Volume Three—Chapter Six.
Friends in Need.
Did I speak once angrily...
...You woman I loved so well,
Who married the other?
R. Browning.
The days were almost at their longest, but it was late enough to be nearly dark one evening, when a fly rattled along the street in Wareborough where the Thurstons lived, and drew up at the curate’s door. Frank was out: he had been sent for by a dying parishioner, and had warned his wife he might be detained till late—she had better not sit up for him. Sydney had just made up her mind to act upon this injunction, and was gathering her feminine odds-and-ends about her, previous to going to bed, when the unexpected sound of an arrival startled her in the midst of her housewifely “redding up.”
She was standing in the middle of her pretty little drawing-room, her work-basket in one hand, the book she had been reading in the other, the lamplight falling softly on her fair, quiet face and deep mourning dress—a peaceful, home-like picture, it seemed to the stranger, who suddenly came in upon the scene. A tall, black figure, with veiled face and shrouding drapery, stood in the doorway. Sydney was not hysterical, so she did not scream, but for a moment or two her heart beat fast, and her breathing seemed short and irregular. Who could it be?
“Sydney,” said the veiled woman, “don’t be startled, dear. It is only I.”
“Eugenia!” exclaimed the sister, scarcely less startled than before. “Can it be you, Eugenia? Oh, what is wrong? What is the matter?”
Before answering, the new-comer turned to the door, said a word to the servant waiting just outside—a word of directions as to paying the driver, for which purpose she handed her purse to Sydney’s mystified handmaiden—then, re-entering the room, she carefully closed the door.
“Can you take me in for a night, Sydney?” she asked. “You see, I have made sure of your doing so. I had nowhere else to go to.” She sat down, as she spoke, on the nearest chair: her attitude told of extreme dejection, her voice sounded faint and weary.
“Take you in, dearest? Of course we can, and with the greatest pleasure,” said Sydney, warmly. “Only—only—I fear—is there something wrong?”
“Yes,” replied Eugenia. “At least, I suppose you will call it something wrong. It is just that I have left him—left my husband—for ever.”
“Oh, Eugenia, oh, dearest sister, do not say so. It is too dreadful to be true. It cannot be so bad as that,” exclaimed Sydney, in horrified amazement. “Surely, dear, you don’t mean what you say—you cannot!”
“I do, though,” said Eugenia. “I left Halswood secretly this afternoon, and I never shall return there. It is done now; there is no turning back.”
“And why?” asked Sydney, striving to speak calmly, half inclined to think her sister’s brain was affected, yet, on the other hand, shrinking from the thought of what miserable story she might not be going to hear of terrible delinquency on Captain Chancellor’s part which had driven his outraged wife to this fatally decisive step. “I don’t like to ask you, Eugenia,” she went on, “but I suppose I must.”
“I will tell you all. I have been longing to do so,” returned Eugenia. “But, if you don’t mind, I should like to go upstairs and go to bed. I am so tired. Then I will tell you everything. May I have a cup of tea or a glass of wine? I have eaten nothing since the morning. I am so sorry to trouble you, dear,” as Sydney hastened away in search of the sorely-needed refreshment. “Frank is out, I suppose?”
Half an hour later, somewhat refreshed and revived by Sydney’s care, Eugenia told her story—told Sydney “all,” from the first faint misgiving as to the prospects of her married life—the first shadowy suspicion of her estimate of Beauchamp’s character having been a mistaken and illusory one; down through the long, painful struggle to blind herself to the truth, through the sad history of disunion and disagreement, of ever-increasing alienation, to the discovery of to-day—the discovery that, as she expressed it, “the one thing I clung to through all—the belief in his love for me, in his having loved me at least, was but a dream too—a part of the whole illusion—of the whole terrible mistake. For he never really cared for me, Sydney. When he left Wareborough that Christmas he had no thought of ever seeing me again; he had only been amusing himself. What happened at Nunswell was a mere chance—a mere impulse. He was in a mortified, wounded state from Roma’s rejection, and my evident devotion offered itself opportunely. I dare say he was sorry for me, too—pleasant to think of, is it not? I see it all as plainly as possible; the only thing that puzzles me now is, how I could ever have been so infatuated as to see it differently.”
