'Unless you intend to marry her—forgive me for speaking so plain—there is only one thing to do. I must leave.'
'No, no; you must not leave! She could not live alone with me. But does she want you to leave?'
'No; that is the worst of it. I have proposed it; she will not hear of it; to mention the subject is to provoke a scene. She is afraid if I left that you would come and see me; and the very thought of my escaping her vigilance is intolerable.'
'It is very strange.'
'Yes, it is very strange; but, opposed though she be to all thoughts of it, I must leave.'
'As a favour I ask you to stay. Do me this service, I beg of you. I have set my heart on finishing my play this autumn. If it isn't finished now, it never will be finished; and your leaving would create so much trouble that all thought of work would be out of the question. Emily could not remain alone here with me. I should have to find another companion for her; and you know how difficult that would be. I'm worried quite enough as it is.' A look of pain passed through his eyes, and Mrs. Bentley wondered what he he could mean. 'No,' he said, taking her hands, 'we are good friends—are we not? Do me this service. Stay with me until I finish this play; then, if things do not mend, go, if you like, but not now. Will you promise me?'
'I promise.'
'Thank you. I am deeply obliged to you.'
At the end of a long silence, Hubert said, 'Will you not come up-stairs, and let me read you the first act?'
'I should like to, but I think it better not. If Emily heard that you had read me your play, she would not close her eyes to-night; it would be tears and misery all the night through.'
XVI
The study in which he had determined to write his masterpiece had been fitted up with taste and care. The floor was covered with a rare Persian carpet, and the walls were lined with graceful bookcases of Chippendale design; the volumes, half morocco, calf, and the yellow paper of French novels, showed through the diamond panes. The writing-table stood in front of the window; like the bookcases, it was Chippendale, and on the dark mahogany the handsome silver inkstand seemed to invite literary composition. There was a scent of flowers in the room. Emily had filled a bowl of old china with some pale September roses. The curtains were made of a modern cretonne—their colour was similar to the bowl of roses; and the large couch on which Hubert lay was covered with the same material. On one wall there was a sea-piece by Courbet, and upon another a river landscape, with rosy-tinted evening sky, by Corot. The chimney-piece was set out with a large gilt timepiece, and candelabra in Dresden china. Hubert had bought these works of art on the occasion of his last visit to London, about two months ago.
It was twelve o'clock. He had finished reading his second act, and the reading had been a bitter disappointment. The idea floated, pure and seductive, in his mind; but when he tried to reduce it to a precise shape upon paper, it seemed to escape in some vague, mysterious way. Enticingly, like a butterfly it fluttered before him; he followed like a child, eagerly—his brain set on the mazy flight. It led him through a country where all was promise of milk and honey. He followed, sure that the alluring spirit would soon choose a flower; then he would capture it. Often it seemed to settle. He approached with palpitating heart; but lo! when the net was withdrawn it was empty.
A look of pain and perplexity came upon his face; he remembered the lodging at seven shillings a week in the Tottenham Court Road. He had suffered there; but it seemed to him that he was suffering more here. He had changed his surroundings, but he had not changed himself. Success and failure, despair and hope, joy and sorrow, lie within and not without us. His pain lay at his heart's root; he could not pluck it forth, and its gratification seemed more than ever impossible. He changed his position on the couch. Suddenly his thoughts said, 'Perhaps I am mistaken in the subject. Perhaps that is the reason. Perhaps there is no play to be extracted from it; perhaps it would be better to abandon it and choose another.' For a few seconds he scanned the literary horizon of his mind. 'No, no!' he said bitterly, 'this is the play I was born to write. No other subject is possible; I can think of nothing else. This is all I can feel or see.' It was the second act that now defied his efforts. It had once seemed clear and of exquisite proportions; now no second act seemed possible: the subject did not seem to admit of a second act; and, clasping his forehead with his hands, he strove to think it out.
Any distraction from the haunting pain, now become chronic, is welcome, and he answers with a glad 'Come in!' the knock at the door.
'I'm sorry,' said Mrs. Bentley, 'for disturbing you, but I should like to know what fish you would like for your dinner—soles, turbot, or whiting? Immersed in literary problems as you are, I daresay these details are very prosaic; but I notice that later in the day——'
Hubert laughed. 'I find such details far more agreeable than literature. I can do nothing with my play.'
