Chapter VI: Part 6

"She would like me, I daresay, as well or better than any one else for his wife if he were rich, or certain to be so," thought Roma. "But, after all, I strongly suspect the chances are that Beauchamp will marry to please himself and no one else, and perhaps find in the end that he has not even done that."

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TEN.

"THAT STUPID SONG."

Amid the golden gifts which heaven
Has left like portions of its light on earth,
None hath such influence as music hath.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

_Merchant of Venice_.

When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, music was proposed.

"Come, Addie, my dear, let me see you at the piano," said her father, laying his hand caressingly on the girl's fair head. "Not that it is quite my place to propose it, by-the-bye; but you see, my dear Mrs Eyrecourt, how thoroughly at home you have already made us all feel ourselves. I want you to hear Addie play."

"Don't you sing?" inquired Gertrude, as Miss Chancellor rose, in accordance with her father's request.

"No, she doesn't sing," said Mrs Chancellor, answering for her--"at least, very little. But she _plays_!"

"If she _does_ play," thought Roma, "it will double her chances with Beauchamp." Then there came a little pause of rather solemn expectation.

Captain Chancellor, as in duty bound, conducted Mademoiselle to the piano, gravely taking up his place behind her, near enough to perform the task of turning over the leaves, for Adelaide was one of those young ladies who are nowhere without their "notes." Roma, watching the pair closely, thoroughly took in the position. There was no fluster about Adelaide. She drew off her gloves quietly, and selected her piece of music with perfect composure, well satisfied evidently with the impression she was about to make on her audience, Captain Chancellor standing with ceremonious deference, stiff and silent, in his place.

"They don't know him," thought Roma again. "Fortunately for their satisfaction in their little arrangement, they don't know how Beauchamp can look sometimes in such a position. Oh, you most foolish, contrariest of men!"

But even Roma hardly knew how Beauchamp could look at such times. She had never seen him standing beside Eugenia, bending low his handsome head, to catch each varying expression of the beautiful face, each sweet, bright glance of the lovely, speaking eyes, as the pretty fingers softly played the music he loved best, or rested now and then idly on the keys. She was no great performer, but her perception and appreciation were delicate and vivid enough to satisfy even fastidious Beauchamp--fastidious on this point without affectation, for the man's love for music was deep and genuine. At no time was he so near to forgetting himself, so close to the consciousness of the higher and better things little dreamt of in the philosophy of his ordinary life, as when under its influence. How far Roma's singing had had to do with his imagining himself in love with her, it might be difficult to say.

So there was reason for Gertrude's feeling anxious, and Roma curious, as to the sort of "playing" of which Miss Chancellor was capable. She began at last--not noisily, she was too well taught for that; but nevertheless she had not got through half-a-dozen bars, before Roma knew that the less she and the piano had to do with each other in Beauchamp's presence, the better for Gertrude's plans.

"If it should ever come to pass that he marries her, he will make her promise to leave music alone," said Miss Eyrecourt to herself.

And she almost felt sorry for Addie, working away so conscientiously and serenely, slurring no "tiresome bits," doing her "expressions"--_allegretto, rallentando_, and all the rest of them--so precisely according to the letter of the instructions of her "finishing master," Herr Spindler. She had really laboured hard, poor girl, to attain to her present undeniably great manual dexterity, and there had been difficulties in her way which had called for considerable patience and perseverance. For her hands--plump and short-fingered, though very nice little hands of their kind, and with a fair amount of muscle inside the white cushions--were not the sort of hands to which such wonderful agility as they were now displaying comes all at once or without a good deal of tutoring. It was really very funny to see the two little things scudding up and down after each other as hard as they could go, "exactly like two fat white mice," thought Beauchamp to himself; and the conceit, for which (not being addicted to the reading of more poetry than that of the day likely to be discussed at dinner-parties) he was not indebted to any one but himself, so tickled his fancy that it enabled him to endure with patience the penance to which he was; subjected, and to thank Adelaide at the close of her performance with becoming graciousness for the pleasure she had afforded them all.

"You must have practised a great deal," he observed to her.

"Oh, yes; two hours every day till I came out, and an hour every morning even now," she replied.

"Dear me, I really admire your energy," he said, quietly, slightly raising his eyebrows, and inwardly trusting he might have timely warning of the special hour at which this praiseworthy young person's manual gymnastics were to be performed during her stay at Winsley. But Addie perceived no shadow of sarcasm in his softly uttered commendation, and took herself and her ample draperies across the room again to her mother's side in the happiest possible frame of mind. These two or three words were all that passed between Captain Chancellor and herself of direct conversation during the evening; yet, before she fell asleep, Addie confessed to herself that her cousin Beauchamp was by far the most charming man she had ever met, "more charming and decidedly handsomer than even Sir Arthur Boscawen or Colonel Townshendly, of the Blues."

Adelaide safely disposed of, Beauchamp felt that he deserved a reward.

"Come, Roma," said he, in a low voice, skilfully making room for himself behind the sofa on which Miss Eyrecourt was sitting alone, "do come and sing. You must have seen I have been very good."

Roma hesitated. She did not feel sure of what Gertrude wished her to do. Just then Mrs Eyrecourt glanced in her direction, and seemed by instinct to understand her perplexity. Beauchamp was beginning to look cross.

