Chapter VIII: Part 8

Things, however, did not turn out quite so badly as several people anticipated. Eugenia's illness did not result in brain fever, though for a week or two it was serious enough to affect considerably the spirits of her little circle of friends, and to justify Mr Le Neve in looking rather grave.

"Not that there is anything to be surprised at in it," he assured her father and Sydney; "there are a great many cases of the kind about just now," and he went on to murmur something about "the season," "the changeable weather," and other scapegoats of the kind always ready at hand to bear the blame of any illness not altogether to be accounted for or easily defined.

But greatly to the relief of every one concerned, before long Eugenia began to mend, and it was then decided that what she had been suffering from had been nothing worse than "a feverish cold," and the less observant of her friends made themselves quite happy about her again. Their rejoicing, however, proved somewhat premature. When the girl came downstairs and began to go about again as usual, it became very evident, that though she had escaped an acute illness, she was far from having regained her ordinary strength. Sydney watched her anxiously, trusting at first that a few days would bring improvement, but on the contrary, at the end of a week, Eugenia seemed paler and more feeble than when she first got up. She would not own to being ill; she was only tired, she said--tired of the long winter, for spring was slow in coming that year; she would be all right when the summer came again, and Sydney must not trouble about her.

"Besides, dear," she said plaintively, "though I don't want to be selfish, you know the idea of losing you so soon _is_ rather overwhelming to me," and the tears which seemed now-a-days nearer at hand than formerly, rushed to her eyes.

"If you are not looking better by the end of April than you do now, I shall put off my marriage," returned Sydney.

"And what would Frank say? Think how he would hate me! As it is, I believe he thinks my being ill at all is a piece of my usual perversity," said Eugenia, half playfully, half sadly. "I daresay it is true. I have always given you a great deal of trouble, Sydney, and by rights it should have been the other way. I should have looked after you."

"So you have. Neither of us could have got on without the other, and Frank knows that," replied Sydney, consolingly. "But, Eugenia, I mean what I say; so you had better be quick and get well."

She was willing enough to do so--at least to become sufficiently like herself to escape observation and be left alone. She did her very utmost to seem well, fought valiantly to keep up a satisfactory show of good spirits, in which endeavour the unselfish fear of damping Sydney's happiness by obtruding her own sorrows materially assisted her. She was docile and submissive to all, perfectly ready to take the tonics which Mr Le Neve prescribed for her, to try Frank Thurston's masculine panacea, "more exercise and fresh air," or her father's old-fashioned remedy of "bark and port wine." Her gentleness was almost too much for Gerald's self-control; he left off coming to see them so often, on the pretext of extra business, but found he did not gain much by so doing, for at home his brother nearly drove him wild by his calm speculations as to the possibility of Eugenia's going into a decline; "their mother was very delicate, you know, and Eugenia is more like her than Sydney," and even more irritating remarks on how much she was improved, "so much better-tempered and equable than she used to be."

One day when Sydney had been out by herself, paying the usual bi-weekly visit to their father's old maiden aunt, their only relation in the neighbourhood, she was told, by Eugenia on her return that Mrs Dalrymple had been to see her. This was certainly no very unusual occurrence, for during the last three weeks their friend's visits had been by no means of the proverbially angelic character; but to-day, by Eugenia's account, she had come on a special errand.

"They are going away from home somewhere--they haven't quite decided where--next week," said Eugenia, "and they want, me to go with them. But I told Mrs Dalrymple that I did not think it was possible, though of course it is exceedingly kind of them. Oh, Sydney, dear," she continued, interrupting the remonstrance which she saw in her sister's face, "I _don't_ want, to go. Our last three weeks together, for they wouldn't be back till a few days before the 29th! And how could you get all finished by yourself without me?"

"There is very little more to do," said Sydney, sitting down beside Eugenia and looking at her anxiously, "almost nothing in fact, except the last preparations of all, which cannot be begun till a few days beforehand, and you would be back by then. It isn't as if it was going to be a grand marriage. And to speak plainly, Eugenia--you mustn't be offended--even if there were a great deal to do, you couldn't, as you are just now, help me. Indeed you would be rather in my way. I cannot bear to see you doing anything when you look as if the least breath of air would knock you over." Eugenia did not at once answer. She turned away her head. Then she said resignedly--

"Very well, if my father, too, wishes me to go, I will," but the pleasure which Sydney was about to express was destroyed by Eugenia's next speech. "It is as I thought. I am no use to any one. My own life is over, and I am not wanted to help in any one else's."

This was the first allusion she had made in all these weeks to the bitter sorrow she had passed through. Sydney was touched and distressed.

"You must not speak so, Eugenia," she said. "We all want you. We want you to be your own bright self again. Don't think me unfeeling for thinking it possible you may be bright again. I know I have no right to speak, for I have been exceptionally free from trial, but you have been so brave and good lately, Eugenia. I cannot bear to see you so desponding. I am sure it will do you good to go away. It will make me feel so much happier about you."

"Very well, then, to please you, I will," said Eugenia, more vigorously, and as Mr Laurence was only too thankful to give his consent to the proposal, Mrs Dalrymple triumphantly carried the day.