“And did Mrs Eyrecourt really tell you all this?” inquired Sydney, for Eugenia had made no secret of the sources of her information. “When you taxed her, I mean, with the inferences to be drawn from the little girl’s chatter? I can hardly understand how your sister-in-law dared to say such things. Surely she might have tried to soften the facts!” She spoke indignantly, nevertheless she was conscious of a strong suspicion that her sister’s excited imagination had had to do with the filling in of some of the details which gave colour and consistency to the whole story.
“I made her tell me all,” answered Eugenia. “Not that she wanted to soften it, but at first she was a little frightened. Afterwards I do believe she enjoyed telling me, though all the while affecting to do it so reluctantly. She cannot understand where I learnt what I already knew, and she shall never know. Oh, Sydney, she said hateful things! When I asked her how she could have interfered between her brother and Roma, when I told her that by so doing she had ruined three lives, she said something about my romantic ideas, and hinted that if Beauchamp had known that he was to succeed his cousin, when he met me again at Nunswell, he would never have thrown himself away as he did. But I don’t think I minded that; it seemed too coarse to touch me. Then, at the end, she seemed to get frightened again, and tried to soothe me down. She reminded me that no wife should expect her husband’s full confidence as to the past, and she said that no girl could be so foolish as to imagine that a man like Beauchamp could have lived twenty-eight years in the world without love affairs of some kind. If it had not been Roma, it would have been some one else; I should think myself fortunate I had nothing worse to complain of. I dare say there is a sort of coarse truth in it—the world is a dreadful, miserable place; and, oh, Sydney, I wish I were dead!”
There was nothing for it but to soothe and caress her into temporary calm. She was too utterly worn out to be capable of being reasoned with; it would have been cruel to attempt it. Much as Sydney felt for her—intensely as she pitied her—she could not for a moment deceive herself into thinking that Eugenia had acted well or wisely. It had been a wild impulse that had urged her to this foolish, undignified step—so her best friends would say, and the world would say yet harsher things—yet, oh, poor Eugenia, how well Sydney understood the tumult of her feelings—the peculiar agony to her nature and disposition of the wounds she had received, the bitter anguish of the disappointments she had had to endure! It was with a very sore heart Sydney left her for the night; it was with no small uneasiness she reflected on what she had to tell her husband, and tried to imagine what course he would determine on pursuing. For in certain directions Frank could see but one road; rough and thorny though it might be, he sometimes showed but scant tenderness for those who, he decided, must walk therein. He was a good man—a good and true-hearted man, but of some kinds of trial and temptation he knew as little as his own baby son.
Sydney’s misgivings proved to be not unfounded. Eugenia slept till late the next morning, for the first part of the night sleep had deserted her altogether. It was so late when she woke that Frank had already left the house, Sydney told her.
“He has gone again to that sick man, and there is a meeting of some kind at one, so he will not be back till the afternoon; but he hopes to see you then,” she added.
“And was that the only message he left for me? Could you explain things to him at all—do you think he enters into my feelings?” asked Eugenia, anxiously.
“He was exceedingly surprised, and of course distressed,” answered Sydney, a little evasively. “We talked a great deal. Frank is very anxious about you, and very desirous of advising you for the best. Indeed he is, Eugenia; you must try to believe this, whether you agree with him or not.”
“That means, he blames me, and me alone, for my misery,” exclaimed Eugenia, impetuously. “You need not try to soften it to me, Sydney. Tell me all he said, plainly; though, truly, I think he might have had the manliness to say it to me himself, and not give you the pain of doing so.”
“You are mistaking him, indeed you are, dear Eugenia,” said Sydney, eagerly. “He is far, very far from blaming you only, and he is very sorry for you. All he says is, that this step that you have taken so impulsively is a sadly unwise one, and can do no good; and he says, your husband must be told where you are, immediately.”
