“There is nothing to forgive,” she answered, trying to smile, though her quivering lips and tremulous voice were by no means under her control. “I have been ill, but not ‘dreadfully.’ When one is usually strong, I suppose even a slight illness shakes one’s nerves. I am still absurdly easily startled.”
The last few words came very faintly. The same bewildering sensation of giddiness that she had felt once before in her life came over Eugenia; a horror seized her that in another moment she would again lose consciousness altogether—what might she not say, how might she not betray herself in such a case, to him—to this man who belonged to Roma Eyrecourt, not to her? She was standing by the end of the bench; she turned, and tried to reach the seat, but she could not see clearly, every object seemed to dance before her eyes, she would have fallen had not Beauchamp darted forward, caught her in his arms, and almost lifted her on to the bench. His touch seemed to inspire her with curious strength, the giddiness passed away; she sat up, and shrinking back from his supporting arm with an unmistakable air of repugnance, whispered—for she had not yet voice to speak—“Thank you, but please go away, Captain Chancellor. I am quite well again now.” Considerably mortified, Beauchamp sprang back. He was at all times easily nettled and prone to take offence, and in the present case the unexpectedness of the repulse made it additionally hurting. He stood still for a minute or two, watching Eugenia, as she sat in evident discomfort and constraint under his scrutiny. Then he spoke again—“I would have left you at once, Miss Laurence,” he said, stiffly, “if you were fit to be left, but you really are not. If you will tell me, however, where I can find your friends I will go in search of them, and not trouble you any more with my unwelcome presence.”
She looked up wistfully into his face.
“I have offended you,” she said. “Oh, what shall I do? I don’t know what to do. Oh, why did you come here? You make it so difficult—so dreadfully difficult. I don’t blame you—I know you could not help it: but I have been trying so hard to forget you, and you won’t let me. You have no right to put yourself in my way; it is cruel and unmanly of you,” she went on, with a quick fierceness in her tone; “you know how weak and ignorant I am. Why can’t you leave me? But, oh, what have I been saying?” And with a sudden awakening to the inference of her words, an overwhelming rush of shame, bewilderment, and misery, she hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
This was altogether too much for Captain Chancellor. He flung himself on the seat beside her, clasped her in his arms, lavishing upon her every term of lover-like endearment.
“Eugenia, my dearest, my own darling!” he exclaimed, “I cannot bear to see you so. Why should I keep away from you? Fate is too strong for prudence. We cannot be separated, you see. I will break every tie, I will crush every obstacle that can come between us. Look up, my dearest, and tell me you will be happy, and will trust yourself to me.”
She did not repulse him now; she was too exhausted and worn out to struggle. She hardly realised the meaning of his words, but for this short minute she allowed herself to rest in his arms, with a vague feeling that it was only for this once—he must go away, he must marry Roma; it must be, he could not break his word; and she, Eugenia, would never see him again; she would not live long now, she had no strength to struggle back to common life again, as she had nearly succeeded in doing; it would be better for her to die quietly, and then it would not surely matter to any one that she had for this once smothered her maidenly dignify, had allowed the promised husband of another to hold her in his arms, to call her his dearest, to kiss her pale cheeks, and swear he would never give her up.
Suddenly an approaching footstep startled them. Only a very few minutes had passed since Beauchamp had first returned to her, but to Eugenia it seemed hours. Captain Chancellor got up from the seat and stood quietly beside her, as if engaged in ordinary conversation. The new-comer was only a stranger who passed by without noticing them, but the interruption recalled Beauchamp’s thoughts to outside matters.
“I think perhaps I had better go,” he said, reluctantly, “but I cannot leave you to find your way back alone. My friend, Major Thanet, is waiting for me a little further on. He is lame, and cannot walk home alone. Would you mind remaining here a very few minutes till I have seen him safe back to his room, and then I can return here for you?”
The anxious tenderness of his words and manner was very sweet, to Eugenia, but she resisted the temptation. She had had her moment of weakness, but that was now past and gone. Still, this was not the time or place for saying what had to be said, nor had she now strength for any discussion. So she merely answered gently, so gently that any possibility of offence was out of the question—