Not Without Thorns

“It is all Beauchamp’s fault. It is very cruel of him to place me in such a position. I believe he wants these people to think that he dislikes me, and that I – oh, no, he could not be so horribly coarse,” thought Roma, though she grew furious at the idea. “Why won’t he believe simply that I only care for him as a brother, and let us be comfortable as we used to be? And why is Gertrude so weak as to be turned against me when I have told her so plainly how it is?”

And there were times at which she almost wished that things would come to a crisis, and that she might have the opportunity she had hitherto on every account so carefully avoided of telling Captain Chancellor the plain truth; that to one woman in the world his fascinations were less than nothing. But at present things showed no signs of coming to any such crisis. Beauchamp comported himself to her with exaggerated and obtrusive indifference, and amused himself very comfortably with a handsome Miss Fretville, whose fiancé was safe in India, and (rather more discreetly) with pretty Lady Exyton, whose husband was sixty, and, so long as his dinner was to his taste, calmly tolerant of her ladyship’s harmless little flirtations.

Had the change been less sudden and obtrusive, Roma would have been only too glad to believe it genuine. As it was, she rightly attributed it to pique – a powerful motive in some natures, for wounded vanity has many of the symptoms and sensations of the genuine malady, often enough deceiving even the patient’s self.

End of Volume One.

Volume Two – Chapter One .

Eavesdropping

Rom. The hurt cannot be much.

Mer. No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ’tis enough.

It was the day of the Winsley Hunt Ball. The Halswood Chancellors’ stay had already considerably exceeded the week originally proposed as its extent; but Gertrude had persuaded them “not to talk of going away” till after the twenty-fifth, the date of this important local event. So they had stayed on, and with them the Exytons and the Gourlays, and ever so many other people, till the Grange was filled to overflowing with fine ladies and gentlemen, and still finer ladies’ maids and gentlemen’s gentlemen.

Gertrude was in her element, so in his own way was Beauchamp; he had felt much more comfortable since there had been a little more going on, and he had had less time for solitary meditation; and Roma, though he had not seen her for several days except in general society, was so agreeably gentle and subdued, that he began to think his new way of behaving to her was really going to prove a success. At any rate he would try it a little longer, it would do her no harm; and so long as the house was as lively as it had been lately, time did not hang heavy on his hands. There were two or three young ladies among the visitors in whom Adelaide Chancellor had discovered kindred spirits, so Roma was freed from the burden of entertaining the girl, and not sorry to be so; for the first few days during which they had been more thrown together had been quite enough for Miss Eyrecourt. Yet she felt very lonely sometimes; Gertrude seemed to be always surrounded by her guests, and to make her plans and arrangements without consulting Roma in the old way at all, and the understanding between her and Mrs Chancellor was evidently closer and more confidential than ever.

It was a mild spring-like morning: the meet, one of the last of the season, was at some distance from the Grange, and most of the guests had set off early, riding and driving, to be in time for it. Beauchamp – who did not hunt, not being rich enough to do so in what he considered proper style, but who nevertheless rode well enough, and managed to be always sufficiently well mounted to look as if his forswearing the field was to be solely attributed to eccentricity or indolence – had preferred this morning to drive Lady Exyton’s ponies, their pretty owner at his side. Addie had borrowed the horse Roma usually rode, and under her father’s wing intended to do great things; every one had arranged to go somehow or with somebody except Roma herself, who, fancying that nobody wanted her, and that her sister-in-law would prefer her remaining in the background, had kept out of the way till it was too late for her to be included in any of the arrangements.

It was rather a relief to be alone for a little while. She was, in a general way, fond of amusement and society, accustomed and not indifferent to a fair share of admiration. But lately she had not had heart or spirit to enter into things as usual; Gertrude’s coldness had already, it seemed to her, affected the tone of others; she said to herself she was getting old, “nearly five and twenty,” and “passée,” and ill-tempered, and it would not be long before Beauchamp would congratulate himself heartily on not having been taken at his word by her.

“I almost wish sometimes I could have cared for him as he cares or thinks he cares for me. But it would have been dreadful to have so vexed Gertrude after all her kindness to me. It is bad enough to feel that she distrusts me without my deserving it, but that would have been worse. No; I should not like to care for him; but it is very lonely sometimes.”

