Chapter 7

'Then,' she said, with a sweet and natural smile, 'I'll write to you.... We have been excellent friends--comrades--have we not?'

'Yes, we have indeed, and I shall never forget. There is my address; that will always find me.'

He had written a play--a play that the most competent critics had considered a work of genius; in any case, a play that had interested his generation more than any other. It had failed, and failed twice; but did that prove anything? Fortune had deserted him, and he had been unable to finish _The Gipsy_. Was it the fault of circumstances that he had not been able to finish that play? or was it that the slight vein of genius that had been in him once had been exhausted? He remembered the article in _The Modern Review_, and was frightened to think that the critic might have divined the truth. Once it had seemed impossible to finish that play; but fortune had come to his aid, accident had made him master of his destiny; he could spend three years, five years if he liked, on _The Gipsy_. But why think of the play at all? What did it matter even if he never wrote it? There were many things to do in life besides writing plays. There was life! His life was henceforth his own, and he could live it as he pleased. What should he do with it? To whom should he give it? Should he keep it all for himself and his art? It were useless to make plans. All he knew for certain was that henceforth he was master of his own life, and could dispense it as he pleased.

And then, in sensuous curiosity, his thoughts turned on the pleasure of life in this beautiful house, in the society of two charming women.

'Perhaps I shall marry one of them. Which do I like the better? I haven't the least idea.' And then, as his thoughts detached themselves, he remembered Emily's tears.

X

It was a day of English summer, and the meadows and trees drowsed in the moist atmosphere; a few white clouds hung lazily in the blue sky; the garden was bright with geraniums and early roses, and the closely cropped privets were in full leaf. Hubert's senses were taken with the beauty of the morning, and there came the thought, so delicious, 'All this is mine.' He noticed the glitter of the greenhouses, and thought the cawing of some young rooks a sweet sound; a great tortoiseshell cat lay basking in the middle of the greensward, whisking its furry tail. Hubert stroked the animal; it arched its back, and rubbed itself against his legs. At that moment a half-bred fox-terrier barked noisily at him; he heard some one calling the dog, and saw a slight black figure hastening down one of the side-walks. Despite the dog's attempts on his legs, he ran forward.

'Emily! Emily!' he called. She stopped, turned, and stood looking at him.

'My dear cousin,' he said. 'I'm sorry about last night. I hope that Mrs. Bentley has told you. I begged of her to do so.'

'Yes; she told me of your kind intentions. I have to thank you.'

They walked on in silence, neither knowing what to say.

'Go away, Dandy!' said Emily, thrusting her black silk parasol at the dog, who had begun an attack on Hubert's trousers. The dog retreated; Hubert laughed.

'I'm afraid he doesn't like me.'

'He'll soon get to know you. Are you fond of animals?'

'I don't know that I am, particularly.'

'Oh!' she said, looking at him reproachfully, 'how can you?' Her eyes seemed to say, 'I never can like you after that.' 'I adore animals,' she said. 'My dear dog--there is nothing in the world I love as I love my Dandy; come here, dear.' The dog came, wagging his tail, putting back his ears, knowing he was going to be caressed. Emily stooped down, took his rough head in her hands, and kissed him. 'Is he not a dear?' she said, looking up; and then she said, 'I hope you won't object to having him in the house;' her face clouded.

'Oh, my dear Emily, how can you ask such a question? I shall never object to anything you desire.' The conversation paused, and they walked some paces in silence. Emily had just begun to speak of her flowers, when they came upon the gardener, who was standing in consternation over the fragments of a broken mowing-machine. Jack--that was the donkey--had been left to himself just for a moment. It was impossible to say what wild freak had taken him; but instead of waiting, as he was expected to wait, stolidly, he had started off on a wild career, regardless of the safety of the machine. At the first bound it had come in contact with a flower-vase, which had been sent in many pieces over the sward; at the second it had met with some stone coping; and at the third it had turned over in complete dissolution, and Jack was free to tear up the turf with his hoofs, until finally his erratic course was stopped by the small boy who was responsible for the animal's behaviour. The arrival of Hubert and Emily saved the small boy from many a cuff and the donkey from a kick or two; and Jack stood amid the ruin he had created, as quiet and as docile a creature as the mind could imagine.

