Philipps, the editor of The Cosmopolitan, turned towards Harding, and he said—

'I cannot follow you in your estimate of Hubert Price. I don't see him either mentally or physically as you do. It seems to me that you distort the facts to make them fit in with your theory. He is tall and thin, but I do not think that his nature is hard and dry. I should, on the contrary, say that he was of a soft rather than a hard nature. The expression of his face is mild and melancholy. I do not detect the dry, hard, rocky basis of which you speak. I should say that Price was a sentimental man.'

'I have never heard of him being in love,' said Harding. 'I should say that he had been entirely uninfluenced by women.'

'But love of women is only one form of sentimentality and not the highest, nor the deepest,' said Philipps. 'I can imagine a man being exceedingly sentimental and not caring about women at all.'

'What you say is true,' said Harding. His face showed that he felt the observation to be true and was interested in it. 'But I think I described him truly when I said he was like a rock overgrown with moss and lichen. There is not sufficient root-hold for any idea to grow in him, it withers and dies. Examine his literature, and you'll see it is as I say. He has written some remarkable plays, I don't say he hasn't. But they seem to be better than they are. He gets a picturesque situation, but there is always something mechanical about it. There's a human emotion somewhere, but it's never really there; it might have been, but it is not.... It is very well done, it is very intelligent; but it does not seem to live, to palpitate.... In like manner there are men who have read everything, who understand everything, who can theorise; they can tell you all about the masterpiece, but when it comes to producing one, well, they're not on in that scene.'

'What an excellent character he would make in a novel! A drama of sterility,' said Phillips.

'Or the dramas which they bring about,' said Harding.

'Yes, or the dramas they bring about. But what drama can Price bring about—he shuts himself up in a room and tries to write a play,' said Phillips. 'I don't see how he can dramatise any life but his own.'

'All deviations from the normal tend to bring about drama,' said Harding.

'Then, why don't you do a Hubert Price in a book? It would be most interesting. Do you think you ever will?'

'I don't think so.'

'Why not? Because he is a friend of yours, and you would not like——'

'I never allow my private life to interfere with my literature. No; for quite other reasons. I admit that he represents physically and mentally a great deal of the intellectual impotence current in our time. But it would be difficult, I think, to bring vividly before the reader that tall, thin, blonde man, with his pale gentle eyes and his insipid mind. I should take quite a different kind of man as my model.'

'What kind of man?' said Phillips, and the five or six writers and painters leaned forward to listen to Harding.

'I think I should imagine a man about the medium height. A nice figure, light, trim, neat. Good-looking, straight nose, eyes bright and intelligent. I think he would have beard, a very close-cut beard. The turn of his mind would be metaphysical and poetic—an intense subtility of mind combined with much order. He would be full of little habits. He would have note-books of a special kind in which to enter his ideas. The tendency of his mind would be towards concision, and he would by degrees extend his desire for concision into the twilight and the night of symbolism.'

'A sort of constipated Browning,' said Phillips.

'Exactly,' said Harding.

'And would you have him married?' asked John Norton.

'Certainly. I imagine him living in a tiny little house somewhere near the river—Westminster or Chelsea. His wife would be a dreadful person, thin, withered, herring-gutted—a sort of red herring with a cap. But his daughter would be charming, she would have inherited her father's features. I can imagine these women living in admiration of this man, tending on him, speaking very little, removed from worldly influences, seeing only the young men who come every Tuesday evening to listen to the poet's conversation—I don't hear them saying much—I can see them sitting in a corner listening for the ten thousandth time to aestheticisms not one word of which they understand, and about ten o'clock stealing away to some mysterious chamber. Something of the poet's sterility would have descended upon them.'

'That is how you imagine un gnie rat,' said Phillips. 'Your conception is clear enough; why don't you write the book?'

'Because there is nothing more to say on the subject. It is a subject for a sketch, not for a book. But of this I'm sure, that the dry-rock man would come out more clearly in a book than the soft, insipid, gentle, companionable, red-bearded fellow.'

'If Price were the dry, sterile nature you describe, we should feel no interest in him, we should not be discussing him as we are,' said Phillips.

'Yes, we should—Price suffers; we're interested in him because he suffers—because he suffers in public—"I never was happy except on those rare occasions when I thought I was a great man." In that sentence you'll find the clew to his attractiveness. But in him there is nothing of the irresponsible passion which is genius. There's that little Rose Massey—that little baby who spends half her day dreaming, and who is as ignorant as a cod-fish. Well, she has got that something—that undefinable but always recognisable something. It was Price who discovered her. We used to laugh at him when he said she had genius. He was right; we were wrong. The other night I was standing in the wings; she was coming down from her dressing-room—she lingered on the stairs, looking the most insignificant little thing you can well imagine; but the moment her cue came a strange light came into her eyes and a strange life was fused in her limbs; she was transformed, and went on the stage a very symbol of passion and romance.'

The slate colour of the sky did not seem to change, and yet the night grew visibly denser in the park; and there had come the sensation of things ended, a movement of wraps thrown over shoulders and thought of bedtime and home. The crowd was moving away, and nearly lost in the darkness Hubert came towards his friends. He had just knocked the ash from his cigar, and as he drew in the smoke the glow of the lighted end fled over his blonde face.



XIV

One day a short letter came from Hubert, asking Mrs. Bentley to send the dog-cart to the station to fetch him. He had decided to come home at once, and postpone the production of his play till the coming spring.

