Eins ist was besanftigt; die Liebe.--Borne.
Yes, things certainly looked brighter next morning, but the brightness
was somewhat fitful and tremulous. Encouraged by it, nevertheless,
Eugenia made many new resolutions--too many perhaps--and cherished again
new hopes. She set herself with palpitating earnestness to please her
husband, and repeated to herself, whenever she had reason to think she
had done so, that her former failures had been entirely attributable to
her own bad management, want of tact, or exaggerated sensitiveness. Her
desire to bring herself, and not Captain Chancellor, in guilty; her
determination to see him, and everything about him, by the light of her
former hopes and beliefs would have been piteous to any one well
acquainted with both characters. She was fighting, not merely for
happiness, but for faith--her terror, fast maturing, though as yet
resolutely ignored, was not so much that her married life should prove a
disappointment as that she should be forced into acknowledging the
unworthiness of her idol--that the day should come when, in unutterable
bitterness of spirit, she should be driven to confess, "behold it was a
dream;" when, the glamour gone for ever, the prize she had won should be
seen by her for but "a poor thing" after all. For should that day ever
come, Eugenia, little as she knew herself, yet felt instinctively it
would go sorely with her--ever prone to extremes, her judgment would
then be warped by disappointment, as formerly by unreasonable
expectation.
"If I ever come to believe Beauchamp selfish, small-minded, or in any
sense less noble than my ideal husband," she had once said to herself,
"I cannot imagine that I could endure to remain with him--I cannot
imagine that I could live. Only," she added, and this reflection many a
time stood her in good stead, giving her a sense of security--of firm
ground in one direction, "there is one thing I can _never_ be
disappointed in--the certainty of his love. Even should it die out
altogether--should he live to regret his marriage, and think it a
mistake, I shall know that it _was_ mine--that to win me he threw every
other consideration aside."
But just at this time--their first coming to Halswood--Mrs Chancellor
instinctively shunned meditation, and for a while the plan seemed to
answer. There was a good deal to do--a good many arrangements to make
as to which it was almost a matter of necessity that her husband should
consult her. There was all the new furniture to select, the choice of
rooms to make, and into these interests Eugenia threw herself with a
good deal of her old energy, tempered however by her determination in
all things great and small to submit to Beauchamp's wishes--to accept
his opinion as incontestably best. And up to a certain point this plan
succeeded, and, difficult as it was for Eugenia to live in a state of
semi-suppression, of incessant watchfulness over each word, and tone,
and even look for fear that in any way she should offend, yet she
fancied she believed she was doing no more than her wifely duty--that
she was happy in acting thus, and that by-and-by, "when we get to
understand each other," life would be all she had dreamed of.
But to an essentially honest nature this self-delusion could not be kept
up for ever. Nor, notwithstanding all the goodwill in the world, was it
possible for Eugenia--impulsive, vehement, yearning for sympathy, and
eager to confide to the friend nearest to her every thought, doubt, hope
which sprang to life in her busy brain--for long to adhere to the rule
of conduct she had laid down for herself. Her very conscientiousness,
her very humility ranged themselves against her; how could she judge or
interpret the conduct or opinions of the man she would have gladly died
rather than lose her lofty faith in, by a standard lower than that by
which she tested herself? She never yet had allowed to herself the
existence of the creeping, encroaching, serpent-like fear she dared not
face; but, nevertheless, it was making its way to the very centre of her
fortress. Day by day she propped up its tottering foundations with some
feeble, inefficient attempt at a bulwark--some plausible excuse or
suggestion of misapprehension or undeserved self-blame--refusing to see
how the whole once beautiful fabric was doomed, how the best remaining
chance for her was bravely to make an end of it, to set to work again
with the materials yet left to her to uprear a less imposing but more
firmly-built tower of defence, better fitted than her fairy palace to
stand, not only the great storms, but the smaller trials--the daily
damps, and mists, and chills of life.
But this, Eugenia would not do. She clung with desperate infatuation to
her dream, and in her heart of hearts she said--
"If it is to end in ruin, let it be so, and great will be the fall
thereof. But I will not hasten my own misery by thinking about it
beforehand."
