“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the agitated damsel. “Oh, sir, you have come in. I am so glad.” (“What business is it of yours?” thought her master.) “My mistress is so anxious to see you at once, sir, please.”

“What is the matter? Where is your mistress?” he asked impatiently.

“Upstairs, sir, in her own room, packing,” she replied, rashly.

“Packing? What in all the world do you mean? Packing, where to go to? Are you all going out of your senses?” he demanded, with increasing irritation.

But Rachel, seeing which way the wind blew, had prudently fled. There was nothing for it but to go up to Eugenia’s room, and find out for himself the reason of all this disturbance.

Ten minutes later, the bell of Mrs Chancellor’s dressing-room rang sharply, and a message came down to Miss Eyrecourt, requesting her to go upstairs at once.

When Roma entered the room, there stood the husband and wife, the former looking out of the window, tapping his boots impatiently with the riding whip still in his hand; the latter by the side of a half-filled trunk, her face white and miserable, but with a gleam in her eyes which Roma had never seen there before.

“Roma,” she cried, as Miss Eyrecourt came in, with a passionate, appealing despair in her voice, “Roma, he won’t let me go! And my father longing so for me. Roma, speak to him.”

“Roma knows better,” said Beauchamp, with a hard little laugh. “Let you go? I should think not. You must be completely insane to think of such a thing. You who have been making yourself out too much of an invalid to go anywhere – why, you refused Lady Vaughan for this very evening! – to think of setting off on a three or four hours’ journey with a perfect stranger – a stranger to

at least, whom your father sends off in this helter-skelter fashion to fetch you, because he is not very well and nervous and fanciful. I never heard such a thing in my life! I can’t understand your complete indifference to appearances in the first place.”

Eugenia said not a word. Roma, knowing of old the mood which Beauchamp was in, controlled her indignation, though it was not very easy to do so.

“Perhaps you will come downstairs, and hear the whole particulars from Mr Thurston himself,” she said to Captain Chancellor, coldly. He took the hint, and followed her out of the room. Outside, on the landing, she turned upon him. “Do not think I am going to interfere,” she said quickly. “I know it would be useless. I don’t take upon myself to say that she should go, that she is well enough – though, to my thinking, the distress and disappointment will be worse for her than the journey – but in the thing itself you may be right. But this I do say, that the

way

you have done it, your manner to her, is simply,” she hesitated a moment, “brutal,” she added, with contemptuous distinctness. “Bringing in the vulgar question of ‘appearances’ at such a time!”

This was her parting shot. She turned and left him, and Beauchamp, without having replied to her by word or glance, stalked away downstairs to Mr Thurston.

He was very civil to Gerald, so civil as to make the new-comer feel that he was looked upon as a total stranger; so full of acknowledgments of the great trouble Mr Thurston had given himself, as to suggest that the qualification “unnecessary” was in his thoughts all the time. But Gerald did not care enough for the man to be annoyed or in any way affected by his opinion; he only cared for the errand he had come upon, and his disappointment was great when he found it was to be a fruitless one. He did not attempt to hide it.

“I am exceedingly sorry that Mrs Chancellor cannot return with me,” he said; “it is very unfortunate.”

“But, from what you tell me, there is no cause for pressing anxiety,” said Captain Chancellor. “Mr Laurence is not in a critical state?”

“There is no immediate danger, so at least the doctor assured me,” Gerald admitted. “But my own opinion is less favourable. I do not like this sudden feverish eagerness to see his daughter: it is quite unlike Mr Laurence. I confess, it made me very uneasy, and I dread the effects of the disappointment.”

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.

“I wonder how soon I may see my sister?” she was just saying, when a step in the hall caught her ear. It was Beauchamp. The door opened and he came in – came in, looking well and fresh and handsome – offensively well, thought Sydney; heartlessly cool and comfortable.

“This

kind, truly kind,” he exclaimed, really meaning what he said, but unable to throw off the “amiable” manner and sweet tone habitual to him when addressing any woman, especially a young one. “I had no idea you could have come so quickly. You have heard, I hope, how much better Eugenia is. All will now, I trust, go on well. She must have had a narrow escape, though,” and his voice grew graver.

“Yes,” said Sydney; “I am inexpressibly thankful. But,” she added, “the poor little baby?”