She was pacing slowly up and down a sheltered terrace walk that ran along one side of the house. On to this walk opened by glass doors several of the rooms most used by the family, the library, the morning-room, Mrs Eyrecourt’s little boudoir, and between these glass doors were placed here and there garden seats against the wall. Roma got tired of walking up and down; though still only February it was temptingly mild, so she sat down on one of the seats without observing that the glass door nearest it was slightly ajar. Voices from within reached her, she heard the sound of her own name; then before she had time to realise what she was doing, two or three sentences fell with cruel distinctness upon her ears.

“It is very difficult for me to think it is Roma’s fault. She has assured me so earnestly that there was nothing of the kind on her part, I cannot bear to think how she must have deceived me.”

The voice was Gertrude’s; the tone anxious and irresolute. Then came the answer; it was Mrs Chancellor who was speaking now.

“Ah, yes; that is the worst part of it. I can feel for you, my dear Gertrude; I can indeed. As to the affair itself, had she only been frank about it, one could hardly have blamed her. A man of dear Beauchamp’s attractions, thrown so much in her society – and she, of course she is handsome in a certain style, and her singing is really good, though not quite refined enough to suit my taste; but – what was I saying? Oh yes, of course, she, you know, is no longer very young, and has nothing, literally nothing you say, to look forward to? It is only too natural. It is most distressing altogether, and how perplexing for Beauchamp, dear fellow. A moment’s folly or weakness and a young man may be ruined, ruined in a sense of course, for life! Ah yes, I see it all, far more clearly than can be possible for one so young and unsuspicious as you, dearest Gertrude. But I do think Beauchamp has behaved beautifully, from what you tell me, beautifully. And – ”

But just then there came a knock at the door of the boudoir in which the two ladies were sitting, and Mrs Chancellor’s maid appeared, or rather, that is to say, the sound of her voice penetrated to Roma still motionless on the garden seat outside, and it became evident to the involuntary eavesdropper that the confidential tête-à-tête was at an end. She had not meant to listen; just when the interruption came she had been on the point of marching into the room and stating what she had heard. Now of course before the servant it was out of the question. She rose from her seat, ran along the terrace and entered the house at the other side; then hastening upstairs she waited at the door of her own room till, as she expected, in a few minutes she saw Mrs Chancellor coming along the passage, followed by the maid, who wished to consult her about some important question of millinery for the evening’s adornment.

Then Roma walked deliberately downstairs again, across the hall, down the passage to the door of Gertrude’s boudoir, at which she knocked, and in obedience to her sister-in-law’s unsuspecting “come in,” entered Mrs Eyrecourt’s presence with no sign of agitation or uneasiness on her countenance.

“Gertrude,” she said, quietly. Gertrude started a little; she had not expected to see Roma, and glancing up at her now she felt instinctively that something must be the matter. Roma’s face was so grave, and she looked so dreadfully tall. What could it be? Gertrude laid down her pen – she was in the middle of a letter – and waited in some alarm for what was to follow, feeling perhaps the least little bit in the world guilty, when she remembered what her thoughts had lately been of her sister-in-law. “Gertrude,” said Roma again, “I have come to tell you that I heard what you said of me just now; what you said and what you allowed Mrs Chancellor to say of me in this very room not ten minutes ago.”

Mrs Eyrecourt grew crimson. There was no evading the charge; it was far too direct and circumstantial. She tried getting angry.

“I needn’t remind you of the old proverb about listeners, Roma,” she said, with an attempt at haughty indignation. “There was a time when I could hardly have believed you capable of such a thing, even though confessed by yourself; but I must have been mistaken in you in more ways than this. I cannot help your having heard what was said. I am not bound never to say anything about you that you would not like to hear – and to a near relation of my own too! You cannot expect to dictate to me what I am to talk about to my cousin.”

“That is nonsense, Gertrude,” answered Roma, so gently that the words did not sound disrespectful. “I have no intention of dictating to you. I have not even hinted at finding fault with what you said and allowed Mrs Chancellor to say, though I might perhaps be excused if I thought it hard that I should be so discussed by you with a person whom you have not known a fortnight; and it is nonsense for you to pretend that you think me capable of low eavesdropping. You know you don’t think so, Gertrude. Of course you know that my overhearing anything was purely accidental, and in your heart, Gertrude, you are bitterly sorry, not only that I overheard what I did, but that there was anything of the kind for me to hear.”

