They were in Paris. It was oppressively hot, glaringly sunny. Under
any other circumstances Captain Chancellor would have grumbled
outrageously at the heat and the dust and the glare, but in a bridegroom
of barely a fortnight, greater philosophy and good temper were to be
expected. So he contented himself with groaning within reasonable
bounds, and laughing a little at Eugenia's extraordinary energy and
powers of enjoyment, for to her, the untravelled, impressionable English
girl, it was all beyond expression charming and intensely interesting.
She felt herself in veritable fairyland, she had never before imagined
that life could be so enchanting. There was novelty and fascination for
her at every step, even the sound of a foreign tongue heard for the
first time with the dainty crispness of Parisian accent was delightful
to her ears; the shops were not shops, but bewildering masses of lovely
things arranged to perfection; the churches, above all, were so
beautiful, the music so sublime, that Eugenia wondered how any one
living within their reach could ever feel anything but "good."
That her husband thoroughly sympathised in her enjoyment she of course
took for granted, and for some time nothing occurred to shake her in
this happy belief. It was true to a great extent that he did so, though
true in a sense that would have been perfectly incomprehensible to her
had any one attempted to explain it. But after a little time Beauchamp
began to get rather tired of Eugenia's untireableness. It is
entertaining enough to act spectator to a country cousin's ecstasies,
especially if the country cousin in question be a refined, intelligent,
and very beautiful girl; but of this amusement, as of most others,
Captain Chancellor began to find it was possible to have enough. Then
he had a morbid horror of any approach to "gushingness," and there were
times at which it appeared to him that, but for her grace and beauty,
Eugenia might have fallen under the ban of this terrible charge. And
most of all, perhaps, his young wife annoyed him more than once by
asking him questions he was obliged to confess he could not answer--
questions about some "stupid old picture or other," which in reality his
taste was far too uncultivated to admire, though he would, have shrunk
from confessing to such a barbarism; or she would let her thoughts
drift, back to the old days--days about which, English girl though she
was, she had read, much and imagined more--and her eyes would sparkle
and colour glow, and sometimes even a tear or two would make its
unbidden appearance as she recalled in fancy the glittering old-world
pageants, the tremendous tragedies, the extraordinary fluctuations of
national weal and woe of which this Paris--wonderful, beautiful Paris--
had been the scene. And at such moments she would look to her companion
for sympathy in her enthusiasm, would refer to him, perhaps, for more
accurate information about the subject or event momentarily uppermost in
her mind; and once, when with a little disappointment--arising not from
the failure of the information, but from the evident want of sympathy,
she turned away somewhat sadly, the few words, which escaped her, "I
wish papa were here!" irritated Beauchamp more than he afterwards liked
to remember, for his answer had been chilling in the extreme.
"I am really not a walking biography or history, Eugenia," he had said.
"And, besides, I think it is pedantic and affected of you to chatter so
about such things. It's not at all in your line, I assure you."
Afterwards he tried to soften what he had said.
"I did not mean to speak unkindly to-day when we were at the
Luxembourg," he began. "You know that I should never wish to do so,
don't you, dearest? I must confess I have two especial _betes noires_,
and I could not endure to see the least taint of either in my wife."
"What are they?" asked Eugenia, quietly.
"Learned women and gushing young ladies," he answered. "Now don't be
hurt, dear. There is nothing of the kind about you really, only you see
I want you to be _quite_ perfect."
Eugenia did not answer at once. When she spoke her voice did not sound
quite like itself.
"I knew you had sometimes thought me too demonstrative," she said;
"`gushing' I suppose is the only word for it, but I do _so_ dislike it!
But as for thinking myself `learned'--oh, Beauchamp, you cannot mean
that! I, that every day of my life am more and more deploring my
ignorance! How could you think me capable of such folly?"