"Will you sing, Roma, dear?" said Gertrude, sweetly.

Roma rose at once. "Of course," muttered Captain Chancellor, loud enough for her to hear, "for any one but me."

Poor Roma--her position was not a very comfortable one at present. She knew as well as possible what was passing in Gertrude's mind. Mrs Eyrecourt was proud of her sister-in-law's singing, and she was pleased to have something so excellent of its kind wherewith to astonish her guests; but she would be very far from pleased, Roma felt certain, should Beauchamp be so ill-judged as to show any marked difference in his manner of comporting himself towards the two fair performers. She resolved on taking the bull by the horns.

"Beauchamp," she said, coldly, when she was standing by the piano, looking over her songs, "you will oblige me by not standing beside me while I am singing. It fidgets me more than I can tell you."

Without a word, Beauchamp stalked off. He was deeply offended.

"I have overshot the mark, now, I expect," thought Roma. "The next thing will be, his forcing me to tell him what made me so cross. And I do dread any approach to an explanation with him. I am very unlucky; but what could I do?"

She felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and somehow--from this cause, probably--she certainly did not sing as well as usual. Every now and then, through the sound of the piano and of her own voice, she overheard Beauchamp's remarks to Mrs Chancellor, beside whom he had ensconced himself, and that lady's languid, affected tones in reply. Roma felt a little depressed: it went greatly against the grain with her to say or do anything to chill or alienate Beauchamp, for the old easy brother-and-sister state of things between them had never seemed so attractive to her as now that it was at an end.

"If only he had really been my brother," she said to herself, with a little sigh, and replied so absently and at random to Mr Chancellor's civil little speech of thanks for her song, that he did not feel encouraged to remain at his post by her side.

She felt half inclined to betake herself quietly to her own room for the rest of the evening--no one seemed to want her. For almost the first time in her life she felt a stranger in her father's house; realised, or began to fancy she did, that the tie which bound her to Gertrude was not one of blood. Mrs Eyrecourt seemed already marvellously at home with these hitherto unknown cousins of hers, and as for Beauchamp, whether or not he disliked the daughter, he certainly seemed to find the mother very entertaining!

"I wish I might go to bed," thought Roma again; "but Gertrude would be vexed, and it would look as if something were the matter."

So, more out of listlessness than anything else, she, without being asked to do so, began to sing again. The song she chose this time was the same ballad she had sung that evening at Brighton at the Montmorris's, the evening on which she had met Mr Thurston. The words brought him to her mind. How had he found things at Wareborough? Was it as she had suspected between Beauchamp and Eugenia? Roma felt that she would give a good deal to know. That there was a change in Beauchamp, she was convinced, but of what nature, arising from what circumstances, she could not so easily decide, and she knew well he would do his best to keep her in the dark. Hardly taking in the sense of the words, she sang on half through the ballad. Her voice was more like itself by this time, and the music of the song was lovely: it was impossible for her not to sing it well. Gradually the murmur of the voices in the room grew fainter, then stopped altogether. As usual, when Roma exerted herself, all present succumbed to the charm.

"She sings beautifully--I do not know that I have ever heard, an amateur to equal her," exclaimed Mrs Chancellor with the truthfulness of astonishment, turning round to Beauchamp when Miss Eyrecourt's round and soft, yet clear, thrilling notes died away into silence. But no Beauchamp was there! Even Mrs Chancellor's attractions had failed to keep him from his accustomed place.

Looking up, at the end of her song, to her surprise, Roma saw him standing beside her. But there was an expression on his face which startled her. He looked grave and troubled, Roma could almost have fancied he had grown paler than usual. Something very strangely out of the common must have occurred to disturb his serenity so visibly; what could it be?

"Roma," he said, suddenly, but as if he had completely forgotten the offence she had given him, "I wish you would oblige me by never singing that song. I cannot bear it."

"Cannot bear it? Beauchamp! Your favourite song--the song you yourself got for me? What do you mean?" exclaimed Roma, in extreme astonishment. "Do I not sing it well?"

"Far too well," he replied, gloomily. Then, as he turned away, he repeated his request more strongly. "I really cannot tell you how much you will oblige me by never singing it."

"Very well, then, I will not," answered Roma, quietly. But in her heart she felt not a little puzzled by his unaccountable behaviour.

No wonder--he, himself, was not a little puzzled; more than puzzled, he was extremely out of patience with himself. He had, he felt assured, acted with consideration and foresight towards Eugenia Laurence; with half-a-dozen girls he could name he had carried his flirtations much further, and come out of them comfortably when he saw it was time to do so. What was there about this girl that now even, when he had for ever separated himself from her, impressed him so strangely? Why could he not forget her save as a pleasant passing fancy? Why should he be for ever imagining he saw her face, wistful and reproachful, as it had looked that last afternoon when he had hinted to her the probability of his soon leaving Wareborough? It was together too bad that the remembrance of her should thus annoy him; he felt disgusted with himself for losing his self-control this evening, when, as ill luck would have it, Roma picked out that stupid song, the last he had heard Eugenia sing. And how sweetly she had sung it--he had given it to her, and he had given her, too, his ideas as to how it should be sung, and she had proved an apt pupil. She made no pretensions to singing well; her voice was, of course, not to be compared with Roma's in power and compass, but it was clear and sweet and bright, like her face and everything about her, and he had found it very charming. He fell into a reverie again when he recalled its tones, then he shook himself awake with some irritation.

