, wasn't it?"

Her remarks were made with the utmost _naivete_, in perfect unconsciousness apparently that they could sound heartless.

"And Halswood?" said Roma, repressing the disagreeable sensation left by the girl's words.

"Oh, Halswood doesn't seem to matter so much," she replied. "Papa will have it all his life any way, and there are Chancellors after him. Your--what is he to you?--your cousin?--Captain Chancellor I mean, comes next after Roger."

"_Does_ he?" exclaimed Roma in astonishment. Then she grew very silent; for a few minutes she did not distinguish the sense of Adelaide's prattle, her mind was busy with other matters. For one thing, the Chancellors' policy was now plain to her. Would they succeed? To herself personally she felt that Beauchamp's possible heirship could never make any difference; rich or poor, he could never be more to her than he was. But as for Gertrude--yes, her views would probably undergo a complete change were such a state of things to come to pass.