“Or perhaps,” thought Eugenia, with a little pang, “she takes it for granted that I know more, that he has told me more than is the case. She may not know,” she added to herself, as if to suggest a ground of consolation, “how little opportunity there was for anything of the kind before we were married. And, after all, it was natural they should have a good deal to talk about, only seeing each other for one night and so much having happened since they met, and three are always an awkward party.”
Still no doubt she had felt a little lonely; and, inexperienced as she was, she had missed vaguely what she hardly knew she had expected—the being “made-of,” perhaps, as he would have been at home had Beauchamp taken her there for her first bridal visit instead of to Winsley—the sort of pleasant little temporary prestige that seems to come naturally to every young wife in the first blush of her new life. None of this had met her at Winsley. Tired as she was, she had dug deep down into one of her trunks to find the pretty simple bride-like dress which Sydney had begged her to keep fresh for the momentous occasion of “being introduced to Captain Chancellor’s friends;” but, so far as her two companions were concerned, it had seemed to Eugenia she might as well have kept on her travelling dress—better perhaps, for it was dark grey and would have seemed more in accordance with Mrs Eyrecourt’s deep mourning attire, which, it did strike her sister-in-law, she might for the first evening of their arrival have laid aside.
And all through dinner and through the evening that succeeded it, the conversation had not been about things in which the young wife could have easily taken part; about their travels, what they had seen etc, nor even about their future in a sense allowing her to make inquiries or remarks. It had been all about Halswood and the Chancellors and other people more or less concerned in the late changes in the family, but of whom Eugenia had never heard. And she had gone to bed at last tired and depressed, with a vague sort of feeling that she was a stranger and outsider, and a foolish, childish, vehement revolt against the life before her.
“I hate the very name of Halswood!” she said to herself, as she sadly unfastened the dress she had put on with some amount of pleasurable anticipation; “I have a conviction I shall not be happy there. I wish with all my heart that poor boy were alive again and that nothing of all this had come to Beauchamp.”
Her good sense, however, and previous experience prevented her expressing any of this to her husband; and her heart smote her a little when he kissed her as fondly as ever the next morning, and told her she had looked very pretty the night before, “he liked that dress.” Only he spoilt it a little by going on to remind her that she must see about mourning at once. Gertrude would advise her what to get and where to order it.
“Indeed she was a little surprised you had not thought of it in Paris. You could easily have left your orders and been fitted,” he said; “but, of course, as Gertrude remembered, you would not have known what dressmaker to go to, so perhaps it is as well as it is.”
Eugenia resisted the inclination to tell him that she felt quite equal to the management of her clothes without Mrs Eyrecourt’s assistance, and the momentary irritation passed away and she laughed at herself for having felt it. It was a bright morning, the view from her window was lovely, she had slept well, and she was only nineteen! It came naturally to her to take a more hopeful view of things than the night before, to make excuses for what had then appeared to her very wounding neglect, to think it after all possible that life might not be without its roses even at Halswood! Almost immediately after breakfast Captain Chancellor had to leave.
“It is such a lovely day, Beauchamp,” said Mrs Eyrecourt, “don’t you think it would be nice to drive to the station in the pony-carriage? I dare say you would like to drive him there, would you not?” she continued, turning to Eugenia. “My ponies are very good.”
“Thank you,” answered Mrs Chancellor, “I should like it very much, but I cannot drive.” She coloured a little, not so much from annoyance at having to confess her deficiencies, as from the consciousness of her sister-in-law’s eyes being fixed upon her in a sort of smiling, good-natured criticism. “I don’t know anything about horses,” she went on, in her nervousness falling into the unnecessary candour against which her husband had warned her. “I have never ridden or driven in my life. My father has no horses. We have never been accustomed to anything of the kind at Wareborough.”
“Oh indeed,” said Mrs Eyrecourt, urbanely.