Every rehearsal had revealed new and serious faults of construction. These he had attempted to remove when he went home in the evening, but though he often worked till daybreak, he did not achieve much. The very knowledge that he must come to rehearsal with the re-written scene seemed to produce in him a sort of mental paralysis, and, striking the table with his fist, he would get up, and a thought would cross his mind of how he might escape from this torture. After one terrible night, in which he feared his brain was really giving way, he went down to the theatre and dismissed the company, for he had resolved to return to Ashwood and spend another autumn and another winter re-writing The Gipsy. If it did not come right then, he would bother no more about it. Why should he? There was so much else in life besides literature. He had plenty of money, and was determined in any case to enjoy himself. So did his thoughts run as he leaned back on the cushions of a first-class carriage, glancing casually through the evening paper. Presently his eye was caught by a paragraph narrating an odd calamity which had overtaken a scene carpenter, an honest, respectable, sober, hard-working man, who had fulfilled all social obligations as perfectly as the most exacting could desire, until the day he had conceived the idea of a machine for the better exhibition of advertisements on the hoardings. His system was based on the roller-towel. The roller was moved by clockwork, and the advertisements went round like the towel. At first he spent his spare time and his spare money upon it, but as the hobby took possession of him, he devoted all his time and all his money to it; then he pawned his clothes, and then he raised money on the furniture; the brokers came in, and finally the poor fellow was taken to a lunatic asylum, and his wife and family were thrown on the parish. The story impressed Hubert strangely. He saw an analogy between himself and the crazy inventor, and he asked himself if he would go on re-writing The Gipsy until he went out of his mind. 'Even if I do,' he thought, 'I can hurt no one but myself. No one else is dependent on me; my hobby can hurt no one but myself.' These forebodings passed away, and his mind filled up with schemes of work. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and he looked forward to doing it. He wanted quiet, he wanted long days alone with himself. Such were his thoughts in the dog-cart as he drove home, and it was therefore vaguely unpleasant to him to meet the two ladies waiting for him at the lodge gate. Their smiles of welcome irritated him; he longed for the solitude of his study, the companionship of his work; and instead he had to sit with them in the drawing-room, and tell them how he liked London, what he had done there, whom he had seen there, and why he had been unable to finish his play to his satisfaction.

In the morning Emily or Mrs. Bentley was generally about to pour out his coffee for him and keep him company. One day Hubert noticed that it was no longer Mrs. Bentley but Emily who met him in the passage, and followed him into the dining-room. And while he was eating she sat with her feet on the fender, talking of some girls in the neighbourhood—their jealousies, and how Edith Eastwick could not think of anything for herself, but always copied her dresses. Dandy drowsed at her feet, and very often she would take him to the window and make him go through all his tricks, calling on Hubert to admire him.

She had a knack of monopolising Hubert, and since his return from London, her desire to do so had become almost a determination. Hubert showed no disinclination, and after breakfast they were to be seen together in the gardens. Hubert was a great catch, and there were other young ladies eager to be agreeable to him; but he did not seem to desire flirtation with any. So they came to speak of him as a very clever man, no doubt; but as they knew nothing about plays, he very probably did not care to talk to them. Hubert was not attractive in general society, and he would soon have failed to interest them at all had it not been for Emily. She was proud of her influence over him, and for the first time showed a desire to go into society. Day by day her conversation turned more and more on tennis-parties, and she even spoke about a ball. He consented to take her; and he had to dance with her, and she refused nearly every one, saying she was tired, leading Hubert away for long conversations in the galleries and on the staircases. Hubert had positively nothing to say to her; but she seemed quite happy as long as she was with him. And as they drove through the dawn Emily chattered of a hundred trifles,—what Edith had said, what Mabel wore, of the possibility of a marriage, and the arrival of a detachment of some cavalry regiment. Hubert found it hard to affect interest in these conversations. His brain was weary with waltz tunes, the shape of shoulders, and the glare and rustle of silk; but as she chattered, rubbing the misted windows from time to time, so as to determine how far they were from home, he wondered if he should ever marry, and half playfully he thought of her as his wife.

But without warning his dreams were broken by a sudden thought, and he said—

'Another time, I think it will be better, my dear Emily, that Mrs. Bentley should take you out.'

'Why should you not take me out?... I suppose you don't care to—I bore you.'

'No; on the contrary, I enjoy it—I like to see you amused; but I think you should have a proper chaperon.'

Emily did not answer; and a little cloud came over her face. Hubert thought she looked even prettier in her displeasure than she had done in her joy; and he went to sleep thinking of her. Never had he thought her so beautiful—never had she touched him with so personal an interest; and next morning, when he lounged in his study, he was glad to hear her knock at the door; and the half-hour he spent with her there, yielding to her pleading to come for a walk with her, or drive her over to Southwater in the dog-cart, was one of unalloyed pleasure. But a few days after, as he lay in bed, a new idea came to him for his third act. So he said he would have breakfast in his study. He dressed, thinking the whole time how he could round off his idea and bring it into the act. So clear and precise did it seem in his mind that he sat down immediately after breakfast, forgetting even his matutinal cigar, and wrote with a flowing pen. He had left orders that he was not to be disturbed; and was annoyed when the door opened and Emily entered.

'I am very sorry, but you must not be cross with me; I do so want you to come and see the Eastwicks with me.'

