“Gerald,” she said to Mr Thurston, suddenly, after she had been sitting silent for some minutes. (They were in the gardens of the hotel at the time. It was Sunday afternoon and a mild April day; Mr and Mrs Dalrymple had gone to church again, but Eugenia and Mr Thurston had been tempted by the pleasant weather to play truant.) “Gerald,” said Eugenia, “I wish there was something that women could do.”
Mr Thurston turned towards her. She now looking straight before her with a puzzled yet earnest expression on her face.
“Something that women can do?” he repeated, not quite sure of her drift. “I thought there were lots of things. Most women complain of want of time.”
“So do I sometimes. I am never at a loss for occupation—that’s not what I mean,” she replied. “What I mean is, I wish there were bigger things—more useful things for women to do.”
“You have not been infected with the Women’s Rights mania, surely?” inquired Gerald, rather unresponsively.
“Of course not. Don’t laugh at me, Gerald. You can understand me—if you choose. I should like to feel I was of some use to somebody, and lately I have felt as if no one in the world would be the least bit the worse if I were out of it.” Here she blushed a little. “Now don’t you see if I were a man I could set to work hard at something—something that would be of use in some way. Put it to yourself, Gerald; suppose—suppose you had given up thoughts of—of being very happy yourself,” (here the blush deepened to hot crimson), “wouldn’t you naturally—after a while, you know—wouldn’t you set to work harder than ever at whatever you felt was your own special business—the thing you felt you were most likely to be of use in? Now a woman has no such field open to her.”
Internally Gerald had winced a little, two or three times, while Eugenia was speaking. Externally, he sat there looking colder and more impassive than usual. He had loved this girl, had set her up on the pedestal of ideal womanhood that somewhere or other exists in the imagination of every man not wholly faithless or depraved; she had fallen, it is true, in a sense, from this height, she had proved herself in his judgment to be but as the rest of her sex—childishly credulous, ready to mistake the glitter for the gold, honeyed words for heart devotion—yet still he cared for her, was tenderly anxious for her welfare. But of all things Gerald hated sentimentalism!
“There are plenty of Protestant sisterhoods,” he said, drily. “How would one of those suit you?”
Eugenia made no reply. After waiting a moment or two, Mr Thurston turned towards her again. To his surprise he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“Eugenia,” he exclaimed, softened at once, “have I hurt you? I did not intend it. I assure you I did not, in the least.”