“You must have irritated her,” he exclaimed. “I really thought you were more judicious, Sydney. It would have been far better to have said nothing till I came in, and then I would have put the whole before her clearly, but not so as to hurt her.” Sydney took the undeserved blame meekly, nor did she remind her husband that, in saying what she had, she had acted by his express injunctions.
“I blame myself for leaving her,” she said, sadly.
Then they set to work to think what was best to do. Frank’s first impulse was to trace his sister-in-law at once. There would be little difficulty in finding her, he said. It would be easy to discover the driver of the fly, and learn from him to what station he had taken her—for Wareborough boasted no less than three—and, once certain of the railway by which she had travelled, the rest would be easy.
“For it is not,” he said, “as if she had any particular reason for mystery. She is sure in any case to write to us in a day or two.”
In this Sydney agreed, so after talking it over a little more, they decided it would be best to take no such steps as Frank had at first proposed.
“The publicity of making any inquiries about her,” he said, “is one of the things most to be avoided. Besides I hardly feel that I have a right to take any such steps. I will write to Chancellor at once; I shall write very carefully, you may be sure. But don’t be uneasy, Sydney. We shall hear from her in a day or two, you’ll see.” Sydney sighed. There was nothing for it but patience.
“I wish Gerald were at home,” she thought. But he was not, and the next day or two passed very anxiously with Eugenia’s sister.
The elder Mr Thurston was at this time away on a fishing expedition, having allowed himself the rare luxury of a fortnight’s holiday. He had been fishing up, or down, the stream from which Nunswell takes its name, and for the last few days had made this little watering-place his headquarters. It was a Friday when Eugenia left Wareborough, and late on the following day, Gerald, having returned to Nunswell, there to spend Sunday in decorous fashion, was strolling in the public gardens—the very gardens where he had sat and talked with Eugenia, some fifteen or sixteen months ago—the same gardens where, the very next day, “time and chance combining,” Beauchamp Chancellor and she had met again—when something familiar, something indefinably suggestive in the gait and bearing of a lady walking slowly a little way in front of him, caught Mr Thurston’s attention. He was thinking of Eugenia at the moment. The resemblance of the figure before him to the object of his thoughts struck him suddenly as the explanation of his vague sensation.
“If Eugenia were dead,” he said to himself, “I should shrink from dispelling the illusion, as no doubt many a ghost could be dispelled; but believing her to be alive and well, I think I should like to see the face of that tall, black-robed lady. Very likely she is old and ugly.” And half smiling at his own fancies, he quietly quickened his steps so as to overtake her. It was not difficult to do so. The part of the garden where the two were walking was retired and unfrequented. There was hardly another person within sight. As Gerald’s increased pace brought him quickly on a line with the solitary lady, the sounds of his footsteps caught her ear. Just as he passed her, she mechanically turned her face in his direction. Mr Thurston’s nerves were under good control, but the start of almost incredulous surprise at seeing his own wild fancy realised, betrayed him into a sudden exclamation.
“Eugenia!” he said, impetuously, “Eugenia, is it really you?” And even while he spoke, he looked at her again more closely, with a new fear of being the victim of some extraordinarily strong accidental resemblance. But it was not so. Eugenia’s surprise, though considerable, was less overpowering than Gerald’s, and she answered him composedly enough.