'My dear Emily, I could not think of such a thing this morning. I am very busy—indeed I am.'

'What are you doing? Nothing very important, I can see. You are only writing your play. You might come with me.'

'My play is as important to me as a visit to the Eastwicks is to you,' he answered, smiling.

'I have promised Edith.... I really do wish you would come.'

'My dear Emily, it is quite impossible: do let me get on with my work!'

Emily's face instantly changed expression; she turned to leave the room, and Hubert had to go after her and beg her to forgive him—he really had not meant to be rude to her.

'You don't care to talk to me. I am not clever enough for you.'

Then pity took him, and he made amends by suggesting they should go for a walk in the park, and she often succeeded in leading him even to dry, uninteresting neighbours. But the burden grew heavier, and soon he could endure no longer the evenings of devotion to her in the drawing-room, where the presence of Mrs. Bentley seemed to fill her with incipient rebellion. One evening after dinner, as he was about to escape up-stairs, Emily took his arm, pleading that he should play at least one game of backgammon with her. He played three; and then, thinking he had done enough, he took up a novel and began to read. Emily was bitterly offended. She sat in a corner, a picture of deep misery; and whenever he spoke to Mrs. Bentley, he thought she would burst into tears. It was exasperating to be the perpetual victim of such folly; and, pressed by the desire to talk to Mrs. Bentley about the book he was reading, he suggested that she should come with him to the meet. The Harriers met for the first time that season at not five miles from Ashwood. Mrs. Bentley pleaded an engagement. She had promised to go over to tea at the rectory.

'Oh, we shall be back in plenty of time; I'll leave you at the rectory on our way home.'

'Thank you, Mr. Price; but I do not think I can go.'

'And why, may I ask?'

'Well, perhaps Emily would like to go.'

'Emily has a cold, and it would be folly of her to venture a long drive on a cold morning.'

'My cold is quite well.'

'You were complaining before dinner how bad it was.'

'If you don't want to take me, say so.' Tears were now streaming down her cheeks.

'My dear Emily, I am only too pleased to have you with me; I was only thinking of your cold.'

'My cold is quite gone,' she said, with brightening face; and next morning she came down with her waterproof on her arm, and she had on a new cloth dress which she had just received from London. Hubert recognised in each article of attire a sign that she was determined to carry her point. It seemed cruel to tell her to take her things off, and he glanced at Mrs. Bentley and wondered if she were offended.

'I hope the drive won't tire you; you know the meet is at least five miles from here.'

Emily did not answer. She looked charming with her great boa tied about her throat, and sprang into the dog-cart all lightness and joy.

'I hope you are well wrapped up about the knees,' said Mrs. Bentley.

'Oh yes, thank you; Hubert is looking after me.'

Mrs. Bentley's calm, statuesque face, whereon no trace of envy appeared, caught Hubert's attention as he gathered up the reins, and he thought how her altruism contrasted with the passionate egotism of the young girl.

'I hope Julia was not disappointed. I know she wanted to come; but——'

'But what?'

'Well, no one likes Julia more than I do, and I don't want to say anything against her; but, having lived so long with her, I see her faults better than you can. She is horribly selfish! It never occurs to her to think of me.'

Hubert did not answer, and Emily looked at him inquiringly. At last she said, 'I suppose you don't think so?'

'Well, Emily, since you ask me, I must say that I think she took it very good-humouredly. You said you were ill, and it was all arranged that I should drive her to the meet; then you suddenly interposed, and said you wanted to go; and the moment you mentioned your desire to go, she gave way without a word. I really don't know what more you want.'

'You don't know Julia. You cannot read her face. She never forgets anything, and is storing it up, and will pay me out for it sooner or later.'

'My dear Emily, how can you say such things? I never heard—— She is always ready to sacrifice herself for you.'

'You think so. She has a knack of pretending to be more unselfish than another; but she is in reality intensely selfish.'

'All I can say is that it does not strike me so. I never saw any one give way more good-humouredly than she did to-day.'

'I don't think that that is so wonderful, after all. She is only a paid companion; and I do not see why she should go driving about the country with you, and I be left at home.'

Hubert was somewhat shocked. The conversation paused.

'She gets on very well with men,' Emily said at last, breaking an irritating silence somewhat suddenly. 'They say she is very good-looking. Don't you think so?'

'Oh yes, she is certainly a pretty woman—or, I should say, a good-looking woman. She is too tall to be what one generally understands as a pretty woman.'

'Do you like tall women?'

At that moment the hunt appeared in the field at the bottom of the hill. A grey horse had just got rid of his rider, and after galloping round and round, his head in the air, stopped and began to graze. The others jumped the hedge, and the greater part of the field got over the brook in capital style. Emily and Hubert watched them with delighted eyes, for the sight was indeed picturesque this fine autumn day. Even their horse pricked up his ears and began neighing, and Hubert had to hold him tight in hand, lest he should break away while they were enjoying the spectacle. At that moment a poor little animal, with fear-haunted eyes, and in all the agony of fatigue, appeared above the crest of the hill, and immediately after came the straining hounds, one within a dozen yards of the poor little beast, now running in a circle, uttering the most plaintive and pitiful cries.

'Oh, they are not going to kill it!' cried Emily. 'Oh, save it, save it, Hubert!' She hid her face in her hands. 'Did it escape? is it killed?' she said, looking round. 'Oh, it is too cruel!' The huntsman was calling to the hounds, holding something above them, and at every moment horses' heads appeared over the brow of the hill.