“Has he gone, to tell him?” inquired Eugenia, bitterly. “He won’t find him at home. Beauchamp does not return till to-morrow.”
“Of course he has not gone. He would not do anything of the kind without telling you,” answered Sydney, with a little wifely indignation. “What Frank has made up his mind to is this—I was just going on to tell you,—either you or he, he says, must write to your husband to-night, telling him where you are, and asking him to come here to-morrow, or whenever he can, and then things must be talked over.”
“And I shall be taken home again—that is to say, if Beauchamp condescends to forgive me, like a naughty child?”
“Eugenia, don’t,” said Sydney, imploringly. “Frank will tell you what he thinks himself. He hopes indeed to show you that returning home is the only right course, but he does not think of you as you fancy. He is only so very anxious to show you what terrible harm may be done if this goes further, if—if it were to be talked about. For you know you have no real grounds of complaint.”
“I have not been beaten or starved, certainly,” said Eugenia. Then, with a sudden change of tone, “Sydney, I did not think you would have been persuaded to see things so. But suppose I refuse to be guided by Frank’s advice?”
“I won’t suppose it,” said Sydney; “Eugenia, you will think differently after a while. You don’t realise how terrible a thing you propose; you would be the last person to bear philosophically the sort of odium that always attaches itself to a woman in the position that yours would be. I do feel for you intensely; still I cannot but think there was exaggeration in this last trouble—I mean in what Mrs Eyrecourt told you. Things may yet be happier with you. But you must believe that both Frank and I are earnest in our anxiety about you. Of course Frank’s being a clergyman makes him express himself very decidedly, and he may seem hard to you. He has to be so very careful, too, to avoid the least appearance of—of anything that people could say ill-natured things about.” This last was an unfortunate admission. “I quite understand Frank’s feelings,” observed Eugenia. “I shall act with consideration for them.”
Her tone of voice was peculiar. Sydney could not understand it. “Then you will write?” she said, timidly, “or shall Frank?”
“He can do so if he likes,” answered Eugenia. “But there is no mystery about what I have done. I left a note for Beauchamp, and one for Mrs Eyrecourt. I made no attempt to conceal where I was going. I only came away quietly because I did not want any discussion. I should have brought Rachel with me, but she was here already. She came to Wareborough for a holiday last week. I must let her know I am here.”
It all sounded as if Eugenia meant to be reasonable, but Sydney felt far from satisfied. She thought it wiser, however, to say no more at present; not to irritate her sister by attempting to extort any promises. She was rewarded by Eugenia’s increased gentleness of manner. The rest of the morning passed peacefully; Eugenia seemed interested in seeing over Sydney’s house, and of her own accord proposed a visit to the nursery, where it went to her sister’s heart to see how she fondled and caressed her little nephew.
“And she used to hate babies so,” thought Sydney. “I wish Frank could see her now. Poor Eugenia!”
After luncheon Sydney was obliged to go out for an hour. She was distressed at having to leave her sister, but the engagement was one which could not be deferred, and Eugenia assured her she “did not mind being left alone.”
“I shall not be long,” said Sydney; “very likely I shall meet Frank, and we shall come back together.”
Eugenia kissed her as she was setting off, kissed her affectionately, and thanked her “for being so good to her.” So Sydney departed in much better spirits.
She did not meet Frank; her business detained her somewhat longer than she expected, an hour and a half had passed before she found herself at her own door again.
“Is Mrs Chancellor in the drawing-room?” she inquired of the servant, as she went in.
The girl’s wits were not of the brightest at any time. Now she looked confused and frightened. “I thought you knew, ma’am,” she exclaimed, “I fetched a fly immediately you had gone out, for the lady. She has gone.”
“Gone!” cried Sydney, in dismay, forgetful of everything except the shock of distress and disappointment.
“She left this note for you, ma’am,” added the servant.
“Perhaps she has gone home,” thought Sydney, with sudden hope. She tore open the envelope.