Ever so many places had been thought of as likely to be pleasant at this season, and one after the other rejected as undesirable. One was too far away, another too crowded by invalids, a third disagreeably exposed to east wind. Their time was too short for them to entertain the idea of any of the usual wintering places across the Channel, and Mrs Dalrymple objected to the south of England as too distant also. So in the end they pitched upon a pretty little watering place, not more than a three hours' journey from Wareborough, where there was a good choice of walks and drives for Mr Dalrymple, and a certainty of comfortable quarters at the best hotel.

Their destination was a matter of perfect indifference to Eugenia, whose only interest in the journey was the feeling that she was pleasing her friends, and whose only strong wish was to get it over, and find herself at home again, free to yield to the lassitude and depression against which it became daily more difficult to struggle.

"If they _would_ but leave me alone," she constantly repeated inwardly; and though she hated herself for the feeling, there were times at which she realised that even Sydney's absence would be in some ways a relief. The constant and but thinly veiled anxiety in her sister's eyes, the incessant endeavour on her own part to lessen it by appearing as bright and energetic as of old, were at times almost more than the girl could endure or sustain; and when she found herself at last fairly started on her little journey with the Dalrymples, she became conscious that she had done wisely to consent to accompany them. Mrs Dalrymple's kindly fussiness was infinitely less trying than Sydney's wistful tenderness; it was far easier to keep up a cheerful, commonplace conversation with her friend's husband than to sit through dinner at home with the feeling that her father and sister were stealthily watching to see if she ate more to-day than yesterday, or if she entered with greater vigour into the passing remarks. With her present companions she felt perfectly at ease; had she had any idea of what an accurate acquaintance with the actual state of things had been arrived at by the worthy couple, her comfortable freedom from self-consciousness would have speedily deserted her.

Nunswell quickly got the credit of her improved looks.

"I really think she is growing more like herself already," said Mrs Dalrymple, with great satisfaction, to her husband. "We could not have chosen a better place for her; it is so bright and lively here, and the bracing air is so reviving." Very probably the bracing air really had something to do with it! Eugenia was only nineteen, and this had been her first trouble. Her life hitherto had been exceptionally monotonous and uneventful; a few months ago the prospect of a visit to Nunswell would have been to her far more exciting and delightful than to most girls of her age and education would be that of a winter in Rome, or a summer in Switzerland: even now therefore, notwithstanding the blight which had fallen over her youthful capacity for enjoyment, she was not insensible to the pleasant change in her outward life from the dull routine of Wareborough; the little amusements and varieties almost daily arranged for her by her hosts; the general holiday feeling. She had not yet got the length of owning to herself that she did, or ever again could, enjoy in her old way, but the reflection which now often passed through her mind, "how happy this would have made me a year ago," showed that she was on the high road to recovery.

Nunswell was beautifully situated, and rich in "natural objects of attraction." Eugenia had travelled so little that even the scenery of her own country was known to her only by description; it was now for the first time in her life that she woke up to a consciousness of her power of appreciation of natural beauty. Yet the waking was a sad one; her very first real perceptions of the beauty she had hitherto but dimly imagined came to her tinged with the sense of discordance between the outer and the inner world, of mistake and failure, which takes the brilliance out of the sunshine, the sweetness out of the birds' songs.

"None of it is real," thought Eugenia. "It is only where there is no soul--no heart, that there is happiness," for being still weakened in mind and body by her recent illness, having nothing to do but to rest and amuse herself, and no one to talk to, she was inclined to be rather plaintive and desponding, and to imagine the path she was treading to be one of altogether unprecedented experiences.

Still, there was no question but what her spirits were better, her general appearance far more satisfactory than when she left home, and Mrs Dalrymple's bulletins to Sydney became cheering in the extreme.

They had been a fortnight at Nunswell, when one morning at breakfast Mr Dalrymple made an unexpected announcement. He had been reading his letters--business ones for the most part, forwarded from his office at Wareborough--over some of them he had frowned, others he had thrown aside after a hasty glance, one or two had brought a satisfied expression to his face. Mrs Dalrymple and Eugenia had no letters this morning, but in deference to Mr Dalrymple's occupation, they had been sitting in silence for some time, excepting a few whispered remarks as to the quality of the coffee or the prospects of the weather. Eugenia was some way into a brown study when she was recalled by her host's suddenly addressing her.

"Here's some news for you, Miss Laurence," he exclaimed, looking up with a smile from the perusal of his last letter. "We are to have a visitor this afternoon--a great friend of yours. Quite time, too, that you should have a little variety--you must be getting tired of two old fogies like my wife and me."

Eugenia had started when he first began to speak--it did not take much to startle her just now--then as he went on, her colour changed, first to crimson, which fading as quickly as it had come, left her even paler than usual. Mrs Dalrymple darted a reproachful look across the table at her husband, and began to speak hastily, in terror of what he might not be going to say next.

"Why can't you say at once who it is, Henry?" she exclaimed with very unusual irritation. "It is quite startling and uncomfortable to be told all of a sudden `somebody' is coming in that sort of way. I am sure I don't want to see any one, and I don't think Eugenia does either. We have been very snug together, and Eugenia is not strong enough yet to care for strangers. Really, Henry, you are very thoughtless."