'Oh, you--you wicked Jack! Who would have thought it of you?' said Emily, throwing her arms round the animal's neck. 'And at your age, too! This is my old donkey,' she said, turning her dreamy eyes on Hubert. 'I used to ride him every day until about two years ago. I love my dear old Jack, and would not have him beaten for worlds, although he is so wicked as to break the mowing-machine. Look what you have done to the flower-vase.' The animal shook its long ears.

Hubert and Emily strolled down a long walk, wondering what they should talk about.

'These are really very pretty grounds,' he said at last. 'I am sure I shall enjoy myself immensely here.' The remark appeared to him to be of doubtful taste, and he hastened to add, 'That is to say, if I have completely made it up with my pretty cousin.'

'But you have not seen the place yet,' she said, speaking still with a certain tremor in her voice. 'You haven't even seen the gardens. Come, and I'll show them to you.'

Hubert would have preferred to walk with her through these ornamental swards; and he liked the espalier apple-trees with which the garden was divided better than the glare and heat of the greenhouses into which she took him.

'Do you care for flowers?'

'Not very much.'

'These are all my flowers,' she said, pointing to many rows of flower-pots. 'Those are Julia's. You see I run a line of thread around mine, so that there shall be no mistake. She is not nearly so careful as I am, and it isn't nice to find that the plants you have been tending for weeks have been spoilt by over-watering. I don't say she doesn't love them, but she forgets them.... Just look at those; they are devoured by insects. They want to be taken out and given a thorough cleansing. Even then I doubt if they would come out right,--a plant never forgives you; it is just like a human being.'

'And doesn't a human being ever forgive?'

'Oh, I didn't mean that!' she said, blushing; 'but sometimes I could cry over the poor plants which she neglects. I daresay you will think me very ridiculous, but I do cry sometimes, and sometimes I cannot resist taking them out on the sly, and giving them a thoroughly good syringing,--only you must not tell her; we have agreed not to touch each other's flowers. But I cannot bear to see the poor things dying. How do we know that they do not suffer?'

'I don't think it probable.'

'But we don't know for certain,' she said, fixing her great eyes on him. 'Do we?'

'We know nothing for certain,' he answered; and then he said, 'You and Mrs. Bentley have lived a long time together?'

'No; not very long. About a couple of years. I was about thirteen when I came to Ashwood. I am now eighteen. Mrs. Bentley is a sort of connection. She is very poor--that is why Mr. Burnett asked her to come and live here; besides, as I grew up I wanted a companion. She has been very good to me. We have been very happy together--at least, as happy as one may be; for I don't think that any one is ever very happy. Have you been very happy?'

'I have not always been happy. But tell me more about Mrs. Bentley.'

'There is little more to tell. I naturally love her very much. She nursed me when I was ill--and I'm often ill; she taught me all I know; she cheered me when I was sad--when I thought my heart would break; when everybody else seemed unkind she was kind. Besides, I could not remain here without her.' Emily lowered her eyes, and the conversation seemed to pause.

'I have arranged all that,' Hubert answered hurriedly. 'I spoke to her last night, and she has consented to remain.'

'That is very good of you.' Emily raised her eyes and looked shyly at Hubert; and then, as if doubtful of herself, she said, 'Do you like her? I'm sure you do. Every one does. Do you not think she is very handsome?'

'I think her an exceedingly pleasant woman, and I'm sure we shall all get on very well together.'

'But don't you think her very handsome?'

'Yes; she is a handsome woman.'

Nothing more was said. Emily drew meditatively on the gravel with the point of her parasol. The gardeners looked up from their work.

'I have to go now,' she said, raising her eyes timidly, 'to feed the swans. You would not care to go so far?'

'On the contrary, I should like it, of all things. A walk by the water on a day like this will be quite a treat.'

