But, Edith dead!
_Too Late_.
Gerald Thurston did go to Halswood. Whether he did so knowing that
there he would again meet Roma Eyrecourt is a secret that has never been
divulged; whether in suggesting to her husband that he should invite
Sydney's brother-in-law Eugenia was influenced by malice prepense has
never transpired. Be these possibilities as they may the event they
would have foreshadowed came to pass; and in this fashion.
Once, during the absence of the Chancellors on the Continent, Mr
Thurston and Miss Eyrecourt had met again. It was during one of Roma's
flying visits to the Dalrymples. They had seen each other several
times, had talked a good deal on a subject interesting to them both--
Eugenia--and from that on one or two occasions had drifted into other
talk, had found out insensibly a good deal about each other's thoughts
and tastes and opinions, had discovered various remarkable points of
coincidence in these directions, various no less impressive points of
disagreement which both felt conscious it would have been pleasant and
satisfactory to discuss further. All this talking no doubt might even
then have led to a definite result, but for the prepossession with which
each mind was guarded. Roma, unbeliever though she professed herself in
the constancy of any man's devotion, yet made one exception to her rule.
She believed, or told herself, with perhaps suspicious frequency and
decision, that she believed in the unalterable nature of Gerald's
feelings towards Eugenia.
"It is the only case, out of a book that is to say," she would repeat to
herself, "I have ever even heard of, where a man kept faithful to his
first ideal. Not that she even turned out to be his ideal, from what he
has told me; but she was and still is herself. I believe he would be
content to serve her unthanked all his life, and she will never have the
faintest notion of it! Ah, yes, things are queerly arranged. But I am
very thankful I was born matter-of-fact and easy-going, not likely to
break my heart for even the best of men."
Gerald's prepossession was of quite another nature. He did not think it
impossible that, had he dared to show his growing regard for this
heartless young lady, he might not have succeeded in winning that which
she was so fond of declaring she was not possessed of. But his head was
perfectly full of the notion that, though personally she might in time
have learnt to care for him, his position would prove an insuperable
objection. "As if _she_ would ever consent to live at Wareborough," he
said to himself. "Ah, no, it is utterly out of the question." And so,
with the burnt child's dread of the fire, he refrained from indulging in
tantalising speculations on the possibility of overcoming these
taken-for-granted prejudices on Miss Eyrecourt's part, and from time, to
time congratulated himself on the skill with which he had preserved
intact his peace of mind and on the strength of self-control which
permitted him to enjoy a good and beautiful woman's friendship where a
nearer and dearer tie was impossible.
But there came a day when his self-satisfaction received its death-blow,
when he was fain to confess that after all he was neither wiser nor
stronger than his fellows. He had been more than a week at Halswood.
He had come there little intending or expecting to remain so long, but
the days had passed very pleasantly; his hosts were so cordial, Miss
Eyrecourt so friendly and companionable, that, having no pressing
business on hand, he had been persuaded to linger on from day to day.
It was not very often that he found himself alone with Roma, but one
afternoon, some other visitors having left, it happened that they two
were thrown on each other for entertainment.
"Shall you mind, Roma, if we leave you and Mr Thurston alone to-day?"
Eugenia had asked her friend after luncheon. "Beauchamp is so anxious
to drive me out with the new ponies--he has driven them several times,
and says they go so beautifully! And the pony carriage only holds two
and little Tim, the groom, behind, and I think perhaps Beauchamp would
be disappointed if I did not go."
"Of course you must go," said Roma, brightly. "I don't mind in the
least. I will take Mr Thurston a tremendously long walk, and see if he
isn't much more tired than I when we come home. Men are so conceited
about that sort of thing."
Eugenia laughed. She was leaving the room, but a sudden impulse seemed
to come over her. She turned back to the table where Roma was sitting
writing, and kissed her gently.
"What is that for?" asked Roma. "Am I particularly good to-day?"
"No, yes. I mean you are always good," answered Eugenia. "I am very
happy to-day, and I always feel as if I should thank you when I feel
so." Roma looked up with a grateful look in her dark eyes. ("It is
nice of you to say so, but I don't deserve it," she interrupted. "Yes
you do," said Eugenia, and then went on with what she had been speaking
about.) "It was something Beauchamp said this morning that made me
happy. I needn't tell you it all, but just a little. He asked me,
Roma, if I didn't think we were getting to be very happy together, and
he said, `At least, Eugenia, you make _me_ very happy, and I think I am
getting to understand you and your ways of thinking about things better.
