Fairer than stars were the roses,
Faint was the fragrance and rare;
Not any flower in the garden
Could with those roses compare.
*****
But another had taken delight
In colour and perfume rare.
And another hand had gathered
My roses beyond compare.
_Wild Roses_.
It was late in the evening when Gerald Thurston at last found himself
again at Wareborough. He had written to Frank to expect him by a
certain train, or, failing that, not till the following day; but after
all he found himself too late to leave town at the appointed hour, and
only just in time to catch the afternoon express. He hesitated at first
about remaining where he was another night. It would be a
disappointment to his brother not to meet him at the station; but in the
end, the temptation of reaching a few hours sooner the place containing
everything and everybody dearest to him on earth--to him, ugly and
repellent though it might be to a stranger, emphatically _home_--proved
too strong. And thus it came to pass that he reached his destination
pretty late in the evening, and that no familiar figure standing on the
station platform in eager anticipation met his eyes, as, in a sort of
vague hope that "Frank or some one" might have thought it worth while to
see the express come in, he stretched his head out of the carriage
window, when the slackening speed and drearily-prolonged whistle told
him he had reached his journey's end. He had not expected any one. It
was entirely his own fault, he repeated to himself so positively, as to
suggest some real though unrecognised and perhaps unreasonable
disappointment. It seemed in every sense a cold welcome, and he felt
glad to get away from the dingy station, where even the porters were
strangers to him, out into the sloppy streets, for now every turn of the
cab wheels was taking him nearer home. It was raining heavily, and was
very cold. It had been raining heavily and had been bitterly cold too,
he remembered, when he had left Wareborough at the same season three
years ago.
"It all looks exactly the same," he thought to himself, as he glanced at
the gas-lighted shops, the muddy pavements, the passers-by hurrying
along as if eager to get out of the rain. "For all the change I see, it
might be the very evening I went away, and my three years in India a
dream."
He had left the bulk of his luggage at the station, and drove straight
to the little house his brother and he had called home since their
parents' death, where, with the help of an old servant who had once been
their nurse, they had kept together the most valued of their household
gods, and where Gerald had for long lived on the plainest fare, and
denied himself every luxury, that Frank's university career might not
come to an untimely close. All that was over now, however; brighter
days had come: Frank had fulfilled Gerald's best hopes, and Gerald
himself was now, comparatively speaking, a rich man. He had seen the
worst of the material part of the struggle; he had made his way some
distance up the hill now, he told himself. He might pause and take
breath, might allow himself to dream about a future he had worked hard
for, the destruction of which, though he might strive to bear it
manfully, would be no passing disappointment, would, it seemed to him,
take all the light out of his life.
He was lost in a reverie when the cab stopped. Another little chill
fell upon him, when the opening door showed, not Dorothy's familiar
face, all aflame with eager anxiety to welcome her boy, but that of a
total stranger. A freezingly proper maiden of mature years, who
inquired in suspicious tones, eyeing with dissatisfaction the carpet bag
he held in his hand, his only visible luggage, "if he were Mr
Thurston's brother, for if so there was a note for him on the
dining-room chimbley-piece." And into the dining-room she followed him,
though evidently reassured by his acquaintance with the arrangements of
the house, and stood by him in an uncomfortably uncertain uninterested
manner, as unlike Dorothy's hospitable heartiness as darkness is to
light, while he read Frank's note.
"I have been twice to the station," it said; "for as you named 4:50 as
`the latest,' I thought I had better meet the 3:55 also. You say so
positively you will not come by a later, that I think I must quite give
you up. I am dining at the Laurences'. There was a particular reason
for it, so I can't get off without a better excuse than the mere ghost
of a chance that you may still come to-night. Still, I leave this note,
in the remote possibility of your doing so, to ask you, if you do come,
to follow me. They will be delighted to see you, and it would never do
for your first evening to be spent alone. Be sure you make Martha get
you something. I wish we had Dorothy back."
Gerald remembered about Dorothy now. She had married a few months
before. Of course; how stupid to have forgotten it! He had actually a
wedding present for her in his trunk.