There was more hunting; and when the October night began to gather, and the lurid sunset flared up in the west, Hubert got out another wrap, and placed it about Emily's shoulders. But although the chill night had drawn them close together in the dog-cart, they were as widely separated as if oceans were between them. So far as lay in his power he had hidden the annoyance that the intrusion of her society had occasioned him; and, to deceive her, very little concealment was necessary. So long as she saw him she seemed to live in a dream, unconscious of every other thought.

They rolled through a gradual effacement of things, seeing the lights of the farmhouses in the long plain start into existence, and then remain fixed, like gold beetles pinned on a blue curtain. The chill evening drew her to him, till they seemed one; and full of the intimate happiness of the senses which comes of a long day spent in the open air, she chattered of indifferent things. He thought how pleasant the drive would be were he with Mrs. Bentley—or, for the matter of that, with any one with whom he could talk about the novel that had interested him. They rolled along the smooth wide road, watching the streak of light growing narrower in a veil of light grey cloud drawn athwart the sky. Overpowered by her love, the girl hardly noticed his silence; and when they passed through the night of an overhanging wood her flesh thrilled, and a little faintness came over her; for the leaves that brushed her face had seemed like a kiss from her lover.



XV

One afternoon, about the end of September, Hubert came down from his study about tea-time, and announced that he had written the last scene of his last act. Emily was alone in the drawing-room.

'Oh, how glad I am! Then it is done at last. Why not write at once and engage the theatre? When shall we go to London?'

'Well, I don't mean that the play could be put into rehearsal to-morrow. It still requires a good deal of overhauling. Besides, even if it were completely finished, I should not care to produce it at once. I should like to lay it aside for a couple of months, and see how it read then.'

'What a lot of trouble you do take! Does every one who writes plays take so much trouble?'

'No, I'm afraid they do not, nor is it necessary they should. Their plays are merely incidents strung together more or less loosely; whereas my play is the development of a temperament, of temperamental characteristics which cannot be altered, having been inherited through centuries; it must therefore pursue its course to a fatal conclusion. In Shakespeare—— But no, no! these things have no interest for you. You shall have the nicest dress that money can buy; and if the play succeeds——'

The girl raised her pathetic eyes. In truth, she cared not at all what he talked to her about; she was occupied with her own thoughts of him, and just to sit in the room with him, and to look at him occasionally, was sufficient. But for once his words had pained her. It was because she could not understand that he did not care to talk to her. Why did she not understand? It was hard for a little girl like her to understand such things as he spoke about; but she would understand; and then her thoughts passed into words, and she said—

'I understand quite as well as Julia. She, knows the names of more books than I, and she is very clever at pretending that she knows more than she does.'

At that moment Mrs. Bentley entered. She saw that Emily was enjoying her talk with her cousin, and tried to withdraw. But Hubert told her that he had written the last act; she pretended to be looking for a book, and then for some work which she said had dropped out of her basket.

'If Emily would only continue the talking,' she thought, 'I should be able to get away.' But Emily said not a word. She sat as if frozen in her chair; and at length Mrs. Bentley was obliged to enter, however cursorily, into the conversation.

'If you have written out The Gipsy from end to end, I should advise you to produce it without further delay. Once it is put on the stage, you will be able to see better where it is wrong.'

'Then it will be too late. The critics will have expressed their opinion; the work will be judged. There are only one or two points about which I am doubtful. I wish Harding were here. I cannot work unless I have some one to talk to about my work. I don't mean to say that I take advice; but the very fact of reading an act to a sympathetic listener helps me. I wrote the first act of Divorce in that way. It was all wrong. I had some vague ideas about how it might be mended. A friend came in; I told him my difficulties; in telling them they vanished, and I wrote an entirely new act that very night.'

'I'm sorry,' said Mrs. Bentley, 'that I am not Mr. Harding. It must be very gratifying to one's feelings to be able to help to solve a literary difficulty, particularly if one cannot write oneself.'

'But you can—I'm sure you can. I remember asking your advice once before; it was excellent, and was of immense help to me. Are you sure it will not bore you? I shall be so much obliged if you will.'

'Bore me! No, it won't bore me,' said Mrs. Bentley. 'I'm sure I feel very much flattered.' The colour mounted to her cheek, a smile was on her lips; but it went out at the sight of Emily's face.

'Then come up to my study. We shall have just time to get through the first act before dinner.'

Mrs. Bentley hesitated; and, noticing her hesitation, Hubert looked surprised. At that moment Emily said—

'May I not come too?'

'Well, I don't know, Emily. You see that we wish to see if there is anything in the play that a young girl should not hear.'

'Always an excuse to get rid of me. You want to be alone. I never come into the room that you do not stop speaking. Oh, I can bear it no longer!'

'My dear Emily!'

'Don't touch me! Go to her; shut yourself up together. Don't think of me. I can bear it no longer!' And she fled from the room, leaving behind her a sensation of alarm and pity. Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at each other, both at a loss for words. At last he said—

'That poor child will cry herself into her grave. Have you noticed how poorly she is looking?'

'Not noticed! But you do not know half of it. It has been going on now a long time. You don't know half!'

'I have noticed that things are not settling down as I hoped they would. It really has become quite dreadful to see that poor face looking reproachfully at you all day long. And I am quite at a loss to know what's the right thing to do.'