I am learning to see how selfish I was--a while ago, you know. But I
trust all that is over.' Then he said something else, I don't know what
put it into his head--something about baby and how we should bring him
up, and the future. Roma," she broke off, suddenly, "if Beauchamp were
to die now I should miss him terribly. I am so _glad_ to feel so, for
there was a time when I _couldn't_, when my life stretched before me
like a long slavery. Don't think me wicked to speak so--you understand
me?"
"Understand you, dear Eugenia? Yes, thoroughly," said Roma. "And years
and years hence I trust and believe you will feel as you say you do now,
yet more strongly. I don't think the sort of happiness you feel is
likely to fade or lessen," she sighed, half unconsciously as she spoke.
Eugenia looked at her affectionately. She seemed on the point of saying
something more, but changed her mind and, kissing Roma again, left the
room.
How it came about they could neither of them in all probability have
exactly related. They went the long walk Miss Eyrecourt had determined
upon; they talked of every general subject under the skies, avoiding at
first, as if by tacit mutual consent, any of closer personal interest.
But after a while, somehow, Mr Thurston came to talking of himself, of
his life, his hopes, his disappointments and failures. He was not by
any means an egotistical man. Roma could not but feel flattered, by his
confidence; she listened with undisguised interest. Suddenly, to her
surprise, he alluded to the first time they had met.
"It is curious to look back now to that evening, is it not?" he said.
"You were the first lady I had spoken to for, I may say, years. Out
there I was completely cut off from any intercourse of the kind. And
what a fool (I beg your pardon, Miss Eyrecourt) you must have thought
me! Do you remember how I bored you with my confidences? I assure you
I never remember our conversation without feeling inclined to blush,
only you were so very kind--_that_ part of it," he added, in a somewhat
lower tone, "I don't want to forget."
"You need not want to forget any of it," said Roma, blushing, however,
herself as she spoke; "I certainly did not think of you as you imagine.
It has always been very pleasant to me to think that--that you thought
me, even at first sight, trustworthy--fit to talk to as you did. The
only unpleasing part of the remembrance to me is the thought of how it
all ended for you, how terribly quickly your dreams faded. Forgive me,"
she went on, hastily, "I am afraid I have said too much. I have never
alluded to it before."
"I like your alluding to it," said Gerald. "I like the feeling that you
understand it all. It doesn't hurt me in the least now. It is
wonderful how one grows out of things, isn't it?--at least, hardly that;
how things grow into one till one is no longer conscious of their
existence.
"I am a part of all that I have met.
"You remember? Of course Eugenia had a great influence upon me. But
for her I should probably have been quite a different sort of man. But
still I can see the good it did me now without any bitterness. I am
inexpressibly thankful that she is so much happier, that she seems to be
growing into--_her_ life, as it were. When she was unhappy I must
confess I was bitter--bitter to think I had no right to interfere. But
that has all past by. I am rather lonely, that is about all I have any
right to complain of. If she had not married it might have been
different--there is a sort of doggedness about me--I believe I should
have gone on hoping against hope. But as it is, I feel it rather hard
sometimes."
"What?" asked Roma, in some bewilderment.
"Why, that I should be doomed to stay outside always, as it were. You
don't suppose I have any dislike to the idea of being happy like other
people? You don't suppose it is from choice I remain homeless and
lonely, do you, Miss Eyrecourt?"
He looked at her half laughingly, yet earnestly too.
Roma's face fell. Then after all, she thought, her one hero was no
hero; already his love for Eugenia was replaced by some other apparently
equally hopeless attachment. It was disappointing.
"Why do you look so grave?" he inquired. "Have I offended you?"
"Offended _me_! What have I to do with it?" she replied. "Of course
not. To tell you the truth I felt just a little disappointed--a nice
confession for an unromantic person to make--that--that you _had_ `got
over it,' as it is called, so completely. You were my model of
constancy. I shall think life more prosaic than ever now. And, to turn
to prose, what a pity you a second time made an unlucky venture! Could
you not have been more prudent? That is to say, if the obstacles whose
existence you infer _are_ insuperable. As to that, of course I can't
judge."
She quickened her steps a little as she spoke. It seemed to Gerald she
was eager to make an end of the conversation. Amused, yet much annoyed
at her misapprehension, his wish to right himself in her eyes drove him
further than he had intended.
"Miss Eyrecourt," he began, not without a slight irritation in his tone,
"I wish you would do me justice. Is it possible you don't understand
me? Do not you see that one of the things which _most_ attracted me,
which drew forth my admiration and gratitude, arose from the very
strength of my care for Eugenia? It was that which first drew us
together--your goodness to her, I mean--it was that which showed me how
generous and noble you are. And yet, unfortunately, your knowledge of
my feelings to her is one of the very things that make me hopeless, even
if there were no insuperable practical objections. Not that I would
have concealed the old state of things from you in any case had you not
happened to know them, if I had ventured to try my chance with you. But
they were forced upon you so unfortunately. It would be impossible for
you ever to think of me in a different light. How could I ever convince
you that the heart I offered was worth having? It must seem to you a
poor wretched battered-about thing--not that, of course, it was ever
worth _your_ having."
