Not Without Thorns

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 bêtes 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 tête-à-tête 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.”