Not Without Thorns

Beauchamp smiled. There was a slight superiority in his smile. At another time it might have irritated Gerald as it did Roma, who had re-entered the room.

“I can’t say that I see any grounds for uneasiness in what you mention,” Beauchamp said. “Every one knows how fanciful sick people are. And as for the disappointment, there need be none, I hope. I shall see my wife’s medical man to-morrow, and, if he approves, I shall bring her over to Wareborough myself in a few days. A very different thing from acting without his approval.”

And with this, Gerald had to be content. There was reason in what Captain Chancellor said, but his evident consciousness of being the only reasonable one of the party made it all the more irritating to have to abide by his decision.

“Mr Thurston,” said Roma, when, for a moment, they were alone, just as he was leaving, “Eugenia asked me to beg you to forgive her not coming down again, and she told me too, to thank you ‘very, very much.’ And will you add to your kindness by writing to her to-morrow, and saying exactly how Mr Laurence is, and how he bore the disappointment.”

“Certainly I will,” said Gerald. “I will write to-night, if the post is not gone. Our post is late.”

“And,” added Roma, hesitatingly, “you will prevent their thinking it her fault. I mean, you will prevent their thinking her indifferent or careless, without, of course, blaming any one else, if you can help it.” She grew a little confused. “It is not a case in which any one can interfere, but oh, I am so sorry for her!” she broke out.

Mr Thurston’s eyes looked the sympathy he felt, but he did not say much.

“I think you may trust me,” he said at last. “I will try to explain it as she – and you – would like. And after all,” he added, by way of consolation, as he shook hands, “perhaps we are rather fanciful and exaggerated. I could not help thinking so when Captain Chancellor was speaking.”

It was nearly time for Roma herself to go. She went up again to Eugenia. She found her standing by the window, which overlooked the drive, watching Gerald’s fly as it disappeared.

“Did he promise to write?” she asked as Roma came in.

“Yes, to-morrow, certainly – possibly to-night.”

“Did you say anything more to him, Roma? Did you ask him to tell them how I longed to go – how it was not my fault?”

“Yes – at least, I told him how earnestly you wished to go, but that it could not be helped. It would not have done to have let them think there had been any discussion about it, would it? And perhaps Beauchamp is wisest. I blame myself for having seemed to take your going for granted, at first.”

“You need not. You have been very good to me,” said Eugenia. And then the two kissed each other, a rare demonstration of affection for Roma.

She offered to defer her journey to Deepthorne, to stay at Halswood as long as Eugenia liked. Beauchamp’s wife thanked her, but said, “No, any ‘to-do’ would run the risk of annoying him,” and Roma, knowing this to be true, and not a little uncertain besides what place she at present held in the good graces of the master of the house, did not persist.

So she drove away to Stebbing, and Captain Chancellor in due time departed to his dinner-party at Sir Bernard Vaughan’s, and Eugenia was left alone.

Afterwards, Roma wished that she had stayed.

Volume Three – Chapter Five.

The Last Straw

Oh Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,
That changeth as the mone!
My somer’s day in lusty May
Is derked before the none.

    The Not-Browne Mayd.
There was no letter the next morning. “Gerald must have been too late,” thought Eugenia, trying to think she did not feel anxious. But the morning after that there was none either – none, at least, that she caught sight of at first. There was one with the Wareborough postmark, but it had a black seal and was addressed to her husband, and he prevented her seeing it till he knew its contents. Then he had to tell her. It was from Frank. Eugenia never knew or remembered distinctly anything more of that day, nor of several others that succeeded it. And Captain Chancellor never cared to repeat to any one the wild words of reproach which, in the first moment of agony, had escaped her. But, satisfied though he was that he had acted for the best, there were moments during those days when Beauchamp was thankful to recall the assurance which Sydney’s husband had had the generous thoughtfulness to give in this letter. “Even if Eugenia had returned with my brother it would have been too late;” an assurance which Eugenia’s stunned senses had failed to convey to her brain.

This was the history of that day at Wareborough – the day, that is to say, of Gerald’s unsuccessful errand.

As soon as he was satisfied that Eugenia had been sent for, Mr Laurence became calmer. He slept at intervals during the day, and when awake seemed so much better that Sydney almost regretted the precipitancy with which she had acted on what was, perhaps, after all, only an invalid’s passing fancy. But by evening she came to think differently. The nervous restlessness returned in an aggravated form. Every few minutes he asked her what o’clock it was, and she, understanding the real motive of the question, replied each time with a little addition of volunteered information.

“Seven o’clock, dear papa; they may be here by nine, you know;” or, “a quarter to eight; they will be about half-way if they started by the later train.”

Between eight and nine, to Sydney’s great relief, her father fell asleep again. She dared not leave him, but sat beside him, watching his restless slumber; wearied herself, she had all but fallen asleep; too, when she was startled by his suddenly addressing her.

“Sydney,” he said, “tell me – Eugenia?” His voice was clear, and stronger than it had been of late, yet he seemed to find difficulty in expressing himself. A strange fear seized Sydney.

“Not yet, dear father,” she said, consolingly. “She has not come yet. But very soon she must be here.”