'Aren't you getting on this morning?'
'No, not very well.'
'What do you think of turbot?'
'I think turbot very nice. Emily likes turbot.'
'Very well, then. I'll order turbot.'
As Mrs. Bentley was about to withdraw, she said, 'I'm sorry you are not getting on. What stops you now? That second act?'
'Come, you are not very busy. I'll read you the act as it stands, and then tell you how I think it ought to be altered. Nothing helps me so much as to talk it over; not only does it clear up my ideas, but it gives me desire to write. My best work has always been done in that way.'
'I really don't think I can stay. If Emily heard that you had been reading your play to me——'
'I'm tired of hearing of what Emily thinks. I can put up with a good deal, and I know that it is my duty to show much forbearance; but there is a limit to all things!' This was the first time Mrs. Bentley had seen him show either excitement or anger; she hardly knew him in this new aspect. In a moment the blonde calm of the Saxon had dropped from him, and some Celtic emphasis appeared in his speech. 'This hysterical girl,' he continued, 'is a sore burden. Tears about this, and sighs about that; fainting fits because I happen to take a chair next to yours. You may depend upon it our lives are already the constant gossip of the neighbourhood.'
'I know it is very annoying; and I, I assure you, receive my share. Every look and word is misinterpreted. I must not stay here.'
'You must not go! I really want you. I assure you that your opinion will be of value.'
'But think of Emily. It will make her wretched if she hears of it. You do not know how it affects her. The slightest thing! You hardly see anything; I see it all.'
'But there is no sense in it; it is pure madness. I'm writing a play, trying to work out a most difficult problem, and am in want of an audience, and I ask you if you will be kind enough to let me read you the act, and you cannot listen to it because—because—yes, that's just it—because!'
'You do not know how she suffers. Let me go; spare her the pain.'
'She is not the only one who suffers. Do you think that I don't suffer? I've set my heart—my very life is set on this play. I must get through with it; they are all waiting for it. My enemies say I cannot write it, but I shall if you will help me.'
'Poor Emily's heart is equally broken. Her life is equally set——' Mrs. Bentley did not finish. Hubert just caught the words. Their significance struck him; he looked questioningly into Mrs. Bentley's eyes; then, pretending not to have understood, he begged her to remain. With the air of one who yields to a temptation, she came into the room. He felt strangely happy, and, drawing over an arm-chair for her, he threw himself on the couch. He noticed that she wore a loose white jacket, and once during the reading of the act he was conscious of a beautiful hand hanging over the rail of the chair. Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were clasped. The black slippers and the slender black-stockinged ankles showed beneath the skirt; and when he raised his eyes from the manuscript, he saw the blonde face and hair, and the pale eyes were always fixed upon him. She listened with a keen and penetrating interest to his criticism of the act, agreeing with him generally, sometimes quietly contesting a point, and with some strange fascination drawing new and unexpected ideas from him; and in the intellectual warmth of her femininity his brain seemed to clear and his ideas took new shape.
'Ah,' he said, after two hours' delightful talk, 'how much I'm indebted to you! At last I see my mistakes; in two days I shall have written the act. And he wrote rapidly for nearly two hours, reconstructing the opening scenes of his second act.' He then threw himself on the couch, smoked a cigar, and after half an hour's rest continued writing till dinner-time.
When he came down-stairs, the thought of what he had been writing was still so vivid in him that he did not notice at once the silence of those with whom he was dining. He complimented Mrs. Bentley on the freshness of the turbot; she hardly answered; and then he became aware that something had gone wrong. What? Only one thing was possible. Emily had heard that Mrs. Bentley had been in his study. Looking from the woman to the girl, he saw that the latter had been weeping. She was still in a highly hysterical state, and might burst into tears and fly from the dinner-table at any moment. His face changed expression, and it was with difficulty that he restrained his temper. His life had been made up of a constant recurrence of these scenes, and he was wholly weary of them; and the thought of the absolute want of reason in the causeless jealousy, and the misery that these little bickerings made of his life, exasperated him beyond measure. The dinner proceeded in silence, and every slight remark was a presage of storm. Hubert hoped the girl would say nothing until the servant left the room, and with that view he never spoke a word except to ask the ladies what they would take to eat. These tactics might have succeeded if Mrs. Bentley had not unfortunately said that next week she intended to go to London for a couple of days. 'The Eastwicks are there now, and they've asked me to stay with them.'