The last few words should have been an aside, but Mrs Dalrymple's vexation at the sight of the pallid hue still overspreading the girl's face, overmastered her prudence.

"It didn't startle me, dear Mrs Dalrymple--really it didn't," interposed Eugenia, hastily. "That is to say, I was only startled for an instant, and it was not Mr Dalrymple's fault. Anything does it-- even the door opening--since I was ill, but I am beginning to get over it. But you are quite right in thinking I don't want any one else--I have been _quite_ happy with you and Mr Dalrymple."

"But you have misunderstood me, Mary," said Mr Dalrymple, looking rather contrite. "I never spoke of strangers. I said particularly it was a friend of Miss Laurence's I was expecting. It is Gerald Thurston. I have a note from him proposing to see me here this afternoon, and if we are not engaged, he speaks of staying at Nunswell till Monday. He is on his way home from Bristol, where he has been on business, and he wishes to see me, and I want to see him. I am sure you can have no objection to his joining us for two days, either of you?" he ended by inquiring of his two companions.

"Objection to Gerald Thurston!" repeated Mrs Dalrymple. "Of course not. I shall be very glad to see him. I only wish you had said at first whom you meant. You don't mind, Eugenia?"

"I?" said Eugenia, looking up quickly. "Oh, dear no--I am very glad. I like Gerald Thurston very much. He is very kind and good."

"And exceedingly clever, and uncommonly good-looking," added Mr Dalrymple, warmly. "Take him for all in all, I don't know where there is a finer fellow than Thurston."

"So my father says," agreed Eugenia. "Indeed I think every one that knows him thinks highly of him."

She was anxious to be cordial, and really felt so towards Gerald. Of late she had come to like him much more than formerly, and the extreme consideration and delicacy which he had shown the evening her illness began, had increased this liking by a feeling of gratitude. Nevertheless there had grown up unconsciously in her a somewhat painful association with Gerald since that evening, and she had not seen enough of him to remove it. "He knows," she said to herself, and she shrank from meeting him again.

But it was much pleasanter and easier than she had expected. Gerald, intensely alive to all she was feeling, behaved perfectly, and spared her in a thousand ways without appearing, even to her, to do so at all. The two days proved the pleasantest they had passed at Nunswell: Mr Thurston knew the neighbourhood well, and drove them to some charming nooks and points of view, somewhat out of the beaten guide-book track, which they had not hitherto discovered. Mrs Dalrymple openly expressed her gratification and surprise.

"I always knew Gerald Thurston was very clever and superior and all that sort of thing, you know," she said to Eugenia, "but I had no idea he could make himself so agreeable."

Eugenia herself was a little surprised. The truth was she had never before, since his return from India, seen Gerald to advantage: in her presence hitherto he had been always self-conscious and constrained, stern and moody, if not morose. Now it was different. A feeling of extreme pity, of almost brotherly anxiety for her happiness, had replaced the intenser feelings with which he had regarded her; he had nor longer any fears for himself or his own self-control in her presence--that was all over, past for ever like a dream in the night; he could venture now to be at ease, could devote himself unselfishly to cheer and interest her in any way that came into his power. And under this genial influence the bruised petals of the flower, not crushed so utterly as had seemed at first, began to revive and expand again, to feel conscious of the bright sunshine and gentle breezes still around it, though for a time all light and life had seemed to it to have deserted its world.

"I had no idea Gerald was so wonderfully understanding and sympathising," thought Eugenia. "If I have a feeling or a question it is difficult to put in words, he seems to know what I mean by instinct;" and encouraged by this discovery, she allowed herself to talk to him, once or twice when they were alone together, of several things which had lately been floating in her mind.

Trouble and disappointment were doing their work with her; she was beginning to look for a meaning in many things that hitherto she had disregarded or accepted with youthful carelessness as matters-of-course with which she had no call to meddle. But now it was different: she had eaten of the fruit of the tree; she had ventured her all in a frail bark, and it had foundered; it had come home to her that life and love are often sad, and sometimes terrible facts, and her heart was beginning to swell with a great pity for her suffering-kind. It was all vague and misty to her as yet; it might result in nothing, as is too often the end of such crises in a growing character, but still the germ was there.

"Gerald," she said to Mr Thurston, suddenly, after she had been sitting silent for some minutes. (They were in the gardens of the hotel at the time. It was Sunday afternoon and a mild April day; Mr and Mrs Dalrymple had gone to church again, but Eugenia and Mr Thurston had been tempted by the pleasant weather to play truant.) "Gerald," said Eugenia, "I wish there was something that women could do."

Mr Thurston turned towards her. She now looking straight before her with a puzzled yet earnest expression on her face.

"Something that women can do?" he repeated, not quite sure of her drift. "I thought there were lots of things. Most women complain of want of time."

"So do I sometimes. I am never at a loss for occupation--that's not what I mean," she replied. "What I mean is, I wish there were bigger things--more useful things for women to do."