Roma stopped short. Hitherto she had kept up her rapid pace. She
stopped short and turned round so as to face Mr Thurston. He saw that
she was very pale.
"Are you in earnest?" she said, very gravely. "Do you mean what you are
saying? I do not altogether understand you to-day, Mr Thurston. It
would have been more in accordance with my notion of you if, allowing
that you _are_ in earnest, you had simply and manfully put the question
to the test, instead of first imagining `insuperable obstacles' and then
putting them into my mouth. You place me very awkwardly. At this
moment I solemnly assure you I do not know if you would like me to say,
`Mr Thurston, I will marry you if you will ask me,' or not."
Notwithstanding her seriousness, with the few last words she had
difficulty in repressing a laugh. Gerald's face flushed deeply, angrily
almost, as she spoke, and a quick light came into his eyes--a light,
however, not altogether of indignation.
"I _would_ have asked you months, years ago," he said, "had I not
believed that my doing so would have been looked upon as presumption--
would have put an end to the friendship I have learnt to value more than
anything in my life, and which I could ill afford to lose. So hopeless,
till this instant, have I been of ever obtaining more."
"Why?" asked Roma.
"Why?" he repeated. "For the reason I have already told you, and for
another. Think of my position! A struggling engineer--an artisan, some
of your people would call me, I daresay; for I am not yet at the top of
my tree by any means, nor likely to be so for many a long day to come.
The only home I can offer my wife is an unattractive one enough--you
know what sort of a place Wareborough is--is that the home _you_ are
suited to? You, beautiful, courted, admired; spoilt by every sort of
rule you should be, but I don't think you are. I am not exactly poor,
certainly, but I am not rich, and there is hard work before me for years
to come. There now, Miss Eyrecourt, you know the whole. I have great
reason to be sanguine of success, have I not?"
"And this is all?" she said. "You have told me every one of the
`insuperable obstacles?'"
"Every one," he replied. "Don't torture me, Roma."
She held out both her hands; she lifted up her beautiful face and looked
at him with tears in her large soft dark eyes. "Oh, Gerald," she said
at last, when the two hands were pressed closely in his, when she felt
his gaze of almost incredulous joy fixed upon her with eager
questioning; "Oh, Gerald, how could you mistake me so? `Spoilt,' am I?
Ah no, or if so, not by the excess of love that has been lavished on me.
I have been very lonely; it is years and years since I have known what
it was to have a home--a real home. Even had I not loved you, I confess
to you the temptation of _your_ love, your strength and protection,
would have been great to me. You don't know what to me would have been
the mere thought of having some one I could perfectly trust. But as it
is, I needn't think of temptation. I love you, Gerald. I would rather
have your `poor battered old heart' than anything in the universe. And
if this makes amends for the dilapidated state of yours, I can assure
you that mine, such as it is, is quite whole. I give it to you
entirely, without the slightest little chip or crack."
She had begun to speak with the tears in her eyes; as she went on,
notwithstanding her half-joking tone, they dropped--one, two, three big
tears. She pulled away one hand to dash them aside, but Gerald caught
it, kissed it tenderly and gratefully, and held it fast again.
"Roma," he said, "you and your heart are far too good for me. My
darling, how shall I ever repay the sacrifices you will make for me?
Are you sure, quite sure, you will never repent it? Have you considered
it all? Think of having to live at Wareborough."
"Gerald, you are too bad! Do you know you have all but driven me into
proposing to you? I shall think _you_ repent your bargain if you say
much more. Living at Wareborough! Nonsense. I should be quite pleased
and content to live in a coal mine with _you_. There now, I am not
going to spoil you by any more pretty speeches, which, by rights, sir,
please to remember, should come from the other side."
With such encouragement, Mr Thurston, considering it was the first time
he had actually tried his hand at anything of the kind, acquitted
himself very fairly, and the remaining two miles of their walk seemed to
them but a small fraction of the real distance. They had time, however,
to discuss a good many aspects of their plans. "What would Frank and
Sydney think? how astonished they would be!"
"How pleased Eugenia would feel!" etc, etc, before they re-entered the
park and came within sight of the house.
They approached it from one side, intending, however, to enter by the
front door. What was it, as they drew near, that gave Roma an
indescribable feeling that something had happened since they went out?
