But the “feeling for her,” giving itself vent in one or two instances in the direction of a disposition to patronise, was not responded to; and after a while the temporary sensation on the subject of Mrs Chancellor died away, especially when it oozed out that Lady Hereward had not yet called at Halswood.
Little cared Eugenia, as she ran upstairs to consult her lugubrious friend Mrs Grier on the subject of the prettiest and pleasantest rooms to be forthwith—fifteen days beforehand—prepared for her expected guests.
“My sister, Mrs Thurston, and my father, are coming the week after next,” she announced to the housekeeper, ignoring the possibility of the yet un-posted letter of invitation receiving any but a favourable reply. “You must let me know if you think of anything wanting for these rooms.” And the bright expectation in the young face touched even Mrs Grier’s unready sympathy in joy. She forgave Eugenia’s presumptuous rejection of the gloomy chambers, long since deserted in favour of more cheerful quarters, by the master and mistress of the house, where the funereal four-posters still reigned, and was inspired to suggest ever so many tiny wants and improvements which sent her young mistress off to Chilworth in the brougham, in a pleasant excitement of novel housewifely importance. It was but seldom that interests of the kind offered themselves to Eugenia—another of the unfortunate blanks in her new life—for Mrs Grier, notwithstanding her dreams and visions, was, practically, an excellent head of affairs. Everything about the house was always in perfect order. If the under-servants proved inefficient or otherwise undesirable they were sent away, and Mrs Grier or Blinkhorn procured others; if the dinner was not thoroughly to Captain Chancellor’s liking, one or other of this responsible pair was informed of the fact, and desired to see it remedied, or, in a case of unusual gravity, the “chef” himself would be summoned to receive personal instruction from his master, who considered himself, and very probably justly, no mean authority on gastronomical problems.
“There is really very little for me to do,” wrote Eugenia once to her sister. “Beauchamp does not care for me to meddle in the housekeeping, and I can see it is far better done than it would be by me. All the new furniture has come, and of course it is beautiful. I took a good deal of interest in choosing it, but it isn’t half such fun as when one has to think how one can make one’s money get all one wants. And I think the rooms are too big to enjoy the prettiness of the things. Do you remember the choosing of your drawing-room carpet? I am afraid, Sydney dear, I am quite out of my element as a fine lady. There are no poor people, even, that I can hear of. They all seem dreadfully well off, and well looked after by the clergyman and the agent and their wives. I wish I could study more, but I think I have got lazy, or else it is the difference of having to do everything alone. There are lots of books in the library—many whose names even I never heard. I wish I had papa’s direction! We get all our new books from town once a month, but they very seldom send the ones I want, and when they do I want you to talk them over with.”
Sydney sighed as she read this letter. It was not often Eugenia wrote so despondently, but Sydney’s perceptions were acute.
“Poor Eugenia,” she thought. “It isn’t only these outside things which are wrong, I fear. If other things had equalled her hopes, these would have been all right. The want lies deeper, I fear—the blank is one hard to fill. How I wish I could see her!”
The next week brought Eugenia’s invitation. It would have been difficult to decline it. “You must come,” she wrote. “I am living in the thoughts of it, Sydney; it will be absolute cruelty to refuse. I cannot tell you how I long to see you all again.”
So, though leaving home even for a few days, was now no small effort to Mr Laurence, and though Frank Thurston groaned a good deal in anticipation, he “hated fine houses and grand people,” and all his people, the East-enders of Wareborough, would go to the bad in double-quick time if he let them out of his sight for the best part of a week; who would take the night schools? who would see to the confirmation classes? etc, etc, etc—it ended, as Sydney had quietly determined it should, in a letter of acceptance being sent to Halswood by return of post. And Mrs Thurston took the opportunity of chaffing her husband a little on what she termed his growing self-conceit.
”‘Un bon prêtre,’” she said, ”‘c’est bien bon.’ I quite agree with Jean Valjean. But still, Frank, of the very best of things it is possible to have too much.”
Whereupon Frank told her she was very impertinent. There was little fear of these two misunderstanding each other.