That he has his faults cannot be doubtful; for we believe it was
ascertained long ago, that there is no man free from them.
_Carlyle_.
It is dreary work--perhaps no one who has not had personal experience of
it can imagine how dreary--to find oneself really alone in a strange
place, with no customary daily duties to compel one's attention, however
unwilling; no chance of a friendly face looking in to break the monotony
of the empty day; no anticipation even of the post bringing distraction
in the shape of news, good or bad. Such had been Eugenia's life for two
days at Nunswell, and already in these two days she had many times been
on the point of saying to herself she could not stand it much longer.
"And is this to be my life?" she thought with a shiver, for, in the
excitement of flying from her home, she had taken no account of the
loneliness and dreariness that lay beyond. Now, the unconcealed
disapproval of her nearest friends, the realisation of her anomalous
position alone in lodgings in a strange place, were already bringing
home, even to her uncalculating inexperience, something of the personal
suffering, the bitter deprivations, the indefinite suspicion which must
attach themselves to even the purest and noblest of women, once she
voluntarily abandons her home. There may be cases, doubtless there are
such, where a wife has no choice, where duty itself, deaf to all
suggestions of expediency, relentlessly points out the way to
abandonment of the post bravely battled for to the last--but such cases
are rare, and the women to whose bitter experience they fall must have
suffered too terribly to be sensitive to loneliness, or monotony, or
half-averted looks. Not so was it with Eugenia Chancellor. What she
had learnt from her sister of Frank's opinion of her conduct had wounded
her to the quick; her only idea had been at once to relieve her friends
of her unwelcome presence, but she had altogether failed to realise the
desolation and hopeless depression which seized upon her before she had
been many hours in the Nunswell lodgings.
The morning after she had met Gerald, she woke with a slight sensation
of expectation. She hoped she should see him again; she wanted to talk
to him, and tell him how she had thought over his words; she did not
feel indignant at his plain-speaking, for it was not contemptuous and
unsympathising like Frank's, but sprang, she could not but feel, from
genuine anxiety for her good, from single-minded incapability of
advising her to act otherwise than as he believed to be right. "Still
it is often impossible," she thought, "for one person to judge of right
and wrong for another," and, more out of a feminine determination to
prove herself justified in what she had done than from any vehement
desire to persevere in her present course, she prepared herself mentally
with a whole string of unanswerable arguments, of well-sounding
sophistries with which to compel her old friend to acknowledge how
exceptional was her position, how principle and self-respect, and
unselfishness even, had driven her to this apparently undutiful step.
It was still early when Rachel tapped at her mistress's door. "A
letter, ma'am," she announced, as she came in.
"A letter!" exclaimed Eugenia, not without excitement, "it must be a
mistake. No one knows where--I mean, I have not sent my exact address
yet." But notwithstanding her words, her heart beat with vague,
unreasonable hope--what could it be?--could Sydney have found her out,
and be coming to her at once?--could Beauchamp himself be on the way to
beseech her to return to him, to entreat her forgiveness for all he had
made her suffer, to assure her that this last misery, this worst trouble
of all, had somehow or other been a mistake, a mischievous exaggeration
of his sister's? As one possibility after another suggested itself to
her imagination, Eugenia's heart beat faster and faster. "Give it me
quickly, Rachel," she said impatiently. But as the girl brought it to
her, she remarked, "It is not a letter by the post, ma'am. It is only a
note--from the Spa Hotel, I believe," and Eugenia's hopes died within
her. It was only a note--a few hurried words from Mr Thurston--
beginning "My dear Mrs Chancellor," to inform her of his being suddenly
obliged to leave Nunswell on business, and to express his regret that he
should not see her again. It was dated the previous evening. "As if he
could have got any business letters after he saw me last night, and as
if he would be likely to travel home about business on a Sunday,"
thought Eugenia, with a bitter incredulity; "no, he has just thought it
over, and agrees with Frank. They don't want to have anything more to
say to me." And this day was even more miserable than its predecessors.
She would not go to church, she dreaded now even the thought of a
stroll in the gardens; she sat alone in the dull drawing-room all day
with no books to read, no letters to write, nothing to do, nothing to
hope for. And when bedtime came and she knelt, more from the force of
old habit than from any expectation of comfort, guidance, or peace of
mind, to pray to the Father who understands us all so much better than
we understand ourselves, she started back from the appealing attitude in
horror. For the only prayer which rose with any spontaneity to her lips
was that she might sleep and never wake again.