“Ah, yes,” replied Beauchamp, indifferently, “poor little thing! It’s a good thing it’s a girl, is it not? You would like to see Eugenia soon, would you not? The doctor said there would be no objection; she wishes it so much. I can’t tell you,” he added, as he led the way upstairs, “I can’t tell you how thankful I have felt that I prevented her going to Wareborough that day. The shock of finding it too late on getting there would have been even worse, and after a fatiguing journey too. Yes, I am very thankful I put a stop to that.” Sydney said nothing. She did not wish to yield to prejudice or dislike, but half a dozen times in the course of this five minutes’ conversation, her brother-in-law had grated on her feelings. It was very inconsiderate of him to speak so of the journey to Wareborough, which he must know had been her dear dead father’s proposal. She almost wished Frank had not told him Eugenia would have been “too late.” She had expected to find Beauchamp full of sympathy, and possibly of self-reproach; here he was, on the contrary, priding himself on what he had done! At least he might have had the grace to refrain from any allusion to so painful a subject. But she said nothing. And soon, very soon, she forgot all about it for the time, in the sorrowful delight of seeing Eugenia again, of listening to her murmured words of intense, unaltered affection, of gratitude and piteous grief.

“It was not the shock that did me harm,” she whispered to Sydney, later in the day; “it was

remorse

. Oh, to think of what he must have thought of me! My kind, good father!”

Then Sydney, who had hitherto dreaded the subject, saw that the time had come for delivering her father’s message. She did so, word for word as it had been given to her.

“And so you see, dear Eugenia,” she added, in conclusion, “you need have no remorseful feeling.

never thought you indifferent; and had you come, it would have been too late. Frank said so in his letter.”

“Thank God!” whispered Eugenia; “and thank you, Sydney. I think now a faint remembrance recurs to me of Beauchamp saying my going would have been no use. But I took it as merely a vague consolation of his own. Had I understood it properly, I might have controlled myself better, and then perhaps I would not have been ill. I don’t mind for myself, but the little baby. Oh, Sydney, my poor little baby! They say she cannot live!”

She turned her great sorrowful eyes to her sister, as if praying for a more hopeful verdict; but Sydney dared not give it. She had seen the poor little piteous atom of humanity. The only wonder to her was that it lived at all.

“And it would have been such a pretty baby!” she murmured. Then another thought struck her. “Has it been baptised?” she asked.

“Not yet. We sent to the Rectory, but Mr Dawes is away from home. Then I sent to Stebbing, and Mr Mervyn is coming – he will soon be here. That reminds me – let it be called ‘Sydney’ – my mother’s name and yours.”

“Will Captain Chancellor like it?” suggested Sydney, not without hesitation.

“He need not be asked,” answered Eugenia, quickly. “He cares nothing about it – it is not a

boy

!” with bitter emphasis. “No, it is all my own – living it is mine – dying, doubly mine. You will do as I ask, Sydney dear?” she added, the almost fierceness of her tone melting again into gentleness.

The little creature’s name never became a source of discussion. The feeble life flickered out that very night, leaving, short as had been its span, one sore, desolate heart behind it.

Yet, physically, Eugenia made satisfactory progress towards recovery. Sydney began to think of returning home, where her presence was much needed. She did not feel that after the first she was of much comfort to her sister; for as she grew stronger, a cloud of reserve seemed to envelope Eugenia – she to whom it used to be impossible to conceal the most passing fancy. To Sydney she was most loving and affectionate, never wearied of talking over old days, full of interest in the Thurstons’ home-life and prospects. But of her own life and feelings she said hardly a word. It might be right and wise to say nothing, where there was nothing satisfactory to say, thought Sydney; but all the same, it made her very unhappy. Knowing of old Eugenia’s inclination to extremes, she doubted if her grounds for disappointment and dissatisfaction were altogether real and unexaggerated. But she could not urge an unwilling confidence – especially on a subject of which she felt she knew too little to be a wise adviser. For her brother-in-law was almost a complete stranger to her. He was very civil and attentive to her the few times they saw each other during this week, and more than once repeated his thanks for her prompt, response to his summons; but when she said she must fix the day of her return home, he did not press her to stay.