'Then will you wait a moment? I will go and fetch the bread.' She returned soon after with a small basket; and a large retriever, tied up in the corner of the yard, barked and lugged at his chain. 'He knows where I am going, and is afraid I shall forget him--aren't you, dear old Don? You wouldn't like to miss a walk with your mistress, would you, dear?' The dog bounded and rushed from side to side; it was with difficulty that Emily loosed him. Once free, he galloped down the drive, returning at intervals for a caress and a sniff at the basket which his mistress carried. 'There's nothing there for you, my beautiful Don!'

The drive sloped from the house down to the artificial water, passing under some large elms; and in the twilight of the branches where the sunlight played, and the silence was tremulous with wings, Hubert felt that Emily had forgiven him. She wore the same black dress that he had admired her in the night before; her waist was confined by the same black band; but the chestnut hair seemed more beautiful beneath the black silk sunshade, leaned so gracefully, the black handle held between thumb and forefinger. And the little black figure seemed a part of the beautiful English park, now so green and fragrant in all the flower and sunlight of June, and decorated with a blue summer sky, and white clouds moving lazily over the tops of the trees. And the impression of the beautiful park was enforced by its reflection, which lay, with the mute magic of reflected things, in the still water, stirred only when, with exquisite motion of webbed feet, the swans propelled their freshness to and fro, balancing themselves in the current where they knew the bread must surely fall.

'They are waiting for me. Cannot you see their black eyes turned towards the bridge?' And she threw the bread from the basket, and the beautiful birds unbent their curved necks, devouring it voraciously under the water.

In the larger portion of this artificial lake there were two islands, thickly wooded. In the smaller, which lay behind Emily and Hubert, there was one small island covered with reeds and low bushes, and this was a favourite haunt for the waterfowl, which now came swimming forward, not daring to approach too near the dangerous swans.

'These are my friends,' said Emily. 'They will follow me to the other end, and I shall be able to feed them as we walk along the meadow.'

Don and Dandy bounded through the tall grass; sometimes foolishly giving chase to the birds that rose up out of the golden grasses, barking in mad eagerness--sometimes pursuing a hare into the distant woods. The last chase had led them far, and both dogs returned panting to walk till they recovered breath by their mistress's side; and to satisfy the retriever's affection Emily held one hand to him. Playing gently with his ears, she said--

'Did you ever see much of Mr. Burnett?'

'Not since I was a boy, ten or twelve years ago, when I was at the University. There was absolutely no reason for his doing what he did.'

'Yes; there was,' she said in a strangely decisive tone.

'May I ask----'

'I do not know if I ought to tell you. It would be better not to. You know,' she continued, speaking now with a nervous tremor in her voice, 'that I do not want you to think that I am so very disappointed. I do not know that I am disappointed at all. You have acted so generously, and it will be pleasanter to live here with you than with that old man.'

The conversation fell; but the sweet meadow seemed to induce confidences, and they were so happy in their youth and the sorcery of the sunshine. 'Five years ago I wrote to him,' said Hubert, speaking very slowly, 'asking him to lend me fifty pounds, and he refused. Since then I have not heard from him.' At the end of a long silence, the girl said--

'So long as you know that I am no longer angry with him for having disinherited me, I do not mind telling you the reason. Two months before he died he asked me to marry him, and I refused.'

They walked several yards without speaking.

'Do you not think I was right? I was only eighteen, and he was over sixty.'

'It seems to me quite shocking that he could have even contemplated such a thing.'

'But look at these poor ducks; they have followed us all the way, and I have forgotten to feed them!' Taking out all the bread that remained in the basket, Emily threw it to the ducks that had collected where the dammed-up stream that filled the lake trickled over a wooden sluice. There was a plank by which to cross the deep cutting. Hubert and Emily paused, and stood gazing at the large beech wood that swept over some rising ground. Don had not been seen for some time, and they both shouted to him. Presently a black mass was seen bounding through the flowers, and the panting animal once more ensconced himself by his mistress's side.