Gertrude was silent. “I don’t know if I am or not,” she said, half petulantly. “I don’t want to distrust you, Roma. If you heard all, you must have heard me say I could not bear to think you had deceived me.”

“And why should you think so?” exclaimed Roma, more vehemently. “I have never deceived you, dear Gertrude. You have been very good to me all these years since my mother died and I was left alone; there has never been any cloud between us, except about this unfortunate infatuation of your brother’s. I am not, in a sense, surprised at a woman like Mrs Chancellor thinking of me as she does – she has no reason to like me, and imagines me in her way – but you, Gertrude, ah! that is very different! Why should I deceive you as to my feelings to Beauchamp; what good would it do me if what Mrs Chancellor thinks were true, to conceal it from you? Oh, Gertrude, you know it has been all on his side all along; you cannot say I have ever encouraged him in the very least?”

“No-o,” said Gertrude, reluctantly. “Directly, you certainly have not done so. But I don’t know, Roma. I wish you wouldn’t ask me. As Mrs Chancellor said once, you may have been deceiving yourself.”

“I have not then; I have done nothing of the kind,” replied Roma, her dark eyes flashing as no light grey ones could do. “I tell you again, Gertrude, as I have told you a hundred times, I do not care for Beauchamp a straw, not in the way you mean. It is a perfect mystery to me what other women find so irresistible in him. I know him too well I suppose. To me he is the very antipodes of the sort of man I could care for. Selfish, weak, vain. He has good, qualities too of course, I know that as well or better than you do, but his faults and foibles are the sort that in a man I could least forget. There now, have I spoken plainly enough to convince you at last? I don’t want to offend you, Gertrude,” seeing that Mrs Eyrecourt, with true womanly inconsistency, now looked rather sulky at this unflattering depreciation of her Adonis; “you have forced it upon yourself. Good heavens! how unreasonable you are.”

“You are forgetting yourself, Roma,” said Gertrude, coldly.

“No, I am not. And if I were, would there not be some excuse? I am determined to come to an end of this. Either you must trust me, or if not I will go away. I will be a governess or a housemaid or anything, rather than stay with you if you doubt me. What would you have, Gertrude? You don’t want me to marry Beauchamp, yet you are angry because I am not the least atom in love with him? Would you like to be told that I am heart and soul devoted to him, but that to please you I was willing to sacrifice myself by refusing to have anything to say to him – would that be a pleasant state of things for you? I know very little about the feelings of people in love certainly – I have hardly a right to judge even of myself in such a predicament, but I don’t know but what I might have been capable of so sacrificing myself, Gertrude, rather than disappoint you after your many years’ goodness to me. I am grateful, whatever else I may not be. But such a state of things would have been wretched for you.”

Gertrude was touched. The old habit of sisterly trust and confidence was fast returning upon her.

“I do believe you, Roma,” she said, after a little silence. “I have never doubted you as much as you think. But it is altogether uncomfortable and anomalous.”

“I know it is. For no one more so than for me,” replied Miss Eyrecourt. “And my conviction that Beauchamp does not really care for me does not simplify matters. I doubt his being capable of what I call really caring for any one, though I don’t know,” she added thoughtfully, the expression of his face when he had begged her “never to sing that song again” returning to her memory; “but what can I do, Gertrude? You don’t want me to let him propose formally and hear my opinion of him in the plain words I have told it to you?”

“Certainly not,” said Gertrude, hastily. “It would be most disagreeable – just now especially; the Chancellors would hear of it, and – altogether – ”

“It would be horrid, I allow,” answered Roma, consideringly. “A good blow to Beauchamp’s vanity might not do him any harm, but he would never forgive the dealer thereof. We could never be all comfortable together again. As for the Chancellors, I don’t know that it would much matter. I don’t think there is much chance of success in that quarter, Gertrude. Of course it would be a good marriage for Beauchamp, and he is far more likely to be a good husband rich than poor, and Addie is pretty and amiable. It would be all right if he saw it so of course, but I don’t think he will. However, I don’t want to be in the way. I tell you what, Gertrude, I had better go away.”

