Chapter 11

'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.'