REACTION.

... The sorrows of all humanity

Through my heart make a thoroughfare.

G. Macdonald.

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?"