'I was very fond of Mr. Burnett,' she said, 'but I could not marry him. I could not marry any man I did not love.'

'And because you refused to marry him, he did not mention you in his will. I never heard of such selfishness before!'

'Men are always selfish,' she said sententiously. 'But it really does not matter; things are just the same; he hasn't succeeded in altering anything--at least, not for the worse. We shall get on very well together.'

The conversation paused. Then Emily went on: 'You won't tell any one I told you? I only told you because I did not want you to think me selfish. I was afraid that after the foolish way I behaved last night you might think I hated you. Indeed, I do not. Perhaps everything has happened for the best. I was very fond of the old man. I gave him my whole heart; no father ever had a daughter more attached; but I could not marry him. And it was the remembrance of my love for him that made me burst out crying. I do not think I realised until I saw you how cruelly I had been treated. But you won't tell any one? You won't tell Mrs. Bentley? She knows, of course; but do not tell her that I told you. I do not care that my feelings should be made a subject of discussion. You promise me?'

'I promise you.'

They had now reached the tennis-lawn. The gong sounded, and Emily said, 'That is lunch, and we shall find Julia waiting for us in the dining-room.' It was as she said. Mrs. Bentley was standing by the sideboard, her basket of keys in her hand; she had not quite finished her housekeeping, and was giving some last instructions to the butler. Hubert noticed that the place at the head of the table was for him, and he sat down a little embarrassed, to carve a chicken. So much home after so many years of homelessness seemed strange.

XI

On the third day, as soon as breakfast was over, Hubert introduced the subject of his departure. Julia waited, but as Emily did not speak, she said, 'We thought you liked the country better than town.'

'So I do, but----'

'He's tired of us, and we had better leave,' Emily said, abruptly.

Hubert started a little; he looked appealingly at Julia, and seeing the look of genuine pain upon his face, she took pity on him. 'You should not speak like that, Emily dear; I can see that you pain Mr. Price very much.'

'I hope, Emily, that you will stay here as long as you like,' he said, in a low, gentle voice; 'as long as it is convenient and agreeable to you.'

'We cannot stay here without you,' Emily replied; 'we are your guests.'

'And,' said Julia, smiling, 'if there are guests, there must be a host. But if you have business in London, of course you must go.'

'I was not thinking of myself,' said Hubert, 'but of you ladies. I was afraid that you were already tired of me; that you might like to be left alone; that you had business, preparations. I daresay I was all wrong; but if Emily knew----'

'I'm sorry, Hubert; I did not mean to offend you. I'm very unlucky. You'll forgive me.'

'I've nothing to forgive; I only hope that you'll never think again that I want to get rid of you. I hope that you'll stop at Ashwood as long as ever it suits you to do so. I don't see how I can say more.'

'I like to stop here as long as you are here,' Emily said, in a low voice. 'That is all I meant.'

'Then we're all of one mind, I don't want to go back to London. If you don't find me in your way, I shall be delighted to stay.'

'Of course,' said Julia, 'we poor country folk can hardly hope to amuse you.'

'I don't know about that!' exclaimed Emily. 'Where would he find any one to play and sing to him in the evenings as you can?'

The conversation paused, and all were happier that morning, though none knew why. Days passed, desultory and sweet, and with a pile of books about him, he lay in a long cane chair under the trees; then the book would drop on his knees, and blowing smoke in curling wreaths, he lost himself in dramatic meditations. It was pleasant to see that Emily had grown innocently, childishly fond of her cousin, and her fondness expressed itself in a number of pretty ways. 'Now, Hubert, Hubert, get out of my way,' she would say, feigning a charming petulance; or she would come and drag him out of his chair, saying, 'Come, Hubert, I can't allow you to lie there any longer; I have to go to South Water, and want you to come with me?'

And walking together, they seemed like an Italian greyhound and a tall, shaggy setter.