“You must come again before long,” he said, “and by that time Eugenia will be all right again. I expect my sister here in a week or two, which will cheer us up a little. It will never do for Eugenia to yield to depression. The doctors assure me she will be all right if she will keep up her spirits, and Mrs Eyrecourt is just the person to discourage that sort of thing – low spirits and hypochondria.”

Sydney sighed. She knew very little of Mrs Eyrecourt, but she felt an instinctive doubt of her sister’s “grief being med’cinable” by such doctoring.

The day before she left, a little incident occurred which broke down temporarily one side of the barrier of reserve with which Eugenia had surrounded herself. Sydney was sitting by her sister’s bedside; the invalid lying so quietly, that the watcher thought she must be asleep. Suddenly an unexpected sound broke the stillness – an infant’s cry, once or twice repeated, then the sort of sobbing “refrain” with which a very sleepy little baby soothes itself to peace again.

Much annoyed, Sydney rose quickly but softly from her seat, and was hastening across the room, when Eugenia’s voice recalled her.

“What was that, Sydney?” she inquired. “I was not asleep.”

“I am so sorry, dear,” said Sydney, looking very guilty, the colour mounting to her forehead, “I am afraid it is my little boy. You know I was obliged to bring him; but I hoped this would not have happened. Mrs Grier gave us rooms at the other end of the house on purpose; but I suppose nurse, thinking him safely asleep, ventured along the passage.”

For a minute Eugenia did not speak. Then she said, gently, “Never mind, Sydney. Perhaps it is best. Kiss me, Sydney.” And when her sister’s face was closely pressed to her own, she whispered, “Even to you, dear, I can hardly tell

how

terrible is my feeling of loss – loss of what I never had, you might almost say. But oh, if you knew how I looked forward to what that little life would be to me! Sydney, if you are ever inclined to blame me, pity me too. I need it sorely.”

The sisters seemed almost to have changed places. Sydney could hardly answer for the tears that choked her. Eugenia was perfectly calm.

“Poor Eugenia, dear Eugenia!” said Sydney at last; “I do know a little at least of what you must be feeling. There have even been times in the last few days when I have not wanted to see my baby – when I have felt almost angry with him for looking

strong and healthy. Oh, poor Eugenia!” Eugenia drew her sister’s face down and kissed her again.

“Do you remember, Sydney,” she said, suddenly, “a day, long ago, when we were putting camelias in our hair? Mine fell off the stalk, and you said you would not wear yours either, because I had none.”

“Yes,” said Sydney, “I remember.” Then they were both silent.

“I should like to see your boy,” said Eugenia, in a little – “not to-day, perhaps, but before you go. Bring him to me the last thing, that I may kiss him.”

Sydney did so, “the last thing” before leaving the next morning. And thus the sisters parted again.

Three more weeks found Eugenia, comparatively speaking, almost well again, and beginning to resume her usual habits. It was the end of May by now; surely the loveliest season of the year, when the colours are brilliant yet tender with the dewy freshness wanting to them later in the year; when there is sunshine without glare, life in abundance with no attendant shadow of already encroaching decay. A season when happy people feel doubly so from nature’s apparent sympathy with their rejoicing, but a season of increased suffering to the sorrowful. Oh, but the sunshine can mock cruelly sometimes! And oh, the agony in the carols of the soulless little birds! And the flowers, even! How heartless the daffodils are, and the primroses, and worst of all, perhaps, the violets! How can you show your heads again, you terrible little blossoms, and in the self-same spots too, where last year my darling’s voice cried out in rapture that she had found you, hidden in the very lane where, day by day, in childish faith, she unweariedly sought you? Does she gather spring flowers now? Are there primroses and violets in the better land? There is “no need of the sun, neither of the moon” in that country, we are told; “there is no night there,” “neither death, nor sorrow, nor crying.” Should not this satisfy us? But it does not. We long, ah! how we long sometimes to know a little, however little more, to see if but for an instant the faces of the children playing in the golden street, by the banks of the crystal river.

Eugenia’s little baby’s death had been a bitter disappointment, but in its momentary life there had been no time for the gathering of hereafter bitter associations. Yet the bright spring days added to her sadness and exaggerated her tendency to dwell upon her losses. They had been many and severe, she said to herself: the father whose affection had been