"No, thank you--nothing," he replied to Martha's inquiries as to what he
would have, delivered in a tone suggestive of latent resentment of
untimely meals. "Nothing except a glass of sherry--you can get me that,
I suppose--and a biscuit; and stay--I shall want a cab in--yes, in ten
minutes. Is the boy in?--you have a boy, I suppose? In ten minutes,
remember;" for Martha's muttered reply that she "would see" was not very
promising.
She was as good as, or rather better than, her words. Within the
prescribed time the cab was at the door, and Gerald ready (for a
postscript to Frank's note had told him "not to trouble about dressing.
It would be too late if he stopped to unpack, and there were only to be
one or two gentlemen at the Laurences'"), and rattling off again through
the plashing streets, along the muddy road leading to the suburb where
Mr Laurence lived. It was not a long drive, barely a mile, but to
Gerald it seemed hours till he at last found himself standing outside
the familiar door, the rain beating down steadily on his umbrella. The
servant who opened here was also a stranger to him, and evidently Frank
had forgotten to mention his brother's possible appearance, for she
stood irresolute, at a loss to account for his unseasonable visit. It
was uncomfortable, and for the first time Gerald began to get impatient
at this succession of small rebuffs, individually of no-moment, but, all
together, sufficient to lower the temperature of his eager hopes and
anticipations. A sort of reaction began to set in; for a minute or two
he felt inclined not to reply to the servant's inquiry as to whether he
wished to see her master, but to turn away and walk home again through
the rain--to Martha's disgust, no doubt,--and never let Frank know he
had obeyed his injunctions. Then he laughed at himself for even
momentarily contemplating conduct which, had he been a boy again, and
Dorothy there to give her opinion, she would certainly have described as
"taking the pet," and mustering his good spirits afresh, he inquired if
Mr Frank Thurston were not dining with Mr Laurence.
"Mr Thurston is here to-night--Mr Thurston the clergyman," replied the
young woman, with more alacrity, imagining evidently that this call was
on Frank _ex officio_. "He is still in the dining-room with the other
gentlemen; but if it is anything very particular, I can tell him he is
wanted at once; or if not, perhaps you will wait a few minutes till he
leaves the dining-room."
"Yes, that will be better. Do not disturb him till they come out. I am
Mr Fra--Mr Thurston's brother," whereupon the damsel became all
eagerness and civility--she was young and nice-looking, in no wise
resembling the forbidding-looking Martha; "but I would rather you did
not say who I am; just tell him he is wanted when he comes out. Where
can I wait? In here?" She opened the door of the school-room. "Ah,
yes, that will do."
A chain of small coincidences seemed to connect Gerald's return with his
departure three years ago; trifling commonplace coincidences which, in a
less highly-wrought state of feeling, he would probably not have
observed, subtly preparing him, nevertheless, for sharper perception of
the changes he had not yet owned to himself that he dreaded. For the
least material natures are yet the most vividly impressed by their
sensible surroundings, and a background of outward similarity throws out
in strong relief immaterial differences and variations we should
otherwise have been slower to realise, or, where the interest is but
superficial, never perhaps have been conscious of at all.
A curious sensation came over Gerald as he entered the old school-room.
Here it was that three years before he had seen the last of the Laurence
sisters; it had been almost the same hour of the evening, for nine
o'clock, he remembered, had struck while they were all standing there,
and Frank had hurried him off, fearing he would lose his train. They
had driven to the station by a very circuitous route, that his oldest
friends might have his latest good-bye. And Sydney had cried, he
remembered, when he kissed her, and Eugenia had grown pale when he shook
hands with _her_, and mademoiselle had stood by with tears in her kind
black French eyes, and three years had seemed to them all a very long
look-out indeed! And now they were over; the winter of banishment and
separation was past. Were the flowers about to spring for Gerald? was
the singing of birds henceforth to sound through his life? was the
fulfilment of his brightest hopes at hand?
_Something_ was at hand. The door had been left slightly ajar, and his
ear caught the approaching sounds of a slight rustle along the passage,
and of a young, happy voice softly humming a tune. It came nearer and
nearer. A sudden impulse caused Gerald to step back behind the doorway;
the gas-light was low in the room: it was easy to remain in shadow.
