Not Without Thorns

Volume Three – Chapter Seven.

Roma to the Rescue

That he has his faults cannot be doubtful; for we believe it was ascertained long ago, that there is no man free from them.

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.”