Hours passed and still she lay awake, feverish, restless, and yet
exhausted. When at last she fell asleep it seemed to her afterwards
that it must have been close to morning. And the longed-for
unconsciousness brought her but little repose, for it was broken by
anxious distressing dreams, of which the only one she could recall with
any distinctness was the last before she awoke. She dreamt that it was
again the night of her father's death, she herself was hastening to him
with Gerald Thurston; they were driving furiously along a road of which
some features seemed familiar to her, though at the same time she felt
perfectly certain she had never traversed it before; and from time to
time her companion added to her feeling of indescribable bewilderment by
asking her if it would not be better to turn now and go the other way.
She never seemed to answer him, but every time he made the suggestion,
the invisible driver appeared to respond by turning sharply, and driving
away faster than ever in an apparently opposite direction. Suddenly the
scene changed, and Eugenia found herself by her father's bedside, in the
room she knew so well; and she became conscious of the strange dual
existence familiar to us all in dreams, for while there in her father's
presence, waiting for her own arrival, she was yet driving on with
Gerald; again she heard his curious monotonous inquiry, "Don't you think
we had better turn now and go the other way?" Another change; she was
now in the old state bedroom at Halswood, where she had spent the night
of her arrival there; she was still watching by a bedside, still waiting
for her own appearance. Then the sound of the carriage wheels, of which
all this time she had been conscious, grew louder and louder; she heard
them rattling up the smooth carriage drive at Halswood as if it were a
paved Wareborough street. A clock began to toll, the figure in the bed
by which she was watching seemed to move, and a sudden horror seized
her. In her dream-agony she rushed to the door of the room, and found
it locked; in despair, it seemed to her, she screamed aloud with frantic
vehemence, "Let me out, let me out;" and a voice, which she recognised
as her husband's, answered from the other side--"Too late, too late.
Better turn now and go the other way." And at this crisis she awoke.
It was broad daylight. Rachel was standing by her bedside, a cup of tea
in her hand.
"What is the matter?" asked Eugenia, confusedly. Then, coming a little
to herself, she sat up and looked at the girl. "My head is aching
dreadfully," she said, laying it back among the pillows as she spoke;
"is that why you have brought me some tea, Rachel? Oh, no; of course
you could not know. But there is something the matter, Rachel; you look
as if there were."
"No, indeed, ma'am, there isn't; nothing, that is to say, except your
head being bad. I was awake very early this morning, and I had my
breakfast sooner than usual, and I thought you might like a cup of tea."
"I am very glad of it," said Eugenia, languidly. "But what made you get
up so early. Had you a bad night too?"
"Oh, no, ma'am, thank you. I was wakened, by some visitors arriving
unexpectedly about five o'clock. One visitor, at least. A young lady."
"What an odd time to arrive," observed Eugenia, carelessly. But,
glancing at Rachel as she spoke, something in the girl's manner again
caught her attention. "_Who_ is the young lady?" she asked, quickly.
"Is it some one to see me--is it my sister?"
"No, ma'am, it is not Mrs Thurston," replied Rachel, evidently afraid
lest her words should cause disappointment. "It could not be Mrs
Thurston, for she will only get your address this morning, you remember,
ma'am. But it _is_ some one for you. It is--"
"It is I," interrupted a voice at the door. "May I come in, Eugenia?"
and in a moment Roma Eyrecourt stood by the bedside. "You poor child,"
she went on, hurriedly, as if to cover some embarrassment, and without
giving Eugenia time to speak; "how burning your hands are, and your head
too! I am not going to tease you, dear. I have come to do exactly what
you tell me, except go away. You won't send me away, Eugenia, will
you?"
There was some anxiety in her tone; she leant over towards Eugenia as
she spoke, and looked earnestly into her face with her beautiful, bright
dark eyes--not keen or contemptuous now, but tender and loving, and
almost entreating in their expression. The struggle, if there were one,
was quickly over with Eugenia. She threw her arms round her friend's
neck and kissed her warmly. "It is very, very good of you to have
come," she whispered. "I know it is pure goodness that has brought you.
I have tried to fancy I hated you, but I don't. I love you and trust
you. But, oh, Roma, I have been so miserable!"
"Too miserable, a great deal too miserable. I can fancy it all," said
Roma, sympathisingly. "But, Eugenia, you do look so tired. I am sure
you have not slept well. Do try to go to sleep again, and try to
believe you are not going to be so miserable as you think. I will talk
to you as much as ever you like when I see you looking better. I will
tell you everything--what made me come here, and _anything_ more you
like to ask me, if you will do what I tell you now. I have one or two
letters to write for the early post. I will come back in a little, I
promise you."