"I did not think you capable of it," answered Beauchamp, slightly
nettled. "I only said your manner might make other people think so if
you did not take care. And there is another thing I want to say to you,
Eugenia. It is really not absolutely necessary for you to tell
everybody we meet that you have never been in Paris before. Those
people I introduced to you to-day, for instance--Miss Fretville and her
brother--I heard you telling them you had not only never been here
before, but that you had never been out of England. What business is it
of theirs? Why in the world should you expose our private affairs to
every casual acquaintance?"
"I had no idea what I said could vex you," said Eugenia, humbly, but
with considerable astonishment. "Indeed, I could hardly have avoided
it. Miss Fretville asked me if I did not think some street or other
wonderfully improved by some new buildings--I forget what--and if I did
not think the Empress had grown much stouter, and ever so many little
things like that--you know the sort of things people make talk about at
first--and I was obliged to say I had not been here before. Surely it
would have been worse to have pretended I knew about things I had never
seen? It is no crime never to have been out of England."
There was a little spice of self-assertion in the last sentences which
hardly accorded with Captain Chancellor's notion of wifely submission.
"Crime!" he repeated. "Nonsense! You know quite well what I mean, only
you are so exaggerated. Of course any one that knows you and the quiet
way you have been brought up and all that, would not be surprised at
your having seen so little; but there is a sort of bravado in decrying
one's antecedents unnecessarily, which appears to me the extreme of bad
taste."
"_Truly_, Beauchamp, I don't understand you," said Eugenia earnestly.
"I am very sorry for having annoyed you,"--here her voice for the first
time faltered a little--"I will try never to do so again in the same
way, but--but I do think you fancy things a little. I was not thinking
of my `antecedents' in any way. I simply answered what I was asked.
But I am very sorry--very, very sorry I vexed you." The words came very
brokenly now and the brown eyes grew suspiciously dewy.
"Never mind about it any more, then. There is nothing to look miserable
about, you silly child," said Beauchamp, beginning to think he had,
perhaps, spoken too strongly. "Tears in your eyes! Oh, Eugenia, I
believe you know you are irresistible when you cry! But don't, dear,
you really mustn't. You would not wish me to be afraid of telling you
any little thing that I should like you to alter?"
"No, of course not," answered Eugenia, stifling her wounded feeling and
endeavouring to smile in return for his caresses. "Of course not, but
only--"
"But only you are a silly child," said her husband, interrupting her.
"By-the-bye, Eugenia, I have been quite surprised to hear how well you
speak French; your accent is excellent. No one would suppose you had
never been out of England unless you told it."
"We had a French governess," said Eugenia, "and it is very easy to learn
to speak French fairly. Papa cared more about German. Of course German
is more of a study than French; it opens the door to so much; so many
books suffer in the translation."
"Quite a mistake to put German before French," said Captain Chancellor,
decidedly. "French will carry you all over the Continent, and any girl
who speaks it easily will do very well. There are plenty of English
books to read on any subject that comes within a woman's sphere."
Eugenia had it on her lips to give her husband some of her father's
opinions on the vexed question he had referred to, but on second
thoughts refrained. Beauchamp would be certain to disagree with her,
might, not improbably, ridicule her notions as high-flown and
exaggerated, would-be "strong-minded" and altogether absurd, and such
ridicule she had not yet learnt to bear with equanimity. So she said no
more, and during the remainder of their stay in Paris she conducted
herself on all occasions of sightseeing with the nearest approach to
amiable impassiveness to which she could attain.
A sudden end came to the honeymoon. One morning there came to Beauchamp
a letter in his sister's handwriting. He opened it, glanced at its
contents, then, happening to look up and seeing that Eugenia was looking
at him with some anxiety--for a certain eagerness in his manner had
roused in her a suspicion that the letter was of unusual interest--he
said something indistinct about returning immediately and hurriedly left
the room. Eugenia felt a little startled, a little curious, and a very
little hurt that her husband's first impulse when anything of more than
ordinary interest occurred to him should be to shun rather than seek her
sympathy. It never entered her mind to guess the nature of the news
contained in Mrs Eyrecourt's letter. Once or twice when they first
left home she had asked Beauchamp if he had heard how "that poor boy his
cousin" was, but Captain Chancellor had seemed to shrink from the
subject; and out of regard to this feeling of his, she, influenced also
by a suspicion that but for her he would have been beside the invalid,
had refrained from further allusion to it, and in the excitement of the
last few weeks she had almost forgotten ever having heard of Roger at
all. So she finished her breakfast without any serious misgiving,
enjoying, with a zest so keen as to be a little surprising to herself, a
letter from Sydney full of home news, news of their daily doings and
commonplace life, the life which but a few months before, Eugenia
Laurence had despised as dull and dreary beyond endurance!
