Not Without Thorns. Molesworth Mrs.

even to herself, she shrank from giving a name; everything about her – past, present and future – seemed bathed in light and colour.

      She had awakened with an indefinite feeling of expectancy, and had felt unreasonably disappointed when she found all the commonplace details of her little familiar world very much the same as usual – a good deal less agreeable than usual in point of fact, for she was more tired than a thorough-going young lady would have considered possible as the result of such very mild dissipation as Mrs Dalrymple’s carpet dance, in consequence of which she slept three hours later than her wont – of itself a disturbing and depressing consciousness to a girl brought up to consider punctuality a cardinal virtue – and entered the dining-room only to find it deserted by its usual cheerful little breakfast party, and to be told by the servant, that “Miss Sydney” had been sent for early by the invalid aunt, and feared it would be afternoon before she could return home.

      “How disappointing!” thought Eugenia, as she sat down to the solitary breakfast, she had little inclination to eat, “when I did so want to talk over last night with Sydney. I shall never go out anywhere without her again. I am not half as sensible as she is. How silly it is of me to feel so dull and unsettled this morning. I shall never want to go out if it makes me so silly. But oh, how I wish I could have it all over again to-night!”

      Then she sat and dreamed for a few minutes – dreams which sent a smile and a blush over her pretty face. “Was it – could it be true?” she asked herself, “that he really thought her so pretty – so charming – as his tones and looks seemed to whisper?” She remembered every word he had said, she felt the very grasp of his hand as he bade her good-night. Then with a sharp revulsion came the remembrance that in all probability she would never see him again: he had said something about staying some little time in Wareborough – but what of that? Except for the chance of meeting him again at Mrs Dalrymple’s – a very slight one, this was the very first time her father had allowed her to go to anything in the shape of a party at Barnwood Terrace – he might spend years in Wareborough without their ever seeing each other: her father seldom made new acquaintances – hardly ever invited any one to his house. And even supposing anything so extraordinary as that he should do so in this case, would it be desirable, would she wish it? She looked round with something almost approaching disgust at the substantial, but certainly faded and dingy furniture of the room; she glanced out of the window, the prospect was gloomy and unlovely – Wareborough smoke and its begriming influences visible in all directions. No, she confessed to herself, her home was far from an attractive one; all about her would too surely offend, and repel a fastidious man accustomed, as he evidently was, to very different surroundings from those of an ugly little manufacturing town, where money was all in all, culture and refinement comparatively of little or no account. Her own dress even – she got up and looked at herself for a minute or two in the old-fashioned oblong mirror over the mantelpiece – the reflection was not a flattering one; still it could not altogether destroy the charm of the fresh young face, the eyes that could look so bright, though just now “a shadow lay” in them, the rich, soft chestnut brown hair. A little smile crept into the eyes and softened the curves of the mouth as she looked; perhaps her face really was rather nice, she had certainly never thought so much about it before – but her dress? What was wrong with it? It fitted well, its colour was unobtrusive and even pretty of its kind, the whole was perfectly suitable and becoming for a young girl of her age and position; only yesterday it had pleased her very well, but to-day it utterly failed to satisfy her vague, unreasonable aspirations. Poor Eugenia, the world began to look very unpromising and dreary again! She sat down and began to wish, or tried to fancy she wished, she had not gone to the Dalrymples’ the night before – had never had even this little peep of the beautiful, bewildering world outside her quiet humdrum middle-class home – the world in which all the women were graceful and charming, all the men high-bred and chivalrous, with irresistible eyes and sweet low voices like – “Captain Chancellor’s,” she was going on to say to herself, but stopped short suddenly.

      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