They had been now between two and three months at Halswood; the weeks
had at the very first passed quickly enough, for Eugenia had succeeded
in filling them with a succession of petty interests. Captain
Chancellor was very well pleased with her, on the whole. She had proved
more submissive than he had anticipated, though a great part of the
credit of this satisfactory state of things was doubtless due to his own
judicious management. He had always had his own theories as to the
proper way of controlling and training the opposite sex, and had often
been contemptuous on the subject of unhappy marriages.
"Unhappy fiddlesticks," he would declare, "it's all his own fault. He
should have given her to understand once for all at the start who was to
be master, and he would have had no more trouble."
The trouble that had fallen to his own share he owned to himself had
certainly not been great, and the proof of the pudding being generally
allowed to be in the eating, he felt pleasantly conscious of his own
success. There was only one thing about his wife that ever seriously
annoyed him--her spirits were not of late what they had been; certainly,
some amount of repose and reserve of manner had been wanting in her at
first, and he was pleased to see how quickly she had, at a hint or two
from him, set herself to acquire it; but then, again, there had been a
great charm in her girlish gaiety and graceful merriment.
"I never heard any woman laugh better than Eugenia," he thought. "Most
women laugh so atrociously, that I wish it was made penal, but she
laughs charmingly."
Then he wondered why of late he had so seldom heard that sweet, soft,
bright sound. "She can't be dull," he said to himself, "we have had a
fair amount of variety since we came here. Besides, catch a woman being
dull and not complaining of it! And if there is anything she wants, she
would have been sure to ask for it."
He firmly believed himself the most indulgent of husbands, and so, in a
certain practical sense, perhaps he was. He "grudged her nothing,"
though, indeed, her tastes continued so simple, that her own allowance
from her father promised more than to cover her whole personal expenses;
he never went away from home without bringing her some costly present
when he came back--the first time, it had been a bracelet of great
value. Eugenia had thanked him for it warmly, but then, eyeing it with
some misgiving, had said something about its being too good for her.
"I don't feel as if I liked wearing such splendid things, Beauchamp,"
had been her words. "It hardly seems consistent with--"
"With what?" he had asked, irritated already.
"With my former quiet life, with present things, even, my sister being
the wife of a poor curate, for one thing. But oh, don't be vexed,
Beauchamp, I am very silly, I know. Forgive me. For the _thought_ of
me, the wish to please me, I cannot thank you enough. That would have
delighted me had the bracelet been the plainest in the world."
Upon which, Beauchamp had turned from her angrily, with some muttered
words about "sentimental nonsense and affectation," and Eugenia had had
a sore fit of penitence for the inexcusable ingratitude which had thus
wounded his sensitive spirit. And, after all, she did deserve some
blame for unnecessarily irritating him in this instance.
And thus, whether really the case or not, it always seemed to him in any
of the discussions or disagreements which still, notwithstanding
Eugenia's scrupulous care, occasionally arose between them. And no
wonder that he thought so. It was always the same story. Eugenia
annoyed him, probably in some very trivial matter, as to which,
nevertheless, he felt bound to act up to his principle of "keeping a
tight hand on her, letting her feel the reins."
And invariably it ended in her taking all the blame on herself, exerting
all her powers of logic (or sophistry) to convince herself that the
fault lay with her alone. It was but rarely, very, very rarely, that
she allowed her strong true sense of justice, of self-respect and
womanly right, to break out from the restraint in which she had
condemned it to dwell. And on such occasions, according to the
invariable law of reaction, the unnatural repression avenged itself, and
as had been the case in the carriage the night they came to Halswood,
Eugenia's bitterness of indignation and fiery temper horrified herself,
and did her infinite injustice with her husband. It was a bad state of
things altogether--bad for Eugenia, worse, perhaps, for her husband,
fostering his selfishness, increasing his narrow-minded
self-opinionativeness.
The day after the one on which it had occurred to Beauchamp that
Eugenia's spirits were not what they had been, it happened that she got
a letter from Sydney. It came in the morning, and as Captain Chancellor
handed it to her, a joyful exclamation escaped her.
"From Sydney! Oh, I am so glad! I have not heard from her for such a
time."
"What do you call `such a time,' I wonder?" said Captain Chancellor,
good-humouredly. "A week, I suppose?"
"No, longer than that," replied Eugenia. And then, encouraged by his
tone, she added, "You know Sydney and I had hardly ever been separated
before, and lately I have been particularly anxious to hear from home--
from Wareborough--on account of my father not having been well."
"Your father ill! I never heard of it. I wonder you did not tell me,"
said her husband.