"What a fool I am," he reflected. He was alone again with his cigar by the fire--Herbert Chancellor was no smoker, which was unfortunate for Beauchamp, little inclined as he was at present for solitary meditation--"What a fool I am to bother myself like this. I hope I am not going to be ill. I have not felt so out of sorts for years. It is all Roma's fault--I shall tell her so some day; she has a great deal to answer for. No doubt, it will all come right in the end with her; I have never really feared but what it would. It would be all right any day if either of us had a fortune; but she is so desperately afraid of vexing Gertrude, and Gertrude's head, I can see, is now full of that stupid Adelaide, and Roma's shilly-shallying will have made it far more difficult to bring Gertrude round. I have more than half a mind to leave Roma to herself for a while, and let her fancy I have given up thoughts of it: it would not do her any harm. How very handsome she is looking just now, and how exquisitely she sang that last song! It is too bad--"

Then he fell to thinking what he could do in the direction of distracting his thoughts from his undeserved troubles, seeing that, for the present at least, there was no satisfaction to be got out of Roma. A flirtation with Addie Chancellor was not attractive, and might involve him seriously, watched and guarded as she was. He wished he had not promised Gertrude to stay so long at Winsley; he did not feel at all sure that he would not do more wisely to spend part of his leave elsewhere; he would see about it, very likely something or other would turn up. And, besides, any day might bring things to a crisis with Roma. If not, he could afford to wait a little longer; the best woman in the world was not worth bothering oneself about; and, determined to act upon this comforting doctrine, Captain Chancellor lit another cigar, and having smoked it went calmly to bed. But his sleep was broken, and his dreams uneasy--they were haunted by Eugenia, pale-faced and sad-eyed as he had seen her last. Once it was even worse--he dreamt, he saw her lying dead, and in some unexplained, mysterious way the impression grew strong upon him that he had killed her. He awoke with a start of horror and was thankful to find it a dream--to see, by the faint morning light just beginning to break, the familiar objects in his room, and remember where he was.

"But if this sort of thing goes on," he said to himself, "I can't stay here. I must go away--to town even, or to Paris, or somewhere for a change, whether Gertrude likes it or not."

The next day or two, however, brought something in the way of distraction. Several other guests arrived, of whom two or three of the gentlemen were old and friendly acquaintances of Beauchamp's, glad to see him again at Winsley--for, unlike many men of his class, he was a favourite with his own sex wherever he choose to be so--and among the accompanying wives and daughters there were some sufficiently attractive for him to find no difficulty in amusing himself in his usual way; on the whole, not to Mrs Eyrecourt's dissatisfaction. She knew her brother pretty thoroughly. Though her hopes with regard to Adelaide Chancellor had never been alluded to, she felt that Beauchamp was perfectly aware of their existence, and in every smallest detail of his unexceptionably civil behaviour to the girl, she read a tacit defiance of her wishes, a determined opposition to them. Yet she did not despair. She blamed herself for having been injudicious and premature; she owned that Addie, pretty and amiable as she was, was hardly equal to taking her irresistible cousin's experienced heart by storm. Nevertheless, a little time might do wonders; and in the meanwhile the more general he was in his flirtations the better, and she congratulated herself on her wise selection of guests. She had long ago forgotten her fright about the Wareborough young lady, whose name she had never even heard; all her fears were concentrated in Roma.

Roma was far from happy at this juncture. A painful consciousness was beginning to grow upon her that her relations with Gertrude were not what they had been; for the first time in the several years they had lived together she felt that she was not altogether in her sister-in-law's confidence; worse than this, that she was no longer thoroughly trusted. And she was at no loss to whose influence to attribute this mortifying change. Scrupulously careful as she was in the regulation of her manner to Beauchamp, that it should not be by a shade more or less familiar than was natural to their acknowledged position of brotherly and sisterly intimacy--indifferent, distant even, as it was now apparently Captain Chancellor's _role_ to appear to her-- Roma yet saw clearly that Adelaide's mother, with her sharp worldly eyes, her conventional suspicion of every unmarried woman not fortunate enough to be an heiress, was on the scent of something below the surface between herself and the man Mrs Chancellor had picked out for her future son-in-law.

"It is all Beauchamp's fault. It is very cruel of him to place me in such a position. I believe he wants these people to think that he dislikes me, and that I--oh, no, he could not be so horribly coarse," thought Roma, though she grew furious at the idea. "Why won't he believe simply that I only care for him as a brother, and let us be comfortable as we used to be? And why is Gertrude so weak as to be turned against me when I have told her so plainly how it is?"

And there were times at which she almost wished that things would come to a crisis, and that she might have the opportunity she had hitherto on every account so carefully avoided of telling Captain Chancellor the plain truth; that to one woman in the world his fascinations were less than nothing. But at present things showed no signs of coming to any such crisis. Beauchamp comported himself to her with exaggerated and obtrusive indifference, and amused himself very comfortably with a handsome Miss Fretville, whose _fiance_ was safe in India, and (rather more discreetly) with pretty Lady Exyton, whose husband was sixty, and, so long as his dinner was to his taste, calmly tolerant of her ladyship's harmless little flirtations.