'It is worse than you think. You have not noticed that we hardly speak now?'

'You—who were such friends—surely not!'

Then she told him hurriedly, in brief phrases, of the change that had taken place in Emily in the last three months. 'It was only the other night she accused me of going after you, of having designs upon you. It is very painful to have to tell you these things, but I have no choice in the matter. She lay on her bed crying, saying that every one hated her, that she was thoroughly miserable. Somehow she seems naturally an unhappy child. She was unhappy at home before she came here; but then I believe she had excellent reasons,—her mother was a very terrible person. However, all that is past; we have to consider the present now. She accused me of having designs on you, insisting all the while that every one was talking about it, and that she was fretting solely because of my good name. Of course, it is very ridiculous; but it is very pitiful, and will end badly if we don't take means to put a stop to it. I shouldn't be surprised if she went off her head. We ought to have the best medical advice.'

'This is very serious,' he said. And then, at the end of a long silence, he said again, 'This is very serious—perhaps far more serious than we think.'

'Not more serious than I think. I ought to have spoken about it to you before; but the subject is a delicate one. She hardly sleeps at all at night; she cries sometimes for hours; she works herself up into such fits of nervousness that she doesn't know what she is saying,—accuses me of killing her, and then repents, declaring that I am the only one who has ever cared for her, and begs of me not to leave her. I do assure you it is becoming very serious.'

'Have you any proposal to make regarding her? I need hardly say that I'm ready to carry out any idea of yours.'

'You know what the cause of it is, I suppose?'

'I do not know; I am not certain. I daresay I'm mistaken.'

'No, you are not; I wish you were—that is to say, unless—— But I was saying that it is most serious. The child's health is affected; she is working herself up into an awful state of mind; she is losing all self-control. I'm sure I'm the last person who would say anything against her; but the time has come to speak out. Well, the other day, when we were at the Eastwicks, you took the chair next to mine when she left the room. When she returned, she saw that you had changed your place, and she said to Ethel Eastwick, "Oh, I'm fainting. I cannot go in there; they are together." Ethel had to take her up to her room. Well, this morbid sensitiveness is most unhealthy. If I walk out on the terrace, she follows, thinking that I have made an appointment to meet you. Jealousy of me fills up her whole mind. I assure you that I am most seriously alarmed. Something occurs every day—trifles, no doubt; and in anybody else they would mean nothing, but in her they mean a great deal.'

'But what do you propose?'

'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.'

'I suppose that I am so disagreeable that you cannot live with me. Why should you go away?'

'My dear Emily, you must not excite yourself. The doctor——'

'I want to know why she said she was going to leave. Has she been complaining about me to you? What is her reason for wanting to go?'

'We do not get on together as we used to—that is all, Emily. I can please you no longer.'

'It is not my fault if we do not get on. I don't see why we shouldn't, and I do not want you to go.'

'Emily, dear, everything shall be as you like it.'

The girl looked at him with the shy, doubting look of an animal that would like, and still does not dare, to go to the beckoning hand. How frail seemed the body in the black dress! and how thin the arms in the black sleeves! Hubert took the little hand in his. At his touch a look of content and rest passed into her eyes, and she yielded herself as the leaf yields to the wind. She was all his when he chose. Mrs. Bentley left the room; and, seeing her go, a light of sudden joy illuminated the thin, pale face; and when the door closed, and she was alone with him, the bleak, unhappy look, which had lately grown strangely habitual to her, faded out of her face and eyes. He fetched her shawl, and took her hand again in his, knowing that by so doing he made her happy. He could not refuse her the peace from pain that these attentions brought her, though he would have held himself aloof from all women but one. She knew the truth well enough; but they who suffer much think only of the cessation of pain. He wondered at the inveigling content that introduced itself into her voice, face, and gesture. Settling herself comfortably on the sofa, she said—

'Now tell me what the doctor said. Did he say I would soon recover? Did he say that I was very bad? Tell me all.'

'He said that you ought to have a change—that you should go south somewhere.'

'And you agree with him that I ought to go away?'

'Is he not the best judge?—the doctor's orders!'

'Then you, too, have learnt to hate me. You, too, want to send me away?'

'My dear Emily, I only want to do as you like. You asked me what the doctor said, and I told you.'

Hubert got up and walked aside. He passed his hand across his eyes. He could hardly contain himself; the emotion that discussion with this sick girl caused him went to his head. She looked at him curiously, watching his movement, and he failed to understand what pleasure it could give her to have him by her side, knowing, as she clearly did, that his heart was elsewhere. Turning suddenly, he said—

'But tell me, Emily, how are you feeling? You are, after all, the best judge.'

'I feel rather weak. I should get strong enough if——'

She paused, as if waiting for Hubert to ask her to finish the sentence. But he hurriedly turned the conversation.

'The doctor said you looked as if you had not had any sleep for several nights. I told him that that was strange, for you were taking chloral.'

'I sleep well enough,' she said. 'But sometimes life seems so sad, that I do not think I shall be able to bear with it any longer. You do not know how unfortunate I have been. When I was a child, father and mother used to quarrel always, and I was the only child. That was why Mr. Burnett asked me to come and live at Ashwood. I came at first on a visit; and when father and mother died, he said he wished to adopt me. I thought he loved me; but his love was only selfishness. No one has ever loved me. I feel so utterly alone in this world—that is why I am unhappy.'