"It was when you were away--the week before last--I heard it. I think I
mentioned it when I wrote," said Eugenia, timidly, reluctant to own to
herself that Beauchamp could so soon have forgotten a matter of such
interest to her.
"Ah, well, perhaps you did. It is nothing serious, I suppose?" And
without waiting for an answer, Captain Chancellor proceeded to read his
own letters.
One among them was from an old brother officer, a friend of several
years' standing, recently returned from abroad, whom he had invited to
come down for a few days' shooting, intending to arrange a suitable
party to meet him.
"Eugenia," he said, looking up quickly, after reading this letter,
"Colonel Masterton cannot come till the 29th. That leaves us all the
week after next free. Of course I shall not ask the others till he
comes. How would you like to have your people for a few days then--the
Thurstons and your father. The change might do him good, and you seem
dying to see your sister."
Eugenia's face glowed all over with delight. The old bright look came
into her eyes, the old eager ring thrilled again through her voice.
"Oh, Beauchamp, thank you, thank you so much for thinking of it. It
would be delightful. I cannot tell you how I should enjoy it."
"Why have you never spoken of it before if you wish it so much?" asked
Beauchamp, not unkindly, but with the slight irritation of incipient
self-reproach. "I can't _guess_ your wishes always, you know."
"I did mention it once," she said, timidly again. "Don't you remember,
the first time you had to go away I asked if Sydney might come to me."
"But that was an absurd proposal. It would have looked so ridiculous to
bring Mrs Thurston all the way here because I was to be away, and
naturally when your friends do come I should wish to be at home to
receive them; so you had better write about their coming, to-day."
He rose as he spoke, and gathering his letters and newspapers together,
left the room, feeling very well pleased with himself, and not sorry to
see the bright flush of happiness his proposal had brought to his wife's
pale cheeks.
She was indeed feeling very happy. Never since her marriage, since at
least the first few days of unalloyed enjoyment in Paris--had she felt
so eagerly delighted about anything. And the bright gleam had not come
before it was wanted. Notwithstanding Beauchamp's comfortable belief
that they had had a fair amount of variety since coming to Halswood,
Eugenia's life had latterly been very dull. The most pleasurable part
of the variety had fallen to his own share--two or three "runs up to
town" to see about the new furniture, or new carriages, or something of
the kind; one or two short visits to bachelor shooting-boxes, to which
ladies were not invited; plenty of the exhilarating out-door life, which
he thoroughly enjoyed, to which as yet Eugenia, not over strong, and
completely unaccustomed to horses, was not sufficiently acclimatised to
find it enjoyable. No wonder Captain Chancellor considered that the
last three months had been far from dull. They would not have seemed so
to Eugenia, had her inner life been a more natural and healthy one; but
as it was, the outside distractions that had come in her way had been
few and by no means powerful.
Most of the "families of position" in the neighbourhood had called on
them, but the very biggest people of all--a family residing at a
considerable distance from Halswood--had not yet done so; and
Beauchamp's evident anxiety on this point had not been unobserved by
Eugenia, though resolutely put aside by her as one of the things into
which she would not look. Some of their neighbours had already invited
them to dinner, and they had gone; but Eugenia had not enjoyed the
experience, and felt little wish to renew it. "Long ago," as now in her
own mind she had learnt to call her girlhood, even the dullest of
dinner-parties would have furnished her quick observation, her lively
imagination, her fresh, eager nature with material for interest and
entertainment. But now-a-days it was different. She was self-conscious
and self-absorbed, and, as a matter of course, less attractive in
herself, less ready to find others so. Her one engrossing sensation in
company was anxiety to please, or at least to avoid displeasing
her husband, which left her none of the leisure of mind or
self-forgetfulness essential to her enjoyment of the people or scenes
about her. And these had not been sufficiently striking or interesting
to force her out of herself. There were not many young people in the
neighbourhood; those of her own sex nearest in age to Eugenia happening
at this time to be either young girls not yet out of the schoolroom, or
youthful matrons, with whom Mrs Chancellor could not feel that she had
much in common. They all seemed happy and busy, perfectly at ease,
satisfied with their lives and themselves. "Or else," thought Eugenia,
"they are more clever at hiding their anxieties and disappointments than
I am." In many cases doubtless true. She had not yet learnt, as most
women of deep feeling sooner or later must learn, to smile when the
heart feels all but breaking, to force interest in the trivialities
around one, when one's own life, or what may be dearer than life, seems
hanging in the balance. At this stage of her history, such seeming she
would probably have stigmatised as mere hypocrisy, not taking into
account that unselfishness and worthy self-respect, as often as pride,
furnish the motive for the wearing of that most tragic "des masques
tragiques--celui qui avait un sourire."