She came in quickly, gave a slight exclamation of impatience at the
insufficient light, then came forward into the middle of the room and
stood on tiptoe, one arm stretched up as far it could reach to turn on
the gas. She succeeded rather beyond her intentions, the light blazed
out to the full, illuminating brilliantly her upraised face and whole
figure, as she remained for a few moments in the same attitude,
uncertain evidently if the flame was too high for safety. Was she
changed? No, not changed, improved only, developed, young as she
looked, from mere girlhood into early womanhood, of a loveliness
surpassing even his high expectations. She was dressed in white, with
no colour save somewhere a spot of bright rose; a knot of ribbon or a
flower, he did not notice which, on the front of her dress. That was
Eugenia all over; he remembered her love of brilliant contrast; however
neutral in tint and unobtrusive the rest of her dress, there was always
sure to be a dash of bright rich colour somewhere, in her hair, at her
collar, round her wrists. Outwardly she was the same Eugenia, grown
marvellously beautiful, but the same. And one look into her eyes would,
he fancied, tell him all he so longed to know--that in spirit and heart
she was still the same transparent, guileless, sensitive creature he had
left, innocent and unsuspicious as a child, yet brightly intelligent,
vividly imaginative. A rare creature, yet full of faults and
inconsistencies; whose nature, however, he had studied closely, and knew
well, and knowing it, asked no greater privilege than to take it into
his own keeping, through life to guard it from all rude contact that
might sully its purity or stunt its rich promise. He had left her, as
he told Roma, free as air, bound by no shadow of a tie; yet there were
times when he felt it almost impossible to believe that she had not
guessed his secret, guessed it and--hope whispered--not resented it, and
even, perhaps, in her vague girlish way looked forward to a day when it
should no longer be a secret, when this strong deep love of his should
receive its reward.
These were the dreams he had been living in, for three years; these were
the hopes that had kept up his courage through much hard and toilsome
work--dreams and hopes whose destruction would, indeed, be very hard to
bear. But he felt no misgivings now; the mere sight of Eugenia, the
delight of her near presence, seemed to have dispelled them like mists.
He felt reluctant to break the sort of spell that had come over him
since she entered the room; he stood in perfect silence, watching her,
as if bewitched. She moved away in a minute or two, satisfied seemingly
that the light might remain as it was, and crossed the room to a low
cupboard at the other side from where Gerald stood. She pulled out a
pile of loose music, and began searching among it for some missing
piece. Mr Thurston thought it time to let her know he was there: she
might be startled if she saw him suddenly when leaving the room. He
came forward into the full light, giving a chair an obtrusively noisy
push to attract her attention. She looked up, startled for an instant,
but before she had time to realise her fear, he spoke.
"Eugenia." That was all he said.
The colour came rushing over her face, for the momentary start had
turned it somewhat pale. Whether her first sensation was pleasure or
annoyance, it was impossible to say. That it was one or other Gerald
felt certain, for that this crisis, to which he had looked forward so
long and so anxiously, could appear to Eugenia an event of very trifling
importance, it would have been impossible for him to believe. It took
all his self-control to refrain from any expression of the strong
emotion with which his whole being was filled; and he not unnaturally,
therefore, attributed some degree of emotion, agreeable or the reverse,
to the other chief actor in the little drama whose scenes he had so
often rehearsed in imagination. He waited eagerly for her to speak.
"Gerald!" she exclaimed. "How you startled me! What in the world did
you come in; in this queer way, for? We quite gave you up when you were
not in time for dinner. Come into the drawing-room, or stay, I'll send
for Frank, if you would rather see him alone first. He will be so
delighted."
She was running away, but he called her back. Her last words were
cordial enough, though her first had been undoubtedly cross. Few people
like being startled; it sets them at a disadvantage, and in a more or
less ludicrous position. Eugenia had a peculiar dislike to it; she
could not bear to be thought nervous or wanting in self-control, and she
felt conscious that her cheeks had betrayed her momentary panic, and
this added to her annoyance. She had been very desirous of meeting
Gerald Thurston heartily when he came, she wanted to please Sydney and
Frank; she had felt so happy the last few days that she wanted to please
everybody. It was just a little awkward Gerald's arriving in this
unexpected way when she was preoccupied and perhaps a little excited
about other things, but after all it wouldn't matter. Sydney and Frank
would soon make him feel himself at home. So, her momentary annoyance
past, she turned back, and willingly enough, when he called to her to
stop.