'I think I shall go up with you. I want to go to London,' said Emily.
'It will be very nice if you'll come; but we cannot both stay with the Eastwicks; they have only one spare room.'
'I suppose you'd like me to go to an hotel.'
'My dear Emily, how can you think of such a thing? A young girl like you could not stay at an hotel alone. I shall be only too pleased if you will go to the Eastwicks; I will go to the hotel.'
Emily's lip quivered, and in the irritating silence both Hubert and Mrs. Bentley saw that she was trying to overcome her passion. They fervently hoped she would succeed; for at that moment the servant was handing round the wine, and the time he took to accomplish this service seemed endless. He had filled the last glass, had handed round the dessert, and was preparing to leave the room when Emily said—
'The hotel will suit you very well. You'll be free to see Hubert whenever you like.'
Hubert looked up quickly, hoping Mrs. Bentley would not answer, but before he could make a sign she said—
'What do you mean, Emily? I did not know that Hubert was going to London.'
'You hardly expect me to believe that, do you?'
The servant was still in the room; but no look of astonishment appeared on his face, and Hubert hoped he had not heard. An awful silence glowered upon the dinner-table. The moment the door closed Hubert said, turning angrily to Emily—
'Really, I am quite surprised, Emily, that you should make such observations in the presence of servants! This has been going on quite long enough; you are making the house intolerable. I shall not be able to live here any longer.'
Emily burst into a passionate flood of tears. She declared she was wretchedly miserable, and that she fully understood that Hubert had begun to regret that he had asked her to stay at Ashwood. Everything had been taken from her; every one was against her. Her sobs shook her frail little frame as if they would break it, and Hubert's heart was wrung at the sight of such genuine suffering.
'My dear Emily, I assure you you are mistaken. We both love you very much.' He got up from his chair, and, putting his arm about her, besought her to dry her eyes; but she shook him passionately from her, and fled from the room.
Three days after, Emily tore up one of her songs, because Mrs. Bentley had sung it without her leave. And so on and so on, week after week. No sooner was one quarrel allayed than signs of another began to appear. Hubert despaired. 'How is this to end?' he asked himself every day. Mrs. Bentley begged him to cancel her promise, and allow her to go. But that was impossible. He could not remain alone with Emily; if he left her she would not fail to believe that he had gone after her rival. The situation had become so tense that they ended by discussing these questions almost without reserve. To make matters worse, Emily had begun visibly to lose her health. There was neither colour in her cheeks nor light in her eyes; she hardly slept at all, and had grown more than ever like a little shadow. The doctor had been summoned, and, after prescribing a tonic, had advised quiet and avoidance of all excitement. Therefore Hubert and Mrs. Bentley agreed never to meet except when Emily was present, and then strove to speak as little as possible to each other. But the very fact of having to restrain themselves in looks, glances, and every slightest word—for Emily misinterpreted all things—whetted their appetites for each other's society.
In the misery of his study, when he watched the sheet of paper, he often sought relief in remembrance of her sweet manner, and the happy morning he had spent in her companionship. What he had written under the direct influence of her inspiration still seemed to him to be less bad than the rest of his play; and he began to feel sure that, if ever this play were written, it would be written in the benign charm of her sweet encouragement, in the reposeful shadow of her presence. But that presence was forbidden him—that presence that seemed so necessary; and for what reason? Turning on the circumstances of his life, he raged against them, declaring that it would be folly to allow his very life's desire to be frittered away to gratify a young girl's caprice,—a caprice which in a few years she would laugh at. And whenever he was not thinking of his play, he remembered the charm of Mrs. Bentley's company, and the beneficent effect it had on his work. He had never known a woman he had liked so much, and he felt—he started at the thought, so like an inspiration did it seem to him—that the only possible solution of the present situation was his marriage with her. Once he was married, Emily would soon learn to forget him. They would take her up to London for the season; and, amid the healthy excitement of balls and parties, her girlish fancy would evaporate. No doubt she would meet again the young cavalry officer whose addresses she had received so coldly. She would be sure to meet him again—be sure to think him the most charming man in the world; they would marry, and she would make him the best possible wife. The kindest action they could do Emily would be to marry. There was nothing else to do, and they must do something, or else the girl would die. It seemed wonderful to Hubert that he had not thought of all this before. 'It is the very obvious solution of the problem,' he said; and his heart beat as he heard Mrs. Bentley's step in the corridor. It died away in the distance; but a few days after, when he heard it again, he jumped from his chair, and ran to the door. 'Come,' he said, 'I want to speak to you.'