Then she sat down to answer Sydney's letter at once, feeling as if she
could do so more cheerfully and satisfactorily while the home feeling
was fresh upon her. For sometimes lately--quite lately--it had cost her
a little effort to write to Sydney; why, she had never tried to define.
She had only written half a page when Beauchamp rejoined her. She
looked up quickly, then went on with her letter, afraid of appearing to
force his confidence. But even the glance, momentary as it had been,
had shown her a new expression in her husband's face, a look of
repressed excitement such as she had never seen there before. Her
instinct had been right; something had happened. At all times acutely
sensitive to any fluctuation in the human atmosphere surrounding her, a
sort of thrill now seemed to vibrate through every nerve. Spite of
herself the hand shook that held the pen, and a large blot fell on the
paper before her. A little exclamation escaped her; she glanced up
quickly and found that Captain Chancellor was looking at her fixedly;
looking at her, but with an absent, preoccupied expression, as if hardly
seeing what was before him. A feeling of increased apprehension came
over her; it was a relief when at last he spoke.
"Eugenia," he said, solemnly, all unconscious of her state of nervous
expectancy, and with something in his tone as if he were preparing to
suit himself to the comprehension of a child--an almost imperceptible
increase of importance and condescension which puzzled and slightly
jarred her--"Eugenia, I want to speak to you, and I must have your full
attention. Oblige me by putting away your writing."
She obeyed him silently. Then, with her beautiful eyes looking up in
his face half-timidly--for her expectation was mingled with vague
apprehension that in some way or other she might again have unknowingly
vexed him--she waited to hear what he had to say.
There was a good deal to explain. She knew so little of his family
affairs, was so utterly unprepared for what she had to hear, that once
or twice when he first began to speak she interrupted him with some
necessary question, obliging him to go over the ground again more
intelligibly. He chafed a little at this, though doing his best to
restrain his impatience; so Eugenia, after a minute or two, listened in
silence, listened without a movement or an exclamation, or even a glance
of surprise or interest, to all he told her of his family's position and
possessions, of the former remoteness of his own chance of succession,
of the premature death of Herbert Chancellor and now of that of his
sickly son, of the consequent complete change in his own circumstances
and the different life that now lay before them both. There was a
mixture of feelings in Beauchamp as he spoke. He in a sense enjoyed the
telling it. He dwelt with a certain gusto upon some of the details, he
was conscious of a pleasure, a sort of lordly gratification, in
spreading out before the dazzled vision of this innocent little wife of
his, the wealth, the position, the many "good things" which were now to
be his, and through him hers. He really loved her; he was glad to have
so much to bestow, and the thought of her gratitude for his future
indulgence, her appreciation of his past disinterestedness (for "I knew
how it would all be some little time ago," he said, "but I judged it
better to keep silence for the time") was very sweet to him. But with
these not unamiable, if not very lofty, feelings, there mingled others
less harmless. Mrs Eyrecourt's letter had not been without some covert
stings, some half-expressed allusions to "what might have been" and what
was, and these, though Beauchamp would have repelled them with
indignation to her face, were, as usual, not without their uncomfortable
effect upon him. And he, to do him justice, was conscious of the
unworthiness of harbouring even the shadow of regret for what he had
done. He wanted to get rid of it; he had come to Eugenia eager to sun
himself in her innocent delight; to realise that, look where he would,
he could not have found a sweeter wife, or one so certain to appreciate
himself and all he had done and meant to do.