Had the change been less sudden and obtrusive, Roma would have been only too glad to believe it genuine. As it was, she rightly attributed it to pique--a powerful motive in some natures, for wounded vanity has many of the symptoms and sensations of the genuine malady, often enough deceiving even the patient's self.

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End of Volume One.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER ONE.

EAVESDROPPING.

_Rom_. The hurt cannot be much.

_Mer_. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door;
but 'tis enough.

It was the day of the Winsley Hunt Ball. The Halswood Chancellors' stay had already considerably exceeded the week originally proposed as its extent; but Gertrude had persuaded them "not to talk of going away" till after the twenty-fifth, the date of this important local event. So they had stayed on, and with them the Exytons and the Gourlays, and ever so many other people, till the Grange was filled to overflowing with fine ladies and gentlemen, and still finer ladies' maids and gentlemen's gentlemen.

Gertrude was in her element, so in his own way was Beauchamp; he had felt much more comfortable since there had been a little more going on, and he had had less time for solitary meditation; and Roma, though he had not seen her for several days except in general society, was so agreeably gentle and subdued, that he began to think his new way of behaving to her was really going to prove a success. At any rate he would try it a little longer, it would do her no harm; and so long as the house was as lively as it had been lately, time did not hang heavy on his hands. There were two or three young ladies among the visitors in whom Adelaide Chancellor had discovered kindred spirits, so Roma was freed from the burden of entertaining the girl, and not sorry to be so; for the first few days during which they had been more thrown together had been quite enough for Miss Eyrecourt. Yet she felt very lonely sometimes; Gertrude seemed to be always surrounded by her guests, and to make her plans and arrangements without consulting Roma in the old way at all, and the understanding between her and Mrs Chancellor was evidently closer and more confidential than ever.

It was a mild spring-like morning: the meet, one of the last of the season, was at some distance from the Grange, and most of the guests had set off early, riding and driving, to be in time for it. Beauchamp--who did not hunt, not being rich enough to do so in what he considered proper style, but who nevertheless rode well enough, and managed to be always sufficiently well mounted to look as if his forswearing the field was to be solely attributed to eccentricity or indolence--had preferred this morning to drive Lady Exyton's ponies, their pretty owner at his side. Addie had borrowed the horse Roma usually rode, and under her father's wing intended to do great things; every one had arranged to go somehow or with somebody except Roma herself, who, fancying that nobody wanted her, and that her sister-in-law would prefer her remaining in the background, had kept out of the way till it was too late for her to be included in any of the arrangements.

It was rather a relief to be alone for a little while. She was, in a general way, fond of amusement and society, accustomed and not indifferent to a fair share of admiration. But lately she had not had heart or spirit to enter into things as usual; Gertrude's coldness had already, it seemed to her, affected the tone of others; she said to herself she was getting old, "nearly five and twenty," and "passee," and ill-tempered, and it would not be long before Beauchamp would congratulate himself heartily on not having been taken at his word by her.

"I almost wish sometimes I could have cared for him as he cares or thinks he cares for me. But it would have been dreadful to have so vexed Gertrude after all her kindness to me. It is bad enough to feel that she distrusts me without my deserving it, but that would have been worse. No; I should not like to care for him; but it is very lonely sometimes."

She was pacing slowly up and down a sheltered terrace walk that ran along one side of the house. On to this walk opened by glass doors several of the rooms most used by the family, the library, the morning-room, Mrs Eyrecourt's little boudoir, and between these glass doors were placed here and there garden seats against the wall. Roma got tired of walking up and down; though still only February it was temptingly mild, so she sat down on one of the seats without observing that the glass door nearest it was slightly ajar. Voices from within reached her, she heard the sound of her own name; then before she had time to realise what she was doing, two or three sentences fell with cruel distinctness upon her ears.

"It is very difficult for me to think it is Roma's fault. She has assured me so earnestly that there was nothing of the kind on her part, I cannot bear to think how she must have deceived me."

The voice was Gertrude's; the tone anxious and irresolute. Then came the answer; it was Mrs Chancellor who was speaking now.

"Ah, yes; that is the worst part of it. I can feel for you, my dear Gertrude; I can indeed. As to the affair itself, had she only been frank about it, one could hardly have blamed her. A man of dear Beauchamp's attractions, thrown so much in her society--and she, of course she is handsome in a certain style, and her singing is really good, though not _quite_ refined enough to suit my taste; but--what was I saying? Oh yes, of course, she, you know, is no longer very young, and has nothing, literally nothing you say, to look forward to? It is only too natural. It is most distressing altogether, and how perplexing for Beauchamp, dear fellow. A moment's folly or weakness and a young man may be ruined, ruined in a sense of course, for life! Ah yes, I see it all, far more clearly than can be possible for one so young and unsuspicious as you, dearest Gertrude. But I do think Beauchamp has behaved beautifully, from what you tell me, _beautifully_. And--"

But just then there came a knock at the door of the boudoir in which the two ladies were sitting, and Mrs Chancellor's maid appeared, or rather, that is to say, the sound of her voice penetrated to Roma still motionless on the garden seat outside, and it became evident to the involuntary eavesdropper that the confidential tete-a-tete was at an end. She had not meant to listen; just when the interruption came she had been on the point of marching into the room and stating what she had heard. Now of course before the servant it was out of the question. She rose from her seat, ran along the terrace and entered the house at the other side; then hastening upstairs she waited at the door of her own room till, as she expected, in a few minutes she saw Mrs Chancellor coming along the passage, followed by the maid, who wished to consult her about some important question of millinery for the evening's adornment.