'No, no, I beg of you!'
'I must speak to you!' He laid his hand upon her arm, and said, 'I beg of you. I have something to say—it is of great importance. Come in.'
They looked at each other a moment, and it seemed as if they could see into each other's souls. Then a look of yielding passed into her eyes, and she said—
'Well, what is it?'
The familiarity of the words struck her, and she saw by the kindling tenderness in his eyes that they had given him pleasure. She almost knew he was going to tell her that he loved her. He looked towards the open door, and, guessing his intention, she said—
'Don't shut it! Speak quickly. Remember that she may pass at any moment. Were she to find us together, she would suffer; it would be tears and reproaches. What you have to say to me is about her?'
'Of course; we never speak of anything else. But we must not be overheard. I must shut the door.' She noticed a certain embarrassment in his manner. Suddenly relinquishing his intention to take her hands, he said—
'This cannot go on; our lives are being made unbearable. You agree with me—do you not?'
'Yes,' she said, with a curious inquiring look in her eyes. 'You had better let me leave. It is the only way out of the difficulty.'
'You know very well, Julia, that that is impossible.'
It was the first time he had used her Christian name, and she knew now he was going to ask her to marry him. A frightened look passed into her face; she turned from him; he took her hands.
'No, Julia,' he said; 'there is another and better way out of the difficulty. You will stop here—you will be my wife?' Reading the look of pain that had come into her eyes, he said, 'You will not refuse me? I want you—I can do nothing without you. If you leave me, I shall never be able to write my play; it can only be written under your influence. I love you, Julia!' She allowed him to draw her towards him, and then she broke away.
'Oh,' she said, 'why do you say these things? You only make my task harder. You know that I cannot betray my friend. Why do you tempt me to do a dishonourable action?'
'A dishonourable action! What do you mean? It is the only way to save her. Once we are married, she will forget. No doubt she will shed a few tears; but to save the body we must often lose a limb. It is even so. Things cannot go on as they are. We cannot watch her withering away under our very eyes; and that is what is actually happening. I have thought it all over, considered it from every point of view, and have come to the conclusion that—that, well, that we had better marry. You must have seen that I always liked you. I did not myself know how much until a few days ago. Say that I am not wholly disagreeable to you.'
'No; I will not listen to you! My conscience tells me plainly where my duty lies. Not for all the world will I play Emily false. I shudder to think of such a thing; it would be the basest ingratitude. I owe everything to her. When I hadn't a penny in the world, and when in my homelessness I wrote to Mr. Burnett, she pleaded in my favour, and decided him to take me as a companion. No, no! a thousand times no! Let go my hands. Do you not know what it is to be loyal?'
'I hope I do. But, as I have explained, it is the only solution. The romantic attachments of young girls, unless nipped in the bud, often end fatally. Do you not see how ill she is looking? She is wearing her life away. We shall be acting in her best interests. Besides, she is not the only person to be considered. Do I not love you? Are you not the very woman whose influence, whose guidance, is necessary, so that I should succeed? Without your help I shall never write my play. A woman's influence is necessary to every undertaking. The greatest writers owe their best inspiration to——'
'Her heart is as closely set upon you as yours is upon your play.'
'But,' cried Hubert, 'I do not love her! Under no circumstances would I marry her. That I swear to you. If she and I were alone on a desert island——'
Julia looked at him one moment doubtingly, inquiringly. Then she said—
'Hers is no evanescent fancy, but a passion that goes to the very roots of her nature, and will kill her if it be not satisfied.'