So, though her beauty and gentleness prepossessed many in her favour--
many even of those whose prejudices as well as curiosity had been
aroused by the fact that the wife of the new master of Halswood was not
exactly of their world, belonging, indeed, to one of "those dreadful
manufacturing places, where the sun never shines for the smoke, and all
the people drop their h's, you know"--Eugenia Chancellor did not make
much way among her new acquaintances. The women allowed she was
"pretty" and unassuming, but stupid or shy, they were not sure which.
The men hooted at "pretty"--"lovely" or "beautiful" was nearer the
mark--and hesitated about the "shy or stupid" suggestion, coming,
however, in almost every case to allow that she was difficult to get on
with--either "Chancellor bullied her at home," or she had married him
without caring for him; that she was not happy was evident. At which
proof of masculine discrimination, the wives and mothers held up their
hands in scornful incredulity. It was "just like Fred, or Arthur, or
`your papa,' to make a romantic mystery about her, because she is
pretty. There is nothing plainer to see than that she is silent and
stiff because she feels rather out of her element as yet. It is all
strange to her, of course, having been brought up as she has been, and
really she is to be felt for."
But the "feeling for her," giving itself vent in one or two instances in
the direction of a disposition to patronise, was not responded to; and
after a while the temporary sensation on the subject of Mrs Chancellor
died away, especially when it oozed out that Lady Hereward had not yet
called at Halswood.
Little cared Eugenia, as she ran upstairs to consult her lugubrious
friend Mrs Grier on the subject of the prettiest and pleasantest rooms
to be forthwith--fifteen days beforehand--prepared for her expected
guests.
"My sister, Mrs Thurston, and my father, are coming the week after
next," she announced to the housekeeper, ignoring the possibility of the
yet un-posted letter of invitation receiving any but a favourable reply.
"You must let me know if you think of _anything_ wanting for these
rooms." And the bright expectation in the young face touched even Mrs
Grier's unready sympathy in joy. She forgave Eugenia's presumptuous
rejection of the gloomy chambers, long since deserted in favour of more
cheerful quarters, by the master and mistress of the house, where the
funereal four-posters still reigned, and was inspired to suggest ever so
many tiny wants and improvements which sent her young mistress off to
Chilworth in the brougham, in a pleasant excitement of novel housewifely
importance. It was but seldom that interests of the kind offered
themselves to Eugenia--another of the unfortunate blanks in her new
life--for Mrs Grier, notwithstanding her dreams and visions, was,
practically, an excellent head of affairs. Everything about the house
was always in perfect order. If the under-servants proved inefficient
or otherwise undesirable they were sent away, and Mrs Grier or
Blinkhorn procured others; if the dinner was not thoroughly to Captain
Chancellor's liking, one or other of this responsible pair was informed
of the fact, and desired to see it remedied, or, in a case of unusual
gravity, the "chef" himself would be summoned to receive personal
instruction from his master, who considered himself, and very probably
justly, no mean authority on gastronomical problems.
"There is really very little for me to do," wrote Eugenia once to her
sister. "Beauchamp does not care for me to meddle in the housekeeping,
and I can see it is far better done than it would be by me. All the new
furniture has come, and of course it is beautiful. I took a good deal
of interest in choosing it, but it isn't half such fun as when one has
to think how one can make one's money get all one wants. And I think
the rooms are too big to enjoy the prettiness of the things. Do you
remember the choosing of your drawing-room carpet? I am afraid, Sydney
dear, I am quite out of my element as a fine lady. There are no poor
people, even, that I can hear of. They all seem dreadfully well off,
and well looked after by the clergyman and the agent and their wives. I
wish I could study more, but I think I have got lazy, or else it is the
difference of having to do everything alone. There are lots of books in
the library--many whose names even I never heard. I wish I had papa's
direction! We get all our new books from town once a month, but they
very seldom send the ones I want, and when they do I want you to talk
them over with."
Sydney sighed as she read this letter. It was not often Eugenia wrote
so despondently, but Sydney's perceptions were acute.