Soothed in spite of herself by Roma's kindness, comforted by the feeling
that she was no longer alone, that one person, at least, in the world,
still loved and cared for her, Eugenia fell asleep, and slept peacefully
for two or three hours. Miss Eyrecourt, meantime, wrote her letters:
one was addressed to Captain Chancellor at Halswood, another to Gerald
Thurston, at Wareborough, a third to old Lady Dervock, whom she had
quitted at rather short notice. Once or twice in writing she seemed
somewhat at a loss.
"I don't want to exaggerate things," she said to herself, "but I really
should not be surprised if Eugenia had a bad illness--brain fever, or
something of the kind. However, I can judge better when I see her
again."
Roma's fears were not fulfilled. Eugenia was much better when she saw
her again. By the middle of the day she was up and dressed, and eager
for the promised conversation. The mystery of the new-comer's sudden
appearance was easily explained.
The "business" which had necessitated Gerald's leaving on Saturday night
had taken him all the way up to Deepthorne, whence he had returned
accompanied by Roma herself. It had seemed to him the best thing to do,
he felt certain that he might rely on Miss Eyrecourt's friendship, and
he felt certain too that in the end Eugenia would not blame him for his
interference. By dint of hard travelling they had managed to reach
Nunswell early on Monday morning, thence by the very next train, Gerald,
already due at his post, had returned to Wareborough. This was all, so
far, that Roma had to tell. Of what had taken place at Halswood she was
in utter ignorance. "I have not heard from Gertrude for more than a
week," she told Eugenia. "I half thought of writing to her just now
while you were asleep, but I decided not to do so till I had spoken to
you. I have written to your husband though, Eugenia," she added, with a
little hesitation.
"To Beauchamp," exclaimed Beauchamp's wife, her cheeks flushing; "oh,
Roma, why did you? Could you not have waited for that till you had
spoken to me?"
"No, Eugenia," said Roma, gently but decidedly, "I purposely wanted to
write _before_ seeing more of you. It was not betraying your secret,
for Mr Thurston told me you had let your sister know where you were,
and of course Beauchamp would go to her to inquire about you. I merely
wrote to tell him that I was with you, ready to stay as long as you want
me."
"I don't mind Beauchamp's knowing where I am," said Eugenia. "It will
make no difference. He is not likely to seek me, for even if he cared
about me, he will be too angry to take any such step."
Roma thought differently. Beauchamp's regard for appearances was likely
to be a powerful motive with him, but she was wise enough to keep this
consideration to herself, and to direct her attention to the root of the
matter.
"How do you mean, `if he cared about you?'" she asked, quietly. "Do you
doubt his caring for you?"
"Roma!" exclaimed Eugenia, reproachfully, the tears rushing to her eyes,
"how can, you ask me? You, of all people!"
"You must tell me exactly what you mean, Eugenia," said Roma, anxiously.
"Half confidences are no use in such a case, and I, in return, promise
to tell you what I believe to be the exact truth."
So Eugenia told her all; more fully even than to Sydney she related the
whole history of her hopes and disappointments, her golden
anticipations, and the bitter realities in which they had ended. And
Roma listened with a gravely attentive face, striving to the best of her
power to distinguish between fact and fancy, between Eugenia's actual
grounds for unhappiness, and her morbid inclination to exaggerate them.
It was not for Roma so impossible as it might have been for many to
arrive at a just comprehension of the state of matters, for the
character of the one of the two persons chiefly concerned had been long
ago gauged by her, that of the other had interested her greatly, and now
every word and look and tone assisted her to a fuller understanding of
its lights and shades, its beauties and defects. When Eugenia at last
left off speaking, Miss Eyrecourt sat silent for a minute or two.
Eugenia's heart was beating fast with anxiety. "Roma," she said at
last, imploringly, "speak to me, do."
"I was only thinking how best to put in words what I want to say," said
Roma. "Listen, Eugenia. I would say it was very wicked of Gertrude to
tell you what she did, if I supposed that she at all realised what she
was doing, or how you would take it. However, don't let us speak of
her. I would rather not. She has been very kind to me, and she is more
silly and small than malevolent. As to what she told you, it was a
mixture of truth and falsehood, but the part that you cared about so
deeply was untrue. It is quite untrue that Gertrude's interference
separated Beauchamp and me. It was not required. I refused to marry
him because I did not care for him in that way in the least, and also
because I did not believe, and never shall, that he cared for me either.