'Or cut out in time.'
'I must leave.'
'That will not mend matters.'
'My departure will, at all events, remove all cause for jealousy; and when I am gone you may learn to love her.'
'No; that I swear is impossible!'
'You very likely think so now; but I'm bound to give her every chance of winning you.'
'I say again that that is impossible! I have never seen a woman except yourself I could marry. I tell you so: believe me as you like.... In this matter you are acting like a woman,—you allow your emotions and not your intellect to lead you. By acting thus, you are certainly sacrificing two lives—hers and mine. Of your own I do not speak, not knowing what is passing in your heart; but if by any chance you should care for me, you are adding your own happiness to the general holocaust.' Neither spoke again for some time.
'Why should you not marry her?' Julia said, at the end of a long silence. 'Some people think her quite a pretty girl.'
The lovers looked at each other and smiled sadly. And then, in pathetic phrases, Hubert tried to explain why he could never love Emily. He spoke of his age, and of difference of tastes,—he liked clever women. The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence, Julia said—
'There is nothing for it but my departure, and the sooner the better.'
'You are not in earnest? You are surely not in earnest?'
'Yes, indeed I am.'
'Then, if you go, you must take her with you. She cannot remain here alone with me. And even if she could, I could not live with her. Her folly has destroyed any liking I may have ever had for her. You'll have to take her with you.'
'She would not come with me. I spoke to her once of a trip abroad.'
'And she refused?'
'She said she only wanted things to go on just as they are.'
XVII
In some trepidation Julia knocked. Receiving no reply, she opened the door, and her candle burnt in what a moment before must have been inky darkness. Emily lay on her bed—on the edge of it; and the only movement she made was to avert her eyes from the light. 'What! all alone in this darkness, Emily!... Shall I light your candles?' She had to repeat the question before she could get an answer.
'No, thank you; I want nothing; I have no wish to see anything. I like the dark.'
'Have you been asleep?'
'No; I have not.... Why do you come to torment me? It cannot matter to you whether I lie in the dark or the light. Oh, take that candle away! it is blinding me.' Julia put the candle on the washstand. Then full of pity for the grieving girl, she stood, her hand resting on the bed-rail.
'Aren't you coming down to dinner, Emily? Come, let me pour out some water for you. When you have bathed your eyes——'
'I don't want any dinner.'
'It will look very strange if you remain in your room the whole evening. You do not want to vex him, do you?'
'I suppose he is very angry with me. But I did not mean to vex him. Is he very angry?'
'No, he is not angry at all; he is merely distressed. You distress him dreadfully when——'
'I don't know why I should distress him. I'm sure I don't mean to. You know more about it than I. You are always whispering together—talking about me.'
'I assure you, Emily, you are mistaken. Mr. Price and I have no secrets whatever.'
'Why should you tell me these falsehoods? They make me so miserable.'
'Falsehoods, Emily! When did you ever know me to tell a falsehood?'
'You say you have no secrets! Do you think I am blind? You think, I suppose, I did not see you showing him a ring? You took it off, too; and I suppose you gave it to him,—an engagement ring, very likely.'
'I lost a stone from my ring, and I asked Mr. Price if he would take the ring to London and have the stone replaced.... That is all. So you see how your imagination has run away with you.'
Emily did not answer. At last she said, breaking the silence abruptly—
'Is he very angry? Has he gone to his study? Do you think he will come down to dinner?'
'I suppose he'll come down for dinner.'
'Will you go and ask him?'
'I hardly see how I can do that. He is very busy.... And if you would listen to any advice of mine, it would be to leave him to himself as much as possible for the present. He is so taken up with his play; I know he's most anxious about it.'
'Is he? I don't know. He never speaks to me about it. I hate that play, and I hate to see him go up to that study! I cannot understand why he should trouble himself about writing plays; he doesn't want the money, and it can't be agreeable sitting up there all alone thinking.... It is easy to see that it only makes him unhappy. But you encourage him to go on with it. Oh yes, you do; there's no use saying you don't. You are always talking to him about it; you bring the conversation up. You think I don't see how you do it, but I do; and you like doing it, because then you have him all to yourself. I can't talk to him about that play; and I wouldn't if I could, for it only makes him unhappy. But you don't care whether he's unhappy or not; you only think of yourself.'