“Go away!” repeated Mrs Eyrecourt, in amazement. “Roma, oh no! that would never do.”

“I don’t mean for always,” said Roma. “I am not so in love with independence as to want to leave you unless you drive me to it – for, of course, as Mrs Chancellor delicately observed, I have ‘literally nothing else to look to.’ You are my bread and butter you see, Gertrude – for of course the trifle I have is hardly enough to dress upon; and I assure you I don’t want to quarrel with you if I can help it.” Gertrude winced a little. “If my father’s second wife had been an heiress like his first, things would have been different. No, I didn’t mean going away for always – only for a few weeks, till Beauchamp is away again.”

“He would be sure to suspect the reason, and would be angry,” objected Mrs Eyrecourt.

“Not he; I could manage it so that neither he nor any one else could suspect the reason. I shall probably be telegraphed for in a few days. I had a letter from my godmother this morning, which paves the way beautifully for a sudden summons. She is a good old soul. I shall write to her at once. Beauchamp is all right for the present. He is trying a new plan with me, and before he discovers its vanity I shall be safe out of his way.”

“Roma,” said Gertrude, penitently, “you are very good and unselfish.”

“No, I’m not. Neither the one nor the other,” said Roma, cheerfully. Her spirits had quite returned to her now that Gertrude was herself again. “Kiss me, Gertrude, and I will forget that you ever doubted me. What’s that noise? Some one listening again? It is certainly not I this time.”

She walked quickly to the window and looked out. The glass door was still ajar, but no one was to be seen. “It must have been my fancy,” she said, returning to Mrs Eyrecourt. But just then an unmistakable rustling was heard along the passage. “There is Mrs Chancellor coming back again. I must go before she comes in. You won’t tell her any of what we have been talking about, Gertrude? You will not let her know of my having overheard what she said?”

“Of course not. How can you ask me, Roma? I shall never mention you to her again at all if I can help it,” answered Mrs Eyrecourt, and almost before she had finished speaking, Roma had disappeared through the glass door, only just in time to escape Adelaide’s mother, who entered in great tribulation concerning the non-appearance of the flowers from Foster’s, ordered for the completion of Miss Chancellor’s ball-dress.

“What to do, I really don’t know, my dear Gertrude,” she began in a tone of sore distress. “The whole effect of the dress depends upon them. And we have felt anxious about the dress already. Pink is rather an experiment for Adelaide at a ball, for she does flush, you know, and on this account I have hitherto prohibited it. But she had so set her heart upon it I agreed to try it, and I have been trusting to these flowers – water-lilies, all white, you know – to soften the colour.”

“And has she no other ball-dress ready in case they don’t come?” inquired Mrs Eyrecourt, not sorry that Mrs Chancellor’s thoughts were thus diverted from the former subject of their conversation. “I didn’t know she was thinking of pink for to-night – at a Hunt ball, you see, against the scarlet coats – ”

“Of course,” interrupted Mrs Chancellor. “Dear me, that makes it worse and worse! How could Adelaide and Fraser be so stupid? But there is her white tulle. I do believe there would be time to alter the trimming, and it is a lovely dress. Would you, dearest Gertrude, mind coming up with me to look at it? I should be so thankful for your opinion.”

Dearest Gertrude had no objection, and as the two ladies passed along the corridor upstairs, they met Roma coming out of her own room with a book in her hand.

“Can you tell me where the second volume of ‘Arrows in the Dark,’ is to be found, Gertrude?” she asked innocently, as they passed her.

The slight noise near the window of the boudoir had not after all been Roma’s fancy. Eavesdropping was in fashion to-day at Winsley.

When Captain Chancellor had driven Lady Exyton safely home again from the meet, and deposited her at the hall door, she begged him to go round with the ponies to the stable to explain to her groom a little matter in the harness requiring immediate adjustment. His errand accomplished, he strolled back to the house again by a roundabout route through the terrace garden. Here he suddenly came upon his niece, intently engaged in ascertaining how many new little worms she could chop up one big one into, her nursemaid, seated on a garden bench at a little distance, being safely engrossed with crochet.

“What are you doing, you nasty cruel little girl?” exclaimed Beauchamp, in considerable disgust.