Then Roma walked deliberately downstairs again, across the hall, down the passage to the door of Gertrude's boudoir, at which she knocked, and in obedience to her sister-in-law's unsuspecting "come in," entered Mrs Eyrecourt's presence with no sign of agitation or uneasiness on her countenance.

"Gertrude," she said, quietly. Gertrude started a little; she had not expected to see Roma, and glancing up at her now she felt instinctively that something must be the matter. Roma's face was so grave, and she looked so dreadfully tall. What could it be? Gertrude laid down her pen--she was in the middle of a letter--and waited in some alarm for what was to follow, feeling perhaps the least little bit in the world guilty, when she remembered what her thoughts had lately been of her sister-in-law. "Gertrude," said Roma again, "I have come to tell you that I heard what you said of me just now; what you said and what you allowed Mrs Chancellor to say of me in this very room not ten minutes ago."

Mrs Eyrecourt grew crimson. There was no evading the charge; it was far too direct and circumstantial. She tried getting angry.

"I needn't remind you of the old proverb about listeners, Roma," she said, with an attempt at haughty indignation. "There was a time when I could hardly have believed you capable of such a thing, even though confessed by yourself; but I must have been mistaken in you in more ways than this. I cannot help your having heard what was said. I am not bound never to say anything about you that you would not like to hear-- and to a near relation of my own too! You cannot expect to dictate to me what I am to talk about to my cousin."

"That is nonsense, Gertrude," answered Roma, so gently that the words did not sound disrespectful. "I have no intention of dictating to you. I have not even hinted at finding fault with what you said and allowed Mrs Chancellor to say, though I might perhaps be excused if I thought it hard that I should be so discussed by you with a person whom you have not known a fortnight; and it is nonsense for you to pretend that you think me capable of low eavesdropping. You _know_ you don't think so, Gertrude. Of course you know that my overhearing anything was purely accidental, and in your heart, Gertrude, you are bitterly sorry, not only that I overheard what I did, but that there was anything of the kind for me to hear."

Gertrude was silent. "I don't know if I am or not," she said, half petulantly. "I don't want to distrust you, Roma. If you heard all, you must have heard me say I could not bear to think you had deceived me."

"And why should you think so?" exclaimed Roma, more vehemently. "I have _never_ deceived you, dear Gertrude. You have been very good to me all these years since my mother died and I was left alone; there has never been any cloud between us, except about this unfortunate infatuation of your brother's. I am not, in a sense, surprised at a woman like Mrs Chancellor thinking of me as she does--she has no reason to like me, and imagines me in her way--but _you_, Gertrude, ah! that is very different! Why should I deceive you as to my feelings to Beauchamp; what good would it do me if what Mrs Chancellor thinks were true, to conceal it from you? Oh, Gertrude, you know it has been all on his side all along; you cannot say I have ever encouraged him in the very least?"

"No-o," said Gertrude, reluctantly. "_Directly_, you certainly have not done so. But I don't know, Roma. I wish you wouldn't ask me. As Mrs Chancellor said once, you may have been deceiving yourself."

"I have not then; I have done nothing of the kind," replied Roma, her dark eyes flashing as no light grey ones could do. "I tell you again, Gertrude, as I have told you a hundred times, I do not care for Beauchamp a straw, not in the way you mean. It is a perfect mystery to me what other women find so irresistible in him. I know him too well I suppose. To me he is the very antipodes of the sort of man I could care for. Selfish, weak, vain. He has good, qualities too of course, I know that as well or better than you do, but his faults and foibles are the _sort_ that in a man I could least forget. There now, have I spoken plainly enough to convince you at last? I don't want to offend you, Gertrude," seeing that Mrs Eyrecourt, with true womanly inconsistency, now looked rather sulky at this unflattering depreciation of her Adonis; "you have forced it upon yourself. Good heavens! how unreasonable you are."

"You are forgetting yourself, Roma," said Gertrude, coldly.

"No, I am not. And if I were, would there not be some excuse? I am determined to come to an end of this. Either you must trust me, or if not I will go away. I will be a governess or a housemaid or anything, rather than stay with you if you doubt me. What would you have, Gertrude? You don't want me to marry Beauchamp, yet you are angry because I am not the least atom in love with him? Would you like to be told that I am heart and soul devoted to him, but that to please you I was willing to sacrifice myself by refusing to have anything to say to him--would that be a pleasant state of things for you? I know very little about the feelings of people in love certainly--I have hardly a right to judge even of myself in such a predicament, but I don't know but what I _might_ have been capable of so sacrificing myself, Gertrude, rather than disappoint you after your many years' goodness to me. I am grateful, whatever else I may not be. But such a state of things would have been wretched for you."