“Thank you, dearest Sydney,” said the note, “for your love and kindness. After what you have told me, however, of your husband’s feelings, I cannot stay longer with you. But do not be uneasy about me. I will write to you in a day or two. I cannot tell you where I am going, for I do not know myself. I am very miserable and very desolate; but I am not so selfish as to wish, to make you unhappy too.
“Your affectionate Eugenia.”
“What else is she doing than making me miserable too?” thought Sydney. “Oh, Eugenia, this is very cruel of you.”
Frank came in almost immediately. He too was greatly distressed, and at first a little alarmed, and in consequence of these feelings, after the manner of men, he relieved himself by scolding his wife.
“You must have irritated her,” he exclaimed. “I really thought you were more judicious, Sydney. It would have been far better to have said nothing till I came in, and then I would have put the whole before her clearly, but not so as to hurt her.” Sydney took the undeserved blame meekly, nor did she remind her husband that, in saying what she had, she had acted by his express injunctions.
“I blame myself for leaving her,” she said, sadly.
Then they set to work to think what was best to do. Frank’s first impulse was to trace his sister-in-law at once. There would be little difficulty in finding her, he said. It would be easy to discover the driver of the fly, and learn from him to what station he had taken her—for Wareborough boasted no less than three—and, once certain of the railway by which she had travelled, the rest would be easy.
“For it is not,” he said, “as if she had any particular reason for mystery. She is sure in any case to write to us in a day or two.”
In this Sydney agreed, so after talking it over a little more, they decided it would be best to take no such steps as Frank had at first proposed.
“The publicity of making any inquiries about her,” he said, “is one of the things most to be avoided. Besides I hardly feel that I have a right to take any such steps. I will write to Chancellor at once; I shall write very carefully, you may be sure. But don’t be uneasy, Sydney. We shall hear from her in a day or two, you’ll see.” Sydney sighed. There was nothing for it but patience.
“I wish Gerald were at home,” she thought. But he was not, and the next day or two passed very anxiously with Eugenia’s sister.
The elder Mr Thurston was at this time away on a fishing expedition, having allowed himself the rare luxury of a fortnight’s holiday. He had been fishing up, or down, the stream from which Nunswell takes its name, and for the last few days had made this little watering-place his headquarters. It was a Friday when Eugenia left Wareborough, and late on the following day, Gerald, having returned to Nunswell, there to spend Sunday in decorous fashion, was strolling in the public gardens—the very gardens where he had sat and talked with Eugenia, some fifteen or sixteen months ago—the same gardens where, the very next day, “time and chance combining,” Beauchamp Chancellor and she had met again—when something familiar, something indefinably suggestive in the gait and bearing of a lady walking slowly a little way in front of him, caught Mr Thurston’s attention. He was thinking of Eugenia at the moment. The resemblance of the figure before him to the object of his thoughts struck him suddenly as the explanation of his vague sensation.
“If Eugenia were dead,” he said to himself, “I should shrink from dispelling the illusion, as no doubt many a ghost could be dispelled; but believing her to be alive and well, I think I should like to see the face of that tall, black-robed lady. Very likely she is old and ugly.” And half smiling at his own fancies, he quietly quickened his steps so as to overtake her. It was not difficult to do so. The part of the garden where the two were walking was retired and unfrequented. There was hardly another person within sight. As Gerald’s increased pace brought him quickly on a line with the solitary lady, the sounds of his footsteps caught her ear. Just as he passed her, she mechanically turned her face in his direction. Mr Thurston’s nerves were under good control, but the start of almost incredulous surprise at seeing his own wild fancy realised, betrayed him into a sudden exclamation.
“Eugenia!” he said, impetuously, “Eugenia, is it really you?” And even while he spoke, he looked at her again more closely, with a new fear of being the victim of some extraordinarily strong accidental resemblance. But it was not so. Eugenia’s surprise, though considerable, was less overpowering than Gerald’s, and she answered him composedly enough.