"Poor Eugenia," she thought. "It isn't only these outside things which
are wrong, I fear. If other things had equalled her hopes, these would
have been all right. The want lies deeper, I fear--the blank is one
hard to fill. How I wish I could see her!"
The next week brought Eugenia's invitation. It would have been
difficult to decline it. "You _must_ come," she wrote. "I am living in
the thoughts of it, Sydney; it will be absolute cruelty to refuse. I
cannot tell you how I long to see you all again."
So, though leaving home even for a few days, was now no small effort to
Mr Laurence, and though Frank Thurston groaned a good deal in
anticipation, he "hated fine houses and grand people," and all _his_
people, the East-enders of Wareborough, would go to the bad in
double-quick time if he let them out of his sight for the best part of a
week; who would take the night schools? who would see to the
confirmation classes? etc, etc, etc--it ended, as Sydney had quietly
determined it should, in a letter of acceptance being sent to Halswood
by return of post. And Mrs Thurston took the opportunity of chaffing
her husband a little on what she termed his growing self-conceit.
"`Un bon pretre,'" she said, "`c'est bien bon.' I quite agree with Jean
Valjean. But still, Frank, of the very best of things it is possible to
have too much."
Whereupon Frank told her she was very impertinent. There was little
fear of these two misunderstanding each other.
There is a mischievous French proverb which tells us that "le malheur
n'est jamais si pres de nous qu'alors que tout nous sourit." Things
were certainly _more_ smiling than usual with Eugenia Chancellor the
morning that she received Sydney's cheerful acceptance of the invitation
to Halswood, and was graciously told by Beauchamp in answer to her
announcement of the news "that he was glad they were coming, and he
hoped the weather would be fine." But misfortune--disappointment, at
least, was near at hand; misfortune in the shape of a plain-looking
little old lady in a shabby pony carriage, who about an hour after
luncheon this same day made her appearance under the ugly portico, and
learning that Mrs Chancellor was at home, alighted, and was shown into
the morning-room, giving a name for announcement to the footman newly
imported from town, which, taken in conjunction with her unimposing
appearance, somewhat excited that gentleman's surprise.
She had not driven in by the grand entrance, but by the second best
lodge, that on the road leading to the village of Stebbing-le-Bray.
Captain Chancellor, setting off on a long ride, passed the old lady in
the funny little carriage, and, wondering who she could be, asked for
information on the subject from the man at the lodge, a venerable person
thoroughly up in local celebrities. The answer he received caused him
to open his handsome blue eyes, and to change his programme for the
afternoon. He rode out at the Stebbing lodge, made a cut across the
country which brought him on to the Chilworth Road, and re-entering his
own domain, dismounted at home twenty minutes after he had set off, to
find his wife and the little old lady in evidently friendly converse in
the morning-room.
Somewhat startled by her husband's unlooked-for reappearance, uncertain
if he and her visitor were already acquainted, Eugenia hesitated a
moment in introducing her companions. But the stranger was quite equal
to the occasion.
"How do you do, Captain Chancellor?" she said, cordially. "I am so
pleased to meet you at last. By _hearsay_, do you know, you are already
an old friend of mine?"
Beauchamp bowed with a slight air of inquiry.
"A nephew of mine, or, to be exact, which they say women never are, a
grand-nephew of my husband's, has so often spoken of you to me. You
will remember him--George Vandeleur; he was in your regiment in the
Crimea, though you have seldom met each other since?"
Captain Chancellor's face lightened up, and what Eugenia called his
nicest look came over it. He had been very kind to young Vandeleur, at
the time little more than a boy, and it was pleasant to find himself
remembered.
Lady Hereward had the happiest knack of saying agreeable things, of
pleasing when she wished to please. Those who liked her liked her
thoroughly, and trusted her implicitly; but, on the other hand, those
who disliked her were quite as much in earnest about it. And both
parties, I suspect, coalesced in being more or less afraid of her, for,
insignificant as she appeared, she could hit hard in certain directions,
though her heart was true, her sympathies wide. Coming, perhaps, within
Roma Eyrecourt's category of "those to whom it was easy to be good,"
there had certainly been nothing in the circumstances of her life to
develop meanness in any form, and on this, in whatever guise she came
across it--humbug, petty ambition, class prejudice--she was therefore,
as is the tendency of poor humanity towards the foibles oneself "is not
inclined to," apt to be rather too hard. Since birth she had been
placed in a perfectly assured and universally recognised position. She
had had nothing to be ambitious about; even her want of beauty had not
amounted to a trial, for her powers of fascination, as is sometimes the
case with plain women, had been more than compensatingly great; and
before she was twenty she had had every unexceptionable _parti_ of the
day at her feet. How it came to pass she was not "spoilt" those who
knew her best often marvelled, but even they did not know all about her.
