Hours passed and still she lay awake, feverish, restless, and yet exhausted. When at last she fell asleep it seemed to her afterwards that it must have been close to morning. And the longed-for unconsciousness brought her but little repose, for it was broken by anxious distressing dreams, of which the only one she could recall with any distinctness was the last before she awoke. She dreamt that it was again the night of her father’s death, she herself was hastening to him with Gerald Thurston; they were driving furiously along a road of which some features seemed familiar to her, though at the same time she felt perfectly certain she had never traversed it before; and from time to time her companion added to her feeling of indescribable bewilderment by asking her if it would not be better to turn now and go the other way. She never seemed to answer him, but every time he made the suggestion, the invisible driver appeared to respond by turning sharply, and driving away faster than ever in an apparently opposite direction. Suddenly the scene changed, and Eugenia found herself by her father’s bedside, in the room she knew so well; and she became conscious of the strange dual existence familiar to us all in dreams, for while there in her father’s presence, waiting for her own arrival, she was yet driving on with Gerald; again she heard his curious monotonous inquiry, “Don’t you think we had better turn now and go the other way?” Another change; she was now in the old state bedroom at Halswood, where she had spent the night of her arrival there; she was still watching by a bedside, still waiting for her own appearance. Then the sound of the carriage wheels, of which all this time she had been conscious, grew louder and louder; she heard them rattling up the smooth carriage drive at Halswood as if it were a paved Wareborough street. A clock began to toll, the figure in the bed by which she was watching seemed to move, and a sudden horror seized her. In her dream-agony she rushed to the door of the room, and found it locked; in despair, it seemed to her, she screamed aloud with frantic vehemence, “Let me out, let me out;” and a voice, which she recognised as her husband’s, answered from the other side—“Too late, too late. Better turn now and go the other way.” And at this crisis she awoke.
It was broad daylight. Rachel was standing by her bedside, a cup of tea in her hand.
“What is the matter?” asked Eugenia, confusedly. Then, coming a little to herself, she sat up and looked at the girl. “My head is aching dreadfully,” she said, laying it back among the pillows as she spoke; “is that why you have brought me some tea, Rachel? Oh, no; of course you could not know. But there is something the matter, Rachel; you look as if there were.”
“No, indeed, ma’am, there isn’t; nothing, that is to say, except your head being bad. I was awake very early this morning, and I had my breakfast sooner than usual, and I thought you might like a cup of tea.”
“I am very glad of it,” said Eugenia, languidly. “But what made you get up so early. Had you a bad night too?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, thank you. I was wakened, by some visitors arriving unexpectedly about five o’clock. One visitor, at least. A young lady.”
“What an odd time to arrive,” observed Eugenia, carelessly. But, glancing at Rachel as she spoke, something in the girl’s manner again caught her attention. “Who is the young lady?” she asked, quickly. “Is it some one to see me—is it my sister?”
“No, ma’am, it is not Mrs Thurston,” replied Rachel, evidently afraid lest her words should cause disappointment. “It could not be Mrs Thurston, for she will only get your address this morning, you remember, ma’am. But it is some one for you. It is—”
“It is I,” interrupted a voice at the door. “May I come in, Eugenia?” and in a moment Roma Eyrecourt stood by the bedside. “You poor child,” she went on, hurriedly, as if to cover some embarrassment, and without giving Eugenia time to speak; “how burning your hands are, and your head too! I am not going to tease you, dear. I have come to do exactly what you tell me, except go away. You won’t send me away, Eugenia, will you?”
There was some anxiety in her tone; she leant over towards Eugenia as she spoke, and looked earnestly into her face with her beautiful, bright dark eyes—not keen or contemptuous now, but tender and loving, and almost entreating in their expression. The struggle, if there were one, was quickly over with Eugenia. She threw her arms round her friend’s neck and kissed her warmly. “It is very, very good of you to have come,” she whispered. “I know it is pure goodness that has brought you. I have tried to fancy I hated you, but I don’t. I love you and trust you. But, oh, Roma, I have been so miserable!”