Then came a second postscript:—
“I almost hesitate now about sending the first part of this letter, but perhaps it is as well to let it go. But do not let anything I have said hurt you, dearest Beauchamp. We can talk over all so much more satisfactorily, and I am sure you will believe I am only anxious to advise you for your good.”
Captain Chancellor started to his feet, threw the letter aside with an impatient exclamation, opened the door, and shouted to his servant to get him a Bradshaw at once and to hurry on with his packing; then returned to his room, deliberately filled and lighted his pipe, and set to work to collect his ideas. First of all he must write to Eugenia, explaining his unavoidable absence on the morrow, then he must find out the next train to Crumby, the great junction whence he must make his way to Halswood. It was very unfortunate, he thought to himself; peculiarly so at this crisis. He was really sorry to hear of Herbert’s death—the kindly, prosperous man so suddenly struck down—it was very melancholy and uncomfortable, and, he repeated, most peculiarly unfortunate that it should have happened just now. He understood Gertrude perfectly well; her “accidental” allusion to “that poor sickly Roger,” her sudden change to “dearest Beauchamp,” and promise of “advice.”
“Advice!” exclaimed Captain Chancellor, “what ‘advice’ do I want? The thing is done—‘fait accompli’—and no more to be said about it. Can’t she understand that? However, if she doesn’t, I’ll take care that she does without loss of time.”
Then he wrote to Eugenia the letter which chilled her with its apparent indifference, feeling himself the while a rather badly-used person and very much inclined to quarrel with Gertrude.
“Faugh!” he exclaimed, as he glanced again over Mrs Eyrecourt’s letter. ”‘Poor darling Addie!’ If anything could be wanting to make me more in earnest about Eugenia—supposing, that is to say, that there were any possibility of drawing back—it would be the sight of that fat girl, with her silly giggle and doll’s face.”
So Sydney Laurence’s wedding-day came and went. It was spent by Beauchamp Chancellor amidst the afflicted family at Halswood; poor Addie, who had truly loved her father, treating him to tears instead of giggles, her widowed mother to lamentations over her desolate state—“these two enormous properties and no male relation to relieve her of the burden of their management,” and embarrassingly broad hints of her wishes “that Addie were married to some one she could look upon as a son, some one her dear father would have approved of,” till Beauchamp found himself devoutly wishing he had made any excuse under heaven or earth to have avoided this painful visit to his relatives. For he was really sorry for them all; for poor Roger, whom he now saw for the first time—about whose delicate health there could be no doubt, and whose heart seemed broken by this great sorrow—perhaps most of all, and would have been glad to have cheered them.
“They are all so fond of you, Beauchamp,” said Mrs Eyrecourt, when they were alone together, the evening after the funeral—Captain Chancellor was to leave the next morning—“they seem to look to you so naturally. It is really very gratifying to find that Herbert had made you Roger’s guardian. He is terribly delicate, poor boy!”
“He is delicate, no doubt,” said Beauchamp, rather shortly, “but these delicate boys sometimes turn out perfectly strong men.”
“Sometimes,” said Gertrude, doubtfully. “He may do so, of course, but if he were my son I should be very unhappy about him. I should be very glad to see him grow stronger, poor boy, for his own sake and his mother’s, but it looks to me very uncertain. That is just the trial, Beauchamp—the trial to me, I mean, of your position now—its uncertainty. Of course I cannot pretend that your interests are not for nearer and dearer to me than Roger’s,”—she was too wise to attempt to speak any but her true feelings to one who knew her so well as her brother, even had she been addicted to protestations of disinterestedness, which she was not—“I cannot pretend that it would not be very delightful to me to see you the head of our family, the owner of this beautiful place, but my great dread for you is that of an uncertain position. If I could but have secured for you what would have placed you above very much caring how things here turn out! That is my great wish. That is what Mrs Chancellor has the comfort of feeling with regard to her daughters’ future, whether Roger lives or dies.”