For she had had her sorrows, had passed through a fiery furnace--how it
all happened matters little, the love-story of a plain-looking old woman
of sixty would hardly be interesting begun at the wrong end--and the
gold of her nature had emerged, therefrom, unwasted and pure. In the
end she had married, at twenty-two, Lord Hereward, a peer of great
wealth and position, a man whom she liked and respected, and with whom
she had bravely made the best of her life. Trouble was not over for her
yet, however. She had two children, a son who grew up satisfactorily to
man's estate, behaving himself creditably at school, and college, and
everywhere, who in time married, as was to be expected, and became the
centre of another family; and a daughter, who was as the apple of her
mother's eye, whom she loved as strong natures only can love. And one
day--one awful day--the little daughter died suddenly and painfully, and
Margaret Hereward's heart broke.
And all the outside world said: "How sad for the poor Herewards; but
what a blessing it was not the boy," and then forgot all about it, for
the chief sufferer never reminded any one of her woe.
It was forty years ago now, and few remembered that a little Lady Alice
Godwin had ever existed. In time, of course, her mother came to learn
that even with a broken heart one can go on living, and her healthy
nature reasserted itself in an increased power of sympathy--an active
energy in lightening or, at least, sharing other women's sorrows. But
still, as she grew older, she hardened in her special dislikes, her pet
intolerances.
She went on talking about her nephew for a while, explaining, by the
way, how it was she had come to make her first call at Halswood in so
informal a fashion.
"I am staying at Stebbing Rectory for a day or two," she said. "A young
cousin of mine is the wife of Mr Mervyn, the clergyman there. She has
just got her first baby--a little girl;" she paused for an instant;
"such a nice baby, and I came over to look after her a little. She has
no mother. Hearing how very near I was to you, I thought I would not
miss the opportunity of seeing you so easily. It is a long drive from
Marshlands here. When you come to see me it must not be only for a
call."
She did not tell that the calling on the new Mrs Chancellor, which had
been a vague and indefinite intention in her mind before coming to
Stebbing, had taken active form, from hearing from her cousin some of
the local gossip about the stranger--that she was pretty, but so stiff
and reserved that no one could get on with her; that some people called
her awkward and underbred, others suspected that she was not happy (Mrs
Mervyn's own opinion), but that from one cause or another her life bid
fair to become a lonely and isolated one. And the sight of Eugenia's
face rewarded the old lady for the kindly effort she had made. It was
not so much her beauty, though Lady Hereward loved to see a pretty face;
it was her sweet, bright, yet wistful expression, that straightway
touched the maternal chord in her visitor's heart. Possibly, too,
contradiction had something to do with the interest Eugenia at once
awakened.
"Underbred, indeed!" she said to herself, contemptuously. "I wish I
could teach some people I know, what good breeding really is. As to her
being unhappy, I can't say. I must see more of her."
She acted at once on this determination, for, before she left, she
invited her new young friends to spend three days of the next week but
one at Marshlands. There was a particular reason for fixing this time;
"George" was coming, and would be delighted to meet Captain Chancellor
again.
"I would give you a choice if I could," she went on, fancying that she
perceived a slight hesitation in Mrs Chancellor's manner, "for I really
do want you to come. But I fear I cannot. We are going away the end of
the same week to Hereward, for some time. We old people need a breath
of sea air now and then."
"It is exceedingly kind of you. I should have liked _very_ much to go
to you the week after next," began Eugenia, looking as if she meant what
she said. "It is so unlucky--but I am afraid we must decline. We are
engaged for the whole of that week at home. You remember, Beauchamp? I
heard this morning that--"
"I think you have made a confusion between the week after next and the
week after _that_," said Captain Chancellor, blandly. "I don't know of
anything to prevent our accepting Lady Hereward's invitation. We did
expect some friends; but, don't you remember, Eugenia, that Colonel
Masterton put off his visit for a week?"
"Yes," said Eugenia, quietly; "I remember."
