Not Without Thorns

“Better that they should think I have grown cold and indifferent even,” she thought, “than that they should suspect the truth.” But no one except Frank had at this time thought anything of the kind.

“I won’t go, another time,” he growled. “I never heard anything so cool in my life. If it is Eugenia’s own doing, I don’t want to have anything more to say to her. If not, I pity her, but she chose her husband herself.”

And Sydney had some difficulty to smooth him down again, and to gain his consent to the acceptance of the second invitation when in course of time it made its appearance.

It was accepted, but the visit did not take place. Before the date fixed for it arrived, Mr Laurence had another attack of illness, from which he only recovered sufficiently to be moved to a milder place, where for a few weeks, Sydney, though at no small personal inconvenience, accompanied him. Something was said by her in one of her letters to Eugenia, suggestive of her joining them and taking her share in the nursing and cheering of their father; but the proposal met with no response. Loyal and true-hearted as she was, Sydney felt chilled and disappointed, and said no more. But all through the winter, in reality passed by Eugenia in loneliness, and suffering, and yearning for sympathy, which only a mistaken desire to spare her sister sorrow prevented her expressing – all these months Sydney pictured her as happy and prosperous, so free from cares herself as to be in danger of forgetting their existence in the lives of others. For the more steadily hopeless Eugenia grew, the more cheerfully she wrote. And forced cheerfulness often bears a strong resemblance to heartlessness.

“I am glad and thankful she is happy,” thought Sydney, “and she certainly must be so, for it is not in her to conceal it if she were not; but I did not think prosperity would have changed Eugenia.”

Nor would she, for any conceivable consideration, have owned to any one, least of all perhaps to her husband, that she did think so.

Mr Laurence had fortunately no misgivings on the subject of his elder daughter. She was happy, she wrote regularly and affectionately – she had twice fixed a time for him to visit her, but circumstances had come in the way. It was all quite right. He loved her as fondly as ever, with perhaps a shade more fondness than the child “who was ever with him,” whose new ties had in no wise been allowed to interfere with her daughterly devotion; it never occurred to him that Eugenia’s affection could be dimmed.

“I should like to see her,” he said sometimes – “I should like to see her very much – in her own home too. But by the spring we shall be able to arrange for it; by the spring, no doubt, I shall be more like myself again, and able to manage a little going about. We must go together, Sydney, my dear, as Eugenia wished.”

And Sydney said, “Yes, by the spring they must arrange it.” But a shadowy misgiving, that had visited her not unfrequently of late – a little, painful, choking feeling in her throat, a sudden moisture in her eyes, made themselves felt, when she looked at her father’s thin, worn face, and heard him talk about “the spring;” and she wondered, as so many loving watchers wonder, “if the doctors had told her the whole truth.”

There had always been a certain unworldliness about Mr Laurence – a gentle philosophy, an unexacting unselfishness, and of late all these had increased. Practical as he had proved himself in his far-seeing philanthropy, he was a man to whom it came naturally to live much in the unseen, to whom the thought that “to this life there is a to-morrow,” was full of encouragement and consolation – a to-morrow in more senses than the one of individual blessedness – a to-morrow when the work begun here, however poor and imperfect in itself, shall be carried on, purified, strengthened, rendered a thousand times more powerful for good – a to-morrow even for the races yet unborn in this world. All this he believed, and his life had shown that he did so. Yet many people shook their heads over his “want of religious principle,” his “dangerously lax notions,” and prophesied that no blessing could follow the labours of such a man. But such sayings little troubled Sydney’s father. He smiled with kindly tolerance, and thought to himself that some time or other such things would come to be viewed differently.

About the middle of February, Mr Laurence and his daughter returned home to Wareborough. On the last day of March, Sydney’s boy was born – a strong, handsome, satisfactory baby – with whom the young parents were greatly delighted. Sydney recovered her strength quickly, and before April was over, Mr Laurence, who had seemed much better of late, and who had taken wonderfully to his grandson, began to talk again of the often-deferred visit to Eugenia.

“It would be a nice little change for you, Sydney, and Eugenia would be so pleased to see her little nephew. Her letters are full of questions about him. I have a great, mind to write to her myself, and ask what time next month would be convenient for her to receive us. I think my doing so would please her. I should be sorry for her to think we had not taken the first opportunity of going to see her. They are sure to be at home next month?”

“Yes,” said Sydney, “I remember Eugenia’s saying in one of her letters, that they were not going to town this year. I don’t know why, for not long ago she said something about their probably buying a house in town. Well, father dear, baby and I – and Frank too, I dare say – will be ready whenever you arrange for it with Eugenia.”