Her eyes filled with tears, and at the sight of her tears Hubert's feelings were overwrought, and again he had to walk aside. He would give her all things; but she was dying for him, and he could not save her. No longer was there any disguisement between them. The words they uttered were as nothing, so clearly did the thought shine out of their eyes, 'I am dying of love for you,' and then the answer, 'I know that is so, and I cannot help it.' Her whole soul was spoken in her eyes, and he felt that his eyes betrayed him equally plainly. They stood in a sort of mental nakedness. The woman no longer sought for words to cover herself with; the man did, but he did not find them. They had not spoken for some time; they had been thinking of each other. At last she said, and with the querulous perversity of the sick—-

'But even if I wished to go abroad, with whom could I go?'

Hubert fell into the trap, and, noticing the sudden brightness in his eyes, a cloud of disappointment shadowed hers. 'Of course, with Mrs. Bentley. I assure you, my dear Emily, that you——'

'No, no, I am not mistaken! She hates me, and I cannot bear her. It is she who is making me ill.'

'Hate you! Why should she hate you?'

Emily did not reply. Hubert watched her, noticing the pallor of her cheek, so entirely white and blue, hardly a touch of warm colour anywhere, even in the shadow of the heavy hair.

'I would give anything to see you friends again.'

'That is impossible! I can never be friends with Julia as I once was. She has—— No, never can we be friends again. But why do you always take her part against me? That is what grieves me most. If only you thought——'

'Emily dear, these are but idle fancies. You are mistaken.'

The conversation fell. The girl lay quite still, her hands clasped across the shawl, her little foot stretched beyond the limp black dress, the hem of which fell over the edge of the grey sofa. Hubert sat by her on a low chair, and he looked into the fire, whose light wavered over the walls, now and again bringing the face of one of the pictures out of the darkness. The wind whined about the windows. Then, speaking as if out of a dream, Emily said—

'Julia and I can never be friends again—that is impossible.'

'But what has she done?' Hubert asked incautiously, regretting his words as soon as he had uttered them.

'What has she done?' she said, looking at him curiously. 'Well, one thing, she has got it reported that—that I am in love with you, and that that is the reason of my illness.'

'I am sure she never said any such thing. You are entirely mistaken. Mrs. Bentley is incapable of such wickedness.'

'A woman, when she is jealous, will say anything. If she did not say it, can you tell me how it got about?'

'I don't believe any one ever said such a thing.'

'Oh yes, lots have said so—things come back to me. Julia always was jealous of me. She cannot bear me to speak to you. Have you not noticed how she follows us? Do you think she would have left the room just now if she could have helped it?'

'If you think this is so, had she not better leave?'

Emily did not answer at once. Motionless she lay on the sofa, looking at the grey November day with vague eyes that bespoke an obsession of hallucination. Suddenly she said, 'I do not want her to go away. She would spread a report that I was jealous of her, and had asked you to send her away. No; it would not be wise to send her away. Besides,' she said, fixing her eyes, now full of melancholy reproach, 'you would like her to remain.'

'I have said before, Emily, and I assure you I am speaking the truth, I want you to do what you like. Say what you wish to be done, and it shall be done.'

'Is that really true? I thought no one cared for me. You must care for me a little to speak like that.'

'Of course I care for you, Emily.'

'I sometimes think you might have if it had not been for that play; for, of course, I'm not clever, and cannot discuss it with you.... Julia, I suppose, can—that is the reason why you like her. Am I not right?'

'Mrs. Bentley is a clever woman, who has read a great deal, and I like to talk an act over with her before I write it.'

'Is that all? Then why do people say you are going to marry her?'

'But nobody ever said so.'

'Oh yes, they have. Is it true?'

'No, Emily; it is not true.'

'Are you quite sure?'

'Yes, quite sure.'

'If that is so,' she said, turning her eyes on Hubert, and looking as if she could see right down into his soul, 'I shall get well very soon. Then we can go on just the same; but if you married her, I——'

'I what?'

'Nothing! I feel quite happy now. I did not want you to marry her. I could not bear it. It would be like having a step-mother—worse, for she would not have me here at all; she would drive me away.'

Hubert shook his head.

'You don't know Julia as well as I do. However, it is no use discussing what is not going to be. You have been very nice to-day. If you would be always nice, as you are to-day, I should soon get well.'

Her pale profile seemed very sharp in the fading twilight, and her delicate arms and thin bosom were full of the charm and fascination of deciduous things. She turned her face and looked at Hubert. 'You have made me very happy. I am content.'

He was afraid to look back at her, lest she should, in her subtle, wilful manner, read the thought that was passing in his soul. Even now she seemed to read it. She seemed conscious of his pity for her. So little would give her happiness, and that little was impossible. His heart was irreparably another's. But though Emily's eyes seemed to know all, they seemed to say, 'What matter? I regret nothing, only let things remain as they are.' And then her voice said—

'I think I could sleep a little; happiness has brought me sleep. Don't go away. I shall not be asleep long.' She looked at him, and dozed, and then fell asleep. Hubert waited till her breathing grew deeper; then he laid the hand he held in his by her side, and stole on tiptoe from the room.

The strain of the interview had become too intense; the house was unbearable. He went into the air. The November sky was drawing into wintry night; the grey clouds darkened, clinging round the long plain, overshadowing it, blotting out colour, leaving nothing but the severe green of the park, and the yellow whirling of dishevelled woods.