“Yes,” she said, with a little smile—a smile that somehow, however, failed to lighten up her face as of old—a poor, pitiful, unsatisfactory attempt at a smile only. “Yes, it is certainly I. Are you very much astonished to see me? Where have you sprung from?”
“I have been fishing down the Nun,” he replied. “Are you staying here? Is Captain Chancellor here?”
“Yes and no,” she answered, with a very forced attempt at playfulness. “I am staying here, but alone.”
“Alone!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes, alone,” she repeated. “Why do you cross-question me so, Gerald? Why do you look at me so? I am not a baby. You are as bad as Frank. I wish I hadn’t met you. I didn’t want you to speak to me. I don’t want any one to speak to me. I have no friends, and I don’t want any.”
Then suddenly, to his utter amazement, she finished up this petulant, incoherent speech by bursting into tears. They were the first she had shed since she left Halswood; and once released from the unnatural restraint in which they had been pent up, they took revenge on it by the violence with which they poured forth. The position was by no means a pleasant one for Mr Thurston, though he did not share Captain Chancellor’s exaggerated horror of tears, or believe with him that they were invariably the precursors of hysterics. “Something must be wrong, very wrong, I fear,” he thought, and his unselfish anxiety and genuine pity for the suffering woman by his side quickened his instincts on her behalf. For a minute or two he walked on beside her in silence. Then, as they were approaching the more frequented part of the gardens, and her sobs gave no sign of subsiding, he spoke to her—quietly and kindly, but with a slight inference of authority in his tone, which, excited as she was, she instinctively obeyed.
“Suppose we turn and walk back again a little way,” he said. “You have over-tired yourself, I am afraid.”
She did not speak at once, but turned as he directed. He could see now that she was making strong efforts to control herself. When she thought that she could trust her voice, she spoke.
“I am ashamed of myself, Gerald, utterly ashamed of myself,” she said at last. “What must you think of me? I suppose I have over-tired myself. I have been walking about here nearly all day. I had nothing else to do.”
“And you are really alone here?” he inquired.
“Yes, except my maid, Rachel Brand; you remember her?—I am quite alone.”
“And how—how is it so?” he was going to ask, but stopped. “No,” he went on, “I will not presume on our old friendship to ask questions you may not care to answer; only tell me, Eugenia, can I be of any service to you?”
“None, thank you,” she answered sadly. “No one can help me. Even Sydney no longer feels with me—that is why I am here alone.”
“Your doubting Sydney makes me doubt if things are so bad as they seem to you,” he said, with a little smile.
“Don’t doubt it,” she said quickly. “They could not be worse, Gerald,” she added, after a little pause. “You have known a good deal about me—more perhaps almost than any one else. I will tell you the worst sting of my misery—I have come to know that my husband does not care for me—that he never has done so—that never a woman made a more fatal mistake than I when I married.”
Mr Thurston started violently; a sort of spasm of pain contracted his forehead—pain of the past, not of the present, so far as he himself was concerned.
“Eugenia,” he said, gravely, “from you, these are terrible words.”
“I know they are,” she said bitterly, “but I believe they are true. I married under a double delusion. But I believe I could have endured the one great disappointment of finding how I had overestimated my—my—never mind. I say, I think I could have learnt to bear my many disappointments, and make the best of my materials, had my other belief, my sheet anchor, not failed me as it has done. By the light of what I now know, I can see that for some time its hold has been growing feeble and uncertain on me, and in consequence my strength has decreased, my good resolutions have faded, till now I have nothing to hold to. I hardly care where I drift—what does it matter?”
“What does it matter?” broke out Gerald, indignantly. “Eugenia, do you know what you are saying? Oh, you foolish, presumptuous child! Does duty depend on inclination, do obligations cease to bind us when they become difficult or painful? Allowing that you have been deceived, allowing that you have found your life essentially other than you expected, does that set you free from responsibility? The world is bad enough already, but what it would be if we all regulated our conduct by your principles, I should shudder to think. And the cowardliness of it too! Eugenia, I thought you a woman incapable of thus deserting your post!”