But Mr Laurence never wrote. The very next day – it was early in May now – the Thurstons got a message, asking Sydney to go to see him as soon as she could. There was “nothing very much the matter,” said the note, which he had written himself – “a slight return of the old symptoms,” that was all; but it was enough to send his daughter to him without loss of time. Enough, too, to make the doctors look grave, and warn Mrs Thurston that there was every appearance of a long and trying illness before them, unless the next day or two brought a decidedly favourable change. No such change came. Divided between anxiety for her father and for her little infant, Sydney had almost more upon her hands than she could overtake. A few days after the commencement of Mr Laurence’s illness, the Thurston household took up its quarters temporarily in Sydney’s old home, that she might be the better able to give to her father the constant care and attention he required. At first he seemed to improve again, and Sydney was able to send a better report to Eugenia. But another week saw a change for the worse. Nothing very serious, said the doctors – nothing to cause immediate anxiety – but sufficiently discouraging, nevertheless. And then there came the usual injunction, “At all costs, the patient’s spirits were to be kept up, his every wish complied with.”

One morning Mr Laurence woke out of an uneasy sleep in a state of feverish agitation unusual to him.

“Sydney,” he said, excitedly, when his daughter entered the room, “I have had a painful dream about Eugenia. It seemed to me that she was unhappy. I must see her at once. If I were well I would go to her. As it is, you must send for her. Do you think she can come to-day? I cannot rest till I have seen her.”

Sydney was greatly startled, but she retained her presence of mind.

“I will see about it at once,” she replied, soothingly, “and no doubt she will come immediately. I wish I had thought of it before, dear father; but we fancied you would enjoy seeing her more when you were a little stronger.”

“Never mind,” he said: “it will be all right if you will send at once now.”

Two hours later Sydney came back to tell him it was done. A messenger had already started for Halswood. “I thought it better than telegraphing,” she said; “they are so far from the station;” but Mr Laurence did not seem to care to hear any details. He was quite satisfied with knowing that the thing was done, and before long he fell asleep again and slept calmly.

About three o’clock that afternoon a Chilworth fly drove up to the front entrance of Halswood; a gentleman alighted, rang the bell, and inquired if Captain Chancellor were at home. He was answered in the negative, the master of the house was out, would not be in till between four and five.

“Mrs Chancellor, then?”

Disappointment again. She was not well enough to see visitors. Could the gentleman send in his message?

The gentleman hesitated. The position was an awkward one. “Is there no one I can see? No friend, perhaps, staying in the house?” he inquired at last.

A gleam of light – the footman, murmuring an unintelligible name, turns appealingly to Mr Blinkhorn in the background, who comes forward.

“Miss Heyrecourt is staying here at present, sir – a relation of my master’s,” Mr Blinkhorn condescended to explain, going on to express his readiness to convey the stranger’s card to the young lady if he would favour him with the same.

A look of relief overspread the countenance of Gerald Thurston, for he it was who had undertaken to carry the sick man’s message to his daughter, Frank being hopelessly engaged in clerical duties.

“Miss Eyrecourt?” exclaimed Mr Thurston, hunting for a calling-card; “I am very glad to hear it. She will see me, I am sure.”

Mr Blinkhorn and his satellites thought this looked suspicious, and afterwards retailed the stranger’s delight at the mention of Miss Eyrecourt’s name for the benefit of the servant’s hall. In another minute Gerald was shaking hands with Roma, and explaining to her the reason of his sudden appearance. At first her expression was bright and cheerful; she was evidently pleased to see him again and interested in what he had to tell. But as he went on, her face grew grave – graver even than there seemed cause for.

“There is nothing immediate to be feared,” Gerald said, in conclusion; “Mr Laurence may linger for months as he is, or he may, it’s just possible, he may recover. I saw the doctor after I had seen Sydney this morning. I thought it would be more satisfactory for Eu – for Mrs Chancellor to hear I had done so.”

“Yes,” said Roma, “it was a good thought;” but she spoke a little absently, and still looked very grave. “I hope Eugenia will be able to go at once,” she went on. “She is not very strong, but I think she is quite well enough to go, and I am sure she will think so. Only you know,” with a smile, “she must consult her husband too, and I don’t know what he will say. You see, she has been more or less an invalid for so long.”

“I did not know it,” said Gerald, with concern and surprise. “Indeed, I don’t think Sydney does.”

“Does she not?” exclaimed Roma. “Eugenia must have concealed it then. A mistake, I think. Those things always lead to misapprehension. But she is really much better now. Shall I go and tell her? She had a headache to-day, that was why she didn’t want to see any one. There is not much time to spare. When did you say you must leave?”

“The best train leaves Chilworth at six; the next at 7:30,” he replied.

“Well, I must tell her at once, then,” said Roma. “I am leaving here myself at five. I have only been here two days, on my way, or rather out of my way, north. I spend to-night at Stebbing with some friends who happen to be going north too, to-morrow.”