"You have not been infected with the Women's Rights mania, surely?" inquired Gerald, rather unresponsively.

"Of course not. Don't laugh at me, Gerald. You can understand me--if you choose. I should like to feel I was of some use to somebody, and lately I have felt as if no one in the world would be the least bit the worse if I were out of it." Here she blushed a little. "Now don't you see if I were a man I could set to work hard at something--something that would be of use in some way. Put it to yourself, Gerald; suppose-- suppose you had given up thoughts of--of being very happy yourself," (here the blush deepened to hot crimson), "wouldn't you naturally--after a while, you know--wouldn't you set to work harder than ever at whatever you felt was your own special business--the thing you felt you were most likely to be of use in? Now a woman has no such field open to her."

Internally Gerald had winced a little, two or three times, while Eugenia was speaking. Externally, he sat there looking colder and more impassive than usual. He had loved this girl, had set her up on the pedestal of ideal womanhood that somewhere or other exists in the imagination of every man not wholly faithless or depraved; she had fallen, it is true, in a sense, from this height, she had proved herself in his judgment to be but as the rest of her sex--childishly credulous, ready to mistake the glitter for the gold, honeyed words for heart devotion--yet still he cared for her, was tenderly anxious for her welfare. But of all things Gerald hated sentimentalism!

"There are plenty of Protestant sisterhoods," he said, drily. "How would one of those suit you?"

Eugenia made no reply. After waiting a moment or two, Mr Thurston turned towards her again. To his surprise he saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"Eugenia," he exclaimed, softened at once, "have I hurt you? I did not intend it. I assure you I did not, in the least."

"No, I know you didn't," she said, struggling to smile and to speak cheerfully. "I am very silly. I can't help it. I have got so silly and touchy lately, the least thing seems to vex me. But you did hurt me a little, Gerald. I was in earnest in what I said, though you thought it missyish and contemptible. I have been trying to see how I could grow better and less selfish, and you don't know how hard it is, for no one seems to understand. And, oh you don't know, you who are so strong and wise, you _don't_ know how hard it is to be good when one is very unhappy."

"Don't I?" muttered he, but she did not catch the words.

"If I could be of use," she went on again, after a little pause. "And why can't I be? There must be plenty of misery in the world. Why can't I make some of it a little less?"

"You can," he answered, gently. "I don't think I quite understood you. I thought you were envying men's work and despising your own sphere--a very common and often excusable mistake. I see now there was a more unselfish spirit in what you meant."

"I don't know that," she answered, doubtfully, but brightening up nevertheless. "I do think I should like to make some people happier, or a little less unhappy, and in some ways perhaps better too. For surely very often being happier would make people better, would it not? But I am selfish too--I want to get something to take me out of myself-- something that I can get interested in by feeling it is of use."

"Don't you help your father sometimes?" inquired Gerald. "Haven't you a good deal to do in looking after things at home?"

"No--very little indeed. The house has got into a jog-trot way of going on, and papa won't have changes. What little there has been to do hitherto, I am afraid Sydney has done," said Eugenia, blushing a little. "Of course I don't intend to neglect that sort of thing, but there is very little to do. I do help my father whenever he will let me, by copying out things and hunting up references and quotations. But it isn't often he wants help."

"And would he not let you help him more if you asked him?"

"He might, but it would only be to please me," replied Eugenia, despondingly. "No, I am afraid it is true--I am no use to anybody. Once, I remember, ever, ever so long ago," she went on, as if ten or twenty years at least were within easy grasp of her memory, "I had visions of becoming frightfully learned, of studying all my life long, and getting to the bottom of everything. What a little goose I was! Just because I had learnt Latin and German and a few other things more thoroughly than most girls! I wonder sometimes if, after all, all the trouble papa took with us has been much good to us. Look at Sydney; what will be the use of it to her, marrying at eighteen? And as for me, if I were really clever I suppose I should go on working away, absorbed in the work without thinking of any result. But I can't, Gerald. It doesn't satisfy me. I want to see and feel a result."

She looked up in his face, her bright, earnest eyes full of inquiry. "Can't you help me?" they seemed to say.

Could he? A tantalising vision rose before him of how at one time he had looked forward to doing so--how well he understood her, and the special phase through which she was passing! Was it too late? Was there yet a chance that by much patience and by slow degrees he might win to himself this girl whom no one understood as he understood her, whose very faults and imperfections were dear to him? The thought seemed to dazzle and bewilder him, but a glance at Eugenia made him dismiss it. She sat there beside him, in such utter unconsciousness, such sisterly reliance on his friendship, that he felt it would be cruel to her and in every sense worse than useless to disturb the existing state of things. The far off, dimly possible future must take care of itself; and after all--she could never be quite the same Eugenia to him again.

So he answered her very quietly and soberly, as she expected.

"You cannot judge of things quite justly at present, I think," he said, after a little pause. "I have had the same sort of feelings myself sometimes, though, of course, my life has been too busy to tempt me to yield to them much. But they will pass away again, you will find. You will come to feel that nothing well done is ever useless. And, in the meantime, there is no fear but what things will turn up for you to do. I could put you in the way of some," he continued, with a smile, "though I don't know if they would be quite to your taste. Frank sometimes takes me to task a little for some of my ideas, so we should have to be careful."