Even if I had cared for him, I don't know but what my dread of vexing
Gertrude, of seeming to repay her kindness by ingratitude, would have
been strong enough to stop me; but that was _not_ the reason. I simply
did not care for him, except in a sisterly sort of way. And he--he
fancied he cared for me, but he never did. It was greatly out of
contradiction, and also because my indifference piqued him--he was so
spoilt wherever he went, so sought after and petted! But I think I know
the worst of him, and you may believe me, Eugenia, that he never cared
as earnestly, as _truly_, for any woman as for you. I regretted your
marriage, because, matter-of-fact as I am myself, I saw how different
you were--I feared there would be sorrow in store for you--I feared
Beauchamp would not understand you--but all the same, I never liked him
so much as when I found how he _did_ care for you. He is not a grand
character, Eugenia; I dare say what you tell me you suspect may have
been true--that he thought it was very grand of him to marry for love,
notwithstanding his great prospects, and I have no doubt Gertrude helped
him to think so. But, all the same, he did marry for love, and he loves
you still; and, dear Eugenia, you will come to see, I do believe, that
there is still a fair share of happiness waiting for you. No one will
ever have the same power for good over Beauchamp as you, and even if you
begin again with little hope or heart, encouragement will come; all the
more quickly, perhaps, because of your faint expectations. Now I have
told you exactly what I think. I have gone against the old advice never
to meddle between husband and wife. I allow that you have had a great
deal to bear, not a little to complain of. But, knowing Beauchamp as I
do, I must say he has had something to bear too. In the first place, he
is innocent of your having imagined him a different character from what
he really is; he could not possibly understand it if it was told him.
There has been a sort of playing at cross-purposes; for you have not
made the best of him from your mistaken notion of the material you had
to work upon. _Now_, you can face things. Leave the past, and decide
bravely to do the best with the present."
The tears were running down Eugenia's pale cheeks: "You forget, Roma,"
she said, sadly. "I have no present. I have cut myself away from it.
I believe all you say, every word of it. I mean, I believe _you_. But
if, as you allow, Beauchamp has not understood me hitherto, how could he
ever understand the feelings which made me leave him? He must be a
different man from what I now believe him to be if what I have done does
not estrange us more than ever. For no mere surface peace would satisfy
me, Roma. I mean, I could not agree to go back and begin again, merely
for the sake of appearances, knowing that in reality there was no
possibility of happiness for us."
"We shall see," said Roma. "Sometimes things turn out quite the other
way from what we expect. But I do think, Eugenia, you should make up
your mind to do what ever you come to see is right for you to do, and
never mind about Beauchamp's motives for being willing, if he prove so,
to meet you half-way."
Eugenia did not answer, and Roma thought it as well to leave her now to
think things over in her own way. In her heart Miss Eyrecourt was not
without a hope that this crisis might prove a turning-point; that the
shock of finding Eugenia gone might open her husband's eyes to some part
of the unhappiness she had endured, and that the way in which Gertrude
had acted might lead him to a clearer understanding of the danger of her
influence in his household. "Gertrude is sure to clear herself if she
possibly can," thought Roma; "still Beauchamp must see she at least did
not try to do any good. Besides, he must be conscious of how he has
allowed her to speak of Eugenia, and how he has spoken himself. I
wonder what happened when he came home and found his wife gone."
This was what had happened. It was on Thursday that Mrs Chancellor had
left Halswood, where her husband was expected to return the next day.
But the next day came and went, and it was not till pretty late on
Saturday afternoon that he made his appearance. Mrs Eyrecourt in the
meantime was suffering from no more painful feeling than annoyance, and
some amount of indignation at her sister-in-law's unceremonious
behaviour. Anxiety she felt none, for Eugenia had by no means allowed
the whole depth of her feelings to appear during her conversation with
her husband's sister, and the note which was given to Gertrude on her
return home from a drive that Thursday afternoon, in explanation of her
hostess's absence, had been carefully worded by Eugenia, and only left
on her sister-in-law's mind the impression that she herself must be held
of small account by her brother's wife if some unexplained summons from
her Wareborough friends was considered of sufficient importance to
justify so unheard-of a breach of hospitality.
Beauchamp's non-appearance the next day irritated her still further.
