"You forget," she said, "that I don't know the younger sister. It is
easy to accept anything one is told about a perfect stranger, though I
did feel surprised. She is so young."
"Surprised perhaps, but nothing more?" he persisted. "It is just what
you say--you know nothing of the one sister, but you do know something
of the other; something which made it difficult for you to credit what
you thought I told you of _her_. It is that something I want you to
tell me. You don't know what a service you may be doing me."
"But I can't tell you," said Roma, becoming more and more uncomfortable.
"And I don't think I would if I could. It makes me feel like a spy."
Just then her eye caught the last words of the song she had been
singing, lying on the piano beside her!
But oh, _my_ love, if false thou prove!
Mr Thurston's glance followed hers. He read the line too.
"You don't understand me," he said, not resenting her hasty accusation.
"It is nothing of that kind. One can't talk of `false,' when there has
been no sort of promise claimed or given, directly or indirectly. I
shall have no one but myself to thank for it, if it is all over. Only I
think I should be much better--less likely to make a fool of myself, in
short," with a smile, "if I were not quite unprepared. That is why I
want you to tell me what was in your mind. I know it is a very odd
thing to ask, but our whole conversation has been odd. Just think; what
have I not told you or allowed you to infer, and two hours ago I had
never heard your name?"
While he was speaking, Roma had been collecting her wits. "Mr
Thurston," she said gravely, "I cannot tell you anything. There are
passing impressions and fancies which take a false substance and form
from merely putting them into words. Truly, I have nothing it would be
fair--to yourself, I mean--to tell you her;" decision was strengthened
by the recollection of Gertrude's ridicule of her "absurd fancifulness"
this very morning. "I can only say," with a smile, "that I don't agree
with my song. There is no need for `taking on trust.' Go and see for
yourself. If you are disappointed, I pity you with all my heart, but if
you are deceived in any way it will be your own fault, not _hers_. She
is candour itself. Still, don't be too easily discouraged. I wish you
well."
"Thank you," he said, for he saw she was thoroughly determined to say no
more, and they both moved away to other parts of the room.
Nothing more passed between them except a word or two when they were
saying good-night. "We may meet again some day, Miss Eyrecourt--at
Wareborough. Perhaps," said Mr Thurston.
"Perhaps," said Roma, "but `some day' is a wide word."
"Not always," he replied, and that was all. "You seemed to get on
unusually well with that friend of Christian Montmorris's, Roma," said
Gertrude, when they were shut up together in the carriage on their way
home. Her tone was half satisfied and inquisitive: she evidently had
not made up her mind if her sister-in-law should be scolded or not.
Roma had been debating how much of her conversation with Mr Thurston it
would be well to retail to Mrs Eyrecourt, but something in Gertrude's
remark jarred upon her, and she instantly resolved to tell her nothing.
"Did I?" she said, indifferently. "Well, there was no one else to get
on with; and he had just come from India, so he was rather more amusing
than the Montmorrises."
"Is he going back again immediately?" asked Mrs Eyrecourt, but she
never waited for the answer. A new idea struck her. "Oh, by-the-bye,
Roma," she exclaimed. "Isn't it odd--just when we were talking about
the Halswood Chancellors this morning--old Mr Montmorris tells me the
second son, that is to say rather, the second _grandson_, died last
year. Isn't it odd we never heard of it? He seems to have a very high
opinion of the new head of the family--Herbert Chancellor; he says
Halswood will be a very different place now. The income has increased
amazingly; old Uncle Chancellor spent so little; and Herbert
Chancellor's wife has a large fortune too, he tells me. Fancy, Roma,
their eldest child, a girl, is eighteen. Wouldn't she be nice for
Beauchamp?"
"Very," replied Roma, satirically. "She's got money--that's all that
needs to be considered."
"You shouldn't speak so, Roma. As if _I_ would ever put money before
other things--goodness and suitableness and all that," said Gertrude, in
an injured tone. "You're in one of your queer humours to-night, I see.
But I daresay you're very tired, poor child! and it was very
good-natured of you to come to the Montmorrises' with me."