"Won't you even shake hands with me, Eugenia?" he said.
There was a strange change in his voice from the bright, eager tone in
which he had first called her by her name, but she was too self-absorbed
to perceive it.
"Of course I will," she replied, heartily, holding out her hand. "I beg
your pardon for forgetting it. But you really did startle me a good
deal, Gerald," she added, looking up with a pretty little air of mingled
apology and reproach.
"Did I?" he said, gently. "I am very sorry."
He had taken her hand and held it, and, anxious now to welcome him
kindly, Eugenia did not at once withdraw it.
"Yes, indeed," she said. "How was I to know you were not a
housebreaker, standing there, you huge person. Fancy meeting you again
for the first time in such a queer way."
She was now fall of brightness and merriment. So like, so very like,
the Eugenia he had left, that he began to recover from the first thrill
of disappointment, to think that perhaps there had been no real cause
for it. This gay, laughing manner was not exactly what he had imagined
hers would be when they first met again; but still it was natural and
unaffected, and she had always had rather a horror of "scenes." And,
after all, if he found her as he had left her, should he not feel
satisfied? He had had no grounds for suspecting that she in the least
returned his feelings, or was even aware of their existence. He was
quite patient enough to begin at the beginning: to teach her by gentle
degrees to love him; to serve, if need be, the old world seven years',
service for her sake, content with slow progress and small signs of her
growing favour. There was but one dread which paralysed him altogether.
What if he were too late?
He let go her hand. He was anxious in no way to ruffle the extreme
sensitiveness he knew so well.
"You don't know how I have looked forward to coming home again all these
long years, Eugenia."
Her sympathy was touched. "Poor Gerald," she said, and for the first
time she looked straight into his face, and their eyes met. He had
thought he could read so much in those eyes; they were less easily
fathomed than he had imagined.
"Eugenia," he said, very gravely--she could not imagine what he was
going to say--"you have grown very beautiful."
To his surprise, she neither blushed nor looked down. She smiled up in
his face, a bright, happy smile that seemed to flood over as with
sunshine her lovely face, to add brilliance even to the rich wavy
chestnut hair. "I am so glad you think so," she said, softly. "It
makes it more possible to understand _his_ thinking so," was the
unuttered reflection that explained her curious speech.
Gerald had no key to her thoughts, therefore the strangeness of her
reply struck him sharply, for he knew her to be incapable of small
vanity or self-conceit. He looked at her again; she was still smiling;
long ago her smile had seemed to him one of her greatest charms; it was
so sweet and tender as well as bright, so wonderfully fresh and
youthful, and with a certain dauntlessness about it--a defiance of
failure and trouble, a fearless, childlike trustfulness. All this
Gerald used to fancy he could read in Eugenia's smile; could he do so
still? He could not tell, he turned away. He would not own to himself
that his instinct had discovered a change; a dreaminess, a strange
wistfulness had come over the dear face as it smiled up at him--a subtle
indescribable shadow of alteration.
"Perhaps it would be as well to tell Frank I am here," said Mr
Thurston, after a moment's silence. "I should just like to shake hands
with him in here, and then, if you will excuse my clothes," he glanced
down at his grey tweed travelling-suit rather doubtfully--the contrast
between it and Eugenia's delicate white evening dress striking him
disagreeably, "I might go into the drawing-room for a few minutes to see
your father and Sydney. You have some friends with you, though, have
you not?"
"Only two or three gentlemen; never mind your clothes," said Eugenia,
lightly; and then she went to send a message to Frank, still in the
dining-room, deep in a discussion with her father and Mr Foulkes. It
was rather unlucky, she said to herself again, as she walked slowly
along the passage, this unexpected appearance of Gerald's. Of course it
didn't really matter about his clothes, but he did look rather rough,
and papa would be sure to introduce him to Captain Chancellor as one of
their most intimate friends; indeed, any one might see he considered
himself such from his addressing her by her Christian name. Eugenia did
not feel quite sure that she liked it; three years made a difference in
that sort of thing; still, it might seem unkind, and might vex the
others, if she were to give him a hint by calling him "Mr Thurston."