She was by no means in the sweetest of tempers when Captain Chancellor
came home. He came back in a more than usually kindly frame of mind
towards his wife. He had enjoyed his visit very much. Everybody had
been very civil to him, and several people had inquired pointedly for
Eugenia, whose troubles and serious illness had awakened the sympathy
and interest--sincere and genuine so far as they go--which, after all,
selfish and conventional as we nineteenth-century people are supposed to
have become, are not yet difficult to awaken in the hearts of many of
those among whom we live. Lady Hereward had been of the party, and her
peculiar interest in the young mother's bereavement had caused her to
single out Beauchamp in a gratifying manner.
"I cannot tell you," she had said to him, drawing him aside for a
moment--"I cannot tell you how much I have been thinking lately of that
beautiful young wife of yours, Captain Chancellor. I was very nearly
writing to her when I heard of her--her disappointment, but I feared it
might seem intrusive. Will you tell her so? And whenever she feels
equal to it, I do hope you will bring her to spend a few quiet days with
me. You must be very good to her--you will forgive an old woman's
impertinence?--you must be _very_ good to her. No doubt you are, but I
doubt if even the best of husbands can _quite_ enter into her sorrow.
It is not to be expected they should, perhaps. And following so quickly
on her father's death too! Ah, yes, it was very sad! And she has no
mother! Give her my messages, and tell her of my sympathy, and be very
patient with her, even if her grief seems exaggerated. There, now, I
have kept up my character as a meddlesome old woman, have I not?"
But Beauchamp felt by no means offended. The interest was too evidently
genuine, the sympathy too womanly for the words to annoy. And then the
speaker was Lady Hereward! Captain Chancellor thought over what she had
said, and was all the better for it.
No one was to be seen in Eugenia's sitting-room when he reached home on
Saturday afternoon. "She must be out," he thought; and the sound of
Mrs Eyrecourt's voice as he passed an open window confirmed his
supposition. He was hastening out to join them by the door opening from
his own "den" on to the sort of terrace below, when a letter, addressed
to him in Eugenia's handwriting, placed conspicuously on the
mantelpiece, caught his eye. In another moment he had opened and read
it. His bright complexion turned to a grey pallor; a look of wild
distress replaced the expression of smiling indifference habitual to
him; all the nerve and spring seemed to melt out of his bearing; for
"she has gone out of her mind," was the first thought that occurred to
him--"grief has driven her insane," as Lady Hereward's words returned to
his mind. "Good heavens! and this note is dated Thursday! What may not
have happened by now?" Then his sister's voice, gay and careless as
usual, again reached his ear. "Gertrude must know it. What is she
thinking of? What is the meaning of it all?"
A sort of giddiness came over him. He had to sit down for a moment to
prevent himself falling. Then he went forward to the window from which
steps led to the walk below, and called to Mrs Eyrecourt.
"Gertrude," he said, "come here at once. I want you."
Full of her own grievances, which the sight of her brother recalled
freshly to her mind, Mrs Eyrecourt hardly relished the authoritative
summons. She came up the steps slowly, calling to her dog, whose
company she much preferred to that of her daughter.
"So you have come back at last, Beauchamp!" she said, as she drew near
him. "I was very nearly setting off home this morning, I can tell you.
I wonder what you asked me to come to see you for!"
Her pettishness was quite lost on her brother.
"Gertrude," he said, excitedly, as if he had not heard her words, "do
you not know, or _do_ you know about Eugenia? What has happened?"
"What has happened?" she repeated, looking a little startled; "nothing
that I know of, except that she has gone to her friends at Wareborough--
her sister, or aunt, or somebody--for a day or two. I suppose she often
goes there, does she not? though I certainly thought she might have
waited till my visit was over."
"Is _that_ all you know?" said Beauchamp, impatiently. "Do you not know
with what intention she left this--that she went, never to return?"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs Eyrecourt, now for the first time taking
alarm. "You don't mean to say she has run away--run away _with_ some
one? How frightful! What a scandal! Oh, Beauchamp, how terribly you
have been deceived!"
"Take care what you say, Gertrude," said Captain Chancellor, sternly.
"Run away _with_ any one--my wife--Eugenia! What are you thinking of?
Read that!"
He thrust into her hand the letter he had found on his mantelpiece, and
while watching her read it, he almost laughed, not with standing his
distress, at the utter incompatibility of his sister's coarsely
commonplace supposition with the perfect guilelessness, the transparency
and innocence, he had often been half inclined to look upon as but a
part of his wife's childishness and inexperience.