Gertrude was touched. The old habit of sisterly trust and confidence was fast returning upon her.

"I do believe you, Roma," she said, after a little silence. "I have never doubted you as much as you think. But it is altogether uncomfortable and anomalous."

"I know it is. For no one more so than for me," replied Miss Eyrecourt. "And my conviction that Beauchamp does not really care for me does not simplify matters. I doubt his being capable of what I call really caring for any one, though I don't know," she added thoughtfully, the expression of his face when he had begged her "never to sing that song again" returning to her memory; "but what can I do, Gertrude? You don't want me to let him propose formally and hear my opinion of him in the plain words I have told it to you?"

"Certainly not," said Gertrude, hastily. "It would be most disagreeable--just now especially; the Chancellors would hear of it, and--altogether--"

"It would be horrid, I allow," answered Roma, consideringly. "A good blow to Beauchamp's vanity might not do him any harm, but he would never forgive the dealer thereof. We could never be all comfortable together again. As for the Chancellors, I don't know that it would much matter. I don't think there is much chance of success in that quarter, Gertrude. Of course it would be a good marriage for Beauchamp, and he is far more likely to be a good husband rich than poor, and Addie is pretty and amiable. It would be all right if _he_ saw it so of course, but I don't think he will. However, I don't want to be in the way. I tell you what, Gertrude, I had better go away."

"Go away!" repeated Mrs Eyrecourt, in amazement. "Roma, oh no! that would never do."

"I don't mean for always," said Roma. "I am not so in love with independence as to want to leave you unless you drive me to it--for, of course, as Mrs Chancellor delicately observed, I have `literally nothing else to look to.' You are my bread and butter you see, Gertrude--for of course the trifle I have is hardly enough to dress upon; and I assure you I don't want to quarrel with you if I can help it." Gertrude winced a little. "If my father's second wife had been an heiress like his first, things would have been different. No, I didn't mean going away for always--only for a few weeks, till Beauchamp is away again."

"He would be sure to suspect the reason, and would be angry," objected Mrs Eyrecourt.

"Not he; I could manage it so that neither he nor any one else could suspect the reason. I shall probably be telegraphed for in a few days. I had a letter from my godmother this morning, which paves the way beautifully for a sudden summons. She is a good old soul. I shall write to her at once. Beauchamp is all right for the present. He is trying a new plan with me, and before he discovers its vanity I shall be safe out of his way."

"Roma," said Gertrude, penitently, "you are very good and unselfish."

"No, I'm not. Neither the one nor the other," said Roma, cheerfully. Her spirits had quite returned to her now that Gertrude was herself again. "Kiss me, Gertrude, and I will forget that you ever doubted me. What's that noise? Some one listening again? It is certainly not I this time."

She walked quickly to the window and looked out. The glass door was still ajar, but no one was to be seen. "It must have been my fancy," she said, returning to Mrs Eyrecourt. But just then an unmistakable rustling was heard along the passage. "There is Mrs Chancellor coming back again. I must go before she comes in. You won't tell her any of what we have been talking about, Gertrude? You will not let her know of my having overheard what she said?"

"Of course not. How can you ask me, Roma? I shall never mention you to her again at all if I can help it," answered Mrs Eyrecourt, and almost before she had finished speaking, Roma had disappeared through the glass door, only just in time to escape Adelaide's mother, who entered in great tribulation concerning the non-appearance of the flowers from Foster's, ordered for the completion of Miss Chancellor's ball-dress.

"What to do, I really don't know, my dear Gertrude," she began in a tone of sore distress. "The whole effect of the dress depends upon them. And we have felt anxious about the dress already. Pink is rather an experiment for Adelaide at a ball, for she does flush, you know, and on this account I have hitherto prohibited it. But she had so set her heart upon it I agreed to try it, and I have been trusting to these flowers--water-lilies, all white, you know--to soften the colour."

"And has she no other ball-dress ready in case they don't come?" inquired Mrs Eyrecourt, not sorry that Mrs Chancellor's thoughts were thus diverted from the former subject of their conversation. "I didn't know she was thinking of pink for to-night--at a Hunt ball, you see, against the scarlet coats--"

"Of course," interrupted Mrs Chancellor. "Dear me, that makes it worse and worse! How could Adelaide and Fraser be so stupid? But there is her white tulle. I do believe there would be time to alter the trimming, and it is a lovely dress. Would you, dearest Gertrude, mind coming up with me to look at it? I should be so thankful for your opinion."

Dearest Gertrude had no objection, and as the two ladies passed along the corridor upstairs, they met Roma coming out of her own room with a book in her hand.

"Can you tell me where the second volume of `Arrows in the Dark,' is to be found, Gertrude?" she asked innocently, as they passed her.

The slight noise near the window of the boudoir had not after all been Roma's fancy. Eavesdropping was in fashion to-day at Winsley.

When Captain Chancellor had driven Lady Exyton safely home again from the meet, and deposited her at the hall door, she begged him to go round with the ponies to the stable to explain to her groom a little matter in the harness requiring immediate adjustment. His errand accomplished, he strolled back to the house again by a roundabout route through the terrace garden. Here he suddenly came upon his niece, intently engaged in ascertaining how many new little worms she could chop up one big one into, her nursemaid, seated on a garden bench at a little distance, being safely engrossed with crochet.