The colour had mounted to Eugenia’s pale face, but the tears had ceased to flow. “You are very hard, Gerald,” she said at last. “You cannot possibly estimate my position correctly. I left my husband because I felt I should grow worse if I stayed, grow worse myself, and make him grow so too. For my belief in him once shattered, no link remained between us, no common ground on which we could meet. What could be the end of such a life?”
“What will be the end of the one you have chosen for yourself, and forced upon him?” asked Gerald. “Duties once discarded, we are not immediately allowed to console ourselves with others of our own choosing, as you will find to your cost. What are you intending to do—why did you come here?”
“I don’t know. It just came into my mind. I meant to wait here till something could be settled for the future. My husband is not the sort of man to force me to return: he is too proud. I don’t want any money from him. I have enough of my own. I suppose some sort of separation could be agreed upon. I have heard of such things.”
She spoke with a sort of dreary indifference.
“And, in the meantime, why come here alone? Why not go to Sydney.”
“I did,” she said. Then she went on to tell him why she had left his brother’s house. “Frank evidently disapproved of me altogether,” she remarked, “and even Sydney seemed to think I greatly exaggerated things.”
“As to that I can’t judge. I don’t wish to judge,” said Gerald, quickly. “Of course, I should suppose you have reason to trust implicitly the sources of the information on which you acted?” he looked at her keenly as he spoke. Eugenia slightly changed colour.
“My own instincts are not likely to deceive me,” she said, hotly. But her honesty pushed itself in, with some misgiving. “There is one person I should like to see—a person I trust thoroughly. Of course she can only confirm what I discovered, but still, strictly speaking, I suppose I should have her confirmation before I can say I am quite sure of what I acted upon.”
“Do you mean Miss Eyrecourt?” said Gerald.
“Yes,” answered Eugenia, looking up with some surprise at his correct guess.
“I am glad you trust her,” he said, briefly. They had turned again by now, and from time to time other strollers passed them, glancing at them in one or two cases, with the slight, indolent curiosity with which watering-place loungers inspect each other. Eugenia’s veil was drawn down, but her tall figure in its deep mourning garments could not but be somewhat conspicuous. Gerald chose the quietest paths, but still he grew uneasy. He did not like to leave his companion till he had seen her safely to her own door; his terror lest she should suspect him of suggesting the expediency of their separating, made it impossible for him to find any plausible excuse for saying good-bye: yet at every step he realised more painfully the awkwardness that might attend their recognition. “Ever so many Wareborough people come here,” he reflected, “and who knows but what by this time there is full hue and cry after the missing Mrs Chancellor. It is frightful to think what she is exposing herself to,” and, glancing at her as the thought crossed his mind, some irritation mingled with his pity. “She is too absorbed to understand it, but something must be done at once.”
“Does Sydney know where you are now?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, “not yet. But I am going to write to her to-night.”
When they had reached the house where she had taken rooms, Mr Thurston held out his hand in farewell.
“Won’t you come in, Gerald?” Eugenia asked.
“No, thank you. I have letters to write, and the post leaves early. You must take care your letter is in time.”
“Yes,” she answered, absently, adding, “If you won’t come in to-night, will you come and see me to-morrow? I—I will try to think of what you have said, if it is not too late.”
“Then you don’t think me hard and cruel?” he said, gently.
“No, oh no. I only thought you could not understand.”
“This much I understand,” he replied. “You have suffered a great deal, where many women would have suffered little. It is your nature to, do so. Therefore, I dread for you, with unspeakable intensity, the deeper suffering you would bring upon yourself—most of all the knowledge, which, sooner or later must come to you that you had done wrong, grievously wrong—for it is not a case where duty is difficult of recognition.”
She did not answer, but sometimes silence is better than words. She went upstairs to the neat, bare, unhomelike lodging-house drawing-room, and sat down to think. She thought and thought so long and so deeply, that poor Rachel knocked several times before she was heard, and, unfortunately, it was past post-time! So no letter reached Wareborough the next morning.