“You should have come by Wareborough again,” suggested Gerald. “I am sure Mrs Dalrymple would have been delighted to see you.”

“Next time, perhaps,” answered Roma. Then she added, with a smile, “I am quite getting to like Wareborough – or, at least, some of the people in it – though I used to think it such a dreadful place.”

Suddenly something in her own words made her blush and feel ashamed of herself. “I must go to Eugenia,” she said, hastily, leaving the room rather abruptly as she spoke.

“I wonder what there is about that Mr Thurston that always makes me behave in his presence like an underbred schoolgirl?” she thought to herself, as she went upstairs.

Barely five minutes – certainly not ten – had passed when the door of the room where Gerald was waiting opened, and Eugenia herself appeared. He had turned, expecting to see Roma again; a slight constraint was immediately perceptible in his manner when he saw who the new-comer was. The last time he had seen her had been on her marriage day. At first sight he hardly thought her much altered. She did not look ill, for the excitement of Roma’s news, the eagerness to hear more, had brought a bright colour to her cheeks. When it faded again he saw how pale she really was.

“Oh, Gerald!” she exclaimed, with all her old winning impulsiveness, “how good of you to come! How very good of you t Of course I shall go back with you at once. And Roma tells me there is no actual cause for more anxiety? You are sure of that, are you not, Gerald?”

He repeated to her word for word what the doctor had said to him that morning. She felt he was speaking the truth, and seemed satisfied.

“I expect Beauchamp in directly,” she said, looking at her watch. “He will probably want to take me home himself, but I shall try to persuade him not. He is going out to dinner to-night. It will be quite unnecessary for him to come. I shall tell him he may come to fetch me if he likes.”

She spoke confidently, but with a certain nervous hurry of manner new to her, and that did not escape Gerald’s observation. Just then Roma joined them. A sudden thought struck Eugenia.

“You have had nothing to eat, Gerald,” she exclaimed. “Roma, dear, would you ring and order some luncheon in the dining-room? I think I must run upstairs again and hasten Rachel. She is not accustomed to sudden moves.”

Captain Chancellor came home from his ride about the time he was expected. He was a very punctual man. He came in at a side door, without ringing. The first sign of life that met him as he crossed the hall, was the sight, through the half-open dining-room door, of an entertainment of some kind going on within. An impromptu repast at which the only guest was a stranger, a man, that was all Beauchamp could see, for the unknown was sitting with his back to him, but as he looked, a still more astonishing sight met his eyes, Roma, no less a person than Roma, was keeping the stranger company!

Who on earth could it be? Beauchamp hated unexpected visitors, and irregular meals and “upsets” of every kind; above all he hated that anything should take place in his own house without his knowing all the ins and outs of it. Vaguely annoyed, he was turning to make inquiry, when an eager voice arrested him. It was the voice of Rachel, a very flushed and excited Rachel. Captain Chancellor objected to the lower orders displaying their feelings in his presence, and at the best of times there was a latent antagonism between Eugenia’s husband and her maid.

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the agitated damsel. “Oh, sir, you have come in. I am so glad.” (“What business is it of yours?” thought her master.) “My mistress is so anxious to see you at once, sir, please.”

“What is the matter? Where is your mistress?” he asked impatiently.

“Upstairs, sir, in her own room, packing,” she replied, rashly.

“Packing? What in all the world do you mean? Packing, where to go to? Are you all going out of your senses?” he demanded, with increasing irritation.

But Rachel, seeing which way the wind blew, had prudently fled. There was nothing for it but to go up to Eugenia’s room, and find out for himself the reason of all this disturbance.

Ten minutes later, the bell of Mrs Chancellor’s dressing-room rang sharply, and a message came down to Miss Eyrecourt, requesting her to go upstairs at once.

When Roma entered the room, there stood the husband and wife, the former looking out of the window, tapping his boots impatiently with the riding whip still in his hand; the latter by the side of a half-filled trunk, her face white and miserable, but with a gleam in her eyes which Roma had never seen there before.

“Roma,” she cried, as Miss Eyrecourt came in, with a passionate, appealing despair in her voice, “Roma, he won’t let me go! And my father longing so for me. Roma, speak to him.”

“Roma knows better,” said Beauchamp, with a hard little laugh. “Let you go? I should think not. You must be completely insane to think of such a thing. You who have been making yourself out too much of an invalid to go anywhere – why, you refused Lady Vaughan for this very evening! – to think of setting off on a three or four hours’ journey with a perfect stranger – a stranger to me at least, whom your father sends off in this helter-skelter fashion to fetch you, because he is not very well and nervous and fanciful. I never heard such a thing in my life! I can’t understand your complete indifference to appearances in the first place.”

