Mrs. Molesworth - Not Without Thorns

Something – what she could not have exactly told – perhaps merely the matter-of-fact naming of a name – seemed to startle her a little. Her common sense – in which, after all, she was not deficient, though its suggestions were often overruled by the quickly-succeeding moods of her vehement, impressionable nature – came to the rescue, and told her plainly she was behaving like an extremely silly girl. “Here I am,” she said to herself, with considerable self-contempt, “here I am, wasting all this day – worse than wasting it, indeed.” And with an effort for which she deserved some credit, she set to work to think how best she could at the same time punish and cure her fit of folly.

“I know what I can do,” she decided. “I shall give the rest of the time to copying out those two old lectures of papa’s. They are very dry ones – at least, to me – and they are full of technicalities; so I must attend to them closely, or I shall make mistakes. It will please him too, for it was only yesterday he asked me to do them, and he won’t expect them so soon.”

It was pretty hard work. She got them done, however, before Sydney’s return. Then, feeling somewhat better pleased with herself, but still more depressed than she could account for (she had yet to learn how quickly, to a nature like hers, unaccustomed excitement does the work of physical fatigue), she sat down on the hearth-rug, cowering into the fire, to listen for her sister’s ring. The room was small and plainly furnished. Its bookshelves and globes and old cottage piano told their own story; yet, as Eugenia’s eyes glanced round it, noticing dreamily every little familiar detail: an ink-stain on the carpet – she remembered it for ever so many years – it had been caused by an inkstand overthrow, one Saturday afternoon that Frank Thurston was spending there; a penknife-cut on the wax-cloth of the table, which had drawn forth stern reprimand from kind “Mademoiselle,” and cost little Eugenia many tears; a picture on the wall – a French engraving of one of Scheffer’s earlier paintings, which had taken many a month’s joint pocket-money to obtain. (How well she remembered the day it was hung up!) As each well-known object in turn caught her glance, she owned to herself she had been very happy in that little old room. Would a day ever come on which she should wish herself back again in its safe, homely shelter? She could not tell what had put all these strange fancies in her head to-day. What was coming over her? It was too absurd to think that one short evening’s experience had changed her so. Oh, if only Sydney would come in! It seemed years since they had been talking together about what they should wear at Mrs Dalrymple’s, and yet it had been only yesterday morning. A ring at last – yes, it was the hall bell. Eugenia was darting forward, but a sudden thought stopped her. It might not, after all, be Sydney. It was just about the time a visitor – a stranger especially – would choose for a formal call. Could it be possible that her father – she had known him do odd, unexpected things of the kind sometimes – could he have asked Captain Chancellor to call? He was a much younger man than her father, and would not stand on ceremony in such a case; and she had seen them talking together, and shaking hands cordially at parting. It was just possible. The mere idea set her heart beating, and sent the blood rushing furiously to her cheeks. She opened the school-room door cautiously, a very little, and stood with it in her hand while she watched the servant-maid’s slow progress across the hall. The door opened at last. A man’s voice – a gentleman’s voice. Could it be he?

“Then, if Mr Laurence is not at home yet, can I see either of the young ladies?”

A momentary hesitation on the part of the servant – a quick, light step outside along the pavement – a pleased exclamation from the visitor. “Oh, Sydney, there you are! I was just asking if I could see you or your sister;” and all Eugenia’s foolish hopes are crushed flat again. “He” was only Frank Thurston – stupid, uninteresting, every-day Frank Thurston: at no time, save for old habit and association, a special favourite of Miss Laurence’s; peculiarly and irritatingly unwelcome just at present, when the one boon the girl had been craving all day – the having Sydney to herself – would be destroyed by his intrusion. How could they talk over Eugenia’s adventures with that great boy standing by, listening to all they said, and putting in his censorious comments? – as if his being a newly-fledged curate gave him a right of judgment of things that in no way concerned him! Sydney, of course, might like it, and accept his opinions; but as for herself – in extreme disgust at the disappointment he had innocently caused her, and prophetic indignation at the remarks she felt sure the well-meaning young clergyman would make, Eugenia softly closed the school-room door, and retired to the rug again, in vain hopes of being left in peace till the visitor had departed. But no; such was not to be the case. The voices came nearer – Sydney’s sweet, even, and cheerful as usual; Frank’s, for him, sounding surely eager and excited. What could he be in a fuss about? In they came; Sydney’s fair face glowing with her quick walk in the cold, and with pleasurable excitement.

“Oh, Eugenia dear, I thought I should never get away from poor aunt. She is so fidgety to-day! How lonely you must have been all day! I met Frank as I came in. What do you think he has come to tell us?”

He was in a fuss about something then. Eugenia rather enjoyed it. It was her turn for once to be cool and critical.

“You do look excited, Frank,” she said, provokingly, returning, as she spoke, to the comfortable seat on the rug, from which she had risen to meet her sister. “What in the world is the matter? I thought fuss of every kind was against your principles.”

“There are exceptions to every rule,” said the young man, stiffly. “Not that I am in a fuss, as you call it, Eugenia; but if I were it would be quite excusable.”

His tone brought a slight cloud over Sydney’s face. The chronic, petty warfare between these two antagonistic spirits tried sorely her equanimity. Half unconsciously she turned towards her sister with an expression in her quiet blue eyes that struck home to Eugenia’s good feeling.

“I don’t mean to be teasing, Frank,” she said, gently. “I really should like to know what your news is. It must be good, for Sydney and you both looked so beaming when you came in.”

Eugenia seldom needed to try twice when she really wished to please or mollify; even the apparently accidental coupling of her sister’s name with his did its work. Frank Thurston’s tone was much more gracious as he proceeded to gratify her curiosity.

“Good news!” he repeated; “I should rather think it was good news. I have just heard from Gerald, Eugenia. He is home again – all but home again, at least. His letter was posted at Southampton by himself. He may be here any time now – sure to be in a few days.”

“Gerald back again!” exclaimed Eugenia, with considerable surprise. “I had no idea there was any chance of his coming so soon. How delighted you will be to see him again, Frank.”

She wished to be cordial, but her tone sounded slightly forced, and evidently did not satisfy the young clergyman. There seemed a little inquiry in his voice and manner as he replied —

“Of course I shall be. But not only I: I am sure your father, for one, will be glad to hear it. Gerald is one of the few men I know who is thoroughly liked and respected ‘in his own country.’ I am sure he will be heartily welcomed home again to Wareborough. You two used to be very fond of him in the old days. He didn’t tease you as much as I did. Dear old fellow!”