Not Without Thorns. Molesworth Mrs.

hastily, “you don’t belong to Wareborough, I think you said.”

      “Oh, yes I do. You misunderstood me a little. I only said I did not know many people here, that is to say personally – I know nearly every one by sight. I have lived here all my life, but my father does not allow us to visit much.”

      “I have no doubt he is wise. In a place like this, the society must be very mixed, to say the least.”

      Miss Laurence looked slightly embarrassed. “It isn’t exactly on that account. My father never speaks of Wareborough in that way. I don’t like living here much, but,” she hesitated.

      “But though one may abuse one’s home oneself, one can’t stand any other person’s doing so – above all a perfect stranger, isn’t that it?” said Captain Chancellor, good-humouredly.

      “Not quite. A perfect stranger’s opinion can’t matter much, for it can only be founded on hearsay,” replied the young lady, with a smile.

      Her powers of repartee promised to be greater than he had expected, and Beauchamp Chancellor was not fond of repartee when exerted at his own expense. But he covered his slight annoyance by an increasingly paternal tone to his young companion. “Believe nothing you hear, and only half you see. You are rather too young to have adopted that motto yet, Miss Laurence; are you not? But after all, I don’t feel myself very guilty, for you own to not liking Wareborough yourself. You don’t really belong to it, do you? I can’t get it into my head that you do.”

      The delicately implied flattery had the intended effect. The very slight disturbance of the young girl’s equanimity disappeared, and with an almost imperceptible elevation of the well-shaped little head, not lost on her companion, she replied:

      “I don’t quite know what you mean by belonging to Wareborough? Of course, in one sense, we do not; that is to say, our grandfathers and great-grandfathers didn’t live here, but we, Sydney and I, were born here, and it has always been our home.”

      “And yet you don’t like it? I suppose you have been a good deal away from home – abroad perhaps?” questioned Captain Chancellor.

      “No, I have very seldom been away, and we have never been abroad,” said the girl, somewhat bluntly, but blushing a good deal as she spoke. “It is not from personal experience I can compare Wareborough with other places,” she went on; “it is from what I have read principally.”

      “Ah, then, you indulge pretty freely in novels, like most young ladies,” observed Captain Chancellor.

      Something in the tone or words jarred slightly on his hearer, but she had no time to define the sensation, for just then Mrs Dalrymple approached them.

      “Well, Eugenia, my dear, you are enjoying yourself, I hope? And you, too, Captain Chancellor? I have been admiring your dancing. Henry introduced you, I suppose? Quite right. This dance is just about over. I want to introduce you to the Miss Harveys – charming girls. You must engage one of them for the next dance.”

      “A little later in the evening, I shall be delighted to be introduced to any friend of yours, my dear Mrs Dalrymple,” replied Captain Chancellor. “For the next dance, you must excuse me. I am already engaged.”

      “Ah, well, never mind. Come to me when it is over,” said the good-natured hostess. “You are not going to dance with Roma, I suppose? What has come over her to-night – can you tell me?”

      “Not I. I have long ago left off trying to comprehend women in general, and Roma in particular,” said Captain Chancellor, lightly; but still with a certain constraint in his voice. Then as Mrs Dalrymple left them, he turned quickly to Miss Laurence: “There are refreshments in another room, I believe,” he said. “Won’t you let me get you an ice, or some lemonade, or whatever there is? Or suppose we both go and see?”

      “Yes,” said Eugenia, rising as she spoke. “I should like to go into the other room; it is getting a little too hot here.”

      She did not care for lemonade, or ices, or anything so material and commonplace. The novelty and excitement of the evening seemed to raise her above all such vulgar considerations as eating and drinking. She was not in the least tired, nor had she discovered that the room was too hot, till she heard Captain Chancellor’s announcement of being engaged for the next dance. Then everything changed to her: she felt like Cinderella at the stroke of twelve.

      “I am not going to sit all alone in a corner again with nobody noticing me, and watch him dancing with some one else,” she said to herself. “I believe he is only making an excuse to get rid of me, and very likely he wants to go and talk to Miss Eyrecourt. He told me he knew no one here.” So she gladly accepted the offer of his escort to the next room, quite unaware how visibly the brightness had faded out of her tell-tale face.

      It was not all at once that her companion perceived the change; his thoughts seemed otherwise engaged. But when he had found her a deliciously draughty seat, had fetched her an ice, and was about to establish himself beside her, something in her manner caught his attention.

      “You are not vexed with me for my little fib, I hope?” he said gently. Just then the music began again. She looked up, grave but puzzled.

      “I don’t quite understand what you mean,” she replied. “But never mind about that. The next dance has begun, and you said you were engaged for it.”

      His face lighted up with amusement and something else. “But I am not engaged for it. That was the story I told to good Mrs Dalrymple. It is a galop – horrid dance – I was sure you would not care about it, and we can sit here so comfortably. I told you I knew no one here, and I am too shy to dance with any of the Miss Harveys.”

      “But Miss Eyrecourt, you know her?” persisted Eugenia, though the gravity was fast clearing off her face.

      “Of course I do. She is a sort of a sister of mine. I fancied you knew, for she is Mrs Dalrymple’s cousin, and she has been staying here for some little time. You know Mrs Dalrymple very well, don’t you?”

      “Yes. She is always very kind to us,” replied the girl. “I knew Miss Eyrecourt was her cousin, but I didn’t know she was any relation of yours, though I have heard Mrs Dalrymple talk of you. Is Miss Eyrecourt your step-sister? How proud you must be of her! She is so handsome.”

      “Handsome, yes, I suppose she is,” he answered, rather absently. “But she is not exactly my step-sister,” he went on, rousing himself. “She is – let me see – she is, or was rather, for my brother-in-law is dead, my sister’s husband’s step-sister. A terrible relationship, isn’t it? Nearly as bad as ‘Dick’s father and John’s son,’ which I have never been able to master. But Roma and I have never troubled ourselves much to define our precise connection. It seemed quite unnecessary. We have always been a great deal together, and took it for granted we were some sort of cousins, I suppose.”

      To which Eugenia replied, “Oh, indeed,” without repeating her admiration of the young lady under discussion.

      “What a pretty name Roma is,” she said, suddenly, after a minute or two’s silence.

      “It is uncommon enough, any way,” replied Captain Chancellor. “But in Miss Eyrecourt’s case there was a reason for it. She was born there – at Rome I mean.”

      “Then is she partly Italian?” asked Eugenia. “I could quite fancy she was.”

      “Because she is so dark? Oh, no; she is not Italian, though, as far as looks go, her name suits her. But in everything else she is the very reverse. I always tell her she should have had fair hair and light grey eyes,” said Captain Chancellor, with some bitterness.

      “Why?” said Miss Laurence, inconsiderately, regretting the question as soon as it was uttered. “Evidently he dislikes her,” she said to herself. “How silly of me to urge him to talk about her.”

      “I don’t think I could possibly make you understand why. A cold, calculating nature would always be an enigma to you,” he replied, and the vivid colour which his words called forth on Eugenia’s cheeks seemed to confirm his assertion. But he was a little mistaken. Like most essentially