"Then may I hope to see you," asked Lady Hereward, feeling a little
puzzled, "on Tuesday?--that will be the 22nd. George comes the same
day."
"Certainly," said Beauchamp. "We shall be delighted to join you."
And "Thank you--you are very, very kind," said Eugenia again.
The tone in which the simple words were uttered was almost girlishly
cordial, yet, somehow, Lady Hereward did not feel satisfied. "Her
manner _is_ a little peculiar," she thought to herself, as she drove
back again to Stebbing-le-Bray, "though at first she seemed so frank. I
hope my invitation did not really interfere with anything. Could it be
shyness that made her not want to come? How very lovely her eyes are!
I wonder if my Alice's eyes would have looked like that--they were
brown. Alice would not have been so pretty. And, dear me, by this time
she might have had a daughter as old as that child! Ah, my little
Alice!"
When Lady Hereward had gone, Eugenia sat still for a moment or two, then
rose and left the room. In the hall she met her husband.
"Where are you going?" he said. "Come in here for a minute," opening
the door of his study, beside which they were standing. She followed
him, but did not sit down. "Tell me," he went on, "how do you like the
old lady?"
"Very much," replied Eugenia; then turned again, as if eager to go.
"What are you in such a hurry about? Can't you wait a minute?" he said,
impatiently. "Where are you going?"
"To write to Sydney, of course, to put off their visit," she answered,
her lips quivering. "I must do it at once."
"Confound Sydney!" he broke out, rudely. "Your temper, Eugenia, is
enough to provoke a saint. Wait an instant--do be reasonable--why can't
you propose to Sydney to--"
But he had gone too far. Eugenia turned and looked at him for a moment
with the unlovely light of angry indignation in her eyes; then left the
room quietly.
"By Jove!" said Beauchamp, when left to himself, "I begin to suspect I
have been a great fool, after all!"
But reflection and a cigar soothed him a little; half an hour later he
followed his wife to her boudoir. She was writing busily.
"Eugenia," he began, "I am sorry for my rudeness just now, but you are
very unreasonable. Why can't you write to your people, and ask them to
come on the Friday? We return then. Any one but you would understand
my reasons for wishing to go to Marshlands."
"I do understand them, rather too well," replied his wife, coldly. "As
for asking my people to come on Friday, it is out of the question. My
brother-in-law cannot be away on Sunday; and besides, I cannot ask my
father and Sydney--neither of them strong--to come so long a journey for
only two days."
"Why for only two days?"
"Because on Monday all _your_ friends are coming, and you do not wish
mine to be here at the same time."
"I never said anything of the kind," exclaimed Beauchamp, angrily, aware
nevertheless that he had _thought_ something very much of the kind. It
was not that he was ashamed of Mr Laurence or Sydney; he liked them
both very well; but there had been a good deal of "chaff" about his
Wareborough marriage, and he had imagined more. He could ill bear
chaff, and his constitutional and avowed arrogance laid him peculiarly
open to it in certain directions. How he had sneered and made fun of
other men in the old days for being "caught" by a pretty face or a pair
of bright eyes! He was not ashamed of his marriage--he was proud of his
wife in herself--but on the whole, he preferred that his old friends, on
their first visit, should not find the house full of his Wareborough
relations-in-law. But he had not imagined that Eugenia suspected this.
"I never said anything of the kind," he repeated, working himself into a
rage. "But I warn you, Eugenia, if you don't take care what you are
about, you will drive me into thinking, and saying too, many things I
never wish to think or say."
She got up from her seat, and stood facing him.
"I know what you mean," she said, huskily, a white despair creeping over
her face. "You mean that you regret your marriage. Why did you do it
at all then?--tell me. Why did you make me think you everything great
and noble, to open my eyes now like this? Why did you not leave me
where I was, happy and loved, instead of making me care for you? Why
did you ask me to be your wife?"
"Why, indeed? You may well ask," replied Captain Chancellor, in a
bitter, contemptuous tone.
Then he turned and left the room. He put down all she had said to
"temper," of course; but some of her words had wounded and mortified him
not a little.
Eugenia stood there where he had left her, in blank, bewildered misery.
Only one thought glanced with any brightness through the black cloud of
wretchedness which seemed to choke her.
"He did love me once," she said to herself. "If all the rest was a
dream, still he did love me once."
And but for this, she thought she _must_ have died.