He looked at her earnestly, as if striving to take in the sense of her words. “No,” he said, at last, “no, it will be too late.” Then a smile broke over his face. “Good-bye, dear Sydney, dear child. Tell Eugenia not to grieve. It is not for long.”

Sydney had seen death, but never a death-bed. Death, when all the life-like surroundings are removed, when the last tender offices have been performed, and the soulless form lies before us in solemn calm; in this guise death is easier to believe in – to realise. But dying, the actual embrace of the grim phantom – a phantom only, thank God – she had never seen, and it came upon her with an awful shock. For some minutes – how many she never knew – she stood there beside the bed, in agonised bewilderment, almost amounting to unconsciousness. The first thing that brought her to herself was the sound of wheels rapidly driving along the street, suddenly stopping at their door.

“Eugenia!” cried Sydney, “oh, poor Eugenia! She has come, and it is too late.” Then a mocking hope sprang up in her heart. “Perhaps he has only fainted,” it whispered. She knew it was not so, yet somehow the idea gave her momentary strength. She rang the bell violently. In another moment her husband and the servants were beside her. But in an instant they saw how it was – the good, kind father, the gentle-spirited scholar, the earnest philanthropist had passed through the awful doorway – had entered into “the better country.” And Eugenia had not come!

Sydney did not see her brother-in-law that night, but the next day he told her all – not quite all, but enough to prevent her blaming Eugenia – to fill her with unspeakable pity for her sister. To Frank, Gerald was somewhat less communicative.

“Fine lady airs and nonsense,” exclaimed the curate. “Not well enough, indeed! Think how Sydney has been travelling about with her father and wearing herself out, poor child. Still I am very sorry for Eugenia. It will be an awful blow to her.”

And the letter he wrote to Beauchamp, deputing him, as was natural, to “break the sad tidings” to his wife, was kind and considerate in the extreme.

Return of post brought no answer, considerably to their surprise, for Frank’s letter had contained particulars of the arrangements they proposed, among which Captain Chancellor’s presence at the funeral had of course been mentioned. Sydney felt anxious and uneasy; her husband tried to reassure her by reminding her that her nerves had been shaken, and she was inclined to be fanciful in consequence.

“It must be some accidental delay,” he said. “Letters seldom go wrong, but when they do, it is sure to happen awkwardly. Besides, I think it just possible Chancellor may be bringing Eugenia over. She will probably wish it.”

As he spoke there came a loud ringing at the bell. Sydney started. In the sad days of death’s actual presence in a house such sounds are rare. There were grounds for her apprehension. In another moment a telegram was in Frank’s hands.

“From Captain Chancellor to Rev. F. Thurston.

“Is it possible for Sydney to come at once? E – is very ill.”

The husband and wife looked at each other.

“My poor Sydney,” said Frank, “it is very hard upon you.”

Within an hour, Sydney was on her way to Halswood. It was a strange, melancholy journey. Arrived at Chilworth, she found the Halswood carriage in waiting, on the chance of her early arrival, and drove off at once. How pretty and fresh, how mockingly bright, the country looked, in its as yet unsullied spring dress! How beautiful the park was, when the carriage turned in at the lodge, and there stretched out before her view, on each side, the broad, undulating sweep of grassy land, fringed round with noble trees! Sydney was town-bred; she loved the country with the yearning, enthusiastic, half-reverent love of one who seldom breathes the fresh, pure air, to whom the country sights and sounds are fascinatingly unfamiliar. In a moment’s forgetfulness she glanced at the baby by her side, asleep in the nurse’s arms: “How fortunate Eugenia is,” she thought, “to have her home here – to be able to look forward to bringing up her children in this lovely place.” Then she remembered all, leant back in her seat, and was conscious of no other feeling save the gnawing anxiety that had accompanied her all the way.

When she reached the house, she learnt, somewhat to her surprise, that her brother-in-law was not in. He had only gone out for a stroll in the park, by the doctor’s advice, having been up for two nights and being much fatigued – of course, not thinking it would be possible for Mrs Thurston to arrive so early – was what Blinkhorn informed her, adding, in answer to her eager inquiry, as he condescendingly showed her into the morning-room, that his mistress was “Better – decidedly better. Good hopes were now entertained of her recovery.”

Then Sydney had an interview with Mrs Grier, in her element of lugubrious excitement. In somewhat less sanguine terms, she confirmed the favourable report. “But the baby,” she went on to say, “was in a very sad way, poor lamb! – only just alive, and no more.”

“The baby!” repeated Sydney, in amazement. “I had no idea – I had no thought of a baby for a long time to come.”

“I or any one else, ma’am. It is very hard upon it, poor innocent! to have been hurried into this sad world, this valley of tears, so long before it should have been. But it cannot live, ma’am – they say it is quite impossible; and I am sure there are many of us – myself for one – that will feel it is to be envied.”

“Has my sister seen it? A boy, is it?” asked Sydney.

“No, ma’am – a girl, fortunately,” replied Mrs Grier, with a curious mingling of conventional sentiment with her unworldly aspirations. “My mistress has seen it, for a moment, – this morning early, when for the first time she seemed quite conscious. It was then she asked for you, and my master sent at once. Poor dear lady! how pleased we were, to be sure.”

Real tears shone in the housekeeper’s eyes, and Sydney began to like her better.