"I am quite sure _I_ should agree with you," said Eugenia, eagerly. "I know you do an immense deal of good, Gerald. Papa says so, and I have often wanted to ask you about it, but I didn't like."

"There is exceedingly little to tell," he replied, simply. "I am no theorist, and I limit my attempts to what I think I see a chance of doing."

Then, perceiving that her interest was really aroused, he told her something of what he was trying to do, and promised some time or other to tell her more.

Eugenia felt happier than she had done for long, that evening. Her respect for Gerald Thurston was rapidly increasing.

"I have never before done him justice," she said to herself; "I am most fortunate to have him for a friend."

Gerald, on his way back to Wareborough, felt very glad that he had seen her again.

"It was the best thing to do to get over the uncomfortable feeling," thought he. "She trusts me now thoroughly, and I may be of use to her."

And Sydney, who had been a little puzzled by Gerald's visit to Nunswell, was greatly delighted by his cheerful looks and satisfactory report of her sister.

"After all," she thought, hopefully, "it may all come right in the end. Who knows?"

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER FIVE.

AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT.

La femme qui ne cesse pas d'aimer celui qui l'a fut souffrir, parvient
a l'aimer encore davantage.

Let time and chance combine, combine.

T. Carlyle's _Adieu_.

Who knows, indeed! Gerald left Nunswell on Monday morning, and for the rest of that day Eugenia's thoughts were principally occupied in reflecting over all he had said, and wishing he had stayed longer and said more. She got up on Tuesday morning in the same spirit, and resolving to strike before the iron of her new determination to struggle against despondency and depression had had time to cool, she went out into the gardens armed with one of the few books she had brought with her, Schlegel's "Philosophie der Sprache," which she had been studying under her father's direction just before her illness.

"I will force myself to read a certain quantity every day," she decided, as she ensconced herself on the same garden seat on which she and Gerald had sat on Sunday afternoon. All around her reminded her of their conversation, of his few words of encouragement and advice.

"Trying must always be some good, whether one sees it or not, I suppose," thought Eugenia, and with this somewhat vague but certainly innocuous piece of philosophy she set to work at her self-appointed task.

She found it harder than she had anticipated; considerably more so than it used to be; she did not make allowance for the effects of her illness, and entirely attributed the difficulty she met with to "stupidity" and "forgetfulness," and thereupon ensued a fit of self-disgust.

"I to think myself clever, indeed!" she thought, "or able to be ever of use to any one. The first thing I have to do, it seems to me, is to get rid of my self-conceit. Why, I have forgotten more German in a month than I learnt in five years."

She was not, however, to be easily baffled. She read and re-read each intricate sentence till its meaning became clear; till, too, her head ached and her eyes grew weary, and she was at last obliged to stop and rest before she had got half through the allotted portion. Her retreat was in a retired part of the gardens; hitherto she had been undisturbed by passers-by; suddenly, as she sat leaning back, her eyes closed, her whole appearance that of extreme weariness and languor, two gentlemen passed within a few yards of her. They were not speaking as they approached, but she heard their footsteps and opened her eyes for a moment, to close them again quickly when she saw that the two figures were disappearing in another direction.

"What an exquisitely pretty girl," observed one of the two when they were out of earshot, "but how fearfully delicate she looks. I don't think I ever saw such a transparent complexion. Did you notice her? She seemed to be asleep, and yet she looks as if she were some way gone in a decline. How extraordinary of her friends to let her fall asleep in the open air in April. How frightfully imprudent."

"I didn't notice her," replied his companion, carelessly. "It's not likely she is in a consumption, however. Consumptive people don't come to Nunswell; it's too cold. But if your feelings are interested, Thanet, I am quite willing to wait while you turn back and waken her. And you had better give her a little lecture on the subject of her imprudence at the same time, hadn't you?"

"Nonsense, Chancellor," replied Major Thanet, rather irritably. "If you had been on your back for three months, and suffering as I have been, you would understand what it is to have some feeling for your fellow-creatures. A year ago I should have laughed at such notions as you do now, I daresay," he continued, more amiably, "but don't make fun of me till you have had a touch of rheumatic fever yourself," "I have no wish to try it, thank you," said Captain Chancellor, lightly. "I am quite willing to take your word for it that, it is the reverse of agreeable. But a minute ago you would have it the young person must be half way gone in a decline, and now you say she's in for rheumatic fever. We had better have a look at her, really: you said she was awfully pretty, didn't you?" Major Thanet grunted a but half mollified assent. He was still too lame to walk without the help of his friend's arm, so when Captain Chancellor turned to retrace their steps, he made no objection, though feeling still annoyed by what he considered his companion's ill-timed "chaff."

The girl was not asleep this time. She was reading, and did not look up till they had passed. Her attitude was still the same; she was half sitting, half lying on the bench, her head resting wearily on one hand, while the other held her book. Major Thanet looked at her, as they walked slowly past, with considerable interest.