'You surely don't believe what you are saying is true? To-morrow you will be sorry for what you have said. You cannot think that I would deceive you, Emily? Remember what friends we have been.'
'I remember everything. You think I don't; but I do. And you think also that there's no reason why I should be miserable; but there is. Because you do not feel my misery, you think it doesn't exist. I daresay you think, too, that you are very good and kind; but you aren't. You think you deceive me; but you don't. I know all that is passing between you and Hubert. I know a great deal more than I can explain....'
'But tell me, Emily, what is it you suspect? What do you accuse me of?'
'I accuse you of nothing. Can't you understand that things may go wrong without it being any one's fault in particular?'
Julia wondered how Emily could think so wisely. She seemed to have grown wiser in her grief. But grief helped her no further in her instinctive perception of the truth, and she resumed her puerile attack on her friend.
'Nothing has gone well with me ever since you came here. I was disinherited; and I daresay you were glad, for you knew that if the money did not come to me it would go to Hubert, and I do know——'
'What are you saying, Emily? I never heard of such wild accusations before! You know very well that I never set eyes on Mr. Price until he came down here.'
'How should I know what you know or don't know? But I know that all my life every one has been plotting against me. And I cannot make out why. I never did harm to any one.'
The conversation paused. Emily flung herself back on the pillow. Not even a sob. The candle burned like a long yellow star in the shadows, yielding only sufficient light for Julia to see the outlines of a somewhat untidy room,—an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe, cloudy and black, upon old-fashioned grey paper, some cardboard boxes, and a number of china ornaments, set out on a small table covered with a tablecloth in crewel-work.
'I would do anything in the world for you, Emily. I am your best friend, and yet——'
'I have no friend. I don't believe in friends. You think people are your friends, and then you find they are not.'
'How can I convince you of the injustice of your suspicions?'
'I see all plainly enough; it is fate, I suppose.... Selfishness. We all think of ourselves—we can't help it; and that's what makes life so miserable.... He would be a very good match. You have got him to like you. Perhaps you didn't intend to; but you have done it all the same.'
'But, Emily dear, listen! There is no question of marriage between me and Mr. Price. If you will only have patience, things will come right in the end.'
'For you, perhaps.'
'Emily, Emily! ... You should try to understand things better.'
'I feel them, even if I don't understand.'
'Admit that you were wrong about the ring. Have I not convinced you that you were wrong?'
Emily did not answer. But at the end of a long silence, in which she had been pursuing a different train of thought, she said, 'Then you mean that he has never asked you to marry him?'
The directness of the question took Julia by surprise, and, falsehood being unnatural to her, she hesitated, hardly knowing what to answer. Her hesitation was only momentary; but in that moment there came up such a wave of pity for the grief-stricken girl that she lied for pity's sake, 'No, he never asked me to marry him. I assure you that he never did. If you do not believe me——' As she was about to say, 'I will swear it if you like,' an irresponsible sensation of pride in her ownership of his love surged up through her, overwhelming her will, and she ended the sentence, 'I am very sorry, but I cannot help it.'
The words were still well enough; it was in the accent that the truth transpired. And then yielding still further to the force which had subjugated her will, she said—
'I admit that we have talked about a great many things.' (Again she strove not to speak, but the words rose red-hot to her lips.) 'He has said that he would like to marry, but I should not think of accepting——'
'Then it is just as I thought!' Emily cried; 'he wants to get rid of me!'
Julia was shocked and surprised at the depth of disgraceful vanity and cowardice which special circumstances had brought within her consciousness. The Julia Bentley of the last few moments was not the Julia Bentley she was accustomed to meet and interrogate, and she asked herself how she might exorcise the meanness that had so unexpectedly appeared in her. Should she pile falsehood on falsehood? She felt it would be cruel not to do so; but Emily said, 'He wants to marry to get rid of me, and not because he loves you.' Then it was hard to deny herself the pleasure of telling the whole truth; but she mastered her desire of triumph, and, actuated by nothing but sincerest love and pity, she said—
'Oh, Emily dear, he never asked me to marry him; he does not love me at all! Why will you not believe me?'