In a general way Floss rather affected her uncle: such an address, however, roused all her latent ire.

“I ain’t nasty. And you’re cwueller to shoot pwetty birds and bunnies. Worms is ugly, and they doesn’t mind cutting,” she replied, defiantly.

“How do you know? You wouldn’t like to be chopped up into little bits, would you?” remonstrated Captain Chancellor, with a vague feeling that somewhere in his memory, could he but lay hold of it, there was a verse of one of Dr Watts’s hymns appropriate to quote on the occasion.

“No,” returned Floss calmly, “I wouldn’t, ’cause I’m not a worm. Worms doesn’t mind. I know they doesn’t. I know lots of things,” she continued, mysteriously peeping up into her uncle’s face with her green eyes; “lots and lots that nobody more knows.”

“Do you?” said Beauchamp, carelessly. “Let’s hear some of your secrets, Floss.”

“I’ll tell you one if you won’t tell nobody,” said the child. She was evidently burning to communicate it, or she would not so quickly have forgiven her uncle’s insulting greeting.

“All right, I won’t tell nobody.”

“Listen, stoop down, Uncle Beachey. Low down; now listen and I’ll whisper,” said Floss. Then to his amazement – he had expected only some childish confidence or complaint – she whispered into his ear the words, “Aunty Woma’s going away.” Beauchamp started back. “Roma is going away,” he repeated. “Nonsense, Floss. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do, I do,” exclaimed the child, in her eagerness to prove herself right, throwing all reserve to the winds, “she said so to mamma. I heard her, and mamma said she was good, and I know she’s going.”

“How did you hear her? Where were you?” questioned Beauchamp.

“I was under the sofa – in there, in mamma’s room,” said Floss, pointing in the direction of the boudoir. “My ball went in, and I went in too, and mamma thought I came out again, but I didn’t. I hided under the sofa for nurse not to see me, and it was a long time – hours, I should think – before she finded me,” she continued triumphantly.

“But how did you hear your aunt was going away – did nurse tell you?” asked Captain Chancellor, somewhat mystified.

“No, in course not,” exclaimed Floss, contemptuously. “Nurse doesn’t know. Aunty Woma came into the room and spoke lots to mamma. She said she would make something for mamma, but mamma wouldn’t have it; and then she said she would go away, and mamma said she was good, but you would be angwy, and Aunty Woma said, ‘No; you wouldn’t expeck.’”

”‘Wouldn’t expect?’ What can the child mean? Wasn’t it suspect she said, Floss?” a brilliant light flashing upon him.

“Yes, suchpeck,” agreed Floss. “It was suchpeck; and what could it be aunty said she’d make for mamma, Uncle Beachey?” she continued, evidently disposed now to regard her hearer as an interpreter of the jumble in her brain. “It was something like satin flies.”

Captain Chancellor stared at the child without speaking. He saw, or thought he at last saw, through it all. He turned to go, but a thought occurred to him.

“Floss,” he said, very impressively, “it wasn’t good of you to listen to what your mamma and aunt were saying. They would be very angry if they knew.”

“Oh, don’t tell. Uncle Beachey, you said you wouldn’t tell nobody,” said the little girl beseechingly.

“I’m not going to tell. But remember, Floss, you must be sure not to tell any one else, not nurse or any one, do you hear? It doesn’t matter for me, but other people might scold you.”

“Then I won’t tell,” decided Floss. “And do you think Aunty Woma will go away, Uncle Beachey? I hope she will. I like her best when she goes away, for then she can’t call me a tiresome plague, and she bwings me a pwesent when she comes back.”

But Uncle Beachey did not answer her inquiries. His mind was full of curiously mingled feelings; indignation against Gertrude, triumph over Roma, whose real sentiments he now imagined he had discovered; determination to be, as he expressed it to himself, “made a fool of no longer.” And below all these he was conscious of a strange, indefinable feeling of indifference to it all, of unwillingness to move decisively in the matter, as he told himself he must. Now that the long-coveted prize seemed within his reach, half its attractiveness appeared to have deserted it.

“There has been a great deal of unnecessary to-do about it all,” he said to himself. “Of course I always felt sure that in the end I should marry Roma, and I have no doubt we shall get on very well. But it takes the bloom off a thing to have all this uncertainty and delay about it.”