A cloud only appeared on Emily's face when Julia spoke of their departure. Julia had proposed that they should leave at the end of the month, and Emily had consented to this arrangement. The end of the month had appeared to her indefinitely distant, but three weeks of the subscribed time had passed, and signs of departure had become more numerous and more peremptory. Allusion had been made to the laundress, and Julia had asked Emily if she could get all her things into a single box; if not, they would have to send to Brighton for another. Emily had no notion of what her box would hold, and she showed little disposition to count her dresses or put her linen in order. She seemed entirely taken up thinking what books, what pictures, what china she could take away. She would like to have this bookcase, and might she not take the wardrobe from her own room? and she had known the clock all her life, and it did seem so hard to part with it.

'My dear girl, all these things belong to Mr. Price; you really cannot take them away without asking him.'

'But he won't refuse; he'll let me have anything I like.'

'He can't very well refuse, so I think it would be nicer on your part not to ask for anything.'

'I must have some of these things: I want to make the house we are going to live in, in London, look as much like Ashwood as possible.'

'You'd like to take the whole house with you if you could.'

'Yes; I think I should.' And Emily turned and looked vaguely up and down the passage. 'I wonder if he'd give me the picture of the windmill?'

'The landing would look very bare without it.'

'It would indeed, and when we came down here on a visit--for I suppose we shall come down here sometimes on visits--I should miss the picture dreadfully, so I don't think I'll ask him for it. But I must take some pictures away with me. There are a lot of old things in the lumber-room at the top of the house, that no one knows anything about. I think I'll ask him to let me have them. I'll take him for a good long ramble through the house. He hasn't seen any of it yet, except just the rooms we live in down-stairs.'

Emily went straight to Hubert. He was lying in the long wicker chair, his straw hat drawn over his eyes, for the sun was finding its sharp, white way through the leaves of the beeches.

'Now, Hubert, I want you. Are you asleep?'

'Asleep! No, I was only thinking.' He threw his legs over the edge of the low chair and stood up.

'If I tell you what I want, you won't refuse me, will you?'

'No,' he said smilingly; 'I don't think I shall.'

'Are you sure?' she said, looking at him enigmatically. Then in a lighter tone: 'I want you to give me a lot of things--oh, not a great many, nothing very valuable, but----'

'But what, Emily?... You can have anything you want.'

'Well, we shall see. You must come with me; I must show you what--I shan't want them unless you like to give them. Come along. Oh, you must come. I should not care about them unless you came with me, and let me point them out.' She passed her little hand into the arm of his rough coat, and led him towards the house. 'You know nothing of your own house, so before I go I intend to show you all over it. You have no idea what a funny old place it is up-stairs--endless old lumber-rooms which you would never think of going into if I didn't take you. When I was a little girl I wasn't often allowed down-stairs: the top of the house still seems to me more real than any other part.' Throwing open a door at the head of the stairs, she said: 'This used to be my nursery. It is all bare and deserted now, but I remember it quite different. I used to spend hours looking out of that window. From it you can see all over the park, and the park used to be my great delight. I used to sit there and make resolutions that next time I went out I would be braver, and explore the hollows full of bushes and tall ferns.'

'Did you never break your resolutions?'

'Sometimes. I was afraid of meeting fairies or elves. There are glades and hollows that used to seem very wonderful. And they still seem very wonderful, only not quite in the same way. Doesn't the world seem very wonderful to you? I'm always wondering at things. But I know I'm only a silly little girl, and yet I like to talk to you about my fancies. Down there in the beech wood there is a beautiful glade. I loved to play there better than anywhere else. I used to lie there on a fur rug and play at paper dolls. I always fancied myself a duchess or a princess.'

'You are full of dreams, Emily.'

'Yes; I suppose I am. Everything is pleasant and happy in dreams. I love dreaming. They thought I'd never learn to read; but it wasn't because I was stupid, but because I wouldn't study. I'd put my hands to my head, and, looking at the book, which I didn't see, I'd think of all sorts of things, imagine myself a fairy princess.'

'And it was in this room that you dreamed all those dreams?'

'Yes; in this dear old room. You see that picture: that is one of the things I intended to ask you to give me.'

'What? That old, dilapidated print?'