With Sydney, of course, it was different--at this point in her
meditations she ran against Sydney, just coming to inquire what had
detained her so long; could she not find the song she wanted? Captain
Chancellor had come in and Mr Payne, and Sydney didn't like the task of
entertaining two gentlemen all alone. Eugenia's news threw her into a
state of great excitement; she readily undertook the pleasant task of
telling Frank, and Miss Laurence returned to the drawing-room.
Gerald was not left long alone. In two minutes he heard his brother's
voice, and felt Frank's hand shaking his with boyish vehemence. Sydney
was there too--Sydney, just what he had expected to find her, fair and
calm and sweet, the same as a woman that she had been as a girl.
"Frank _would_ make me come with him," she said apologetically, as she
shook hands; "dear Gerald, we are so pleased to have you back again."
Mr Thurston stooped and kissed her, and Sydney accepted it quite simply
as his brotherly right. There was no doubt about the cordiality of the
welcome of these two young people, nor of that of Mr Laurence, who soon
joined them, and Gerald's spirits began to rise.
"Had we not better go back to the drawing-room?" said Sydney, when some
minutes had been spent in the eager cross-questioning that always
succeeds a long-looked-for arrival. "Eugenia is alone there with those
three gentlemen, and she may not like it."
It hardly appeared on entering the drawing-room that their absence had
been regretted. Mr Foulkes and Mr Payne, two middle-aged men who rode
the same hobbies with agreeably adverse opinions as to the direction and
management thereof, were seated comfortably by the fire in animated
conversation, but it was not on them that Mr Thurston's eyes rested
when they took in the little scene before him. At the other end of the
room, before the piano, her fingers idly touching a note now and then,
sat Eugenia. Leaning over her with an air of the most complete
absorption, stood a gentleman whom Gerald had never seen before. Tall,
or appearing so from his somewhat slight build, with clear regular
features, fair hair and almond-shaped deep blue eyes, his possession of
unusual good looks was undeniable at even the first glance, though what
perhaps struck Mr Thurston more strongly, was the extreme, almost
exaggerated, refinement of his whole bearing and appearance.
Instinctively--so curiously even in moments of intense feeling do such
trifles force themselves upon our attention--Gerald glanced down at his
own somewhat travel-stained figure and rough attire. "Fop," was the
word that rose to his lips with a sudden boyish impulse of resentment,
but when he looked again he felt he could not apply it. The refinement
might be outward only, but it was genuine and unaffected. While he was
still silently observing them, it happened that Eugenia looked up for an
instant into her companion's face. It was only a moment's quick passing
glance, but it was enough: it told him all. Gerald felt faint and
giddy, strong man that he was, and instinctively seemed to clutch at
something to steady himself by. It had all passed so quickly, only one
person had had time to notice him. Mr Laurence had not entered the
room with the others, and Frank had joined the gentlemen by the fire.
But one pair of eyes had followed Gerald's with anxious sympathy. Some
one pulled his sleeve gently. It was Sydney.
"Will you come and sit down by me for a few minutes, Gerald," she said.
"I have such a lot of things to say to you."
He followed her mechanically to the sofa she pointed out, but did not
speak. When they were seated, she chattered away for a few minutes
about various trifles, that did not call for a reply, till she thought
he had recovered the first physical effects of the shock. Then she
remained silent for a minute or two. Suddenly Gerald spoke. "Who is
he, Sydney?" he asked, not seeming to care what Sydney might think.
She did not affect to misunderstand him.
"His name is Chancellor--Captain Chancellor. I think he is in the
203rd. He is stationed here just now. You know there is generally a
company--isn't it called so? I think he spoke of his company at
dinner--a small detachment, any way, at Wareborough, belonging to the
regiment at Bridgenorth," she replied.
"I know," said Gerald, and relapsed into silence. But he quickly roused
up again.
"Chancellor," he repeated--"Captain Chancellor. I have heard that name
lately. I know something of him, Sydney, I am certain I do." Sydney
looked eager to hear. "What can it be? No, it is no use, I cannot
remember. It may come into my head afterwards. Have you--has--has your
sister seen much of him?"
"No, oh no. I never saw him till to-night, and Eugenia has only seen
him once before; but--" Sydney stopped.
