A Fortnight of Folly

by Maurice Thompson; Hugh Conway

Many a lover has said an equally extravagant thing, but Eugenia Herbert knew that his words were not those of poetical imagery, and as she re-entered the house she trembled at the passion she had aroused. What if time and opposition should work a change in her feelings? She tried to reassure herself by thinking that if she did not love him in the same blind, reckless way, at any rate she would never meet another man whom she could love as she loved Gerald Leigh.

The sculptor went back to Paris—to his art and his dreams of love and fame. Two years slipped by without any event of serious import happening to the persons about whom we are concerned. Then came a great change.

Mr. Herbert died so suddenly that neither doctor nor lawyer could be summoned in time, either to aid him to live or to carry out his last wishes. His will gave Eugenia two thousand pounds and an estate he owned in Gloucestershire—everything else to his son. Unfortunately, some six months before, he had sold the Gloucestershire property, and, with culpable negligence, had not made a fresh will. Therefore, the small money bequest was all that his daughter could claim. However, this seemed of little moment, as her brother at once announced his intention of settling upon her the amount to which she was equitably entitled. He had given his solicitors instructions to prepare the deed.

James Herbert, Eugenia’s brother, was unmarried, and at present had no intention of settling down to the life of a country gentleman. Six weeks after Mr. Herbert’s death the greater number of the servants were paid off, and Acton Hall was practically shut up. Eugenia, after spending some weeks with friends in the north of England, came to London to live for an indefinite time with her mother’s sister, a Mrs. Cathcart.

Since her father’s death Gerald Leigh had written to her several times—letters full of passionate love and penned as if the writer felt sure of her constancy and wish to keep her promise. He, too, was coming to London. Had she wished it, he would at once have come to her side; but as it was he would take up his quarters in town about the same time Eugenia arrived there.

The hour was at hand—the hour to which Miss Herbert had for two years looked forward with strangely mingled feelings—when her friends must be told that she intended to marry the young, and as yet unknown sculptor, Gerald Leigh, the son of her father’s late tenant farmer, Abraham.

She loved him still. She felt sure of that much. If time and absence had somewhat weakened the spell he had thrown over her proud nature, she knew that unless the man was greatly changed the magic of his words and looks would sway her as irresistibly as before. She loved him, yet rebelled against her fate.

Her father had died ignorant of what had passed between his daughter and the young artist. Many a time Eugenia had tried to bring herself to confess the truth to him. She now regretted she had not done so. Mr. Herbert’s approval or disapproval would have been at least a staff by which to guide her steps. He had suspected nothing. The few letters which passed between the lovers had been unnoticed. Their love was as yet a secret known only to themselves.

She loved him, but why had he dared to make her love him? Or, why was he not well-born and wealthy? Could she find strength to face, for his sake, the scorn of her friends?