"Only," he had said to himself, "I must make her understand that it
would be frightfully bad taste to seem elated. She herself is so
refined I can make her feel this with the merest hint, but those people
of hers! There must be no writing off to them about it--I must have no
drawing any closer these objectionable Wareborough ties."
When he had finished all he had to say he waited for a minute, expecting
Eugenia to speak. To his surprise she remained perfectly silent. He
could not see her face; she had turned it away from him as he was
speaking.
"Eugenia," he said, with some impatience, "what is the matter with you?
Have you not understood what I have been telling you?" and as he spoke
he laid his hand on her shoulder and made her turn so as to face him.
The mystery was explained--Eugenia was in tears.
"Crying!" exclaimed her husband. "What extraordinary creatures women
are! Now what in the world can you be crying about." This unexpected
reception of his news was really infinitely more irritating to him than
the "elation" he had in imagination deprecated. "Surely," he went on,
as a thought occurred to him, "surely you are not crying about Roger?
You never saw him, you know, and for that matter--" for Beauchamp by no
means desired to appear deficient in decorum and good feeling
himself--"for that matter I scarcely knew him either. Of course it is
very sad; but, after all, sad things are always happening--it's the way
of the world. But you must not take other people's troubles to heart
so, Eugenia."
"But I am not crying about Roger," said Eugenia, forcing back her tears
and wishing she could honestly attribute them to sorrow for the poor
boy's death. "Of course I am very sorry for him, at least for his
people, but it wasn't that that made me cry."
"Then what was it?" said Beauchamp, coldly.
"It was--I can't exactly explain--" she began, looking as if she was
ready to cry again. "I think it was a sort of feeling of disappointment
that our life is going to be so different from what I thought it would
be. I had planned it all," her voice faltered; "I thought I would show
you how well I could manage, and that we should be so happy without
being rich."
Captain Chancellor got up from his chair and walked impatiently to the
window.
"Really, Eugenia," he said, contemptuously, "I had no idea you were so
utterly childish. I had no idea any woman _could_ be so silly."
His tone roused her a little.
"Wiser people than I have thought the same," she answered. "When people
really care for each other it draws and keeps them closer together to
have to consult each other about everything, always to act together,
even perhaps to suffer together. It is in prosperity that they drift
apart--when there is no need for either to deny himself or herself for
the other."
Captain Chancellor gave a little laugh; he was recovering his good
humour, however.
"All very well in theory; all very pretty and romantic," he said; "but I
can assure you, my dear child, it is _very_ seldom the case in practice.
Why, don't you remember the old proverb about what happens `when
poverty comes in at the door.' There are few truer sayings."
Eugenia did not answer, but her tears were at an end. Beauchamp,
satisfied evidently that his superior wisdom had checked her folly, went
on to talk of his plans. They must leave Paris at once, to allow him to
be in time for poor Roger's funeral, which was to be at Halswood; and,
after advising his wife to hasten her packing, he went out to make some
inquiries about their journey.
When she was alone again Eugenia returned to her unfinished letter. She
read over the last sentence she had written; it was in allusion to
something Sydney had mentioned: "I am so pleased to hear that Frank gave
you that little table on your birthday. You will think more of it even
than if you had got it at first. How pretty your drawing-room must look
now the curtains are up!"
The wife of the rich owner of Halswood sighed as she read over the
simple words. Then she hastily added two or three lines to the letter,
folded and addressed it, and ringing for the waiter gave it to him to
post, as if eager to get it out of her sight. This was what she added
to her letter:
"Beauchamp has just told me of a complete change in our plans. Another
death has taken place in his family, that of the young cousin who was so
ill, and we must return"--"home" she had written, then had changed it to
"to England"--"at once. Our whole future will be altered by this poor
boy's death. Beauchamp says he must sell out and live at Halswood. I
forgot to ask him where Halswood is exactly, but I hope it will be easy
of access from Wareborough. I had looked forward so to being at
Bridgenorth for the next few months and seeing you and papa constantly!