Eugenia said not a word. Roma, knowing of old the mood which Beauchamp was in, controlled her indignation, though it was not very easy to do so.

“Perhaps you will come downstairs, and hear the whole particulars from Mr Thurston himself,” she said to Captain Chancellor, coldly. He took the hint, and followed her out of the room. Outside, on the landing, she turned upon him. “Do not think I am going to interfere,” she said quickly. “I know it would be useless. I don’t take upon myself to say that she should go, that she is well enough – though, to my thinking, the distress and disappointment will be worse for her than the journey – but in the thing itself you may be right. But this I do say, that the way you have done it, your manner to her, is simply,” she hesitated a moment, “brutal,” she added, with contemptuous distinctness. “Bringing in the vulgar question of ‘appearances’ at such a time!”

This was her parting shot. She turned and left him, and Beauchamp, without having replied to her by word or glance, stalked away downstairs to Mr Thurston.

He was very civil to Gerald, so civil as to make the new-comer feel that he was looked upon as a total stranger; so full of acknowledgments of the great trouble Mr Thurston had given himself, as to suggest that the qualification “unnecessary” was in his thoughts all the time. But Gerald did not care enough for the man to be annoyed or in any way affected by his opinion; he only cared for the errand he had come upon, and his disappointment was great when he found it was to be a fruitless one. He did not attempt to hide it.

“I am exceedingly sorry that Mrs Chancellor cannot return with me,” he said; “it is very unfortunate.”

“But, from what you tell me, there is no cause for pressing anxiety,” said Captain Chancellor. “Mr Laurence is not in a critical state?”

“There is no immediate danger, so at least the doctor assured me,” Gerald admitted. “But my own opinion is less favourable. I do not like this sudden feverish eagerness to see his daughter: it is quite unlike Mr Laurence. I confess, it made me very uneasy, and I dread the effects of the disappointment.”

Beauchamp smiled. There was a slight superiority in his smile. At another time it might have irritated Gerald as it did Roma, who had re-entered the room.

“I can’t say that I see any grounds for uneasiness in what you mention,” Beauchamp said. “Every one knows how fanciful sick people are. And as for the disappointment, there need be none, I hope. I shall see my wife’s medical man to-morrow, and, if he approves, I shall bring her over to Wareborough myself in a few days. A very different thing from acting without his approval.”

And with this, Gerald had to be content. There was reason in what Captain Chancellor said, but his evident consciousness of being the only reasonable one of the party made it all the more irritating to have to abide by his decision.

“Mr Thurston,” said Roma, when, for a moment, they were alone, just as he was leaving, “Eugenia asked me to beg you to forgive her not coming down again, and she told me too, to thank you ‘very, very much.’ And will you add to your kindness by writing to her to-morrow, and saying exactly how Mr Laurence is, and how he bore the disappointment.”

“Certainly I will,” said Gerald. “I will write to-night, if the post is not gone. Our post is late.”

“And,” added Roma, hesitatingly, “you will prevent their thinking it her fault. I mean, you will prevent their thinking her indifferent or careless, without, of course, blaming any one else, if you can help it.” She grew a little confused. “It is not a case in which any one can interfere, but oh, I am so sorry for her!” she broke out.

Mr Thurston’s eyes looked the sympathy he felt, but he did not say much.

“I think you may trust me,” he said at last. “I will try to explain it as she – and you – would like. And after all,” he added, by way of consolation, as he shook hands, “perhaps we are rather fanciful and exaggerated. I could not help thinking so when Captain Chancellor was speaking.”

It was nearly time for Roma herself to go. She went up again to Eugenia. She found her standing by the window, which overlooked the drive, watching Gerald’s fly as it disappeared.

“Did he promise to write?” she asked as Roma came in.

“Yes, to-morrow, certainly – possibly to-night.”

“Did you say anything more to him, Roma? Did you ask him to tell them how I longed to go – how it was not my fault?”

“Yes – at least, I told him how earnestly you wished to go, but that it could not be helped. It would not have done to have let them think there had been any discussion about it, would it? And perhaps Beauchamp is wisest. I blame myself for having seemed to take your going for granted, at first.”

“You need not. You have been very good to me,” said Eugenia. And then the two kissed each other, a rare demonstration of affection for Roma.

She offered to defer her journey to Deepthorne, to stay at Halswood as long as Eugenia liked. Beauchamp’s wife thanked her, but said, “No, any ‘to-do’ would run the risk of annoying him,” and Roma, knowing this to be true, and not a little uncertain besides what place she at present held in the good graces of the master of the house, did not persist.

So she drove away to Stebbing, and Captain Chancellor in due time departed to his dinner-party at Sir Bernard Vaughan’s, and Eugenia was left alone.

Afterwards, Roma wished that she had stayed.