"She is a lovely creature, whoever she is," he remarked to his companion when they had walked on a little further. "Don't you think so? She looks delicate, but hardly so much so as I fancied at first. It must have been the effect of her closed eyes."

Captain Chancellor did not answer. Major Thanet was a much shorter man than his friend, and he stooped slightly in consequence of his illness. So he had not seen his companion's face since they had passed the invalid girl. Now, however, he looked up, surprised at his silence, and a little irritated by his remark eliciting no reply.

"What are you thinking of, Chancellor?" he exclaimed. "Didn't you see the girl? Don't you?"

But his sentence was never completed, so much was he startled by what he saw in his friend's face.

Captain Chancellor was deadly pale, paler by far than the girl whose pallor had attracted Major Thanet's attention. An expression of extreme disquiet had replaced his ordinary air of comfortable well-bred nonchalance, and his voice sounded hoarse and abrupt when at last he spoke.

"There is a sheltered seat on there, I see, Thanet," he said, pointing to a sort of arbour a little in front. "Do you mind my leaving you for a few minutes? I shall not be long, but--but--I _must_ run back for a moment."

"Certainly, certainly, by all means," replied Major Thanet, good-naturedly, though feeling not a little curious. "One of the irresistible Beauchamp's little `affaires,' cropping up rather inconveniently, I fear, if what they say of his engagement to that very dark-eyed Miss Eyrecourt be true," he said to himself; adding aloud, when Captain Chancellor had taken him at his word, and deposited him in the summerhouse, "Don't hurry, my dear fellow, on my account. If the worst comes to the worst, I expect I can toddle back to the hotel with my stick."

"Thank you. I shall not be long," repeated Beauchamp, hardly knowing what Major Thanet had said, and setting off, as he spoke, at a rapid pace, in the direction of Eugenia's seat.

But as he drew nearer to her, his steps slackened. After all, what had he to say to her? Was it not even possible he had been mistaken in her identity? And supposing it were she--that this fragile shadow were the blooming girl he had left, not without some misgiving and regret, only a few weeks ago--why should he suppose he was to blame for the change? She had never looked very strong; she might have had any ordinary illness, that had nothing to say to him or her possible feelings towards him. Girls, now-a-days, didn't die of broken hearts; that sort of thing was all very well in novels and ballads, but was seldom come across in real life, and more than half-inclined to turn back again to his friend with some excuse for his eccentric behaviour, Captain Chancellor stopped short. But before he had time to decide what he should do, a faint, low cry, that seemed somehow to shape itself into the sound of his own name, arrested him. He was nearer the garden bench than he had imagined: in his hurry and confusion he had approached it by another path; a step or two in advance and Eugenia stood before him. She had recognised him after he had passed with Major Thanet the second time, had sat there in an indescribable conflict of emotions--of fear and self-distrust; of vague, unreasonable anticipation; of foolish, irrepressible delight in the knowledge of his near presence; of bitter, humiliating consciousness that such feelings were no longer lawful--that he was now the betrothed, possibly even the husband, of another woman.

"Why did I see him? What unhappy fate has brought him here--to revive it all--to begin again all my struggles--just when I was growing a little happier and more at peace?" she had been crying in her heart. And then her ears had caught the quickly--approaching footsteps--the firm, sharp tread which she told herself she could have known among a thousand, and she forgot everything; forgot all about Roma Eyrecourt and his sudden departure, her own misery, his apparent indifference; remembered only that at last--at last--she saw him again, stood within a few feet of the man she had been doing her utmost to banish for ever from her heart and thoughts. One glance, all the labour was in vain-- all the painful task to begin over again at the very beginning!

He was the first to break silence. It would have been a farce to have done so with any ordinary conventional form of greeting; her agitation, as she stood there, pale as death, trembling from head to foot, grasping convulsively at the rough woodwork of the bench for support--her poor "Philosophie" lying on the ground at her feet--was too palpable to be ignored; to have attempted to do so would have been to insult her. And Beauchamp Chancellor was not the man to stab deliberately and in cold blood, however indifferent he might be to suffering which fell not within his sight. And just now, in full view of Eugenia's altered features and pitiful agitation, all the latent manliness of his nature was aroused; for the time he almost forgot himself in the sudden rush of tenderness for the girl who, he could no longer doubt, had suffered sorely for his sake; whose guileless devotion contrasted not unpleasantly with the still fresh remembrance of Roma Eyrecourt's scornful indifference. So it was in a tone of extreme and unconcealed anxiety that he spoke.

"You have been ill, Miss Laurence," he exclaimed; "I can see that you have been dreadfully ill. Good heavens, and I not to know it! And I have startled you by coming upon you so unexpectedly. What can I do or say to make you forgive me."

Eugenia was recovering herself a little by now; some consciousness of what was due to her own self-respect was returning to her; she made a hard fight to regain her self-possession.

"There is nothing to forgive," she answered, trying to smile, though her quivering lips and tremulous voice were by no means under her control. "I have been ill, but not `dreadfully.' When one is usually strong, I suppose even a slight illness shakes one's nerves. I am still absurdly easily startled."