'Because I cannot!' she cried passionately. 'I only ask to be left alone.'
'A little patience, Emily, and all will come right. Mr. Price does not want to get rid of you. You wrong him just as you wrong me. He has often said how much he likes you; indeed he has.' Although speaking from the bottom of her heart, it seemed to Julia that she was playing the part of a cruel, false woman, who was designingly plotting to betray a helpless girl; and not understanding why this was so, she was at once puzzled and confused. It seemed to her that she was being borne on in a wind of destiny, and her will seemed to beat vainly against it, like a bird's wings when a storm is blowing. She was conscious of a curious powerlessness; it surprised her, and she could not understand why she continued talking, so vain and useless did words seem to her—an idle patter. She continued—
'You think that I stand between you and Mr. Price. Now, I assure you that it is not so. I tell you I should refuse Mr. Price, even if he were to ask me to marry him, here, at this very moment. I pledge you my word on this. Give me your hand, Emily. You will not refuse it?' Emily gave her hand. 'It is quite ridiculous to promise, for he will never ask me; but I promise not to marry him even if he should ask me.' She gave the promise, determined to keep it; and yet she knew she would not keep it. She argued passionately with herself, a prey to an inward dread; for no matter how firmly she forced resolution upon resolution, they all seemed to melt in her soul like snow on a blazing fire. Then, determined to rid herself of a numb sensation of powerlessness, and achieve the end she desired, she said, 'I'll tell you, Emily, what I'll do. I'll not stay here; I will go away. Let me go away, dear, and then it will be all right.'
'No, no! you mustn't leave; I don't want you to leave. It would be said everywhere that I had you sent away.... You promise me not to leave?' Raising herself, Emily clung to Julia's arm, detaining her until she had extorted the desired promise.
'Very well; I promise,' she said sadly. 'But I think you are wrong; indeed I do. I have always thought that "the only solution of the problem" was my departure.' Memory had betrayed her into Hubert's own phrase.
'Why should you go? You think, I suppose, that I'm in love with Hubert? I'm not. All I want is for things to go on just the same—for us to be friends as we were before.'
'Very well, Emily—very well.... But in the meantime you must not neglect your meals as you have been doing lately. If you don't take care, you'll lose your health and your looks. I have been noticing how thin you are looking.'
'I suppose you have told him that I am looking thin and ill.... Men like tall, big, healthy women like you—don't they?'
'I see, Emily, that it is hopeless; every word one utters is misinterpreted. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes; or, if you like, I will dine up-stairs; and you and Mr. Price——'
'But is he coming down to dinner? I thought you said he had gone to his study; sometimes he dines there.'
'I can tell you nothing about Mr. Price. I don't know whether he'll dine up-stairs or down.'
At that moment a knock was heard at the door, and the servant announced that dinner was ready. 'Mr. Price has sent down word, ma'am, that he is very busy writing; he hopes you'll excuse him, and he'll be glad if you will send him his dinner up on a tray.'
'Very well; I shall be down directly.'
The slight interruption had sufficed to calm Julia's irritation, and she stood waiting for Emily. But seeing that she showed no signs of moving, she said, 'Aren't you coming down to dinner, Emily?' It was a sense of strict duty that impelled the question, for her heart sank at the prospect of spending the evening alone with the girl. But seeing the tears on Emily's cheeks, she sat down beside her, and said, 'Dearest Emily, if you would only confide in me!'
'There's nothing to confide....'
'You mustn't give way like this; you really mustn't. Come down and have some dinner.'
'It is no use; I couldn't eat anything.'
'He may come into the drawing-room in the course of the evening, and will be so disappointed and grieved to hear that you have not been down.'
'No; he will spend the whole evening in his room; we shall not see him again.'
'But if I go and ask him to come; if I tell him——'
'No; do not speak to him about me; he'd only say that I was interfering with his work.'
'That is unjust, Emily; he has never reproached you with interfering with his work. Shall I go and tell him that you won't come down because you think he is angry with you?'