She could not have told. The hall door was half-open for one thing, but
it was not that. It was a so-called "instinct"--one of those subtile
revelations which science has not yet learnt to define or explain by any
thoroughly apprehended law.
There was hardly time for even the realisation of a fear. The wave of
vague apprehension had hardly ruffled the girl's happy spirit when it
was confirmed. The hall door opened a little wider, a little figure,
evidently on the watch, rushed out.
"Aunty Woma," cried Floss, flinging herself into Miss Eyrecourt's arms,
forgetful of the certain amount of awe with which Roma still inspired
her, regardless of the awful presence of Mr Thurston; "Aunty Woma,
something dweadful has happened. The ponies has wunned away, and little
Tim has wunned home to tell. Uncle Beachey is killed quite dead on the
dot, Tim says, and I don't know where Aunty 'Genia is."
"What does she say?" asked Gerald, hoarsely.
"Tell him; say it again, Floss," said Roma, forcing her pale lips to
move; and as well as she could, for her sobs, the child repeated her
ghastly tale.
Without another word, Mr Thurston rushed off, and in an instant was
lost to Roma's sight among the thick growing shrubs that lay in the
direction of the stables. What became of Floss her aunt never knew;
probably in her intense anxiety to know more, the child followed the
person whom she imagined most likely to obtain further information.
However that may have been, Roma found herself alone--alone with this
strange dreamlike feeling of horror and grief for Beauchamp's untimely
fate, which it never occurred to her to doubt--alone with a yet more
terrible companion. What was the meaning of this sudden misery which
overwhelmed her? Whence had come this poisonous suggestion which, so
marvellously speedy is the growth of thought, had, even while the child
was speaking, sprung to life in her brain? Beauchamp dead, Eugenia
free, and the words which her newly made lover had spoken not an hour
before ringing in her ears:
"If she had not married it would have been different. I believe I
should have gone on hoping--"
How would it be now? What should she do? Oh, if only she had not
encouraged him to say more, for without encouragement, now whispered the
serpent in her heart, he would certainly not have said so much.
"Good God," thought poor Roma, in her anguish and self-horror, "what a
selfish wretch I am! What shall I do? How shall I bear it?"
The words uttered aloud recalled her somewhat to herself. She was
hastening to the house, intent on burying self at least for the
present--on seeing in what way she could be of use to others, when Mr
Thurston suddenly re-appeared. He came out by the hall door, hastened
up to her quickly but without speaking. He was deadly pale, and when
close beside her he seemed to move his lips once or twice before any
sound was audible. Then at last he spoke.
"Roma," he said, "wait a moment. There is no hurry. Everything has
been done. They have sent for doctors and all. It," he stopped, and
seemed to gasp for breath, "it happened near the Chilworth lodge. I am
just going there. I only came out to tell you. Floss's version was not
quite correct. Roma," he stopped again, "it is even worse--forgive me,
I cannot help saying so--it is not Beauchamp. It--it is Eugenia?"
The last words were hardly audible, they came with a sort of a sob. For
once in his life Gerald was utterly unmanned. But Roma heard them only
too plainly.
"Eugenia!" she cried, her voice rising almost into a scream; "oh no, Mr
Thurston, not Eugenia. You do not mean she is _dead_? Say, oh, do say
it is a mistake," she clasped her hands together in wild entreaty; "you
_must_ say it is a mistake."
He looked at her with unutterable pity, but shook his head.
"I cannot say so," he replied; "from what I was told it seems only too
certain. But I am going there at once. Will you come? no, perhaps you
had better not. I will let you know immediately what I find. It _may_
not be so bad. Roma, dearest Roma, do not lose heart so."
He would have put his arm round her, but she eluded his grasp.
"Don't touch me," she said, wildly, "you don't know how wicked I am. It
is true--I feel it is true. Oh, Eugenia! God forgive me. I think my
punishment is greater than I can bear," and before her lover could stop
her she had rushed into the house.
For a moment Gerald gazed after her in distress and bewilderment, half
doubting if he had heard aright.
"She does not know what she is saying," he decided. "My poor Roma, the
shock has been too much for her; but I cannot stay," and at a rapid pace
he set off across the park in the direction of the scene of the
frightful disaster.
Upstairs, meanwhile, Roma, locked into her own room, "matter-of-fact,
easy-going" Roma--Roma, "into whose composition entered no tragic
elements," Gerald Thurston's light-hearted betrothed of one short hour
ago, was passing through an agony of remorse, a very fiery furnace of
misery, such as falls to the lot of few women of her healthy, happy
nature.