Perhaps you had better say nothing about this change except to papa and
Frank, as people talk so about anything of the kind. I will write again
as soon as I can."
Captain Chancellor had forgotten his intended caution against unseemly
or vulgar "elation," but it had not been required.
Two days later Mrs Eyrecourt was awaiting the arrival of her brother
and his wife at Winsley. She had returned there herself the previous
day, for as soon as "all was over" as regarded the invalid boy's earthly
career, his mother and sisters had left Torquay for the house of some of
Mrs Chancellor's own relations, and Gertrude's presence was no longer
required. There was barely time for Beauchamp, as chief mourner, to
reach Halswood, but he had managed to arrange to spend one night at
Winsley, leaving his wife there till he could rejoin her. She had
pleaded for "home" for the week or two of his enforced absence, having
discovered, to her delight, that Halswood was but a few hours' journey
from Wareborough, but this proposal had not found favour with her lord
and master.
"You have never seen my sister yet," he said. "It is quite time you
met. I am very anxious for you to make her acquaintance, for you could
not possibly have a better or more judicious friend. Time enough for
seeing Sydney again. You have not been away from each other a month
yet."
He did not speak unkindly, but something in his tone warned Eugenia to
say no more, and to keep to herself her alarm at the thought of a
fortnight's tete-a-tete with her pattern sister-in-law, for Roma she
found, to her disappointment, had not yet returned from her visit to the
northern godmother.
"She is very pretty, extremely pretty, Beauchamp," said Mrs Eyrecourt,
cordially, when alone with her brother for a few minutes the evening of
their arrival.
Captain Chancellor smiled and looked pleased.
"And of course," pursued Gertrude, "she has everything at present in her
favour. No one will be inclined to be hypercritical on so young a
creature. But that sort of thing only lasts its time. _Your_ wife,
Mrs Chancellor of Halswood, should show she has something more in her
than youth and beauty, if she is to assist you to take the position you
should. Tact will do a great deal in these cases; it is wonderful how
much. I wonder if Eugenia has much tact. Is she quick at taking up
things? You know how I mean."
Beauchamp's brow slightly clouded over--a remembrance of his little
lectures in Paris crossed his mind uncomfortably. He had never been
able to persuade himself that Eugenia _had_ thoroughly entered into the
spirit of his advice.
"She is certainly clever naturally," he replied, evasively, "and I
suppose she is what is called well-educated. Her father is a very
talented man, in an odd, eccentric way, and education is his hobby. He
has taught his daughters all sorts of things--almost as if they were
boys."
"Ah, indeed," said Mrs Eyrecourt, regretfully. "I am sorry to hear
that. One must certainly be _somebody_ for oddity to pass muster.
However, at your wife's age present influence is everything. I remember
you said she had very few relations, and those she has she need not see
much of. On the whole I confess, Beauchamp, you might have done worse
if you _were_ determined to do a thing of the kind."
She smiled as she spoke, and though for a minute Captain Chancellor was
half-inclined to tell her that her criticism of his wife was impertinent
and uncalled for, he thought better of it, partly moved thereto by
hearing the rustle of Eugenia's approaching dress; so he too smiled, and
murmured some words expressive of gratification at his sister's
favourable opinion.
Just then Eugenia entered the room. She had taken off her travelling
dress, and looked fair and sweet and graceful in the white muslin that
had replaced it; and the half shy, half deprecating air which hung about
her on this her first introduction to her husband's relations seemed to
add to her great beauty. Both brother and sister turned towards her as
she came in.
"Gertrude must see how lovely she is," thought Beauchamp. "I wish she
could see Eugenia and Addie Chancellor side by side."
And "What a pity she has not a little more presence and `style!'"
thought Mrs Eyrecourt, who could think vulgar words though incapable of
uttering them.
But as neither expressed their thoughts aloud, unbroken peace and
harmony were the order of the evening.