Ten minutes passed, and no answer could be obtained from Emily—only passionate and illusive refusals, denials, prayer to be left alone; and these mingled with irritating suggestions that Julia had better go at once, that Hubert might be waiting for her. But Julia bore patiently with her and did not leave her until Hubert sent to know why his dinner was delayed.
Emily had begun to undress; and, tearing off her things, she hardly took more than five minutes to get into bed.
'Shall I light a candle?' Julia asked before leaving.
'No, thank you.'
'Shall I send you up some soup?'
'No; I could not touch it.'
'You are not going to remain in the dark? Let me light a night-light?'
'No, thank you; I like the dark.'
XVIII
Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood by the chimney-piece in the drawing-room, waiting for the doctor; they had left him with Emily, and stood facing each other absorbed in thought, when the door opened, and the doctor entered. Hubert said—
'What do you think, Doctor? Is she seriously ill?'
'There is nothing, so far as I can make out, organically the matter with her, but the system is running down. She is very thin and weak. I shall prescribe a tonic, but——'
'But what, doctor?'
'She seems to be suffering from extreme depression of spirits. Do you know of any secret grief—any love affair? At her age, anything of that sort fills the entire mind, and the consequences are often grave.'
'And supposing it were so, what would be your advice? Change of air and scene?'
'Certainly.'
'Have you spoken to her on the subject?'
'Yes; but she says she will not leave Ashwood.'
'We cannot send her away by force. What would you advise us to do?'
'There's nothing to be done. We must hope for the best. There is no immediate cause for fear.... But, by the way, she looks as if she suffered from sleeplessness.'
'Yes, she does; but she has been ordered chloral. Any harm in that?'
'In her case, it is a necessity; but do you think she takes it?'
'Oh yes, she has been taking choral.'
The conversation paused; the doctor went over to the writing-table, wrote a prescription, made a few remarks, and took his leave, announcing his intention of returning that day fortnight.
Hubert said, and his tone implied reference to some anterior conversation, 'We are powerless in this matter. You see we can do nothing. We only succeed in making ourselves unhappy; we do not change in anything. I am wretchedly unhappy!'
'Believe me,' she said, raising her arms in a beautiful feminine movement, 'I do not wish to make you unhappy.'
'Then why do you persist? Why do you refuse to take the only step that may lead us out of this difficulty?'
'How can you ask me? Oh, Hubert, I did not think you could be so cruel! It would be a shameful action.'
It was the first time she had used his Christian name, and his face changed expression.
'I cannot,' she said, 'and I will not, and I do not understand how you can ask me—you who are so loyal, how can you ask me to be disloyal?'
'Spare me your reproaches. Fate has been cruel. I have never told you the story of my life. I have suffered deeply; my pride has been humiliated, and I have endured hunger and cold; but those sufferings were light compared to this last misfortune.'
She looked at him with sublime pity in her eyes. 'I do not conceal from you,' she said, 'that I love you very much. I, too, have suffered, and I had thought for one moment that fate had vouchsafed me happiness; but, as you would say—the irony of life.'
'Julia, do not say you never will?'
'We cannot look into the future. But this I can say—I will not do Emily any wrong, and so far as is in my power I will avoid giving her pain. There is only one way out of this difficulty. I must leave this house as soon as I can persuade her to let me go.'
The door opened; involuntarily the speakers moved apart; and though their faces and attitudes were strictly composed when Emily entered, she knew they had been standing closer together.
'I'm afraid I'm interrupting you,' she said.
'No, Emily; pray do not go away. We were only talking about you.'
'If I were to leave every time you begin to talk about me, I should spend my life in my room. I daresay you have many faults to find. Let me hear all about your fresh discoveries.'
It was a thin November day: leaves were whirling on the lawn, and at that moment one blew rustling down the window-pane. And, even as it, she seemed a passing thing. Her face was like a plate of fine white porcelain, and the deep eyes filled it with a strange and magnetic pathos; the abundant chestnut hair hung in the precarious support of a thin tortoiseshell; and there was something unforgetable in the manner in which her aversion for the elder woman betrayed itself—a mere nothing, and yet more impressive than any more obvious and therefore more vulgar expression of dislike would have been.
'A little patience, Emily. You will not have me here much longer.'