The last few words came very faintly. The same bewildering sensation of giddiness that she had felt once before in her life came over Eugenia; a horror seized her that in another moment she would again lose consciousness altogether--what might she not say, how might she not betray herself in such a case, to him--to this man who belonged to Roma Eyrecourt, not to her? She was standing by the end of the bench; she turned, and tried to reach the seat, but she could not see clearly, every object seemed to dance before her eyes, she would have fallen had not Beauchamp darted forward, caught her in his arms, and almost lifted her on to the bench. His touch seemed to inspire her with curious strength, the giddiness passed away; she sat up, and shrinking back from his supporting arm with an unmistakable air of repugnance, whispered-- for she had not yet voice to speak--"Thank you, but _please_ go away, Captain Chancellor. I am quite well again now." Considerably mortified, Beauchamp sprang back. He was at all times easily nettled and prone to take offence, and in the present case the unexpectedness of the repulse made it additionally hurting. He stood still for a minute or two, watching Eugenia, as she sat in evident discomfort and constraint under his scrutiny. Then he spoke again--"I would have left you at once, Miss Laurence," he said, stiffly, "if you were fit to be left, but you really are not. If you will tell me, however, where I can find your friends I will go in search of them, and not trouble you any more with my unwelcome presence."

She looked up wistfully into his face.

"I have offended you," she said. "Oh, what shall I do? I don't know what to do. Oh, why did you come here? You make it so difficult--so dreadfully difficult. I don't blame you--I know you could not help it: but I have been trying so hard to forget you, and you won't let me. You have no right to put yourself in my way; it is cruel and unmanly of you," she went on, with a quick fierceness in her tone; "you know how weak and ignorant I am. Why can't you leave me? But, oh, what have I been saying?" And with a sudden awakening to the inference of her words, an overwhelming rush of shame, bewilderment, and misery, she hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears.

This was altogether too much for Captain Chancellor. He flung himself on the seat beside her, clasped her in his arms, lavishing upon her every term of lover-like endearment.

"Eugenia, my dearest, my own darling!" he exclaimed, "I cannot bear to see you so. Why should I keep away from you? Fate is too strong for prudence. We cannot be separated, you see. I will break every tie, I will crush every obstacle that can come between us. Look up, my dearest, and tell me you will be happy, and will trust yourself to me."

She did not repulse him now; she was too exhausted and worn out to struggle. She hardly realised the meaning of his words, but for this short minute she allowed herself to rest in his arms, with a vague feeling that it was only for this once--he must go away, he must marry Roma; it must be, he could not break his word; and she, Eugenia, would never see him again; she would not live long now, she had no strength to struggle back to common life again, as she had nearly succeeded in doing; it would be better for her to die quietly, and then it would not surely matter to any one that she had for this once smothered her maidenly dignify, had allowed the promised husband of another to hold her in his arms, to call her his dearest, to kiss her pale cheeks, and swear he would never give her up.

Suddenly an approaching footstep startled them. Only a very few minutes had passed since Beauchamp had first returned to her, but to Eugenia it seemed hours. Captain Chancellor got up from the seat and stood quietly beside her, as if engaged in ordinary conversation. The new-comer was only a stranger who passed by without noticing them, but the interruption recalled Beauchamp's thoughts to outside matters.

"I think perhaps I had better go," he said, reluctantly, "but I cannot leave you to find your way back alone. My friend, Major Thanet, is waiting for me a little further on. He is lame, and cannot walk home alone. Would you mind remaining here a very few minutes till I have seen him safe back to his room, and then I can return here for you?"

The anxious tenderness of his words and manner was very sweet, to Eugenia, but she resisted the temptation. She had had her moment of weakness, but that was now past and gone. Still, this was not the time or place for saying what had to be said, nor had she now strength for any discussion. So she merely answered gently, so gently that any possibility of offence was out of the question--

"Please not. I mean, please don't come back for me. It is better not. I am quite able to go home alone now; but if you would rather," (in deference to a shake of his head), "you might leave a message at the hotel, asking Mrs Dalrymple's maid to come for me. She will not be surprised; she often goes out with me, and she knows this seat."

"I will do so," he replied. "So you are with the Dalrymples!"--and Eugenia detected, and was not surprised at, a slight shade of annoyance in his tone.

"Yes," she replied, simply.

"But--but that will not matter?" he inquired, hesitatingly. "You are your own mistress. You will see me? I shall try to see you in an hour or two again. There will be no difficulty about it?"

He had turned to leave her, but waited an instant for her answer.

"Oh, no, there will be no difficulty. I will see you, or write to you," she said, a little confusedly.

Her last words struck him rather oddly, but he attributed them to her nervousness and embarrassment; and, fearful of increasing these, he left her, as she desired.

And for the next quarter of an hour, till the maid came for her, Eugenia never took her eyes from the path down which Beauchamp had disappeared. "I shall never see him again," she said to herself; "never, never. I must not. He must not break his word for me. Oh, I hope--I do hope I shall not live much longer."