"What are you doing, you nasty cruel little girl?" exclaimed Beauchamp, in considerable disgust.

In a general way Floss rather affected her uncle: such an address, however, roused all her latent ire.

"I ain't nasty. And you're cwueller to shoot pwetty birds and bunnies. Worms is ugly, and they doesn't mind cutting," she replied, defiantly.

"How do you know? You wouldn't like to be chopped up into little bits, would you?" remonstrated Captain Chancellor, with a vague feeling that somewhere in his memory, could he but lay hold of it, there was a verse of one of Dr Watts's hymns appropriate to quote on the occasion.

"No," returned Floss calmly, "I wouldn't, 'cause I'm not a worm. Worms doesn't mind. I _know_ they doesn't. I know lots of things," she continued, mysteriously peeping up into her uncle's face with her green eyes; "lots and lots that nobody more knows."

"Do you?" said Beauchamp, carelessly. "Let's hear some of your secrets, Floss."

"I'll tell you one if you won't tell nobody," said the child. She was evidently burning to communicate it, or she would not so quickly have forgiven her uncle's insulting greeting.

"All right, I won't tell nobody."

"Listen, stoop down, Uncle Beachey. Low down; now listen and I'll whisper," said Floss. Then to his amazement--he had expected only some childish confidence or complaint--she whispered into his ear the words, "Aunty Woma's going away." Beauchamp started back. "Roma is going away," he repeated. "Nonsense, Floss. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do, I do," exclaimed the child, in her eagerness to prove herself right, throwing all reserve to the winds, "she said so to mamma. I heard her, and mamma said she was good, and I know she's going."

"How did you hear her? Where were you?" questioned Beauchamp.

"I was under the sofa--in there, in mamma's room," said Floss, pointing in the direction of the boudoir. "My ball went in, and I went in too, and mamma thought I came out again, but I didn't. I hided under the sofa for nurse not to see me, and it was a long time--hours, I should think--before she finded me," she continued triumphantly.

"But how did you hear your aunt was going away--did nurse tell you?" asked Captain Chancellor, somewhat mystified.

"No, in course not," exclaimed Floss, contemptuously. "Nurse doesn't know. Aunty Woma came into the room and spoke lots to mamma. She said she would make something for mamma, but mamma wouldn't have it; and then she said she would go away, and mamma said she was good, but you would be angwy, and Aunty Woma said, `No; you wouldn't expeck.'"

"`Wouldn't expect?' What can the child mean? Wasn't it _suspect_ she said, Floss?" a brilliant light flashing upon him.

"Yes, suchpeck," agreed Floss. "It was suchpeck; and what could it be aunty said she'd make for mamma, Uncle Beachey?" she continued, evidently disposed now to regard her hearer as an interpreter of the jumble in her brain. "It was something like _satin flies_."

Captain Chancellor stared at the child without speaking. He saw, or thought he at last saw, through it all. He turned to go, but a thought occurred to him.

"Floss," he said, very impressively, "it wasn't good of you to listen to what your mamma and aunt were saying. They would be very angry if they knew."

"Oh, don't tell. Uncle Beachey, you said you wouldn't tell nobody," said the little girl beseechingly.

"I'm not going to tell. But remember, Floss, you must be sure not to tell any one else, not nurse or any one, do you hear? It doesn't matter for me, but other people might scold you."

"Then I won't tell," decided Floss. "And do you think Aunty Woma will go away, Uncle Beachey? I hope she will. I like her best when she goes away, for then she can't call me a tiresome plague, and she bwings me a pwesent when she comes back."

But Uncle Beachey did not answer her inquiries. His mind was full of curiously mingled feelings; indignation against Gertrude, triumph over Roma, whose real sentiments he now imagined he had discovered; determination to be, as he expressed it to himself, "made a fool of no longer." And below all these he was conscious of a strange, indefinable feeling of indifference to it all, of unwillingness to move decisively in the matter, as he told himself he must. Now that the long-coveted prize seemed within his reach, half its attractiveness appeared to have deserted it.

"There has been a great deal of unnecessary to-do about it all," he said to himself. "Of course I always felt sure that in the end I should marry Roma, and I have no doubt we shall get on very well. But it takes the bloom off a thing to have all this uncertainty and delay about it."

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWO.

PLAIN SPEAKING.

"The fiery maiden-nature flashing forth."

_City Poems_.

Roma's spirits rose considerably after her conversation with her sister-in-law. She did not look forward with much anticipation of enjoyment to the evening's amusement--balls at four-and-twenty are very different from what they are at eighteen--still she felt more like her usual cheerful sensible self than she had done for some time.

"How _very_ pretty your dress is, Miss Eyrecourt," said Adelaide, cordially, perhaps a little enviously, when the two young ladies happened to find themselves side by side shaking out their plumage after the four miles' drive, in the temporary cloak-room, at the Winsley "Unicorn."

"I do so admire black, and those foxgloves are really lovely. So very natural! I never, saw them worn before. I am not at all pleased with my dress," she went on discontentedly. "I have worn it once before, and I think one never feels comfortable in an old dress. I wish I had had my new pink after all. I don't believe there will be many scarlet coats. Only two of our party have them."