'I must,' he said to himself, 'think no more about it. I shall go mad if I do. Nature will find her own solution. God grant that it may be a merciful one! I can do nothing.' And to escape from useless consideration, to release his overwrought brain, he hastened his steps, extending his walk through the farthest woods. As he approached the lodge gate he came upon Mrs. Bentley. She stood, her back turned from him, leaning on the gate, her thoughts lost in the long darkness of autumnal fields and woods.

'Julia!'

'You have left Emily. How did you leave her?'

'She is fast asleep on the sofa. She fell asleep. Then why should I remain? The house was unbearable. She went to sleep, saying she felt very happy.'

'Really! What induced such a change in her? Did you——'

'No; I did not ask her to marry me; but I was able to tell her that I was not going to marry you, and that seemed entirely to satisfy her.'

'Did she ask you?'

'Yes. And when I told her I was not, she said that that was all she wanted to know—that she would soon get well now. How we human beings thrive in each other's unhappiness!'

'Quite true, and we have been reproaching ourselves for our selfishness.'

'Yes, and hers is infinitely greater. She is quite satisfied not to be happy herself, so long as she can make sure of our unhappiness. And what is so strange is her utter unconsciousness of her own fantastic and hardly conceivable selfishness.... It is astonishing!'

'She is very young, and the young are naturally egotistic.'

'Possibly. Still, it is hardly more agreeable to encounter. Come, let's go for a walk; and, above all things, let's talk no more about Emily.'

The roads were greasy, and the hedges were torn and worn with incipient winter, and when they dipped the town appeared, a reddish-brown mass in the blue landscape. Hubert thought of his play and his love; but not separately—they seemed to him now as one indissoluble, indivisible thing; and he told her that he never would be able to write it without her assistance. That she might be of use to him in his work was singularly sweet to hear, and the thought reached to the end of her heart, causing her to smile sadly, and argue vainly, and him to reply querulously. They walked for about a mile; and then, wearied with sad expostulation, the conversation fell, and at the end of a long silence Julia said—

'I think we had better turn back.'

The suggestion filled Hubert's heart with rushing pain, and he answered—

'Why should we return? I cannot go back to that girl. Oh, the miserable life we are leading!'

'What can we do? We must go back; we cannot live in a tent by the wayside. We have no tent to set up.'

'Come to London, and be my wife.'

'No,' she said; 'that is impossible. Let us not speak of it.'

Hubert did not answer; and, turning their faces homeward, they walked some way in silence. Suddenly Hubert said—

'No; it is impossible. I cannot return. There is no use. I'm at the end of my tether. I cannot.'

She looked at him in alarm.

'Hubert,' she said, 'this is folly! I cannot return without you.'

'You ruin my life; you refuse me the only happiness. I'm more wretched than I can tell you!'

'And I! Do you think that I'm not wretched?' She raised her face to his; her eyes were full of tears. He caught her in his arms, and kissed her. The warm touch of her lips, the scent of her face and hair, banished all but desire of her.

'You must come with me, Julia. I shall go mad if you don't. I can care for no one but you. All my life is in you now. You know I cannot love that girl, and we cannot continue in this wretched life. There is no sense in it; it is a voluntary, senseless martyrdom!'

'Hubert, do not tempt me to be disloyal to my friend. It is cruel of you, for you know I love you. But no, nothing shall tempt me. How can I? We do not know what might happen. The shock might kill her. She might do away with herself.'

'You must come with me,' said Hubert, now completely lost in his passion. 'Nothing will happen. Girls do not do away with themselves; girls do not die of broken hearts. Nothing happens in these days. A few more tears will be shed, and she will soon become reconciled to what cannot be altered. A year or so after, we will marry her to a nice young man, and she will settle down a quiet mother of children.'

'Perhaps you are right.'

An empty fly, returning to the town, passed them. The fly-man raised his whip.

'Take you to the railway station in ten minutes!'

Hubert spoke quietly; nevertheless there was a strange nervousness in his eyes when he said—

'Fate comes to help me; she offers us the means of escape. You will not refuse, Julia?'

Her upraised face was full of doubt and pain, and she was perplexed by the fly-man's dull eyes, his starved horse, his ramshackle vehicle, the wet road, the leaden sky. It was one of those moments when the familiar appears strange and grotesque. Then, gathering all her resolution, she said—

'No, no; it is impossible! Come back, come back.'

He caught her arm: quietly and firmly he led her across the road. 'You must listen to me.... We are about to take a decisive step. Are you sure that——'

'No, no, Hubert, I cannot; let us return home.'

'I go back to Ashwood! If I did, I should commit suicide.'

'Don't speak like that.... Where will you go?'

'I shall travel.... I shall visit Italy and Greece.... I shall live abroad.'

'You are not serious?'

'Yes, I am, Julia. That cab may not take both, but it certainly will take one of us away from Ashwood, and for ever.'

'Take you to Southwater, sir—take you to the station in ten minutes,' said the fly-man, pulling in his horse. A zig-zag fugitive thought passed: why did the fly-man speak of taking them to the station? How was it that he knew where they wanted to go? They stopped and wondered. The poor horse's bones stood out in strange projections, the round-shouldered little fly-man sat grinning on his box, showing three long yellow fangs. The vehicle, the horse, and the man, his arm raised in questioning gesture, appeared in strange silhouette upon the grey clouds, assuming portentous aspect in their tremulous and excited imaginations. 'Take you to Southwater in ten minutes!' The voice of the fly-man sounded hard, grating, and derisive in their ears.

