Chapter 18

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_ CHAPTER 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. _

Read next: Chapter 19

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