"There are sure to be a good many; and really your dress is exceedingly pretty," replied Roma, consolingly. "It looks perfectly fresh."

"Does it?" said Miss Chancellor, turning herself round, the better to observe the effect of her long sweep of drapery. "I'm glad you think it looks nice. I am engaged for the first dance to Captain Chancellor. I almost wish I wasn't! Do you know, Miss Eyrecourt, though I think he is charming to look at, I cannot get on with him. I never can think of anything to say to him, and yet just see how Miss Fretville goes on with him, and mamma thinks him delightful too."

Roma smiled. "Miss Fretville and you are two very different people," she replied kindly, for the girl's unaffectedness pleased her. "You will find that he dances beautifully, any way, which is the principal consideration to-night. Here he comes," for by this time the whole party were in the ball-room, and the first dance was on the eve of commencing.

Captain Chancellor made his way quickly to where the two girls were standing.

"Our dance, I believe, Miss Chancellor?" he said to his cousin, then, somewhat to Roma's surprise--his late conduct had not prepared her to be thus honoured--he turned towards her.

"Will you keep number ten for me, Roma," he said; "I shall count upon it, remember!" and before, in the moment's hurry, she had time to make any excuse, or even to decide that it would be well to do so, he had left her, and in another minute was whirling round the room, with the substantial Adelaide in his arms.

Miss Eyrecourt felt a little uneasy. Something in Beauchamp's manner had struck her as peculiar: then, too, number ten was--as she knew by the arrangement of the card--the last dance before supper; evidently he had chosen it on purpose. There was no help for it, however; she must trust to her tact to steer clear of anything undesirable, but she almost wished she had pleaded illness or some excuse, and remained at home.

What a pity it all was! Long ago in the old comfortable days, how she had enjoyed dancing with Beauchamp, especially at these Winsley balls, where they knew everybody, and it was sociable and friendly, and people were not too fine to enjoy themselves. How nice it would be, thought Roma, if there was no such thing in the world as falling in love, real or imaginary.

Could it be true, as Beauchamp had so often told her, when he was vexed, that she was different from the rest of young ladyhood, cold, and self-contained and unwomanly? If so, was it not a pity she had not taken the best that came in her way, with out waiting in a vague belief that something better might possibly be yet to come? Portionless though she was, she had refused two or three very fair proposals before now, refused them for no reason except the little-sympathised-in one that she "did not care for" the men who had made them to her. But now, at four-and-twenty, there were times when she questioned the wisdom of her decisions, when she doubted if, after all, it was in her to care for any real flesh-and-blood lover, as long ago in the romantic girlish days it had seemed to her she could. She might have been fairly happy with Sir Philip Bartlemore for instance, buried in politics over head and ears though he was. Lady Bartlemore seemed comfortable and content, and every one spoke of her as fortunate in her married life; or with that undoubtedly disinterested and truly uninteresting Mr Fawcett, the Rector of Ferrivale, towards whom for some time Roma had vainly tried to coax into existence a warmer sentiment than respect--she would have gone on respecting him till now, she felt quite sure, and she would have had a home and ties of her own, whereas now she was of no particular use to any one, and the cause of disunion and trouble among her nearest friends. Had she made a mistake in not acting up to the practical, worldly-wise philosophy she always professed to believe in? There was no saying, and little use now in trying to decide; so Roma turned her attention to the present, danced as much as she felt inclined, laughed and talked with such of her partners as were worth the trouble, and made fun to herself of the others, till nine dances had come to an end, and she was startled by Beauchamp's voice beside her claiming her for the tenth.

"I am glad it is a waltz," she said cordially, judging that a return to the old easy terms would be her best temporary policy. "It is ages since we have had one together, and we understood each other's paces so well. I have not been very lucky to-night; so far as dancing goes, that is to say. My partners have belonged more to the order of `those that talk.' How have you been getting on?"

"I! oh, I don't know. Well enough," replied Captain Chancellor somewhat absently. "Lady Exyton dances well to look at, but she's rather _too_ light and too small for me. Blanche Fretville again is a thought too big, and she bounces rather."

"You are as difficult to please as ever, I see," remarked Roma, rashly.

Beauchamp looked at her: his eyes and the consciousness of the mistake she had made, caused her colour to deepen. Her vexation with herself increased.

"Yes," he replied, quietly, but with meaning in his tone, "I am. No one should know that better than you, Roma."

Just then, to her relief, the music began. "Are you ready?" he asked, and in a moment they were off.

It is something for poor creatures such as most of us are, to be able to do anything perfectly, even so altogether small a thing as dancing! There is a real satisfaction while it lasts, in feeling that the thing we are doing could not be done better. And this agreeable consciousness was always Roma's when waltzing with Beauchamp. They were a perfectly well-matched pair; their movements as harmonious as the blending of two voices in a duet. Once, long ago, Roma had said to Beauchamp that whatever he had done to offend her, it would be beyond her power to refuse to forgive him after dancing with him. It had been a passing laughing remark, and he had forgotten its ever having been made. Still, some instinctive desire to gain for himself every possible advantage in what was before him, had probably had to do with the details of his conduct this evening.