When she got back to the hotel, Eugenia found the Dalrymples both out. Mr Dalrymple she knew was off for the day on some expedition; but his wife, she found on inquiry, had left word for her that she would be in in half an hour. So Eugenia went up to her own room, and sitting down, tried to decide what was best to do. She only saw two things clearly,-- she must not risk seeing Beauchamp again, and she must confide in Mrs Dalrymple.

"There is no help for it," she said to herself. "Even if I told her nothing, she is sure to meet him, and she could not but suspect something. It would never do to let her find it out for herself. Why, Roma Eyrecourt is her cousin! No, I _must_ trust her; and I must get her to let me go home at once. I cannot stay here,--I cannot."

Mrs Dalrymple, returning from her walk, was met by a request that she would at once go to Miss Laurence's room. She felt a little startled.

"What is the matter? Miss Laurence is not ill, surely?" she said to her maid, who was watching for her with Eugenia's message.

The young woman, a comparative stranger, answered that she did not know; she had not thought Miss Laurence looking very well when she came in, but she had not complained. Eugenia's face, however, confirmed her friend's fears.

"You are ill, my dear child," she exclaimed at once. "Have you got cold again, do you think? You were looking so well this morning."

"I am not ill,--truly I am not," replied Eugenia. "But, dear Mrs Dalrymple, I wanted to see you as soon as you came in, to ask you to be so very, very kind as to let me go home at once,--to-day if possible."

"Go home to-day! My dear Eugenia, it is out of the question. You must be ill," said Mrs Dalrymple, considerably perplexed, and half-inclined to think the girl's brain was affected.

"No, no; it isn't that. Oh, Mrs Dalrymple, I can't bear to tell you! I have never spoken of it to any one,--only to one person at least," she said, correcting herself, as the remembrance of her conversations with Gerald returned to her mind. "But I am sure I can trust you, and you will understand. It is--it is because Captain Chancellor is here that I want to go."

"My poor child!" said Mrs Dalrymple, very tenderly, drawing Eugenia nearer her as she spoke; and though she said no more, the girl saw how mistaken she had been in imagining that no one had guessed her secret, and a painful flush of shame rose to her brow at the thought.

Then, after a moment's pause, her friend spoke again.

"You are sure of it?" she inquired. "You are sure that he is here,-- actually here? May you not have made, some mistake?"

"Oh, no; I am sure, quite sure," repeated Eugenia, earnestly. "He is certainly here, staying at Nunswell. For all I know, in this very house."

Mrs Dalrymple sat silent again for a little, apparently thinking it over.

"I don't quite understand it," she said at length; "what he is doing here just now, I mean. I thought he was at Winsley. But all the same,--though of course it is most unfortunate, most peculiarly unfortunate,--the very thing of all others I should most have wished to avoid for you,--all the same, my dear child, I confess I hardly see that it would be right or wise for us to allow it to interfere with our plans. Of course, if you go home, we shall go too. That does not matter; it would make very little difference to us. But don't you think, Eugenia, it would be just a little undignified,--not to say cowardly,--to seem afraid of him,--to run away whenever he appears? I should like him rather to see, or to think, that he is no more to you than he deserves to be. Don't be offended with me. I have felt for you and with you more than I can express all through."

She waited rather anxiously for Eugenia's answer. It was slow of coming. Mrs Dalrymple began to fear she had gone too far; she could not understand the look of embarrassment on Eugenia's face.

"Yes," she said, at last; "you are quite right. It would have been cowardly to have run away had it been as you think, though I dare say I should have wished to do so all the same. I am a coward, I suppose; at least, I entirely distrust my own strength. And I have reason enough to do so," she added, in a lower tone, hardly intended for her companion's ears. "But it isn't quite as you think. It is not only on my own account I want to go away. It is not only that I have _seen_ him-- Captain Chancellor, I mean. I have spoken to him. He saw me this morning in the gardens, and came back to speak to me; and--and--if I stay here he will insist on seeing me, and it may be very painful for us all."

"I _don't_ understand," exclaimed Mrs Dalrymple. "What can he want to see you for? What can he have to say to you,--he, engaged to Roma Eyrecourt?"

"I can't tell you. I am so afraid of making you angry, for of course she is your cousin," said Eugenia, in great distress. "But still I thought it best to be quite open with you. He forgot himself,--for the time only, I dare say," she continued, with an irrepressible sigh and a sudden sense of bitter humility. "He saw that I had been ill, and I think he was dreadfully sorry for me, and I was alone, and somehow I suppose I was frightfully undignified, and unmaidenly even,"--the harsh word, though self-inflicted, bringing a painful blush with it. "I dare say it was all my fault, but any way he offered to give up everything for my sake, to break all ties and obstacles."

"And you accepted such a proposal?" exclaimed Mrs Dalrymple, indignantly, for, after all, "blood is thicker than water," and the imagined insult to her kinswoman, of such treatment, struck home.

"No, oh, no; of course not," replied Eugenia, eagerly. "That is what makes me want to go. I had not time--we were interrupted--I could not make him understand that such a thing was impossible,--impossible in every sense,--for him,--for me. Could I, do you think, marry any man who, for my sake, had broken his word to another woman,--had perhaps broken _another_ woman's heart? Oh, no, no. You do not think I could? I would rather die!"