"But that sort of thing isn't always reckoned by many or few times, eh,
Sydney?
"Whoever loved, that loved not at first sight?
"You think there's something in that old saying, do you? I can't say,
I'm sure. My experience is limited in these matters," said Gerald.
His tone was bitterly sarcastic, almost jeeringly so. It was so
thoroughly unlike him that Sydney looked up in surprise and alarm. "Was
this the Gerald she remembered so gentle, so delicate, so chivalrous?
Ah, no. It must be as she feared. Poor Gerald!"
The distress in her face softened him--still more her words when she
spoke again.
"I don't know, Gerald. I can't answer you. I only know that I am
_very_ anxious about her."
"Don't you like him, then? Do you know any ill of him?" inquired Mr
Thurston, with a sort of fierce eagerness.
"Oh, no," said Sydney, quickly. "Not that at all. I like him very
well. Of course any one can see he is a gentleman and all that. And
papa likes him. He has set himself to please papa, I can see already.
It is just that we know so little of him, and Eugenia is _so_ pretty,
and so--I don't know what to call it. You know how clever she is,
Gerald, but even that makes me more anxious about her. She sees
everything by her own ideas, as it were. And some day I feel as if she
might be terribly, dreadfully disappointed. I believe it would kill
her, Gerald," in a lower voice.
"Ah," he said, "I see. She would venture all." His tone was perfectly
gentle now. A great throb of manly pity seemed to drown for the moment
his bitter, bitter disappointment. Only for the time, there was many a
hard struggle before him yet, for this love of his had entwined itself
round every fibre of his being, and now--sometimes it seemed to him that
the beautiful thing he had so nursed and cherished had turned to a viper
in his bosom; that its insidious breath would change to poison every
spring of love, and trust, and hope in his whole nature.
No more was said for a few minutes. Then Sydney spoke--she had to call
him twice by name before she caught his attention.
"Gerald," she said, "I see papa speaking to Captain Chancellor. Now he
is coming this way. I am sure he is going to introduce you and him to
each other."
"Very well," replied Mr Thurston. "I have no objection."
He rose as he spoke, and went forward a few steps to meet Mr Laurence,
whose intention Sydney had guessed correctly. The two young men bowed
and shook hands civilly enough. Then Captain Chancellor, who was always
thoroughly equal to these little social occasions, said something
pleasant in his soft, low voice, about the new arrival's return home, as
if he had known all about it, and had been anticipating Mr Thurston's
return with nearly as much eagerness as Frank himself. There was no
denying it--there was a great charm about this man; even Gerald felt it
as he replied to Beauchamp's well-chosen words. And his face was far
from a bad face, Mr Thurston was forced to admit, when he saw it more
closely; the want in it he could not readily define.
Beauchamp, too, was making up his mind about this new-comer, and taking
his measure in his own way, though from his manner no one would have
suspected it. He hadn't felt altogether easy about the absence of male
cousin or old friend, in Miss Laurence's case. Hitherto the only thing
in the shape of a tame cat he had discovered about the establishment was
most charmingly and felicitously engaged to the little sister. So far
nothing could be better. But there might be other discoveries to make,
and he didn't want to get into anybody's way, or cause any
unpleasantness--he hated unpleasantnesses, and the only way out of
unpleasantnesses of _this_ kind, rivals, and all that, was sometimes a
way in which Beauchamp's training had by no means prepared him to go in
a hurry--and he quite meant to be very careful, for Roma's warning had
impressed him a little after all. He only wanted to get over the next
few weeks comfortably in this dreadful place, and had no objection to
Roma's hearing indirectly of the manner in which he was doing so. It
would be too bad if this great hulking "cousin from India," was going to
come in the way of his harmless little amusement. And whether or not
there was any fear of this, Captain Chancellor could not all at once
make up his mind, though from Miss Laurence's side, so far, it hardly
looked like it.
When Gerald Thurston came to say good-night to Eugenia, she noticed that
he called her "Miss Laurence." Captain Chancellor was within hearing,
and Eugenia felt pleased by Gerald's tact and good taste, and her own
good-night was on this account all the more cordial.
Beauchamp observed it all too, and drew his own conclusions.