He had stopped in the middle of the road, and they walked slowly past, through a great puddle, which drenched their feet.

'Get in, Julia. Shall I open the door?'

'No, no; think of Emily. I cannot, Hubert,—I cannot; it would kill her.'

The conversation paused, and in a long silence they wondered if the fly-man had heard. Then they walked several yards listening to the tramp of the hoofs, and then they heard the fly-man strike his horse with the whip. The animal shuffled into a sort of trot, and as the carriage passed them the fly-man again raised his arm and again repeated the same phrase, 'Drive you to the station in ten minutes!' The carriage was her temptation, and Julia hoped the man would linger no longer. For the promise she had given to Emily lay like a red-hot coal upon her heart; its fumes rose to her head, and there were times when she thought they would choke her, and she grew so sick with the pain of self-denial that she could have thrown herself down in the wet grass on the roadside, and laid her face on the cold earth for relief. Would nothing happen? What madness! Night was coming on, and still they followed the road to Southwater. Rain fell in heavy drops.

'We shall get wet,' she murmured, as if she were answering the fly-man, who had said again, 'Drive you to the station in ten minutes!' She hated the man for his persistency.

'Say you will come with me!' Hubert whispered; and all the while the rain came down heavier.

'No, no, Hubert.... I cannot; I promised Emily that I never would. I am going back.'

'Then we must say good-bye. I will not go back.'

'You don't mean it. You don't really intend me to go back to Emily and tell her?... She will not believe me; she will think I have sent you away to gain my own end. Hubert, you mustn't leave me ... and in all this wet. See how it rains! I shall never be able to get home alone.'

'I will drive you on as far as the lodge-gate; farther than the lodge I will not go. Nothing in the world shall tempt me to pass it.'

At a sign from Hubert the little fly-man scrambled down from his box. He was a little old man, almost hunchbacked, with small mud-coloured eyes and a fringe of white beard about his sallow, discoloured face. He was dressed in a pale yellow jacket and waistcoat, and they both noticed that his crooked little legs were covered with a pair of pepper-and-salt trousers. They felt sure he must have overheard a large part of their conversation, for as he opened the carriage door he grinned, showing his three yellow fangs.... His appearance was not encouraging. Julia wished he were different, and then she looked at Hubert. She longed to throw herself into his arms and weep. But at that moment the heavens seemed to open, and the rain came down like a torrent, thick and fast, splashing all along the road in a million splashes.

'Horrible weather, sir; shan't be long a-takin' you to Southwater. What part of the town be yer going to—the railway station?'

Julia still hesitated. The rain beat on their faces, and when some chilling drops rolled down her neck she instinctively sought shelter in the carriage.

'Drive me to the station as fast as you can. Catch the half-past five to London, and I'll give you five shillings.'

The leather thong sounded on the starved animal's hide, the crazy vehicle rocked from side to side, and the wet country almost disappeared in the darkness. Hedges and fields swept past them in faintest outline, here and there a blurred mass, which they recognised as a farm building. His arm was about her, and she heard him murmur over and over again—

'Dearest Julia, you are what I love best in the world.'

The words thrilled her a little, but all the while she saw Emily's eyes and heard her voice.

Hubert, however, was full of happiness—the sweet happiness of the quiet, docile creature that has at last obtained what it loves.



XIX

Emily awoke shivering; the fire had gone out, the room was in darkness, and the house seemed strange and lonely. She rang the bell, and asked the servant if he had seen Mr. Price. Mr. Price had gone out late in the afternoon, and had not come in. Where was Mrs. Bentley? Mrs. Bentley had gone out earlier in the afternoon, and had not come in.

She suspected the truth at once. They had gone to London to be married. The servant lighted a candle, made up the fire, and asked if she would wait dinner. Emily made no answer, but sat still, her eyes fixed, looking into space. The man lingered at the door. At that moment her little dog bounded into the room, and, in a paroxysm of delight, jumped on his mistress's lap. She took him in her arms and kissed him, and this somewhat reassured the alarmed servant, who then thought it was no more than one of Miss Emily's queer ways. Dandy licked his mistress's face, and rubbed his rough head against her shoulder. He seemed more than usually affectionate that evening. Suddenly she caught him up in her arms, and kissed him passionately. 'Not even for your sake, dearest Dandy, can I bear with it any longer! We are all very selfish, and it is selfish of me to leave you, but I cannot help it.' Then a doubt crossed her mind, and she raised her head and listened to it. It seemed difficult to believe that he had told her a falsehood—cruel, wicked falsehood—he who had been so kind. And yet—— Ah! yes, she knew well enough that it was all true; something told her so. The lancinating pain of doubt passed away, and she remained thinking of the impossibility of bearing any longer with the life.

An hour passed, and the servant came with the news that Mr. Price and Mrs. Bentley had gone to London; they had taken the half-past five train. 'Yes,' she said, 'I know they have.' Her voice was calm. There was a strange hollow ring in it, and the servant wondered. A few minutes after, dinner was announced; and to escape observation and comment she went into the dining-room, tasted the soup, and took a slice of mutton on her plate. She could not eat it. She gave it to Dandy. It was the last time she should feed him. How hungry he was! She hoped he would not care to eat it; he would not if he knew she was going to leave him.